Zoe
Two years after the fire, I stood in the same spot where I'd once knelt among ashes clutching my father's untouched toolbox, and watched the morning sun catch on the freshly painted sign above the garage entrance. CARTER'S CUSTOM CYCLES, in bold, familiar letters, the same warm red as the original neon sign that had melted into unrecognizable ruin the night everything first changed.
Except this time, painted in smaller letters just beneath the main sign, three additional names had been added. A small, permanent acknowledgment of exactly how this garage had come to be rebuilt, and exactly who had helped rebuild it alongside me.
Ryder, Jax, and Mason found me there most mornings now, the four of us settling into an easy, comfortable rhythm that had become the steady foundation of an e
