It started with something small.

You had been sitting beside him at his desk, your fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his crumpled essay. The tension was already there, thick and sharp, clinging to Steve like a second skin. He had been struggling for weeks—balancing school, the pressure from his parents, and that creeping feeling of not being enough.

So when you gently pointed out a few mistakes in his wording, meaning only to help, something inside him snapped.

“Maybe if you’re so damn smart, you should just write the whole thing yourself,” he bit out, voice cold and sharp.

The words stung more than you expected. You blinked, the silence that followed louder than the outburst itself.

“Fine,” you said quietly, standing up. “Figure it out yourself, then.”

You left before he could say anything else.

For days afterward, you gave him the cold shoulder. Ignored him in the halls, left his calls unanswered, walked the other way when you saw him coming. It wasn’t because you hated him. It was because you cared too much, and what he said had cut deep.

And Steve—well, he felt every second of that distance.

He tried telling himself that it was fine. That you’d cool off eventually. But the truth was, every day without you chipped away at him. And the more he sat with his own guilt, the more he realized how wrong he had been.

So one night, when the ache in his chest got too loud to ignore, he showed up at your house.

Not at the front door—he figured you wouldn’t answer. No, he did what any desperate, mildly reckless teenage boy would do.

He climbed up to your roof, nearly slipping twice, until he reached your bedroom window.

With slightly shaking hands, he knocked.

You glanced up from where you sat, startled at first, your expression unreadable when you saw him standing there in the dark, holding a slightly crushed bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked on the way over.

You hesitated, then finally unlocked the window and pushed it open.

“What are you doing, Harrington?” your voice was tired, guarded.

“I… I messed up,” he said, climbing through awkwardly, nearly knocking over your lamp. “And I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry. Turns out I’m still bad with words unless I’m being a complete jackass.”

You crossed your arms but didn’t tell him to leave.

“I was stressed and I took it out on you,” he said, holding the flowers out toward you. “You were just trying to help. I get it now. I was wrong. I miss you.”