He watches her go, notes the little extra sway she's putting into her step that is definitely not for his benefit, but that sting is pretty well dulled -- it's not like he's here to flirt with cute bartenders. Or for anyone but Steve. Whose improving mood seems to have hit a faintly flat note, when Danny looks back towards him. The easy, vaguely plastic surfer-boy smile, that doesn't actually reach his eyes. Mahalo, and brushing it off. Like he doesn't care at all. Barely even noticed.

While Danny is unnerved by the strength of his own reaction, the sharp immediacy of it, leaving him feeling a little shaken and ashamed of himself now that she's gone, headed to the other end of the bar, checking IDs and taking orders.

(Still. He glances her way, once or twice, just to see, just to check, if she's looking back here at all.)

And Steve is just sitting there, having his free beer, like it wasn't entirely clear that what she really wanted was to run her hand up along the path her eyes took. Danny's checking in flicked looks, like maybe there's something on Steve's shirt he hadn't noticed before, but there isn't. Just a plain shirt, hanging neatly on broad shoulders. Filled out solidly.

He's got some misgivings about the whole thing, but he should let it go. Brush it off. One drink is one drink, and it's one more he didn't have to pay for, anyway, which is better than how it usually works out for him when Steve drinks for free.

Sure.

Tamping that stupid reaction down like a stubborn coal that won't go out, trying to pick up the lost threads of his thoughts and their conversation, without much in the way of success.

"Okay," he says, rolling his eyes, mouth twitching almost amused. "Enough with the surfer boy charm, huh? Very smooth."