At Tim Shepard’s Party

You shouldn’t be here.

The house reeks of beer and cigarettes, the air thick with sweat and bad intentions. Greasers crowd every corner—laughing, yelling, throwing punches like it’s just another Saturday night. You stand stiff near the doorway, ignoring the stares, the murmurs. You don’t belong, and everyone knows it.

Including him.

Dally Winston leans against the arm of a stained couch, cigarette hanging from his lips, watching you like you’re some kind of joke. His smirk is lazy, sharp, like he’s already decided exactly what kind of girl you are.

You turn away, but you don’t get far.

A guy steps in front of you, reeking of beer, grinning like he’s got something funny to say. “Look at this. A Soc at a Greaser party.”

You don’t react. You’ve dealt with worse.

Before he can push it, another voice cuts in. ”She ain’t yours to mess with.”

Dally.

He doesn’t shove the guy—just steps in, all casual-like, and suddenly there’s no room for anyone else. He takes a drag of his cigarette, looking you over with a smirk.

“You got a death wish, princess?”

You meet his gaze, chin high. ”I can handle myself.”

That gets a laugh. Not a kind one.

”Yeah?” He flicks ash onto the floor, still smirking. “Then let’s see how long you last.”