Steve knew the deal with you. You didn’t talk. From the start, it was just…a fact. Like how Robin can’t whisper or how Dustin never shuts up. You didn’t talk—but not like you were holding back. You just didn’t. No spoken words. No murmurs or giggles or little filler phrases.

You carried a little notebook and a pen with you everywhere. Beat-up cover. Ink smudges. Pages that curled at the corners like they’d been flipped through a thousand times. And when you wanted to say something, you wrote it down. Sometimes signed, but you knew better, you knew people wouldn’t understand sign language so easily.

You two had known each other a while now. Friends, if you could call it that. Maybe something else, if either of you had the guts to name it. But whatever it was, it worked. He read your notes, watched your face, listened harder. But also, Steve tried to understand the sign language. And yeah, he wasn’t fluent. Not by a long shot. But you were patient. Taught him slowly. Little words. Little signs. The important ones.

You. Me. Stay. Okay.

But he hadn’t seen it like this. Not until that day.

It was at the community center. Pick-up basketball, screaming kids, some underfunded charity thing with bad snacks and one working speaker. Steve was just surviving it. Babysitting Dustin’s chaos, pretending not to care when he missed half his shots.

Then he saw the kid.

Younger, nervous, deaf. Backpack clutched like it was armor. A few guys were trying to talk to him, but he looked overwhelmed. His eyes darted everywhere, shoulders tight. One of the counselors—well-meaning but kinda clueless—kept raising his voice, like louder meant better.

Steve moved, instinctively, already halfway to stepping in. But then you were there. No warning. No words. Just a soft presence as you stepped in between the kid and the chaos. And then—

You started signing.

Not clumsy, not like you were remembering stuff from a book, but fluid. Natural. Like it wasn’t a thing you learned, but a thing you lived. Your hands moved like you were painting the air, like it mattered. And the kid—God, the kid just lit up. Face relaxed, eyes wide. He signed back, fast, excited, and you kept up.

Steve stood there, frozen. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even long. But he’d never seen you so open before. So clear. And it hit him, all at once:

This was how you talked. Not just with the signs and notebook. But with intention. With effort. With care. Every word you gave someone was a choice. A little piece of time and energy you decided they were worth. And seeing you give that—quietly, deliberately—to someone who needed it?

It fucking wrecked him.

(He thought, How do I live in a world where you exist and not fall in love with you every goddamn day?)

You didn’t even look around after. Just gave the kid a thumbs-up, patted his shoulder. Walked back to your spot on the bench like your presence hadn’t just changed the whole atmosphere.

Steve found himself trailing after you. You looked up as he approached. Tilted your head, questioning. Always calm. Always a little tired, like the world pulled at you more than it should.

“You,” he said, softly. “You made him feel seen. Like you do with me. Like you don’t need a voice to be the loudest person in the room.” And he wanted to say more. Wanted to tell you that you’d just stunned him. That watching you ‘speak’ like that—to someone who needed it—made him feel like the luckiest bastard alive to even know you. That your silence was never empty. It was everything.