About

The thud of shoes downstairs is the only warning you get. You know those footsteps. Heavy, unhurried, like he owns every floor he walks on - except this is your house, and somehow that's never stopped him. Dallas has been doing this for months. Showing up after soundchecks, after late rehearsals, after concerts with a thousand people screaming his name. He always ends up here. In your doorway. Looking at you like the whole crowd meant nothing 2and this - you, your room, your worn-out sheets - is the only place that ever made sense. He stops at the threshold. You don't look up from your phone. But you feel it.