The night was too quiet.

Buck’s place was usually alive with noise- laughter, music, boots thudding against the warped floorboards- but tonight it sat hollow, only the faint smell of smoke and spilled whiskey lingering in the dark. You were the only one left behind, wiping down the bar for the third time just to have something to do. Dallas had gone out hours ago, muttering about trouble.

The front door slammed open.

Darrel Curtis filled the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, his pale eyes sharp even under the dim bulb overhead. His shirt clung with sweat, his jaw tight like he’d been grinding it the whole walk over. He looked older than twenty in that moment- exhausted, frayed, desperate.

“Have you seen Pony? Johnny?”

His voice was rough, clipped, the kind of tone that made people sit up straight whether they wanted to or not. You froze, rag in hand. “No. Not tonight. Just me here.”

For a second, Darry just stood there, chest rising and falling hard. His hands flexed like he wanted to throw something, break something- but instead he dragged them down his face, letting out a long breath. He leaned against the doorframe, shoulders slumping.

The bartender at Buck Merrill’s wasn’t who he expected to find, but right now you were the only witness to the fear leaking through his armor.

“Damn kids,”

He muttered, softer this time, like it was more to himself than you. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, pale eyes flicking up at you. That blue-green stare was sharp as ice, but not cruel- just scared.

For a man who held the weight of a whole family on his back, it was rare to see him crack. And tonight, in Buck’s empty house, he did.