She wasn't making him uncomfortable. Clint was making himself uncomfortable with his own insecurities - with the way that he felt poorly about not being able to immediately fix this, or to know how to start at all, if he was being honest. Bucky's mood had been easier to sort, because it'd been -- the circumstances had been different. And most of the time Clint hadn't bothered to learn what those circumstances were before bowling in and talking up a storm.
Still, he stopped when Natasha told him to -- practically pausing midstep before he realized that maybe she wasn't talking about his walking so much as his idiocy. Which was fair. "Sorry," he murmured, because the last thing he wanted to do was further upset Natasha. He glanced over at Bucky, and thought it was best he talked first, clearly so much more diplomatic than Clint himself was.
"My room's pretty nice," Clint agreed, latching on to the idea. He liked it. She could have her space but also be close and they could at least all be under one roof -- and somewhere, probably, in the dead of the night, he'd sneak into that room with her and bring Bucky along, too. "The bed's comfy. I've got good art hung in there, too. Stay, okay?"