The door closes too hard behind you.

Not slammed. Just… harder than necessary.

Yelena is standing by the window when you walk in. She doesn’t turn around. That’s how you know it’s bad.

You drop your gear on the table. The sound echoes in the quiet.

The mission had gone sideways. Not failed — but close enough to taste it. Close enough to feel the edge of it pressing against your throat.

“You ignored the call.”

Her voice is calm. Controlled. That’s worse than yelling.

You shrug off your jacket, buying time. “I finished the objective.”

“You ignored the call,” she repeats.

You don’t answer this time.

Because you did.

You saw the risk. You calculated it. You chose it anyway.

She finally turns to face you. There’s no relief in her expression. No pride. Just something tight around her eyes that wasn’t there this morning.

“You almost didn’t make it out.”

“But I did.”

The words come out sharper than you intend.

Her jaw flexes.

You can feel it now — the shift. Not anger. Not exactly. Something heavier. Something unspoken.

You move past her, needing space, but the room feels smaller than it did yesterday.

“I had control,” you say, quieter now.

“You had luck.”

That lands.

You turn back toward her.

It’s not the accusation that bothers you. It’s the certainty.

“You don’t trust me.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

And that silence says more than anything else could.

She looks at you like she’s trying to decide something. Like she’s weighing cost against outcome. Like she’s done that math before.

“I trust you to fight,” she says finally.

But not to survive.

She doesn’t say the rest. She doesn’t need to.

Your chest tightens.

You hate that she thinks you’re reckless.

You hate more that a part of you knows she might be right.

“You make decisions like you’re alone,” she continues, quieter now. “Like no one else has to watch.”

Watch what?

Watch you bleed? Watch you fall? Watch you not come back?

The air between you feels charged, but neither of you steps closer.

“I don’t need supervision,” you say.

Her expression shifts at that. Not anger. Something almost like disappointment.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she looks at you — really looks at you — like she’s memorizing something she might lose.

And that makes you angrier than if she’d yelled.

“I don’t belong on a leash,” you mutter.

Her eyes flash.

“You are not disposable.”

The words hit harder than any accusation.

You look away first.

Because if you don’t, you might see something in her face that makes this harder.

The room falls quiet again. Thick. Unfinished.

Neither of you apologizes.

Neither of you backs down.

And when she turns back toward the window, putting distance between you without physically moving, you understand something without it being said:

Next time, she might not pull you out.

Or she might.

And that uncertainty lingers heavier than the argument ever could.

The mission was completed.

But this?

This isn’t.