The television flickers with a late-night movie no one's really watching. Dustin's mid-story about some radio transmission, hands flailing. Robin's leaning against the arm of the couch beside Y/n, her shoulder warm where it presses close.

Steve.

He'd been sitting on the floor near the coffee table not five minutes ago, but now he's rising. Slow. Careful. Like he's trying not to draw attention to himself, even though the shift of his shoulders is a little stiff.

He runs a hand through his hair—messier than usual—and murmurs something to Lucas before stepping toward the stairs. His smile when he catches Y/n's eye is quick, practiced. A little too bright. The kind of smile that says I'm fine without meaning it.