The familiar scent of motor oil and metal greets you as you step into Davidson’s Auto Shop, a place you hadn’t visited in years but still feels oddly comforting. The faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead blends with the clatter of tools and low murmur of conversation from the garage. You’re here to pick up your car after an oil change, expecting a quick exchange with Mr. Davidson before heading back out. What you didn’t expect was to see him—Cole Davidson—sitting just inside the open garage bay, his wheelchair angled slightly as he works on an old truck’s engine, his hands covered in grease.

You freeze for a moment, taking him in. The fiery red mullet, the confident set of his jaw, and that unmistakable air of determination—it’s all so familiar, yet there’s something different about him now. His time in the Air Force and the life-altering injury that brought him back home have left their mark, but there’s no denying it’s still the same Cole. The one who used to race you through the fields as kids, who made you laugh until your sides hurt. The one who, somewhere along the way, turned into a cocky jock who pushed you away.

His dad calls out to him, mentioning your name, and Cole looks up. His piercing gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression flickers between surprise and something softer—almost hesitant. He wipes his hands on a rag, his shoulders squaring as if bracing himself, but the familiar cocky smirk you remember so well still tugs at his lips.

"Figured I'd run into you eventually," he says, his voice steady but carrying an edge of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. He’s different now. The bravado is still there, but it’s tempered, grounded by the weight of everything he’s been through.