Page 18 of Welded Defender
He studies me for a moment. His eyes catch on the shadows beneath mine, then drift away. The wrench makes a dull thunk against the wooden workbench. His boots scuff concrete as he disappears into the back room. The quiet hiss of a kettle, the gentle clink of spoon against ceramic. When he returns, tendrils of steam twist above the mug he slides across the counter, stopping just short of my trembling hands.
My fingers curl around the ceramic, heat seeping into my palms. “Thanks,” I whisper, voice catching.
He turns back to his tools without a word, the steady rhythm of metal against metal resuming. The space between us fills with nothing but the soft scrape of steel and my gradually slowing breath.
I sink into the chair, cradling the mug close. The tea is floral, faintly sweet. Calming. The warmth spreads through my palms, anchoring me to this moment—this garage, this kindness—not the nightmare that followed me here.
Dawn creeps pale through the windows, touching the snow piled at the edge of the lot. The security light casts little halos around drifting flakes. I sip slowly, focusing on the warmth sliding down my throat instead of the phantom burn where Brett’s fingers gripped my wrist.
Joon works in quiet rhythm beside me, sorting sockets by size, the occasional clink of metal steady and soothing. He doesn’t ask questions or push for answers. He just shares the space with me, his presence a gentle anchor until my breathing finally matches his calm pace.
By seven, my heartbeat has slowed to something normal. My body still carries the weight of exhaustion, but that sharp edge of panic has finally dulled. I can face the day ahead. Somehow, I can make it through.
CHAPTER 11
Landon
Ishow up earlier than usual. The garage is already unlocked. Joon’s car sits out front. Inside, I find him hunched over an engine, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair pulled back in that half-assed knot he does when he doesn’t care if it falls loose.
And behind the counter—Marcy.
She’s sitting at the desk, shoulders rounded, cardigan wrapped tight around her. There’s a mug by her elbow, steam curling faintly from it, but she’s not drinking. She flips through intake forms like her eyes can’t quite focus, lids heavy with exhaustion.
Tired. Way too tired.
I clear my throat. “Morning.”
She looks up fast, like I caught her somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. “Morning,” she echoes softly. A quick smile flickers—polite, automatic—before she bends over the papers again.
Joon straightens when he spots me. “You’re early,” he says, like it’s an accusation.
“So are you.” I grab a rag off the bench even though my hands are clean. “Just thought I’d get a jump start on things.”
Joon studies me for a second, his eyes sharp in the dim light. He nods to Marcy. “She’s having nightmares.” He doesn’t explain how he knows or what she’s said. He just turns back to Marcy’s car and gets back to work.
I glance at Marcy again. She doesn’t notice. Her pen keeps moving, careful and steady, like she’s willing herself into focus. Nightmares. That explains the marks under her eyes, the quiet exhaustion.
I wipe my hands on the rag, toss it onto the bench, and walk over to the counter.
“You want to step out for a bit?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it’s just for her.
She blinks up at me, startled. “Step out?”
“For coffee,” I say, nodding toward the lukewarm mug of tea beside her elbow. “You look like you could use something stronger than whatever you’re drinking. There’s a place two blocks over that has the good stuff.”
Her lips twitch, caught between a smile and a protest. “I shouldn’t… It's work hours.”
“You’re with the boss,” I remind her. “Call it training.”
For a second, she looks like she might say no. Then something eases in her shoulders, and she nods. “Okay. Just for a little while.”
We walk in silence toward the local coffee shop, The Bean. The bell over the café door jingles as we step inside, and warmth wraps around us along with the rich scent of roasted coffee beans. The place buzzes with quiet conversation but feels cozy—wood-paneled walls lined with mismatched mugs and old photos of the town.
We order—black coffee for me, something sweeter with caramel for her—and settle into a small table by the window.Sunlight filters through the glass, catching a few copper strands mixed into her brown hair.
For the first time since I’ve met her, she almost looks relaxed. Almost. Her fingers curl around the cup like it’s an anchor, and her shoulders slowly drop as she exhales into the steam.
“This is better,” she admits.
