When Maeve flops back onto the bed, Steve looks around, unsure of what to do with himself. A part of him feels the urge to just say fuck the talking and crawl into bed with her, because they're so good at that part. But he doesn't.

"Yeah, you've said." He doesn't say it in any accusatory sort of way. It's just a fact. She's told him this before, and at the time, Steve said he was fine with it. At the time, he probably was. Or maybe he was just lying to himself, thinking he could be this cool guy who didn't get hung up on feelings. So really, if anyone has changed the terms of what's going on here, it's him.

He pulls the chair up to the foot of the bed and sits in it just so he's not standing over her, and he can't pace around. For a long moment, he just thinks to himself and tries to work up some sort of nerve to actually say what he's feeling. It feels like he would rather sink through the floor.

"I'm not mad," he finally says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he stares at a fixed point on the duvet. "Whatever you've got going on with that guy? I'm not mad. We never said we were exclusive, and I got the impression that maybe you weren't into that? And, I don't know, I guess I tried to tell myself that I wasn't either."

He swallows hard and bites the inside of his lip nervously, brow furrowed a little. "But I am, as it turns out. I was just kidding myself."