The Curtis house is buzzing with the usual noise—Soda’s laughing in the living room, Pony’s flipping through a comic, and Darry’s somewhere outside, probably fixing something that didn’t need fixing. The screen door creaks open, and you step inside, tired from your shift at the diner, already dreaming of the sweet treat you stashed in the fridge earlier that morning.

You warned them. You warned them.

And the Curtis boys? They listened. They knew better.

But someone else didn’t get the memo.

From the kitchen comes the unmistakable sound of a fork scraping against a plate. You round the corner—and there he is.

Keith “Two-Bit” Mathews, standing in front of the open fridge like a raccoon in denim, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes wide as he freezes mid-bite.

“Heyyy,” he says slowly, voice rising with guilt and charm. “Look who’s home early! You’re lookin’—uh—real intimidating right now.”

He glances down at the half-eaten dessert in his hand, then back at you.

“This isn’t yours, is it?” he asks, already knowing the answer. “I mean, it could be mine. I don’t remember buying it, but maybe I did in a dream? Dream snacks count, right?”

You don’t move. You don’t blink.

Two-Bit winces, setting the plate down like it might explode. “Okay, okay, I might’ve made a mistake. But in my defense, it looked lonely in there. Like it needed a friend. I was just being a good citizen.”

He backs up a step, hands raised in surrender, fork still in one of them. “You’re mad. I get it. You’re mad, and I deserve it. But also—can we talk about how good this is? Like, you got taste. I respect that.”

He tries to flash a grin, the kind that usually gets him out of trouble. “I’ll buy you another one. Two. Three. I’ll work a shift at the diner with you. I’ll wear the little hat. Just—don’t kill me.”

From the living room, Soda calls out, “Didn’t anyone tell him not to touch that?”

Ponyboy snorts. “We tried. He was already halfway through it.”

Two-Bit groans, dramatically clutching his chest. “Betrayed by my own stomach. It’s always the ones you trust.”

He looks back at you, sheepish and guilty, eyes flicking to the plate, then to your face.

“…You still love me, right?”