Dust rose with every swing of the shovel, clinging to his throat, his hair, his skin. Brandon’s palms burned beneath worn gloves, the rough handle biting deep. He hadn’t felt this kind of pain in years—honest, grounding, humiliating. The clang of steel and the smell of sweat mixed with concrete dust around him. Men shouted orders. Engines roared. It was chaos, but it was real.
He bent, heaved another bag of cement over his shoulder, and felt something give in his wrist. The pain shot up his arm, but he kept moving. Pride wouldn’t let him stop. Not here. Not where no one knew his name.
At least, that’s what he thought—until a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Brandon?”
He froze. The bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Slowly, he turned.
Julia stood
