8

By the time the garage was finally clean—or clean enough to fool Darry—the sun had dropped low in the sky and everyone was bone-tired. Soda had declared victory by tossing the last box onto a shelf and flopping dramatically onto a crate, shirt clinging to his chest and hair sticking up in all directions.

Steve tossed him a warm bottle of root beer and sank onto the ground beside Pony, both of them sitting close enough that their shoulders touched, but not enough to raise suspicion.

At least, they thought it wouldn’t.

But Soda kept glancing at them. Nothing direct. Just little things—a shift of the eyes, a quiet pause, a longer look when Pony spoke, like he was waiting for a clue he didn’t know he was looking for.

It made Pony’s stomach twist.

He stayed quiet on the way back inside, trying not to walk too close to Steve, trying not to glance at him too long. Every look felt like a risk now. His skin still buzzed from that kiss in the garage, and Steve's hand had brushed his once on the walk back—not enough for Soda to see, but enough to burn.

At dinner, it only got worse.

They all sat at the table, passing plates back and forth. Darry was in a better mood than usual, teasing Soda about the “sink incident” while Soda swore up and down that the pipes were cursed. Steve made jokes like always, slipping into his usual rhythm with Soda, and everything should’ve felt normal.

But Pony was too quiet.

He barely touched his food. Every time Steve laughed, he flinched a little—because it was his laugh now, too. Because he could still feel the pressure of Steve’s mouth on his.

“You alright, kid?” Darry asked, nudging Pony’s plate. “You barely touched your food.”

“I’m fine,” Pony said quickly. “Just tired.”

Soda didn’t say anything at first. But then his fork paused halfway to his mouth. He looked at Pony—not hard, not angry, just… sharp. Focused.

“You’ve been tired a lot lately,” he said slowly. “And kinda jumpy.”

“I said I’m fine,” Pony repeated, too fast.

Steve didn’t look up, but his jaw tightened just slightly.

Soda raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Just checking.”

The tension thinned out after that, but it didn’t leave.

Pony excused himself the moment he could, retreating into his room, heart pounding as he shut the door behind him. He collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, fists clenched in his sheets.

He didn’t want to lie to Soda. Not forever.

But what was he supposed to do? Just say it?

Hey, I kissed your best friend. He kissed me back. I think I’m falling for him.

No. Not yet. Not like this.

The worst part was knowing that Soda could feel the change. He just didn’t know why yet.

And when he figured it out...

Pony didn’t want to think about what might happen.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, breathing slow, shallow.

A knock on his door startled him. He sat up fast, heartbeat spiking.

“Yeah?” he called, trying to sound normal.

Soda’s voice was calm but edged with something unreadable. “You good, little brother?”

“Yeah. Just tired, like I said.”

There was a pause. Then: “Alright. Holler if you need anything.”

Pony waited until the footsteps faded, until the house felt still again.

Only then did he let himself exhale.

He knew this wasn’t going to stay secret forever.

But right now, it still was.

And that was the only safety he had left.

---

The house had finally gone still.

Soda’s voice drifted from the hallway once or twice—soft, tired, half-humming as he moved between the bathroom and his bedroom. A drawer slammed. The creak of Darry’s bed followed shortly after. A faucet ran. Then, nothing.

It was nearly midnight when Ponyboy cracked his door open and slipped barefoot into the hallway.

He didn’t make a sound as he padded down the stairs, heart thudding hard with every step. He didn’t have to check. He already knew Steve was still here. His old boots were by the front door, kicked off in their usual spot. The lamp in the living room was still glowing faint and low.

Pony crossed the last step as quietly as he could.

Steve sat on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, arm thrown over the backrest. He had a threadbare blanket tossed across his lap, and he looked up the second Pony stepped into the room.

Their eyes met—no words, just there you are.

Pony didn’t hesitate. He crossed the space between them and slid onto the couch beside him, curling into the warmth of Steve’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve lifted the blanket without a word and tucked it around them both, pulling Pony closer until their thighs pressed together and Pony’s head fit perfectly beneath his jaw.

“You sure?” Steve murmured, his breath brushing against Pony’s hair.

“Yeah,” Pony whispered back. “They’re out cold.”

Steve let out a low chuckle. “Good. ’Cause I’ve been going nuts just pretending all day.”

Pony laughed softly into his shoulder. “You? Mr. Smooth?”

“You think I’m smooth?”

“I think you panic just as much as I do,” Pony said, grinning against his shirt.

Steve didn’t deny it. He just tilted Pony’s chin up and kissed him—slow, deep, familiar now. Like it belonged to them. Like they’d already decided this was worth it, no matter how complicated.

Pony sighed into it, the tension in his chest unspooling all at once. He’d been holding it in all day—under Soda’s watchful, too nice smiles, under Darry’s casual glances. Every brush of Steve’s arm in the garage had felt like a fire no one else could see.

But here, in the quiet, with just the soft buzz of the lamp and the steady beat of Steve’s heart under his hand, he didn’t have to hide it.

Steve pulled back just enough so his eyes met with Pony’s. “You know, this couch is terrible. My back’s gonna be wrecked tomorrow.”

“You could always sneak into my room,” Pony offered quietly, teasing—but not entirely kidding.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You trying to kill me?”

Pony grinned. “Just saying. It’s more comfortable.”

“I bet it is,” Steve murmured, kissing his cheek.

They sat in that stillness a while longer, trading kisses and whispers, tangled up under a thin blanket like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked faintly.

Pony froze, clutching Steve’s arm.

But nothing followed. Just the wind brushing gently against the windows and the distant bark of a dog down the block.

Steve nudged his knee against Pony’s. “We’re good.”

Pony let himself breathe again. He hated the fear that came after the warmth—the back-and-forth of hiding. But he also loved this. Him. Being here, like this.

Steve brushed his thumb across Pony’s knuckles. “One day we won’t have to sneak around.”

“I know,” Pony whispered.

“But for now…” Steve leaned in again, smiling faintly. “I’ll take this.”

And Pony, with the weight of the whole house asleep above them, nodded against his chest.

“Me too.”