Steve, Raised Since Childhood On A Strict Diet Of Tax Forms, Utility Bills, And Neatly Labeled Folders,

Steve, raised since childhood on a strict diet of tax forms, utility bills, and neatly labeled folders, handles Love with capital L the only way he knows how—logistically.

So the moment he realizes things with Eddie are serious-serious, he doesn’t make a big speech or even breathe a word.

He just quietly opens a joint savings account.

Then a trust fund.

Lists himself as Eddie’s emergency contact.

Buys a gold ring (simple, tasteful, suspiciously the right size). He knows Eddie likes silver, but that's not what it's for. Gold is in any case an investment in the future, if something happens.

And—because, well, they’ve survived four apocalypses—he updates his will.

Steve wrote it after Apocalypse #2.

The BMW had been bought with his money and, should anything happen, was legally designated to go to Dustin.

Everything else—his personal savings, the shared funds, and whatever compensation the government might cough up for the next end-of-the-world scenario—was to go to Eddie.

Nobody knows this but Steve. It’s filed in a folder marked “just in case”.

Eddie, on the other hand, doesn’t do paperwork.

When he realizes things are serious, he gives Steve his favorite band t-short. Then changes the tires on Steve’s BMW from summer to winter without being asked. Fixes the bookshelf Steve’s been threatening to burn for a month. And starts making him sandwiches in the morning — the kind his mom used to make for him, with just the right amount of mustard and that one slice of tomato Steve always forgets he likes. Uses his entire vocabulary of cute nicknames on Steve and comes up with a couple of new ones.

Miraculously, it works.

Because Eddie gets this strange, unfamiliar feeling of being safe. And Steve? Steve finally feels understood. And cared for, in a way he didn’t know he needed.