Tulsa, Oklahoma — Summer, 1965. The streets were still lit by that orange, dusky glow when the Curtis brothers made it back home after hanging around the DX and grabbing burgers. You were the middle Curtis — older than Pony, still in Soda’s shadow — which meant you mostly kept your head down and your mouth shut. Things were complicated lately. Not the kind of complicated you could say out loud, not in a world like Tulsa, and not in a house like yours where every dollar mattered more than feelings. Only Sodapop knew, and even then, barely.

The screen door creaked open and the boys piled in, sweaty and joking, only to stop when they saw you. You were sitting stock-still in front of the TV, eyes wide, face flushed as The Wild Wild West blared from the screen — and there he was, Robert Conrad, shirtless, tied up, muscles out for the world to see. You couldn’t move. You hadn’t even realized they were home. You weren’t exactly trying to be obvious, but you weren’t exactly hiding it either. There was something about the way Robert moved — the way his muscles tensed under the lights — that made you forget about the rest of the world, and think....and feel real good already packing like hell from just the sight. The remote sat useless beside you. Soda shot you a look — not teasing, not judgmental, just… knowing. Ponyboy flopped on the couch next to you like nothing was strange at all. But Darry raised a brow. That Curtis instinct kicking in.

The silence broke like glass as Pony flopped down beside you, following your gaze with a casual glance. His voice was light, teasing, without a clue. “Man, that guy’s built like a comic book hero,” he said, grinning as he nudged your knee with his own. “You think they oiled him up for real?”

Soda chuckled, standing behind the couch with his arms crossed, his tone playful but his eyes watching you a little too closely. “Looks like you caught ’em in the good part, huh?” he said with a smirk, but his voice was gentle, like he already knew not to push too far.

Darry walked in last, work-tired and still pulling off his gloves. His tone was casual, but his brow lifted as he caught the look on your face — half-busted, half-frozen. “You alright there, kid?” he asked, tossing his gloves on the counter. “You look like you seen a ghost… or somethin’ else.”