The hotel door clicks shut, and the silence is immediate and heavy.
Yelena doesn't even look at you.
She walks straight past you, tossing her tactical jacket onto a chair and heading for the small kitchenette.
Her movements are sharp, efficient, and completely dismissive.
You’ve been trying to catch her eye since you left the gala, but she’s been treating you like a ghost.
“The drive is encrypted, but I think I can get through the first layer tonight,” you say, trying to keep the conversation professional.
Yelena doesn't answer. She just fills a glass with water, the sound of the tap echoing in the quiet room. She takes a sip, staring blankly at the wall.
“Yelena?”
“I heard you,” she says, her voice flat and bored. She still doesn't look at you.
She sets the glass down with a controlled thud and starts unlacing her boots. Usually, after a mission, she’s making jokes about how much her feet hurt or complaining about the "cheap" snacks in the mini-bar. Tonight, she is perfectly, deathly silent.
“If you’re annoyed about the Castillo thing, just say it,” you say, crossing your arms.
Yelena stops moving for a split second, her fingers hovering over her laces. Then she continues, her expression completely blank.
“Why would I be annoyed? You did the job. You got the information. That is what we are here for.”
“Because you’ve been acting like I’m invisible for the last hour.”
She finally stands up, but she doesn't look at your face. She walks over to her duffel bag and starts pulling out a clean shirt, her jaw tight.
You can see the way her shoulders are bunched up, the tension radiating off her in waves.
She’s not "sad"—she’s simmering. Every time she thinks about Elena's hand on your waist, or the way you laughed at those terrible jokes, her movements get a little more aggressive.
She goes to walk past you to the bathroom, but you step in her way.
She stops, finally looking at you, but her eyes are like flint—cold and unreadable. “Move,” she says, her voice a low, clipped warning.
“No. Talk to me.”
“There is nothing to talk about. You were a very good actress tonight. Maybe you should go to Hollywood.”
She tries to push past you, her shoulder hitting yours firmly. She’s trying to keep that wall up, trying to act like it didn't bother her, but as she passes, you catch the way her hand is balled into a tight fist at her side.
She’s not ignoring you because she doesn't care; she’s ignoring you because if she starts talking, she’s afraid she’ll admit exactly how much it bothered her to watch someone else have your attention for four hours.
She reaches the bathroom door and grips the handle, her knuckles white. She pauses, her back still turned to you.
“Just get the encryption done,” she mutters, her voice tight.
She slams the door shut, the sound echoing through the room like a punctuation mark. She’s angry, she’s stubborn, and she’s absolutely refusing to give you the satisfaction of a real argument.