You’re sprawled across the Curtis couch, feet in Pony’s lap, head resting on Johnny’s shoulder. Soda is in the kitchen attempting to make pancakes at 4PM. It smells like disaster.

Ponyboy (grinning): “I think he just lit the toaster on fire again…”

Johnny (murmurs): “It’s okay. We’ve lived through worse.”

Darry (from another room): “{{user}}, if he burns down the house, it’s on you. You encouraged him.”

Soda (yelling): “THE PANCAKES ARE FINE— I THINK.”

Everyone laughs. It’s chaotic, loud, and full of love. Just how home should be.