3

The next few days blurred together—long shifts at the DX, muggy afternoons that stuck to your skin like guilt, and quiet rides home. Steve didn’t mind the routine. He liked the hum of engines, the smell of grease, the simplicity of knowing what came next.

But something felt off lately.

It started small. Ponyboy stopped lingering at the counter. He still came by—sometimes with Johnny, sometimes alone—but he didn’t talk much. He’d grab a soda, nod at Steve, and plant himself on the curb outside, scribbling in a notebook or just watching the cars roll by.

Steve tried not to take it personally. Maybe school was rough. Maybe he was tired. But it sat weird in his chest anyway.

One Thursday afternoon, Steve was replacing an air filter behind the station when Pony showed up. He didn’t say anything, just handed Soda a note from school and leaned against the wall, arms folded.

Soda barely glanced at it.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, sliding the paper onto the counter and checking the time on his watch. “I’m gonna be late for my other job if I don’t grab lunch now.”

Steve stood up, wiping oil from his hands. “You got another shift today?”

“Yeah, straight from here to the diner. I’ll be dead on my feet by midnight.”

He grabbed his keys, already halfway out the door, flashing that familiar smile like it’d make everything okay.

“Hold down the fort, Steve. Pony, tell Darry I’ll be home late.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Steve looked over. Pony hadn’t moved. His jaw was clenched tight, and he was staring at the counter like it’d said something cruel.

Steve walked over, slow and cautious. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Pony said, too quick.

Steve frowned. “You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

That one hit different—sharp, like a paper cut. Steve crossed his arms, tone cooling. “You always get snappy when you’re fine, or is that just a new thing?”

Pony didn’t answer. He turned his back to the register and stared out the glass door instead.

Steve didn’t like this. Not one bit.

“You mad at Soda?” he asked finally.

Pony’s voice was quiet, but not soft. “No. I’m mad at the world, maybe. I’m mad at not being enough of a reason for anyone to stop for a second and look at me.”

That hung there for a second too long.

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I see you,” he said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to.

Pony turned his head just enough to meet Steve’s eyes. “Yeah? And what do you see?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. He wanted to say someone who’s trying too hard to be okay, or someone who cares too much and never says it out loud. But all he managed was—

“I see someone who’s tired. And maybe a little dramatic.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Guess I’m not the only one with an attitude today.”

Steve snorted. “Never claimed to be easy.”

Pony finally sat down on the counter stool, resting his arms on the surface. He looked smaller than usual, like something had shrunk inside him.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he mumbled. “It’s just... he doesn’t even notice anymore. I get it, he’s busy. But sometimes I think if I disappeared for a whole day, no one would notice ‘til dinner.”

Steve leaned on the counter next to him. “Then don’t disappear. Sit here. Be annoying. Make him notice.”

Pony looked at him, eyes searching.

“Would you notice?”

Steve didn’t look away. “I already did.”

The air between them shifted—heavy, full of everything unspoken. But before either of them could say anything else, the bell over the door jingled, and a customer strolled in asking for a fill-up.

Steve gave Pony a nod and turned to help, the moment breaking like glass beneath a boot heel.

---

That night, the house was too quiet.

Darry was working late again, and Soda hadn’t come home yet. Ponyboy sat on the front steps, a half-read book in his lap and his bare feet resting against the cool concrete. The porch light flickered above him like it was trying to decide whether to give up.

He wasn’t really reading—hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. His mind kept circling back to the way Steve had looked at him earlier, how his voice had changed when he said I already did.

Why did that matter so much?

It was stupid. Steve was Soda’s best friend, always had been. They were like mirror images—loud, fast-talking, quick with a grin. Steve was the guy who made fun of his hair, called him a brat, rolled his eyes whenever he got too deep in his head.

But he was also the one who noticed when he didn’t eat. Who paid for his soda without asking. Who offered burgers when the silence got too heavy.

And now, Pony couldn’t stop thinking about that look. Like maybe Steve saw something in him nobody else did.

He hated how it made his stomach twist.

The door creaked open behind him, and Steve stepped out.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” Steve said, leaning against the frame. He had one of Soda’s sweatshirts on—it hung loose on him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Pony shrugged, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “Wasn’t tired.”

Steve sat down beside him, stretching his legs out in front of him with a groan. “My feet are gonna fall off one of these days.”

Pony smiled faintly. “That bad?”

“Long shift. Cranky customers. Soda forgot to restock the oil cans again.” He bumped Pony’s shoulder with his. “Thanks for not biting my head off earlier, by the way.”

“I kinda did,” Pony muttered.

“Nah. I’ve had worse. You didn’t even call me a name.”

Pony’s smile faded a little. The porch light buzzed overhead. He could feel Steve’s shoulder barely brushing against his, and the warmth of it made his throat tighten.

He wanted to say something. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad because you keep being decent to me, and I don’t know what to do with that.

Instead, he said, “You ever feel like you’re gonna explode if you don’t say something, but you also know that if you say it, everything changes?”

Steve turned to look at him. “Depends on what you’re trying to say.”

Pony kept his eyes forward. “Something dumb.”

“You don’t say dumb stuff.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, and Steve chuckled.

Silence fell between them again—comfortable for Steve, suffocating for Pony.

Why does it feel different when he’s close? Why does my chest ache when he looks at me like I matter? It was messed up. Steve was supposed to be off-limits. Soda would never understand, and even if Steve did know—what would he do with that?

He chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Can I ask you something?”

Steve tilted his head. “Sure.”

“If I ever… felt something I wasn’t supposed to—about someone close to me—would that make me a bad person?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, thoughtful.

“Nah,” he said eventually. “Feelings just happen. What you do with ‘em—that’s what counts.”

Pony finally glanced over at him. “Even if it messes things up?”

“Especially then.” Steve’s voice was softer than usual. “Sometimes you gotta choose between keeping the peace or telling the truth.”

That sat heavy in Pony’s chest. He nodded slowly, heart racing.

Steve stood up, stretching. “I should head out before I fall asleep on your steps.”

Pony followed him to the door. Steve paused there, hand on the knob.

“You okay?” he asked, not quite looking at him.

Pony nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for… being here tonight.”

Steve offered a small smile. “Anytime, kid.”

And then he was gone.

Pony shut the door gently, leaning against it once it clicked closed. His hands were cold, his face warm, and his heart loud enough to drown out the quiet house.