Page 59 of Welded Defender
“And you think,” she says finally, each word measured like she’s setting down stones, “that by leaving, you’ve kept him safe.”
My skin prickles hot then cold. I curl my fingers into fists beneath the blanket, nails digging half-moons into my palms. “I had to. If Brett thinks I don’t matter to Landon, maybe he’ll back off.”
“Is that what you want?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“To make Brett back off by erasing yourself?” Her eyes don’t waver from mine, brown and clear as creek water. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t reach for me, just sits with her tea coolingbetween her hands. “Honey, that’s what he’s been teaching you all along. Make yourself smaller. Quieter. Until there’s nothing left.”
The first tear slides down my cheek, then another follows, leaving hot trails I can’t wipe away fast enough. “It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” she presses gently. “I know you’re scared. God knows you’ve got every reason to be. But ask yourself this: would Brett stop if you cut yourself out of their lives? Or would he just find another way to hurt you?”
I stare at the ripple of tea in my cup, seeing instead Brett’s face the night I tried to leave—that twitch at the corner of his mouth, the vein pulsing in his temple as he blocked the door. The sound of my favorite mug shattering against the wall, two inches from my ear.
“He won’t stop,” I whisper.
My Aunt’s hand covers mine, her gardener’s calluses rough against my knuckles. “Exactly. And you can’t outrun someone like that by cutting yourself off. All you do is hand him exactly what he wants.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her she doesn’t know Brett, doesn’t know how his cruelty cuts. But the words tangle in my throat because part of me knows she’s right.
The tears come harder now, blurring the quilt, the mug, her face. “I’m so tired of being afraid.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s why you need people around you who won’t let you drown in that fear. People who remind you who you are.”
I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand. “And what if I’m not strong enough?”
She cups my cheek, tilting my chin up until I have to look at her. “Then you borrow strength until you’ve got your own again.That’s what family—real family—is for. Not just blood, but the family you’ve found in that garage.”
I can’t argue with that. Even thinking about Wes’s dumb jokes, Becket’s steady watchfulness, Joon’s quiet nods—it tugs something loose in my chest. Ravi teaching me to protect myself. Nova reminding me how much I need other women in my life. And Landon… Landon is the only place I’ve felt steady in years.
Aunt Rose pulls back, reaching for her tea again. The porcelain clinks against her wedding ring as she adjusts her grip.
“I’ll support you no matter what you decide. If you want to stay here, I’ll clear out drawers for you. If you want to go back, I’ll drive you myself.” She takes a sip, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim. “But don’t let Brett make your choices for you anymore.”
The words land heavy but hopeful, like stones building a foundation.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand. Landon’s message glows there, patient and waiting.
Let me know you’re safe.
I don’t open it. Not yet. But my hand hovers over it longer than it has in days, and for the first time, the thought of answering doesn’t feel impossible.
That night, long after my aunt has gone to bed and the house settles into quiet, I finally open Landon’s text. My thumb hovers, trembling, then I type back two words.
I’m safe.
It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all I can give him right now. I set the phone face down and crawl under the covers, the echo of his presence lingering even here.
CHAPTER 32
Landon
The hydraulic hum of the lift steadies me as I tighten the last bolt on the Civic’s oil pan, metal grinding against metal until it catches. My knuckles are raw and streaked with grease, blood beading along a fresh scrape, but the deep bone ache feels good—real. Work is something I can control, unlike everything else spinning out of reach. The shop smells like burnt oil, snow-damp wool coats dripping by the door, and the faint cinnamon-sugar sweetness from the box of gas station donuts Wes brought this morning—now just empty waxed paper and crumbs. Almost normal. Almost.
I drop the wrench into the tray and roll out from under the car. Joon’s bent over a catalog across the bay, pencil tucked behind his ear. Wes is in the lobby, talking too loudly on the phone about brake pads. Becket’s outside checking the lock on the new gate.
And me? I keep checking my phone.
