4

The house was still when Ponyboy woke up the next morning. Light filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale lines across the floorboards of his bedroom. He stayed in bed longer than usual, one arm flung over his eyes, trying to forget the way Steve had looked at him last night. Calm. Careful. Kind in a way Ponyboy didn’t know how to name.

He hadn't said anything. Not really. But something had passed between them, quiet and warm and too dangerous to touch.

Pony dragged himself out of bed, changed into jeans and a worn T-shirt, and stepped into the hallway. Darry was gone—probably at work already—and Soda was still asleep, sprawled on the living room couch with one leg hanging off the side and an arm flung over his chest.

Pony crept into the kitchen and made a quiet bowl of cereal, trying not to let the creaking floorboards give him away. He sat at the table, picking at the soggy flakes and staring out the window at the narrow backyard. Nothing stirred except the wind brushing against the clothesline.

He hated mornings like this—where everything felt too quiet and he was stuck inside his own head.

After a while, Soda shuffled in, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he mumbled, flopping into the chair across from Pony.

“You looked tired,” Pony said.

“I am tired,” Soda grinned, but it faded fast. He leaned forward, squinting at Ponyboy in the dim kitchen light. “You look like hell. You sleep okay?”

Pony shrugged. “Yeah. Just didn’t feel like moving.”

Soda tilted his head. “You been weird lately.”

The spoon paused halfway to Pony’s mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Quieter than usual. You don’t talk much when you come by the DX anymore. Steve said you’ve been short with him.”

Pony looked away, his pulse picking up.

“He said that?”

“Not in a bad way,” Soda said quickly. “Just… noticed something’s off.”

Great. Steve noticed. Told Soda. Now Soda’s gonna dig until he finds the truth and everything falls apart.

Pony scraped his spoon against the bottom of the bowl, suddenly needing something to focus on. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that, but you don’t sound it.”

“I’m just tired too,” he said. “It’s school. It’s… stuff.”

Soda was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “It’s not about me working all the time, is it?”

“No.” That part came easy, because it wasn’t. Not really. Not anymore.

Soda leaned back in his chair, tapping a knuckle against the table. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Pony gave a tight nod, not trusting his voice. He wasn’t ready to say it. Not when it could break everything.

Because how was he supposed to admit that every time Steve leaned close, every time he joked or noticed things nobody else did—it lit something in Pony that he didn’t know how to smother? How was he supposed to say he’d caught feelings for his brother’s best friend, and it was eating him alive?

He needed air.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” he said, standing abruptly and grabbing his jacket off the hook. “I’ll be back later.”

Soda didn’t stop him. He just looked confused. And a little hurt.

Pony didn’t mean to make him feel that way—but the longer he stayed in that house, the more trapped he felt.

—

He didn’t realize where he was going until he was standing across the street from the DX.

The sign buzzed above the pumps, the same tired neon letters flickering in the morning light. Inside, Steve was bent over the hood of a car, sleeves rolled up, grease streaked along his forearm.

Pony almost turned around. Almost walked straight back home. But something rooted him there.

He watched Steve for a moment—the way he moved with practiced ease, like he was built for this place. Like he belonged here, in the grit and hum of it all.

Then Steve looked up and spotted him through the window.

Ponyboy froze. But Steve didn’t call out. He just raised an eyebrow and gave a small, lopsided smile that made Pony’s chest twist.

It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to smile like that—like he knew something. Like he saw something.

Pony crossed the street slowly, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

“You come to help, or just admire my form?” Steve asked as the bell jingled behind Pony.

Pony rolled his eyes, but his voice came out softer than he meant it to. “You’ve got a pretty average form.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Steve said, straightening up. “This is premium, Randle-quality craftsmanship.”

Pony didn’t laugh. He leaned against the counter, fiddling with a spare bolt. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk the other day.”

Steve glanced at him. “You weren’t. Not really.”

“I’ve just… got a lot on my mind.”

“Figured as much.”

There was a long pause. Steve’s expression turned thoughtful, like he was working something out.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you ever do want to talk about it, I’m not just saying that. I’d actually listen.”

Pony looked at him—really looked. There was grease on his cheek, and a thin cut on his knuckle that looked fresh. His eyes weren’t teasing this time. They were steady. Open.

And maybe that was what scared Pony most.

Because if he said something real, it would change everything.

“I know,” he whispered.

Steve nodded, then offered him a soda from the fridge without another word.

And Pony took it—grateful for the silence, and the space, and the way Steve didn’t push.

Even if his heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.