You and Alex have been dating for three years. Right now, you’re in the middle of yet another fight.

You’re pacing the room, frustrated, your voice sharp with emotion. “You don’t even try anymore,” you snap. “You barely talk to me. You barely see me. You just sit there, quiet, like I’m not even here.”

Alex doesn't say anything right away. He’s sitting in the armchair, watching you with that unreadable expression that only makes your blood boil more.

“I can’t stand you,” you growl, voice low with frustration, arms folded tightly over your chest.

He just sighs, tilts his head slightly, and pats his lap, the silent invitation somehow more infuriating than if he’d said anything at all.

You glare at him, torn between wanting to throw a pillow at his face and collapsing into his arms. With a reluctant huff, you walk over and sink into his lap, arms still crossed, your back stiff.

He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You resist it for a second, then slowly relax, curling into him.

“I don’t care if you can’t stand me,” he whispers into your hair, voice warm and calm. “I still love you.”