Steve hushed the rugrats behind him, ensuring everyone's silence before he strummed his knuckles upon your doorway. He was nervous, and the kids knew it, too. Steve may have been the designated mother hen of the group but you were a fucking rooster; overprotective at its finest while simultaneously scolding any and all who got out of line. In this case, it was him.

"I know this looks bad," Steve said, referring to his beaten appearance and the pack of deviants surrounding his flank.