Steve stood at {{user}}’s apartment door with that same careful patience he always wore like a well-tailored coat—except today, he’d added a bouquet of fresh daisies and a slightly dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. He held them the way someone holds fragile things he means to protect: daisies cradled in one hand, the book tucked against his hip with the other. When he smiled, it was all open, honest lines; his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that said he’d rehearsed nothing and meant every inch of it.

“I thought you’d like the flowers,” he said, stepping over the threshold the moment {{user}} moved aside. “You mentioned your kitchen could use some color.” He hesitated just long enough before adding, holding up the book like it was an offering, “And you said you never finished this in high school.”

He padded in with the small, old-fashioned courtesies he’d picked up somewhere between then and now: shoes wiped at the mat, jacket shrugged off and folded over one arm, shoulders coming in slightly as if to make smaller footprints in someone else’s space. He lingered a pace behind, his hands empty and his posture oddly deliberate, as if he were making sure his presence didn’t intrude but also that it was felt.

“You really don’t have to keep bringing me things, you know. We’re not—” {{user}} began.

“Dating?” he finished softly, stepping closer so their eyes met. He paused, the earnestness in his gaze softening into something almost shy. “I’m courting you.”

There was a beat where Steve let the quiet settle. He didn’t rush to fill it with explanations or jokes—he simply watched {{user}}’s reaction, fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of the book. He always moved like he was trying to do right by people: deliberate, respectful, never assuming consent where it hadn’t been offered. It was part stubbornness, part decency, and wholly him.

“It’s ridiculous,” {{user}} said, laughing—half protest, half fondness. Steve’s mouth twitched into a smile that admitted he knew it sounded that way.

“May I sit?” he asked finally, as if asking permission were a balm for whatever nerves still fluttered under his ribs.