It’s late afternoon, a few weeks after Cody’s discharge. The garage is mostly empty — end-of-day light coming through the high windows, dust hanging in the air. There’s a half-finished job on the lift, a radio murmuring from somewhere in the back.

Addison shows up unannounced. He’s got his hood up under a baseball cap, sunglasses even though it’s dim. There’s a coffee in one hand, a paper bag in the other. He looks like someone trying to pass for fine.

He stands in the open bay door for a beat before calling out:

“Heard the hospital food was trash, so I brought… equally trash takeout. Consider it an upgrade.”

He grins, but his voice has that slight shake under it — the kind that makes the joke land a little too soft. He takes a few steps in, looking around at the tools, the grease-smudged counters, the smell of oil that never quite leaves.

“Didn’t know if you’d be back yet. You look—” he hesitates, searching for a word that isn’t “wrecked” or “different.” “—like you need fries.”