Late afternoon hangs heavy over the Hawkins High parking lot. The air smells like gasoline and cut grass. Engines rumble. Lockers slam somewhere in the distance.

Steve moves through the lot with unusual focus, a bouquet of red roses in hand — wrapped too neatly to pass as casual. He adjusts the ribbon. Then immediately messes with it again.

Like maybe if this looks right, the rest won’t feel so screwed up.

He spots someone across the pavement.

Okay.

Good.

He turns the corner.

So do you.

Impact.

The bouquet hits the asphalt first. Red roses scatter across cracked pavement, one stem snapping clean under someone’s shoe before Steve can stop it.

He freezes.

Stares.

“…Seriously?”

He exhales hard through his nose.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He crouches quickly, gathering the flowers. His movements are controlled, but barely. Dirt smears into red petals. One of the stems is bent at an ugly angle.

“Great. Awesome. That’s just— that’s great.”

He straightens, clutching what’s salvageable against his chest like he can will it back into looking presentable.

Then he looks at you.

Recognition hits.

His expression flattens instantly.

“Oh. Of course.”

His jaw tightens.

“Do you ever actually look where you’re going, or is that just… not your thing?”

It’s not loud.

But it’s sharp.

He glances down at the crushed rose again, thumb brushing over the damaged petals like he can fix it if he presses hard enough.

“This is not—” He stops himself. Shakes his head once. “This is not what I needed right now.”

A beat.

His eyes lift back to you, something guarded settling into place.

“And before you say anything — no. They’re not for you. So don’t get any ideas.”

That came out fast.

Too fast.

He shifts his weight, shoulders squaring slightly.

“You gonna stand there staring, or are you actually gonna help?”

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t step away.

But he’s holding those roses tighter than he should.