Page 44 of Welded Defender
He nods at me, then at Marcy. “Alarm’s live.”
I scan the lobby with new eyes. There’s a dome in the corner near the ceiling, the camera barely bigger than a thumb. Another hovers above the bay entrance, angling to catch the lot. Subtle ones dot the outside too—on the stairwell that leads up to her door, the back alley, the office, the register. Not a fortress. Just enough.
My chest loosens in a way that’s equal parts relief and guilt.
“Walk me through it?” I ask.
Becket passes me his phone. “This is the app you need to download to view the cameras. Joon synced the accounts. Motion zones are tight, so you won’t get pinged every time a squirrel looks at us funny.”
Joon shrugs like it was nothing and pulls a steaming thermos from his bag, setting it by the credit card terminal.
Marcy hangs back near the counter, listening. I want to put myself between her and the door—old habit—even though the door isn’t the problem. I force myself to stay put.
“Keypad code?” I ask.
Becket rattles off a temporary one. “Change it later. There’s a chime now—front door, bay door, and back door, plus one on the apartment door upstairs.” He looks at Marcy. “You can turn it off if it gets annoying.” He nods toward the ceiling where Marcy’s apartment sits. “Added a second deadbolt up there. And a wedge bar for the door. New locks on the windows too.”
Marcy’s eyes go wide. “Becket, you did all this…?” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
Becket just shrugs. “Joon helped. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is,” I say. “Thank you.” Though the words don’t feel big enough for what this is.
He shrugs like we’re discussing a tire rotation. “Don’t hover, but don’t guess either,” he tells me under his breath as he stands—which is Becket’s version of poetry. Then, louder, to Marcy: “Want me to carry anything up?”
“I’ve got it,” she says. She hesitates, then rushes forward and throws her arms around Becket. He stiffens, his wide eyes flashing to me before he finally hugs her back. She whispers something to him, and he smiles.
“We’ve got you,” he murmurs back before letting her go. He turns and heads back to work like nothing happened.
I take Marcy’s hand and lead her outside. We head up to the apartment, and the door opens like it remembers her. The heater kicks on with a long sigh; the window over the lot shows a slice of white field and gray road. I set her bakery box on the counter, and suddenly the place smells like flour and vanilla again—at least in my head. She stands in the doorway, taking in the bed she barely used and the hastily assembled toothbrush in the cup. For a second, she looks so small.
“New lock,” I say, pointing to the deadbolt, because practical feels easier than protective. “And—here.” I crouch at the closet and pull out the door wedge bar Becket left. “You hook it like this if you want it at night. It’s a pain to kick in even if the lock fails.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Alarm’s on a delay,” I add, holding out my phone so she can see the screen. “If you arm it when you’re up here, you’ll have thirty seconds to reach the door before it triggers. If you’re nervous, don’t arm the bay—just up here.” I catch myself, aware I’m talking too much. “Sorry. I?—”
“No,” she says. “It helps.”
Her voice is soft but certain. The tight line in my shoulders eases a notch.
“You want me to stay tonight?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Couch. Or I can be downstairs. Whatever makes you feel?—”
She exhales. “I want to try spending the night on my own. Here.” A beat. “But… can I text you if I change my mind?”
“Anytime,” I say. It comes out too fast, too sure. I slow down. “Seriously, anytime. Even if you don’t change your mind, text me.”
Downstairs, life starts back up. The bell rings; Wes barrels in with two paper bags and triumph written across his face.
“Civilization!” he crows. “The Bean is open. I brought bribes.”
He drops a box of donuts and a tray of coffees on the counter like we’ve never seen either before. He notices the keypad, the small camera, the way Marcy’s standing a little closer to me than she used to, and his grin softens. He glances at the cookie box, then catches my eye when he thinks Marcy’s not watching and mouths,You good?
I nod. He doesn’t push.
By noon, the new normal starts settling around us. Phones ring. The printer churns out invoices. Marcy slides behind the counter like she never left, pulling the ledger closer and cracking open a fresh stack of intake forms. Every time the door chimes, my muscles tense, then ease when it’s a neighbor, a farmer, somebody’s cousin—nobody whose smile masks darker intentions.
Marcy picks up exactly where she left off before the storm, color-coding the parts orders; rewriting a messy estimate with neat boxes and totals that don’t make my head throb; answeringthe phone with “Five Brothers Garage, this is Marcy,” like she’s been saying it for years.
