It wasn't that Steve had been hoping for a fight, but he'd been expecting one, and the fact that Natasha didn't start right in on yelling at him was confusing. Perhaps even shocking. Steve had practically presented her the opportunity on a platter, and she'd ignored it. There wasn't even anything waspish or nasty in her tone - she just sounded done.
The sketch he'd begun and never finished flashed through Steve's mind, and when he looked at her it was like he could still see the bruise beneath her eye and the choke marks that encircled her throat. She was hardly older than he was, but she always seemed so much more sophisticated and worldly. He'd figured that was the condescension, or the ease with which she could seduce a room, or maybe the sword-sharp bite of her words, but now he wondered if it was a fatigue that lurked beneath her surface, one she normally didn't let show. The thought made his chest ache, tight and miserable.
"I'm sorry, about the last time I was here," he added quietly, ignoring her suggestion - her order, really - to return to the couch. "I was an asshole. And I wish I had more to offer you than an apology, but..." He trailed off, because there wasn't anything else to offer, was there? Yes, it had been unintentional, but that didn't mean his words hadn't cut. It was the only explanation he had for the sudden shift in their exchange, the way she'd immediately gone right for the jugular. He'd hurt her, and so she'd attacked.
"I owe you," Steve said, his gaze intent. That was something, maybe, even if it wasn't nearly enough to bring them square.