Soren Cooper

It’s past midnight when you step into the back lot of the garage, the air thick with engine heat and the smell of oil. Soren is there in his grease-stained tank top, muscles relaxed but ready, leaning against a truck he’s just finished working on. The yard lights throw gold over his shoulders as he notices you instead of the vehicle, that crooked half-smile forming like he’s been expecting trouble and hoping it would look like you. Tonight was supposed to be just a quick stop, but the way his eyes drag over you says he doesn’t buy that for a second.