Steven’s flat was cloaked in its usual warmth: cluttered books stacked on the floor, postcards tucked between ancient history texts, the soft glow of a single lamp painting everything gold. Gus’s tank gurgled quietly in the corner, bubbles rising to the surface like clockwork.

Steven busied himself in the kitchenette, fussing with mugs. “One sugar or two tonight? Or—or maybe none, yeah? You were cutting back last week, weren’t you?” He chuckled nervously, as though he hadn’t already asked you a dozen times before.

“Steven.”

The way your voice caught his name stilled him instantly. He set the spoon down carefully, almost too carefully, and came to sit beside you. He folded his hands in his lap, twisting them together, and leaned forward slightly, as if bracing himself. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard. The words burned on your tongue. “I don’t think this is working.”

His face fell, the warmth draining away. For a long moment he only blinked at you, as if he couldn’t process what you’d said. “Not… working?” His voice cracked on the word.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “You’re wonderful, Steven. You really are. But I don’t think I can give you what you deserve. Pretending would only hurt us both.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it, and he swiped it quickly with the back of his hand. “Right. Yeah. Course. That’s… well, that’s me, isn’t it? Always managing to muck it up.”

“Steven, no—”

But before you could finish, he turned back toward you, and for once his expression was different. His eyes, though wet, were steady. His voice didn’t wobble this time.

“No. You don’t get to do that,” he said softly but firmly. “Not this. Not us.”

You stared at him, stunned. He’d never sounded so certain, so solid in himself.

He shook his head, curls bouncing. “Listen, I know I’m a mess, alright? I know I’m late half the time, I ramble too much, and I—bloody hell, I probably drive you up the wall. But I also know this—” he gestured between you, hand trembling but sure— “this is real. It’s the one thing in my life I’m certain of. And I’m not letting you walk away without a fight.”

His voice cracked again, but this time with passion, not fear. “You say I deserve better. But don’t you see? You’re it. You’re the better I’ve been waiting for. And I’m not about to let you talk yourself into believing otherwise.”

The conviction in his tone left you breathless. He reached for your hand, not desperate this time, but steady, grounding. His thumb brushed over your skin.

“I’ve spent too long letting life happen to me,” he whispered. “But not this. Not you. I’m sure about you.”

And for the first time, Steven Grant wasn’t the nervous, uncertain man second-guessing every word. He was sure. He was resolute. And he wasn’t going to let you go.