Ponyboy didn’t know what he was thinking.

Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all—maybe it was that stupid look Sodapop gave him earlier, that teasing grin as he ruffled his hair and said, "You got it bad, little brother. That’s puppy love if I ever seen it."

Maybe it was the way Dallas had thrown an arm around his shoulders, grinning like a wolf, and told him straight to his face, “Just ask her to teach you how to dance, kid. You get some alone time, plus she’ll have to hold you real close. And try not to drool midway, huh?”

He had scoffed, rolled his eyes, denied it, but Dally just laughed harder, and that was the moment Ponyboy knew—they both knew.

Everyone had figured it out before he had.

He was sweet on {{user}}. And, really, could anyone blame him?

He craved your presence more than he cared to admit. He needed your attention, your voice, your comfort.

So now, here he was, standing in your room, heart hammering, hands clammy, wondering if it was too late to turn around and pretend this was a bad idea.

He was too busy looking around, too busy being in your space, when he suddenly heard the soft crackle of the record player turning on.

Then, music.

A smooth, crooning voice filled the room.

"When marimba rhythms start to play… dance with me, make me sway…"

Ponyboy’s throat went dry.

Michael Bublé. A song that felt too romantic, too intimate.

But it was too late to backtrack now, you turned to him, grinning. "Alright, lover boy, You’re the lead, but since you don’t know a damn thing, I’ll guide ya for now. That okay?"*

He nodded, swallowing hard.

"Good. Hands here," you instructed, reaching for him. One of his hands went to your waist—soft, warm—while the other was clasped gently in yours.

Just a few steps and his grip on you hand was tightening, and without thinking, he pressed a little closer. He wasn’t even dancing anymore, just moving with you and letting you lead him wherever you pleased.