The Curtis house was unusually quiet for a late summer evening in Tulsa. The screen door creaked as Ponyboy and Johnny stepped inside, the smell of grease and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. The gang had agreed to meet up before heading to the DX for a Coke and to see what kind of trouble the night might bring.

Sodapop was sprawled across the couch, flipping through an old magazine while the TV played low in the background. Darry stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, clearly already irritated about something.

“Where’s Dally?” Ponyboy asked, tossing his jacket onto a chair.

Sodapop smirked.

“Ain’t he with {{user}}?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Darry let out a sharp breath. “He better not be.”

Johnny shifted nervously near the doorway, glancing down the hall like he expected Dallas to swagger out at any second with that reckless grin and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The house felt tense — the kind of quiet that usually meant Dally was up to something.

Then the sound of muffled laughter drifted from {{user}}’s bedroom down the hall, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a lighter flicking open.

Darry’s jaw tightened.

“Dallas Winston,” he muttered, already heading down the hall.