The knock comes the way it always does — three soft taps against your window. Quiet. Precise. Familiar enough that your heart jumps before you even look up.

You try to ignore it. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed with a textbook open, highlighter in hand, pretending you haven’t been glancing toward the glass every few minutes.

The latch clicks.

Cold night air slips in first.

Then Yelena.

She moves like she belongs to the dark, swinging inside with effortless balance before shutting the window behind her. Her short blonde hair is wind-tossed, brushing along her jaw. In the low lamplight, her green eyes catch immediately — sharp, observant, already locked on you.

“You left it unlocked,” she says casually.

“You complain when I don’t,” you mutter.

She hums, unconvinced, and crosses the room like she owns it. She drops onto your bed without asking, stretching out comfortably on her back. Tactical jacket, fitted black pants, faint scent of leather and cold air clinging to her.

You try not to stare.

She notices anyway.

“You were waiting,” she says, not even looking at you.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Your cheeks warm. You hate that she’s right.

She props herself up on her elbows and tilts her head. “Come here.”

You hesitate just long enough for her to roll her eyes. Then she reaches out, catches your wrist, and gives a firm tug. You stumble forward, landing half on the mattress beside her.

“Yelena—”

“Stop pretending you don’t like this.”

Before you can argue, her arm slides around your waist and pulls you down fully against her side. Her hold is steady, secure. Not forceful. Just confident.

You stiffen for half a second.

Her hand adjusts automatically, thumb brushing slow circles against your hip through the fabric of your shirt. Grounding. Intentional.

You relax despite yourself.

She’s been climbing through your window for months now. It started as late-night check-ins. Then quiet talks. Then sitting too close while you studied. Somewhere along the way, it turned into this — her arm around you, your head tucked near her shoulder, her boots kicked off under your desk like she plans to stay.

“Someone’s going to notice,” you murmur.

“They already suspect.”

Your stomach flips. “Suspect what?”

She finally looks at you, one brow lifting. “That I like you.”

Your face burns instantly.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re annoying.”

She smiles faintly at that, pleased. Her fingers slide up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. The teasing fades just a little as her touch lingers at your temple, then trails down your cheek.

You go still.

Her expression softens — subtle, but real. “You get shy so easily.”

“Stop noticing,” you mumble.

“Never.”

She shifts closer, pressing her forehead lightly to yours. The room feels smaller like this. Quieter. Outside, the campus is asleep. Inside, it’s just the sound of your uneven breathing and the faint rustle of fabric as she tightens her hold.

Her hand drifts to the small of your back, fingers splayed there like she’s claiming the space. Protective. A little possessive — even if she’d never admit that out loud.

You curl slightly toward her without thinking.

She exhales softly at that, chin resting on top of your head. “You’re safe,” she says, voice low and steady.

Not a joke. Not sarcasm.

Just truth.

Your fingers twist into the fabric of her jacket. She responds by pulling you closer, until you’re practically sprawled across her. Your textbook slips off the bed and hits the floor with a dull thud.

Neither of you move to pick it up.

Her fingers trace slow, absent patterns along your spine. When you shiver, she gives a quiet, satisfied hum.

“You like when I touch you.”

You hide your face against her shoulder.

She laughs under her breath and presses a soft kiss into your hair — brief, but intentional.

When you finally ask if she’s staying, she doesn’t answer with words. She simply shifts onto her back and pulls you with her, arranging you so your head rests over her heartbeat. Her arms wrap around you fully.