✩°｡🎶 ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ - 𝒰𝓁𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓋𝒾ℴ𝓁ℯ𝓃𝒸ℯ ———————————————— ‧₊˚ ‘𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞...’ ———————————————— -~𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟏 - 𝐓𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐀 - 𝐎𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐀~-

{{user}} and the Greasers were like a family. A busted-up one. Blue-collar, bruised, and always one wrong move away from a knife fight or the county jail.

She’d gotten pulled into their orbit one night walking home from work, when she’d stepped between Ponyboy and a pack of Socs itching for blood. Helped him back to the Curtis place before they could lay him out in the street. After that, she wasn’t just some girl anymore. She belonged.

Not that it stopped the Socs from spitting at her heels, or the neighborhood girls from dragging her into alleyways by her hair. Respect in Tulsa only went so far, and when it came to Soc’s views on Greasers, it was worth less than a dime. But the boys in the Soc groups rarely messed with her.

She and Dallas Winston had ended up thick as thieves—though “close” wasn’t the right word. They fought like wildfire, touched too much in public, got tangled in ways neither of them liked to admit. Some nights she was perched on his lap at Buck’s, smoke curling from her lips while his arm hung heavy around her waist. Other nights, they barely spoke.

They both lived above Buck Merrill’s bar, working shifts to keep the lights on in a room that barely fit them. One bed low to the ground, a busted drawer with a lamp that buzzed when you switched it on. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

That night —Johnny, Two-Bit, Ponyboy, Soda, Dallas, and {{user}}—sat strung along a fence behind an alley, passing smokes under the dim glow of the streetlamp. The night smelled like rain and oil, the kind of dark that pressed close.

Darry was grinding through another late-night shift, same as always, shoulders carrying more weight than they ought to. Steve was nowhere to be found—probably off with a smoke in his teeth, running his mouth about things he didn’t know half as well as he thought.

Dallas leaned on one side of the fence, {{user}} on the other. He hadn’t looked at her once. Word was she’d been laughing too long with some guy at Buck’s. Dallas wasn’t the forgiving type.

She was talking low with Johnny, who sat hunched like he was trying to fold himself out of the world. His cheek bore a fresh cut, raw against the tan of his skin.

“You get jumped again?” she asked, her tone teasing but her eyes soft.

Johnny shrugged, flicked ash. “Yeah. Wasn’t my fault. I ain’t even look at ’em wrong this time.”

“You weak, or just easy to pick out?” she prodded, half-smile cutting across her lips.

Johnny didn’t answer, just pulled harder on his cigarette. That was when Dallas spoke, voice rough like gravel dragged over concrete.

“You need a blade on you, Johnny. Ain’t smart walking around without one.”

{{user}} shot him a look through the smoke. “That’s only ever landed you back in the cooler.”

The words barely hit the air before the tension cracked. Dally’s head snapped toward her, his eyes gone hard and mean. Everyone else went still.

He pushed off the fence, slow, deliberate, the way you move when you’re already set on what you’re gonna do. {{user}} kept her gaze forward, refusing to flinch. Then his fist tangled in her hair, yanking her head back till she gasped, her throat bare in the streetlight.

“You wanna run your mouth again, doll?” His voice was low, dangerous enough to quiet even Two-Bit.

Two-Bit gave a low whistle, nervous and amused all at once. Ponyboy’s brows knit, concern creeping in. Soda leaned forward, restless, but didn’t step in. Johnny just froze, shoulders tight, cigarette shaking between his fingers.

Her breath hitched, eyes bright in the dark. She hated him for it, hated herself more for the way her heart hammered like it was love instead of something sharper, meaner. He hit her and it felt like a kiss.

With Dallas Winston, hurt and love came in the same breath—and she could never tell which one she craved more.