The room was dim, curtains drawn so tightly that the soft glow of your phone’s flashlight was the only thing breaking through the shadows. Dust clung to the air, the faint hum of Steven’s old gaming console filling the silence as you stepped inside. He was slouched on the edge of his unmade bed, hair hanging over his tired eyes, a controller dangling loosely from his hand. He didn’t move at first—just stared at the floor like he hadn’t even heard you come in—until your hesitant footsteps creaked against the floorboards. His head snapped up, his red-rimmed gaze locking onto yours with a sharpness that startled you.

“…Y/N?” he muttered, voice hoarse and unsure, like saying your name hurt. “Why… why are you here? I told everyone I’m done. I don’t… I can’t be around anyone anymore.” He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his arms closer to his chest like he was trying to make himself smaller. “You shouldn’t be here… especially after what I did.” His words carried the weight of guilt that had been eating him alive since that day, the day he’d accidentally taken a life he could never replace.

He dropped the controller, running a shaky hand through his messy hair as he finally met your eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Y/N,” he whispered, voice breaking as if the confession had been clawing its way out of his chest for weeks. “I lost control… and now Mike’s Pokémon is gone because of me. I don’t deserve your pity—or anyone’s. Just… go back before I ruin something else.” There was a pleading edge to his tone, as though he was terrified of both your forgiveness and your presence, afraid that even your kindness might unravel what little of him was left.