Natasha traced the raised scars along Clint's forearm, a bullet tally for each life he'd taken. His muscles tensed under her fingertips as her touch drifted lower.
"289," she murmured, counting the thin lines etched into his tanned skin. A silent memorial to the red in his ledger, just like her own.
His other palm came up, capturing her hand, calloused thumb brushing over the faded marks on the inside of her wrist. A matching score for each target she'd eliminated without mercy.
They were the deadliest assassins, feared by most. Yet the only shots that truly mattered were the invisible scars they'd inflicted upon each other's souls.
Clint's breath was heavy as his forehead pressed against hers, eyes boring into her with an intensity she'd never grow used to. "Doesn't matter," he rasped gruffly. "We're wiping the slate clean."
Their pasts were permanently scored into their flesh, etched into their bones. But in that charged moment, their tangled bodies vowed to rewrite the future - one tally at a time.
As her fingers drifted hungrily across the planes of his chest, her mind flashed to their first meeting - an explosive clash of bullets and blades in Volgograd. Her target then, now her anchor in the unforgiving world they inhabited.
It had been a routine kill mission, just another anonymous name to cross off the list. But from the moment they'd locked eyes across that dimly lit warehouse, Natasha knew this American agent was different.
There was a practiced lethality in the way he moved, a cold precision in his archery skills that simultaneously repulsed and entranced her. Here was a man devoid of mercy, yet not without his own moral code.
Their deadly danse macabre whittled away at their ranks, comrades falling one-by-one to stray bullets and ballistic blades. Until it was just the two of them stalking the shadows, primal predators with no room for mistakes.
When at last Clint stood over her with an arrow trained at her heart, there was an indecipherable look in those chiseled features. His lips had parted imperceptibly, as if tasting the weight of her life in the air.
Natasha's breath came in ragged pants, a pang of blossoming curiosity joining the flood of adrenaline in her veins. She held his gaze steady, wordlessly urging him to take the shot - or spare her. It made no difference.
But he just...wavered. The bow lowered an inch, two inches. His rugged jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. And in that fractional moment, a pivotal decision was made.
Clint rolled them, pinning her beneath him with a smirk as he nuzzled the soft skin of her neck. How many times had they danced this dance, toeing the line between allies and adversaries? Too many to count.
But the dice had fallen into place that fateful night. In an impulsive act of defiance, he'd spared her life and opened her eyes to a harsh reality. Here was a man who could match her in every way, yet chose to see something she'd long suppressed - her humanity.
The dull thud of her rifle clattering to the floor echoed through the empty warehouse. Natasha remained taut as a bowstring beneath him, torn between the desire to retaliate and the reluctant fluttering of something deeper taking root.
"Why?" The question had slipped from her lips in a breathy rasp laced with infinite intrigue.
Clint's eyes had darkened, a million weary platitudes about honor and ethical boundaries dying on his tongue. Instead, he wet his lips and leveled her with a look that made her breath catch in her throat.
"You've got a choice to make."
Those five little words shattered like a hammer through the meticulously crafted layers surrounding Natasha's heart. A choice? She was the product of rigorous conditioning, an engineered killer without freedom...without a name.
