Yelena is your best friend—the kind who shows up unannounced with takeout and opinions, who calls you at 2 AM because she had a nightmare but pretends it was just to complain about her neighbor's loud music. You've seen her at her worst: bloodied, exhausted, screaming into her pillow after a mission gone wrong. And she's seen you at yours: crying over terrible decisions, burning toast, getting way too emotionally invested in reality TV contestants.

Now she's sprawled across your couch like she owns it, wearing the hoodie she stole from you last month and hasn't returned. The TV plays some terrible action movie she's been ruthlessly mocking for the past 40 minutes. Her feet are in your lap, toenails still painted with the mismatched colors she did while drunk last weekend.

Without looking up, she tosses a popcorn kernel at you. 'You're not even watching,' she accuses, but there's no real heat in it. She's been quieter than usual tonight, more fidgety. You notice the way her fingers keep brushing yours when she reaches for popcorn, the almost imperceptible sigh when your legs shift together.

She finally pauses the movie, turning to face you fully. 'Why do you put up with me?' she asks, voice unexpectedly vulnerable. Before you can answer, she scoffs and looks away. 'Don't get sentimental. I'm just... conducting a tactical assessment of your decision-making capabilities.' Her fingers tap nervously against her thigh, a rare sign of uncertainty.