What's worse? That he can't say it's not going to be a fling. Even when he argued Cath against the first word she used. And he hasn't brooked Danny against his panicked rant, more than once, about how he can't do casual. And how Danny might, honestly, vanish entirely from Hawaii in a few months.

Meaning just as much as their jobs, that it can't be casual, but it's nowhere near being able to be serious.

"Nothing helpfully smart?" That's a dig, but he doesn't even mean it. Even when he does.
Even when he can't force his voice to sound nearly as mad or derisive as it should.

It creases up the space between his eyebrows, when he's finally lifting his drink.
Because he keeps expecting Danny to wise up sometime soon, and he's not.
He can't rely on Danny to drag, shove, push him out of this one.

When he knows he can't shove that responsibility on to him. Doesn't want him to, either.

Because they avoided talking about this, and then they did. Because every time they hit anything like light, like they should stop, they don't. They plow straight through it like a wrecking ball with the gears jammed, fritzing, the whole thing on fire, rolling down hill, picking up speed.

The whole CIA involvement. Cath. The case. Every time something said they should step back, they just held on even tighter. They just couldn't walk that tiny bit more. The way he knows in his skin if Danny wasn't with Grace he'd probably be somewhere nearby. In Steve's space, under his skin. Or when, or how soon until. How predictable it's getting towards being.

That even when that seems claustrophobic. It's something he needs to breathe just as much.