— stardew valley characters with a s/o who worries that people are only pretending to like them.
req: sdv characters when the farmer worries that people are only pretending to like them
you say it late at night, sitting beside him while it rains outside. the only sounds in the room are his keyboard and the muffled rain. you don’t look at him while you speak, you just let the words come out naturally.
“sometimes, i think people are just… being polite to me. i feel like they don’t really like me, it’s just as if they’re pretending.”
he goes still. he looks at you over the computer screen for a few seconds before slowly moving toward you, sitting beside you on his couch. he keeps looking at you as he takes your hand.
“if i didn’t like you,” he says slowly, carefully, “i wouldn’t be here.” you look at him. “i don’t hang out with people out of obligation, you know that,” he continues. “i disappear when i don’t care. you’re… the opposite of that.”
he doesn’t try to convince you with pretty words; that’s not sebastian’s way. instead, he stays. his hand in yours as he traces small circles on the back of your hand.
“i don’t want to go to the city anymore, because of you. i want to stay here by your side…” he falls silent for a few seconds while you look at him. “if everyone disappeared tomorrow,” he adds quietly, “i would still choose you. that’s not pretending.”
you say it to him without meaning to; letting out a small laugh, like it was a joke that slipped out by accident.
“what if people only like me because i’m useful?”
sam stops mid-motion, his smile disappearing instantly.
“hey, what? no.” he moves closer, crouching a little to be at your level, since you’re sitting on his bed watching him tune his guitar. “don’t do that.”
you shrug. “i mean, i don’t know. maybe they’re just being kind.”
he shakes his head, almost frustrated — not at you, but at the idea.
“c’mon, y/n… i don’t wake up early to see you because i’m ‘nice’,” he blurts out. then freezes. “…i mean. you know what i mean.” he rubs the back of his neck, softer now.
“i like you because you’re you. because you listen. because you make things lighter just by being around.”
he smiles, sincere, a little vulnerable.
“if i were pretending, i’d be a way better actor. i’d stop showing up.”
you say it bluntly, one night by the river.
“i think people tolerate me. they don’t like me.”
he lets out a bitter chuckle at first; then realizes you’re serious.
“…yeah. i used to think that too.”
he stares at the water. “turns out i was wrong. about myself. about other people.”
he shifts and says, voice rough but honest: “i don’t fake things. i don’t have the energy for that.”
he looks at you — really looks at you.
“if i didn’t like you, i wouldn’t talk to you. wouldn’t sit here. wouldn’t let you see me like this.” he watches you closely; his eyes shine with care and affection.
“you don’t owe anyone anything to be loved,” he mutters. “and you’re not charity.”
then, quieter:
“you matter. even when you don’t believe it.”
you confess it in his clinic, voice low, hands folded in your lap.
“what if people are only being kind because they feel sorry for me?”
his expression softens immediately. he pulls his chair closer, not as a doctor, but as harvey.
“i want you to listen to me,” he says gently. “pity is very different from care.”
“care is consistency. it’s choosing someone over and over again,” he continues. “that’s what people do with you.” he hesitates, then adds, his voice warm but steady: “that’s what i do with you.”
he smiles, reassuring you. “you don’t have to earn affection by being useful. you’re liked because you’re you. and i promise — you would know if it wasn’t real.”
you tell him this on the beach, watching the tide rise and fall.
“sometimes, i feel like people admire the idea they have of me more than… me.”
he turns fully toward you, brows furrowed, not offended, but deeply attentive.
“my dear,” he says softly, “pretending is exhausting. admiration without truth never lasts.” he gestures between you and the sea. “do you think i would sit here with you in silence, night after night, if my affection were hollow?”
he reaches for your hand, reverent.
“you are not a performance. you are presence. and that is what draws people to you.” his thumb brushes over your knuckles.
“those who stay are not pretending. they are choosing.”
