The hallway smelled of stale alcohol before you even reached the bathroom. Something in the back of your mind tensed, a warning you didn’t need.

You pushed the door open slowly. There she was. Yelena, sprawled on the cold tile floor, her head resting awkwardly against the bathtub, a nearly empty bottle tipped beside her.

“Yelena…” your voice was low, cautious.

She didn’t stir. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, but the faint rattling breath told you she was barely conscious.

Kneeling beside her, you checked for signs of a serious overdose, your hands gentle but firm. Her skin was pale, her usual fiery presence muted completely by the alcohol.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, glazed and unfocused.

“I… I’m fine,” she mumbled, slurring the words, trying to push you away even in her weak state.

“No,” you said firmly. “You’re not fine. Not like this. Not ever.”

Her head lolled against your shoulder, and for the first time, she didn’t resist. The armor cracked, the bravado gone. You held her carefully, your heart tightening.

“Please… let me help,” you said softly, rocking her slightly. “I don’t want to lose you to this.”

Her lips trembled, and she whispered a broken, “I know…” before collapsing against you, utterly vulnerable.

And for once, the assassin, the survivor, the White Widow — all of her defenses fell away.