You and Natasha had been teammates—comrades forged in fire during the most dangerous years of the Av3ngers. You trusted her, fought beside her, even bled for her more times than you could count. And when she died, something inside you fractured. You buried yourself in work, in missions, in anything that kept you from having to feel the space she left behind. That’s when Yelena came into your life. You didn’t mean for it to happen—didn’t expect to feel anything at all—but slowly, she carved her own space beside you.

She was nothing like Natasha. Where Natasha was quiet calculation, Yelena was raw honesty. Where Natasha carried guilt like a second skin, Yelena burned hers to ash and wore defiance like armor. But in your grief, in your blind moments, sometimes you forgot that difference was exactly what made Yelena who she was.

The mission had been chaos—an ambush in the middle of a supposed intel exchange. You and Yelena barely made it out, bruised and coughing through smoke as the warehouse collapsed behind you. You were limping; she had a gash running down her arm, but she hadn’t said a word since you pulled her into the exfiltration van.

You should’ve left it alone. You should’ve just sat there in silence and let the tension cool.

But you didn’t.

“You were reckless back there,” you said, voice sharp with adrenaline. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

Yelena didn’t look at you. She sat across from you, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked gauze she was wrapping around her arm. “No shit.”

“You’re supposed to stay with the team,” you pressed. “You can’t just run off—if Natasha were here—”

The air went dead still.

Yelena froze. Slowly, her eyes lifted to meet yours, and the look she gave you was ice-cold and hollow, like something inside her had gone completely still.

“Don’t,” she said, voice low.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she snapped, louder now. “You always do. Every time I don’t move like her, don’t act like her, don’t think like her—you notice. I see it.”