[ It's a bittersweet feeling to realize he's not thinking much of it. Glad, that he's not really trying to push it, but a little sad, too. She chalks it up to not being able to trust her own mind, tries to set it aside, but it lingers. She follows his gaze down the street, brow furrowed a little as she considers. She spots the sign not far, and nods towards their left. ] Looks like Java Joe's is open. They've got great cookies.

[ As she would know, no doubt. At his agreement, she starts walking, keeping pace with him, continuing their small talk and banter from dinner — the point isn't what the pancakes are actually like, the point is, of course, that she can make them. Baby steps, Rogers. It feels natural. Real. And she almost doesn't catch herself reaching for his hand as they walk. It itches with the familiar need to hold it, and instead she shoves her hands into her pockets to keep them behaving. He's moved on, she thinks. There's no sense in hurting him further. He doesn't deserve that.

She manages to keep her surface calm, even as her confusion coils within her, slithering out from the place she'd just tried to keep it. The familiarity, the comfort. It's nice. It's something she's wanted for herself — tried to have and failed. Failure didn't make her want it less, but it did make her want to try to have it less. She had a job to do, and still kind of has one, even if (if memory serves her, and it hasn't lately) she's on her own again. At least, she thinks, she's on the right side of the law this time. More or less.

If she were to indulge herself, she'd say she was happy.

She opens the door for them when they reach the coffee shop, looking at him as he heads inside. ] You know, they have a cake here that even puts yours to shame.

[ Playful needling. Not flirting. Or so she tells herself. ]