7

Sunday morning hit the house like a wave of noise and motion.

Soda was already in the kitchen by nine, dancing barefoot in front of the stove with the radio turned up too loud and an apron tied haphazardly around his waist. Darry, shirtless and barely awake, grunted into a coffee mug while flipping through the newspaper at the kitchen table. Bacon sizzled, the smell curling through the house, warm and heavy.

Ponyboy sat on the couch in the living room, hair still damp from the shower, a bowl of cereal resting on his knees. His eyes were on the television, but he wasn’t really watching. Not with the memory of last night still fluttering around inside him like a trapped moth.

He hadn’t told Steve he could come by. He didn’t have to.

Sure enough, a few sharp knocks sounded at the front door, followed by the familiar creak as it swung open without waiting for an answer.

Steve.

“Smells like a heart attack in here,” Steve called, stepping inside, already grinning.

Soda leaned out of the kitchen. “It’s love, Randle. Let it happen.”

Steve snorted and walked in, tossing his keys on the coffee table. He looked casual—same old ratty jeans and a tight white T-shirt—but his eyes flicked to Pony almost immediately, subtle but fast.

And Pony felt it—that quiet connection still humming between them.

Steve ruffled his hair in passing. “Mornin’, bookworm.”

Pony gave him a sidelong look, cheeks warming. “You’re late. We’re almost out of cereal.”

Steve made a face and dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that their knees bumped. “I don’t come here for your cereal.”

“You come for the bacon,” Soda said proudly, slapping a plate down in front of Darry before disappearing into the fridge again.

Darry finally grunted a hello at Steve, who responded with a lazy salute. Everything looked normal. Felt normal—almost.

But it wasn’t. Not quite.

Steve’s leg pressed against Pony’s, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

Pony shifted slightly, not away—never away—but just enough that he could glance at Steve without Darry or Soda noticing.

Steve’s expression was unreadable. Calm. But his fingers tapped lightly against his knee, like he couldn’t sit still.

Was he nervous?

Pony cleared his throat, voice low. “Did you sleep okay?”

Steve’s gaze flicked to him, and he nodded. “Eventually.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long. Pony’s stomach did a slow, familiar flip.

Soda plopped onto the couch arm between them, sandwiching them closer without meaning to. “Guess what,” he said, pointing his fork at Pony. “You’re helping me clean the garage after breakfast.”

Pony groaned. “Why am I being punished?”

“You’re the youngest. It’s a sacred tradition,” Soda said, grinning.

Steve leaned back with a smirk. “I could help.”

Darry looked up from his coffee. “You don’t have to. It’s Sunday.”

“I like to suffer,” Steve replied easily. But his glance slid to Ponyboy again. “Besides, I don’t mind spending my day here.”

Ponyboy’s heart gave a little skip, and he fought not to react. Not with Soda two feet away and Darry right there at the table.

Keep it cool. Keep it normal.

But something about the way Steve said it—soft, easy, familiar—it made Pony feel grounded. Seen.

Soda nudged his knee. “You alright, kid? You’ve been zoning out all morning.”

Pony blinked. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Well, stop. It’s Sunday. You’re legally obligated to turn off your brain.”

Steve chuckled, low and quiet beside him. Ponyboy didn’t turn to look, but he smiled into his cereal.

-

The Curtis garage looked like a junkyard with a roof. Boxes of Christmas decorations, busted lawn chairs, old baseball gear, half a dozen tangled extension cords, and a stack of car parts that hadn’t fit under Steve’s bed all sat crammed together in chaotic layers of dust.

Soda had lasted about ten minutes before Darry called him back inside to help with the busted kitchen sink, leaving Pony and Steve alone with the mess.

“You think anyone’s ever actually cleaned this thing?” Steve asked, propping open the rusted side door and letting a beam of sunlight cut across the clutter.

Pony blew hair from his eyes. “I think there’s stuff in here older than me.”

Steve laughed and kicked aside a broken tennis racket. “Probably older than me, too.”

They worked for a while—sweating, tossing, rearranging. The dust clung to their skin, and Steve’s shirt had come off somewhere between dragging out an old dresser and wrestling with a stubborn tarp. He hadn’t put it back on.

Pony tried not to stare. He really, really tried. But the way the light caught Steve’s bare shoulders, the trail of grease smudging down his arm, the dip of his back when he leaned over the tool bench—it all made his thoughts sluggish and clumsy.

And they were alone. Finally alone.

“Hey,” Steve called from the far side of the garage. He stood near the open door, shirt still balled up on a box somewhere, sweat glistening faintly across his chest. His eyes locked on Pony like he’d been waiting to say something.

“C’mere a sec.”

Pony stepped over a crate and around a rusted lawnmower, wiping his palms on his jeans. “What?”

Steve didn’t say a word. Just reached out, brushing a leaf from Pony’s hair. His fingers didn’t leave right away. They slid down, slow and deliberate, curling behind Pony’s neck.

“You’ve got stuff in your hair,” he said, voice quieter now.

“You dragged me into a dust pit,” Pony murmured.

Steve’s thumb skimmed the hinge of his jaw. “Yeah, but you still look good like this.”

That did something to Pony—he felt it deep in his chest, sharp and warm all at once.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he whispered, eyes darting to the door out of habit.

Steve took a step closer. “Then let’s make it worth it.”

He kissed him—and this time, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t testing the waters.

It was deep. Confident. The kind of kiss that made Pony’s breath catch in his throat and his fingers grab for something—anything—until they found Steve’s hip, skin hot beneath his palm.

Steve’s other hand slid into his hair, anchoring him there as their mouths moved together. There was heat in it, and something gentler too—like neither of them wanted to forget it. Like they’d been holding this in for too long.

Ponyboy kissed him back like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like the whole world could fall apart, and as long as Steve was touching him like this, he’d be okay.

A loud bang from inside the house broke them apart like they'd been shot at. Pony jumped, breathing fast, hands still curled in the fabric of Steve’s jeans.

Steve’s eyes darted toward the side door. “Shit—”

Footsteps, fast and uneven, thumped down the front steps. The garage door creaked open and there was Soda, flinging it wide with a frustrated groan.

“Jesus Christ,” Soda huffed. “That sink is completely fucked. Darry and I took it apart, and now it’s like—it’s worse. It’s leaking backwards, Steve. How the hell is it leaking up?”

Pony backed up two steps fast, brushing dust off his shirt with shaking fingers. Steve turned just enough to shield his face from the light, still catching his breath.

Soda squinted at them both. “You two alright? You look like you saw a damn ghost.”

Steve coughed, casually leaning against a shelf. “Just heat. And this garage is a hellhole.”

“Tell me about it,” Soda muttered, dragging an old milk crate out of the way. “Let’s get this done before Darry comes out here looking for bodies to bury.”

Steve glanced at Pony briefly—soft, subtle, quick—but Pony felt it in his chest like a pulse. He nodded.

The moment passed. For now.

Soda grabbed a broom and started pushing dust around like it’d offended him personally. Steve found a half-empty bin and began sorting through wires and old tools, acting like nothing had happened. Pony joined them, hands still tingling.