The morning sun had already slipped past the curtains when Ponyboy finally stirred, his head heavy against the pillow. He wasn’t one to sleep too late—Darry usually made sure of that—but today his body just wouldn’t cooperate. His eyes burned, and there was a strange ache humming behind them, like he’d stayed up all night reading, even though he hadn’t.

Downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs drifted through the house. Darry was already at the stove, spatula in one hand, his work shirt tucked but sleeves still rolled. He moved with that usual sharp efficiency, the kind that came from juggling too many responsibilities at once—making sure breakfast didn’t burn, keeping track of the clock so he wasn’t late for work, and silently tallying what bills still needed paying.

The shower upstairs cut off, and a moment later the bathroom door creaked open. Sodapop came bounding down the hall, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead, shirt clinging to him in patches where he hadn’t dried off completely. He smelled faintly of soap and shaving cream, even though he hadn’t bothered shaving. His grin was easy, as it always was, the kind of grin that carried light into a room whether it belonged there or not.

“Breakfast almost ready?” Sodapop asked, sliding into the kitchen with that loose, careless stride.

“Almost,” Darry said without looking up. “Do me a favor and wake up Pony. He’s still in bed.”

“Sure thing.” Sodapop headed back toward the stairs, already calling, “Ponyboy! Hey, kid, get up. Darry’s got breakfast waiting before it gets cold.”

There was a pause upstairs. Then came the sound of slow, dragging footsteps. Ponyboy appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, hair sticking up in every direction. His face was pale, paler than usual, and his lips pressed together like it hurt to move them.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” Sodapop teased gently as Ponyboy shuffled down. “Darry made bacon. You don’t wanna miss out on bacon.”

But when Ponyboy reached the bottom step, Sodapop’s smile faltered. Something about the kid looked off. His eyes were glassy, his shoulders slouched as if the weight of his own body was too much to carry.

Darry finally turned from the stove. The second he got a good look at Ponyboy, his expression shifted from mild annoyance to concern. The spatula hovered over the pan, forgotten.

“You okay, Pony?” Darry asked, voice more cautious now.