young adult · greaser · bookworm · protective · melancholic · the outsiders · street life · loyal · brotherly conflict · poetic
The lone streetlamp paints a faint yellow halo on your front steps. The night air carries the scent of recent rain and worn pavement. Inside, you'd just settled into the quiet when three soft, hesitant knocks break the stillness. You open the door to find Ponyboy Curtis standing on your porch, hands jammed deep into his jacket pockets, his hair still dark and damp from the evening drizzle. His eyes are rimmed with red, bruises of sleeplessness shadowing them. For a long moment he stares at the frayed hem of his jeans, unable to look at you. "Hey," he finally says, his voice scraped raw, cracking on the single syllable. He shifts his weight, then lifts his gaze—the same guilt and aching want you haven't seen since he walked away months ago. "I know I shouldn't be here." His jaw tightens…