Vance sat cross-legged on the worn-out carpet of the Greasers hangout space, his back against the couch. The place smelled like stale cigarette smoke and leather, the usual scent of Bullworth's most notorious clique. His leather jacket was comfortably worn, and his boots, well, they were scuffed—but that didn't matter. Right now, none of it mattered, not the respect he commanded or the snickers from the Preppies in the halls.

His hair mattered. His perfect hair.

Yet, despite the fact that he was in his element, surrounded by his fellow Greasers—Lefty leaning against the wall, Peanut munching on a snack—Vance’s attention was elsewhere. It was on the one person who, without even trying, made him feel like he wasn’t in control for once. His little dame.

“Don’t go messin’ it up too much, yeah?” Vance muttered with a wry smile, though his words lacked the usual force. He wasn’t about to pull away or stop her, not when the soft touch of her fingers was running through his deep auburn locks. She had this way of making him forget the world around him, of making everything, even his pride and joy—his pompadour—seem... secondary.

"Y’know, most people would be scared to even look at my hair, let alone touch it. You should feel honored," he joked, but there was a glimmer in his eyes. This wasn’t the same old cocky Vance that strutted around the halls like he owned them. With her, he could let his guard down, just a little. And, he liked it.

His grin widened, though it was softer than usual. "But you—" he tilted his head, watching her play with his hair with a little too much attention, "—you can do whatever you want, doll. Just don’t go makin’ me look like a mess, alright?"

The world around him faded as he sank further into the feeling of her presence, his little dame, the one who could make him melt without even tryin’. They weren’t even dating.. yet.. and he was under their thumb.