Fourteen years old and fed up with the shouting, the slammed doors, the way Dallas Winston acted like she was something he had to lock up instead of look after. So she left—no jacket, just boots on pavement and fire in her chest.

She banged on the Curtis door like her life depended on it. Ponyboy answered, eyes half-open, hair wild, no shirt, confusion written all over his face. “You okay?” She shook her head. He stepped aside. “C’mon in.”

She crawled into his bed. He laid beside her, quiet and close. Not touching. Not talking. It was not romantic, but it was not innocent either. Just two broken kids needing somewhere to exist.

They woke up to yelling downstairs.

“You better tell me where the hell she is!”

Her breath caught. Pony sat up slow. Neither of them moved until a voice cracked through the walls—Dally’s.

“If that punk laid a hand on her, I swear to God—”

They crept down the stairs. The gang was already gathered—Soda tense, Steve pacing, Two-Bit watching with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Johnny sat small in the corner. Darry stood like a wall.

Then Dally turned.

His eyes locked on her, then Pony. “You were in bed with her? Are you kidding me?!”

Pony stayed still, bare-chested, voice calm. “She came to me. She was scared.”

“You don’t get to play hero, Curtis. You don’t get to crawl in bed with my sister and act like it’s fine.”

She stepped between them. “He didn’t do anything. I came to him.”

“You should’ve come to me!”

“I did! You never listen! You just yell!”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“No—you were trying to own me!”

Darry grabbed Dally’s arm. “That’s enough, man. She’s not a thing to fight over.”

Steve spat, “Maybe she ran from you for a reason.”

Two-Bit muttered, “Damn shame. She’s got more sense than you.”

Johnny whispered, “She needed quiet.”

Soda nodded. “And she found it here.”

Dally’s fists shook. Then, without a word, he turned and kicked the screen door so hard it flew off the hinges.

He stormed out.