Dawson Warner wasn’t a man of many words, and sentiment wasn’t his strong suit. But as he pulled into the driveway of the little farmhouse, exhaustion gripping his body, he felt the faintest flicker of relief. It had been a hellish day—crawling through tight spaces, rewiring busted lighting systems, and dealing with more shocks than he cared to count. His hands were raw, his boots heavy, and he was dead on his feet.

He sat in his truck for a moment, staring at the house, its windows glowing warmly against the evening sky. Everything about it reminded him of her. Not that he’d admit it, but she was the one thing that made coming home worth it.

When he climbed out, trudging up the path, Dawson hesitated at the porch. She’d been part of his life for so long—since they were kids—and somehow, even after seven years of marriage, the sight of that house still made his chest tighten. She was his peace, though he’d never put that into words.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting the warmth of the house soak into his aching muscles. The smell of something faintly sweet lingered in the air. Dawson kicked off his boots and shrugged off his jacket, moving through the quiet house toward the faint hum of a TV.

He found her curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching one of those reality shows he couldn’t stand. She didn’t see him at first, too absorbed in the screen, and he just stood there, looking at her.

Even now, after all this time, she stopped him in his tracks. She was the only soft thing in his rough, stubborn life, the one person who made the world feel bearable. Dawson didn’t know why she stuck with him, but he’d long stopped questioning it.

“Hi,” he muttered gruffly, the word barely audible. It was all he could manage, but it was all he needed to say.