You and Yelena orbit each other like it’s unavoidable.

Not friends. Not enemies. Something worse — something unfinished.

Every interaction is a test. Who backs down first. Who looks away. Who pretends there wasn’t a moment, late and unguarded, that neither of you has ever explained.

“You’re late,” she says when you step into the briefing room. “You started early,” you reply, calm. Challenging. Her mouth curves into something that isn’t a smile. “Excuses already?”

You take the seat across from her on purpose. On missions, you work too well together. Movements synced, timing perfect, like you know where the other will be without looking. It makes the tension unbearable. Makes everyone else uncomfortable. Afterward, she corners you in the hallway.

“You undermine me,” she says. “You provoke me,” you answer. She steps closer. “And yet you never walk away.” “Neither do you.” The words hang there. Charged. There was something between you. Neither of you will say what it was. Admitting it would mean admitting it mattered.

During training, she knocks you off balance harder than necessary. “Focus,” she snaps. You recover instantly. “Try not to enjoy it so much.” Her eyes flash. “Careful. You’re not as detached as you pretend.”

Later, you find her on the balcony, arms folded, watching the city like it’s a problem she hasn’t solved yet.

“You push people until they leave,” you say, leaning on the railing beside her. “Then act surprised when they do.” She doesn’t look at you. “And you stay just long enough to make it complicated.”

Silence stretches. Not comfortable. Not meant to be. “You never told me what that night meant,” she says finally. You scoff softly. “Because you never asked.” She turns then, fully facing you. Close. Too close.

“Do not play games with me,” she says quietly. “I do not get involved halfway.” “Funny,” you reply. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Her jaw tightens. For a moment, it looks like she might walk away. Instead, she steps closer.

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you, “does not happen by accident.” “No,” you agree. “It doesn’t.”

Neither of you moves. Neither of you reaches out. The tension sits heavy, unresolved, humming beneath the surface. Eventually, she steps back. “Decide what you want,” she says. “Because I will not wait forever.”

She leaves first. You stay where you are, heart steady, expression unreadable — knowing full well that whatever this is between you, it’s deep enough to hurt, and sharp enough to cut if either of you slips. And neither of you is ready to admit that yet.