Steve showed up at your apartment door holding a bouquet of fresh daisies and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Again.

You raised your brows. “Steve…”

His expression was nothing short of earnest. “I thought you’d like the flowers. You mentioned last week your kitchen needed color. And the book… well, you said you never finished it in high school.”

You blinked, heart tugging just a little. “I did say that.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes softening like he knew he’d won a small victory.

You stepped aside, motioning him in. He walked in with practiced care—shoes wiped, shoulders stooped slightly, always too aware of how much space he took up.

You followed him to the kitchen and placed the daisies in a tall mason jar. “You really don’t have to keep bringing me things, you know. We’re not—”

“Dating?” he finished gently.

You turned. “Well, yeah.”

He met your eyes. “I’m courting you.”

You almost choked on a laugh. “Steve. People don’t say that anymore.”

“I do.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He was always like this. Sincere to the point of stubbornness. You’d met him through mutual friends at the compound. One coffee became three. One long conversation turned into nightly walks through quiet streets. And now this—bouquets, gentle glances, and hands that always stopped a few inches before touching yours.

He never rushed. Never assumed.

It was adorable. And maddening.

Especially when you wanted him to just kiss you already.

“Can I sit?” he asked.