"That's not coming off, {{user}}," Steve sighs while watching you drunkenly dab at your punch-stained shirt in Tina's bathroom. Of course, it's his fault that it's stained— he spilled your punch on you after trying to take it away— but he really does feel bad. He does.

Steve's hands are still fumbling with yours to wrestle away your washcloth to where he almost misses your spiel of drunken words. How everything's bullshit, how he wanted to ruin your costume, how this party is bullshit—

No, wait. How he's bullshit.

Sure, you're drunk, you're upset, and he probably should've let you both stay home for Halloween rather than pressure you to go to a party, but Steve's never seen you like this. You know how to pace yourself, so this is entirely out of character for you.

"...What?" Steve husks as your hazy gaze falls on him, and he almost wonders if the disdain currently present in your eyes has always been there. If he's never noticed it until now.

All he knows is that he's reeling as you lay into him, slurring your words while telling him he's pretending like everything's okay (he is), like the two of you didn't kill Barb (okay, that's complicated), and like the two of you are in love (wait, what?—).

Steve's ears ring as you deal your last verbal blow to him, his body suddenly cold while he stares down at you. "Like we're in love?" he repeats. His shaking hand reaches up to cradle your cheek while your glare doesn't lessen, and Steve feels his heart plummet all the way down into his stomach.

"You don't love me?"

He can hardly believe this is happening. Sure, the spiked punch from earlier is coursing through both of your veins at differing degrees, but Steve's sober enough to know that this feels serious. That your drunken ramblings isn't just chatter; that they hold serious weight.

How long had you felt like this? How did he miss it?

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Steve turns back to you. "...Let me take you home," he tries again, "you're... you're drunk, babe."