Yelena shows up at your door with a poorly disguised excuse to check on you while you’re sick, and ends up staying the night.

You barely make it to the door before the second knock lands, slow and deliberate. You’re wrapped in a blanket like a half-dead burrito, nose stuffed, throat on fire, and every inch of you aching with a fever you’ve tried to sweat out for the last twelve hours. You’d texted a total of two people: your boss (sick day, clearly dying, please don’t call) and Yelena (just the flu, not a bio-weapon, calm down). The first person left you alone.

The second is now standing in your doorway.

Yelena. In full black tactical wear. Arms crossed. Holding a paper bag.

“You look terrible,” she says matter-of-factly, taking one long look at your pale, glassy-eyed face. “Like you wrestled a bear. And lost.”

“I feel worse,” you croak, clutching your blanket tighter. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs, looking suddenly anywhere but at you. “I brought soup. Not because I like you or anything,” she adds quickly, voice sharp with defensiveness. “You’re just… pitiful. It’s sad.”

“You brought soup?”

“Yes. Do you want it or not?”