Page 42 of Welded Defender
His body radiates warmth even through our layers of clothing. His breath brushes my cheek. Snow clings to his hair and lashes. Up close, those green eyes are shot through with gold I only notice when the light hits just right.
Something hums between us—quiet and certain, like a wire stretched taut. My heart skips as his gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again. I could tilt my chin up. He could lean down. It would be simple. It would be reckless in a way that doesn’t feel like breaking a rule, but like finally admitting one has been rewritten.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Loud. Harsh. Real life, crashing back in.
He goes rigid, his forehead touching mine for one heartbeat that feels like both an apology and a promise. Then he pulls back and fumbles for the phone.
“Becket?” His voice comes out rougher than usual. “Yeah.” He glances at me, something like regret flickering in his eyes. “Okay. Thanks.”
He ends the call and runs a hand through his hair, shaking loose the snow. “The plows got through. Roads are open.”
The spell breaks.
I feel it—the shift. The porch, the stacked wood, the drift we’ve pressed into with our bodies—nothing physical changes. But something inside me recoils. Because open roads mean options. And options mean I can’t pretend this is somewhere the world can’t reach us anymore.
“Right,” I say, my voice carefully neutral. “Back to reality.”
He searches my face like he’s trying to read something without making me feel exposed. “Reality’s not all bad.”
“I know.” I do know that. “It’s just… noisy.”
He nods, understanding. “We don’t have to figure anything out right now.”
“I know,” I repeat. I’m not sure if I’m reassuring him or myself.
He stands and extends his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up easily, steadying me when my boot slips on the ice. He doesn’t release my hand right away. Neither do I.
We brush snow off each other—his palm skimming my shoulder in a way that heats more than it should—and then we return to work. There’s comfort in the rhythm now. Split. Stack. Breathe. The kind of ordinary that feels like a prayer.
After a few minutes, he says, “When the roads open, everyone gets restless. Town comes back to life fast. Folks think they need to make up for lost time.”
“And you?”
“I usually do a parts run, clear the lot, point Wes at any drift bigger than he is.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “This time I might… slow down.”
“On my account?” I try to make it a tease, but there’s a tremor underneath I can’t hide.
“On my account,” he says simply. Then, softer: “But I’m here for whatever you need. If that’s the apartment or my place again… You get to choose the pace. I’ll follow your lead.”
The words settle like warmth under my ribs. “Thank you.”
We finish the pile. My arms tremble in that satisfying way that says I’ve actually accomplished something. He picks up two armfuls, and we carry them to the porch together, our shoulders bumping lightly. When we drop the last logs by the door, Iblow into my fingers and flex them inside my gloves. I peel off Landon’s beanie and hold it out to him.
“Keep it,” he says. “I’ve got another.”
We stand there for a moment, facing each other with a stack of wood between us and a drift with the shape of us imprinted behind. The silence is easy again. Not empty. Not heavy. Just… ours.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Anything.”
“When you said I didn’t have nightmares… those nights… Why do you think that is?”
He considers this. He doesn’t rush. “Because your body believed you were safe.” His mouth tucks like he worries he’s said too much. “You don’t have to be on guard every second up here. Not with me.”
A lump forms in my throat. “No one ever… stayed before. Not like that.”
“Then they were idiots.”
