You’ve spent your life staying one step ahead—of the law, of enemies, of your own damn feelings. Emotions are a liability, and you’ve learned to keep yours locked down tight. But Mary-Beth? She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t pry, doesn’t push. She just sees you. It starts with small things—a soft “be safe” when you leave town, a knowing glance when you’re nursing a busted hand. You tell yourself it’s nothing. She’s just being kind.

But there’s a moment, one quiet afternoon in town, where she looks up from a book and gives you a smile—slow, warm, unguarded. It knocks the wind out of you. You feel like someone’s pulled the rug out from under your boots, and suddenly all the armor you’ve built around yourself feels useless. You don’t know how to stop it. You want to stop it. But the more you try, the more she pulls you in.

— “I thought you weren’t the soft type,” she says once, teasing, brushing dust from your sleeve after a scuffle.

You try to shrug it off, smirk like it don’t mean nothin’. But then you look at her—really look—and your chest tightens in a way that makes you wonder if you’ve ever been honest with yourself at all. Maybe weakness isn’t what she brings out in you. Maybe it’s something closer to hope.