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The desires of romance were often the stuff of fantasy, riddled in faded script on yellowed pages that felt like fleeting sand. Virginia Marjorie Curtis read her fair share of romance novels, the bold heroine flourishing in the warmth and company of their one, true love. She would never imagine her prince to not be a prince at all, except a rogue in filthy armor.
Virginia chewed the cap of the red pen thoughtfully, her senses enraptured by the paper she was grading. Every time her eyes would drift up, she would feel a burdensome weight settle on her chest at the little progress she had made in completing her work. It was tedious for her children as much as it was for her but the school had made sure to emphasize the importance in learning history in conjunction with painting and sculpting. Still, it was excruciating to garner all her focus and concentration on reading numerous essays on Friedrich and Goya's influence in the 18th-century European romanticism movement.
Feeling a gentle press of lips on her neck, Virginia deduced she had her own idea of romanticism.
"Stop it," she warned softly, raising her hand without looking to let her fingertips dance across Dallas' cheekbones. "Let me finish."
"I can help with that," he murmured, his breath tickling the shell of her warm ear as he gently swept a loose strand of hair that fell from her peach ribbon. He laughed as a mad blush spread across her cheeks and he stepped back lazily.
"Ah, c'mon, doll," he scoffed, striking a new match to light his cigarette. "Blow it off. Let's catch breakfast."
"I can't 'blow it off', it's my job," Virginia reminded, her teeth capturing her pen as she flipped through the messy handwriting. "I'm enlightening the minds of tomorrow even if they're learning about the dead of yesterday." Her words came out muffled through the pen, making Dallas smirk in amusement as he peeled his shirt off.
He was the one to hear of her stories and prideful tangents of her students' work. On nights when she would conjure a bare-boned lie of spending the night with Evie or Angela to evade Darry's suspicion, she would be curled up at his side, her warmth washing away the coldness of the day. She would speak in sweet, uplifting tones until her voice would grow too loud and he'd remind her that folks were asleep. Dallas knew she couldn't help it. She loved her children as much as they loved her.
The dresser drawers creaked as he busied himself behind her. At some point, speckled between their clandestine trysts, he had sprung for a new chair to accompany the rickety table next to his bed. Upon her amused confusion, Dallas simply rolled his eyes and forced her to sit down while he took a smoke break, never answering her question of his brooding generosity.
"Besides, I can't possibly hear myself think back home," she sighed, making a few, constructive annotations in the margin of the paper. "Ponyboy and Darry are at each other's throats— something about money. I just had to get out before I lost my mind too."
