He lets his fingers link behind Natasha's back, the same way he'd held Alice after she'd first arrived, and tips his head enough to watch the movement of Natasha's hand against the buttons of his shirt, and then his skin. It feels like a branding iron, but he leans into it, a little fascinated by the heat of her skin. When he can't watch any longer, he rests his cheek against her head.

"I was trying to prepare myself for it," he murmurs into her hair. "I was trying to be ready, in those first days even before I told you about Alice's vision, to come back to the cabin after an excursion and find it empty. The relief I felt every time it didn't happen, that's when I knew it'd hurt if it did."

After a moment, he raises his head and turns to glance at the kitchen windows. "Alice is on her way back," he adds, without loosening his arms or trying to step back. He can pick up the tendrils of her feelings, even this far out: happiness, excitement, that satisfaction she gets when she's had luck shopping. How far had she gone?