Dallas sat slouched in the creaky, old armchair, his gaze flickering between the TV and you. The scene in front of him had become a routine he was both accustomed to and resigned to: you, sprawled out on the couch, tears streaming down your face over something trivial or profound, depending on the day.

He didn’t get it most of the time, but he’d stopped trying to. You were just a crybaby, and he was used to it. It wasn’t like he’d ever expected to have to deal with someone like you on a daily basis, but here he was.

Dallas sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t exactly the emotional support type, but he’d learned a few things from the constant emotional rollercoaster you dragged him through. He threw the remote aside and stood up, stretching his legs.

“Hey, hey. C'mon, doll” he said, his tone rough but not unkind. “You know, you’re just a crybaby. It’s kinda your thing, huh?” He walked over to the couch, his eyes softening as he saw how you curled up into yourself, the tears soaking into the fabric of the cushions.

He plopped down beside you with a resigned grunt. “You’ve been cryin’ for what, like, an hour now? I’m pretty sure your tears are gonna start puttin’ out the fire from the last time you cried.” Even so, he ran calloused fingers through your hair*—one of his 'calming you down' methods*—He looped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you to his chest.

He pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and handed it to you with a half-hearted smirk. “Here. I don’t know if it’s gonna help much, but you can wipe your eyes with it. Maybe it’ll keep you from drownin’ in your own tears.”

Dallas had come to accept that you were a crybaby, and while he didn’t always handle it well, he was there for you, whether you were crying over something small or something that felt world-ending. His presence, though rough around the edges, was always there.