You woke up to the sound of choking.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a broken, strangled inhale — the kind someone makes when they’re drowning in nothing.

Your eyes snapped open.

Yelena was sitting upright in bed, her back to you, shoulders shaking like she’d run miles. Her hands were clamped in her hair, knuckles white, elbows pressed to her knees.

She was trying to breathe. Trying and failing.

“Lena?” Your voice was gentle, still thick with sleep. “Hey, detka… you’re okay.”

She didn’t hear you.

Not really.

Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, like she was still trapped in the nightmare, like the Red Room walls were still closing in around her. You’d seen this before — but it never stopped hurting.

You moved slowly, carefully, the way you’d learned.

No sudden movements. No grabbing. No touching without warning.

“Yelena,” you whispered again, coming around to kneel in front of her. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

Her eyes shot open.

Wide. Wild. Not seeing you.

“Nat—” Her voice cracked in half. “She was—she was falling and I couldn’t— I couldn’t—”

The memory hit her so hard she folded forward, pressing a fist to her mouth like she could force the sound back down.

You shook your head softly. “Hey, no. She’s not here. You’re safe. You’re here. With me.”

Her chest heaved. She rubbed at her sternum like she was trying to claw something out.

“I keep seeing it,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I keep seeing her. And the Red Room. And all of it—every time I close my eyes—”

Her breathing sped up again — too fast, too sharp.

Panic.

Real panic.

You slowly reached out and placed your hand over hers, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. She collapsed into the touch like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“Follow me,” you murmured. “Follow my breathing, okay? In for four… out for four.”

You inhaled slowly, exaggerating the rise of your chest.

Yelena tried.

She failed.

She choked on the air and flinched.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” you soothed quickly. “Try again. I’m right here.”

This time, you pressed your forehead gently to hers.

This helped.

It always did.

Her breath stuttered, caught, then slowly — painfully slowly — began to match yours.

When the panic finally loosened its grip, she sagged forward, collapsing into your arms so suddenly you had to catch her by the waist.

You held her.

She clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in the world.

Her voice was wrecked when she spoke again. Small. Broken.

“I don’t want to remember it anymore.”

You kissed the side of her head. “I know.”

“I don’t want to dream about it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want it to hurt.”

“I know, detka. I know.”

She buried her face in your chest, breath warm and shaking against your skin.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “Lean on me.”

Her hands fisted in your shirt, as if afraid you might disappear if she loosened her grip even a little.

“I miss her,” she finally breathed. So quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

You closed your eyes, holding her tighter. “I miss her too.”

For a long time, she cried — not loudly, but with that deep, shaking grief that comes from the place where childhood pain and fresh loss twist together.

You rubbed slow circles on her back, grounding her.

And she didn’t fight it. Not tonight.

When she finally calmed, she whispered into your chest:

“Will you stay awake with me?”

You kissed her hair.

“Always.”