A part of him thought this was moving a little fast (or a lot, very fast), but most of him just did not care. He grabbed the keys from the ignition even as he dismounted the bike, then reached over for Rogue's free hand, and had to remind himself that he was an adult, not a randy teenager, he did not need to go sprinting the entire way up to his apartment while dragging her behind him.
Living on the third floor had never bothered him before; he'd never noticed just how many stairs there were. Why was there no elevator in this building? No, an elevator might be worse, because then they'd end up making out in there - which sounded fun, but might make them slower to actually arriving at his apartment. Steve was a goal-oriented kind of person, and right now, he had a very specific goal in mind. (Getting naked. No! Stop thinking about it yet!)
The apartment was just the way he'd left it, and normally Steve would at least point out a few things to Rogue - the good-sized kitchenette/prep area, with the island that doubled as a small seating bar, adjacent to the deep, comfortable chambray blue couch that could fit even his six-foot-tall body, with the coffee table and (rarely used) television in front of it. The tall East-facing windows behind the couch that spanned almost the whole wall, in front of which he'd set up another table to eat at. (He rarely ate there, occasionally using his laptop there, but normally it was piled with papers; he'd cleaned yesterday when Rogue coming in was just a hopeful thought, and not the inevitability it had turned into.)
But now, he barely had the presence of mind to think Food. We've got food that should be put away. And then thought Screw it, it'll keep in the cooler for a couple hours.
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Living on the third floor had never bothered him before; he'd never noticed just how many stairs there were. Why was there no elevator in this building? No, an elevator might be worse, because then they'd end up making out in there - which sounded fun, but might make them slower to actually arriving at his apartment. Steve was a goal-oriented kind of person, and right now, he had a very specific goal in mind. (Getting naked. No! Stop thinking about it yet!)
The apartment was just the way he'd left it, and normally Steve would at least point out a few things to Rogue - the good-sized kitchenette/prep area, with the island that doubled as a small seating bar, adjacent to the deep, comfortable chambray blue couch that could fit even his six-foot-tall body, with the coffee table and (rarely used) television in front of it. The tall East-facing windows behind the couch that spanned almost the whole wall, in front of which he'd set up another table to eat at. (He rarely ate there, occasionally using his laptop there, but normally it was piled with papers; he'd cleaned yesterday when Rogue coming in was just a hopeful thought, and not the inevitability it had turned into.)
But now, he barely had the presence of mind to think Food. We've got food that should be put away. And then thought Screw it, it'll keep in the cooler for a couple hours.