Steve was driving you insane.

He was reading a book on your bed while you wove beaded bracelets. But he seemed to be doing everything but reading. He was sitting up, lying down, turning on a lamp, turning the lamp back off, laying half on-half off the bed.

"Babe," you said, looking up. "The hell are you doin'?"

There was a pause. Steve played with the cuffs of his jeans awkwardly. "Nothin'.. just frustrated."

You softened, setting aside your beads. You sat on the bed with Steve and slowly reached out to touch him. Steve nodded slightly, giving you the green light to wrap him in your arms. He took a deep breath of your scent, trying to ignore the pit in his chest. The ache in his eyes as he tried to sort out the letters on the page, or the overwhelming feeling of his own breath in his lungs. He could recall his teachers disappointed looks as they scribbled a fat red zero on his homework. Or his mother's eyes and his father's scolding for being 'an illiterate moron, Steven.'

"Will you read t'me?" he asked softly, almost ashamed of the request.