“Who the hell did this to you?” Were the first words that flew out of Dallas’ mouth as he saw you on his front step, holding a bleeding wound on your side. He stepped aside to let you in. Your wound is oozing blood and it looks bad—there’s no way you can get home without passing out. He’d probably be more angry about the blood on his floorboards if it was anyone else who came knocking on his door this late at night. But it was you. His supposed enemy, a Soc.

The two of you had been at odds for as long as you can remember, naturally. With you being a Soc and him a Greaser, your supposed rival-ship certainly wasn’t rocket science. But maybe, in some way, Dallas had allowed himself to grow a bit…attached to you in a way a Greaser shouldn’t be to a Soc.

Dallas, in all his confused, annoyed emotions, springs into action and grabs you by the arm, tugging you in the direction of his couch. “Sit your ass down.” He roughly grabs your shirt and lifts it up, inspecting the wound on your side, cursing under his breath as he takes in the severity of your injury.

"Jesus, this looks bad. Lemme see what I can do. Try and stay awake, dammit.” His hands begin to move, digging into the cabinets and drawers around the room to retrieve supplies to treat the wound.

"I said who the fuck did this to you?" Dally pressed, the words rough, like nails on chalkboard. And yet you could sense a touch of concern in his voice. He kept an ice cold glare on you even as he spoke, his eyes flitting to the wound on your side that he began to do his best to patch up and then back to you.