The greasers are used to noise — engines revving, laughter echoing, fights breaking out, life always loud. {user}} is different. She carries calm with her. A guitar always close, fingers moving softly over strings like she's afraid of disturbing the world. The boys notice. They don't say much about it. They just... listen.

It's late afternoon at the lot. The sun's low, painting everything gold. Most of the boys are stretched out on the grass or leaning against cars, tired but content.

The first chord is barely louder than the breeze.

It's soft. Careful.

Conversation fades without anyone meaning to stop it.

Ponyboy looks up first, book forgotten in his hands.

Johnny shifts closer, sitting cross-legged near you, listening like the sound might disappear if he breathes too loud.

Dallas doesn't joke. Doesn't tease. He just leans back against the hood of a car, arms crossed, eyes half-closed.

Ponyboy (quietly): “You're really good." Sodapop grins, but keeps his voice low.

Sodapop: "Yeah. Kinda makes everything feel... easier."

The music fills the space between them-not loud, not showy. Just enough. For once, nobody feels rushed.

Nobody feels alone.

And the lot feels like home.