Page 75 of Welded Defender
The nurse signs us out; Becket takes the paper packet like the responsible oldest sibling he is. “I’m driving you home,” he says, nodding toward his truck.
“Can I ride with him?” I ask quickly. I don’t think I can breathe otherwise.
“Yeah,” Landon says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “She’s my designated hoverer.”
“Official title,” Wes agrees. “We’ll get plaques made.”
The drive up the ridge feels longer than it should. The others trail us in a string of headlights; the sky becomes a tight black bowl pricked with stars by the time we arrive.
The porch light spills gold across the snow. When I open the door, warmth flows over us—wood smoke, garlic, cumin.
There’s a banner—WELCOME HOME, Hale—strung slightly crooked over the mantle in glitter marker.
I help Landon to the couch. He sinks down, watching as his mom heads to the kitchen and the others begin filling the living room.
“You okay?” I murmur, kneeling to untie his boots.
His hand slides through my hair, the gentlest touch. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough and grateful.
His mom brings out a huge pot of soup and sandwiches. Nova tucks a blanket over Landon’s knees like a grandma, then immediately ruins the effect by poking him in the cheek to make sure his dimples still work. They do. A little.
The easy chaos wraps around me, and for a minute, I just… float. Part of something. The warmth aches, but it doesn’t hurt. My eyes catch on something new on the mantle and widen. There, on a canvas that wasn’t there before, is a painting—watercolors bleeding softly at the edges, capturing a moment I’d almost forgotten. Landon and me the day we went sledding. His navy scarf wound twice around his neck, my burgundy beanie pulled low over my ears. Our cheeks flushed pink against thewhite backdrop, snowflakes caught in our eyelashes, our grins so wide they crinkle the corners of our eyes. The artist captured something I hadn’t seen then—the way Landon’s body curved slightly toward mine, protective as always.
I spot Joon across the room. He’s hunched over his soup bowl, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, watching the conversation unfold without joining in. He seems to sense my gaze and meets it, dark eyes cautious beneath his overgrown fringe. I nod toward the painting in question. His cheeks flush the same shade as the sunset he’d painted in the background, but he gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.
“Thank you,” I mouth the words, not wanting to draw attention to his quiet gift.
He just dips his chin again and turns back to his soup, the spoon disappearing into his mouth as if to trap any words from escaping.
Landon lasts an hour. He tries to pretend he’s not swaying, but Rick notices first and stands. “Alright,” he announces gently, “time for the invalid to rest.”
“Retired hero,” Wes corrects.
“Retired hero,” Rick amends, already hauling himself to his feet.
I stand too, slipping an arm around Landon as he rises. Nova hugs him again, careful of his chest.
His mom squeezes my hands and kisses my cheek, voice low. “Call if you need anything. Anything.”
“We will,” I promise, and I feel thewedown to my bones.
They filter out in a wave of cold air and goodbyes. The banner sighs in the door draft and settles. The house goes quiet in that deep, soft way that only happens after it’s been full of people.
I help Landon down the hall, my shoulder tucked against his side, his warmth seeping into me with each slow step.
We pause in the doorway of his room. The lamplight casts everything golden on the quilt. He’s breathing a little harder, eyes at half-mast, but the look he turns on me is steady. Certain.
“Marcy,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want you living at the shop anymore.” He swallows, throat working. “I know there’s no threat from Brett anymore, but the idea of not being with you—of not waking up next to you—I want you here. With me.”
The words hit my chest like sunlight after years underground. My throat tightens. I look down at our hands—his fingers resting against mine, not gripping, not pulling. His thumb traces a small circle on my skin, patient and gentle. When I glance up, his eyes are waiting, not demanding. The corners of his mouth lift slightly, then fall, giving me space to say no.
“You mean?—”
“Live with me,” he says simply. “Stay. Make this your home too. Not just for now. For good.”
