That. The way Steve lists into him, like Danny is some force of gravity. The way he does with every brief touch at work or out in the day. Like there's some sort of magnetism, here, that comes into play when they touch. And Steve is leaning closer. Close enough for Danny to feel the faint shake of his shoulder, the muscles in the arm holding him up starting to tremble, slightly. The shake of hard-packed sand under the feet of a hundred marathon runners.

But it's impossible to focus. Everything is starting to slip; hips shifting into Steve's hand, his thumb running up, flat, over hot, smooth skin. Fingers squeezing, relaxing, gripping again. Wondering how crazy he would go if anyone dared touch Steve like this, if just watching someone else's fingers along Steve's skin wreaked havoc with his sanity. Murderous would barely begin to describe it. He'd rip their hands off.

But it's not. Necessary. Should never be. It's just the two of them, back here, alone, falling into this again, like they have so many times over the last thirty days. Still not even as long as Steve had been gone beforehand. Long enough to start knowing the things he likes, the things that push him towards that edge, that shove him over.

Leveraging himself up, hand leaving Steve's face to land on the mattress, to push against his weight. Core tightening, while his breath is starting to come ragged and burning into his lungs. Kissing Steve like he's drunk with it, and maybe he is, because he feels light-headed, heart pounding, heat and desire striking into his head like lightning. All of this, the two of them, and it's like everything else, working with each other, striking off each other like flint and steel. Everything he knows, trusts, is part of his day, his life, between their partnership, and now this. Picking up smoothly, like it was always going to just fit right into their lives.

Which is the only thing he can say that about, this month.