His hair, already teased into a new state of mussed from the consistent raking of fingers, sticks up in a few new angles when he finally chooses to forego buttons in lieu of tugging his shirt up over his head. He's not exactly Captain America underneath, but he likes to consider that the botched attempt at recreating Erskine's formula amounted to some subtle muscle definition. He's not even thinking about how he looks once he feels the slide of her chest against his. Good would be putting it mildly.