He can make this work. Right? He can definitely, totally, drag himself back from the edge of totally ridiculous panic that he was in no way prepared for or should be feeling, because Steve was joking, like he's been joking this entire time.

"I thought you were the one my clothes offended."

He can even smile when he says it, and it's not so hard. Just the act of batting words back at Steve makes him feel a little better, even though the look on Steve's face has gone from confused and faintly concerned to outright testy. He hasn't let go, and he's poking at it in that way Steve does, like he can't help picking at a scab or a splinter. "I'm not offended, how could I be? They're my clothes. You're the one who keeps complaining about them. Besides."

Steve's hand is feeling suddenly hesitant, even though it hasn't moved, even though Steve hasn't moved, like he's waiting for an invitation, like the one tucked now with the aforementioned jeans themselves, across the room.

So Danny gives it to him, drops the hand that had been at Steve's arm to Steve's hip, instead, thumb slipping into the cut of muscle there, following a path that's getting familiar.

Nothing to panic about here. He's starting to know this. To recognize all the parts of Steve; the way his muscles flex and where patches of skin turn red with bloodflow when he starts heating up, the line where his tan gets thwarted by board shorts.

"I enjoy myself more without them, anyway."