The safehouse was colder than expected — drafty windows, thin walls, the kind of place that looked like it had survived three wars and was tired of surviving anything else.

You were pacing, rubbing your arms, trying not to panic.

Your supply kit was open on the table.

Empty. Completely empty.

Yelena was sitting on the couch, cleaning her knife, humming under her breath. She didn’t look up right away — but she always noticed when something was off.

She glanced up.

“Detka,” she said slowly. “Why do you look like you want to punch the floor?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow.

“Try again. With less lying.”

You hesitated — because you hated this part. You hated needing things. You hated being the one who caused problems during missions.

She stood, came closer, calm but attentive.

“What is it?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it.

Yelena softened. “Talk to me.”

“I—” You exhaled shakily. “I don’t have any insulin left.”

Her expression didn’t snap into panic. It tightened — controlled, focused, the way she got when a mission suddenly mattered twice as much.

She stepped closer.

“Okay,” she said. “How long since your last dose?”

“A while.”

“How do you feel?”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Just a little off. Thirsty. Headache. Nothing terrible.”

Yelena frowned. “You should have told me earlier.”

“I didn’t want to mess things up. We still have to report in, and—”

She grabbed your shoulders firmly but gently.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

“This is not messing things up. This is your health. I want you safe — not trying to be some idiotic hero who pretends they don’t need help.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought I could stretch it.”

“Detka.” Her voice softened, almost breaking. “You don’t stretch this. You tell me, and we fix it.”

You rubbed your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She cupped your face. “Just let me take care of you, yes?”

You nodded.

She guided you to sit on the couch and immediately began planning — pacing, checking her comms, sorting through your supplies.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Closest town is twenty minutes. I can steal— I mean, borrow — what you need. Or we call the team to drop some.”

You sighed. “You don’t have to run out in the snow just because I—”

“Yes, I do,” she cut in. “Because you are important. Because you matter. Because you don’t get to sit here feeling worse while I do nothing.”

You blinked at her.

Yelena exhaled, softer this time. She knelt in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“I’m not mad,” she said. “I’m scared.”

That made your chest ache.

“I didn’t know you’d… worry that much.”

“Of course I worry.” She rested her forehead against your leg. “You think I don’t pay attention? That I wouldn’t notice if you started feeling worse?”

You hesitated, voice small. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Yelena shot up to look at you, eyes sharp.

“Never say that again.”

Silence.

“You are not a burden. Not now, not ever.” She squeezed your knee. “I choose you. I choose to care about you. Let me.”

Your eyes stung.

“…Okay.”

Her entire posture softened.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now sit still. Drink some water. And I will be back before you miss me.”

You managed a small smile. “You promise?”

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I always keep my promises, detka.”

Then she pulled on her jacket, grabbed her knives, and headed toward the door — pausing just long enough to throw you a look full of fierce devotion.

“I’ll get what you need. Every time. Always.”

And then she was gone, snow swirling behind her.