Chapter 41
Marcy
The hospital smells like antiseptic and recycled air. Too clean, too sharp. I’ve learned to hate it. But tonight—tonight I can finally breathe.
Because Landon is being discharged.
He’s in the wheelchair the nurse insisted on, looking like he’d rather walk through a blizzard barefoot. He’s paler than usual, a bit thinner too, but alive.
I keep one hand curled around the chair handle as we roll down the corridor.
My knuckles whiten with each tile we cross.
A week ago, those same fingers pressed against his chest, slipping in crimson that soaked through my jeans as I knelt beside him.
I tighten my grip now, feeling the solid metal beneath my palm.
Real. Present. Not slick with something I can’t stop.
“You don’t have to hover,” he mutters, glancing up with a tired smile.
“Too bad.” My voice shakes only a little. “Hovering is my new favorite hobby.”
He snorts—which in Landon is basically a laugh—and doesn’t argue.
The automatic doors sigh open and winter rushes in: frost and exhaust and the clean bite of cold. And there they are—our people.
Nova perches on the hood of Becket’s truck, waving both arms like an air-traffic controller.
Becket stands beside her, arms folded, doing his very best impersonation of unimpressed while his jaw flexes with relief.
Joon hovers on Nova’s other side, quiet but smiling in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever seen.
Wes paces in a puffy coat that looks like a sleeping bag swallowed him, and Ravi balances two coffees on a cardboard tray, phone trapped between shoulder and ear.
Near the truck, Landon’s mom waits with Rick. Her eyes are red but warm—the kind of warm that makes my throat sting. She looks so much like Landon around the eyes it hurts.
The nurse stops the chair, and before I can straighten, Nova vaults off the hood and drops to her knees to hug her brother. “Finally,” she says, voice cracking, arms vice-tight around him. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
“Get shot?” Landon deadpans. “I’ll make sure to take that off my to-do list.”
“Smartass,” she mutters, and sniffs a laugh into his shoulder.
“Alright,” Becket rumbles, stepping forward to peel her off like a barnacle. “Let the man breathe.”
Nova flips him off without looking and clings harder. Becket rolls his eyes and waits her out.
Wes swoops in next, hands careful but eyes bright. “You look like hell,” he announces cheerfully, then grimaces. “A very handsome, brooding, tragic-hero kind of hell.”
“Translation: he missed you,” Ravi says, passing me a coffee and nudging Landon’s good hand with the other cup. “Here. Approved by the gods of caffeine. My mother also filled your freezer with her cooking. You’ll be eating roti and curry for months.”
“Tell her thank you,” Landon says, his voice soft as he takes the cup.
Then Landon’s mom appears in front of us, her cardigan smelling of cinnamon and her eyes the same amber-flecked green as his. My lungs forget how to work, throat closing like I’ve swallowed sand.
She kneels by the chair, the dimming sunlight catching silver strands in her dark hair as she cups his face in her hands, thumbs smoothing the cowlick off his forehead like he’s eight again. The thin gold band on her finger gleams against his pale skin.
“You scared me,” she whispers, her voice cracking on the last word. He leans forward into her touch the way only grown sons do when they stop pretending to be invincible, his shoulders curving inward.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the cars moving in and out of the hospital parking lot.
She kisses his temple, leaving a faint smudge of coral lipstick. Then she stands—knees cracking softly—and pulls me into her arms, surprisingly strong for someone so small.
I freeze, startled, then I’m wrapped in laundry detergent and winter air and the quiet strength of a woman who’s had to be both anchor and sail. “Thank you,” she breathes in my ear. “For being there. For not letting go.”
My eyes burn. “I—he—” The words get lost, tiny and insufficient.
She draws back, her smile watery but sure. “Welcome to the family, Marcy.”
The breath leaves me in a soft, shocked sound. Rick rests a steady hand on my shoulder. “We’re glad you’re here,” he says, and it’s such a simple sentence that it completely undoes me.
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 the white 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 the we down 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.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He goes very still. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I say again, and this time it’s not a shaky thing. It’s a grounded yes, roots sinking deep. “I want that. I want you.”
The relief that breaks over his face steals my breath. He leans in and kisses me—gentle, grateful, a vow spoken without words.