You’re lying on the couch, one hand pressing against your temple, the room spinning slightly. The migraine hit like a hammer, and every sound—every flicker of light—feels amplified, unbearable.

Yelena leans against the doorway, arms crossed, frowning. “You look like hell,” she mutters, but there’s concern hiding behind her usual sarcasm.

“I feel like hell,” you groan. “Just… leave me alone.”

She doesn’t move. Instead, she sits on the edge of the couch, careful not to touch you without warning. “Fine,” she says, softening. “No talking. Just… don’t move too much, alright?”

You let out a sigh, trying to close your eyes, but the ache is relentless. Yelena carefully draws the blinds, dimming the room, then hands you a glass of water. “You’ll need to hydrate,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

You can’t help the tiny shiver at her touch, even though you don’t have the energy to argue. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

She mutters something under her breath—something like “dumbasses get migraines” in her accent—but her hand stays near yours, hovering, almost like a shield.

Minutes pass. Slowly, she starts to hum, a low, comforting tune. You don’t know the words, and it doesn’t matter. The sound is soothing, grounding you while the pounding in your head refuses to relent.

“Stay like this,” she whispers. “I’ll be here. No one’s touching you. Not me, not anyone.”

And for once, you let yourself lean slightly toward her, just a fraction, because the migraine is brutal—but her presence is a little medicine in itself.