Log: PJ/Steve - Carriage House
The voice he'd heard belonged to PJ. She hadn't expected anyone else to be up and around as she snuck back into the carriage house. Well, she wasn't sneaking, because she was being the opposite of quiet as she dragged her duffle bag behind her through the front door. It was full, fuller than when she'd left. And if someone had asked her right then 'damn girl do you have a bunch of wrenches in this thing?' she'd say that yes, yes she did. She'd been gone for a few weeks, she'd gone south for a trade show (and bought some things), east to settle a vendetta (and stolen and/or reacquired some things), and on her way back she'd swung by a junk yard and picked up a new project for Atticus to pay for (along with some other things to tinker with).
Long story short, she was tired (she'd driven 14 hours that day), and her duffle bag was heavy. Right then she was feeling lazy and had been about to leave it on the floor in front of the door, raid the fridge of beer and cheese, then pass out on the couch because she wasn't even sure she felt like climbing any stairs. Then, like he was descending from heaven (or the second floor) Steve appeared on the landing. He would definitely carry her duffle bag upstairs, and then all she had to worry about was the beer, the cheese, and getting herself up those stairs. She was debating getting him to stick around for the beer and the cheese so she could get him to carry her up the stairs later too. He'd do it. Of course he'd do it. He was a mensch.
"Steve McRory, as I live and breathe, this is kismet," she said from the bottom of the stairs. She leaned casually on the banister and looked up at him there on the landing. She smiled widely from ear to ear (definitely up to some shit), her eyes mischievous peering from underneath a well-worn Sinclair Dinosaur.