You slam the door behind you, boots echoing against the floor. Yelena is already in the living room, arms crossed, back straight, glaring like she’s been waiting just to pounce.

“Finally,” she says, voice tight. “I thought you’d decided to disappear entirely today.”

“I didn’t disappear,” you snap, setting your bag down roughly. “What, you’ve been counting the minutes or something?”

Her eyes flare. “Don’t get smart with me. I’ve been dealing with your mess all day, and you stroll in like nothing happened.”

“I had stuff to do,” you fire back. “Stuff that actually matters.”

“Oh, right. ‘Stuff that matters.’ Let me guess — whatever makes you look good?” She steps closer, hands on her hips, voice rising. “Because that’s always how it works with you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it does!” you shoot back, teeth gritted. “And at least I actually do things instead of sitting around judging everyone else like some perfect saint!”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “Saint? Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care about being perfect. I care about you not screwing everything up!”

“Everything?” you growl. “Like the mission I pulled off without your constant whining and ‘helpful advice’?”

Her nostrils flare. “You think you did it alone? You think I don’t see the mess you leave behind every single time?”

“You’re impossible,” you spit.

“You’re impossible!” Her voice cracks a little, but she doesn’t back down. “Always thinking you’re right. Always thinking rules don’t apply to you!”

“I don’t think I’m right,” you snap, stepping closer, “I am right. And you know it!”

She throws her hands up. “Oh, don’t you dare! You think yelling at me proves anything?”

“Maybe not,” you say through gritted teeth. “But it proves I’m not going to sit here and take your constant lectures!”

The room goes quiet for a heartbeat, heavy with all the words that don’t need saying. Your chest is tight, her glare burning, and neither of you moves.

Then she mutters, low, venomous: “One day, this is going to blow up. And don’t think I won’t be the first to walk out when it does.”

“Fine,” you snap, shaking your head. “Maybe it should blow up. Maybe I’m done tiptoeing around you.”

Her jaw tightens. “Try me.”

Another silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you speaks, but the anger hums, alive, a current in the air.

You glare at her. She glares back.

The room stays tense, unresolved, both of you breathing hard, full of words that haven’t been said yet. The argument is unfinished. The fight isn’t over.