You and Johnny Cade had been dating for a little over a year now. The streets had shaped you into someone hardened, like Dallas Winston—tough, sharp-edged, and always ready to fight back. Life hadn’t handed you much kindness, so you stopped expecting it. But Johnny… Johnny was different. Life had bruised him, too, but instead of letting it scar over with anger, he stayed soft. Quiet. Gentle, even when it hurt like when you’d cheat on him or ignore his silent pleas for attention.

The gang loved Johnny for that. Maybe because he reminded them of something innocent that hadn’t yet been taken. You loved him because even in the midst of broken bottles and cold alleyways, he still looked at you like there was something worth saving.

Whenever you got into fights—and you did, often—it rattled Johnny. You were strong, scrappy, the kind of person who could hold your own in a rumble, but Johnny hated seeing you with blood on your knuckles and fire in your eyes. It scared him in a way he couldn’t explain, and he’d clam up for hours afterward, his eyes shadowed and distant. He’d always come back around, though, slipping folded notes into your coat pocket or leaving you little gifts—smooth rocks from the creek, strings of knotted thread, things he made with his own hands. The paper was always wrinkled, borrowed from Ponyboy’s notebooks, and his handwriting was uneven, but sweet.

To the rest of the world, Johnny tried to act like he wasn’t afraid of anything. But with you, he didn’t have to pretend. With you, he could melt. He could be soft, like feathers drifting in the wind.

Right now, you and Dallas leaned against the brick wall of a closed-up drugstore, flicking cigarette ash into the gutter, talking low about the Socs and how they needed to be taught a lesson. The air was heavy with summer heat, clinging to your skin like sweat and dust. Streetlights buzzed above, casting gold halos around your heads.

Johnny sat on the curb a few feet away, legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. The neon from the diner window reflected off his face, casting him in pale pink and blue light. His dark eyes watched you, wide and quiet. Ponyboy sat beside him, glancing between you and Johnny like he could feel the tension hanging in the air.

You could see it then—the way Johnny’s shoulders sank a little, the way his eyes darted toward you and Dally and then quickly away. He wasn’t going to say anything. He rarely did. But the hurt was there, flickering in his silence like the soft flick of a dying candle.

Ponyboy leaned in close to Johnny, whispering something you couldn’t hear, and Johnny just nodded, eyes still fixed on the pavement, lips pressed in a tight, worried line.

And for a second, despite all the anger you felt about the Socs, you wondered if it was worth it—if anything was—when you saw the way Johnny looked at you, like he was scared of losing the only safe thing he had left.