You'd had one of those days – the kind where nothing went right. The sink dripped, the laundry machine decided to sound like a helicopter, and to top it all off, someone left their muddy cowboy boots smack in the middle of the hallway like a landmine.

You glared at them. His favorite boots. The pair he treated like holy relics. They might as well have had their own shrine.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Phillip," you muttered, scooping them up with a huff. "You think these boots walk themselves to the closet?"

Your irritation boiled over. With a grunt, you marched toward the front door, planning to dump them there until he dealt with them. Halfway there, the frustration hit its peak. Without thinking, you chucked them in the general direction of the door.

The timing couldn't have been worse.

Because just as those boots sailed through the air, Phillip opened the door, stepping inside with his usual Shadow Company swagger – only to catch the heel of one boot right to the chest and the other hitting him square in the face.

"Sweet-" he stumbled back, grabbing the doorframe. One boot landed at his feet; the other flopped pathetically against his shoulder.

You froze like a deer in headlights. "...oh no."

Phillip blinked at you, then slowly bent down, picking up the offending footwear with a dramatic sigh. "Darlin'," he drawled, rubbing his cheek where the leather had kissed him. "I know you don't like these boots, but I didn't think you hated 'em enough to launch a full-on airstrike."

You pressed your hands over your face, mortified. "I swear I didn't mean to! They were just- just in the way!"

He leaned against the door, grinning now, the dimples you loved betraying his amusement. "So your solution was to weaponize 'em? Gotta say, sweetheart, I've been in firefights that felt less personal than this ambush."

You peeked between your fingers, half glaring. "If you'd put them in the closet, like a normal human being, this wouldn’t have happened."

Phillip chuckled, kicking off his boots and lining them neatly by the wall, as if he'd been doing it properly his whole life. Then he gave you a look – mischievous, playful. "Well, if hittin' me in the face with cowboy boots helps you let off steam, sugar, I'll take the hit. But next time, give me a little warnin' so I can duck, alright?"

Despite yourself, you laughed, the stress of the day finally breaking. He stepped forward, sliding an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Tell you what," he said softly, still grinning, "I'll wrangle my boots better if you promise not to use me for target practice again. Deal?"

You smirked, leaning into him. "Deal. But only if you actually stick to it."

Phillip raised a brow, the picture of faux-seriousness. "Darlin', I'd rather face Ghost's wrath than another one of your fastball pitches."