She flinches when he says it, hesitates, and then nods. God, if she blinks, it’s like she’s there again on that stupid planet, so far from home, Clint looking at her with that look on his face — Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, the hand on Loki’s shoulder digging into his skin through his shirt. It’s too soon, at least for her. And she doesn’t need to hear him picking apart her choice, not yet.

“Put me down,” she says, avoiding his statement with a sniff (a mistake, she gets a nose-full of pollen and shudders). If it’s not his presence alone or some kind of spell, it has to be the flowers — and they’re fucking everywhere. Maybe the building will give some relief. “I’m fine.”

She is not fine. Her thighs feel like one big cramp, her back already sore, and that’s not even addressing between her legs. But she can’t stand to be carried anymore — which means if he does put her down, she’ll stumble before catching herself, pushing him away.

“Seen anyone else?”