1ST VERSION — ORIGINAL

The first time you saw her, she was sitting on a park bench like she had nowhere to be and nothing to prove.

It was early spring. You were on your lunch break, juggling coffee, a phone call, and a stack of papers when a dog — somebody’s dog — collided into your legs, causing the papers to scatter like oversized confetti. You cursed under your breath and knelt to gather them.

That’s when she appeared — sunglasses, leather jacket, dog leash in hand — crouching beside you with a crooked smile.

“Do you always bring your files on walks?” she asked.

You looked up, startled, and blinked at the stranger with a Russian accent and mischief behind her smile.

“I’m a multitasker,” you said warily.

“Clearly,” she replied, handing you the final page.

You stood. She stood. And neither of you moved away.

Her name was Yelena. She said she was “just passing through” — which turned into a week, then two, then coffee, then walks, then dinner.

She didn’t talk about her past. You didn’t push. She said she worked in “security.” You assumed she meant private detail — not assassinations. Not black ops. Not Widows and missions and secrets heavy enough to sink a person.

She didn’t tell you that the moment she met you, she was already lying.

Because Yelena Belova was on a mission in your city. A clean extraction. Low-risk, high-priority. But it took time. And in that time, she got… bored.

And then she met you.

You were warm. Normal. You smiled with your whole face. You spoke to children like they were people. You didn’t treat her like a weapon.

She didn’t mean to fall for you.

But she did.

And the worst part? She thought about staying.

Right up until the mission ended.

Then she vanished. No goodbye. No note. Just silence — like she never existed.

Now.

Years later, you were hosting a charity exhibit at a local museum. Art, memory, healing — a showcase of youth trauma expression through creative work. You’d done well for yourself. Built a name. Built a cause. Buried the past.

And then she walked in.

Hair shorter, eyes the same. Wearing black again — as if grief was stitched into her fashion sense.

You froze mid-sentence during a conversation with a donor. Your gaze snagged on her the way your breath snagged in your chest.

She saw you. Stopped cold.

You turned away before your mask cracked. Excused yourself.

You were halfway down the hall when you heard her voice behind you.

“Wait.”