It's a normal sort of suggestion; this he understands. Natasha suggests the same to him as well, some innate human pull toward the common ritual of sustenance when commonalities are so difficult to find. What Rogers is after is clear enough in the hopeful sheen of his eyes: More time, always more time, and some small thing to share, to build upon.

When he eats, it is cursory and alone. It isn't that he doesn't understand the enjoyment of food, but that he's never had the room for it before now. The cafe or bar, he can at least assent, are less volatile spaces than the close walls of Rogers' room.

And he supposes that perhaps he wants a little more time, too.

"Sure," he replies, more gruffly than he intends, perpetually unsteadied around this man.