It starts with your ringtone.

Not the normal one. The stupid one Yelena changed it to months ago — the one that sounds like a 2000s pop song and makes your entire room light up at 01:37 a.m.

You blink awake, groaning. Only one person would call at this hour.

And only for one reason.

You swipe to answer.

“Yelena?”

Her breath fills the line before her voice does, shaky in a way she would deny to death.

“Detka… please don’t hang up.”

You sit up. She never says please. Not even ironically.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I just— I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.”

There it is. The thing she tries to hide under sarcasm and vodka and leather jackets.

You sigh — soft, not annoyed — and she hears it. Of course she does.

“I know,” she mutters, “I know I said I would stop calling you at night.” “But tonight is… bad.”

You rub your forehead. “You’re outside, aren’t you?”

A guilty silence. Then:

“Maybe.”

When you open your door, she’s actually there. Back against the hallway wall, hood up, knees pulled close like she walked here in the cold and forgot to feel it.

Her eyes lift when you step out. Bright. Tired. Too honest.

“Yelena…”

“Don’t say it,” she warns quietly. “Don’t tell me to go home.”

You swallow.

She looks awful. Eyes red, mascara smudged, jaw tight like she’s forcing herself not to cry.

You step closer.

“What happened?”

She shakes her head.

“Everyone expects me to be fine. Natasha’s gone. The Red Room is gone. So I should be fine, right? A new start, a new life, ta-da.”

she huffs

“But it’s quiet in my apartment. Too quiet. And I kept thinking—”

Her voice cracks.

“I kept thinking that if something happened to me, no one would even know until morning.”

That hits you. Hard.

You place your hand on her cheek. She leans into it like she hasn’t been touched in weeks.

“You could’ve called earlier,” you whisper.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me.”

Her eyes flick to yours— fast, sharp, vulnerable.

“Then why aren’t we together?” “Why do you keep pulling away when I reach for you?”

You freeze.

This is the part you always avoid — the feelings part, the heavy part, the part where she stops joking and actually says the truth.

“Yelena…”

She steps closer, chest nearly touching yours.

“I’m not asking for love,” she murmurs, lips brushing your temple as she speaks. “I’m asking not to be alone tonight.”

You exhale shakily.

“Come inside.”

She does — quietly, almost gratefully.

The second the door closes, she wraps her arms around your waist, burying her face in your neck. Her breath trembles. Her fingers clutch your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll slip away.

You hold her tighter.

“I’m here.”

“Don’t leave,” she whispers. “Just… stay with me until the world stops feeling so loud.”

You guide her to the couch. She sits between your legs, back pressed to your chest, gripping your hands like lifelines.

After a long moment, she whispers:

“Detka?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for opening the door.”

You kiss the top of her head.

“Always.”

And she leans back, finally breathing again — safe, held, home.