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.”