"Tell me," you took a drag from your cigarette. "If you had to choose - if - between me and the job. What would you do?"

Natasha's head was on your chest. The rise and fall of your chest soothed her, almost lulling her to sleep.

"I don't think we're that far into our relationship yet," the redhead chuckled lazily. "That's unfair."

You puffed out the smoke, the warmth filling your lungs. It was a bad compulsion, but then again old habits die hard.

"Oh, really?" You replied.

"Yes," she yawned. "My turn."

"Go ahead."

"How would you describe me?"

You tried to gather your thoughts, "Well..." You couldn't describe her that simply. She was a work of art, but you didn't want to say anything cliché. If there was anything you both hated, it was cliches.

"You're..." you smoked again. It was a long thought train.

The words faded from your mouth as you looked down to see a peacefully sleeping Natasha. Her soft snores set off alarms in your head and fireworks in your heart.

"You're beautiful."

You loved this woman.

The moon shone through the blinds, and you reached over to the ashtray to put out your cigarette. You snuggled closer to Natasha.

It was a pretty picture to paint; cool breeze blowing through the windows, the curtains softly blown now and then, moon shining on the half-naked bodies entangled in cotton white sheets, legs intertwined.

She never wanted to wake up.