The day you moved in, Yelena stabbed the toaster.

“I told it to stop burning my pop tarts,” she said, completely unfazed, pulling the smoking blade from the slot while you stood in the doorway holding your box of toiletries and wondering if you had made a very, very large mistake.

She didn’t even look at you at first—just muttered something in Russian under her breath and then said, “You must be the other one. Great. More hair in the drain.”

You blinked. “Hi?”

“Mm. We’ll see.”

Welcome to the D.R.E.A.M. Initiative—Domestic Reacclimation and Enhanced Assignment Management. Or, as Yelena called it, “The world’s worst sitcom.”

Apparently, pairing trained operatives and enhanced individuals together in regular apartments was supposed to “foster emotional growth and interpersonal bonding.” What it actually created was a fire hazard and a black market for overpriced coffee pods.

Yelena didn’t believe in labels. Or chores. Or personal space. But she did believe in throwing knives at motivational wall art. You once found a sticky note on the fridge that just said: "IF YOU TOUCH MY LEFTOVER PIEROGI, YOU DIE. XOXO, Yelena."

And yet... it worked. Sort of. You argued over the thermostat, over dish soap brands, over who had to attend the mandatory “Team Building” yoga class. But she also made you laugh until you cried. She noticed when you were quiet. She defended you like a feral raccoon in eyeliner.

Tonight, she strolls into the apartment covered in glitter—you don’t want to know—drops her boots, and flops dramatically onto the couch.

“Roomie,” she sighs. “I survived another day. I deserve an award. Or vodka. Preferably both.”

Then she smirks at you. “You gonna give me a hug or just keep staring like a confused squirrel?”

Welcome home.