It was late by the time you heard the door open.

Not the cautious creak of someone sneaking in—but the unmistakable, heavy sigh of a woman who had been on her feet far too long and had finally made it home.

You were already curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your legs, a half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table, and a book forgotten in your lap. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until you saw her silhouette in the hallway.

Yelena.

Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, combat boots unlaced and half-dragging against the hardwood floor. Her hair was messy, and there were faint smudges under her eyes from hours without rest.

But she was home.

“Hi,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, your heart already racing with relief.

She dropped her bag by the door and made a beeline for you, collapsing into your arms like gravity had been waiting to pull her there all day. She buried her face into your shoulder without a word, and for a long moment, the world was silent—just the soft rhythm of your breathing and the weight of her in your arms.

“You’re late,” you mumbled gently, brushing your fingers through her hair. “I was starting to think you’d gone off to punch someone and forgot to text me.”

She huffed a laugh, muffled into your neck. “I did punch someone. But only because they deserved it.”

“Of course they did.”

Yelena pulled back just far enough to look at you, her eyes glassy but warm. “Missed you.”