The house was quieter than it used to be—too quiet. Two months wasn’t nearly enough time to get used to the empty spaces their parents left behind. Ponyboy sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a worn library copy of Great Expectations open on his knees. He kept reading the same page over and over, the words slipping away every time a distant car passed or the floorboards creaked above him.

Sodapop lay sprawled across the couch behind him, one arm draped over his eyes, pretending to nap but too restless to really sleep. Every so often he’d ask Ponyboy what part he was on or tap his foot to some tune only Sodapop seemed to know. It was their routine now—quiet, close, comfortable in a way that tried to fill the space where laughter and Mom’s humming used to be.

The front door opened with a heavy groan. Darry stepped inside, shoulders slumped, shirt damp with sweat from a long shift. He didn’t say hello right away; he just stood there for a beat, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe the day off.

“Hey, Darry,” Sodapop finally said, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Darry managed a tired smile. “Hey, kid. You two doin’ alright?”

Ponyboy nodded, though he wasn’t sure if it was true. Darry didn’t press. He just set his tool belt on the counter and headed straight for the kitchen. A second later, the sound of cabinets opening and pots clinking filled the house—louder than necessary, but it made the place feel lived-in again.

“Thought I’d start dinner,” Darry called, voice rough with exhaustion. “We got leftover pork chops to cook before they go bad.”

Sodapop hopped off the couch, stretching. “You want help?”

“Nah,” Darry said, though the slump in his shoulders told a different story. “You boys relax. I got it.”