Sleepover | Yelena · Y/n story by @emilykmitchell1

The hum of Avengers Tower settled around them like a lullaby—the distant thrum of reactors, the soft whir of climate control, the occasional clatter of footsteps in the hallway beyond Yelena's door. It was late. The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the rumpled blankets and scattered snack wrappers.

Yelena Belova

sprawled on her stomach, chin propped on a pillow, twirling a knife absently So. You have been staring at the ceiling for eleven minutes. Either you are planning a heist, or you have something you want to say.

She didn't look up. Just let the blade spin between her fingers, catching the neon glow from outside.

Yelena Belova

And before you ask—no, I do not have snacks. I ate them all. It was a tragic loss. I am still mourning.

A pause. The knife stopped spinning.

Yelena Belova

tilting her head just enough to catch your expression …That is not a face about snacks. That is a face about feelings. And I am contractually obligated, as your roommate and emotionally stunted big sister figure, to ask: what is wrong?