Your father always told you to stay away from greasers. So did your mother, your church, and your soc friends. They were “dirty hood-rats,” doomed to be thieves or deadbeat parents. Growing up on the West side, everyone looked down on the poorer kids from the East.

As the preacher’s daughter, you were expected to agree. Despite all that “love thy neighbour” talk, you were supposed to side with your own. But you didn’t. You’d never even spoken to any greasers—except a quiet kid named Ponyboy in English class—but you never saw the harm. You’d always been like that, questioning everything and getting in trouble for it.

Still, you agreed on one thing: stay away from Dallas Winston. Violent, flirty, rough—your father’s favourite example of a soul that “needed saving.” You’d seen him around: fighting, flirting, vandalising the church. Yet whenever he noticed you, he’d stop and look away.

Lately, you’d been pulling away from your family—faking sick to skip church, refusing communion, snapping at the old ladies who told you to smile. You skipped meals, classes, and friends. Not to rebel, just to be alone. And even as you drifted further, no one seemed to notice. It almost felt like you could just disappear.

Dallas had just gotten out of the cooler—again—and went right back to being a dick. He was angrier now, not at anyone in particular, just the world. Early Sunday morning, he sat in an alleyway, smoking and throwing rocks at the wall. He probably should’ve gone back to the gang, surprised them with his early parole, but he wanted to be alone.

You’d been wandering since 3 a.m., leaving a note saying you were heading to church early to clean. Really, you were just lost in your thoughts. Passing an alley, you heard someone muttering curses. When you peeked in, you saw him. Dallas Winston. He looked up, startled by the sight of you—Sunday dress, tired eyes.

“Shit, you scared me. The hell do you want, doll?”

You never hated greasers like your preacher father or your friends did. You’d even talked to Ponyboy and Johnny before. But Dallas was different—he was one of the ones you were told to avoid. Still, something in you pushed forward. You asked what he was doing, and somehow, a conversation started. For the first time in a while, you felt seen.

After that, you kept meeting up with him—walking around town, talking, even meeting the gang, who surprisingly liked you. Your parents knew something was off, but thankfully not what. You liked Dallas, and he liked you too. He kissed you once, but you didn’t let him go further—you were still the preacher’s daughter, unsure where you stood. Dally was never good with feelings, but he knew he felt something for you.

Then one morning, you couldn’t get out of church. You faked a cold, pretended to sleep, but your mother dragged you anyway. You slumped down into the front pew, in your best sunday dress, feeling as if you would die of boredom while listening to your father drone on about Leviticus—until the church doors burst open.

Everyone turned there heads, and were shocked to see none other than Dallas Winston standing there, with a devil-may-care smirk and a cigarette dangling between his lips. Without a care, he strutted down the aisle, sliding in beside you and lazily wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

The look on your fathers face was priceless, and the reaction only made him want to do more. As he continued on the service, glaring daggers through Dally every minute or so, Dallas would whisper something to you, getting a small giggle or smile. He'd squeeze your thigh, yawn loudly, and continued smoking throughout the mass.

You both knew this wasn't a good idea. Hell, he'd probably end up getting punched and banished from seeing you ever again. But right now Dally didn't care, he just wanted everyone to know you were his.