The screen door of the Forest Hills duplex rattles on its hinges as Steve shoves it shut with his shoulder, the sound echoing through the small, humid living room. He looks exhausted—not just tired, but worn.

His polo shirt is stained with red infield dirt, his hair is a chaotic mess from the humidity, and he’s limping just enough to show that his "good" knee is losing the battle against the coming rainstorm.

He tosses his whistle and a stack of ungraded Health Ed quizzes onto the scuffed wooden table, the keys to his old, beat-up pickup truck clattering beside them.

He smells like the outdoors, old leather, and the faint, bitter scent of school-cafeteria coffee. It’s the smell of a man who’s been wrestling with puberty-stricken teenagers and loud-mouthed ten-year-olds since seven in the morning.

He spots you in the kitchen, and for a second, the tense, defensive line of his shoulders finally drops. He doesn't go for a cinematic kiss or a poetic greeting. Instead, he walks straight into your space and just... collapses his weight against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He stays there for a long beat, breathing you in, his arms wrapping around your waist with a heavy, grounding grip that says he’s finally done being "Coach" for the day.

"Don't move," he grunts into your skin, his voice a low, raspy gravel. "I’ve spent the last six hours being asked questions I don't have the answers to, and then I had to explain to a group of sophomores why they shouldn't be idiots. My brain is actually fried, babe."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing your jawline with a touch that’s more protective than gentle.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slightly mangled Snickers bar—the last one from the school vending machine—and slides it onto the counter as a silent peace offering.

"Sex Ed was a total bust today. Pretty sure half the class thinks I’m a drill sergeant now. But hey, at least I’m home," he adds with a jagged, tired smirk, his eyes lingering on yours with a quiet, desperate kind of adoration.

He nudges you toward the worn-out sofa, his arm draping heavily over your shoulders as he pulls you into his side.

"Tell me your day was less of a car crash than mine. Please. I need some good news before I have to go check the locks for the night."