"Thank you."

Some huge favor, this green towel, tossed at her like she's a petulant child, and she gestures at herself, skin damp and gleaming, bare midriff and arms. "Not all of us brought shirts instead, you know."

But she does take a second to pat herself down, rub the towel over her belly and back and shoulders, and stowing it in the foot-well as she climbs in. Her heart is still racing, but it's slowly climbing down from the frenetic pace she'd pushed it to, and right now she feels nothing but good. Worked over, going to be sore in all the best ways, with a pleasant hum of endorphins simmering through her blood. It's a real mood-lifter, a run, especially one that hard, especially one with Steve, mocking her and giving in anyway, because he's not the only one who knows how to use that pretty face.

She's buckling herself in as he opens the door and climbs in, leans back against the seat with a breath out.

"I can't believe you ran that after eating your entire plate of loco moco," she says, watching him, hand going to her stomach. "Your stomach must be steel-plated."