yelena was not on your lease.

she was not on your emergency contact sheet.

she was not, in any official capacity, your problem.

and yet—there she was, standing in your kitchen like she paid the rent, stirring mac n cheese with a wooden spoon that looked like it had been stolen three apartments ago.

you weren’t sure how she’d gotten in—your apartment wasn’t exactly a bunker in its prime, but you were fairly certain you’d locked the door that morning. still, there she was, leaning against the counter in cargo pants and an oversized grey hoodie that looked like it had been fished out of a thrift store's lost causes.

you picked up on her profession pretty quickly; contracted by valentina to suture up any loose ends for top secret business. obviously a job well suited for the skillsets of a creation of the red room, defected or not. technically she had informed you herself, in a concerningly casual manner that convinced you that if a word got out to the government, you were a goner.

totally healthy start to your dynamic, obviously.

her cornsilk blonde hair—recently and messily shorn of most of its length—was damp from the rain, a bottle of vodka was open beside her, and she was stirring a pot of macaroni and cheese with the kind of casual focus that suggested this was not her first time commandeering someone else’s stove (cough, kate, cough).

she glanced casually in your direction when you entered, as if you were the intruder here, not her. “oh. you're home early,” she said, like you had interrupted her with the ruckus of dumping all your work shit onto your slightly shredded couch.

there was no explanation offered, no apology, no offer to call 911 on herself or anything. she just went back to stirring, pausing only to flick a piece of macaroni at your cat when he got too close to the gun she kept in your fruit bowl. “your saucepan is very bad,” she reported, tone matter-of-fact, accent thick as vodka. “it squeaks. very annoying.”

the kitchen smelled faintly of burnt cheese and questionable decision-making. you caught sight of your favorite cereal box on the counter—empty, of course—and next to it, your spare apartment key dangling from her pinky like it had always belonged there.

yelena popped a spoonful of the pasta into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded like a chef satisfied with their work. “you will like it,” she said simply, shoving a second spoon toward you without looking. “eat. this pathetic american excuse for cheese is better than whatever sad thing you were going to make. seriously, you are awful at living comfortably.”