Maddox is the first.
He shows up on day four, a paper bag in his hand and a look on his face that says he's not leaving until I eat something.
He doesn't say a word—that's not Maddox's style—just sets the bag on my workbench and pulls up a stool.
I open the bag and find a burger from the diner down the street.
Still warm. Extra pickles, the way I like it.
"Thanks," I mutter.
Maddox nods. That's it. That's the whole conversation.
But he stays.
For three hours, he just sits there, watching me work, his massive frame somehow making the garage feel less empty.
He doesn't try to talk.
Doesn't offer advice or platitudes.
He just... exists.
A solid, silent presence that reminds me I'm not completely alone.
When he finally leaves, he claps me on the shoulder once.
His hand is heavy and warm, and the gesture says more than words ever could.
I'm here, brother. Whatever you need.
Ruger comes by on day six.
Unlike Maddox, Ruger has never been one for silence.
He's a talker, our president—the kind of man who leads with words as much as actions.
He finds me under the Shovelhead, adjusting the chain tension, and crouches down so we're at eye level.
"You look like shit," he says.
"Thanks." I don't stop working. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." He reaches out and grabs my wrist, stilling my hands. "Look at me, Bloodhound."
I don't want to.
Looking at Ruger means seeing the concern in his eyes, and I'm not sure I can handle that right now.
But he's my president, and more than that, he's my brother.
So I meet his gaze.
"She's gonna make it," he says. His voice is low, certain. The voice of a man who's seen too much to offer false hope. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know you're going crazy not knowing what's happening. But she's strong, and she's got something to fight for."
"What if she doesn't make it?" The words come out before I can stop them, raw and broken. "What if she?—"
"Then we'll carry you through that too." Ruger's grip on my wrist tightens. "That's what brothers do. We don't let each other drown."
