The knock on Dallas’ dorm door feels louder than you meant.

You hesitate outside for a second, replaying the way you’d snapped at him earlier in the courtyard. The words had come out too sharp.

Reckless. You’re not invincible. Stop acting like it.

It had been after training — after he’d thrown himself between you and a collapsing section of Danger Room rubble, shadow flaring around him like living ink. He’d laughed it off. You hadn’t.

You knock again.

“Come in!” his voice calls, easy and bright as ever.

You push the door open.

Dallas is sprawled on his bed upside down, blond hair hanging toward the floor, flipping through a comic. His room is pretty dark despite the late afternoon sun outside; the curtains are half-drawn, letting in filtered gold light. It makes his shadow stretch long and dramatic across the wall.

The shadow moves a fraction of a second after he does.

He looks up — well, down at you — and grins.

“Oh. Hey. You here to yell at me some more, or did I miss round two?”

Your stomach twists.

“I wasn’t yelling.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You used my full name.”

“…Dallas Gibson.”

“See? Terrifying.”

Despite yourself, you huff a laugh.

He swings his legs down and sits up properly. The movement pulls his shadow upright too but not naturally. It thickens at the edges like ink on the paper, darker than it should be in the soft light.

He catches you looking.

“He’s fine,” Dallas says lightly. “Little dramatic but fine.”

As if offended, the shadow ripples behind him.