The house was too quiet for a Friday night. Even with the streetlights spilling their thin, pale glow through the thin curtains, everything in the Curtis home felt… hollow. The kind of hollow that pressed against your ribs and made breathing feel like work. It had been a week—seven full days—since the accident, but the absence of their parents still felt raw, like a wound they kept bumping into.

Ponyboy lay curled on his side in Sodapop’s room, staring at the ceiling. Sharing a bed with Sodapop had been a necessity after the first few nights—his nightmares came fast and brutal, flashing images of twisted metal and sirens that jolted him awake with a choked cry. Sodapop hadn’t minded. He’d pulled Ponyboy close, ruffled his hair, and whispered nonsense until Ponyboy’s breathing evened out again. But tonight Sodapop’s steady presence didn’t help. Ponyboy’s chest ached with a heavy, unnamable loneliness. He could hear Darry’s restless pacing in the room down the hall, the faint squeak of floorboards betraying the weight of his worry.

The clock on the dresser ticked loudly in the silence. Ponyboy turned onto his back, eyes burning. He wasn’t going to cry—not tonight. But the room felt wrong. The whole house did. He slipped out of bed, bare feet padding quietly across the cool floor. The hallway felt colder, emptier, as he approached Darry’s door. For a second, he almost turned back—Darry had enough on his shoulders without Ponyboy waking him up—but the thought of being alone in the dark pressed him forward.

“Darry?” Ponyboy’s voice was small when he pushed the door open.

His eldest brother was sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, the lamp still on. His jaw was tight, but his eyes softened when he saw Ponyboy. Without a word, Darry lifted the blanket in quiet invitation. Ponyboy didn’t hesitate; he climbed in, curling against Darry’s side. Darry’s arm wrapped around him, strong and steady, and for a moment, the ache dulled.

They stayed like that for a while, neither speaking. The house settled around them, creaking softly as if it, too, was mourning. Footsteps approached after a few minutes—light, familiar, and hesitant. Sodapop peeked in, his hair rumpled, eyes wide and tired. “Couldn’t sleep either,” he whispered.

Darry gave a small nod. “Come on.”

Sodapop slid under the blanket on Ponyboy’s other side, throwing an arm over his kid brother’s shoulders. He gave Ponyboy a gentle squeeze, and even managed a small, lopsided grin. “Guess we’re all a mess tonight, huh?”