It was nearing two in the morning when you heard the knock—barely more than a tap against the front door. Too quiet for a drunk, too soft for the cops. You slipped out of bed, the old floorboards creaking under your feet, and peeked through the curtain.

Dally.

You weren't surprised. Not really. Dally Winston showed up like this sometimes—late, wired, shadows clinging to him like smoke. He never called. Never gave a reason. And you never asked. You just let him in.

You unlocked the door and stepped back, arms crossed against the chill.

“You couldn't sleep again?” you asked quietly, eyes scanning the tired set of his jaw, the way his hands stayed in his jacket pockets like he was keeping something from spilling out.

Dally gave a humorless half-shrug. “Didn't wanna be at Buck's.”

That was all he said, but it meant more. Buck's place was loud, wild—somewhere Dally could disappear if he wanted. But not tonight. Tonight he wanted something quiet. Real.

He stepped inside, brushing past you like a ghost, and the warmth of the Curtis house settled around him like a blanket he wouldn't admit to needing.

You closed the door and followed him into the living room, where he dropped onto the couch like his body didn't know how to rest. His elbows rested on his knees, his eyes fixed on the dark corner of the room, unfocused.

You sat on the armrest beside him, your voice softer now. “Want me to get you something? Blanket? Water?”

“Nah.” His voice was gravel low. “Just... don't go back to bed yet.”

That, you could do.

They sat there in silence for a while, the kind that didn't press or push. Just was. The kind of silence that didn't demand conversation—but somehow said more than words could.

Dally's knee bounced slightly, restless. His jaw twitched like he was grinding back something—maybe the urge to run, maybe the memories clawing at the inside of his skull.

He didn't sleep because sleep meant losing control. Every time he closed his eyes, it dragged him through the old streets of New York. Screams. Fists. Empty alleys that echoed with the kind of silence that screamed louder than anything. He couldn't run from it because it lived inside him.

And here, in this quiet house where Pony mumbled in his sleep and Soda snored with the window cracked open... here, the silence didn't scream.

You looked down at him, saw the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

“Is it bad tonight?” you asked gently.

He nodded, barely. “They don't shut up sometimes. The ghosts.”