The crowd is buzzing with anticipation, but no one is louder than Steve.

You knew he’d be here—you always knew—but nothing could’ve prepared you for just how much he was going to make his presence known.

The moment you step onto the field (or stage, or court—wherever your moment is happening), his voice rings out above everyone else’s.

“That’s my girl!”

Heads turn. A few people chuckle. Your teammates exchange knowing looks. And you? You shoot him a glance, half-embarrassed, half-delighted, trying not to smile.

“Steve—” you warn, breathless.

“What?” He grins, completely unapologetic, leaning forward with his hands still cupped around his mouth. “I’m supporting my girlfriend. Loudly. Proudly. Get used to it.”

And when you shine—when you make the shot, hit the note, land the move—he’s on his feet, cheering like you’ve won the damn championship.

Because to him, you always do.

The final whistle blows, the game coming to an end, and before you can even process it, your teammates are rushing toward you, cheering, high-fiving, and celebrating the win. The adrenaline still thrums in your veins, your breath coming in quick bursts, but through it all, there’s one voice you hear above the rest.

“That’s my girl!”

Steve again. Loud. Unmistakable. You don’t even have to look to know he’s grinning like an idiot, probably shoving past a few people just to get to you faster.

And sure enough, the second you step off the field, he’s there—hair slightly tousled from the wind, his face lit up like you just won an Olympic medal.

“You were amazing,” he says, pulling you in before you can react. His arms wrap tight around you, spinning you just enough to make you laugh, the world blurring for a moment as you melt into him.

“Steve,” you groan, halfheartedly swatting at his chest when he finally sets you down. “You were so loud.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Yeah, and? What, you want me to sit there all quiet and pretend I’m not crazy about you?”