Chapter 18
Marcy
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
Not the sharp kind that prickles at the edges, waiting for something to shatter it, but a muffled, heavy quiet. Safe, almost.
The second thing I notice is the light. Pale, watery sunlight filters through the blinds, tinged gray from the clouds outside. It paints long stripes across the bedspread, across my arms where they rest over the quilt.
I blink groggily, trying to place where I am, why my body feels so weighed down. The clock on the nightstand swims into focus. My stomach drops. Eleven. Almost eleven-thirty.
I bolt upright too fast, blankets tangling around my legs. Panic floods through me. I’ve never slept this late in my life—not without Brett tearing into me for it.
And then I remember.
Twin yellow beams cutting through the dark, illuminating swirls of snow. The crunch of tires on gravel outside the garage. The engine revving hard as it disappeared down the road, taillights bleeding red into blackness.
Brett.
The memory hits me like ice water. My throat constricts, air catching, my skin buzzing like I’ve been plugged into a live wire.
Brett knows where I am.
The thought tears through me, sharper than the panic of oversleeping. He knows. He was here. Close enough that if I’d walked a few more feet I would’ve seen his face through the car window.
I bury my face in my hands, forcing myself to breathe, to focus on anything other than the fear clawing through my chest. Slowly, sound filters in: the low rumble of voices downstairs.
Landon’s, steady and deep. Another, sharper and teasing—Wes. And Becket’s gruffer tone weaving between them.
Normal conversation. Casual.
I hold onto that sound like a lifeline.
I shove back the blankets, pull on yesterday’s sweater, twist my hair into a messy knot, and force myself toward the door before I can lose my nerve. My legs feel unsteady as I head downstairs, but I keep moving, one shaky step at a time.
The smell of coffee hits me first. Rich, earthy. The hum of voices stops the moment I step into the kitchen.
Three pairs of eyes turn toward me at once.
“Morning,” Landon says quietly. His voice is low, unreadable. He’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, shirt rumpled with faint grease smears on the sleeves.
“Afternoon, technically,” Wes adds with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess we’re not exciting enough to get you out of bed.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I overslept; I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been down here. I don’t want my issues messing with the garage or slowing anyone down—”
Landon cuts me off with a shake of his head. “You needed it. We were fine. Trust me, the place won’t fall apart without you for a few hours.”
“Exactly. I was just teasing.” Wes lifts his mug like he’s making a toast. “If we can’t survive one morning without a woman to babysit us, we’re in serious trouble.”
Becket snorts into his coffee. “You’re in serious trouble either way.”
Wes grins wider. “Fair point.”
The tension in my chest loosens a fraction. I let out a shaky breath and step toward the counter. Becket nudges a fresh mug toward me, steam curling faintly from the surface.
“Thanks,” I mumble, voice barely audible, and lower myself onto one of the stools.
Conversation picks up again, but it’s subdued, like someone turned the volume down. Becket grumbles about a parts delivery delayed by the snow. Wes jokes about the mailman being too scared to make it up the mountain.
I try to listen, to let their normal back-and-forth lull me, but my chest stays tight. It feels like there isn’t enough air in the room.
My gaze snags on the garbage bag near the back door—tied off, full. Something small. Ordinary. I could handle that. One simple, normal task to prove I’m not broken, that I’m not just a problem everyone has to tiptoe around.
“I’ll take this out,” I say quickly, sliding off the stool. My voice sounds too eager.
Before I can step outside, Becket’s suddenly there. He moves fast for someone his size, his hand closing gently over the top of the bag. “I got it.”
“It’s fine, I can—”
“Marcy.” His voice stays calm, but the weight behind it makes me stumble over my words. “It’s freezing out. Finish your coffee.”
The word freezing isn’t what he means. I can see it in his eyes—he doesn’t want me outside.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around the handle before I force myself to let go. He takes the bag without any struggle, just smooth efficiency, and disappears out the door.
The sound of it closing echoes in my chest.
It’s just garbage. Just a bag. But my throat closes up anyway.
I sink back onto the stool, arms wrapping tight around myself.
The silence stretches. Then Wes clears his throat, eyes flicking toward Landon, mischief sparking in his grin. “So… you wearing the same shirt as yesterday, man, or am I seeing things?”
Landon doesn’t look up from his mug. “You’re seeing things.”
“Nope,” Wes says, grinning wider. “That’s definitely the same shirt. Did the man who never dates finally go on one?” His eyes flick to me and back to Landon.
My heart stops. Heat floods my cheeks.
Landon’s jaw ticks. He sets his mug down with a soft click. “Drop it.”
“What?” Wes shrugs, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying—”
“Say less,” Joon cuts in flatly.
Wes throws his hands up like he’s surrendering. “Alright, alright. Killjoys.”
Becket comes back in, brushing snow off his jacket, and the conversation shifts back to car parts and snowplows. But the air in my lungs stays thin, my pulse too loud in my ears.
A hand touches my shoulder lightly. I jump. Landon tilts his head toward the hallway.
I follow him, grateful for the escape.
We stop in the staff break room, out of earshot. He leans one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, studying me. His eyes are softer now, but shadows line them. He looks as tired as I feel.
“You okay?” he asks.
I want to say yes. Pretend the garbage thing didn’t slice through me like that. But the truth pushes out anyway, quiet and raw. “It feels like I’m back to hiding. Like every time I step outside, he could be there.”
Something flickers in his gaze—a sharpness I’ve only seen when he’s angry. But his voice stays steady. “You’re not hiding. You’re being careful. Protecting yourself and the life you’ve built here. He doesn’t get to take that from you.”
The conviction in his tone steadies me more than the words themselves.
He uncrosses his arms and shifts his weight. “Wes is making dinner tonight at our place. He wanted me to ask if you’d come.”
I blink. “Dinner?”
“Nothing fancy. Just Wes showing off with a skillet. But…” His eyes hold mine. “It might be good to get out for a bit. Somewhere that’s not here or the shop.”
My fingernails dig half-moons into my palms as I glance toward the window.
Beyond the glass waits a world where Brett might be watching.
But staying here—I picture myself curled on the bed tomorrow, then the next day, the blankets pulled higher, my body shrinking until the room swallows what’s left of me.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He nods, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “Good.”
The day drifts by slowly. Snow thickens outside, steady but not yet dangerous. Becket works in the garage, Wes putters around, and I hover between paperwork at the counter and staring out the window, my body wound tight with the expectation of headlights that never come.
By late afternoon, Landon shrugs into his jacket. “You ready?”
I zip up my coat, heart hammering at the thought of leaving. But when his hand brushes the small of my back, guiding me toward the door, the panic eases. Just enough.
Snow crunches under our boots as we cross the lot toward his truck. The cold bites at my cheeks, sharp and clean.
Something Wes said earlier has stayed with me. “Is what Wes said true?” I ask.
Landon chuckles. “Wes says a lot of things. You might need to be more specific.”
“The part about you not dating.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. He unlocks the truck, holds the door for me, and waits until I’m inside before sliding behind the wheel. The heater rattles to life, filling the cab with warm air.
Landon exhales slowly, his arms uncrossing. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s true.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t look at me right away. When his voice comes, it’s careful.
“Because when I care about someone, I… overdo it. I hover. Protect too much. Give too much. Sometimes I’ve just been…
too much for people.” He shrugs. “And other times I’ve attracted the kind of women who liked being looked after but didn’t give much back. ”
I blink, surprised by the raw honesty in his tone.
“I’ve been taken advantage of before,” he admits quietly. “Women who liked the steady guy who’d fix their problems, pay their bills, patch their lives together. I thought it was caring. Turns out, it was just me being used.”
The weight in his words settles heavy on my chest.
“So I stopped,” he finishes. “Figured maybe I wasn’t meant for relationships. Not if all I could offer was being the guardrail.”
My throat tightens. “That doesn’t sound like being the guardrail.
That sounds like… someone giving the wrong people the best parts of themselves.
You’re steady, Landon. Safe. That isn’t too much.
” I swallow and push forward before I can talk myself out of it.
“In fact, that sounds pretty good to me.”
His eyes darken, pupils widening slightly against the green.
His hand lifts—hesitates midair—then continues its journey.
The pad of his thumb grazes my cheekbone, rough skin catching slightly against mine.
His palm settles against my jaw, the scent of motor oil and pine soap rising from his wrist. The truck’s heater hums softly.
Outside, snow taps against the windshield.
My breath catches at his touch. I lift my hand to cover his.
His emerald eyes hold mine, and the corner of his mouth flicks up. “Good thing I’m steady then,” he murmurs.