12

Ponyboy woke to warmth on his face.

For half a second, it felt perfect—his cheek pressed against Steve’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath him, the scent of dew and motor oil in the air. The world was still. His body was sore in the way that made him smile. Everything was slow and soft and good.

Then the light shifted.

He blinked, and the sky was blue.

Not early-dawn blue.

Daylight blue.

His breath caught in his throat.

The sun was up.

It was morning.

They’d fallen asleep.

Pony shot upright, the blankets slipping off him in a panic. “Shit—shit—Steve!”

Steve stirred beside him, groggy, rubbing his eyes. “Huh? Wh—”

“It’s morning!” Pony hissed, already yanking on his jeans. “The sun’s up!”

Steve blinked against the light, still stuck halfway in sleep. “What? No way—what time—?”

“I don’t know!” Pony scrambled for his shirt, heart thudding like a jackhammer in his chest. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m supposed to be home! Darry’s gonna kill me—Soda’s gonna know—"

Steve was sitting up now, wide awake, hair sticking up in every direction. “Okay—okay, breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

“I snuck out last night, Steve!” Pony practically shouted, arms flailing as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I’m not supposed to be here, I’m not supposed to be with you—and we fell asleep in the open, in your truck, and the whole goddamn town is probably already awake!”

Steve’s hands shot out, gripping Pony’s shoulders. “Hey—Pony. Look at me.”

He did, but his eyes were wild.

“We’re okay,” Steve said firmly. “We’re not caught. Yet. We’re gonna get you home. Just... breathe, alright? I’ve got you.”

Pony swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. His chest was tight.

He nodded, but it was jerky. Panicked.

Steve jumped down from the truck bed, grabbing keys and pulling on his jacket in one move. “Let’s go. You can still make it back before anyone checks your room. We just gotta move.”

Pony followed, shoes untied, shirt inside out. His heart hadn’t slowed.

This wasn’t just about getting home.

This was about everything. The secret. The risk. The love he’d just said out loud in the middle of a field, under stars he thought they had time to dream beneath.

And now the sun was burning it all up.

-

The truck rumbled too loud on the quiet back roads, tires crunching gravel as Steve sped them toward town. The windows were cracked, letting in cold morning air that bit at Ponyboy’s skin. But he barely felt it.

He sat hunched in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing, fingers pressed to his lips like they might keep his heart from falling out of his mouth.

The panic hadn’t faded.

Not really.

“I’m dead,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“You’re not,” Steve said, eyes fixed on the road. “We’re gonna get you home, you’ll sneak in, and no one’s gonna know.”

“I’ve never done anything this stupid,” Pony muttered. “I’ve never—God, what if Darry’s already up? What if he looked in my room?”

“You make your bed every morning. Toss some pillows under the blankets when you get back. You’ve done worse lies, Pony.”

He hadn’t. Not like this.

But Steve was trying. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white on the wheel. He looked like he was panicking too—just quieter about it.

Ponyboy shifted, staring out the window as they neared his neighborhood. His stomach twisted.

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I shouldn’t have let you,” Steve replied.

They both knew it wasn’t blame. It was fear. Worry tangled into guilt, twisted with everything they felt and couldn’t name out loud right now.

And still—under all that?

He loved Steve.

He hadn’t said it by accident. He hadn’t felt it by mistake.

He glanced sideways and saw the outline of Steve’s profile—messy hair, tired eyes, lips slightly parted like he was chewing on what he should’ve done differently.

Pony’s chest ached.

Steve pulled to a stop a block away from the Curtis house, killing the engine in one smooth motion.

“You sure about the walk thing?” he asked quietly.

“It’s perfect,” Pony said. “I’ll say I woke up early, couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk to clear my head. Soda’ll think it’s soft and poetic, Darry might even buy it.”

“Alright,” Steve nodded. “I’ll circle back once you’re in.”

Ponyboy grabbed the door handle, hesitated, then turned.

Steve was already watching him.

“I meant it,” Pony said.

Steve blinked. “Meant what?”

“Last night. What I said.”

A beat.

Steve smiled—small, crooked, tired. But full.

“I did too.”

Pony stepped out into the cold morning air. The truck pulled off slowly behind him.

He walked fast, feet slapping pavement, hands tucked into his jacket sleeves like he could hide the way they trembled. The house loomed ahead. Curtains still drawn.

He had a plan. The lie was ready. He was almost home.

Then—

The front door swung open before he reached the porch.

Soda stood there, squinting in the sunlight, one hand running through his sleep-mussed hair.

“Dude,” he muttered. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

Pony’s heart jumped, but he forced a calm breath. “Went for a walk. Woke up early. Couldn’t sleep.”

Soda raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but still half-asleep. “At six in the morning?”

“Needed air.”

“You’re weird,” Soda mumbled, stepping aside.

Ponyboy nodded, brushing past him and moving quickly toward the hallway—but Soda’s voice stopped him cold.

“…you got something on your neck.”

Pony froze.

“What?”

Soda’s brow furrowed. “You—right there.”

He pointed. Pony’s hand flew to his throat, fingertips brushing over a spot just under his jaw. His skin burned there. Still tender.

He darted into the bathroom, flicking the light on, and there it was.

Bright. Visible.

A love bite. Steve’s mouth.

Ponyboy stared at it like it might disappear if he blinked hard enough.

Behind him, Soda called down the hallway, casual but curious:

“Who were you walking with?”

Pony didn’t answer.

Because for the first time in a week, he didn’t have a perfect lie.