The fire in the corner crackled weakly, the only sound cutting through the silence of the ruined world outside. The walls of the safehouse were covered in scratches and old blood, but in this moment — wrapped in an old blanket, her warmth pressed against your side — it almost felt like peace.

Yelena lay beside you, eyes half-open, watching the ceiling. Her arm rested over your stomach, her fingers unconsciously tracing the bandages she’d wrapped hours ago. You could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest — calm, rhythmic, grounding.

“You snore,” she murmured, voice low and teasing.

“I wasn’t asleep,” you whispered back.

“Mm. Then you breathe very loudly,” she said, and you heard the faint smile in her tone.

You turned your head to look at her. Her hair was messy, her cheek streaked with dirt and ash, but there was something soft in her eyes — something that didn’t belong in a world like this.

“You should rest,” you said. “You’ve been awake since—”

“I know,” she interrupted, eyes closing. “But if I sleep, I might miss something. And I can’t miss something when you’re here.”

The words hung in the air for a long time. You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she caught your wrist gently — not to stop you, just to hold it there.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured. “Like I’m something worth saving.”

“You are,” you said softly.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned closer, her forehead resting against yours. Outside, the dead shuffled somewhere in the distance, but in here — it was just her heartbeat, steady and human, keeping the dark away.