Steve was dragging keys out, beeping the truck and digging into the back of the cab for the ripped open case of water bottle and the duffle that stayed back there. Leaving the bag right by the door, and grabbing two bottles as he caught the sharp hiss. Stepping back out and leaving the doors open. Which, really, is the first sign.

It goes with the second one, eyebrows raised slightly, and the easy, sliding smile, that quirks and tucks into his cheek at one side, far more teasing than it could ever be considered near serious, as he's holding out a bottle of water. "So, you're not going to be up for Round Two, then?"

Steve wouldn't throw her at Koko Head, again. Not on the first time she's done it. Not on the first few days of being off. Certainly, not the way his blood is beating, strong thrum almost like begging, inside his skin. Because he feels anything but near worn out. He feels ready. Like that was the warm-up, and now he could take it and do whatever he wanted with what left.

He waits for her to take the bottle, before setting his on the truck, and pulling at the bottom hem of his stuck shirt and dragging it up toward his face. Wiping off the dust and sweat with the cloth under his fingers, deciding not to change it even if he wants to. Because that'll just be a third piece he'll need to wash before, or after, he gets a shower in.