𝑫𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔

-

-

-

-

-

Got the dilly dally keychain on my whip fob. 🖤 already had the movie poster keychain. ✨

Chapter Five: JUST A KID

Tulsa had started to feel… settled.

Not home, exactly—but not foreign anymore either.

It had been just over a week since we moved in with Aunt Eloise, and while the house creaked more than our place back in Hart, there was something warm about it. Comfortable. The kind of place where you could breathe and not worry about breaking something expensive.

Will Rogers High wasn’t anything like the strict home school setup we were used to. It was loud, imperfect, and smelled vaguely like mop water and cheap cologne—but at least here, I could blend in. Be nobody for a while. Which was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t want anyone looking at me like I was different.

Except they still did.

Especially when they saw my eyes.

The front gate squeaked louder than usual when Ivy pushed it open, and the sound made Sam wince like it personally offended her. We were all sweaty and tired, dragging our shoes through the gravel like it owed us something. School at Will Rogers wasn’t just draining—it felt like a slow test of survival. And it’d only been two weeks.

“Did you hear what that girl said to Ellie in the hallway?” Erin asked, her brows furrowed as she tugged open the front door. “Said her accent made her sound like a stuck-up weather girl.”

Ellie tossed her bag on the couch like she was too tired to care. “I am a stuck-up weather girl. At least in debate class.”

I smirked. At least she was still throwing jabs with style.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and soup that had been reheated one too many times. Aunt Eloise was stretched out on the couch with a worn quilt draped across her legs, her thinning hair tied back in a scarf that used to be vibrant, now faded to soft pastels. Her skin looked paler today—almost gray beneath the usual layer of light foundation she still insisted on wearing.

“You girls home already?” she rasped, voice low and scratchy. “Felt like I just laid down.”

“That’s ‘cause you did,” Ivy mumbled, passing behind her on the way to the kitchen.

Eloise reached for the end table with trembling fingers. “Sammy,” she said softly, “would you do me a favor, sweetheart?”

Samantha appeared in the hallway arch, arms crossed like she always was when trying not to show concern. “Of course.”

“I’m not feeling up to it today… I was gonna go down to the pharmacy and pick up my prescription, but…” she trailed off, shaking her head like the thought alone tired her out.

“You want me to go?” Samantha asked.

“If you don’t mind. Just take the Galaxie—keys are on the hook. They’ll know what to give you at the counter. I already called ahead.” She shifted her eyes to me. “Kaia, why don’t you ride with her? You’ve barely been out of the house since Saturday.”

I blinked, caught off guard mid-boot removal. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Samantha looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Her jaw tightened and she nodded. “We’ll go now. You need anything else while we’re out?”

“Just the meds,” Eloise whispered, pulling the quilt tighter. “And maybe a Coke if the machine outside ain’t broken.”

Samantha gave her a quick smile. “Want anything special for dinner?”

“Surprise me,” Eloise answered, eyes already fluttering closed. “And don’t speed in my car, alright?”

Sam caught the keys mid-air as Eloise tossed them. The moment had the rhythm of a practiced routine. She knew every scratch and hum that Galaxie made, and she walked toward it like it answered to her.

Aunt Eloise’s car was a ’63 teal Ford Galaxie 500 Boxtop. It still looked brand new—chrome shining like mirrors, interior smelling like mint and old pages. Driving it felt like stepping into a different era. It was the only thing Aunt Eloise had ever truly pampered. The only thing in her life that still looked exactly how she remembered it.

Samantha slid behind the wheel like she belonged there, and I climbed in beside her. The vinyl seat was cool and stiff beneath my legs.

“This car is way too smooth for this neighborhood,” I muttered as we pulled away from the curb.

Sam smirked. “Good. Let ‘em stare.”

The golden late-afternoon air in Tulsa had that heavy, warm stillness—the kind that settled on your shoulders like a damp towel. I watched the sky shift between bruised peach and fading blue. It made me quiet. Sam, too.

The pharmacy was uneventful. The woman behind the counter didn’t look at us long enough to remember us later. Just passed over the paper bag with a nod and turned back to her label printer. The bag crinkled like dry leaves when I set it in the floorboard.

We didn’t speak on the way back. The silence between us was the familiar kind. Not angry. Not even awkward. Just… space. Space she liked. Space I usually hated.

We were only a few blocks from the house when I saw movement.

Fast.

Sharp.

Scared.

“Sam,” I said suddenly, straightening up. “Slow down.”

She barely glanced at me. “What?”

“Isn’t that Erin’s classmate? Pony—something? I saw him and Erin walking the halls today at school. Wait—he’s running.”

She squinted. “From what?”

We both looked just in time to see him sprint across the sidewalk, clutching his side, glancing behind him.

Then we saw the car.

A red convertible with chrome trim.

Five boys—Socs—climbed out laughing, shouting, chasing after him like a pack of wild dogs. You could tell by the way they moved, the cruel edge in their voices. It wasn’t just for fun. They wanted blood.

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “He’s getting jumped!”

“Kaia,” Samantha said sharply. “Stay in the car.”

“What? No! We’re stopping, right?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sam—SAM. He’s just a kid!”

“I said stay in the car!” she barked, gripping the wheel tighter. She didn’t pull over. Just kept rolling forward, slow, like we were rubbernecking something far-off. But this wasn’t far off. This was happening right in front of us.

“They’ve got him on the ground!”

I reached for the handle.

“Don’t you dare open that door, Kaia.”

“I have to! We can’t just watch this happen—”

But before I could fully push the door open, she slammed on the brakes just enough to jolt me and gripped my wrist hard.

“Kaia—stop!” she hissed. “You’re gonna get us hurt. You think those boys wouldn’t come after us next? We don’t know him. He’s not our problem.”

“He’s a kid!” I shouted.

“And so are you! Now, let it go!”

She just kept driving, slowly. You could see her hands gripping the wheel, like she so desperately wanted to help but didn’t budge.

My mouth opened, ready to scream at her, but then I saw them.

Not the Socs.

I twisted in my seat, watching as three guys came running up to the scene. One was wearing a red flannel shirt, he looked handsome, I mean, movie fucking star handsome. The other wore a denim cut off and looked mean. The other one was wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt. They were Greasers and they didn’t hesitate. They charged. An older looking greaser stayed back with Ponyboy, tending to him. The Socs started running back to their car once they saw the greasers pull up.

Then there was him. A fourth joined in on the small run in, he was wearing a dark brownish leather jacket like it was armor. He definitely looked tuff, and I don’t mean ‘tough’ I mean, Tuff. It was like something out of a damn movie—striking blonde, almost white hair, jaw set. The Socs looked more panicked once they saw the fourth one come out but the greasers still wailed on them while they were in the car. They started to back up, almost taking the guy in the denim cutoff as he held on to one of the Socs. The tuff looking one picked up a heavy tree branch and hurled it at the car. It hit the trunk with a crack, and I swear I saw one of the Socs flinch even from here. He hit it with justice and spat in their direction. It was impressive.

And then… he turned.

Looked right at me.

Not Samantha.

Me.

His eyes caught mine like a match to gasoline. Just a second. Just enough. His expression flickered—part challenge, part question.

I didn’t know what he saw in my face.

But I turned away.

Slowly sank back into my seat like a coward.

Samantha drove off in silence.

My heart was beating like a drum, mouth dry with shame. The kind that doesn’t fade even when you tell yourself you didn’t have a choice.

Because maybe I did.

Maybe we both did.

“You shouldn’t have kept driving,” I said finally, barely a whisper.

“We did what we were supposed to,” Sam said.

“Doesn’t mean it was right.”

She didn’t answer.

The Galaxie rumbled over a bump in the road. The plastic bag on the floor rustled again, like it was reminding me of who we were now. What we chose not to do.

I stared out the window, fingers curled in my lap.

“No,” I whispered. “But maybe we should’ve been the kind of people who stopped.”

We didn’t say another word on the drive back.

Not even when the street narrowed into the familiar curve leading to Aunt Eloise’s block. Not when the evening shadows crept longer over the sidewalks, or when a dog barked somewhere in the distance. Not even when Samantha pulled the Galaxie into the gravel driveway and cut the engine.

I didn’t move at first.

I just sat there, eyes fixed on the thin crack in the windshield, pretending it wasn’t my reflection staring back at me with shame in her face.

“Kaia,” Sam finally said, her voice low. Careful. “We’re home.”

I opened the door and stepped out without answering. Gravel crunched under my shoes like it was trying to bite me. The air was cooler now, but I still felt hot all over. Sick-hot. Guilt-hot.

I walked up the porch steps, letting the screen door slam behind me harder than I meant to. I didn’t even hear if Sam followed.

Eloise was dozing in her armchair, her breathing light and uneven beneath the hum of the old fan in the corner. Erin and Ivy were still at the kitchen table, flipping through magazines and eating the last of the stale cookies we brought from Hart.

“Hey, you’re back—” Erin started.

I walked right past them, down the hall, into the small shared bedroom, and shut the door behind me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in my lap, shaking.

I saw his face.

Ponyboy.

He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Maybe sixteen. He had blood running down his neck and dirt on his jaw, and he hadn’t even done anything. He was just there. And they were holding him down on the ground senseless for it.

And we drove away.

I reached up and touched my face, wondering if I’d cry. I didn’t. Not yet. There was a soft knock at the door. Then another.

“Kaia?” Samantha’s voice came through. Not stern. Not bossy. Just… soft. Tired. “Can I come in?”

I didn’t answer.

She opened the door anyway and stepped inside like she was walking into a hospital room. She closed it behind her, but didn’t come any closer.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” she said quietly.

I didn’t look at her. “But I didn’t care. I would’ve taken the risk.”

“It was dangerous.”

“Everything is dangerous, Sam,” I snapped, finally turning to face her. “But we watched him get attacked like it was a scene from a movie—and we drove away. You didn’t even let me try. You pulled me back like I was the one doing something wrong.”

Her mouth tightened, like she was swallowing her own words.

I stood up. “Do you even know how I feel right now? What it’s like to sit here after, to know I did nothing? To know I could have helped? You know, I can’t even tell Erin about this because I know she would freak out.”

“There were already people running in,” she said. “Greasers. They handled it. And I’m sure Erin will be alright. Just a bit worried for him.”

“That’s not the point,” I said, voice rising. “I saw something bad happening, and I wanted to do something. And you told me not to. You made me sit there and watch.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“You were trying to protect yourself.” The words came out before I could stop them. And God, they hurt.

Sam flinched. Her face didn’t fall exactly, but the light in her eyes dimmed like a bulb getting cut down to low.

“I didn’t mean—” I started, but stopped.

No, maybe I did mean it.

She looked down at her hands. “I keep thinking about it too.”

I didn’t expect her to say that.

“I keep seeing him,” she continued, quieter. “I keep wondering if we’d stopped sooner… if I hadn’t said anything… if maybe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”

The silence that followed made my throat burn.

She slowly stepped toward me and sat on the opposite bed. “I just… I’m not like you, Kaia. You jump in. You feel everything. I freeze. I think about the consequences before anything else. It’s not always right. But it’s who I am.”

I crossed my arms, chewing the inside of my cheek. “So that’s it?”

“No.” She looked at me then. Really looked. “That’s not it. I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve stopped.”

We both sat there, the quiet heavy and full of things we couldn’t take back.

“I don’t want to be someone who looks away,” I whispered. “I don’t want that to become a habit.”

“It won’t,” Sam said. Her voice was hoarse. “Not for you.”

I glanced out the window, where the sky had finally surrendered to dusk. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cried out—faint and fading. I didn’t know if it was for Ponyboy.

But it could’ve been.

And that was enough to make me promise myself, right then and there: Next time… I ain’t staying in the car.

Damn, I really hope there isn’t a next time…

Tried doing a thing and this is what I came up with.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🚬་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🚬་༘࿐

Tulsa had started to feel… settled.

Not home, exactly—but not foreign anymore either.

It had been just over a week since we moved in with Aunt Eloise, and while the house creaked more than our place back in Hart, there was something warm about it. Comfortable. The kind of place where you could breathe and not worry about breaking something expensive.

Will Rogers High wasn’t anything like the strict home school setup we were used to. It was loud, imperfect, and smelled vaguely like mop water and cheap cologne—but at least here, I could blend in. Be nobody for a while. Which was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t want anyone looking at me like I was different.

Except they still did.

Especially when they saw my eyes.

The front gate squeaked louder than usual when Kristen pushed it open, and the sound made Sam wince like it personally offended her. We were all sweaty and tired, dragging our shoes through the gravel like it owed us something. School at Will Rogers wasn’t just draining—it felt like a slow test of survival. And it’d only been two weeks.

“Did you hear what that girl said to Ellie in the hallway?” Erin asked, her brows furrowed as she tugged open the front door. “Said her accent made her sound like a stuck-up weather girl.”

Ellie tossed her bag on the couch like she was too tired to care. “I am a stuck-up weather girl. At least in debate class.”

I smirked. At least she was still throwing jabs with style.

The house smelled like lemon cleaner and soup that had been reheated one too many times. Aunt Eloise was stretched out on the couch with a worn quilt draped across her legs, her thinning hair tied back in a scarf that used to be vibrant, now faded to soft pastels. Her skin looked paler today—almost gray beneath the usual layer of light foundation she still insisted on wearing.

“You girls home already?” she rasped, voice low and scratchy. “Felt like I just laid down.”

“That’s ‘cause you did,” Kristen mumbled, passing behind her on the way to the kitchen.

Eloise reached for the end table with trembling fingers. “Sammy,” she said softly, “would you do me a favor, sweetheart?”

Samantha appeared in the hallway arch, arms crossed like she always was when trying not to show concern. “Of course.”

“I’m not feeling up to it today… I was gonna go down to the pharmacy and pick up my prescription, but…” she trailed off, shaking her head like the thought alone tired her out.

“You want me to go?” Samantha asked.

“If you don’t mind. Just take the Galaxie—keys are on the hook. They’ll know what to give you at the counter. I already called ahead.” She shifted her eyes to me. “Kaia, why don’t you ride with her? You’ve barely been out of the house since Saturday.”

I blinked, caught off guard mid-boot removal. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Samantha looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Her jaw tightened and she nodded. “We’ll go now. You need anything else while we’re out?”

“Just the meds,” Eloise whispered, pulling the quilt tighter. “And maybe a Coke if the machine outside ain’t broken.”

Samantha gave her a quick smile. “Want anything special for dinner?”

“Surprise me,” Eloise answered, eyes already fluttering closed. “And don’t speed in my car, alright?”

Sam caught the keys mid-air as Eloise tossed them. The moment had the rhythm of a practiced routine. She knew every scratch and hum that Galaxie made, and she walked toward it like it answered to her.

Aunt Eloise’s car was a ’63 teal Ford Galaxie 500 Boxtop. It still looked brand new—chrome shining like mirrors, interior smelling like mint and old pages. Driving it felt like stepping into a different era. It was the only thing Aunt Eloise had ever truly pampered. The only thing in her life that still looked exactly how she remembered it.

Samantha slid behind the wheel like she belonged there, and I climbed in beside her. The vinyl seat was cool and stiff beneath my legs.

“This car is way too smooth for this neighborhood,” I muttered as we pulled away from the curb.

Sam smirked. “Good. Let ‘em stare.”

The golden late-afternoon air in Tulsa had that heavy, warm stillness—the kind that settled on your shoulders like a damp towel. I watched the sky shift between bruised peach and fading blue. It made me quiet. Sam, too.

The pharmacy was uneventful. The woman behind the counter didn’t look at us long enough to remember us later. Just passed over the paper bag with a nod and turned back to her label printer. The bag crinkled like dry leaves when I set it in the floorboard.

We didn’t speak on the way back. The silence between us was the familiar kind. Not angry. Not even awkward. Just… space. Space she liked. Space I usually hated.

We were only a few blocks from the house when I saw movement.

Fast.

Sharp.

Scared.

“Sam,” I said suddenly, straightening up. “Slow down.”

She barely glanced at me. “What?”

“Isn’t that Erin’s classmate? Ponyboy something? I saw him and Erin waking the halls today at school. Wait—he’s running.”

She squinted. “From what?”

We both looked just in time to see him sprint across the sidewalk, clutching his side, glancing behind him.

Then we saw the car.

A red convertible with white trim.

Five boys—Socs—climbed out laughing, shouting, chasing after him like a pack of wild dogs. You could tell by the way they moved, the cruel edge in their voices. It wasn’t just for fun. They wanted blood.

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “He’s getting jumped!”

“Kaia,” Samantha said sharply. “Stay in the car.”

“What? No! We’re stopping, right?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sam—SAM. He’s just a kid!”

“I said stay in the car!” she barked, gripping the wheel tighter. She didn’t pull over. Just kept rolling forward, slow, like we were rubbernecking something far-off. But this wasn’t far off. This was happening right in front of us.

“They’ve got him on the ground!”

I reached for the handle.

“Don’t you dare open that door, Kaia.”

“I have to! We can’t just watch this happen—”

But before I could fully push the door open, she slammed on the brakes just enough to jolt me and gripped my wrist hard.

“Kaia—stop!” she hissed. “You’re gonna get us hurt. You think those boys wouldn’t come after us next? We don’t know him. He’s not our problem.”

“He’s a kid!” I shouted.

“And so are you! Now, let it go!”

She just kept driving, slowly. You could see her hands gripping the wheel, like she so desperately wanted to help but didn’t budge.

My mouth opened, ready to scream at her, but then I saw them.

Not the Socs.

I twisted in my seat, watching as three guys came running up to the scene. One was wearing a red flannel shirt, he looked handsome, I mean, movie fucking star handsome. The other wore a denim cut off and looked mean. The other one was wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt. They were Greasers and they didn’t hesitate. They charged. An older looking greaser stayed back with Ponyboy, tending to him. The Socs started running back to their car once they saw the greasers pull up.

Then there was him. A fourth joined in on the small run in, he was wearing a dark brownish leather jacket like it was armor. He definitely looked tuff, and I don’t mean ‘tough’ I mean, Tuff. It was like something out of a damn movie—striking blonde, almost white hair, jaw set. The Socs looked more panicked once they saw the fourth one come out but the greasers still wailed on them while they were in the car. They started to back up, almost taking the guy in the denim cutoff as he held on to one of the Socs. The tuff looking one picked up a heavy tree branch and hurled it at the car. It hit the trunk with a crack, and I swear I saw one of the Socs flinch even from here. He hit it with justice and spat in their direction. It was impressive.

And then… he turned.

Looked right at me.

Not Samantha.

Me.

His eyes caught mine like a match to gasoline. Just a second. Just enough. His expression flickered—part challenge, part question.

I didn’t know what he saw in my face.

But I turned away.

Slowly sank back into my seat like a coward.

Samantha drove off in silence.

My heart was beating like a drum, mouth dry with shame. The kind that doesn’t fade even when you tell yourself you didn’t have a choice.

Because maybe I did.

Maybe we both did.

“You shouldn’t have kept driving,” I said finally, barely a whisper.

“We did what we were supposed to,” Sam said.

“Doesn’t mean it was right.”

She didn’t answer.

The Galaxie rumbled over a bump in the road. The plastic bag on the floor rustled again, like it was reminding me of who we were now. What we chose not to do.

I stared out the window, fingers curled in my lap.

“No,” I whispered. “But maybe we should’ve been the kind of people who stopped.”

We didn’t say another word on the drive back.

Not even when the street narrowed into the familiar curve leading to Aunt Eloise’s block. Not when the evening shadows crept longer over the sidewalks, or when a dog barked somewhere in the distance. Not even when Samantha pulled the Galaxie into the gravel driveway and cut the engine.

I didn’t move at first.

I just sat there, eyes fixed on the thin crack in the windshield, pretending it wasn’t my reflection staring back at me with shame in her face.

“Kaia,” Sam finally said, her voice low. Careful. “We’re home.”

I opened the door and stepped out without answering. Gravel crunched under my shoes like it was trying to bite me. The air was cooler now, but I still felt hot all over. Sick-hot. Guilt-hot.

I walked up the porch steps, letting the screen door slam behind me harder than I meant to. I didn’t even hear if Sam followed.

Eloise was dozing in her armchair, her breathing light and uneven beneath the hum of the old fan in the corner. Erin and Kristen were still at the kitchen table, flipping through magazines and eating the last of the stale cookies we brought from Hart.

“Hey, you’re back—” Erin started.

I walked right past them, down the hall, into the small shared bedroom, and shut the door behind me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in my lap, shaking.

I saw his face.

Ponyboy.

He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Maybe sixteen. He had blood running down his neck and dirt on his jaw, and he hadn’t even done anything. He was just there. And they were holding him down on the ground senseless for it.

And we drove away.

I reached up and touched my face, wondering if I’d cry. I didn’t. Not yet. There was a soft knock at the door. Then another.

“Kaia?” Samantha’s voice came through. Not stern. Not bossy. Just… soft. Tired. “Can I come in?”

I didn’t answer.

She opened the door anyway and stepped inside like she was walking into a hospital room. She closed it behind her, but didn’t come any closer.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” she said quietly.

I didn’t look at her. “But I didn’t care. I would’ve taken the risk.”

“It was dangerous.”

“Everything is dangerous, Sam,” I snapped, finally turning to face her. “But we watched him get attacked like it was a scene from a movie—and we drove away. You didn’t even let me try. You pulled me back like I was the one doing something wrong.”

Her mouth tightened, like she was swallowing her own words.

I stood up. “Do you even know how I feel right now? What it’s like to sit here after, to know I did nothing? To know I could have helped? You know, I can’t even tell Erin about this because I know she would freak out.”

“There were already people running in,” she said. “Greasers. They handled it. And I’m sure Erin will be alright. Just a bit worried for him.”

“That’s not the point,” I said, voice rising. “I saw something bad happening, and I wanted to do something. And you told me not to. You made me sit there and watch.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“You were trying to protect yourself.” The words came out before I could stop them. And God, they hurt.

Sam flinched. Her face didn’t fall exactly, but the light in her eyes dimmed like a bulb getting cut down to low.

“I didn’t mean—” I started, but stopped.

No, maybe I did mean it.

She looked down at her hands. “I keep thinking about it too.”

I didn’t expect her to say that.

“I keep seeing him,” she continued, quieter. “I keep wondering if we’d stopped sooner… if I hadn’t said anything… if maybe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”

The silence that followed made my throat burn.

She slowly stepped toward me and sat on the opposite bed. “I just… I’m not like you, Kaia. You jump in. You feel everything. I freeze. I think about the consequences before anything else. It’s not always right. But it’s who I am.”

I crossed my arms, chewing the inside of my cheek. “So that’s it?”

“No.” She looked at me then. Really looked. “That’s not it. I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve stopped.”

We both sat there, the quiet heavy and full of things we couldn’t take back.

“I don’t want to be someone who looks away,” I whispered. “I don’t want that to become a habit.”

“It won’t,” Sam said. Her voice was hoarse. “Not for you.”

I glanced out the window, where the sky had finally surrendered to dusk. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cried out—faint and fading. I didn’t know if it was for Ponyboy.

But it could’ve been.

And that was enough to make me promise myself, right then and there: Next time… I ain’t staying in the car.

Damn, I really hope there isn’t a next time…

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇 ་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🚬་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🚬་༘࿐

PATCHED: Part II

You dont sleep that night.

Not really.

Every time you close your eyes, you see the way Dally looked at you before he walked away—like he wanted to say something and chose not to. Like whatever got into that car with him mattered enough to shut you out.

Morning comes too fast.

You’re halfway through your coffee when there’s a knock at your door.

Three sharp raps.

Your stomach drops.

When you open it, Dallas Winston is standing there like he hasn’t slept either. Same jacket. Same bruises. Bandage on his hand—your bandage—already fraying at the edges.

But his eyes?

They’re guarded. Careful. Not the Dally from last night.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer, quieter than you meant to.

There’s a beat. He looks past you into the apartment like he’s checking for witnesses.

“Can I come in?”

You step aside.

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the air feels thicker. Charged.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. Just stands there, pacing once like a caged animal before stopping in front of you.

“About last night,” he starts.

You brace yourself.

“That wasn’t—” he runs a band through his hair, frustrated. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

You cross your arms, not defensive—just steady. “Then what was it?”

His jaw tightens.

“That was business.”

That word lands wrong.

“What kind of business?” You ask.

“The kind of shit you don’t wanna be mixed up in.”

You study him. The bruises. The split knuckles. The way his shoulders are tense like he’s waiting for a punch.

“Too late,” you say. “I already am.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“No,” he says immediately. “You’re not.”

“You showed up at my door at eight in the morning with blood on your jacket.” You reply. “I think that ship has fucking sailed.”

For a second, he looks almost amused. Then it fades.

“You shouldn’t’ve helped me last night,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters. “Do you regret it?”

He shakes his head too fast. “No. I regret how much I liked it.”

That honesty hits harder than any lie could.

He exhales. “Listen. The guy in the car—he’s from my past. Someone who thinks I still owe him somethin’. He wanted a favor.”

Your chest tightens. “And?”

“And I told him I’d think about it.”

You don’t like the sound of that.

“What kind of favor, Dally?”

He steps closer. Too close. His voice drops.

“One that’d put you in danger if I let it.”

Silence.

Then: “So why are you here?”

He hesitates.

“…To tell you to stay away from me.”

Your laugh comes out soft and disbelieving. “You walked me home last night.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That was a mistake.”

“That didn’t feel like a mistake.”

His eyes flicker—heat, frustration, something unspoken.

“That’s the problem.”

You step closer now. Close enough that your fingers brush the sleeve of his jacket.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

“I get to decide what I drag you into,” he snaps—and then immediately softens. “I ain’t good, okay? I don’t do gentle. I don’t do safe.”

“You did last night,” you say. “You let me help you.”

He swallows.

“Don’t make me choose between keepin’ you safe and wantin’ you,” he says. “I won’t like who I become.”

There it is.

The truth under everything.

Before you can answer, there’s another knock—this one loud. Insistent.

Dally freezes.

You look at the door. Back at him. “Is that—”

“Don’t answer it,” he says.

Too late.

The knock comes again, followed by a familiar voice through the door.

“Dally? I know you’re in there.”

Your pulse spikes.

Dally’s eyes meet yours, dark and conflicted.

“That’s him,” he says.

The man from the car.

The past that doesn’t stay buried.

You don’t move toward the door. Instead, you take Dally’s injured hand gently, grounding him.

“If you walk out there,” you say, “are you coming back?”

He looks at your fingers wrapped around his bandages. Your face—worried, stubborn, there.

“I want to,” he admits.

“Then don’t disappear,” you whisper. “Not again.”

The knock turns into pounding.

“Winston,” the voice warns, sharper now. “Time’s up.”

Dally steps away from you, jaw set, walls rebuilding brick by brick.

“I gotta handle this,” he says. “But listen to me real careful.”

You nod, heart in your throat.

“If anyone comes askin’,” he continues, “you don’t know me.”

Your chest aches. “Dally—”

“And if I don’t come back tonight,” he adds, softer now, “you remember that none of this was on you.”

He opens the door.

Pauses.

Looks back at you one last time—eyes lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the safety of this room.

“…Last night,” he says, “was the first time anyone ever made me feel worth savin’.”

Then he steps outside and shuts the door behind him.

You’re left standing there with the echo of his words—and the terrifying realization that whatever Dallas Winston has planned… might cost him everything.

Part three…?

Of fuck, I forgot about this draft. Well, I’ll continue this little mini-fic series. Enjoy.

part one here

PAID TO FORGET YOU PT. II

Getting Dallas Winston to your dining table was like threading a needle with the house lights on and your mother watching for blood. You did everything you could to make it painless: set the table yourself, told your father exactly what not to ask, warned Dallas not to bring a cigarette inside even if it killed him.

He showed on time, which shocked even the family dog. He’d borrowed a shirt from Soda—blue, buttons, a little too tight at the shoulders—and he stood on your doorstep with his hair combed like it resented the discipline. He held nothing. He didn’t bring flowers because he didn’t steal for them.

Your father opened the door. He looked at Dallas like a man regarding a loaded gun: respectfully, warily.

“Evening, sir,” Dallas said, the word coming out funny on his tongue, like it didn’t know the way.

“Dallas.” Your father stepped back. “Come in.”

Your mother did not offer her hand. She didn’t even offer the illusion. “We’re keeping this short,” she said.

Dallas smiled. “Good. I’m a busy man.”

“Too busy for a job?” she asked, like she was ordering a drink she’d already decided not to like.

“Got one,” he said. “DX. Ask Steve Randle. He’ll lie and say I’m terrible, but his car keeps coming back to me.”

Your father glanced at him with the tiniest nod—work was a language he spoke.

At the table, the good silver threw back the chandelier light like it was offended. Dallas sat in the chair you pointed to and didn’t touch a thing. He looked like a boxer in a church pew—shoulders tight, eyes soft when they landed on you.

Your mother served the roast without comment, then folded her hands like a judge.

“Tell us about your family,” she said.

“Ma’am,” Dallas said, “I ain’t got a family you’d invite for coffee.”

Your mother arched an eyebrow. “So we’ve heard.”

Your father cleared his throat. “What do you want to do, Dallas?”

Dallas let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so hot with something else. “Today? Eat your wife’s food and not throw a punch.”

“That’s not—” your father started, but you set your fork down.

“He wants to not get hauled in,” you said, calm. “He wants to keep his head down. He wants to stop being treated like he’s a criminal for breathing.”

Dallas’s jaw worked. “Also that.”

“Do you intend to continue… fraternizing?” your mother asked the table, as if the table might answer for you.

“It’s called dating,” you said brightly. “And yes.”

“Do you intend to marry her?” your mother asked Dallas, almost bored, as if daring him to say something stupid.

Dallas blinked like she’d slapped him across the face with a dictionary. He looked at you, then back at her, then at the knife near his right hand and had the good sense not to make a joke about it.

“I intend,” he said, quietly, “to not hurt her.”

Your father’s eyes flicked again. Respect—not acceptance, not yet, but something that looked in that direction if the road stayed paved.

Your mother’s mouth tucked. “That sounds like a plan a twelve-year-old would make.”

“Mom,” you warned.

“What?” she said. “He is a child playing with matches.”

“I’m very good with matches,” Dallas said before he could stop himself.

You kicked him under the table. He didn’t wince, but he shut the hell up. Your father hid a smile in his napkin like a man who remembered once being nineteen.

The rest of the meal went like a bad radio tuned between stations—static with the occasional song fragment. Your mother interrogated; your father questioned; Dallas fended with the poise of a man who’d been surviving oral exams his whole life—what did you do/why did you do it/are you going to do it again. He didn’t brag. He didn’t apologize. He said “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir” and “I’m tryin’.” You wanted to take his hand under the table and never let go.

At dessert, your mother set a slice of pie in front of him like a closing argument. “People like you ruin people like her,” she said, voice quiet, perfect, surgical. “And damnit I won’t have it.”

Dallas didn’t move. He didn’t look at you, because if he did, something would break inside him you couldn’t fix in front of your mother.

“People like me,” he said after a beat, “get blamed for a lot of things we didn’t do, and a lot that we did. I ain’t here to ruin her.” He swallowed. “I’m here because she asked me to be.”

“God help me,” your mother said to the chandelier.

Your father put down his fork. “That’s enough, y/m/n.”

She stared at the pie as if it might rearrange itself into a better answer. “We’re finished here.”

You walked Dallas to the door in a silence that wasn’t empty so much as overflowing. On the porch, he leaned into the night, breathing like it tasted better than anything inside.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Don’t what?” He didn’t look at you. He stared at the dark like he expected it to swing first.

“Don’t pretend you don’t care. Not with me.”

He exhaled, his mouth curving without humor. “I care enough to keep my hands on the table while your mother dared me to use ’em.”

“She was daring you,” you said. “And you didn’t take it.”

He finally looked. “I didn’t take it.”

You stepped into him, hands sliding up his chest until your fingers curled in the borrowed shirt. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, but his throat worked. “You worth it.”

“You’re worth it too,” you said.

He looked away again, like the words were too bright to hold in the center of his vision. “Don’t say that in front of her. She might have a fuckin’ medical event.”

You laughed and then wanted to cry, because it felt like the choice the world wanted: laugh or cry, never both, never the third thing where a boy like this could come to dinner and be human.

“Walk me tomorrow?” you asked.

“Try and stop me,” he said, and kissed your forehead like prayer.

From behind the curtain, your mother watched you through a sliver of silk. She inhaled, slow and through her nose, and held the breath a long time. Your father stood at her shoulder. He didn’t put his hand there. He didn’t know if it would help.

“He’ll break her,” she whispered.

“He might not,” he said, and it wasn’t enough and it was everything.

•

•

starting a new series of expression posts. hope you like.