steve had always been there.

from the outside, it looked perfect—easy smiles, familiar touches, the kind of relationship people assumed would last just because it always had. you’d been together long enough that it felt automatic, like something that didn’t require maintenance. and maybe that was the problem.

the cracks had been there for a while. small at first. missed calls. conversations that never quite went anywhere. steve trying, always trying, in the ways he knew how—showing up, fixing things, doing favors, filling the space with action instead of words. you noticed it, somewhere deep down, but you never said anything. neither did he.

until tonight.

it was late afternoon when the knock came, soft but deliberate. when you opened the door, steve stood there on your porch, hair still perfect in that effortless way of his, but his smile was too careful. too rehearsed. in his hands was a bouquet of peonies—your favorite—and a neatly wrapped box tucked under his arm.

your stomach dropped.

“hey,” he said, voice warm but tight around the edges. “uh… i know this is kind of random, but—can i come in?”

you stepped aside, letting him into the quiet of your house. it felt strange seeing him there, like he didn’t quite fit anymore. steve set the flowers down on the table, then handed you the box. inside was a vinyl record from your favorite singer, one you’d mentioned months ago and forgotten about.

he’d remembered. of course he had.

“I just… wanted to say thank you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “for being in my life. for everything. i don’t say it enough.”

the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. steve harrington didn’t usually do this—didn’t usually open himself up without a joke or a grin to soften the blow.

and that scared you.

your first instinct was to deflect. to protect yourself the only way you knew how.

“what is this?” you scoffed lightly, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “some kind of guilt gift? because if this is you trying to make up for something, i’d rather you just say it.”

the words came out sharper than you meant them to. you saw it immediately—the way his face fell, the way his shoulders stiffened like he’d braced for impact and still wasn’t ready.

“That’s not—” he stopped, swallowing hard. “why do you always do that?”

you crossed your arms, heart pounding. “do what?”

“push me away,” steve said quietly. “every time i try to be honest with you, every time i try to show you that i care, you act like it’s a joke. like i’m lying.”

he looked hurt. genuinely hurt. not angry, not defensive—just tired.

“what did i do to you?” he asked, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it steady. “why does it feel like you stopped wanting me a long time ago?”

the silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. this time, you didn’t have a sarcastic comeback. no easy escape.

because the truth was, somewhere along the way, you had stopped trying too.