Natasha nodded once, soundlessly. It was - gracious. It was, it was such a moment of grace, and there were so many things she wanted to say. Not that she was sorry, never that: she was in love, she loved someone who loved her back, and there was nothing to be sorry for. But she knew what it was to stand where he was standing. She knew what it was to love someone enough to be happy for them and have that happiness coexist alongside a thousand other things, and what it was to have to figure out a way to make all of them combine into something you could live with. He looked peaceful, though, like maybe for him, it wasn't a thousand other things. More at peace with it than she'd ever been able to manage, and maybe that was the difference. Maybe there was more love and understanding in James Barnes than she'd found in herself; that made a certain kind of sense.
"Thank you," she said, softly. What else was there to say? "It's new, but it's...I want him very much." Which was as close as someone like Natasha could get to flowery, that quiet very much the equivalent of a spill of flowers from someone more inclined to poetry.
She relaxed her shoulders, tried to rein back on the softness in her face. He'd needed her to come talk to him for his own reasons, she suspected; they didn't need to dwell here on hers, she didn't have to go into details of when and where and why and what. She'd been honest. It wasn't a difficult thing to be honest about, even for Natasha. It didn't cancel out the past, the softness and years of ache in the way she felt, for James, but it was real with Clint, now, it wasn't formless and undefined, and she wanted to be absolutely clear. "Well - that was all I had," she said, her hands loose at her sides. "I suspect your thing is a little longer. Do you want to - walk? Sit?"