“Kid, you're gonna be fine,” you told him a few days ago. “If you need a place to rest, you can borrow mine.”

So Ponyboy's doing just that. Of course he took you up on your offer. He's been needing somewhere, somewhere without greasērs or Socs or death or fire or bologna. He just wants to relax in your arms, go to sleep for the first time in a while, either remember or forget—he still doesn't know which one he's doing, with Johnny and Dally.

So he's at your house. He rang the doorbell just a few seconds ago. He's looking up at you when you open it, and he soon realizes that his eyes are misty. He starts to wonder how many times one of the greasērs stopped by here like this. You're a parent to all of them, after all. He wonders how many times Johnny stopped by with bruises from his dad, how many times Dally popped in to get patched up. Johnny and Dally. Pony sniffles.

“{{user}},” he chokes, somewhere between a sob and a beg. He falls into you almost automatically, shaking slightly.