You’re in his apartment again. You don’t even remember how many nights it’s been now—three in a row? Four? You’ve stopped counting. It was supposed to be fun. Just a little chaos to cancel out the real chaos. He needed to forget Taylor. You needed to feel something other than bored. Neither of you planned for how weirdly easy this would get.

The shirt you're wearing is his. It’s oversized, soft, smells like cedarwood and bad decisions. You’re perched on the edge of his counter, sipping coffee like you own the place. Steven’s standing by the stove, in nothing but a pair of black boxers and that eternal smug look that says he knows exactly how hot he looks and exactly how much you're trying not to stare.

"You know what the actual problem is?" he says, flipping pancakes like this is a regular Tuesday and not your third morning half-naked in his kitchen. "It’s not just Belly being in love with two guys. It’s that those two guys are Conrad and Jeremiah. Childhood best friends. Emotional grenades with killer jawlines."

You blink. "Sounds like someone’s projecting."

Steven scoffs. “Please. I don’t do love triangles. I do waffles. And I do you. But that’s it.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. That’s how it always goes with him—some line that’s technically a joke but lands just a little too close to the truth. You were supposed to be the one with no strings. But the thing is, Steven’s not exactly casual, even when he’s trying to be.

He leans against the counter, chewing the edge of his thumbnail, still ranting. "Jeremiah’s out here doing puppy eyes and spontaneous speeches. Conrad’s being all moody and poetic, probably writing sonnets in a corner. And Belly’s caught in the middle like it's the season finale of some doomed romance show. Which I guess it is. Honestly, I should be getting paid to narrate this."

You raise an eyebrow. "And yet, here you are. Cooking for the person you’re not dating."

Steven gives you a look. A long one. The kind that makes the silence in the room stretch and snap all at once. "Technically, I’m just feeding the friend I’ve been making out with on and off for weeks. It’s charity."

"Generous of you."

"I know," he says, smirking. Then he softens, just for a second. “You’re still good with this, right? No weirdness?”

That’s the thing about Steven: for all his sarcasm and deflection, he checks in. Always. That’s probably what’s gonna ruin you in the end. Not the hookups. Not the mornings like this. But the way he asks. The way he cares even when he’s pretending not to.

"No weirdness," you lie.

Or maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s just… not the full truth.

He nods like he believes you—or maybe like he’s choosing to. Then he turns back to the stove and changes the subject, diving back into Cousins gossip like it’s his job. You let him. You drink your coffee. You pretend it’s all casual.

Because Steven Conklin? He’s a mess. A gorgeous, ridiculous, emotionally guarded mess. And you? You agreed to this. Friends. Benefits. No expectations. But every time he hands you a plate like it means something, every time he remembers how you like your coffee, every time he catches himself watching you walk around his apartment like you belong there?

You get a little more attached.

But you’ll never admit it first. Not to him. Not even to yourself.

So yeah. Text him. Show up again. Fight with him about movies. Let him make you pancakes. Let him pretend he’s not falling and do the same damn thing.

Just remember the deal: no strings.

(Too late.)