Steve sets the bottle of Aleve beside his sketchbook on the table between getting coffee brewing and pulling mugs down.

The silence isn't a refusal to talk, or awkward for him. It's just being unusually sleepy and a little... stuck in his head, trying to work out what the fuck happened with him last night, and thinking about Clint's... activity for the day, and his own positioning and mental preparation for the potential for it to go straight to hell. Just fragmented nonsense that doesn't want to (and Steve doesn't want to) turn into anything too real.

Once he does talk? It's pretty normal. "I don't think I've slept that hard in a decade. I kinda feel like I got hit by a truck and I don't even have anything physical to blame it on. You doing ok?"