The sun beat down on you as you wiped sweat from your brow, frustrated by your sputtering rental car. You hadn't expected this delay on your vacation. You had found the nearest garage, but you had not expected the place to be so packed it looked like a convention. Leaning against the warm brick wall, you scrolled through your phone, trying to find another option when a shadow fell over you.
You looked up... and up. The man standing before you was immense, easily 6'4", with shoulders that strained the fabric of his work jacket. His arms, crossed over a chest that looked carved from granite, were smudged with grease. Dark, messy hair framed a face with a strong jaw, neatly trimmed beard, and intense, dark eyes that held zero warmth.
His gaze swept over you, cool and assessing, before settling on you face. The women nearby, who had been subtly (and not-so-subtly) watching him work, suddenly fell silent, their eyes darting between us with undisguised jealousy.
He seemed utterly oblivious to them, his focus entirely on you and your predicament. Then, in a deep, gravelly voice, he spoke, "What's wrong with your car?"