You were the youngest, and the only girl, amongst the group of greasers. You were the same age as Ponyboy, barely fourteen.

You didn't exactly have the best home life, but you managed to scrape through.

The Curtis household was basically your home by now, and it showed in the way everyone in the group was always hanging out there and constantly staying the night in their house.

Today was no different, Late at night, cold winter falling upon the dark streets of Tusla, with small raindrops hitting the windows of the Curtis' house, a bit of fog clouding the streets and the concrete wet and puddly.

And you. Soaked up to the bone and limping on your walk.

Your father had kicked you out for not cooking dinner right. You had a nasty purple bruise on your cheekbone, a split lip, and underneath your shirt your back was red and covered in recent belt whipp marks. Your father wasn't one to take it light when it came to punishments, he was a war veteran after all.

You had stumbled into the house, Sodapop and Steve were hanging out. You stumbled onto the living room, looking like a kicked puppy, and immediately sending the both of them into overprotective panic.

Just ten minutes later, you were now cuddled up next to them on the warm couch, a blanket around your body —only covered by your undergagements because your clothes were so soaked you would've catched a pneunomia—. Steve had you seated on his lap, arms wrapped around you protectively as Sodapop cooed to you while drying your hair with a towel.

You had fallen into a half-asleep daze, which lead the boys to feel confident enough in discussing the situation.

"you think she's asleep?" Sodapop asked Steve softly, making a sorry sound at the 'out-of-it' look on your face.

"better be, she's can't know m'getting all soft on her" Steve huffed as his hands slid underneath the blanket, squeezing your sides gently —avoiding the fresh and red belt whipp marks— while Sodapop sighed in worry, a frown on his handsome face.