Steve’s car slowed beside you, tires crunching against the curb. The window rolled down with a smooth whir, and there he was — leaning out with that same smug tilt to his mouth, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like he wanted you to know he didn’t care. But he did.

“Need a ride?” he asked, eyes dragging over you like he was already doing you a favor.

“I know you need one, Princess,” he added, voice low and sharp. “Don’t be stuck up about it.”

You didn’t stop walking. Not at first. Just glanced over, unimpressed, the way you always did when it came to him. That look — the one that made other guys shrink — only seemed to make Steve try harder. He was used to being wanted. You were the only one who made not wanting him look easy.

He’d been chasing you for years now. Not constantly, not in the way people talked about — but in his own on-and-off way. Parties. Passing comments. Ride offers. You always turned him down. And maybe he played it off like a joke, but it never really felt funny.

Because the truth was, Steve didn’t like being reminded of the person he used to be. And somehow, you still saw him that way — before the popularity, before the parties, when his bedroom light would stay on too late and he’d pretend not to be waiting for someone to look back through the window.

You stopped finally, one hand on your hip. “You always this desperate, Harrington?”

His smirk twitched — just barely. Like for a second, something cracked behind his eyes. But then he laughed, all teeth and deflection. “Only for you, sweetheart.”