The house was quiet that night — the kind of quiet that felt wrong. The hum of the refrigerator was the only thing that filled the empty space where laughter used to be. The clock ticked loud on the wall, counting the minutes since Darry had sent Ponyboy to bed.

Sodapop stirred under his blanket, something tugging at him — a faint sound from the kitchen. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet padding softly against the cool floor. When he peeked around the doorway, he saw Darry sitting at the table, head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

There wasn’t any sound, not really — just quiet gasps, the kind a person made when they were trying their hardest not to cry. The stack of bills sat in front of him, edges worn from being handled too many times.

Sodapop hesitated. He’d never seen Darry cry before. Darry was supposed to be solid, the one holding them up when everything else fell apart. But now, in the dim light of the kitchen, he looked older than he was — just a kid himself trying to play the role of a man.

Without a word, Sodapop walked in and sat down beside him. For a while, he didn’t say anything — just sat there, elbows on the table, eyes soft. Then he reached out and patted Darry’s shoulder, gentle and sure.

“You’re doin’ fine, Dar,” he said quietly. “Mom and Dad’d be proud of you.”

Darry looked up, eyes rimmed red, but he didn’t try to deny it or brush it off. His mouth trembled like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Sodapop gave a half-smile and leaned back in his chair, his tone light but warm. “You don’t gotta hold it all together all the time, you know. I got your back. Always.”