The apartment was quiet, save for the soft scratch of pencil against paper.

Golden light spilled in from the streetlamps outside, casting long shadows through the open balcony doors. The room smelled faintly of charcoal dust and coffee left too long on the burner. Your sketchbook lay across your lap, the latest in a long line of filled pages—every one of them bearing some part of her.

Yelena.

She hadn’t answered your last message. Typical. You’d stopped worrying about that a while ago—not because you didn’t care, but because she always came back. Eventually. When she did, it was usually with bruises blooming across her ribs or a gash across her eyebrow, but she never brought her injuries through the front door.

She always came through the balcony.

You didn’t look up when you heard the soft creak of boots on metal. You knew the sound by heart. It was her telltale entry, as familiar as the sound of your own breath.

A moment passed in silence.

Then another.

You kept sketching.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped inside, cool air brushing past you as she moved. She didn’t announce herself, but you felt her presence anyway—her warmth, her weight, the slight shift in the air as she came to stand behind you.

When she leaned over your shoulder, her breath fanned the side of your neck. A heartbeat passed. Then:

“You drew me again.”