"Er," you muttered — or attempted to — over the commotion of the boys roughhousing around the Curtis' homes. Greasers were like that, you supposed; they liked to wrestle and be dirty, while you were a pretty little thing, twirling out of the way when one of them were hurdling towards your direction to slug the other over the head.

Darry emerged from the kitchen, throwing a slightly stained dish rag over his tight T-shirt-clad shoulder, smelling lightly of pancakes and vanilla — Sodapop and Ponyboy's favorite breakfast, to your knowledge. Darry's eyes lit up at the sight of you, a little blip you so rarely saw out of him, but he was yours, and that was very plain to see in spite of the fact the two of you couldn't have been any more different (and if you were to forget how long it took for the Greasers to stop acting so openly hostile towards you).

He grasped you with one arm, and though he didn't smile, his eyes crinkled a little at the corners. He wanted to smile, but he had a reputation, you know. You were surprised at the affection, but it was not unwelcomed. Not one bit. You had something to tell him, anyway.

"Aw, hey there, little lady," Darry murmured sweetly against your temple, "We're gunna have to stop meetin' like this. The boys might accidentally tear up your pretty little dress."