Chapter 19
Marcy
The smell of garlic hits me the second I step inside the house. Not the faint, burned-around-the-edges kind Brett used to make when he “cooked” once a year, but warm and rich and layered—the kind that feels intentional. Thought out. Comforting.
The house itself is different from what I expected with three men living here.
It’s nothing like the apartment above the garage.
It’s warmer, fuller somehow. A lived-in place.
The hallway opens to a kitchen lined with honey-colored wooden cabinets and cluttered shelves—mismatched mugs, a stack of board games crammed between two cookbooks, a row of boots abandoned by the door.
Messy in the way that means lived in. Messy in the way that means home.
“Welcome to Casa Disaster,” Wes announces, sweeping his arm wide like a host on a game show. “Ignore the fact that I may or may not have vacuumed with a broom earlier.”
“You can’t vacuum with a broom,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Wes points a spatula at me like it’s a sword. “Spoken like someone who’s never seen me multitask.”
Behind me, Landon snorts. He doesn’t say much, but when he helps me out of my coat, his hands brush my shoulders—steady, careful—and the tiniest part of me unclenches.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Wes says, retreating to the stove. “Chef Wesley is in his natural habitat tonight.”
I glance at Landon, skeptical. “He’s actually cooking?”
His lips twitch. “Don’t sound so surprised. He’s good.”
I follow him into the kitchen, where Wes stirs something in a wide skillet. Steam curls up in fragrant ribbons. Garlic, onions, tomato, basil—rich and layered and mouthwatering.
“Pasta night,” Wes announces. “Handmade sauce, roasted tomatoes, a little spice, and there might be some sausage in there. I’d tell you the recipe, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Translation,” Landon says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Whatever we had left in the kitchen for him to throw together.”
“Hey,” Wes says, mock-offended. “This is love in a pan. Don’t disrespect it.”
I laugh. They bicker like brothers, and somehow I’m folded into it without even trying.
I set out cutlery while Wes plates the food. The dishes don’t match—one plate has a cartoon moose on it, another sports a chip along the rim—but it doesn’t matter. By the time Wes brings everything over, the kitchen feels warmer than any fire ever could.
Dinner is easy. Too easy, maybe.
Wes talks enough for all three of us, spinning ridiculous stories about customers at the garage, about Becket arguing his way out of a speeding ticket while Ravi pretended not to laugh the whole time.
Landon mostly shakes his head and mutters, “that’s not how it happened,” which only makes Wes lean harder into his version.
And me? I eat.
Really eat.
The pasta is incredible—simple, perfectly seasoned, filling. Each bite grounds me, reminds me that I’m here, not there. That I’m at a mismatched table with two men who make me laugh, not trapped in a kitchen where laughter was a warning bell.
Halfway through my second plate, Wes raises his glass toward me. “To our guest,” he declares. “Thanks for putting up with us.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “You didn’t have to—”
“Wrong,” Wes cuts me off cheerfully. “Hospitality is the Black Pines way. Besides, Landon would’ve sulked if you said no to coming over.”
“Wes,” Landon warns, his voice low.
Wes grins. “See?”
I duck my head, sipping water to hide the way my heart stutters.
The conversation drifts after that. Wes asks me about growing up, but in that loose, joking way that doesn’t demand anything I don’t want to give. I tell him about living in the city. He laughs when I describe falling into a stranger’s lap during a sudden stop on an overcrowded bus.
It all feels… normal.
I can’t remember the last time I felt normal.
After dinner, Wes insists on cleaning up. “My masterpiece, my mess,” he says, shooing us away.
That leaves me and Landon in the living room.
The space is cozy. A worn leather couch faces a stone fireplace, where flames crackle and throw light across the room. Shelves overflow with old books and knick-knacks—half-burned candles, a carved wooden bear, and what looks suspiciously like a snow globe collection.
I curl up at one end of the couch, tucking my legs beneath me. Landon sits at the other end. Not close, not far. Just enough space that the air between us hums.
For a while, it’s quiet—only the pop of the fire and Wes clattering pans in the kitchen. My eyelids grow heavy, but I fight it, restless. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but it makes me aware of how close we are.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurt.
Landon shifts, glancing at me. “Yeah.”
“Why Black Pines? You’re good with… people. You could’ve left, gone anywhere. Why stay here?”
His eyes drop to the fire, shadows flickering across his face. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his voice comes, low and steady. “Because this place doesn’t let you go. Not if you’re the kind of person who owes it something.”
I frown. “Owes it?”
“My mom,” he says simply. “She worked herself raw to raise me and Nova here. This town looked out for us when she couldn’t. Neighbors dropped food off, Beckett’s dad gave me my first job. When you’re a kid and people step in like that… it sticks.”
There’s quiet pride in his tone, threaded with something heavier. I feel it settle in my chest.
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you ever regret it? Staying?”
He looks at me then, his green eyes catching mine. “Not really. Some things are worth rooting yourself for.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. Maybe because I’ve spent so long running, because “roots” feels like a foreign language I don’t know how to speak.
I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod, staring at the fire.
The silence stretches again, but softer now. Easier.
“You’re different when you smile,” Landon says suddenly.
My head jerks toward him. “What?”
His lips twitch like he’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t look away. “You carry a lot. It shows. But when you smile… it’s like for a second, none of that weight’s there. I like seeing it.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks, hotter than the fire. My chest flutters with something sharp and sweet all at once. I don’t know what to say.
So I don’t say anything. I just let myself lean sideways, letting my cheek brush his shoulder.
I move to pull back, but Landon wraps an arm around me.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Rest.”
So I don’t pull away. My eyelids grow heavy, each blink slower than the last. His flannel shirt smells like cedar and laundry detergent.
I feel the rise and fall of his chest—once, twice, three times—and my own breathing slows to match.
The weight of his arm settles across my shoulders, warm and certain.
His heartbeat thumps beneath my ear—steady as a metronome.
The fire pops. The wind whispers outside.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, the knot between my shoulder blades unravels and I fall asleep.
***
When I wake, it’s to sunlight and Wes’s voice. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
My body snaps forward so fast my neck cricks.
The cushion beneath me still holds the warm impression of where I’d been curled against Landon’s side.
He stirs beside me, eyelashes fluttering, his arm stretched across the back of the couch in the exact same protective curve it had formed around my shoulders all night.
“Well, well, well,” Wes drawls. “Look at you two. Cozy.”
“Wes,” Landon says, his voice low and warning, but Wes just smirks, arms crossed as he leans against the doorway.
“Relax,” Wes says. “Although—you picked a hell of a night to stay over.”
“What night?” My voice comes out hoarse with sleep.
Wes jerks his thumb toward the window. “The one where we’re officially snowed in.”
I turn my head, and my breath catches.
The world outside has disappeared under white. Three feet of snow press against the porch railing like a wall, and fat flakes still swirl down, erasing any trace of the driveway. The pine trees bow under the weight, their branches heavy and drooping.
My fingers curl into the couch fabric. The walls seem to creep closer. My throat tightens—that familiar vice grip that used to come when he’d block the doorway with his body.
Then Landon’s pinky finger grazes mine on the cushion between us. The small callus on his knuckle rasps against my skin.
“Got enough firewood to last a week,” he says quietly. “And the generator’s full.”
Wes rattles a box of pasta from the doorway. “Spaghetti carbonara: the sequel.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. My shoulders drop half an inch from where they’d crept toward my ears.
Snowed in.
I watch a cardinal land on the buried bird feeder, a bright spot of red against the endless white, and realize my breathing has slowed to match Landon’s steady rhythm.
Snowed in.
And for the first time in a long while, being stuck someplace doesn’t terrify me. Not with them. Not with him.