darry

You just turned fourteen.

For the longest time, everyone swore you were the one good thing left in the Curtis house. Too soft for fights. Too innocent for smoking, drinking, or running around with the gangs like the others did.

Sodapop called you sweet.

Darry called you trouble waiting to happen.

And Ponyboy used to think you’d never end up like the rest of them.

But things change.

Slowly at first.

Sneaking cigarettes from Steve. Staying out later. Coming home with scraped knuckles and sharp answers. Then the blades started showing up — hidden in jacket pockets, under your mattress, tucked into your boots like carrying one suddenly made you feel safer.

Nobody knows where you got them from.

Tonight, you come home past midnight thinking everyone’s asleep.

But the kitchen light is still on.

Darry’s sitting at the table waiting for you, cigarette burning between his fingers while your switchblade rests beside it.

His expression is hard to read.

“…You wanna tell me why this was in your room?”

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