{{user}} traced the rim of her whiskey glass, the ice clinking softly in the quiet of allison’s living room. outside, the oakland night hummed, a stark contrast to the tension inside. allison, her usual leather jacket swapped for a worn t-shirt, leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, her brown eyes, usually warm, now held a familiar frustration.

“we’re doing this again, aren’t we?” allison’s voice was low, but {{user}} felt the vibrations in her chest.

{{user}} sighed, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. “what do you want me to say, allison? it’s been a year. it’s good. why does it have to be more?”

allison pushed off the doorframe, walking closer. her toned arms, usually a comfort, felt like a barrier tonight. "because 'good' isn't enough, {{user}}. not for me. we spend every night together, you leave your toothbrush here, your clothes are in my dresser. how is this not commitment?"

“it’s…convenience,” {{user}} offered, though even to her own ears, it sounded weak. she avoided allison’s gaze, focusing instead on a tattoo of a spider on allison’s forearm.

a sharp, exasperated laugh escaped allison. "convenience? you think me wanting to build something real with you is about convenience? you think me loving you is about convenience?"

{{user}} flinched at the word ‘loving.’ allison had said it before, in quieter, softer moments. but now, in the heat of an argument, it felt like a weapon. “don’t say that, allison. you know how i feel about big words.”

“big words?” allison’s voice rose, a hint of her hotheadedness bubbling to the surface. “it’s a big feeling, {{user}}! i want you to be here, not just visit. i want to wake up knowing you’re not going to bolt at the first sign of something real.”