Mason
My shoulder had healed enough by the following week that the doctor finally cleared me for light work, and I spent the morning at the site of Zoe's old garage, walking the cleared lot with the careful attention I usually reserved for engines rather than architecture.
The wreckage had finally been cleared away entirely, contractors Jax had lined up working through the remaining debris until nothing but bare, level ground remained, waiting patiently for whatever we built to replace it. I stood at the center of that empty space, imagining the shape of something new rising where three generations of Carters had once poured their lives into fixing engines.
Zoe joined me a while later, carrying rolled blueprints under one arm, her expression bright with an excitement I hadn't seen from
