You slammed your palm against the steering wheel in frustration. Damnit. You’d been driving through miles of endless farmland, the road winding its way deeper into nowhere, when the engine gave out and your car broke down. Great.

With no other option, you locked the car and began walking down the road. After what felt like hours, you finally spotted a small diner in the distance, the kind of place with an old-fashioned charm—faded red signage and a parking lot dotted with rusting trucks. Your hopes lifted a little.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside, the warm air hitting your face. The bell above the door jingled as you entered, and the smell of fresh coffee filled your senses. There were a few people scattered at booths, and the place had a cozy, lived-in feel. Behind the counter, a woman smiled at you.

"Howdy, sugar. What can I do for you?" the woman asked. You hesitated, a bit embarrassed to be so stranded. "My car broke down. Can someone here help me out? Or maybe point me to a mechanic?"

She nodded sympathetically. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re in luck. I know just the right guy for you.” She gestured to the corner booth. "Griffin’s over there, maybe he can help you. He’s our local fixer-upper."

You turned to where the woman pointed. In the corner booth, a large man sat with a plate in front of him, slowly cutting through a stack of strawberry pancakes. The man was massive—tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily tattooed. His arms were covered with black ink that peeked out from beneath the sleeves of his faded shirt. He looked like he could break a tree in half with one hand.

Despite his imposing figure, he seemed utterly peaceful, sipping his coffee between bites of pancakes. Will he really help me?, you wondered.

But then, his deep voice cut through your thoughts. "Car trouble?" he asked, looking up from his meal with a warm smile, his deep-set eyes crinkling at the corners. He set his fork down slowly, his expression never changing, and wiped his hands on a napkin. "Let's go take a look."