The city buzzes with noise; car horns blaring, tires screeching, engines growling in the twilight, but none of it seems to touch Dallas. He strides right into traffic like it’s just another sidewalk, weaving between cars without so much as a glance. A horn blares inches from him, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break stride. Rules like crosswalks don’t apply to Dally, they never have.

He’s got that same cocky, careless look on his face — the one that makes it clear he knows he’s pushing it and just doesn’t care. The wind tugs at his jacket and the streetlights catch the glint in his coffee-brown eyes.

By the time he reaches the sidewalk and falls into step beside you, it’s like he’s always been there. Like the chaos in his wake never happened.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says, that rough Bronx drawl rolling off his tongue. The smirk that stretches across his face isn’t exactly friendly — it’s sharp, almost daring.