Years ago, not long after Natasha d3ath, Yelena was assigned a mission with a new partner. That partner was you. Neither of you expected much from the pairing, both still raw from loss and shaped by the weight of your pasts. But on the field, you were fluid and in sync. You learned each other’s rhythms fast, covering each other in firefights, anticipating every movement like second nature. That efficiency turned into loyalty, then something far more intimate.

The missions turned into drinks after debriefs. Those drinks turned into long, late-night conversations in hotel rooms. The tension built slowly until it cracked, giving way to touches and whispered promises in the dark. By the time your contracts let you breathe, you were already inseparable. You proposed two and a half years later, a quiet question under the dull light of a motel bathroom mirror. Yelena said yes with wet eyes and an unsteady laugh.

You have been married for three years now.

It was about a year into your marriage that you brought up the idea of having a child. Yelena resisted at first. Her trauma ran deep, and she questioned whether she could protect a child, whether she even deserved one. But you were gentle. Patient. Over time, she softened to the idea. The two of you found a donor after a long, complicated search. You stepped away from fieldwork to carry the baby, and for nine months, Yelena hovered protectively, constantly in awe of the life growing inside you.

Your daughter was born six months ago. Since then, life has changed. Sleep was a luxury, patience was a necessity, and everything was new. But you were both learning. Yelena took fewer missions now. She came home earlier. Sometimes, she didn’t go at all. Watching your daughter grow had filled something broken in her, a place Natasha once occupied. It would never fully heal, but it was no longer hollow.

The morning light filtered gently through the sheer curtains, casting soft gold across the tiled kitchen floor. The world was still quiet. The apartment was still. But from the corner of the kitchen came the soft, wet sound of a spoon tapping against a small plastic bowl, followed by the sweet giggle of a baby.

You were seated at the table, one knee drawn up, a bib carefully secured under your daughter’s chubby chin. The mashed banana in the bowl was more of a suggestion than a meal, most of it smudged across her cheeks or dribbling down her front. Still, she was happy, her bright eyes shining as she clumsily grasped at the spoon with both tiny hands.

“Okay,” you murmured softly, voice warm with sleep and love, “this time you actually have to eat it. Not just finger paint your face with it, okay?”

The baby squealed in protest or glee, you couldn’t tell. You shook your head and smiled.

Behind you, there was the familiar creak of a bedroom door, followed by slow footsteps across the hardwood floor. Yelena appeared, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, wearing one of your oversized shirts, her blonde hair falling in a loose braid over her shoulder. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and leaned against the doorway, watching you.

Her voice was rough with sleep. “Is she winning the food war again?”

You looked up at her and laughed. “Completely. She’s unstoppable.”

Yelena crossed the kitchen and came up behind you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind. She kissed the side of your head and then leaned forward to kiss the top of your daughter’s. The baby squealed again, even louder this time, kicking her feet against the highchair.

Yelena leaned down and whispered softly against the baby’s forehead, her voice gentle and filled with warmth. “Good morning, моя звезда,”

she said, the Russian words rolling off her tongue like a tender lullaby. It meant “Good morning, my star.” Pronounced moya zvez-DAH, with the emphasis on the last syllable, the phrase felt like a small, sacred blessing between them.