The apartment smelled like slightly burned popcorn and cheap takeout. A half-eaten container of noodles sat on the coffee table, next to a remote Yelena had aggressively thrown at least twice in frustration.

“You know,” she said, flopping down next to you with a dramatic sigh, “America has the worst television. I cannot believe people actually watch this.”

You grinned. “You’ve been watching that reality show for three hours now.”

“Exactly. It’s addictive. I hate it.”

She pointed accusingly at the screen as two contestants began arguing over a blender.

“But if that man touches her smoothie again, I will riot.”

You chuckled, leaning back as Yelena stole a fry from your plate without asking, as always. She was in a loose hoodie, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, legs up on the couch like she lived here—which, well, she kind of did at this point.

“You’re impossible,” you teased.

She smirked and nudged your shoulder. “And you love it.”

You rolled your eyes, but neither of you moved. Outside, the city buzzed with life, but in your little apartment, it was just the two of you, warmth, sarcasm, and a growing stack of takeout boxes.

"Hey," Yelena said suddenly, more serious. "This is nice. I like this. You. The chaos. It feels like... home."

Her voice dipped quieter at the end, and you knew that for her, that word had always been complicated. But not tonight.

Not with you.