A small, shuddering intake of breath. That's about as far as Sam lets it get, but it's probably plenty enough. Sam carries grief close to his chest, doesn't break down on people, doesn't show his hurt. Waits until he's alone to cry, waits until everyone is gone to break down. Rare that he lets people see him messed up. Sam tends to take his hurts and bury them deep inside his ribcage. Steve knows that - knows that impossible grief was wrapped up in 'My wingman, Riley. Got his dumbass shot out of the sky', a quip like it's nothing, when it was big enough to change the trajectory of Sam's life completely.

He almost feels okay, being held like that. Fucking super soldiers abusing their powers for hugs. Honestly.

"Lemme start with the fact that this glorified salad bowl of yours is goddamn heavy."

He doesn't let go. Not yet. It's starting to feel pathetic, but Sam's lost Steve twice now. He's allowed. And still, he deflects. Takes his pain, puts it in a box. Steve is here, and that means more important things than Sam are on the table. Like... well.

"Buck's here. Tony, too. Natasha's little sister. Peter Quill. T'Challa's dead cousin. A time travelling SHIELD Agent. Where do you wanna start?"

And with that he pulls back. Steve can skip all those options and insist they start with Sam, of course - it depends on how hard he's gonna let Sam deflect here, really.