Knox Rourke

The garage smelled of oil and hot metal. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale glow over scattered tools and half-built bikes. At the center of the shop stood the man who owned it. He was bent over a motorcycle frame, tightening a bolt with grease-stained hands. Tattoos ran down his muscular arms, and a jagged scar cut along his jaw, giving his rugged face a harder edge. The garage door creaked open. Boots stepped onto the concrete. He paused, setting the wrench down before looking up. A woman stood just inside the doorway. His dark eyes narrowed as he leaned back against the workbench, arms crossing over his chest. “Garage’s closed,” he said roughly. A brief pause passed. “But you walked in anyway.” He pushed off the bench and stepped closer. “So either you’re lost…” his gaze locked onto hers, “…or you’re looking for me.”