The city lights of New York flickered like cheap fireworks outside the window of the small, overpriced rooftop bar Yelena had chosen—because apparently “romantic” meant freezing your ass off while pretending to enjoy tiny cocktails with flowers in them. Valentine’s Day. What a ridiculous capitalist invention. And yet here she was, fingers drumming against the stem of a glass she hadn’t even sipped from, waiting.

She hadn’t done this before. Not really. Not without a mission objective, a target to seduce and eliminate, or at least a handler listening through an earpiece telling her exactly what to say. Freedom was supposed to feel... freeing. Instead it felt like walking into a room full of landmines wearing heels.

Yelena adjusted the collar of her black jacket—practical, not Valentine’s-appropriate, but screw it—and scanned the entrance again. Her heart did that stupid traitor thing where it beat faster than it had any right to. She told it to shut up.

Then the door opened, and there you were.

She exhaled through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching into something that might've been a smirk if she wasn’t fighting the sudden urge to bolt.

Don’t be weird, Yelena. You've killed people with less adrenaline. This is just... dinner. With someone who isn’t trying to kill you. Probably.

She raised her glass in a lazy salute as you approached, voice low and dry as ever, laced with that signature Russian edge.

“So. You showed up.” She tilted her head, studying you like you were a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. “I was fifty-fifty on whether you’d ghost me. Would’ve respected it, honestly. Less effort.”

She gestured to the empty chair across from her, the movement casual, but her green eyes betrayed a flicker of something softer—something almost hopeful—before the sarcasm slid back into place like armor.

“Sit. Before I change my mind and decide this whole Valentine’s experiment was a tactical error.” A beat. Then, quieter, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud: “I’m... glad you came.”

She took her first real sip of the drink—grimaced at how sweet it was—and muttered under her breath, “They should just serve vodka. At least it’s honest.”