Chapter 26
Marcy
Iline up the last fork when the knock comes.
Three light taps. My hand flies to my hair, smoothing flyaways that weren’t there a second ago.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door—flushed cheeks, bright eyes—and roll them at myself.
Almost a week of sharing the same bed, and here I am fidgeting like it’s junior prom.
The hinges creak as I pull the door open.
Landon fills the frame, shoulders dusted with melting snow, that careful half-smile playing on his face.
His left hand stays behind his back for exactly two seconds before he brings it forward.
Daisies—white petals with sunny centers—tilt in different directions inside their grocery store wrapping, the brown paper crinkling softly between his fingers.
I can’t find my voice for a moment. “Are those…?”
“They’re for you,” he says quickly, ducking his head. “I wasn’t sure what kind you’d like, so… these looked—uh—happy.”
“I love them.” My fingers tremble as I reach for the bouquet. Our hands brush during the exchange, and I nearly drop the flowers. Something electric travels from my fingertips up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Thank you.”
He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Good.”
For a second, we just stand there in the doorway—me clutching the flowers, him holding a paper bag—before I realize I’m grinning like an idiot.
I step back. “Sorry. Want to come in?”
“Yeah,” he says, following me inside.
I quickly find a jar for the flowers and set them on the counter. They make the little apartment feel warmer immediately, like they belong here. When I turn back, he’s hovering near the table, shifting the bag in his hands.
“I, uh, brought dessert,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just some cupcakes from the bakery.”
“I also made dessert,” I say. “But there can never be too much sugar.”
He grins. “My thoughts exactly.” He nods toward the stove. “It smells amazing in here.”
I shrug. “It’s edible. That’s my standard.”
“I like your standard.” He steps toward me, close enough that I catch the scent of cold air still clinging to his collar.
His hand lifts, hovering near my temple where a strand of hair has escaped my hasty ponytail.
For a heartbeat, I stop breathing. He grazes my cheek as he tucks the strand behind my ear, then drops his hand back to his side.
My cheeks flush hot, my ribs suddenly too small.
“Sit,” I say, turning to the stove and adjusting the burner that’s already at the perfect temperature.
“It’s almost ready. I just need—” I swing open the fridge door.
The fluorescent light illuminates bare shelves, a lonely ketchup bottle, and the empty space where the milk should be. My shoulders slump. “Crap.”
“What?”
“Milk. For the potatoes.” I shut the door. “I meant to grab some from downstairs earlier and forgot.”
“I can run—”
“No, I’ll go. It’ll take two seconds.”
His brow creases. I see the part of him that wants to say he’ll come and the part that remembers to leave me the choice. He nods. “Okay. I’ll keep stirring this so it doesn’t burn.”
“Thanks.” I snag my coat from the hook and shove my feet into boots. “Be right back.”
Outside, the lot spreads like a sheet of white fading to gray at the edges.
The wind has calmed. The garage’s front lights cast warm rectangles onto the snow.
I fumble with the lock on the front door and yank it open.
I key in the alarm code and rush to the staff room.
The mini-fridge hums, full of sodas, a forgotten yogurt, the milk I need.
I grab the carton and shut the fridge.
The bell above the door rings, and I turn. “I got the milk—”
The world tilts.
“Boo.” He’s leaning against the counter. Sandy blond hair, expensive coat, that easy, practiced charm he wears like a uniform. Brett.
For a half-second, my body forgets how to do things like breathe.
He looks around the lobby. “Cute place.”
The milk feels heavy, stupid in my hands. “You shouldn’t be here.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Leave.”
He tuts, like I’m a kid throwing a tantrum. “That’s no way to say hello.” He steps forward once, easy. “I was worried about you.”
“Brett—”
“There she is.” He steps closer. “My girl.” He says it warmly, kindly, wrapped in that tone that used to mean safety and now tastes like metal in my mouth. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I step back and bump the counter. The milk carton squeaks in my grip. Home. The word he uses for my cage.
“This is my home now,” I say. “You don’t get to decide where that is.”
He laughs—quieter than I remember, but with that same hollow center. “Marcy. You can play house for a while, but this isn’t you. You’re not this person. You’re my—”
“Stop.” The word cuts through the air. “I don’t belong to you.”
The sentence lands inside me and makes something stand taller.
His smile thins. He glances at the camera, then turns so his face angles out of its view. Practiced. “This guy,” he says lightly. “The one from the bar. Is he filling your head with ideas? You always did like broken things to fix.”
Heat flares in my chest. “Don’t talk about him.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is he your boyfriend?” The tease carries a bite. “He looked like he wanted to be. Good for him. Maybe he can fix whatever you break next.”
Old shame flickers, then dies like a match in the wind. I refuse to feed it. “Leave.”
He drops the smile. The shift is small and absolute. “Put the milk down,” he says, soft as a teacher correcting a child. “Get your things.”
“No.”
He moves. Clean and fast, that little invasion of space he perfected when we were alone in kitchens with nowhere to go that didn’t mean touching him. He doesn’t grab—not yet—but his presence wraps around my throat like fingers.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he murmurs.
“Just go.” My voice shakes. I hate that he can still pull that tremor out of me with two words. I hate that my hands shake and the milk carton creaks again. “Now.”
He breathes out through his nose like a disappointed father. “Don’t be dramatic.”
The stairwell door above us clicks. The chime gives a single, different note. Footsteps pound down the stairs. Brett glances over his shoulder, senses it too, turns back to me—
The door swings wide. Landon fills the doorway.
Cold air rushes in with him, his jacket hanging open, snowmelt dripping from his boots onto the mat without a sound.
His eyes sweep from Brett to me, to the milk carton crushed in my white-knuckled grip, to the two inches of counter edge digging into my back. His jaw tightens.
Three steps bring him between us. He plants his feet shoulder-width apart, close enough to block Brett but leaving me room to breathe. The fluorescent lights cast his shadow long across the floor, stretching toward me like a lifeline.
“Back away from her.” Each word drops into the silence like a stone.
Brett’s lips curl upward, teeth gleaming. “You again.” A soft chuckle rumbles in his throat. “The boyfriend from the bar.”
Landon doesn’t take the bait. “You need to leave.”
Brett tilts his head. “We’re having a private conversation, friend.”
“You’re in a private business you weren’t invited into,” Landon says. “Leave.”
“You going to make me?”
“If I have to.”
Brett takes half a step forward. Not much. Just enough to test the edge. Landon doesn’t move. His stillness isn’t a dare—it’s a wall.
“This is a joke.” Brett’s mouth twists into something that might pass for a smile if you’d never seen the real thing. He jerks his chin toward Landon without meeting his eyes. “She’ll be done playing with her little mechanic soon enough.”
His hand shoots out for my wrist, fingers splayed.
Landon’s palm smacks Brett’s forearm away. “Last warning.”
Brett’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “Touch me again, grease monkey, and they’ll find pieces of you from here to the county line.”
The fluorescent lights buzz. A drop of melted snow slides from Landon’s boot to the floor. His eyes never leave Brett’s face as he says with deadly precision, “Get out.”
Brett’s fist swings wide, knuckles whistling past Landon’s ear as Landon shifts his weight to the balls of his feet.
Landon’s right arm snaps forward—crack—and Brett’s head jerks sideways, spittle flying from his lips.
Brett’s shoulder slams into the door frame.
“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, one hand braced against the wall.
His eyes narrow to slits as he lunges forward again.
Landon’s forearm deflects the blow, and his fist connects squarely with Brett’s eye.
Brett doubles over, gasping. The overhead lights flicker once.
“Stop,” I say, my voice strangled. The fear ripping through me isn’t for me anymore—it’s all for him. Brett’s threats are never empty. He makes good on the ones that matter. “Landon.”
Landon’s shoulders drop a fraction at my voice. His jaw unclenches, then locks tight again as he shifts his weight back, planting himself like a wall between us without taking another step forward.
Brett touches his cheek where the skin has gone scarlet, a purple shadow already blooming beneath the surface.
His eyes dart to the ceiling corner, narrowing at the camera’s blinking red light.
He glances through the glass door to the street where his car sits alone in the snow, exhaust still curling from the tailpipe.
“I’ll see you soon, Marcy.” Brett’s voice drops to a whisper that slides between my ribs like a blade. His gaze shifts to Landon, lips curling upward while his eyes remain dead and flat. “And you? Remember this face.” His finger taps his own bruised cheek. “It’ll be the last one you ever see.”
“Go,” Landon says.
Brett yanks the door open, cold air rushing in. He takes one last look at me—sharp, calculating—and then he’s gone.