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It doesn’t happen in the crash after the adrenaline rush of a gun fight; a hail of bullets giving way to easier breathing and the relief of knowing everyone is intact. Steve doesn’t reach out and pull Danny in, crushing lips together because they’re both alive. Danny doesn’t startle for a moment, before settling, sighing into Steve, letting go of his usual lambasting of Steve’s ride-or-die methods.

It doesn’t happen in the middle of a case, a K&R, with Danny hellbent on saving the two young children. Every time it’s a family in danger, every time it’s a child who will be hurting, Danny is unquestionably invested. Anything that pulls his heartstrings and makes him think of Grace gets Danny focused in a way that other cases just don’t. And every time Danny gets this way, Steve sees it. He senses it in the way that Danny is coiled beside him in the Camaro, in the way Danny pushes for answers and doesn’t give suspects an inch. It doesn’t happen during this case or any of the others. Steve doesn’t stop Danny in the hallway of HQ and back him into a corner, licking into the shorter man’s mouth, trying to eat away at the tension that’s got him wound tight. Dany doesn’t let Steve walk him back until his head taps the wall, doesn’t let go of his focus.

It doesn’t happen after one of Steve’s death-defying stunts, rooftop dashing and an exchange of gunfire. Danny yells at Steve so that he doesn’t fuss and worry. Danny doesn’t grab Steve around the neck and haul the giant down to his height to press their lips together. He doesn’t nip at Steve’s smirk, and he doesn’t growl deep in his throat when Steve’s lip part and their tongues slide together.

It doesn’t happen in the car, with Steve driving, as always, and Danny praying he’s not going to die, snapping at Steve for taking turns to quickly. They’re in the middle of a case, and they’re strapping on vests before they jump out of the car and into a raid. Danny doesn’t reel Steve over by the collar of his t-shirt, when the Camaro is finally, finally in park. Steve doesn’t come to him, laughing at the way Danny frets.

It doesn’t happen in a bar, out with the Five-0 for drinks after a day of running down bad guys and getting shot at. They take the time off, drink longboards or fusion sunrises, they joke about the shit Steve pulled, and they rag on Danny about his tumble, Kono gets lauded, of course, for her cool take down of the day’s sniper, and Chin shakes his head in response to Kono’s pointed looks when the waitress slips him a napkin with numbers scrawled on the edge. Steve and Danny sit side-by-side biceps close enough to share heat, but they don’t turn to each other, noses bumping together, lips meeting, half by accident, gentle and quick when Kono and Chin are distracted.