It was late afternoon, sunlight slanting golden through the windows of the Curtis house, catching on dust in the air. The boys were all around — lounging, laughing, half-arguing about nothing. Two-Bit was on the couch with a beer he’d definitely swiped from someone else’s fridge, Steve was fiddling with something metal at the table, Ponyboy had his nose buried in a book, and Soda was leaning against the kitchen counter, flipping a coin.
Dallas Winston had been quiet all day. Not brooding — not exactly — but that kind of quiet he got when something was brewing in his head. The kind that usually meant someone was gonna end up bleeding. But this time it was different. You could tell by the way he looked at you. A little nervous. Which was almost funny. What the hell did Dallas Winston have to be nervous about?
He tugged you into the living room like he didn’t care who was around. Just did it — fingers curling around yours, dragging you toward the middle of the room where the floorboards creaked the loudest.
“I’m doin’ this now,” he said under his breath, more to himself than to you.
Then he let go of your hand, stepped back half a foot, and reached into the inside of his jacket. From the pocket, he pulled out a tiny thing — a ring. It wasn’t flashy. A little silver band. Scratched, dull, probably from a pawn shop. Still, it made your breath catch.
Dally dropped to one knee.
And everything went still.
Ponyboy lowered his book slowly. Two-Bit’s beer paused halfway to his mouth. Soda stopped flipping the coin. Even Steve looked up, wrench in hand.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Steve muttered.
“I’m not,” Dally said, loud and clear. “I’m serious.”
He looked up at you, squinting a little like the sun was in his eyes.
“I dunno what I’m s’posed to say. I ain’t good at words. But I ain’t ever cared about somethin’ this much. You make me feel like maybe I ain’t all bad. Like maybe I got somethin’ worth keepin’. So… marry me?”
You didn’t speak. You just looked at him, your throat tight, your heart beating wild in your chest. And slowly, you nodded.
The ring slid onto your finger — too loose, probably someone else’s size once — but it was real. It was happening.
“You’re outta your goddamn mind!” Steve shouted, jumping to his feet. “Marry her? Like, legally? You think you’re ready to get stuck with alimony when this all goes to hell in a year?”
“Alimony?” Two-Bit repeated, confused. “Ain’t that when rich people gotta pay their wives after they mess up?”
“Don’t encourage this,” Darry barked, his voice cutting through the noise. “Jesus Christ, Dally, are you drunk?”
“No,” Dally snapped, standing up now. “I ain’t drunk. I’m serious.”
“You’re seventeen!” Darry shot back. “What the hell do you know about marriage?”
“You want five jobs and an eviction notice?” Steve barked. “You gonna wake up at four in the morning to change diapers too, huh?”
“We ain’t talkin’ about babies,” Dally growled, eyes flashing. “We’re talkin’ about bein’ with someone who makes life suck less.”
“Oh my God,” Two-Bit said, throwing himself back on the couch dramatically. “What are y’all gonna do? Get a cute little shack and fight over whose turn it is to pay the water bill?”
Darry took a step forward, jaw tight. “Do either of your parents even know?”
That shut the room up for half a second.
You felt your throat dry out. You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
“They don’t gotta know right now,” Dally muttered. “Ain’t their decision.”
“The hell it ain’t,” Darry snapped. “Marriage is a life choice, Dallas. This ain’t some off-the-cuff thing you can undo when you get bored or angry. This ain’t a street fight you walk away from.”
“It ain’t like that,” Dally growled, low and sharp.
“Well it sure as hell sounds like it!” Darry said, loud now, voice echoing off the walls. “You’re talkin’ about shackling your life to another person before you even know who you are yet.”
“Maybe I do know who I am,” Dally spat. “And maybe I’m done waitin’ for everybody to approve before I do somethin’ that makes me feel alive.”
Dally turned back to you, breathing heavy, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching. His eyes were burning with something wild and stubborn and completely, terrifyingly honest.
You looked at him. Then at the boys. Ponyboy, eyes wide and scared. Soda, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or scream. Two-Bit, who was clearly already mentally planning the worst wedding toast in history. Steve, pacing like he was trying not to punch a wall. Darry, arms crossed, the weight of the whole world between his brows.
You swallowed and said nothing.
“Alright,” Soda said suddenly, raising a hand like he was a teacher trying to calm the class. “Let’s — let’s just all take a breath, okay? Y/N? You good?”
Dally took your hand again.
“We said vows, right?” he asked. “Let’s do that.”
“Oh God,” Two-Bit whispered. “This is actually happening.”
“I’ll go first,” Dally muttered.
He turned toward you. He wasn’t smiling. He looked like a guy stepping off a cliff on purpose.
“I ain’t never had much. But I got you now. And I swear, if I gotta fight off the whole damn world to keep you, I will. You’re the only thing that makes me wanna stay clean, keep breathin’, and stop lookin’ over my shoulder. So I swear I’ll be yours, no matter what.”
Your lip trembled. You hadn’t prepared anything. You barely knew how to breathe.
But you looked at him, at the bruises healing under his collarbone, the busted knuckles, the eyes that never looked scared — not even when he should be — and you said softly:
“I don’t need perfect. I just want you. Even when you’re a pain. Even when it’s hard. I wanna be yours too. That’s all.”
The room went silent again.
“Jesus,” Steve muttered, rubbing his face.
“Do I get to do the ceremony?” Two-Bit asked, holding up a kitchen spoon. “I always wanted to marry two emotionally unstable teenagers in my best friend’s living room.”
“No,” Darry growled. “Nobody’s marrying anyone in my damn house.”
“Too late,” Dally muttered. “We already did it at the courthouse.”
And then Ponyboy, whispering like it was the worst thing he could imagine: “You guys are legally married?”
Dally just held up your hands, ring and all, like it was proof. Which it was.
The room didn’t explode this time. It just… sat there. In stunned disbelief.
And Dally, still holding your hand, just whispered, “I meant it.”
But you squeezed his hand back.
Later that night, the Curtis house felt like a crime scene.
Nobody had left. Not really. They were all still there, stuck in the same places like they were afraid to move too fast and set something off again. Soda had his head leaned back against the couch, eyes shut like he was meditating or just pretending he didn’t exist. Ponyboy was scribbling something in a notebook — maybe writing you both out of his life like a Greek tragedy. Steve was pacing again, biting the skin around his thumb. Darry hadn’t spoken in a solid half hour. He was standing by the window like a statue, arms crossed, jaw locked.
You and Dally were on the edge of the porch steps, side by side, hands brushing but not holding anymore.
No one had really looked at you since the courthouse reveal.
“So,” Two-Bit said eventually, his voice too loud in the stillness, “when’s the honeymoon? Do I gotta buy y’all a toaster or somethin’?”
Steve turned and gave him a look. “Do you ever shut up?”
Two-Bit just shrugged, then glanced at you. “You okay, kid?”
You nodded, once. Then again. Just enough to fake it.
Dallas didn’t say anything. He just kept his eyes forward, jaw twitching.
“We gotta go home,” you mumbled finally, your voice dry.
“You sure?” Soda asked gently, standing. “You don’t wanna give it a day?”
“Not gonna make it better,” Dally said flatly. “Might as well face the music.”
Darry turned then. Not all the way — just enough to catch you both in his line of sight.
“If you were my kid,” he said slowly, “you’d be grounded till you were thirty.”
“I ain’t your kid,” Dally shot back, sharp but tired.
“No, you’re just someone who came into my house and dropped a goddamn grenade.”
Pony looked up at that, worried. “Darry…”
“No,” Darry said, lifting a hand. “He wants to be grown? Fine. Be grown. But don’t think you get to walk around here like everything’s the same now.”
“It ain’t the same,” Dally muttered, standing up, grabbing your hand again.
You followed. You didn’t say a word. Just let yourself be pulled down the steps into the thick, hot night.
The walk to your house was quiet. No words between you. Just streetlight shadows and the occasional car rumbling by. Your hand stayed in his, and his grip never loosened. It was the only solid thing in the world right then.
Your house came into view too fast.
Your mom was in the doorway.
Your dad behind her, arms folded.
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
You just kept walking until your feet hit the bottom of the steps.
Your mom’s face looked pale. Tight. Her mouth was trembling like she wanted to cry and scream at the same time.
“Where have you been?” she hissed. “You didn’t call, you didn’t—”
“She married me,” Dally said.
Your mom froze. Like her breath got caught in her lungs.
“We got married,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Today.”
The silence after that could’ve cracked glass.
“No, you didn’t,” your mom said, voice shaking now. “That’s not funny, that’s not—”
“She’s tellin’ the truth,” Dally said. “We signed it. Got a license. It’s real.”
Your dad stepped forward.
“You better be joking, boy,” he said low. Not yelling. Just dangerous. “You better say this is some dumb, sick joke.”
He looked at you then. Really looked at you.
“Go inside,” he told you.
You looked at Dally, your eyes pleading. But he was still. A statue.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said, not looking at you.
You went. You climbed those steps and disappeared into the house, but your ear stayed near the screen door.
“What the hell were you thinkin’, boy?” your dad hissed. “You think this is a game? You think you can drag her into that mess you call a life and just make her your problem?”
“And you’re a damn delinquent. You get in fights, you run from cops, you drop out of school—”
“I love her,” Dally snapped.
The words hung in the air like lightning.
“She’s the only thing I give a shit about anymore. So go ahead, call me a punk, call me whatever you want. But she wanted me, and I ain’t lettin’ go of that.”
There was silence again. Even the cicadas outside went still.
Then your dad said quietly, coldly, “You’re not welcome in this house. Not anymore.”
“I don’t need your house.”
“You’re not takin’ her with you.”
A pause. Then footsteps — heavy, final. Dally turning. Walking away.
You pushed open the screen door and ran after him, barefoot on the porch wood.
He didn’t stop until he heard your voice. Then he turned, slow. Tired eyes.
“You can’t go yet,” you said, breathless.
“They don’t want me here.”
His face softened just a little. Not a smile — just something quieter. Something like relief. Like maybe he thought you’d vanish too.
“You’ll get tired of this,” he said. “Of me.”
He studied your face like he didn’t believe you. But he didn’t argue.
Instead, he reached for your hand again.
And the two of you stood there — just shadows under the porch light — quiet, married, and already older than you’d ever been before.
The next morning, school looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same.
The bricks were still chipped. The halls still smelled like old pencil shavings and mop water. Your locker still stuck at the hinge unless you kicked it just right. But when you walked in, it felt like someone had turned every head at once, like some invisible string tugged every pair of eyes straight to you.
You weren’t just you anymore. You were Mrs. Winston.
A girl you barely talked to gasped so hard she nearly choked on her grape bubblegum. Some junior you’d never even spoken to leaned in to whisper to her friend, eyes locked on your face like you were about to break into song or something.
“She married him,” someone said behind your back. “Swear to God. At the courthouse. White dress and everything.”
You didn’t wear a white dress. You wore jeans and a jean jacket and a nervous smile and a boy’s hand in yours.
But facts didn’t matter now. People were gonna make up whatever they wanted.
You walked down the hallway slow, like moving fast might make the whispers louder. You’d worn something simple — just your Favorite soft tee and a pair of jeans you knew you looked good in — but it didn’t matter. You could’ve shown up in armour, and they’d still be staring.
“Did you hear?” someone muttered near the water fountain. “Her parents kicked her out.”
“They didn’t,” you muttered under your breath.
“She married Dallas Winston, bro,” a boy in Algebra barked to his friend. “That dude stole my cousin’s wallet at a party.”
“No, he didn’t,” you said, loud enough for them to hear. You defended him even though you knew he definitely did it.
It kept coming. Whispers in the halls. Notes passed in class. A teacher gave you a weird look when you signed your homework “Y/N Winston” — paused like she wanted to say something, then moved on like it might infect her.
By fourth period, it wasn’t even whispers anymore.
In English, Mrs. Davenport stood at the front of the class and tapped her fingers on her desk like she was thinking hard about something she really shouldn’t say. Then she did anyway.
“Y/N, could I speak with you for a moment?”
You stood slowly, ignoring the smirks around you. Walked up to her desk. She leaned in like she was sharing a secret.
“I just want to say,” she said carefully, “that whatever you’re going through right now… it’s never too late to make a different choice.”
“I got married, not addicted to heroin.”
Her lips pursed. She sat back.
“Right,” she said. “Well. Let’s return to To Kill a Mockingbird.”
By lunch, it had hit maximum chaos.
You stepped into the cafeteria, and the noise actually dropped. Like someone had turned the volume knob down just for you.
Every table had something to say.
The Soc girls were whispering behind their tiny milk cartons, giggling like they’d just seen a car crash and couldn’t look away. Some Greasers at the back of the room gave you a nod, respectful. One even clapped his hands slow like he was impressed.
“Dally bagged a wife,” someone muttered.
You grabbed a tray and sat alone. You didn’t usually sit alone. But your friends didn’t really know what to say, and you didn’t blame them.
You pulled out your sandwich. Took a bite. Chewed.
And then — out of nowhere — someone sat across from you.
Rita, from science class. Wore two ponytails and always smelled like lotion. She blinked at you.
“So, like… how does that work?”
You blinked back. “How does what work?”
“Like… being married? Like… who cooks?”
You stared at her. “We eat burgers and canned peaches.”
She nodded like you were speaking some foreign language. “Wow. Romantic.”
Then came the teachers again.
Fifth period, Mr. Levin — history — made a point of bringing up divorce rates in America.
“Most young marriages don’t last,” he said, staring right at you. “They don’t even make it past a year. Something to think about.”
“I hope your wife still loves you after this lesson,” you muttered.
Some kid two rows over snorted into his notebook.
By last period, you were done. Your hand ached from writing “Winston” on every paper. Your back hurt from carrying everyone else’s opinions on it. And your head was starting to spin with how many people asked you if you were “gonna have a baby now.”
You were just ready to leave.
But on the way out — slipping through the side doors, backpack slung over one shoulder — you heard it again.
“She’s married to Dallas Winston,” a voice whispered.
He was probably waiting for you outside somewhere, leaning against a wall, cigarette tucked behind his ear, scowl already halfway gone the second he saw you. You were his. He was yours. You’d married a boy everyone was scared of, and you weren’t sorry about it.
You didn’t care if they whispered. Let them.
You knew something they didn’t.
God, when the final bell rang, you were already halfway down the school steps when you saw him again — Dally leaning up against the hood of his junked-up car like he had nothing but time. His cigarette was half-burned and dangling from his lips, and the minute he spotted you, he smirked like the world was stupid and you were the only thing that made sense in it.
He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and opened his arms a little, casual as anything. You walked up, sliding your arm around his waist, and he hooked his hand into the back pocket of your jeans like it was a god-given right. And just like that, everything else felt quieter.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
The voice came from across the street — high, sharp, venom-laced. You both turned.
Her dark red lipstick smeared at the corner, hair teased too high, hoop earrings swinging like weapons. She had two other girls behind her, both dressed like they thought they were hot shit, both glaring like you’d just ruined prom.
“You really married her?” Sylvia sneered, arms crossed tight over her chest.
Dally didn’t flinch. “Sure did.”
“To me,” you said flatly, and his hand in your back pocket gripped just a little tighter.
Sylvia scoffed, stepping forward. “You’re a damn idiot, Dally.”
“And you’re jealous,” he fired back.
One of the girls behind her — Tammy or Tanya or whatever — let out a fake laugh. “Ain’t no one jealous of some girl who married a dropout with no job and a rap sheet.”
Dally didn’t even look at them. “And yet here you are. Talkin’ to me like you still care.”
“You’re gonna regret this,” Sylvia snapped, eyes flicking to you. “When she leaves you high and dry with a baby and no money—”
“That’s funny,” Dally cut in. “I don’t remember askin’ your opinion.”
“I gave up everything for you!” she shouted. “And this is how you treat me?!”
He leaned forward, eyes ice cold. “You didn’t give up shit. You weren’t mine, Sylvia. You were just around.”
Sylvia’s mouth fell open, eyes burning, but she didn’t say another word. Her girls tugged her back, whispering hot and fast, and before she could lunge, they’d pulled her away. Sylvia threw one last look at you — a silent promise that this wasn’t over — before vanishing around the corner.
You felt Dally’s hand slide out of your pocket only long enough for him to light another cigarette.
“Well,” he said, “That was fun.”
Later that night, you crashed at Buck’s place — or maybe “crashed” was a stretch. It was more like hiding. The room stank of old beer and cigarette ash, but the door locked, and no one bothered you. Dally had stripped down to his jeans, your legs tangled under the moth-eaten quilt Buck kept for whatever girls he brought around.
You were both on your backs, staring at the ceiling.
“You think everyone knows?” you asked after a long silence.
He snorted. “Hell, I think the next town over knows.”
You turned your head toward him. “My mom’s got a big mouth.”
Dally laughed under his breath, low and raspy. “Ain’t that the truth.”
You sat up on your elbow. “We could leave.”
He looked at you like he was waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, he sat up too, resting his elbows on his knees.
You shrugged. “Anywhere. Texas. California. Change our names, fake our ages. We keep our last names, but everything else… starts new.”
Dally looked down at his hands. “You serious?”
There was a pause, then that little half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Well hell,” he muttered. “Guess we better pack.”
The room was lit by the yellow glow of a single bulb, flickering like it might give out at any second. You were throwing clothes into your school bag, some of them still inside out from the last time you wore them. Dally was across the room, half-dressed, shoving a pack of Camels into his boot like it was survival gear.
“Yeah, I got the lighter.”
“In my waistband, babe, don’t worry about it.”
You shoved a pair of socks into the corner of your bag, breath uneven. The weight of it hit you all at once. You were leaving. Running away. With him.
You froze for a second, hand on your last sweatshirt. Dally glanced over, frowning. “You good?”
“Tell who?” he said, already zipping his bag shut.
You reached for the landline on Buck’s bedside table.
Dally squinted like you’d lost your mind. “Babe, why the hell would we—”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You tryna get my ears blown off before we even get outta the damn city?”
But you were already dialing.
“…Oh shit. Hold on.” The phone clattered. “DAR—DAR, IT’S HER—”
You heard a chair scrape, a crash, and a distant, “Tell her to get her stupid ass home before I call the cops myself!”
Then Darry’s voice ripped through the receiver like thunder. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOIN’? You think marriage is a damn game? You think runnin’ off with that jailbait sonofabitch is gonna solve all your problems?!”
Dally leaned over, mouth near the receiver. “Tell him I said hi.”
You slapped his shoulder and shushed him, holding the phone back to your ear.
“We’re leavin’,” you said calmly. “We’re headed west. Gonna start fresh. Thought you should know.”
“WEST?!” Darry roared. “YOU AIN’T GOT A CAR THAT’LL MAKE IT TO THE DAMN COUNTY LINE—”
You could hear Soda yelling something like “Let me talk to her, Darry!” and Steve in the background going “Oh my god, they’re really doin’ it. They’re actually runnin’ away—”
“—YOU’RE SEVENTEEN, Y/N! YOU THINK YOU’RE GROWN JUST 'CAUSE SOME DEADBEAT PUT A RING ON YOUR FINGER?! YOU'RE A CHILD!”
You winced and held the phone away from your ear.
Two seconds later, you heard Pony in the background — “Wait, they got married?”
Then Two-Bit, loud as hell — “You think they’ll send us a postcard?”
And then Soda again — “Dar, man, you’re gonna pop a vein—just let me—DAR—”
You didn’t say anything. Just held Dally’s hand and looked him in the eye.
Dally blinked, then let out a whoop and flopped back on the bed like you’d just told him Christmas came early.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he laughed. “That was the hottest thing I ever heard.”
You grinned through your nerves. “They’re gonna be pissed.”
He sat up and cupped your face. “Let ‘em be. We got each other, right?”
And with that, you zipped your bag, slung it over your shoulder, and followed him out the door. Into the dark. Into the unknown.
You stepped into the cramped, barely-lit office, the air heavy with old smoke and stale coffee. The landlord—some middle-aged guy who looked like he hadn’t seen a full night of sleep in years—sat behind a cluttered desk, scribbling something on a stack of papers with a pen that didn’t work half the time.
Dally slung his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You tried to play it cool, though you could feel the nerves humming underneath your skin. This was it. The start of something different.
The guy barely looked up, tapping his pen on the desk with a distracted sigh. “Yeah, what do you two want?”
“We’re here about the place,” you said, flashing him your most confident smile. “We’re lookin’ for a place to stay for a while. Seems like this one’s perfect.”
He gave you a lazy glance. “Uh-huh. You know the deal—no kids, no riff-raff, and you gotta pay up front. Got references?”
“Yeah, we’re fine with that,” Dally chimed in, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. “We got the cash, don’t worry about it.”
The guy squinted. “You two even old enough to rent?”
You held your breath for a second, the tension in the air thick enough to slice through. You looked at Dally, who gave you a cocky grin. Your hands were shaking as you handed over the forged IDs you’d both gotten earlier in the day—your names different, your ages knocked up by a couple years, everything just enough to slip under the radar.
“Here,” you said, voice a little tighter than you meant it to be.
The landlord glanced at the cards, not really giving them much attention. He probably didn’t even care. It was all about the cash. “Huh. ‘Mary Collins’ and ‘Johnny Woods,’ huh?” He paused for a beat, like he was trying to remember the names. “I gotta say, you two look a little… young for this.”
Dally shot a glance at you, then back at the guy. “We’ve been around. Seen the world, you know? Don’t act like it’s anything you haven’t seen before.”
The guy snorted. “Sure, sure. I’ve seen lots of things. Just make sure you keep the noise down, alright?”
“Of course,” you said, a little too quickly, but you could tell the guy wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was already reaching for the paperwork to sign.
Dally, always the show-off, slid his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “We’ve got a lot more where that came from, man,” he said, flashing the money in front of him. “Take it now, we’ll start moving in tonight. No hassle, no problems.”
The landlord looked at the money, his eyes lighting up just enough to show he was thinking about it. But he was too tired to argue. Too tired to even pretend. He sighed and grabbed the pen. “Alright, alright. Here.” He scribbled on the contract and handed it to you, barely glancing at you as he muttered, “Place is yours. Just keep it down, alright? No cops.”
You tried to ignore the pounding in your chest as you signed your fake name, feeling like you were playing a part in someone else’s life. But it didn’t matter. You were doing this. You were really doing this.
As the guy shuffled the papers together and walked out of the room, Dally pulled you closer, his voice low. “See? Easy.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, the weight of it all starting to hit you. “I can’t believe that worked. We’re actually doing this. We have a place to stay.”
Dally grinned. “I told you we’d make it work. It’s ours now. We’re starting fresh.”
The excitement buzzed in the air, but underneath it, you felt something else. It was fear, but it was the kind that made your heart race. You were in it now—this was the new life. And no matter what happened next, it was you and Dally, and that was enough for now.
As you turned to leave, you glanced back at the landlord, who was already disappearing into the back room, and breathed in deeply. “We’re gonna make this work, right?” you asked.
“Hell yeah, we are,” Dally said, pulling you out the door with a grin on his face. “Welcome to the rest of our lives.”
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