Natasha laughed at that, she couldn't have done anything else. That stupid grin and that stupid double entendre and how stupidly, stupidly perfect he was, too. It felt like a dream. It did, it felt like a scene that had been plucked out of someone else's life and carelessly handed over to her like it was something easy, hey, you want this? I'm done with it, but if you think you could use it. And it had all happened at a pace that made her know, in the logical part of her brain, the place where she had lived most of her life, that it was too fast, they were running before they were walking, that there was nothing wrong with dialing it back.
The rest of her brain had learned the only thing that could override it, though, and it was: you could run out of time.
You could. Nobody was ever promised anything more than the moment they were currently inside. And if it was a concept every human (or humanoid, she supposed) was aware of an an intellectual level, not everyone got the front-row seat to the proof of it. Fewer than that number, even, ever came back from that front row seat. You could run out of time. You could convince yourself of the virtues of patience, and waiting, and paying out your dues, and you could end up on the other side of it never being allowed to touch anything at all. There was no such thing as the promise of a payout.
"All ears, Hawkeye, you've generally got interesting ideas," she told him, and tugged the hoodie off and aside with confidence she was pleasantly surprised to find still existed. She was still wearing her necklace beneath it. It didn't come off very often anymore.