#atwwb

Curiosity settles in where certainty used to be.

“Same friend group for years,” he continues. “Newest couple on the board. Possibly the most surprising.”

Steve’s eyes find yours before looking at the crowd, a flicker of something—confidence, amusement—settles into his expression before he reaches for your hand and leads you forward.

You follow.

Because what else is there to do?

You don’t know if it’s the crowd or the way Steve’s still looking at you, but something tightens low in your chest as you step into the light.

“How long have you two been together?” Dustin asks.

Steve answers before you can.

“Long enough.”

Laughter breaks immediately, the room already leaning toward him.

“Long enough,” Dustin repeats, amused. “Mysterious. I like it.”

You sit at the third table, the space settling around you in pieces—chairs, cards, pens—something structured when everything else feels loose.

Across the stage, Nancy adjusts her bracelet while Jonathan leans in to say something too quiet for the mic. She smiles, nods, their shoulders brushing like there’s no gap to close.

You wait for it.

The familiar ache.

The one that usually follows without asking.

It doesn’t come.

Or maybe it does, but softer—muted at the edges, dulled before it can settle properly—because something else moves in its place before it has the chance.

Steve’s hand crosses the table without looking, sliding your water toward you. “Drink,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry past you. “Your throat’s already going.”

You frown slightly, the response automatic, already forming—I’m fine—but it catches halfway up, snagging on something you don’t notice until you try to swallow and feel nothing give, no relief, just the dry pull of it sitting too high in your chest.

You reach for the glass, the water going down too quickly, cool and immediate, easing something that had been tightening slowly enough you didn’t clock it, and you don’t realize how much you needed it until it’s gone.

Only then does the thought catch up.

You lower the glass more slowly than you lifted it, your fingers still curled loosely around the rim as you glance at him—not fully, not enough to make it obvious, just enough to check.

His attention is fixed on the crowd, posture loose, expression easy, like nothing about that moment required thought, like it wasn’t anything worth noticing.

—

Dustin taps his cards against his palm at center stage, the soft shuffle enough to pull your attention back to him, “Alright,” he says. “You all know the rules, but for the sake of our very invested audience—”

A ripple of laughter.

“Each of you writes down what you think your partner’s answer is. No talking. No cheating. Thirty seconds.”

He lifts the timer.

“Then we find out how well you actually know each other.”

The room stills around it—anticipation slipping into place.

“First question, what is your partner’s biggest fear?”

A low oooh rolls through the crowd.

You don’t hesitate, pen moving before you can think about it—before you can soften it, reshape it, make it easier to explain.

Across from you, Nancy pauses just long enough to consider. Jonathan’s jaw tightens slightly as he writes. Lucas glances sideways at Max like he’s trying to cheat without getting caught; she keeps her eyes forward, stubborn.

Beside you, Steve doesn’t look at you.

He just writes.

The timer ticks louder than it should.

“Five seconds!” Dustin calls.

A few rushed scribbles. A quiet curse from Lucas. Someone laughs.

“Time!”

Cards are set down as Robin sweeps through to collect them, unnecessarily dramatic about it.

“Nancy and Jonathan,” Dustin says. “Let’s start with you.”

He turns to Jonathan.

“Biggest fear?”

Jonathan exhales once. “Losing my family.”

Something soft moves through the room.

Dustin checks Nancy’s card. “Letting down the people he loves.”

Nancy tilts her head. “That’s basically the same thing.”

“Basically,” Dustin echoes, “but not exactly.”

A few chuckles.

“Nancy?”

She answers immediately. “Not reaching my full potential.”

Dustin flips Jonathan’s card. “Being seen as less than.”

Jonathan shrugs. “That’s what I meant.”

“It’s not what you said,” she corrects, but there’s no edge to it.

Close, but not a match.

“Moving on, Lucas?” Dustin asks

“Not being good enough,” Lucas responds.

Dustin flips Max’s card. “Losing.”

Lucas frowns. “That’s not—”

“It is,” she cuts in. “You hate losing.”

“That’s not my biggest fear.”

“It’s definitely up there.”

The crowd laughs, amused by the young couple that seems like they already have thirty years under their belt. 

“Max?”

“Becoming boring.”

Dustin flips Lucas’s card. “Being ignored.”

Max snorts. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Zero points,” Dustin says, delighted.

And then—

“Steve.”

The mic tilts.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Being left.”

It lands heavier than it should for a night that was supposed to stay light. 

Dustin flips your card.

“Being left.”

A pause.

Then applause—sharper now, something like recognition slipping through it.

“And you?”

Your fingers press lightly into the table.

“Being second choice.”

Dustin flips Steve’s card.

“Being second choice.”

This time the silence lasts longer.

Not uncomfortable.

Just aware.

“Well,” Dustin says, lowering the cards, voice dipping just slightly, “that’s our first perfect match.”

Applause breaks again.

Under the table, Steve’s hand finds yours—no hesitation—just threading your fingers together like it belongs there.

—

“Second question,” Dustin says. “First time you ever hung out. Even if it was in a group setting,” he adds. “We’re counting technicalities.”

Pens move again.

Slower this time.

Nancy’s smile fades into focus. Jonathan stares at his card longer than before. Lucas writes quickly, confident. Max barely pauses, already smirking.

You hesitate—

just a second—

then write.

Beside you, Steve doesn’t stop.

“Time!”

Dustin turns. “Jonathan?”

“When Will went missing,” he says. “We looked for him together.”

The room softens.

Dustin flips Nancy’s card. “Photo lab.”

Nancy smiles faintly. “That’s when we started talking.”

Jonathan nods. “Yeah, but we didn’t really hang out until—”

“Until something happened,” she finishes.

The answers don’t match, but they fit.

“Emotionally correct,” Dustin decides. “Technically wrong.”

“Lucas?”

“She was basically begging to be friends with us,” he says.

Max scoffs.

Dustin reads her card. “‘You and your friends were staring at me like creeps.’”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, quick and easy.

“And then—‘you cornered me at the arcade and asked me to join your nerd group.’”

“You were interested,” Lucas insists.

“You were weird.”

Half a point.

Barely earned.

And then—

You.

Steve gestures toward you like he already knows.

You lean toward the mic.

“The first time we actually hung out,” you say, “was at Jonathan’s house.”

Jonathan stills, just slightly, but your eyes stay on Steve.

“He’d just gotten the crap beat out of him,” you add.

“By your best friend,” Steve cuts in.

The reaction comes softer this time—scattered laughs, a few knowing looks passing between people who remember.

You shrug. “You deserved it. But Joyce would’ve killed me if you died on her couch.”

That pulls a few more smiles, quieter, warmer.

Steve leans in. “She threatened me with disinfectant.”

“It was necessary.”

Dustin watches the two of you a second too long, something curious settling in.

—

By the sixth question, it isn’t subtle anymore.

Nancy and Jonathan circle the same answers—close, almost there, never quite landing together. Lucas and Max swing wide, right and wrong in equal measure, arguing through both with the same stubborn energy.

But you and Steve—

you just match.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Dustin’s grin sharpens, amusement thinning into something more watchful. “This is getting suspicious,” he says.

“Separate them,” Lucas calls.

Max nods immediately. “Yeah. No way this isn’t rigged.”

“We’re not cheating,” you say, but you’re already laughing with them.

“Prove it.”

The audience joins in.

“Switch seats!”

Dustin lights up. “Yes—separate the suspects.”

Steve exhales a quiet laugh as he stands.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

You move apart, the space between you feels wrong immediately—too open, too noticeable.

“No visual contact,” Dustin says. “No telepathy. No weird psychic connection— let’s see if that changes anything.”

The room whoops.

By the time Dustin calls it, there’s no suspense left to build.

“Alright,” he says, dragging it out anyway. “I think we have our winners.”

Applause crashes through the room—whoops and hollers taking over. 

He reaches under the table and lifts the prize high.

“And as promised—our very prestigious, highly coveted—trophy made by Ms. Holly Wheeler herself.”

It’s small and crooked, covered in glitter like someone got carried away and no one stopped them.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh beside you as Dustin hands it over, the sound close enough to feel grounding for a second, until something else settles low in your chest, quieter but harder to ignore.

Have you always been this compatible?

The thought slips in before you can catch it, before you can decide what to do with it, and once it’s there it doesn’t leave—it lingers, pulling at everything else that suddenly feels too aligned to dismiss.

How long has he known you like this?

How long have you known him?

You don’t remember learning it, don’t remember noticing any of it in a way that felt significant at the time, and yet the answers keep coming anyway—without hesitation, without doubt—easy in a way that feels almost unfair, certain in a way that doesn’t leave room for second-guessing.

The laughter around you doesn’t disappear, but it shifts—thinner now, distant at the edges—like it belongs to something you’ve already stepped slightly outside of.

Because somewhere between the third question and the sixth, this stopped feeling like a game.

Or maybe it never was.

Maybe it’s always been this easy, and you’re only just noticing now—only just realizing that you weren’t calculating, weren’t performing, weren’t trying to make anything fit.

—

The adrenaline lingers longer than it should.

Not sharp anymore—just a dull hum under everything, stretched thin as the room reshapes itself around dinner. Plates appear where there weren’t any before, chairs scrape and shift into place, voices overlapping in loose, uneven layers. Someone calls for more forks while someone else laughs too loudly and lets the joke fall apart halfway through.

You stay busy.

It’s easy—there’s always something to carry, something to fix, something to pass off before anyone notices you’ve been standing still too long. You hover near the kitchen, near Joyce, near Nancy when she needs it, stepping in before either of them has to ask.

Helpful. Efficient. Just enough to make it look like you’re doing it for them and not for you.

Because if you keep moving you aren’t lingering long enough for Steve to find you.

You manage it, too. After the game—after the noise, the congratulations, the laughter that stuck a little too closely—you slip through it, one task bleeding into the next, one room into another, always just out of reach. Not obvious. Not deliberate enough for anyone to call it out.

Just never quite in the same place at the same time, until dinner pulls everything back together.

There’s no avoiding it now—people settling in, voices folding into each other, plates passed over shoulders instead of hands. Someone argues about music while someone else opens another bottle like it’s necessary.

And somehow, you still end up beside him.

You don’t hesitate long enough for it to look like a decision. You just slip into the seat next to Steve, close enough that your knee brushes his under the table before either of you adjusts.

You reach for your plate like eating will give you something to do with your hands, something steady to hold onto that isn’t him—something quiet, something safe.

Steve doesn’t take the hint, of course he doesn’t. He leans in slightly, voice low enough to stay between you, and starts talking like nothing’s changed—small things, nothing important, whatever comes to mind first and doesn’t need thinking through.

You answer where you have to, a hum, a nod, throwing in a quiet “yeah” when silence follows. 

It doesn’t slow him down. If anything, it seems to settle him more, like the conversation doesn’t need to go anywhere to work, like just having it is enough.

You don’t notice when, but at some point, his arm settles along the back of your chair. You don’t lean into it, but you don’t move away either, his hand landing briefly at your waist when he reaches for his drink.

Across the table, Nancy says something you don’t catch, and Jonathan answers without hesitation. You keep your eyes on your plate, until Steve stills beside you.

His knee presses into yours again, deliberate this time, a quiet signal that pulls your attention where his already is—past you, toward them.

Nancy’s hand lifts as she speaks, frustration slipping through despite how controlled she tries to keep it. “I can’t believe you got the most basic questions wrong.”

Jonathan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nance—”

“No, I mean it,” she says, softer now, but tighter around the edges. “Those weren’t hard.”

Steve leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping so it stays between you. “If there’s ever a better time,” he murmurs, “it’s now.”

Your stomach tightens as Nancy pushes her chair back, standing, and Jonathan follows without hesitation.

“He’s vulnerable,” Steve adds, quieter now, like he’s already thinking three steps ahead. Then, after a beat, softer—“Show him what he’s missing.”

You swallow, forcing something that resembles a smile. “Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

—

You don’t mean to listen.

You tell yourself you’re just stepping outside for air, just following them because that’s what you’re supposed to do, because Steve’s voice is still sitting somewhere in your head telling you to go, to fix it, to push.

But then you hear Nancy’s voice before you reach them, softer than it’s been all night, and something in it makes you stop.

You linger at the edge of the porch, half-shadowed by the doorway, close enough that their words carry without effort, far enough that you could still pretend you weren’t listening at all.

“Do you think we’re right for each other?” The question lands heavier than anything she’s said before.

Jonathan blinks, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the way she says them, like they’ve been sitting somewhere deeper than the game, waiting for a reason to surface.

“All this from a game?” he asks, softer than it should be.

Nancy exhales, the frustration turning inward now, more at herself than him. “We didn’t even get a single question right.”

“On a technicality,” Jonathan says, quick but gentle, like he’s trying to meet her where she is without letting her stay there. “We were in the same area.”

She doesn’t answer. The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but searching, like something unspoken has finally made itself known between them.

Jonathan studies her for a moment, something in his expression settling, softening into something steadier.

“I like that I don’t know everything about you,” he says.

Nancy looks up at that.

“I like that you aren’t an open book,” he continues, quieter now. “That I get to spend the rest of my life getting to know you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

“It feels like Christmas.”

Nancy’s shoulders loosen before she can stop them, tension slipping out of her in pieces as a smile forms—slow, reluctant at first, but real.

“I like that we were… circling each other,” she admits, her voice softer now, less guarded. “That it forces us to actually talk about things instead of just assuming we already know.”

Jonathan nods, something quiet and certain in the movement. “Yeah.”

She hesitates, the thought catching before it fully forms.

“But part of me is scared that we’ll—”

“—end up like our parents.”

They say it at the same time, words ending with giggles. It’s quiet, a little disbelieving, but it breaks whatever tension was left between them, something easing into place instead of pulling apart.

Jonathan shakes his head, smiling now. “Guess we do know each other a little bit.”

Nancy lets out a breath, stepping closer without thinking. “More than a little.”

Her hand finds his, like it always does. “And even when we don’t,” she adds, softer now, “we figure it out.”

Jonathan’s fingers tighten around hers, grounding, certain. “We always do.”

Nancy searches his face for a second, like she’s checking for hesitation but instead finds comfort.  

“Okay,” she says softly.

Jonathan’s thumb brushes over her knuckles. “You’re stuck with me, you know.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“Good,” she says.

—

You don’t move, because something in your chest is coming undone too quickly to follow.

They’re fine—more than fine. They’re right for each other.

The thought doesn’t hit all at once. It seeps in instead, slow and heavy and impossible to ignore, like something that’s been true for a long time and is only now being said out loud. And beneath it, something else takes hold—quieter, more dangerous—because if they’re right, then what does that make this? What does that make you?

Your thoughts tangle before you can catch them, turning too fast, too loud, until it feels like there isn’t enough air in your lungs to keep up. You inhale, but it doesn’t go deep enough, your chest tightening as your hands begin to shake.

No—

You step back before you mean to, your shoe catching on gravel, the sound small but sharp, breaking the quiet.

Nancy turns. “—hello?”

You freeze. Jonathan looks too.

There’s nowhere to go, so you step forward because you have to, because hiding isn’t an option anymore.

“I—I was just—”

Your voice breaks, and that’s all it takes.

Nancy’s expression changes instantly, concern replacing everything else. “Oh my god—hey—are you okay?”

You shake your head, not even sure what you’re answering, only that you can’t breathe.

Nancy reaches for you, then hesitates, glancing back toward the door. “I’m gonna grab water,” she says quickly. “Stay with her.”

Jonathan nods, and then it’s just him and you and the sound of your breathing coming apart between you.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Hey—look at me.”

You try, but you can’t quite focus.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “In—and then out. You’re okay.”

You shake your head again, tears spilling before you can stop them. “I’m sorry,” you choke out.

He frowns. “For what?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, the words breaking as they leave you.

He crouches in front of you, steady and grounding, like he always has. “It’s just a game,” he says gently. “Hey—it’s okay. Nobody cares about the score—”

“No,” you shake your head harder now. “You don’t understand—I—Steve and I—”

The words collapse before they make it out. You try again, but they don’t fit, because the truth is this was never about the game. It was never about winning him back. It was never even about Jonathan.

And that thought hits all at once, sharp enough to steal what little air you have left.

Letting go of Jonathan doesn’t feel like losing him. It feels like losing the version of yourself that still belonged to him—the version that didn’t have to look anywhere else, the version that didn’t have to admit—

Your breath stutters.

Because if you let him go—if you actually let him go—then there’s nothing left between you and it. Nothing left between you and the truth that’s been building, quiet and steady, underneath everything else.

That you’re in love with Steve.

The thought is terrifying, but undeniable.

And you don’t know what to do with it.

Jonathan’s expression softens, something like understanding flickering across it—but not the right kind. Not the truth.

He exhales slowly. “Hey,” he says. “Okay. Let me—let me talk, yeah?…I was surprised,” he admits, “when you and Steve… happened.”

A shaky breath leaves you.

“And maybe—” he hesitates, then pushes through it, “—maybe I was a little jealous.”

Your head snaps up.

Jealous? Your eyes ask him what your voice can’t.

But he’s already shaking his head. “Not like that. I just… I think I got used to you always being there.”

Something in you folds inward, your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I didn’t realize how much I depended on that,” he continues, “until you weren’t. I think I was being selfish,” he says. “Not wanting to admit you had your own life. Your own… priorities.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again.

“You deserve to be happy,” he says quietly. “To be in love.”

Something in your chest tightens at that, sharper than before, because this time you can’t pretend you don’t know what he means—or who he means.

“I see the way you look at him,” Jonathan adds.

Your stomach turns.

“And Steve—he’s a good guy. Nancy thinks so too. I’m happy for you.”

And that’s it.

He thinks he’s offering you something—permission, closure—but what he’s really done is loosen the last quiet thread you didn’t realize you were still holding. And it’s the way he says it, so easy, so familiar, that almost makes it bearable—like this was always where the two of you would end up, just not in the way you once held onto.

Your grip tightens in the fabric of his shirt as you fold into him, the sound that leaves you uneven, breaking against his shoulder.

He keeps his arms around you, not tightening, not letting go, just steady in a way that feels instinctive—like he’s done this before, like he knows how to hold you through it. And for a second, it feels the same as it used to, like scraped knees and quiet bedrooms and problems that could be soothed instead of carried, like the world hasn’t grown sharp around the edges yet.

—

Inside, through the window, Steve catches it without meaning to.

At first it’s just movement—something shifting at the edge of his vision—but then it’s you, and he doesn’t look away quickly enough to pretend he didn’t see.

You’re folded into Jonathan.

He doesn’t hear what’s being said, doesn’t see how it started. Just the shape of it—the way your face is pressed into his shoulder, the way Jonathan’s hand rests firmly at your back, the way you stay there like it’s where you’re meant to be.

Something in his chest tightens before he can stop it, sharp and immediate, catching on something he doesn’t have time to name.

His jaw sets, watching a second longer than he should, long enough for it to feel like a choice– then turns and leaves before it can become one.

—

Nancy steps outside just as your breathing begins to steady, still uneven but no longer breaking apart.

“Hey,” she says softly, kneeling beside you as she presses the water into your hands.

You take it, your fingers brushing hers, and something in you—something that’s been held too tightly for too long—finally loosens.

She doesn’t ask questions or push for answers. She just stays, one hand warm against your arm, the other steady at your back, like she’s holding you together without needing to understand what pulled you apart in the first place.

You lean into her before you can stop yourself, and she folds you in without hesitation, her arms sure and grounding in a way that feels unexpectedly easy.

And it doesn’t hurt, at least noot like it used to.

When you pull back, it’s only enough to look at her, your eyes still wet, your breath not quite steady but no longer out of reach.

“I’m really happy for you,” you say, and this time it comes without strain, quiet but certain. “For both of you.”

Nancy studies your face for a moment, like she’s searching for something beneath the words, and whatever she finds there softens her expression into something warm and sure.

“Thank you,” she says.

It’s simple, the kind of exchange that doesn’t need anything added to it, and for once it doesn’t feel like there’s anything left unsaid between you.

You stay there a second longer than necessary, close enough to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness of it, and when you finally step back, it isn’t with the same resistance that’s been sitting in your chest for years.

—

Steve doesn’t knock.

You feel him before you see him—the shift in the air, the quiet way the room fills with his presence—and you choose not to turn, focusing instead on the nonexistent crease in your dress like it actually needs fixing.

You smooth it once. Twice. Then give up on it entirely, lifting the hanger and moving it toward the closet.

The rest follows in pieces. Shoes lined up neatly beneath, jewelry gathered carefully into your palm, an extra pair of earrings set aside for Robin, because she’ll forget hers and pretend she didn’t.

“This is a nice surprise,” Steve says from somewhere behind you.

You hum, because it’s easier than answering.

He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and for a second he just watches you—like he’s trying to figure out what version of you he’s walking into. Then he moves, easy and familiar, closing the space between you without asking.

You feel the heat of him at your back, his hand settling at your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now.

You don’t pull away and that’s all the permission he needs.

His other hand finds your hip, turning you slightly, guiding instead of asking, and his mouth brushes your temple—testing, familiar—before drifting lower, slower, like he already knows how this goes.

“Been avoiding me all night,” he says quietly against your skin.

You swallow, “Busy.”

“Yeah?” His thumb drags along your side, unhurried, grounding himself there. “Looks exhausting.”

Your breath catches.

He lingers, just enough to feel deliberate.

“C’mon,” he adds, softer now, “lemme take care of you.”

For a second you almost let him pull you under again, until you remember the ache that stays behind. “No,” it comes out sharper than you mean, but you don’t soften it.

His hands fall away a second too late, and Steve blinks—not angry, just thrown. “Okay,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to keep this light. “Did I miss something, or—”

“No,” you cut in.

He pauses, watching you, waiting for the backtrack that usually follows. Realization follows instead. “Oh,” he says quietly.

“I’m guessing the talk with Jonathan went well,” he adds, more careful now.

You don’t answer.

He nods anyway, “Yeah, I saw you two,” he continues, voice lighter than it should be, “so when are they calling the wedding off?”

“The wedding is still on,” you don’t look at him when you say it.

You don’t need to.

“…what?”

“The wedding is still on,” you repeat, adjusting the edge of your dress like your hands need something to do. “So you should probably get your clothes ready.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, and this time there’s something sharper underneath it.

The silence stretches, heavier this time, carrying something neither of you is saying.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to work it out before it turns into something else.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Then we just keep going.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Steve—”

“No, we’re close,” he cuts in, stepping toward you again, not touching you but close enough that you feel it anyway. “You saw them.”

You shake your head.

He doesn’t accept it—of course he doesn’t.

“Then we pivot,” he says quickly, already thinking out loud. That’s fine. We don’t need to blow everything up over one bad read—”

“Steve.”

He keeps going.

“—we just need one crack, that’s it, one thing that makes them hesitate and then—”

“Steve, stop.”

That does it. He goes still, like the word physically halts him, like he didn’t expect it to land that way.

“I’m done.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, like this is another part of the plan he hasn’t caught up to yet.

“…what?”

“We were wrong,” you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. “About all of it. Nancy and Jonathan—they’re right for each other.”

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like disbelief slipping through it as he shakes his head.

“This wasn’t a bad read,” you cut in, and now he hears it, the edge in your voice that wasn’t there before. “This was never what we thought it was.”

His expression shifts, the patience thinning into something tighter. “Then what was it?” he asks.

You hesitate, and that’s all it takes.

“Right,” he says, a humorless edge creeping in. “You don’t actually have an answer, do you?”

“I do,” you say quickly, but the words don’t follow.

Because the truth is too close to the surface now, and saying it would change everything in a way you’re not ready to face.

He watches you for another second, something in his expression hardening as the silence stretches.

“You’re shutting me out,” he says, quieter now, but sharper for it. “You know something I don’t, and instead of just saying it, you’re acting like I’m supposed to just go along with whatever this is.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is,” he pushes, stepping closer, frustration bleeding through now. “You don’t just get to decide we’re done and expect me to be fine with it.”

“I’m not asking you to be fine with it,” you say, your voice tightening despite yourself. “I’m telling you we shouldn’t be doing this anymore.”

“Why?” he demands, the word cutting through the space between you. “What changed?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because the answer is standing right in front of you, looking at you like this is something he can fix if you’d just explain it properly.

“Yeah,” he says when you stay quiet, his mouth pulling into something sharper. “That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t—” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You get what you want and suddenly this is all wrong?” he says, his voice rising now. “Suddenly we’re the bad guys for doing exactly what we agreed to?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” he fires back. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you finally got your moment with him and now I’m just—what—collateral damage?”

The words hit harder than they should, because they’re wrong in a way you don’t know how to explain without making it worse.

“I didn’t get anything,” you say, your voice slipping. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me,” he says, stepping closer again, frustration sharpening into something raw. “For once, just say it.”

You shake your head, “I can’t.”

Something in his expression closes off at that, quick and decisive. “Yeah,” he says. “Didn’t think so.”

Your chest tightens, the pressure building faster than you can keep up with. “You’re not even trying to understand,” you say, quieter now, but the words tremble anyway.

“How am I supposed to understand something you won’t say?” he snaps. “You just shut down and expect me to go along with it.”

“I’m not asking you to go along with it.”

“No,” he says, his voice dropping, sharper now, “you’re just walking away and expecting me not to have a problem with it.”

“Because there shouldn’t be a problem,” you push back, the frustration finally breaking through. “This isn’t a game anymore, Steve. It’s our friends.”

“And it wasn’t before?” he shoots back immediately. “Or did that only start mattering when you decided you were done?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this.”

The room feels smaller the longer this goes on, the air heavier, harder to breathe through.

“You don’t get it,” you say, shaking your head, tears starting before you can stop them. “You don’t get anything.”

“Then help me out,” he says, but it comes out harsher than he means it. “What am I missing?”

A broken laugh slips out. “You,” you say, your voice cracking around it. “You’re missing you.”

He frowns, thrown for a second. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you don’t see anything unless it fits what you want,” you say, the words coming faster now, messier, harder to stop. “You don’t see people unless they’re doing something for you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s not,” you shoot back. “You’re so focused on winning, on getting Nancy back, on proving something, that you don’t even look at what’s right in front of you.”

His expression hardens, his jaw tightening as he stares at you. “And what exactly is in front of me?” he asks.

You stop. Because there it is, the moment where you could say it. Where everything changes. Your throat tightens, the words sitting there, heavy and impossible to force out.

You shake your head instead. “I’m done,” you say again, weaker this time.

A bitter laugh escapes him, short and sharp, “Of course you are.”

You wipe at your face, overwhelmed, the frustration and hurt bleeding together until you can’t separate them anymore,“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Then don’t,” he says. “No one’s stopping you.”

You nod once, because there’s nothing else left to hold onto, “Then get out.”

He blinks, caught off guard this time. “What?”

“Get out,” you repeat, your voice shaking now. “Just—leave me alone.”

A beat passes before he answers, “This is my room.”

And that—

That's what breaks something.

A hollow laugh slips out of you as you nod, more to yourself than to him. “Right,” you murmur. 

You move quickly after that, grabbing your things with hands that don’t quite cooperate, folding what you can, leaving what you can’t, because staying here for even another second feels impossible.

Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he’s still waiting for you to explain, still expecting something that will make this make sense.

That almost makes it worse.

You open the door, your hand closing around the handle, and for a second you hesitate, because you could still turn around, could still say it, could still tear everything open instead of leaving it like this.

But when you look back at him, he’s still standing there, still looking at you like you’re something he can figure out instead of someone he’s already losing, and something in your chest tightens in response.

“I wish I never got to know you, Steve.”

The words leave before you can stop them, sharper than you mean, heavier than you can take back.