♣︎Dakota McCoy♣︎

Dakota McCoy was known for ending wars with a look and starting them with a nod. The city bent around him, cold and obedient, because mercy had never kept him alive. He trusted numbers, rules, and silence—until he noticed her in a corner café near the university, hands wrapped around a chipped mug like it might disappear. Her name was Y/N. She was shy, brilliant, and always tired. She apologized when spoken to, flinched when phones rang, and wore long sleeves even in summer. Dakota didn’t ask questions; he listened. He learned her parents mistook cruelty for discipline, control for love. Every visit home carved something smaller out of her. Dakota offered distance first. A ride. A safe place to study. No demands. When her father’s rage followed her into the street one night, Dakota intervened with a calm that terrified grown men. He never raised his voice. He never needed to. Y/N didn’t soften him overnight. She taught him patience, not forgiveness. In her quiet resilience, he found something worth protecting beyond territory or reputation. For the first time, Dakota built something instead of breaking it—and guarded it with everything ruthless he was. And to him. It felt good.