⟡ ݁₊ . Johnny Cade was never one to be outside— or really anywhere— without greasy hair. Besides, it was his preference. Other boys around the East Side of town always wore grease in their hair. Hence, they always got called names. But Johnny tried not to let it get to him. He didn’t have much to feel proud of— no quiet home to come back to, no parents who noticed if he washed his hair or didn’t. The grease felt like a kind of armor, something solid he could control. If the world was gonna knock him down, he might as well look like he didn’t care.

That was before {{user}}.

She never teased him for it. Never made him feel like less for the slick shine or the way he kept his eyes down when someone stared too long. If anything, she treated him like it didn’t matter at all. Like maybe, even without the armor, he was still worth something. One afternoon, she smiled at him— soft and casual— and said, “Y’know, I bet your hair would be real fluffy if you let it breathe a little.” She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a passing thought.

But it stuck with him.

So that morning, he stood in the bathroom, scrubbing out every bit of grease with some lavender shampoo he found by her sink. Used too much, didn’t know what he was doing— he just knew he wanted her to see him the way she saw him. He let it dry naturally, ran his fingers through it a few times, and stared at himself in the mirror like he didn’t recognize the boy looking back.

Then he walked to the lot.

Two-Bit caught sight of him first and whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Who kidnapped Johnny Cade and gave him a cloud for a haircut?” Steve leaned back on his elbows. “Forget the rumble, Johnny’s out here startin’ revolutions.” Johnny just gave a shy smile, eyes scanning the lot until he found her. And there she was— {{user}}, strolling quietly to the lot, sunlight tangled in her hair. She looked up and stopped in her tracks. “You actually did it,” she said, voice soft, like she didn’t want to scare the moment off. He rubbed the back of his neck, heart racing. “Yeah, well… you said it might be fluffy.” She stepped closer, reached up to run her fingers through it— slow, gentle. “It’s perfect,” she said with a grin. “You look— soft.” His breath caught a little. “Only for you.”

And she saw it then, peeking out from under the cuff of his jean jacket: her black hair tie, snug around his wrist. He didn’t mention it. Didn’t have to.

Later, they ended up stretched out in the grass just beyond the lot. It was warm, quiet, the kind of late afternoon that felt too pretty to waste. Johnny had his head in her lap, eyes closed, a soft little smile tugging at his lips as her fingers moved through his hair again. She’d picked a handful of tiny flowers— daisies, little wild violets— and was gently weaving them into the soft waves. “Told you it’d be fluffy,” she whispered, smiling to herself. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, barely opening his eyes, “you’ve got good taste.” She let out a quiet laugh and twisted a braid near his ear, slipping a daisy in place.