Natasha walked out of the spare bedroom wearing a bird’s nest of red hair, a baggy purple T-shirt, and not much else. She leaned against the doorway, eyes closed, and listened to the solid thunk of arrows through plaster. The creak of a stretched bowstring was followed by the soft sound of a release, and a very loud th-thunk into the molding beside her head.
She didn’t flinch. She opened her eyes leisurely, blinking cat-like at the rosy apple dripping juice down the door frame, stuck to the wall by a still vibrating arrow. The fletching glistened crow-black in the overhead light. She followed its flight path back to the now-slack bow in Clint’s hands, and then up to his face.
“Don’t stop on my account.”