The living room carpet had seen better days—worn thin in spots, the pattern faded from years of muddy shoes and spilled sodas—but none of that mattered to Sodapop. He was flat on his belly, chin propped in his hands, grinning ear to ear as {{user}} toddled toward him on unsteady little knees.

“C’mon, squirt,” Soda encouraged, wiggling his fingers like he was daring a puppy closer. “You’re almost there.”

{{user}} let out a soft hum, tilting their head as if weighing whether he was worth the effort. Then, with surprising determination for someone barely steady on their legs, they plopped forward, palm smacking the carpet, then another.

Soda’s grin widened. “That’s it! Look at you go. Fast as lightning.” He stretched out dramatically, flattening himself against the floor like he was afraid of getting run over. “Zoom! Right past me!”

The baby gave a little squeak of laughter, which made Soda laugh, too—a bright, unguarded sound that filled the room.

From the couch, Pony peered over the edge of his book, fighting a smile. “You’re gonna spoil ’em rotten, you know that, right?”

Soda twisted his head toward him, his cheek squishing against the carpet. “Rotten? Nah. I’m just teaching important life skills.” He scooped {{user}} up and carefully flipped them onto their back, blowing a raspberry on their belly until giggles bubbled out. “Like how to laugh at Soda’s jokes.”

Two-Bit, who was stretched out in the armchair with a comic book, snorted. “That’s not a skill, that’s a curse.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Soda said solemnly, pressing a finger to the baby’s hand, which closed tight around it. “He’s just jealous.”

Darry walked in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel, and paused at the sight of Soda sprawled out on the floor with {{user}} giggling above him. For a moment, his expression softened, the lines of responsibility easing just a little.

“Long as you don’t rile ’em up before nap time,” Darry said, though there wasn’t much heat in it.

“Me?” Soda asked, wide-eyed innocence plastered on his face. “Would I ever?”

“Every day of your life,” Pony muttered, though he was smiling now, watching Soda let {{user}} tug at his hair with delighted squeals.

*The room felt lighter for it—like, for one stretch of an afternoon, everything was exactly as it should be.