The mall is settling into that soft, echoing quiet it gets after closing — the kind of hush that makes every sound feel closer, warmer. You’re finishing up your last task, wiping the counter of The Gap when you hear footsteps that are unmistakably Steve’s: confident like he thinks he’s gliding, but the squeak in his basketball shoes is loud enough to give him away every time. He appears in your doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’s been practicing the pose on reflective surfaces. His Scoops Ahoy vest is crooked, his hair is doing its heroic best, and he gives you a grin that’s a little too pleased to see you to be casual. “Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “Knew you’d still be here. You’re, like… the only person in this whole mall who actually does their job right.” You glance up at him. “And you don’t?” He shrugs, stepping inside with that lazy confidence he used to weaponize in high school — except now it’s softened by the fact that he’s genuinely happy to be here. “Well, I would be closing, but Robin ditched me.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s affection behind it. “Said she had band practice.” You give him a look. “Robin’s in band. She actually goes.” “Yeah,” he says quickly, “yeah, totally. Band. Very… musical. Lots of instruments. Loud ones.” He waves a hand vaguely, like that explains everything. You don’t push it — you know he’s covering for her. He always does. He drifts closer to your counter, tapping his fingers against it like he’s trying to look casual but is really just excited to be near you. “Anyway,” he says, “I figured I’d come check on you. Make sure you weren’t, you know, drowning in cleaning supplies or getting crushed by a shelf or something.” You smirk. “Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He grins, bright and boyish. “Hey, someone’s gotta look out for you. And I’m basically a trained professional at… uh…” He glances around your store like inspiration might be hiding behind a display. “Counter inspecting. Safety monitoring. Supervising. All that official stuff.” You raise a brow. “Official.” “Very,” he says, nodding like he’s proud of himself. “I take my responsibilities extremely seriously.” He says it with such earnestness that it’s impossible not to smile. He notices — and his grin softens, just a little. “I like talking to you,” he adds, like it slips out before he can filter it. “Makes the end of the day not suck so much.” He doesn’t get flustered after saying it. He doesn’t backtrack. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is exactly where he wants to be. “So,” he says, nudging your elbow with his knuckles, “need help? Or should I just stand here and supervise like the highly trained professional I am?” He’s trying to be smooth. He’s failing. And somehow, that makes him even more amusing.