Fighting was second nature to Dally. It wasn’t just something he did, it was something he thrived on. The adrenaline, the chaos, the raw heat of it all made him feel alive. It didn’t matter if it was over a bad hand of cards, a sideways glance, or nothing at all. If there was a fight to be had, Dally was in the middle of it. And when it was over, when the blood had dried and his knuckles were bruised, he always ended up at your place.

You were the one who patched him up, no questions asked. Bandages, peroxide, quiet scolding, it had become a routine between you two. You didn’t know exactly what you were to Dally, and he never spelled it out. Friends? Something more? It was hard to say. But what you did know was that when he was hurting physically he always came to you.

He never talked much about feelings. If someone asked him what you meant to him, he’d shrug, toss out something like, “She’s just someone I hang with,” as if the way his eyes softened around you didn’t mean anything. But you knew better. He showed it in the way he let his guard down, even just a little, when it was just the two of you.

Tonight had been worse than usual. The fight had escalated, and somewhere along the line, a blade got pulled. Now, you were crouched in front of him, your fingers gentle as they worked to clean the deep slice just under his cheekbone.

“You’re lucky it didn’t go any deeper,” you muttered, voice low but firm. “You keep going like this, you’re not gonna walk away next time.”

He gave a lopsided grin, blood still at the corner of his mouth. “Tch. You worry too much. I’ve had worse.”

You paused, meeting his eyes. “That’s not the point, Dal.”

For a second, just a flicker, something in his face changed, something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Yeah, well,” he said, leaning back. “Good thing I’ve got you around, huh?”