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1.
It was an easier adjustment than Darry thought, welcoming an entirely new person into their home. With the limited notice he’d had, he’d prepared as best he could: talked to Soda, talked to the gang, cleaned every inch of the house. He’d even rented a parenting book from the library that had a brief section on foster kids. It hadn’t helped much. The examples were all about two-parent families with steady incomes and nurseries painted in cheerful colors—people who could afford to take in a baby and later adopt. None of that applied to Darry. There was no mom or dad here, just him, and they barely scraped by as it was.
Still, when the state had called and asked, he hadn’t said no. They’d pressured him, sure, but he couldn’t deny it: he didn’t really mind the idea. Maybe it was because he’d seen too many kids like that lately—wandering around the neighborhood, kicked from one home to another, eyes too old for their faces. Maybe it was because the house had started to feel too quiet lately without their parents, even with Soda around, and the gang dropping by most nights. Or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew he couldn’t stand the thought of some stranger raising a kid who needed someone steady. Someone who wouldn’t give up on him.
So here Ponyboy was, already inserting himself perfectly into their lives, even though the kid probably didn’t know it yet. He hung out with Soda, helped Darry with the chores, and even found a way to break through to Johnny, who rarely entertained new people.
He also, strangely, loved accompanying Darry to the grocery store. Dally said it was probably something about the freedom of being able to choose a few snacks, after not having any choice in his old houses at all. Darry liked it, liked watching Pony slowly look at all his options before electing one or two special treats for the week. The kid was no dummy—he knew to keep his choices cheap, nothing that could break the bank—but Darry always felt a smile creep onto his face when he watched Pony sit on the couch with a bowl of that same treat.
So on Saturday, like he always did, he got out of bed, made a quick breakfast for Soda and Pony, and waited for Pony to get ready. He didn’t need to invite him, Pony just knew. The two of them piled into the car, Pony sliding into the passenger seat like it was his spot now and turning on their favorite radio station. As the music flooded into the car, the two talked: about how school was going, Darry’s job, Tulsa in general. Darry liked this part of his week—seeing into Pony’s mind, how he looked at the world. He was learning about the boy while feeling like he’d known him his entire life.
“Here we are,” Darry said, parking the car as close as possible to the store. The social worker had warned him of Pony’s weak immune system, and Darry wasn’t taking any chances.
“What do we need this week?” Pony asked as they walked in, grabbing a shopping cart and pushing it forward as they made it deeper into the store.
“Been thinkin’ about makin’ a meat sauce… And Soda wants meatloaf one day… Definitely chicken and potatoes…” Darry trailed off, making a list in his head of what they’d need.
“So the usual,” Pony said, raising an eyebrow at Darry acting like they didn’t do this every week.
Darry cracked a smile. “Yeah, just the usual,” he said, ruffling Pony’s hair. They went through the store as usual, going aisle by aisle, picking up one thing here and one thing there. Darry lingered for a second in the chocolate aisle, thinking about how Soda would love the new type of chocolate-caramel crackers that had just come out. When he turned back around to face Pony, the kid was nowhere to be found.
“Pony?” Darry called tentatively, not wanting to make a scene immediately. He was met with silence. His stomach knotted. He took a slow breath, scanning the aisles one by one.
“Ponyboy?” His voice was louder this time, though still controlled. A few shoppers glanced at him, eyebrows raised, but he ignored them. He made his way over to the customer service station.
“Hi,” he started, putting on his charming Soc smile he rarely had to use anymore. “I’m lookin’ for a boy, ‘bout this tall,” he gestured Pony’s height with his hands, “He’s got reddish-brown hair. We were in the chocolate aisle, and I turned ‘n he was gone.”
The customer service clerk gave him a quick, sympathetic nod. “Let me send someone to look for him,” she said, going to the back of the station and pressing a few keys. “Someone’s looking now. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
A few tense minutes passed but they stretched out like they were trying to kill him. Darry kept moving, pacing from one end of customer service to the other, glancing down each aisle as if Pony might suddenly materialize there, like he’d just stepped behind a pillar in the middle of a church. His palms were sweating. His throat was tight in a way he didn’t want to think too hard about.
Every little sound made him look up. Carts squeaking; a kid laughing; footsteps. None of them were his kid’s footsteps.
Not his kid, he corrected sharply in his head. Just a kid. A kid he was responsible for. A kid the state had handed him with more paperwork than instructions. But still—still, the word had been right there.
“He’s usually right behind me,” he muttered again, mostly to himself. “Doesn’t… doesn’t wander.” He tried to sound casual, but the clerk’s eyebrows pulled together in a knowing kind of way.
“Someone’s getting him,” she reassured gently. “Stores are big. Kids get turned around all the time.”
Right. But Ponyboy wasn’t a wander-off kid. He was careful. Always checking where Darry was, like he was waiting for the moment someone would tell him he’d overstayed his welcome. The thought made Darry’s stomach twist so sharply he had to grip the counter.
He’s not used to anybody wanting him close. The idea landed heavily, unpleasantly. Darry reminded himself not to get too attached.
He took a shaky breath and forced himself to stand still. A minute passed. Then another. His thoughts got louder with each one—what aisle he could’ve gone to, who might’ve bumped him, whether he’d gotten hurt, whether he was scared—
He didn’t like this feeling. Too raw. Too much like he’d lost something important.
Then, down one of the long aisles near the back, movement caught his eye—a tall man walking toward them. Next to him, half-hidden behind a display of canned beans, was Ponyboy.
Pony looked guilty more than anything else, chin tucked down, hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he was bracing for trouble. But he didn’t look hurt. He didn’t look scared. He looked… like he’d just gotten a little turned around in a place too big for him.
Darry felt everything inside him unclench at once.
“This your boy?” the man asked as they came closer, one hand gently guiding Pony forward.
The question hit Darry in the chest so fast he didn’t even have time to think. Relief flooded him, warm and overwhelming, and the word spilled out before he could even catch it:
“Yeah, that’s him,” he exhaled, stepping forward instinctively, like he needed Pony within arm’s reach again. “Thank you so much.”
He put a steadying hand on Pony’s shoulder, warm and firm. Pony leaned into the touch—just barely—but enough for Darry to feel it.
The man nodded and walked off. Customer service relaxed. Shoppers who had been pretending not to stare finally turned away.
Pony stared at the floor. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to… y’know. Get lost.”
Darry let out a breathy, shaky laugh he hadn’t planned on. “You’re not in trouble, kid. Just scared me.”
Pony looked up, surprised. “Scared you?”
“Yeah,” Darry said, softer than he intended. “Thought somethin’ happened to you.”
He didn’t realize until they walked away—Pony close at his side, staying there on purpose—that he’d never taken back what he’d said.
He’d called Ponyboy his kid. Without thinking. And Pony hadn’t corrected him.
Without meaning to, the thought whispered itself in his head: This is my boy.
Darry shook his head, reminded himself that Ponyboy was only staying with them for a few weeks, and kept walking with his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
2.
Darry wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go. Parent-teacher conferences weren’t really his thing. Not that he ever went to anything like this—he had enough responsibility just keeping the house running, making sure Soda didn’t get into trouble, keeping an eye on Pony. But apparently, Pony’s English teacher had insisted, and Darry didn’t argue when Pony gave him that quiet, “Please, Dar,” look he knew he couldn’t resist.
The classroom was small and cramped, the smell of old books lingering in the air. A row of folding chairs lined the walls, and a few neatly dressed parents already sat scattered around, talking softly. Darry slid into a chair next to Pony, who immediately crossed his arms and slouched like he could melt into the seat and disappear entirely.
“Thank you both for coming,” Mrs. Hayes began, adjusting her glasses. Her voice was warm, but there was an undercurrent of strictness that made Darry straighten automatically. “Ponyboy has been doing wonderfully this semester. He’s engaged, participates in discussions, and his writing has improved remarkably.”
Darry nodded, keeping his expression neutral. Neutral, firm, solid—like he always tried to be—but his fingers fidgeted slightly on his knees. He wasn’t used to being in this kind of room, surrounded by people who seemed to have the energy and patience to fuss over grades and behavior without thinking twice. He wasn’t a parent, not really. He was just Darry. Just taking care of Ponyboy for the moment.
Mrs. Hayes continued, clicking through a few notes on her clipboard. “He’s polite, cooperative, and thoughtful in his interactions with classmates. Really, you should be proud. You’ve done a great job raising him.”
Darry froze. Raising him. His throat went dry. He opened his mouth to correct her—I’m his foster brother, legal guardian, not his dad—but instead, the words tumbled out differently than he intended:
“Yeah,” he said, voice low but certain. “I’m proud of him.”
He didn’t even realize the room had gone quiet for a moment. Pony’s eyes flicked to him, wide, surprised, and then softened, just slightly. That look—it wasn’t teasing, it wasn’t judgmental. It was… something else. Darry couldn’t quite place what it was.
Mrs. Hayes blinked, then smiled, apparently satisfied with his answer, and moved on to discuss grades, assignments, and upcoming projects. But Darry couldn’t focus. The word “proud” echoed in his head, tangled up with “son,” “kid,” and a quiet realization he wasn’t ready to fully admit to himself.
He found himself glancing down at Pony, who was doodling absentmindedly on a scrap of paper, the faint crease of worry still on his brow from earlier in the day when a class assignment had seemed impossible. Pony didn’t meet his gaze, but Darry could feel it—some small measure of relief that he was there, that he had come, that he’d said the right thing without thinking.
As the teacher detailed Pony’s writing assignments, Darry leaned back in his chair and let his mind wander. He remembered the first time he’d picked Pony up from the grocery store after he’d wandered off. The first time he’d called him his kid without thinking. The first time he’d watched him laugh with Soda, small but genuine, and felt a strange, warm weight in his chest.
When Ms. Hayes stood up to grab one of Ponyboy’s essays from another book, Darry felt the weight of everything in the room.
Pony shifted next to him, elbow brushing against Darry’s. “Did you mean it?” he asked softly, not looking up.
Darry blinked, startled by the quiet confidence in that small voice. He ran a hand over Pony’s hair, slightly rumpling it like he always did. “Mean what?”
“That you’re proud,” Pony said, his voice barely above a whisper, hopeful but cautious.
Darry paused for a long moment, chewing over the words. It wasn’t just pride. It was… relief. It was fear. It was love, though he wouldn’t call it that yet. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “I meant it. You’re a good kid.”
Pony’s shoulders relaxed, and a small smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. Darry’s chest tightened in that familiar, strange way—heavy, warm, and hard to ignore. He realized that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t Pony’s biological parent. He didn’t care about labels or what anyone else thought. This kid depended on him in ways no one else could, and for the first time, Darry admitted to himself that he didn’t want to let him down.
When the conference finally ended, Pony walked out beside him a little taller, a little lighter. “Thanks for coming,” he said quietly, almost shyly.
Darry ruffled his hair again, shrugging. “Yeah, don’t mention it, little buddy.”
Pony froze for a split second, then grinned. Darry felt a small, secret warmth that had nothing to do with the teacher or the grades. My boy. The word lingered, and this time, he took an extra second to let it sink in before he pushed it away.
3.
Darry didn’t usually pick Ponyboy up from school. Soda got off work earlier, and Pony liked walking home with him, stopping for a Pepsi or lingering on the steps to talk with Steve and Two-Bit when they wandered by. But today Soda was covering someone’s shift, and Darry had gotten off roofing early, so here he was, standing awkwardly next to a cluster of other adults by the front gate, feeling out of place as ever.
Most of the parents looked tired. A few looked bored. Some had the smug, polished look of folks who had time to be early for things like this. Darry shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and tried not to stick out like a sore thumb in his dirt covered shirt.
He scanned the crowd of kids spilling down the steps, laughing, shoving each other, yelling goodbyes. He knew Pony would be one of the last out. He always stayed behind to grab his books carefully, making sure everything was exactly where it belonged. The kid was neat in a way Darry had never been.
Finally, as the rush thinned, Ponyboy appeared—head ducked slightly, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked small in the sea of kids, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for him. But Darry saw him instantly. The tightness in his shoulders faded.
Pony spotted him too and hesitated, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if Darry really was there for him.
Darry lifted a hand. “Hey, Pony! Over here.”
Pony’s face brightened—just barely, but enough to make Darry feel stupidly warm—and he started weaving through the crowd.
Before he got there, a teacher stepped in his path. Mrs. Collins. Stern, sharp-eyed, the kind of woman whose hair never dared fall out of place. She looked up at Darry as she held Pony back with one gentle hand.
“You must be Mr. Curtis,” she said.
“Darrel, please,” Darry answered, trying to sound like he belonged there. “That’s me.”
“I wanted to talk with you.” She lowered her voice. “Ponyboy had a little… altercation today.”
Pony stiffened beside her, eyes wide, silent in that way he got when he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. It made Darry’s shoulders tense.
“What kind of altercation?” he asked carefully.
“Nothing terrible,” Mrs. Collins said, though her pinched expression contradicted her words. “Just a couple older boys pushing him around. He didn’t fight back.”
Pony’s jaw tightened, embarrassed. Darry felt something low and protective coil in his stomach.
Mrs. Collins continued, “I wanted to make sure you were aware. Kids like Ponyboy sometimes have a difficult transition into a new—”
She seemed to search for the right word. Something delicate. Something clinical.
“—home environment.”
Pony’s shoulders hunched. Even the wind seemed to hold still.
Darry stepped just slightly closer to him, not enough to crowd, but enough for Pony to feel it. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said.
Mrs. Collins nodded. “Yes, well—I just thought it best to inform his parent.”
She paused, waiting. Prompting. Expecting clarification.
And Darry, tired and irritated and feeling Pony shrink beside him, didn’t even think before saying, firmly:
“Right. That’d be me.”
Mrs. Collins blinked. Clearly surprised. “Oh—well. Good. Ponyboy’s lucky to have someone so involved.”
Darry felt Pony look up at him sharply, like he’d been struck by something invisible.
The teacher dismissed them, and as they walked away, Pony stayed close—close enough that Darry could hear the tiny, uncertain tremor in his voice.
“You didn’t… have to say that,” Pony murmured.
“Say what?” Darry asked.
“That you’re, y’know.” Pony swallowed. “My parent.”
Darry froze for half a second, then cleared his throat and kept walking. “Ain’t no deal,” he said, maybe too gruffly. “Didn’t wanna see her smug face, that’s all.”
Pony wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t hurt, exactly—just quiet, thoughtful, processing.
They walked the next block without speaking, footsteps matching like they always somehow managed. And even though Darry insisted it hadn’t meant anything, he kept glancing down at Pony. To make sure he was okay, to make sure he was close, to make sure he didn’t disappear in the space between one breath and the next.
And Pony stayed right there, walking beside him like he wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Darry wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
He’s not your kid, Darrel, He reminded himself. But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t completely true.
4.
Darry woke instantly.
He’d gotten good at that since Pony moved in, waking up at the tiniest noises, the lightest footsteps, the barely-there whisper of a door creaking open. Soda slept like a rock, snoring lightly across the room, oblivious. But Darry heard it again. A soft, uneven shuffle from down the hall: hesitant, like whoever was making it wasn’t sure they were allowed to. A pause. A breath.
Then, quieter still:
“Dar?”
Pony.
Darry swung his legs off the bed. He didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes. He just opened the door and stepped into the hall, where Ponyboy stood like a ghost—small, trembling, his hair sticking up in tufts.
The kid’s eyes were red. Too bright. Too wet.
“Hey, hey,” Darry said gently, his voice rough from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
Pony opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. His chest hiccuped instead, one of those little shuddering breaths kids get when they’re trying real hard not to cry.
“I had a dream,” he managed. “Like… like the old ones. The bad ones.”
Darry didn’t ask what “old” meant. He didn’t need to. Darry knew the kid had reasons to wake up scared.
“C’mere,” Darry murmured, like an offering.
Pony moved closer, slow at first, then faster, like the dam broke and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He pressed into Darry’s chest, skinny shoulders shaking.
Darry wrapped his arms around him automatically, one hand cupping the back of Pony’s head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. The kid was stiff for a second, like he was afraid to lean too hard, afraid he’d be pushed away.
He didn’t need to worry. Darry held on tighter.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re alright now. I got you.”
Pony didn’t say anything, but he nodded against Darry’s shirt, breathing unevenly.
After a minute, Darry pulled back just enough to see his face. Pony’s cheeks were damp. His eyes were ashamed, like he thought he’d broken some rule by needing comfort.
“Want some water?” Darry asked softly.
Pony shook his head.
“Want the light on?”
Another shake.
“What do you want, then?”
Pony hesitated. Swallowed. “Could I… um… stay in here? Just for a minute?”
Darry didn’t even blink. “‘Course you can.”
He led Pony back into the bedroom, guided him to sit on the edge of the bed and then sitting down beside him. Pony rubbed his face with his sleeve, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline faded.
“What was the nightmare about?” Darry asked, just in case Pony wanted to talk.
“I don’t wanna say,” Pony whispered. “It makes it sound stupid.”
“It ain’t stupid if it scared you,” Darry said, a firmness creeping into his tone. “Scared kids don’t make stupid things up.”
Pony looked at him then, really looked, and for a moment, his expression cracked wide open.
“Is it…” Pony’s voice shook. “Is it okay to wake you up? When it’s bad?”
Darry blinked. The question shouldn’t have hurt, but it did, right under the ribs.
“Ponyboy.” He placed a gentle but steady hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Listen to me. If you need anything, anything at all, you wake me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Pony nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He leaned just slightly into Darry’s side. Not much. Just enough to show he was still scared, but also still trying not to take up too much space.
Darry’s arm moved before his brain did, curling around the kid’s back, pulling him in.
And that was when he said it.
“C’mere,” he murmured again, softer this time. “Get outta your head, Pony. Can’t lose my kid in there.”
Pony stiffened, just for a heartbeat. Not offended. Just startled, like he’d heard something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe.
“You, uh…” Pony whispered. “You called me… that. Again”
“Hm?” Darry asked, too sleepy and concerned to follow.
“Your kid.”
Darry froze.
He didn’t remember deciding to say it. Didn’t remember thinking it. It just… came out. Automatic. The truth of it had slipped through a crack he wasn’t ready to admit existed.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped. Lying felt wrong. Backtracking felt worse.
So he cleared his throat and went with the safest explanation he had.
“Just a figure of speech,” he said quietly. “Nothin’ serious.”
Pony nodded, pretending he believed it. Darry pretended too. But neither of them let it go.
5.
Pony wasn’t supposed to be gone long.
He’d told Darry and Soda he was running to the library before it closed to return a book, maybe check out another if he had time. Darry had nodded, reminding him (for the third time) to be home before dark.
It was a quarter to five then. Now it was nearly seven.
The sky was full dark. And Ponyboy was nowhere.
Darry tried not to panic at first. He told himself Pony probably lost track of time. Or stopped to talk to Johnny. Or, hell, even decided to walk slowly and think about his books like he always did.
But as the minutes crawled by, that uneasy tightness in his chest got worse.
Soda was pacing the living room too, chewing his thumbnail. “You think he’s okay?” he asked for the fourth time.
“Yeah,” Darry said automatically. “Yeah, he’s… he’s fine. Just late.”
Every time he said it, the lie felt heavier on his tongue.
It didn’t help that it had been a long week. Pony had had another bad nightmare two nights ago. Soda got called into a late shift. Darry hadn’t slept more than four hours since Monday. The house felt stretched thin, like any small thing could snap it.
And now Pony was late.
Darry checked the window again: nothing but empty, dark sidewalk.
He grabbed his jacket off the hook.
“I’m goin’ to look for him,” he said.
Soda grabbed his own coat instantly. “Me too.”
“No,” Darry snapped, harsher than he intended, but he knew Soda’d understand. “You stay here. In case he comes back while I’m out.”
Soda hesitated, then nodded, looking painfully young for a moment. “Bring him home, Dar.”
That was the plan.
Darry stepped into the cold night and started down the sidewalk, footsteps fast, breath sharp in the chilled air. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every distant shout made him flinch. He hated how familiar the fear was, this specific brand of dread that lived under his ribs whenever someone he loved was out of sight too long.
He walked faster.
By the time he reached the library, he was sweating despite the cold. Lights off. Doors locked. Pony definitely wasn’t there.
He checked the gas station. The playground. The stretch of road behind the hardware store where Pony sometimes cut through.
Nothing.
His heartbeat got loud in his ears.
Where are you, kid?
He turned down the last street he could think of—the long one that curved past the school—and that’s when he saw him.
Ponyboy. Walking fast, backpack clutched to his chest, breath visible in the cold. Like he’d been running on and off. Like he knew he was late and was terrified of the consequences.
Relief hit Darry so hard he actually stopped walking for a second.
Then Pony spotted him.
His eyes widened, guilt flashing bright.
“Darry—”
“Where the hell were you?” Darry’s voice cracked. Not angry, exactly, but too full of something fierce and scared. An emotion too big to fit into words.
Pony froze. “I—I’m sorry. The library guy let me stay late ‘cause I was finishing this chapter, and then I lost track of time, and then my shoe—my shoelace broke and I—”
He held up the frayed lace like proof.
Darry didn’t care about the shoelace. He didn’t even care about the lateness anymore. The only thing he could focus on was the way Pony’s cheeks were red from the cold, and how he looked so small walking alone in the dark.
Before he could think better of it, Darry closed the distance in three strides and put his hands on Pony’s shoulders—not rough, but firm.
“Don’t do that to me,” he said, voice lower now, nearly shaking. “You can’t just disappear like that. You scared ten years off my life.”
Pony blinked up at him, startled. “I said I was sorry…”
“I know.” Darry swallowed. “I know, I just—I was so worried my kid went missin’—”
He stopped too late. The word was already in the air between them.
Pony’s breath caught.
“You… you said it again,” he whispered.
Darry’s hands froze where they rested on Pony’s shoulders.
“Did I?” he said, even though he knew damn well he had.
“Yeah.” Pony looked at him carefully, like the wrong answer might shatter what little ground he’d found here. “You called me your kid.”
Darry opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
What excuse could he give? That it slipped? That he was just scared?
Those things were true, but none of them felt right. None of them felt good enough.
So he cleared his throat, stepped back half a pace, and said the safest thing he could manage:
“Let’s get you home. Soda’s worried.”
Pony nodded, but not before Darry saw something flicker in his eyes—hope, fragile and terrified of being crushed.
They walked the whole way back side-by-side.
Pony kept glancing up at him, like he wanted to say something.
Darry kept his eyes forward, heart pounding, pretending the slip didn’t mean anything at all.
But it did. Pony knew it. Darry did too, no matter how much he pretended he didn’t.
6.
It happened on a quiet night.
No emergencies. No missing library runs. Just the three of them at home after dinner, the house warm with that rare kind of peace that almost never lasted long around the Curtis boys.
Soda was sprawled across the couch, half-asleep, a magazine sliding off his chest. The TV muttered low in the background. Darry was gathering plates from the coffee table when he noticed Ponyboy sitting cross-legged on the floor, notebook open, pencil tapping against his knee.
The kid wasn’t writing, though. He was staring at nothing in particular. Too quiet.
Darry recognized that look. It meant something was wrong.
He set the plates down on the counter and walked back into the living room, lowering himself onto the armchair across from Pony.
“Homework?” he asked.
Pony shook his head without looking up. “No.”
“You feelin’ alright?”
Pony nodded automatically.
Darry frowned. “Pony.”
That got his attention. Pony’s eyes flicked up, and in that split second, Darry saw everything: the worry, the uncertainty, the questions he’d been holding in for weeks now.
Darry exhaled slowly. “C’mon. Talk to me.”
Pony hesitated, fingers twisting in the edge of his notebook. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
Pony swallowed hard. “You… you keep calling me things.”
Darry’s stomach tightened. “Things?”
“Like… like I’m—” Pony’s voice wavered. “Like I’m yours. Sometimes. Like I’m stayin’.”
Darry’s breath snagged. Soda stirred on the couch but didn’t wake.
Pony kept going, the words trembling out of him in a rush. “At the grocery store, and at school, and… and that night I had the nightmare. When I got home late. You kept calling me your kid. And I know you didn’t mean to, but I—” He stopped, voice cracking. “I don’t know what you meant.”
Darry didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Pony looked down again, shoulders drawing tight.
“And I know I ain’t ‘sposed to ask,” he whispered. “’Cause foster families aren’t forever. And people change their minds. And if I say it out loud and you decide you don’t want me no more—”
“Ponyboy.”
He didn’t look up.
“Pony.”
Still nothing.
So Darry got up, crossed the small space between them, and lowered himself onto the floor in front of the kid. Pony’s breath hitched, like he wasn’t expecting that.
Darry reached out and gently, carefully, tipped Pony’s chin up.
Those wide, worried eyes met his.
“Look at me,” Darry said softly. “I’m not goin’ no where.”
Pony blinked hard. “You say that, but—”
“I’m not done.”
Pony went silent.
Darry swallowed, feeling something heavy loosen in his chest. Something he’d been ignoring. Avoiding. Pretending wasn’t there because he wasn’t sure he deserved to say it.
“You asked what I meant,” Darry said quietly. “When I called you my kid.”
Pony didn’t breathe.
“And the truth is…” Darry’s voice softened, not shaky, but close. “…I meant exactly what it sounded like.”
Pony froze. Completely.
“I’m not sayin’ it ‘cause I slipped, or ‘cause I was scared, or ‘cause someone asked.” Darry continued. “I’m sayin’ it now on purpose.”
Pony’s eyes filled so fast he didn’t get a chance to hide it.
Darry kept going anyway.
“You’re my kid, Ponyboy. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what you are. And that’s what you’ve been since the minute you walked through that door for the first time.”
Pony’s breath broke. He tried to speak but nothing came out, just a tiny, helpless sound.
Darry opened his arms. That was all it took.
Pony launched forward, burying himself against Darry’s chest with a force that knocked Darry slightly off balance. His hands fisted in the back of Darry’s shirt. His whole body shook with the kind of crying he never let himself do in front of anyone.
Darry wrapped him up instantly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other holding him tight like he’d never let go.
“You’re mine,” Darry murmured into his hair. “And you ain’t gotta be confused ‘bout that no more.”
Pony clung harder, shaking. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Darry said without hesitation. “I ain’t losin’ you. Not now. Not ever.”
From the couch, Soda blinked awake, rubbing his eyes. He took in the scene slowly—the way Pony was clutching Darry, the way Darry was holding him like something precious he finally had permission to touch.
A slow, soft smile spread across Soda’s face, but he didn’t say anything. He just curled back onto his pillow and let the moment stay theirs.
Pony eventually pulled back, sniffing hard, face blotchy and red. “You really mean it?” he whispered, like it was still too fragile to touch.
Darry brushed the hair from his kid’s eyes. “Every damn word.”
Pony nodded, swallowing thickly, and leaned into him again—this time calmer, steadier, like he’d finally found a place he could rest.
Darry held him, chin resting on top of Pony’s head.
And for the first time, calling Pony his kid didn’t slip out accidentally.
It felt right. And it felt like a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life.