Yelena didn’t leave your side the rest of the night.

Not hovering. Not crowding.

Just… present.

She sat on the opposite side of the couch with a quiet determination, arms folded, knees drawn up. The safehouse lights were dim, the others asleep or at least pretending to be.

You wrapped yourself in a blanket, knees tucked close, still shaky from the earlier panic. Your body felt heavy, your mind foggy — like you were walking through water.

Yelena watched you, but gently. Soft eyes. Slow breathing. No sudden movements.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t shake your head.

You stared at the floor.

Yelena exhaled, not annoyed, not impatient.

Just sad.

“I wish you could hear yourself the way I hear you,” she murmured. “You think your silence means you’re small. Weak. Invisible.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t. Your silence has weight. It says don’t hurt me. It says I survived something. And you know what?”

Her voice softened further.

“It also says I trust you, when you let someone close.”

Your throat tightened at that.

Trust.

A word that felt too sharp to touch.

You curled deeper into your blanket, struggling to hold yourself together. Your fingers trembled again — tiny, almost invisible shakes you tried to hide.

Yelena saw.

Of course she did.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees but keeping her hands in plain sight. She placed her right hand palm-up on the couch cushion between you.

Not touching you. Not asking.

Just offering.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “And I won’t be upset if you don’t. But if you ever want… you can.”

You stared at her hand.

A simple thing. Small. Open. Safe.

But your chest tightened again, and your eyes stung, because no one had ever asked you like that. No one had ever waited. No one had ever made it feel like you weren’t a burden.

Your fingers moved before your brain understood.

A tiny, trembling reach.

Slow.

Uncertain.

You touched her fingertips.

Barely.

Yelena froze — not in shock, but in awe.

When you didn’t pull away, she flipped her hand, softly curling her fingers around yours in a loose, gentle hold. No pressure. No control. Just warmth.

Your breath hitched.

Yelena’s voice softened to a whisper:

“There you are.”

You swallowed, eyes burning.

You hadn’t touched someone willingly in years. Not since before the silence swallowed you whole.

But Yelena held your hand like it was something precious. Like it meant something.

And in a way it did.

It meant I trust you. It meant I’m here. It meant please don’t let go.

Yelena leaned her head back against the couch and kept your hand in hers.

Not tight. Not fragile.

Just right.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.

No one had ever said that to you for something so small.

You squeezed her fingers — the tiniest movement.

Her eyes widened, soft with emotion.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

And she didn’t let go.

Not for the rest of the night.