Family Video wasn’t supposed to feel like a punishment, but today—like most days—it absolutely does. Slow Tuesday. Rain outside. Dust dancing in the projector light. The aisles are nearly empty, just the distant clack of VHS cases being set back in the wrong places, and Steve is seconds from throwing himself across the counter in dramatic despair just to entertain Robin.

He taps a pencil. Spins it. Stares blankly at the Staff Picks shelf he didn’t update this morning. Maybe if another kid asks for Police Academy he’ll actually start charging late fees out of spite. Anything to stay awake.

Then the bell above the glass door jingles. And there you are.

Umbrella dripping at your side, hoodie half-pulled down, Walkman headphones around your neck. Not a friend of Dustin’s, not a high-schooler, not an old guy renting Jaws for the fiftieth time. Just you; quiet, steady, wandering the aisles like you’re actually interested in what Family Video has. Steve straightens slightly without meaning to.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve walked through that door.

You’ve been coming in for weeks; never buying anything, sometimes returning tapes late with an apologetic half-smile, sometimes just browsing the horror section like you’re studying the covers. And Steve—cool, charming, “The Hair” Harrington—has turned into some kind of pathetic shelf-stalker who pretends to reorganize tapes so he can sneak a look at you.

Robin caught him twice. Gave him hell both times. He still does it.

Today, you hover in the action aisle, fingers ghosting over the plastic cases. Your brows knit, that small thinking face you do, the one Steve has memorized even though he absolutely shouldn’t have. He swallows and tries very, very hard to act normal. But something is different today.

Today he sees the way your shoulders are a little heavier than usual. The way you pace slower. The way your headphones aren’t pumping out whatever it is you normally listen to. And something in Steve’s chest tightens, nudging him forward before he can talk himself out of it.

Robin looks up from behind the counter, sees him move, and whispers under her breath like a proud stage mom, “Go, Harrington. Don’t screw it up.” He ignores her (poorly) and steps into the aisle.

You don’t notice him at first, too focused on turning a tape over in your hands, studying the blurb on the back like it holds the answers to life. Steve pauses behind you, rehearsing something cool, something smooth, something coherent and then you glance up, catching him dead-on.

He panics for half a second but somehow manages not to trip over his own feet.

His voice comes out steady. Soft. Nervous in ways only Robin would notice: “Hey. Uh… saw you were in again. Need a recommendation or just hiding from the weather?” He huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it's really ugly outside, right?”

There.It’s not suave, it’s not embarrassing, it’s somewhere in the middle, but it’s honest.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, pretending he’s not bracing for you to brush past him. Pretending he didn’t think about saying something to you every single shift. Pretending his heart didn’t jump when he saw you walk in again.

Outside, the rain taps harder against the windows. Inside, Steve waits; expectant, hopeful, trying not to look like he’s been working up the courage for weeks for whatever you say next.