It was possible that it was a hard thing to articulate, and it wasn't as though Natasha actually had any inclination to explain. What he admired about her, that was the exact thing she feared about herself. That there was nothing here, not really. A hollowed out, plastic imitation of a person, no real identity of her own beyond whoever it was that the moment called for, no real convictions that she held onto. Her only definable characteristic was her malleability. All that was there was whoever she was with told her that they wanted her to be, whether it was outright or more subtle.
But she might as well be upset at him for pointing out that her hair was red. For all that it wasn't something she wanted to be admired for, it was still immutable fact. He hadn't meant it to wound and facts were things that ought to be useless as weapons.
And James? He'd needed her to be calm. If last night he'd been a crashing tide, he'd needed her to be the wave-breaker that cut the fierceness in half and made it something manageable instead of bashing itself relentlessly against the shore. Today he needed her to be someone who could accept his apology, even if it was unnecessary. He needed her to be someone he could tell himself he had made better in turn, in his own way. Let him make breakfast and smile bravely and send him on his way in a little while without any lingering guilt. He needed absolution.
Now that her minor tempest was aside, that was what she'd give.
She filled both their mugs, then handed the second one over to him with her face considerably more smoothed out, settled than it had been a moment ago. She knew how to be this person, at least. Who to be in this moment "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "And thank you for making breakfast, really. It smells good, and it was sweet of you."