(🎧 “Notion” — The Rare Occasions)

The hallway outside the safehouse kitchen buzzes with low conversation and the clatter of dishes, but you barely hear it. You only hear her. Her boots. Her breath. Her voice.

You turn the corner and there she is — Yelena, leaning against the counter like she owns the entire building. Black tactical shirt rolled to the elbows, hair in a messy tie, eyes flicking up the second she senses you.

Her jaw tightens. Yours does too.

You haven’t spoken properly in weeks—not since the break-up that was more like a detonation.

But tonight? Tonight feels dangerous.

Yelena lets out a humorless half-laugh. “Detka. You keep appearing everywhere I don’t want you.”

You cross your arms. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled either.”

But you both know it’s a lie. You feel gravity dragging you closer anyway.

She steps toward you. One pace. Two. A breath away now—close enough you can smell the faint trace of her cologne and gun oil.

Her voice drops, rough. “You still get this look when you see me. Like you’re trying not to feel something.”

You scoff. “Please.”

Yelena tilts her head, studying you with that razor-sharp softness only she has. “That’s cute. Say it again like you mean it.”

Your heartbeat kicks up, traitorous. She notices instantly—her pupils widening, a slow smile pulling at her lips like she just confirmed her favorite theory.

“God,” you mutter, trying to step past her, “you’re insufferable.”

She blocks you with one hand against the wall beside your head. Not forceful—just inevitable.

“You broke up with me,” she says quietly, like it still stings. “And you still act like I’m the problem.”

“You were never the problem,” you fire back before you can stop yourself.

Silence. The thick kind. The Notion kind — full of unspoken apologies and everything neither of you manages to say right.

Her eyes soften, then harden again, flickering through emotions like a storm you can’t outrun.

“You make me feel—” she stops, swallowing it down. “I don’t like it.”

You whisper, “I know.”

She exhales shakily, forehead almost touching yours. “You walk in a room and my brain forgets how to function. It is annoying.”

Your voice barely works. “Yelena…”

She leans in—just enough that her breath brushes your lips but not enough to close the distance.

“That’s the thing about you,” she murmurs. “No matter how far we run, you’re always in my head. Like a… how do you Americans say?” Her smile is sharp, aching. “A goddamn notion I can’t shake.”

Your hand slides up her arm without thinking. She shivers. Actually shivers.

The tension is so thick you could tear it.

You whisper, “If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t be this close.”

Her breath hitches. “If I didn’t want you—” She grabs your waist, pulling you flush against her— “—I wouldn’t be losing my mind every time you look at me.”

Your lips almost touch.

Almost.

You whisper, “Then kiss me.”