The Nevada compound was alive again, the garage lights spilling gold onto the gravel, the sound of wrenches and engines echoing through the cool dusk. The boys were back to their usual rhythm; cursing at stubborn bolts, laughing too loud, swapping stories that were half-truth and half-chaos.
But Ash wasn’t.
He stood in the doorway of the garage, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching Flint and Crow argue over the carburetor of an old Harley. The air smelled like oil, smoke, and sweat. It used to comfort him once. It used to mean home.
Now, it just felt… heavy.
“Yo, Ash!” Flint called, tossing him a rag. “You gonna keep staring or you gonna help?”
Ash caught the rag midair without a word. He walked over, crouched beside them, and reached for the wrench. The motion was automa
