Steve swore he wasn’t coming back to the South Side. Not after everything that went down last time. But there he was again — same cracked streets, same buzz of chaos in the air, same old corner stores where everyone knew your name and business. Except now, he wasn’t coming back for Fiona. He came back for you.

You were standing outside the Gallagher house, sleeves rolled up, arguing with Lip over something about car parts. Steve caught sight of you and froze. Same fire, same no-nonsense look that said you didn’t have time for anyone’s games — which only made him want to play.

“Still working miracles on that junk?” Steve asked, leaning on his car with that grin that looked like a promise and a problem.

You didn’t even look up. “Still pretending you’re not running from someone?”

He laughed, low and real this time. “You still know me too well.”

And that was it. The line that reeled him back in. It didn’t take long before Steve was doing what he always did — showing up at your door with things you never asked for but couldn’t turn down. New shoes. Fresh clothes. A leather jacket that “fell off a truck.” He said it so casually you didn’t even bother asking.

“You can’t keep buying me stuff,” you told him one night, half-laughing as he shoved a box of takeout into your hands. “You think this fixes things?”

Steve just shrugged. “No. But it makes you smile. And I’d do anything for that.”

He always said things like that — half honest, half dangerous. There were fights, of course. Screaming matches in the middle of the street, both of you too stubborn to back down. You’d throw his secrets in his face; he’d throw your walls right back. But somehow, every argument ended the same way — him backing you against the counter, whispering, “You’re all I’ve got left that feels real.”

And maybe he was lying. Maybe he wasn’t. With Steve, it was always a coin toss. Still, when he kissed you, it felt like truth.

One night, after another one of his schemes went sideways, you found him sitting on your porch steps, blood on his knuckles, guilt in his eyes.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, voice cracking. “You say you wanna be good, but you keep getting pulled back in.”

He looked up, quiet for once. “Because the only time I ever feel like I’m worth something is when I’m with you.”

That shut you up. You sat beside him, shoulders touching, and after a long silence, he said, “You make this place feel less… cruel.”

And for the first time, you realized maybe he wasn’t trying to buy your love. Maybe he was just trying to earn it — the only way he knew how. A week later, he showed up again with a new car. Not stolen this time. Bought. Papers and everything.

“For you,” he said simply.