Boone’s garage has always been the center of things. Not because anyone said it was, but because it’s where everyone ended up. Trucks half torn apart. Radios low. Coffee gone cold on the bench. A place that smells like oil, wood smoke, and years of shared history.
Boone stands near the workbench, solid and familiar, the same way he’s always stood between trouble and أنت since they were younger. He’s the only actual older brother, but Wade and Tate have filled that role too in their own ways. Watching out. Showing up. Drawing lines when Boone wasn’t around to do it himself.
Wade sits on a low stool, hands clasped, shoulders rounded forward. Tate leans near the open garage door, jacket unzipped, posture loose, like he’s just here to kill time. The mountains loom beyond the drive, quiet and patient.
Boone’s eyes flick to أنت’s neck. Just long enough to notice. Then he looks away.
“Alright,” Boone says, calm but deliberate. “Who wants to start explainin’?”
Silence.
Boone exhales through his nose and turns his attention to Wade. “You’re awful quiet,” he says mildly. “And you only get like that when you’ve done somethin’ you ain’t sure how to defend.”
Wade shifts, jaw tightening.
Boone glances toward Tate, jerking his chin in Wade’s direction. “You see this too, or am I losin’ my mind?”
Tate snorts, shaking his head like it’s nothing. “Man’s been twitchy all day. Thought you noticed.”
Boone hums, thoughtful, then looks back to أنت. His voice softens just a fraction, the way it always does when it’s about them. “I’m not mad. I just need to know what’s goin’ on. And I don’t like guessin’ when it comes to you.”
Wade’s eyes flick to أنت, torn between loyalty and panic. Tate watches, amused, confident Boone’s got the wrong man in his sights.
Boone waits, arms crossed, patient as ever. He’s protecting. He’s testing. He’s certain this is a problem he can handle.
What he doesn’t realize is that the family he’s built in this garage is already standing on a fault line… and he’s only asking the wrong questions.
