"Pizza that dates back to either 1800 or 1972, that's a pretty big disparity," Natasha teased back, trying to imagine that, a pre-Civil War era pizza shop and wondering if it'd be entirely outside the realm of possibility. One of those things that made her wish she still had her smartphone to be able to immediately look up the answer, though it was also sort of novel still to be able to go back and forth on a topic and not settle it with a quick trip to Wikipedia. "I'm trying to even imagine the toppings of frontiersman pizza, would there be, you know, small game instead of pepperoni, or..."
She stopped when he cut himself off, though, a stutter in his step that matched the silence in his voice, followed his line of sight to the building in front of them.
And she understood, the way they tended to understand things about each other without having to use words all the time. He'd told her in one of their earliest conversations about his building - his affection for it, and his tenants, and the pride that it gave him. This must be that, then. Home before it had become home.
She quieted, gave him a moment to just look from their vantage point on the broken sidewalk - there was a chunk missing out of it near her feet. "It's nice," she offered, quietly.