His hand was warm against her skin and Natasha let out a sigh of complete and utter contentment. Even with the warmth of his skin against hers, though, she shivered when his calloused fingers brushed over her various scars, the tissue never having fully regained all feeling. She remembered every one of them, just like she knew he did, and the ones he hadn’t been present for he had learned the story of later and committed to memory. No matter how many scars she gained, though, he always went back to the one he had given her.

She wore her scars like badges, never self conscious nor embarrassed of a single one of them, but that one was her favourite, it was the one that had changed her life.

“You want to teach me to fly?” she asked, a bit surprised by the offer. “But what can I offer in return? Russian lessons, maybe?”