You didn’t tell her at first.

Not because you didn’t trust her — you trusted her more than anyone — but because saying the words out loud made everything real in a way you weren’t ready for.

But Yelena wasn’t stupid.

She noticed the tiredness you tried to hide. The way you winced when you stood. How you pretended you’d already eaten when you hadn’t touched a thing.

One night, she simply sat down beside you on the couch and said, “Stop lying to me.”

You froze.

Her eyes were not angry. Just… afraid. And Yelena Belova did not get afraid easily.

You swallowed hard. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” She shifted closer, her voice dropping. “I know something is wrong. And you think you’re protecting me by keeping it quiet. You’re not. You’re hurting me.”

Your chest tightened. The words felt too big. But she deserved the truth.

“I have cancer,” you whispered.

For a second, everything in her face went still. Like the world stopped moving and she was the only one who felt it.

Then she inhaled, slow and shaky — a crack in the armor she’d spent years building.

“What kind?” she asked. No panic. No yelling. Just determination. Focus. Because that was how she protected you.

You explained — diagnosis, treatment plan, fears you couldn’t say to anyone else. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t look away. The only movement was her hand, sliding into yours, squeezing like it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

When you finished, she leaned forward until her forehead pressed softly against yours.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Then we fight.”

Your breath shook. “Yelena—”

“No.” She cupped the back of your neck. “You listen to me. You are not doing this alone. I don’t care how stubborn you think you are. I am staying. Every appointment. Every bad day. Every good one. I am here.”

Your eyes burned, and she brushed her thumb across your cheek before the tear could fall.

“I don’t want you to see me like that,” you whispered.

She shook her head. “I want to see all of you. Even the parts that hurt.”

She pulled you into her arms — gently, careful of your body, but holding you like strength could be transferred through touch. Like she could shield you from it if she tried hard enough.

And when the treatments started — the long hours, the nausea, the fear — she never left your side.

She held your hand during the chemo drip, tracing patterns on your skin to distract you. She brought blankets, snacks, headphones, anything that made the chair feel less like a battlefield.

When your energy drained and your eyes barely stayed open, she guided your head onto her shoulder, whispering soft Russian words you didn’t understand but felt deep in your chest.

On the worst day — when your hair began to fall out in uneven strands — you broke. Tears you’d held back for months spilled fast and uncontrollably.

Yelena didn’t say anything.

She just knelt in front of you, gathered every fallen strand into her hands like something precious, and kissed your knee gently.

“Do you want me to cut mine too?” she asked quietly.

You shook your head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She rested her cheek against your thigh. “But I will if it makes you feel less alone.”

And for the first time that day, you managed a small smile.

Weeks passed. Then months. And slowly — painfully — you began to get better. The scans improved. Your strength crept back. The fear didn’t vanish, but it loosened its grip.

One evening, when you were sitting on the fire escape watching the sunset, Yelena slid beside you, her shoulder brushing yours.

“You scared me,” she said softly.

“I know.”

Her hand found yours. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You smiled, leaning your head against her. “I’ll try.”

She turned and pressed a kiss — soft, lingering — to your temple.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not ready to lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

And in the quiet golden light, with her arm wrapped firmly around you, you believed her.

You believed the two of you could survive anything.