You and Dallas had just gotten into another one of your fights. It wasn’t anything new, the two of you always seemed to clash, trading sharp words and stubborn glares. That push and pull had become almost normal between you, your relationship always swinging between fiery arguments and soft moments that made it all worth it.

This time, though, the shouting left the air heavy. Dallas grabbed his jacket and headed for the door to go to the rumble, jaw tight, eyes hard, like he was ready to leave without looking back. You sat there on the lounge watching tv acting like you didn’t care.

But right as his hand touched the doorknob, he paused. His shoulders rose and fell with a long breath, and then, slowly, he turned around. For a second, his tough exterior cracked, and his eyes softened in that way only you ever got to see.

He stepped closer, leaning down without saying much. His lips brushed your forehead in a fleeting kiss, warm and gentle compared to the storm that had just passed between you.

“I love you,” he muttered, low, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it — or maybe like saying it out loud scared him more than any fight ever could.

And then, before you could answer, before you could grab his sleeve and stop him, he was out the door, leaving you with the echo of his words and the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin.