She’s got a quip prepared — and then he follows with that and Natasha stills entirely, not prepared for the throb that runs through her, or the way she’s suddenly picturing that same drop of water. It’s his fault. It has to be his fault, she had been fine, and then he’d come in here with his voice and that thought and now she’s thinking it too.

She wants him to use the shower. She wants him very far away. She wants him to ran his hands down all of the different paths a water droplet could take. She wants him to die a second, much more painful death.

Her jaw works, and she’d slam her fist into the tile wall if she thought it’d do more than hurt or make him wax poetic about her bruised fingers.

“You’re going to have to be careful.” Resigned, voice tight with the same control that he’s exerting over his body language.