Steve's gaze flicks between Tony's face and the hand on his arm, surprised for a moment before settling on pleased. He doesn't do anything to dislodge it even when they pass the hostess, and he offers a rushed, vague apology. It's hard to feel bad for her when he knows she'll be thrilled about her party making the front page tomorrow. It’s probably trending even now.

There’s a certain satisfaction to sweeping through the crowd with Tony Stark on his arm. It’s almost like having Iron Man at his back during a fight, a reassuring presence when they’re tearing through opponents. When they finally make it outside, Steve feels like he can breathe properly again, the cold air a relief after all the perfume and cologne in the ballroom. Sharper senses have their downsides.

Tony’s question is a valid one, even if it’s delivered with one of those grins. Steve’s place these days is the compound. Not everyone lives on base full time, though it does house both the team and support staff. He wants, selfishly, to keep Tony’s attention to himself a little longer. “Where is yours these days?” he asks curiously.

The valet returns in record time. Steve will always be more of a motorbike kind of guy, but he can appreciate the sleek design of a nice car. Which reminds him. “Are you okay to drive?”