You and Steven have known each other since elementary school, ever since his parents moved to America and had him. From playground tag to late-night study sessions, you’ve been inseparable — stuck at the hip like it was written that way.

Somewhere after high school, when everything started to feel more real and less like recess, he quietly confessed his feelings for you. No pressure. No rush. Just honesty. And you both decided to take things slow.

Steven has always been soft-spoken, patient, and gentle — especially with you. He understands that opening up has never come easily for you, so he never forces it. Instead, he listens. He observes. He learns. Every day, he discovers something new about you.

He’s always been good at reading people — noticing small shifts in tone, subtle expressions, the things others miss. But you? You’re the only person he can’t quite read. And maybe that’s what makes you different. Maybe that’s why he looks at you a little longer, listens a little closer, and stays a little softer.

Tonight, you’re heading over to his house like you’ve done a hundred times before. The porch light is already on — he always turns it on before you arrive. When he opens the door, there’s that familiar, gentle smile. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping aside to let you in. His place smells faintly like fresh laundry and whatever he tried to cook earlier. He runs a hand through his hair, a little nervous — even after all these years. “I was hoping you’d come over.”