Chapter 30 A Tattooed Welder
A Tattooed Welder
Sabrina
Iwake up warm.
Langston carried me to bed.
The memory makes my lips curve into a small, private smile as I stare at the ceiling. I remember the way I’d burrowed into his chest without thinking. The way he hadn’t hesitated. The way it felt… easy.
Mrs. D’s voice drifts through my thoughts next.
Get along with your new husband, she’d told me yesterday, squeezing my hand. You never know what can come out of an opportunity like this.
She hadn’t said it like a warning.
She’d said it like hope.
I roll out of bed, my feet padding softly across the floor, already mentally lining up everything I need to do today.
The nonprofit notes. The calls. The momentum.
I’ve made real progress—more than I ever expected in such a short time—and the realization fills me with a quiet pride as I head downstairs.
Langston is in the kitchen, back to me, pouring coffee into my favorite mug like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The sight of him does something to my chest.
“Good morning,” I say softly.
He turns, eyes flicking to me immediately, and hands me the mug without a word. Our fingers brush—brief, unintentional—and I pretend it doesn’t send a small spark through me.
“Thank you,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
“Would you like—” Langston starts.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down automatically.
Ariana:
Prepare.
That’s it.
My stomach drops.
Before I can even process what that means, my phone starts ringing. The name on the screen makes my shoulders lock instantly.
Celeste Kensington.
My stepmother.
I hesitate for half a second, then answer—because I know she won’t stop calling until I do.
“Hello,” I say carefully.
Langston notices immediately. The shift in my posture. The tension creeping up my spine. He steps closer, his voice low.
“Put it on speaker.”
I do.
“Sabrina,” my stepmother says brightly, as if we’re the kind of people who speak often. “There’s an elite event happening in Chicago this weekend. Your father and I will be flying in to attend. Have Langston put us on the list.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“I—okay,” I say. “I don’t even know if Langston knows about the event.”
A pause. Then a laugh. Sharp. Amused.
“Oh, he knows,” she says. “I was told he already RSVP’d.”
My gaze lifts slowly to Langston.
He’s watching me now—brows drawn, jaw tight—clearly not hearing this for the first time.
Hurt flickers through me before I can stop it. He never mentioned it. Never asked me if I wanted to go.
I swallow and push forward anyway. “I don’t know if he can get you on the list.”
Another laugh. Colder this time.
“Of course he can,” she says. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The resources. The transport access. The Blackwell name.”
The words land like a slap.
A sharp, radiating pain spreads through my chest, because suddenly I remember everything I tried to forget.
This was never about me.
Not to them.
Before I can respond, Langston reaches out and takes the phone from my hand.
“You’ll be on the list,” he says. “If there’s anything else you need for the event,” he continues, “you can contact me directly.”
Celeste hums, pleased. “Of course.”
He ends the call.
I don’t look at him.
I turn and walk toward the stairs before he can stop me, my steps steady even though everything inside me is shaking. I take the stairs two at a time, my chest tight, my thoughts loud and spinning. I shut the bathroom door behind me and turn on the shower, letting the heat fill the space.
A knock comes moments later.
“I need to talk to you,” Langston says through the door. “That isn’t what it sounded like.”
I force brightness into my voice. “I know. It’s fine.”
I keep my back to the door, hands braced on the counter.
“I’m running late,” I add. “I need to get ready. Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”
There’s silence.
Then footsteps retreating.
When I’m alone, I step fully into the spray. I slide down the tile wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, water pouring over me like I might wash the ache out if I let it run long enough.
I press my forehead to my knees and breathe.
You chose this, I remind myself.
You chose this so your sister wouldn’t have to.
And if the cost of her freedom is mine?
Then I’ll pay it.
Even if it hurts more than I ever thought it would.
I take my time getting ready.
Not because I need it—but because I’m hoping he’ll already be gone. That the house will be quiet and I won’t have to step into whatever tension is still hanging in the air before I’ve even finished my coffee.
I text the driver, letting him know I’ll need a ride into town.
Using a driver instead of an Uber still feels ridiculous. Over-the-top. But the last thing I want is to do something that feels like defiance today. Not when everything already feels fragile.
When I head downstairs, I barely make it into the living room before I stop short.
Langston is there.
He’s sitting in one of the chairs angled toward the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, staring out like he’s been standing guard over the morning itself. He turns the second he hears me.
“Oh,” I say. “I thought you already left.”
“I don’t like leaving,” he replies evenly, standing, “when conversations are unfinished.”
My stomach tightens.
“I was going to invite you to the event,” he continues. “Yesterday got away from me. Work was… more than I expected.”
I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “It’s fine. I don’t really want to go anyway.”
He steps closer—not touching me, but close enough that I feel him there. “You agreed to public appearances with me,” he reminds me gently. “This would be one of them.”
“I know,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “But—”
“What stage are you at with the nonprofit?”
The question cuts in so cleanly it knocks the argument right out of my mouth.
“What?” I blink.
His tone is calm, focused—like the conversation we were just having never existed. “Your planning. Where are you?”
I stare at him, completely thrown. “I—uh. I finally organized everything. Like, really organized it. I’ve got an actual plan now. Next step is filing the paperwork.”
“And after that?” he asks.
I hesitate, then answer honestly. “I’ll need a large venue. Something accessible. Somewhere people actually want to come.”
He nods once. He reaches for some of my notebooks, stacking them carefully in his hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Driving you into town,” he replies.
“I already called the driver—”
“I canceled him.”
I look up at him, confused all over again. “Langston—”
“I’m taking you,” he says calmly. “We can talk on the way.”
There’s no heat in his voice. No challenge. Just certainty.
And somehow, that unsettles me more than if he’d argued.
I watch him pick up the rest of my notebooks like it’s already decided.
And then—because apparently this is my life now—I follow him out the door.
He pulls into my favorite coffee shop without saying a word.
I stare out the windshield, my breath catching just a little. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t even hint. But here we are, the familiar brick storefront and the crooked chalkboard sign already easing something tight in my chest.
I reach for my bag.
“You won’t be needing that,” he says, already cutting the engine.
I pause. “What?”
Before I can argue—or even understand—he’s out of the car. I’m still sitting there, confused, when he opens my door and offers his hand like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Let’s go get your coffee.”
I blink at him. Then I take his hand.
Inside, the smell of espresso and warm pastries wraps around me like muscle memory. Before I even reach the counter, Augie looks up and grins.
“Morning, Sabrina.”
He turns and starts making my drink automatically.
I smile—until Langston clears his throat.
“Make it to go,” he says smoothly.
Augie doesn’t miss a beat. Just nods and switches cups.
Langston leans in close, his voice low enough that only I hear it. “Your coffee guy looks like a tattooed welder.”
I bite back a laugh. “maybe he is a tattooed welder.” I smirk at him jokingly.
Langston’s mouth tips up. A real smile. One that makes my stomach flutter before I can stop it.
“Huh,” he murmurs. “Multitalented.”
Augie slides the cup across the counter. Langston takes it before I can, murmurs a thank-you, and steers me back outside with a hand at my lower back like it belongs there.
He helps me into the car and hands me my coffee.
When he pulls back onto the road, I finally ask, “So… where are we going?”
He glances over at me, calm and unreadable.
“My office.”
I choke slightly on my first sip.
“Your office?” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“Langston.”
“Yes, Sweetheart?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t ask.”
“No,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”