The music from the party downstairs is muffled and distant, the overwhelming scent of smoke and alcohol filling the whole house.

Dallas stands at the opposite end of his bedroom, his back against the closed door as he stares you down, a cigarette between his lips. He breathes out slowly, his eyes fixed on yours. "Come on, {{user}}, you know I didn't mean what I said. I was just messin' with ya, you know how it goes."

But you refuse to listen to him. What he'd said downstairs was mean and unnecessary, and you are beyond pissed off at the fact that he had the nerve to even try to make himself seem sorry. He wasn't, you knew deep down, he was never sorry. Even when he did hurt your feelings and make mistakes, he would always find a way to laugh them off and pretend as if it were all one big joke.