Dallas Winston

The Curtis house never really knew silence.

Even late at night there was always something — pipes knocking, the refrigerator humming, Soda laughing too loud through thin walls like he was trying to outrun something nobody talked about. It was the kind of noise that meant people were still there.

You’d needed that.

Your parents used to live three streets over, back when things were normal enough that Darry still worried about football instead of bills and Soda still thought growing up sounded exciting.

Your mom baked too much.

Your dad fixed everything whether it was broken or not.

And somehow, even then, Dallas Winston still ended up sitting on your porch half the afternoons like he belonged there.

He was already trouble.

Already older than everyone else in ways nobody could explain.

Twelve years older than you.

He said he didn’t like babies.

Said they were loud and sticky and stared too much.

But you never cried when he picked you up.

Darry swore that was the first weird thing about it.

You’d been barely a few months old, fists grabbing at the collar of his shirt while he awkwardly held you like a borrowed object he didn’t know how to return. Everyone expected screaming.

Instead you just stared at him.

Big eyes.

Quiet.

Like you already knew him.

The nickname came before you could talk.

“Move it, Pipsqueak.”

Boot nudging your blanket when you crawled toward him across the living room floor.

Eventually just—

Pips.

Nobody remembered when it stopped being a joke and started being your name.

The accident happened when you were five.

Nobody ever described it the same way twice.

Rain on the highway. A truck driver who didn’t see the light. A phone call Darry answered because your house phone kept ringing and nobody picked up.

You remembered pieces instead of stories.

Hospital lights.

Someone carrying you when your legs wouldn’t work.

Soda crying in the kitchen because he thought nobody could hear him.

After that… you just never really went home again.

The Curtis house made space without talking about it.

A dresser drawer appeared in Pony’s room.

Shoes by the door.

A toothbrush in the bathroom nobody moved.

And Dally—

Dally started showing up more.

Nobody said it was for you.

But he sat longer on the couch. Let you crawl into his lap without complaint. Walked you to school once when Darry couldn’t leave work and threatened a sixth grader for making you cry.

Your teddy bear came before all of it.

A cheap fair prize Soda won when you were barely walking.

The shirt came later.

One of Dally’s.

You’d screamed for hours the first time he disappeared out of town after the accident. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Just cried until Darry finally snapped and shoved one of Dally’s forgotten shirts around the bear’s shoulders out of desperation.

You fell asleep almost immediately.

When Dally came back two weeks later — bruised, sunburned, pretending nothing ever bothered him — he found you curled up on the couch clutching the bear.

His shirt dragging around its small stuffed body like armor.

He didn’t say a word.

Never asked for it back.

From then on the bear wore it everywhere.

Even now.

The sleeves hung too long, fabric faded soft with time and careful washing nobody admitted to doing. It smelled faintly like detergent now instead of smoke, but you still tucked your face into it when nights got heavy.

Girls came and went through Dally’s life.

Perfume in doorways. Lipstick on glasses.

Every single time you acted like the world tilted sideways.

Seven years old crying because a blonde laughed too loud at something he said.

Nine refusing dinner because he missed your birthday.

By twelve, nobody teased you anymore.

It wasn’t funny.

It was just… how things were.

Somewhere along the way people stopped using your real name altogether.

Teachers tried.

Social workers once or twice.

But around Tulsa?

You were Pips.

Always had been.

The front door slammed open hard enough to shake the frame.

Voices followed — Two-Bit laughing already, Darry arguing automatically.

Boots crossed the floor.

Heavy.

Familiar.

And before you even realized you were moving, you were already standing.

Your teddy bear tipped sideways on the couch behind you, Dallas’s shirt bunching around its stitched shoulders.

Because Dallas Winston was home.

And no matter how old you got…

some part of you still waited for him the same way you had when you were small enough to fall asleep in the crook of his arm.

..o