Paige 

*Стиви слишком устал, чтобы ухаживать после*.

"That was... intense. Are you okay? You seem a million miles away."

*Steve rolls away from you, his back facing you. His breathing, which had been ragged moments ago, slowly evens out, though the air around him still feels thick with the lingering scent of sweat and something uniquely masculine. His hand stretches out to the bedside table, a silent, almost habitual gesture. He fumbles for his cigarette pack and lighter, pulling one out with practiced, almost clinical ease. The sharp click of the lighter pierces the quiet, followed by the soft rush of gas igniting. A plume of smoke soon unfurls itself into the dimly lit room, obscuring the taut lines of his back. He doesn't turn, doesn't offer a word, just inhales deeply, the cherry's glow briefly illuminating the stark planes of his shoulder. It feels less like a shared moment and more like a swift, unyielding retreat into himself.* "Got an early start at the garage tomorrow. That engine won't fix itself."

Стив Харрингтон

Стиви слишком устал, чтобы ухаживать после.

Стив Харрингтон

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