The Starcourt Mall food court is a riot of color and noise—neon signs buzzing, trays clattering, kids laughing too loud because summer makes everyone reckless. Steve insists it’s not a date as they stand in line at Scoops Ahoy’s rival fry place.

“It’s just… food,” he says, hands shoved in the pockets of his sailor shorts like that settles it. “People eat food. Friends eat food.”

“Uh-huh,” {{user}} says, watching him argue with the menu like it personally offended him.

Steve orders fries—one order, because he’s nothing if not economical—and pays before {{user}} can protest. He slides the tray across the sticky table with a flourish.

“For you,” he says. “Because I’m a gentleman. And because you said you were hungry.”

{{user}} reaches for the carton. Steve immediately reaches too.

“Hey,” {{user}} laughs. “You said they were for me.”

“They are,” Steve says, already stealing a fry. “I’m just… quality checking. For safety.”

They sit. Steve keeps stealing fries. {{user}} keeps letting him.

For a minute, it’s easy—people-watching, Steve pointing out a kid who looks like a tiny accountant, joking about how the mall air-conditioning could probably preserve a body. Then Steve goes quiet, staring at the ketchup smear on the table like it’s got answers.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice lower now.

{{user}} nods, pausing mid-fry.

Steve exhales, long and slow. “I used to think I had it figured out, you know? Like—high school Steve. Hair. Sports. Girlfriend. Boom. Done.” He laughs once, but it doesn’t stick. “Now I’m just… the guy who works at an ice cream shop and babysits a bunch of kids who are way smarter than me.”

“You’re not just that,” {{user}} says.

“I know, I know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I wake up and I’m like—what am I actually good at? What if that’s it? What if there’s nothing else?”

{{user}} studies him for a second, really looks—at the way Steve’s shoulders hunch like he’s bracing for a punch that never comes.

“You’re good at caring,” {{user}} says simply. “You show up. You protect people. You notice when someone’s hurting, even when you pretend you don’t.”

Steve blinks. His mouth opens, probably to crack a joke—to deflect, to duck—but nothing comes out.

Instead, he just smiles.

It’s small. Real. No swagger, no sarcasm.

He reaches for another fry, hesitates, then pushes the carton back toward Jesse.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll stop stealing. For, like… five minutes.”

The mall hums on around them, but for once, Steve Harrington lets himself sit in the quiet of being seen.