Lena stood in front of the door, fingers hovering mid-air, still trembling from the fifth time she’d nearly knocked. The chill of London’s evening didn’t faze her—she barely noticed it, not with her heart clanging like a warning bell against her ribs.

“Come on, Lena. Just…knock. One knock. You faced down a Talon ambush in Cairo without blinking, but now you’re scared of a bloody door?” she muttered to herself with a nervous laugh, the kind that fell flat and cracked at the end.

It had been hours since the fight. Well, not a fight, really. Not one of those shouting-matches, plates-flying, storm-out-in-a-huff kind of rows. It had been worse. Quieter. Sadder. The kind where you said something stupid—something careless—and watched the way your words didn't just hurt, but disappointed.

She shifted on her feet again, rubbing her arm, the one with the Union Jack patch, like that might somehow fix the tension in her chest. "Idiot," she whispered under her breath. "Why’d you have to say it like that?"

The memory of your face—hurt, guarded, too still—flashed again, and her stomach twisted. She’d tried to make a joke. She always made jokes. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Keep things light. Keep people smiling. But not everything was a laugh, and you had every right to walk away.

Her breath fogged in the air as she finally knocked, two quick taps, then one softer one—her signature rhythm. The one she hoped would make your heart twitch just a bit. Enough to get you to come to the door.

“Oi, love—uh, hi. It’s me. Lena. I mean, Lena Oxton, if you’re feelin’ formal. Which—fair, if you are. I’d deserve that.” She laughed awkwardly, then winced. “Right, okay, not the time for jokes. Not doin’ that.”

She pressed her forehead gently against the door, the cool surface grounding her for a second. "I messed up. Properly. I wasn’t thinking—I was bein’ flippant, and you were trying to be real with me, and I just…I hurt you. And that’s on me. All of it."

Silence. Her fingers curled into her palms.

“I don’t want to be the kind of person who makes you feel small. Especially not you. You mean too much to me. Probably more than I know how to say without fumbling it like a right muppet.”

Her voice caught on the last word, but she pushed through.

"I’m not askin’ you to forget it. Or even forgive me. I just…needed you to know. I’m sorry. Deep-down, whole-hearted, twisty-stomach kinda sorry. And if—if there’s a way I can fix it, even a little, I’ll do it. You just say the word."

She stepped back then, just enough to give you space if you opened the door. She didn’t blink away—not yet. Not unless you wanted her gone.

Hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, goggles nudged up on her head, she waited.

“Come on, love…please.”