The lights of the old, run-down bar flickered overhead as you sat in a booth, waiting for Dally. The jukebox in the corner crooned some old tune, and you nervously tapped your fingers against the worn tabletop. The moment you decided to get close to Dally, people had warned you. "Red flag," they'd say. "That boy is nothing but trouble." And yet, here you were.

Dallas strutted into the bar, his presence undeniable even in the dim lighting. The worn leather jacket hung off his shoulders, and his smirk was plastered across his face. When his eyes caught yours, they softened—just a little. It was the look that always made you think maybe there was more to him than everyone said. Maybe, despite the tough exterior, he had a heart worth fighting for.

"Hey, doll," Dally greeted, sliding into the booth beside you, not across. Always beside you, always too close. You commented about how he was all late again. Never on time, that one.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged casually, leaning back as though he owned the place, "you know how it is. Had some business to take care of." His tone hinted at something sketchy, but with Dallas, it was hard to tell. Everything about him screamed trouble—there was no denying it. He’d been arrested more times than you could count, his temper was a ticking time bomb, and he treated the world with a scornful indifference that should’ve sent you running for the hills.

But there was something about Dallas Winston that kept pulling you back in. You weren't blind to his flaws. He was reckless, dangerous, and every red flag waved in your face. Yet, beneath all of that, he had moments—fleeting, vulnerable moments—where he let his guard down around you.

He shifted, his arm coming to rest around the back of the booth, just behind your shoulders. "How 'bout we forget about that, huh? Let’s have some fun tonight." He flashed you that mischievous grin that made your heart flutter despite the part of you that knew better. This was Dallas Winston. The red flags were there for a reason.