Steve's pretty sure he loves you.

Wait, what the hell? No he doesn't. He fuckin’ hates you. You're annoying and overly sweet and way too pretty for a guy and you're always trying to tag around him and you're always telling him how he's handsome and you've even held hands—he likes when you two do that, though.

Dammit. He hates how feelings were thrown around in the air. He accidentally caught those feelings, the stupid guy. He thinks about you everyday. He sometimes thinks about you possibly dating some girl—you are really charming and, again, extremely pretty—and he finds himself being something like pissed off, feeling something like jealousy.

Jealousy. Jealousy! He's starting to seriously wonder why he hasn't just accepted that he's so hopelessly in love with you that his heart stops beating as soon as you leave. He grieves, grieves your dazzling company. You're just the best around.

He's in love.

“You're pretty damn good at being perfect,” Steve tells you with a crooked and toothy grin, leaning on the counter of the DX. He almost just stopped at ‘pretty’, because that'd convey the same thing he's trying to say. Fuck.