Emma doesn't reach out for him. She doesn't hook her fingers in the lapel of his leather jacket.

This is a game she plays with herself. How long can she go without touching him? It's a game, but it's also not. What if one day he's not there to be touched? Better not to forget how to control the need to touch him, be touched, be held when things hurt.

"What gave me away? The Avengers thermos, the swings, or the fact he's my son?" Her old game, sarcasm and sass, she lost a long time ago. Even if she's being a smartass, her words hold nothing but warmth for him.