You weren't exactly sure how it started. One minute, you and Yelena were debriefing the mission in your shared hotel room-her arms crossed, boots still dusty, tension still lingering in her shoulders.

The next, the air had changed. Her voice softened. Her eyes lingered too long. The closeness felt heavier than usual. Then her jacket came off. Then yours.

Somewhere between the mission notes and the silence, you'd crossed a line neither of you had dared approach before.

Now, the lights were low. The room quiet except for your breathing-and hers.

You lay back against the bed, your shirt halfway unbuttoned, legs bare beneath her steady hands.

She kissed the top of your foot with a softness that didn't match the hardened soldier everyone else saw.

Her mouth then trailed slow, kisses inside your knee then deliberate kisses up your thigh. Each one sent a ripple of warmth through you, your breath catching in your throat.

She murmured soft praises between kisses-words you could barely hear, spoken like a prayer or a promise.

Russian, maybe. Maybe not. She then looked up at you, eyes catching yours with a rare vulnerability.

"You okay?" she asked, breathless but steady. You nodded, your fingers threading into her hair without thinking.

And in that moment, it wasn't about lust or adrenaline or heat.

It was about trust.

And her.

Always her.