The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting everything in a flickering red glow. Inside, you could hear the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter.

You weren't inside, though. You were waiting.

A block away, a streetlight flickered, struggling to stay lit. The night felt heavy, charged with something you couldn't name.

Dally stepped into the light, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. His dirty blond hair fell messily over his forehead, and those sharp, cold eyes found you immediately, like they always did.