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And I’m…alone. So fucking alone.

I try not to let the distance bother me, but it all comes to a head when I head into Nate’s room, popcorn in hand. “Hey, do you want to watch a?—”

The sun’s barely set, yet the bed’s made. Shades drawn and barely a hint of his scent in the air. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time Nate was home. The last breakfast we had together. The last conversation outside of color schemes for work projects.

Panic swarms like it does when my sister’s on a fire call. How have I not noticed my brother’s been slowly working himself out of our lives? What the hell was I so focused on that I can’t even tell when it started?

My phone’s a lead weight as I drag it out of my sweats and text my brother.

Me

When was the last time Nate came home?

Connor

Uh, last night?

He says it so flippantly that I knowhedidn’t come home either and suddenly, I’m frustrated at both of us. Him for not being the pack lead we need and me for not calling him out sooner. For not realizing that this pack is so fucking fractured, it may not be fixable.

Me

Come home tonight. Pack meeting.

Connor

Yes, sir.

Thanks to the late hour and the anxiety pushing my foot down, the drive to the garage is quick.

After a quick hello to the guards so they know I’m here, I head inside to heavy bass blares through the speakers, echoing off concrete.

My breath comes easier when I find Nate bent over, head hidden behind the hood of a rusted-out shell. Calling it a car would be a gross overstatement, but I know by the time he’s done, it’ll be beautiful. Every client who comes our way is a testament to his love for restoration.

Knowing he hasn’t heard me, I pull the aux cord from the stereo, letting it dangle from my hand. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but that’s fine. Now that I know he’s okay, I can be patient.

Spending most of my time in the paint shack on the back of the building means I haven’t spent a lot of time in the garage recently. Nate runs a tight ship, so everything’s put away, cars suspended on locked lifts so no one can get to them. Every surface gleams, the air smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and oil.

Morgan Restorations is Nate’s dream, one that Connor and I gave him when everything else went to shit. It became his reason for living, but I never thought it would be the only one.

“When did we get this one?” My question echoes in the silence as he finishes writing in the little notebook he always carries. Finally, he looks at me, straightening to his full height.

Nate Morgan is a big motherfucker, naturally built like a defenseman but with little athletic ability to be found.

“Two days ago. Moore dropped it off. Twenty-first birthday gift for his kid.”

Shit. AJ Moore Sr. is a legend in the car space. That he came to us at all says just how far we’ve come since we started the business way too young. If this goes well, it could be revolutionary for our career.

“No wonder you haven’t been home.”

“I stopped by to shower.” Nate’s defense is weak, and we both know it.

“Funny, I thought people needed sleep to function.”

His glare is cool and disinterested. Shadowed pale brown irises live above bags deep with remembered sorrow. So unlike the boy I grew up with that my chest hurts.

I can’t imagine waking up to my entire world gone, the life I had in pieces around me. Nate did and every day, he has to live with that, for better or worse.

“You look like shit, brother.”