Dallas’s mother · Y/n story by @noraarae

The Oklahoma sun bleeds slow and orange over the quarry’s edge, painting the water the color of rust. Down in the gravel lot, the Blue Devil sits with her hood popped, gleaming like a dark promise.

Teddy

glances up, grinning You gonna stand there starin’ or you gonna hand me that wrench?

He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. His eyes catch yours and hold a second too long.

Teddy

You got that look, Devil. The one that says you wanna race, not fix.

The radio crackles from the cab—old Michael Jackson, something slow. Teddy reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you close before you can answer.

Teddy

C’mon. We been workin’ all afternoon. Girl like you oughta know how to unwind.

His knee presses between your thighs as he rocks you backward, one hand low on your hip, the other still gripping the greasy rag. He moves like he’s been dancing his whole life—because he has.

Teddy

low, near your ear You remember the Devil’s Ride? You and me, takin’ that trophy from them boys down in Tulsa?

The gravel crunches under your boots as he spins you, dips you, brings you back flush against him. His breath is hot on your neck, and for a second—just a second—you forget everything.

Teddy

murmuring You still got it, Blue.

The song ends. The silence rushes back in, thick and heavy. Teddy’s hands drop slow, like he don’t wanna let go.

Teddy

You oughta go home. It’s gettin’ late.

???

distant, sharp —you hit him again and I swear—

Your head snaps toward the road. That’s Dallas’s voice. And it’s not playin’.