It's a toss up really. Between whether he's holding out to see if Danny will mock him about those three words, another well, yeah, it's supposed to, again, as Danny can take anything and make it delightfully something to poke with, or if really, Steve's head will keep melting down his shoulders, making it so he really doesn't care one way or the other.

Just so long as he doesn't stop yet. When what happens first, really, is that Danny gives renewed focus to his fingers, more pressure and attention to it. Making Steve have to catch what might have turned into a soft groan in his teeth and the hold of his jaw. That don't stay long either. None of the tension is staying right now. Coming in and out, flicking in and gone, like fish coming up for air, and then falling right back under.

When Danny lets out a sound that tugs at him, almost matching the one Steve didn't let himself make. Sinking up through Danny's skin and into his. Warm and pleased. When that breath goes out and Danny settles, and maybe they won't move and Steve still won't give a damn. Well. About the pillows and blankets and mess. He should. But Danny seems to be good at diverting his want and will to do anything sensible.

With clean-up or sleep or anything, that isn't laying here, letting himself sink slowly into heated water, muscles relaxing. The world made up of the pressure washing in and out against his head, down all his other muscles. The way it mixes. With the sound of the waves. With the pull of Danny's breath, above his forehead and below his own chest. Mixing together, seeping into and pushing out everything else.

Until this is all there is, in the easy in and out of his own breath. Danny. Just Danny. Under him, still laying him out.

Making the world collapse smaller and smaller, darker and darker, warmer and warmer, taking over everything that is anything.