It was cliche everything about it was cliche. The way his hands on her waist felt familiar or how his lips burned against hers and how he felt like home. She kept waiting for it to fall apart. To silently crumble or go out with a bang. But when he placed his lips on hers, the world around them melted and they felt the flicker of fire, and the cool mint flavour of toothpaste made it all seem to perfect. And she had a knack for ruining masterpieces and he was the finest painting she had ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.
And she was so fucking scared that she was going to screw this up. Natasha knew it was all a little to cliche, a little to fake. But she wanted this more than she should have. And she was selfish. She liked how it felt to hug him and kiss him. She loved to curl into him as she feel sleep or whisper Russian into his ears late at night, knowing it drives him crazy. She liked knowing that someone could accept her as damaged as she was. She liked the idea that she could keep this masterpiece in tact. That she could stop it from getting crumpled and ripped in the wreckage. She loved the idea she could prevent him from becoming just like her. But she knew it was all going to end far too early for her to properly save him anyway. But it wasn't like she probably could have saved him anyway.