He's never been prone to being jumpy. A spy has to keep cool under pressure and when faced with the unexpected. A dad has to keep cool with a bunch of kids running underfoot. He's always had a physicality to his affections, to family and friends and teammates.

Clearly he's let people touch him willingly. Someone charted the course for a vicious snake along his arm, for instance. But it's been a long time since a casual, friendly touch has entered his life. A knock of boots is one thing. This is not dissimilar, though. It's casual and Steve all the same, but Clint's rapidly trying to figure out if it's calculated, if any of it warrants the way his shoulders tense up like he wants to whirl around and fight, see an attack where there very much isn't one.

Seeing potential threats everywhere keeps him alive.

Steve is not, though. Not a threat. Not an enemy. It's fucking Steve. So he forces his shoulders to relax again. "Bed's all yours," he finally makes himself say to break the silence before it gets awkward. "Can keep your bag under it; mine's in the closet."