By the time two years had passed, you and Bob had fallen into something that almost felt like peace.

Not easy. Not perfect. But steady.

Mornings in the compound were usually predictable—clattering dishes, someone arguing over coffee strength, Bob half-awake and leaning against the counter while you stole bites off his plate. You were known for loving food. Comfort food, bad cafeteria food, even whatever experimental protein paste Valentina approved that week. It was a running joke.

So when you started getting sick in the mornings, no one thought much of it at first.

You brushed it off yourself.

“Stomach bug,” you said, more than once. “I’ll be fine.”

But mornings became harder.

You’d wake before your alarm, nausea rolling through you in slow, relentless waves. The smell of coffee—coffee, which you loved—made your stomach twist. Some days you barely made it to the bathroom in time. Other days, you just sat on the edge of the bed, breathing shallowly, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Bob noticed, of course. He always did.

“You’re not eating,” he said one morning, watching you push your tray away untouched.

“I will later,” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite land. “Just not hungry.”

That alone should’ve scared him. You were always hungry.

Training was worse. Your balance felt off, like your body was half a second behind your thoughts. You ignored it, pushed through, told yourself you were being dramatic—until the day your vision dimmed mid-hallway and the floor tilted sharply beneath you.

You didn’t hit the ground.

A strong arm caught you around the waist.

“Whoa—hey,” Yelena’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with concern as she steadied you. “Nope. You’re not fine.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out weak. Your knees threatened to give again, and this time you didn’t fight it as she guided you to sit.

“Stomach bug?” she repeated dryly, crouching in front of you. “Because I’ve had those. They do not usually look like this.”

You swallowed, nausea creeping back up your throat. “I just need a minute.”

Bob arrived seconds later, panic written all over his face.

“What happened?” he asked, already kneeling, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch you wrong.

Yelena glanced between the two of you, then stood. “She almost collapsed. And she hasn’t eaten all day. Again.”

That word—again—hung heavy in the air.

Bob looked at you then, really looked. The shadows under your eyes. The way you leaned subtly toward him, like standing alone was too much effort. His jaw tightened, worry and something deeper flickering behind his eyes.

“This isn’t just a bug,” he said quietly.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that you didn’t want to be a problem, that you didn’t want to scare him. But your body betrayed you again, a sudden wave of nausea forcing you to grip his sleeve.

He didn’t hesitate. One arm wrapped firmly around you, grounding, familiar.

“We’re going to medical,” he said, not unkindly, but not leaving room for protest. “Together.”

Yelena smirked faintly. “Good. Because if you pass out again, I am not carrying you. Love you, but no.”

Bob helped you to your feet slowly, keeping you close, his hand warm against your back.