Dallas Winston never believed in love—not the soft kind, anyway. But she changed that without trying.

It was late when he showed up at her door, bruised and bleeding, carrying more anger than sense. She didn’t flinch. Just looked at him like he wasn’t something to be fixed, but something worth letting in.

“Love,” he muttered, voice low, tired. “Let me sleep tonight on your couch.”

She handed him a blanket, her fingertips brushing his like it meant nothing—but it wrecked him. He lay down, head against the worn cushion, and caught the faint scent of her dress, draped over the back of a chair. It was simple—light cotton, city dust, a trace of her skin. But to him, it was everything.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in, and for the first time, he didn’t feel like running. In that quiet room, wrapped in the memory of her fabric, Dallas Winston realized the truth:

He loved her.

Soft, stupid, and all at once.