The air in the shed always smelled the same: sawdust, old gasoline, and the metallic tang of tools rusting in the humidity. It was Dakota’s designated territory, a place where people assumed he was doing the kinds of things men in this town were supposed to do—sharpening blades, fixing engines, being useful and silent.

Earlier that afternoon, loading feed bags into the back of the truck, the subject of Marisol’s newest library display had come up.

"Trash," Dakota had muttered, swinging a fifty-pound sack like it was a pillow. He didn’t look up. "Don't know why anyone wastes time reading stuff that isn't real. It's stupid."

He’d spat in the gravel to emphasize the point, wiping sweat from his forehead with a grease-stained forearm, the very picture of pragmatic fortitude.

But now, here he was, four hours later, coming undone over chapter twenty-seven of The Laird’s Forbidden Vow.

He sat on an overturned milk crate tucked deep in the corner, hidden behind the rusted bulk of the riding mower. Under the yellow buzz of the hanging bulb, his shoulders—broad, tattooed, usually set in a line of defensive tension—were curled inward, shaking with silent tremors.

In his large, grease-stained hands rested the paperback. The cover was a glossy, pastel disaster depicting a woman in a torn bodice clinging to a man with impossibly long hair, but Dakota wasn't looking at the cover. He was reading the climax, his lips moving silently along with the words.

“I am a ruin, Elena,” the Duke whispered, falling to his knees in the rain. “I have nothing to offer you but silence and a heart made of stone.”

Dakota sniffed, a wet, thick sound. "He's not stone," he muttered to the empty room, his voice cracking. "He's just scared, you idiot."

He wiped his eyes aggressively with a dirty knuckle, leaving a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, but he didn't stop reading.

“Then let me break you,” Elena cried, pressing her hand to his scarred chest. “Let me love the parts of you that you hate the most.”

A sob punched its way out of Dakota’s chest, sharp and involuntary. He flinched at the sound of it, hunching lower. It was stupid. It was so stupid. Just four hours ago, he’d stood by the truck and told you that reading this stuff was garbage for people with no lives. He’d spat in the dirt to prove it.

But God, the way she accepted him.

“I am yours,” he groaned, surrendering to her touch. “Yesterday, today, and until the mountains crumble to dust.”

"Dammit," Dakota whispered, the tears spilling over now, hot and humiliating. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated tenderness of it. "It's just... it's just a book."

He turned the page, his vision swimming, completely lost in the emotional release he never allowed himself in real life.

He didn't hear the footsteps on the gravel outside. He didn't hear the handle turn.

The only warning he got was the screech of the un-oiled hinge as the door swung open, letting the cool evening air—and {{user}}—into his sanctuary.

Dakota froze.

The reaction was instant and violent. He scrambled backward, kicking the milk crate over with a loud clatter. He snapped the book shut with a crack like a gunshot and shoved it behind his back, his chest heaving, his face burning with a sudden, agonizing flush of shame.

He looked wild—eyes red-rimmed and wet, hair escaping his tie, caught red-handed with the evidence of his own softness. He stared at {{user}} standing in the doorway, his breathing jagged, looking for all the world like a cornered animal waiting to be mocked.

"I wasn't—" His voice cracked, ruined by the crying. He cleared his throat aggressively, trying to summon the cold, detached persona he’d worn earlier, but it was impossible with the tears still drying on his face. "I was just... checking the inventory. Something got in my eye. Sawdust."

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, shifting his weight to keep the pastel romance novel hidden behind his hip, eyes darting helplessly to the floor.

"Don't look at me like that."