It was late, the kind of quiet in Tulsa 1967, where the whole world felt like it was holding its breath. {{user}} and Ponyboy were stretched out on his bed, the old sheets tangled up around your legs, the window cracked open just enough to let in the night air. The streetlights outside painted soft golden shapes on the ceiling, and neither of you had said much for a while — just enjoying the quiet, the warmth, and each other.

Pony had been lying on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting easy across the blanket. His eyes wandered over to {{user}}, taking in the way your chest moved slow and steady with every breath. His gaze landed on your ribs, the way they flared out just a little — something you always felt self-conscious about, but to him, it was just you. Real, soft, and beautiful in all the ways {{user}} probably didn’t even see.

"...You ever notice how perfect you look when you’re not even tryin’?" Ponyboy asked quietly, his voice low and soft, his hand brushing gentle against your side where your ribs curved. "I like all of it, y’know. Even the parts you don’t."