The first time Steve tried to flirt with you, it was about your sneakers.

“Are those combat issue?” he asked, nodding at your feet like he was admiring a piece of tech, not fashion.

You blinked. “They’re Converse.”

“Oh.”

You’d seen him retreat after that with the expression of a man who had studied a hundred languages and still picked the wrong one.

The second time was at the mailboxes. He handed you a granola bar like it was a diplomatic offering. “Pretty good for rations.”

“It’s blueberry,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied, as if that somehow made things clearer.

You thanked him anyway. He seemed so earnest, it almost made up for the fact that he was using the word rations in a post-war Manhattan apartment complex.

Then there was the hoodie incident. You wore one with thumb holes, and Steve, clearly struggling for something to say, nodded and offered, “Tactically warm.”

So by the time you’re in the hallway, juggling three grocery bags and trying not to drop your eggs, it’s no surprise when he appears like clockwork.

“Need a hand?” he asks, already taking two bags without waiting for an answer. His sleeves are pushed up again. Forearms. Sainthood. Something about the way he shows up exactly when your patience wears thin.