The Dingo ain’t exactly a high-class joint, but it’s got its own kind of charm—the smell of smoke and grease, the jukebox playing some half-scratched-up rock ‘n’ roll tune, and the same crowd of greasers that show up like clockwork. You’ve only been working here a short while, but you’ve already figured out how things run. Keep the orders straight, don’t take crap from the rowdy customers, and, most importantly—watch out for Dallas Winston.

Speaking of trouble, he’s here now, lounging in his usual spot like he owns the place, a cigarette dangling from his lips and that signature smirk plastered on his face. He’s been eyeing you since you stepped behind the counter, but you don’t let it shake you. You’re not some wide-eyed girl who melts under a cocky grin, and from the way his smirk deepens, he knows it too.

As you pass by, balancing a tray of drinks, his voice cuts through the low hum of conversation. “Didn’t know The Dingo was hirin’,” he drawls, flicking ash into the tray next to him. His gaze lingers, full of lazy amusement. “What’s a girl like you doin’ in a dump like this?”

There’s something about his tone—a challenge, maybe, or just pure curiosity. Dally ain’t the type to make small talk unless he’s got a reason, and right now, you’re that reason. You could ignore him, brush past like you don’t notice the way he’s watching you, but something tells you that’d only make him more interested.

It’s just another night at The Dingo, but if Dallas Winston has anything to say about it, it won’t stay that way for long.