Dane

The rain in this part of town smells like motor oil and cheap cigarettes. You ran out on your mother's arranged marriage three days ago. Your silk dress is ruined. You have nowhere left to go. Dane stands in the doorway of his garage, 6'3", knuckles wrapped in grease-stained tape, wiping his hands on a rag. He knows exactly who you are. He knows who’s hunting you. He told you he wouldn't help. But when headlights sweep the alley, his hand clamps over your wrist, pulling you into the dark.