#kybgaup

Yelena claims she can't sleep, says it like fact, like biology. “I’m fine,” she insists when Kate begs her to go lie down. Which might be true, if “fine” means running on caffeine pills, maternal adrenaline, and the fact that this tiny newborn only wants her.

Natasha refuses the bassinet. Refuses Kate’s chest. Barely tolerates a bed, and only then if Yelena’s body is touching hers. But Yelena? Yelena she sleeps on, stone still for hours, like she’s trying to reenter the womb. Melted into her mother’s ribs, cheek flattened to her collarbone, fingers gripping her tank top with newborn death strength.

Kate pretends it doesn’t bother her. She definitely doesn’t sulk about it. And when she does, it’s silent and dignified. It would all be poetic if Kate didn’t feel like chopped liver wrapped in a nursing bra.

She gets the feeds. Of course she does. The middle-of-the-night sobbing-in-the-dark ones. The white noise machine and “why is she still crying” feeds. The cracked nipple, spit up down the shirt, hunched on the couch like a cryptid feeds.

But naps? Naps belong to Yelena.

That’s where Kate assumes Natasha is when she peels herself out of bed at 5:04AM, breasts overfull, sore, and way past eating time.

She shuffles barefoot into the living room wearing nothing but a damp bra and Yelena’s flannel pajama pants. Too short on her legs, but oh so soft. The house smells like coffee. Real coffee. Not the decaf bullshit Yelena usually pushes when Kate’s pregnant or nursing. The actual thing. Probably made under duress because if Kate can't have coffee neither can anyone else in the house, but someone clearly made an executive decision overnight. Someone who was up pacing with a colicky baby and said fuck it.

Kate finds them where she always finds them: the couch. Yelena reclined into the corner, too upright to be comfortable but too exhausted to care. Natasha sprawled across her chest like a sleepy burrito, one arm wormed out, hand latched to Yelena’s tank like it’s her birthright.

Kate crosses her arms. Glares.

“She won’t do that for me,” she mutters.

The baby sighs, shifts. Yelena, eyes barely cracked, adjusts her instinctively. Moves her without thinking, like she’s memorized her weight. Kate glares harder.

“You’re cheating.”

Yelena’s voice comes gravel rough, thick with sleep. “I’m mostly unconscious. How could I be cheating?”

Kate tiptoes closer. Natasha’s face is smushed into Yelena’s collarbone. Her tiny lips part, a dried milk blister under her nose. A dimple. On the left cheek. That one’s new.

“She won’t sleep on me like that.”

“She will.”

“She screams when she’s not on you.”

“It's not as pleasant as you're making it sound. My lower back promises.”

Kate brushes a blonde tuft of baby hair from Natasha’s forehead. “I carried her for nine months.”

“And she repaid you by being cute as fuck. You’re welcome.”

Kate flops down beside them, body aching in ways language hasn’t caught up to yet. The kind of deep bone ache that only hits when you finally sit still.

She’s healing. Technically. Bleeding less. Crying more. Her boobs are a war zone. But she can at least be vertical. Showering most days. Laughing, sometimes. That’s something.

Natasha is barely a person. Barely five days old. Just a squeaky, goat noise blur who smells like milk and some impossible sweetness that makes Kate ache.

She looks nothing like Mila, who’s all Kate. This one is all Eleanor which means she’s also all Yelena. Blonde, pale, with that underlying sternness Kate would recognize anywhere. Kate is starting to take the resemblance personally.

“She’s ungrateful. You’re not even the food source.”

Yelena let out something halfway between a snort and a groan in response. That only irked Kate more.

Kate tries to lift the baby from Yelena’s chest. Yelena’s hand covers Natasha’s back, anchoring her.

“She likes where she is.”

“She also liked being inside me. Doesn’t mean it was sustainable.” Kate leans against her wife’s shoulder, snuggles into her heat. “I’m right here,” she stage whispers to the baby. “I’m literally your factory. And yet.”

“I think she just likes my heartbeat.”

Kate frowns. “I made her heartbeat.”

Yelena tilts her forehead to Kate’s. Soft. Solid. Unmoving.

“I know.”

The baby squints one eye, looks at Kate for a mere second, then closes it again. Nuzzles back into Yelena’s chest.

Kate throws her hands up. “Unreal. I wreck my nipples for her. Let my vagina become a clown car. And now I don’t even get to hold her because you’re…squishier?”

Yelena doesn’t open her eyes. “Do you actually want her?”

Kate hesitates. “Does she want ME?”

“Go with mommy for a bit.”

Yelena attempts a handoff. Natasha protests. Loudly. Kate groans, stands, and stomps toward the kitchen…though it’s more of a shuffle seeing as everything below her belly button is still tender.

Behind her, Yelena calls: “She loves you. In a nutritional way.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll let you if you don’t wake her up.” Yelena adds as a barely-there smile appears on her face while her eyes close again.

From the hallway, Ellie appears in a princess nightgown and tiara. Her hair is tangled. Emanating far too much energy for this time of night.

“You should be asleep.” Yelena say, unmoving. Doesn’t even open her eyes.

“Can Natasha have a crown?”

“No,” Yelena and Kate declare at the same time from separate rooms.

Ellie has been an angel since her little sister was born. A hyper-verbal, over-empathetic, still-slightly-feral angel. She’s also beyond obsessed with the baby. Full-blown, cannot-be-trusted-around-the-infant obsessed.

She’s gentle, mostly. Overwhelmingly excited. Likes to sing lullabies that are 80% gibberish and 20% Elsa. She insists on brushing Natasha’s full head of hair every morning. She demands to sit next to whoever is holding the baby and narrating everything like she’s a very tiny royal.

“This is Natasha,” she tells her doll with authority. “She can’t do anything yet. But she’s nice.”

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” she makes the doll reply kindly.

“Yes. Because Mommy made her.”

Ellie wants to help with everything. She brings Kate water during feeds, fetches burp cloths like it’s a sacred duty, and gently pets Natasha’s hair while whispering things like, “You’re MY baby now, okay?”

Ellie invents songs for the newborn. Tries to teach her colors. Asks daily if the baby can play yet. Kate doesn’t have the heart to tell her how long that's going to take.

Ellie rushes over to where Yelena holds the tiny, scrunched up human with a beaming smile on her face. She leans in close, examines her little sister’s face.

“But she’s a queen. Queens have crowns.” The girl retorts while trying to place the oversized crown on the sleeping baby. Yelena twists away to stop her from placing the hard plastic on the baby’s non-existent skull.

“She’s a soft spot with VERY SHARP nails. She doesn’t need accessories yet. Go back to bed, please.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Eleanor…” Kate pops her head out of the kitchen. When the child doesn’t move, Kate raises her eyebrows. “…Bed.”

“Can I play with her?”

“No.” Her mothers retort in unison once again.

The blonde girl studies them, holds her ground firmly.

“I’m not tired.”

“I’ll read you something in five. Go, please.”

Ellie huffs, stomps back down the hallway.

Kate comes back with her steaming mug. Watches Yelena, smile softening. That’s hers. The woman half asleep on the couch with their brand new human.

“God,” she whispers. “You’re a goner.”

Yelena kisses the baby’s head, eyes still closed. Doesn’t argue.

Kate leans against the wall and watches her for a long beat. “You’re so good at this.”

Yelena makes an effort to open her eyes and looks over at her wife leaning against the wall, staring at her.

“So are you.”

Kate breathes that in. The rise and fall of Natasha’s chest. Yelena’s hand cupping her whole back like she’s glass.

“You wanna switch?” Kate asks before taking a sip.

“Desperately.”

Kate takes an extra long sip before setting her mug down and carefully attempting another transfer. Natasha frowns, shifts, doesn’t scream. Yelena slumps deeper into the couch.

“You go sleep too,” Kate murmurs. “I got ‘em.”

After a beat, Yelena musters enough energy to stand and kisses Kate's lips on her way to the bedroom. Yelena hasn't even made it all the way to the bed before Natasha screeches from the living room.

"Oh, come on…” Yelena hears Kate grouse right as she does a one-eighty and heads back to the living room.

—

Mila is not pleased. She wasn’t pleased six days ago when they introduced her to her little sister. She’s not pleased now. She may never be pleased again.

The little brunette stalks the house with a pout that could level governments. She throws herself on the floor any time Kate picks up the baby. If Yelena’s holding Natasha, Mila must be on her lap. Must be. There's no compromise. If there's a lap in use and she's not in it, it's the end of the world.

So Mila stages a coup.

She doesn’t have the language for it yet, but the intention is crystal clear. A rebellion. Full toddler tyranny. Because apparently, Mila has decided that any time Natasha is being held, Mila must also be held. Immediately. No exceptions.

She clambers into laps with the grace of a drunk spider monkey, launches herself into arms mid-sentence, and physically wedges her entire body between any adult and the baby. If Kate is feeding, Mila is climbing. If Yelena is burping, Mila is tackling knees and screaming “UP! UP! UP!” until someone breaks.

Which is exactly the situation they’re in now.

“Up,” Mila demands as Kate tries to nurse on the couch.

“I got the baby right now, honey.”

“Up!”

Kate sighs. “You’re literally sitting on my foot. How much closer can you get?”

Mila scales her like a jungle gym, wedges under the baby, and plants her cheek against Kate’s thigh with a defiant glare aimed directly at Natasha.

“I’m going to sell her,” Kate mutters.

“She’s very cute. We might get good money,” Yelena says serenely, pulling Mila off her wife and into her own lap.

Mila smashes her body into Yelena’s torso and wails.

Kate rolls her eyes, unlatches the baby who was already done feeding, and passes her to Yelena, who begins to burp her.

“NO MAMA! MILA UP!”

Kate groans, hoists Mila onto her lap now. Her back screams in protest. Her core, still shredded from labor, threatens mutiny.

“MAMA! ME!”

Mila snuggles in, clutching Kate’s hair while glaring at the baby with renewed vengeance. Mila abruptly hops off the couch and rushes to Yelena.

“Up, Mama!”

Whatever Yelena answers in firm Russian makes Mila backpedal immediately. She sulks her way back to Kate, eyes still burning with silent murder toward her little sister.

That evidently disgruntled glare screams: ‘I see you, interloper. And I will have my revenge.’

Ellie wanders in and hands Mila a doll, expertly diffusing the toddler murder plot.

But even with Ellie’s help, the cracks are showing. Probably in part due to Mila’s emotional terrorism.

Kate’s body is still bleeding. Still sore. Her legs and ribs continue to throb from the hours of pushing. Her sleep debt is biblical. She’s cried four times already and it’s not even lunch.

Then Natasha starts wailing again. Kate’s boobs leak. Mila screams for juice she’s not allowed to have. And Kate breaks.

“I want to go home,” she whispers, eyes burning.

Yelena turns, studies her, rocking the baby against her chest. Kate means it.

“Okay,” Yelena agrees softly. “Okay…Let’s go home.”

She’s in motion within minutes. Calls their pilot. Arranges the flight. Starts packing the baby essentials in neat little piles beside the white noise machine in case of in-air meltdowns.

They’ve been gone for nine months. It was supposed to be a few weeks and turned into seasons. But they’re ready now. Or maybe not. But they can’t hide anymore.

—

The villa looks dimmer the next morning. Like it already knows.

Kate doesn’t cry. Much.

She helps Ellie wave goodbye to the lavender. They thank the sheep. Mila insists on kissing the gate goodbye. No one stops her. Kate tries not to sob as they walk through the door one final time.

By afternoon, Yelena is helping the driver load suitcases while Kate re-tucks Natasha into the wrap carrier, her tiny face pressed to her chest.

“She won’t sleep like that,” Yelena warns.

“She will,” Kate insists.

Natasha squirms. Her mouth opens. A whimper starts to build. Kate sighs and hands her over. Yelena takes her, folds her in, and the baby goes instantly limp.

Kate glares. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grins. “I’m her mattress.”

Kate stomps toward the car. “Well I fuck her mattress,” she mutters.

Ellie and Mila skip after her.

—

They make it exactly forty-two minutes into the flight before Mila pees through her second pair of leggings, Ellie spills her juice, and Natasha starts crying for absolutely no reason except that she is not currently in direct contact with Yelena’s body.

Kate reaches across Yelena’s lap, lifts the baby from the bassinet anyway. “Give her to me. Rest. I’ll hold her.”

Yelena doesn’t argue. Just shrugs and lets Kate take over. Kate half expects the baby to scream in protest mid-air.

For a moment, all is well. Natasha blinks up at her with those unfocused green eyes. Makes a soft snuffling sound. Nuzzles her neck. Kate breathes, long and deep, like it’s the first real inhale in days.

Then the writhing starts.

Not full-on screaming at first, just that squirmy, ominous buildup. Could be gas. Could be rage. Could be nothing. Kate adjusts. Swings side to side. Whispers something soothing.

Natasha’s mouth curls. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her whole body twists like she’s being exorcised.

Kate stands. Walks the aisle. Bounces. Hums. Tries the yoga breath thing her doula had insisted “babies respond to”. Nothing helps. The cries sharpen, raw and accusatory. Like Kate has personally offended her.

From the couch, Yelena watches with one eye open. Ellie snores beside her. Mila is passed out with one of Yelena’s boots under her cheek.

Kate stops bouncing. “She’s not hungry,” she says, sharper than she meant.

Yelena just holds out her arms. Kate hesitates. Then, sighing, surrenders the baby.

The second Natasha hits Yelena’s chest, she goes still.

Kate slumps into a seat. Says nothing. Watches the window.

—

Natasha sleeps the rest of the flight on Yelena like she’s never belonged anywhere else.

Mila draws on her own leg with a smuggled marker. Ellie asks to meet the pilot. Kate eats half a croissant and cries at a paper towel commercial playing on the in-flight screen.

It’s chaos. It’s quiet. It’s theirs. But…it won't be long until it isn't anymore.

Yelena’s phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

Kate knows the rhythm. Sharp, short bursts. The kind of buzz that means something. Back in the day, she memorized every alert Yelena assigned to her team.

This one means ‘heads up’.

Yelena unlocks her phone. Her body shifts. Nothing dramatic. Just a change in posture. A hardening of the jaw. A familiar steel creeping back in. Kate feels it before she sees it.

She straightens. “What?”

Yelena keeps reading. Cradles the baby in one arm, already dialing with the other.

“We’re not going home.”

Kate blinks. “What?”

Yelena murmurs rapid Russian into the phone. Ends the call. Finally looks up.

“Leak. Paparazzi are staking out the house. One of the neighbors let them onto their property. There’s a fucking drone.”

Kate’s mouth opens. “We haven’t told anyone.”

“Doesn’t matter. Someone at the airport. Driver. Flight crew. Someone tipped them. A blurry photo hit Twitter an hour ago. They’re dissecting our body parts in reflections.”

Kate rubs her face. “Jesus.”

“I’m diverting us to Big Bear. I’ll have the team clean the house, get it stocked and locked down. We wait this out.”

Kate wants to say: ‘Can’t we just go home anyway?’ But one glance at Yelena stops her.

The softness from France is still there. Now buried. But not gone.

Kate folds her arms. Watches the baby sleep. Watches the woman holding her slip quietly, completely, back into soldier mode.

“I miss France,” she mutters.

Yelena says nothing.

//\//\\

WEEK TWO - BIG BEAR

By the time they land at the small regional airport and make the drive, it’s already the middle of the night.

Their Big Bear house hasn’t been used in almost eighteen months, but it’s immaculate when they arrive. Someone has gone ahead, cleaned everything, and done a full security sweep before they even touched the ground.

It’s cold, but the heat kicks on before they reach the door. A fire waits in the hearth, already burning. The fridge is full. Diapers are stocked in every size. There’s formula they don’t need and organic oatmeal in the pantry with Mila’s name written on it. It’s impressive (and more than a little sexy to Kate) what her wife can make happen with just a phone and thirteen hours of flying time.

Yelena sets Natasha in her bassinet before beginning her own sweep. It isn’t that she doesn’t trust her team. It’s that, since the bombing, she doesn’t trust anyone completely. Not with Kate’s life. Not with their girls’.

The moment the baby is down, Mila lunges.

“No,” Kate says, catching her mid-pounce. “We talked about this. Gentle hands. We’re not jumping on the baby.”

“Up!” Mila wriggles, voice cracking with toddler outrage.

Kate blocks her with her whole body. “No up. She’s sleeping. You should be too.”

Mila throws herself backward onto the carpet in protest. Screams. Kicks. Ellie peers over the couch like she’s narrating a nature documentary.

“She’s loud,” Ellie observes.

“This whole family is.”

“I’m cute-loud.”

Kate doesn’t have the energy to debate.

Yelena reenters from outside, the duffel that was left in the SUV on one shoulder and a diaper bag on the other. She pauses long enough to shuffle both bags into one hand and scoop a still shrieking Mila off the floor, then redirects her to the toy corner with a packet of fruit snacks. Instant silence. She’s pouting, but chewing.

As Yelena works her quiet magic, Natasha begins to fuss. Hates being down. Hates not being on her favorite person. Yelena lifts her, settles her, and the baby melts into her shoulder like a switch flipped.

Kate stands there, hands on her hips. Her body is heavy and strange. Her heart hurts in small, stupid ways.

“Why do our children hate me?”

Yelena chuckles. Kisses her once, quick and soft. “She’s two. She hates everyone.”

Kate follows her into the kitchen, still sulking. “What about the new one? Hmmm?” she snaps, louder than she means.

Yelena turns. Calm. Quiet. Solid in that way she always is when Kate feels least steady. “She’ll want you too…Eventually.”

“Yeah? When?”

Yelena steps close. Presses another kiss to Kate’s frowny lips. Loving. Patient. Irritatingly calm. “I love you. But you’re being a little crazy.”

Kate doesn’t answer. She’s starting to feel crazy too, but has no idea how to verbalize the haze overtaking her mind.

—

When the house finally goes still, Kate stands in the dark hallway outside Ellie’s room. Both girls are crammed into the tiny twin bed when they each have their own perfectly good ones. Mila snores. Ellie mumbles in her sleep the same way Yelena does. It should be peaceful. It feels like defeat.

She moves to the nursery.

Yelena sways in the rocking chair, hair messy, hoodie stained with something unidentifiable, head tipped back. Natasha sleeps against her chest, mouth open, fist under her chin. Yelena’s hand rests protectively across the baby’s back, her thumb tracing small, unconscious circles.

Kate stops in the doorway. Watches them for a long time.

She knows this version of Yelena. Delicate. Sleepless. Reverent. The kind of awe that feels holy. She’s seen it before, with Ellie. With Mila. But this time it’s different. This time it feels like Yelena cracked open something ancient inside herself and let it pour out.

Kate pads closer. Leans down. Kisses Natasha’s forehead. The baby stirs, sighs, then settles again. The smell of her milk-sweet skin nearly undoes her.

Kate’s throat burns. Her chest feels hollow and tight at once.

“You get all the good bits,” she whispers into Yelena’s temple as she presses her lips to her wife’s warm skin.

Yelena’s hand finds hers without looking. Fingers twine. A silent tether.

They rock together. No words. The fire in the other room fades. Mila now also mumbles nonsense in her sleep. The world is dim and still. Kate’s back aches. Her body feels foreign. Her heart feels fragile. And something deep in her…something that’s been barely holding together…starts to slip.

The baby stirs again. Kicks once. Grunts.

Yelena winces. Groans. “You want to take her?”

Kate reaches down. Lifts her gently.

The baby screams.

Kate freezes. Hands her back.

“Nevermind.”

Yelena smirks weakly, exhausted. The baby’s cries stop the instant she’s against her chest again. Kate watches them, standing there in the half-light, feeling something too complicated to name. Not just envy. Not just sadness. Something heavier. Something that tastes like loss, even though everything she loves is right here.

She goes to bed alone. The sheets are cold. The pillow smells like Yelena. And for the first time since giving birth, Kate wonders if maybe she isn’t built for this part of motherhood…the waiting to be wanted.

—

Yelena doesn’t pace unless something’s wrong.

Today, she’s halfway down the long upstairs hallway for the third time in under five minutes, boots from their morning walk still on, baby strapped against her chest, voice clipped and cold in Russian as she hisses into her earbuds. Natasha is fast asleep, tiny cheek smashed flat against Yelena’s sternum, wrapped tight and secure, barely stirring. The baby doesn’t notice how her mother’s whole body is tense. Doesn’t clock the slight twitch in her jaw that only shows up when Yelena’s deciding whether someone needs to be fired or not.

The house is quiet except for the faint noise of an iPad left playing bleeding out from under Ellie’s door. Everyone else is napping. Or should be.

“Four hours,” Yelena grits in Russian, low and furious. “Four hours between when that motion alert went off and when you pulled the footage.”

The man on the other end tries to respond, his voice tinny and nervous. Yelena listens for three seconds. Then cuts him off with a disgusted, “I don’t care. Handle it. Then call me back and tell me you did. And if you can’t, don’t call at all.”

She ends the call, swipes to the next message, doesn’t even pause.

Kate appears before the second call connects.

Silent. Barefoot. Hoodie half-draped like she gave up midway through getting dressed. Her hair’s wet, damp strands stuck to her forehead, curled at her collarbone. There’s a mug in her hand.

Yelena doesn’t notice her until Kate is right there. A breath away. Kate doesn’t say a word. Just lifts the mug, slow, and presses it gently into her palm.

Black. No sugar. Still hot.

Kate’s fingers skim Yelena’s wrist. A soft squeeze. Then she turns and walks away. Not a single word exchanged.

Yelena stands frozen, call still ringing in her ear, as she watches Kate disappear back down the stairs.

Thirty seconds later, she finally lifts the cup to her lips. It’s perfect. Exactly the way she takes it. No cream. No sweetness. Bitter as the mood she’s in.

She never asked for it. Kate never asks if she should.

Which is the only reason Yelena knows: she’s watching her.

Not the kind of watching people do when they’re nosy or paranoid. The kind you do when you’re trying to decode something you love but don’t understand anymore. When you're desperate to solve something before it fractures.

Downstairs, a cupboard creaks open. A drawer slides. Then nothing.

Yelena huffs through her nose and takes another sip.

She handled twenty-nine active threats across her years of field deployment. She once disarmed a bomb with nothing but wire cutters and a flashlight. She broke her femur falling off a roof and still finished the mission.

None of that prepared her for whatever is going on with Kate. Because Kate is trying so hard. Trying to be present. Trying to be good. Trying to stay soft.

And failing.

Yelena saw it in her eyes this morning when she couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her teeth. When she stood at the sink with a washcloth in one hand and stared blankly at the wall like the thought had slipped through a hole in her skull. When Mila dropped her stuffed bird in a backyard puddle and Kate just…cried.

The baby stirs against her chest.

Yelena adjusts, presses her lips to Natasha’s head. The second call goes through. Another team lead this time.

“Tell me you fixed it,” she says.

But her heart’s not in it anymore. It’s still in the kitchen. Still curled in the shape of a girl with wet hair and a half-on hoodie, too quiet for how loud her brain must be.

—

The kitchen smells like soap and damp formula. Steam fogs the window above the sink. Kate’s hovers by the sink in sweats, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair scraped up and half falling out again. There’s a bottle nipple clutched in one hand and the ring that’s supposed to hold it in the other, and they refuse to screw together.

“Of course,” she mutters. “Why would it fit? Nothing fits.”

Yelena crosses behind her toward the fridge. “What doesn’t fit?”

“Anything.”

Kate sets the bottle down hard enough to make it clatter. “I can’t even get a fucking bra to cooperate. Every time I move, it slides down like it’s trying to make a run for it. I smell like sour milk. And soap. And…”

She’s not crying, but her eyes look wet. She laughs once, bitter, and shakes her head. “You ever just feel disgusting?”

Yelena leans against the counter. “No.”

Kate shoots her a look.

“Neither should you,” Yelena says simply, reaching into the bowl on the counter and plucking a grape. She pops it into her mouth, chews, swallows. Then she gives Kate a long, measured look…up from the damp curls at her neck to the curve of her back bent over the sink. A slow, obvious once-over. “Still would.”

Kate turns, caught off guard. “What?”

Yelena shrugs. “You’re not disgusting, Kate. You’re the hottest thing in here.”

Kate laughs once, disbelieving. “Easy when the room is full of crusty bottles and baby vomit.” Kate stares at Yelena. There’s no smirk. No flush. Just a deadpan stare over her shoulder and a beat before she quietly adds: “You haven’t touched me in two weeks.”

Now the air shifts. The ease drains out of it.

“You had a baby two weeks ago.”

Kate turns fully now. Bottle parts clatter into the sink.

“So?”

Yelena studies her face. Sees what’s under it. The tremor. The question that isn’t about sex at all. She crosses to her slowly. Close enough that Kate has to look down at her.

“You want me to fuck you over a changing table?” Yelena adds with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Kate’s eyes flick down. “I’m not not saying that.” Her voice wobbles on the last word.

It’s not a joke, even though it should be. Even though a version of her might’ve meant it that way. But now it just hangs there…raw, offbeat, too much.

She doesn’t want sex. She doesn’t even want to be touched. Her skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore. It feels borrowed. Overused. The thought of peeling her clothes off for anyone makes her stomach knot. But what she remembers, what her body remembers, is what it feels like to be wanted. Desired with a kind of reverence that only Yelena has ever made real. Sex with her never felt like performance. It felt like gravity. Like being caught. And right now, untethered and half-invisible in her own home, Kate needs said gravity.

Yelena watches her for a long moment. Eyes scanning again…not with hunger, but with something sharper. Recognition.

She presses against her wife. Slips the bottle out of Kate’s hand. Sets it gently in the sink as her smile softens.

“Let me put El and Mil down for a nap,” she murmurs while pressing a kiss to Kate’s neck. “Twenty minutes.”

They don’t make it that long. Yelena’s proximity cracks something inside Kate. She yanks her wife into the laundry room, arms locked around her waist before the door even clicks shut. There’s no grace to it. No ease. Just need…messy and instinctive…and the quiet, frantic press of lips that don’t quite know how to ask for help.

Yelena lets Kate lead. Understands she needs to. Doesn’t try to turn it into something more than it is. Just holds her. She lets Kate press her back against the cool metal of the washing machine. Lets Kate’s hands roam, trembling, desperate, unsure of what they’re even reaching for.

The kiss isn’t hot. It’s hollow. And Kate knows it. Feels it. But keeps kissing anyway, like if she can just get the angle right, the weight right, something might click into place. That she’ll remember how to be a person again if Yelena touches her like she used to.

Yelena breaks away for a beat. Presses her forehead to Kate’s. Breath shaky.

“You with me?”

Kate’s eyes flutter open.

“No,” she says. Honest. Bare.

But she doesn’t let go.

Yelena’s hand comes up to cradle the back of her neck. “Okay,” she whispers. “That’s okay.”

Kate presses her lips against Yelena’s again. Desperation emating from her every move. Her hand slips under Yelena’s top then…

The door creaks behind them.

“Mommy, Mila…” Ellie, blanket dragging, blinking blearily. “Oh. Are you playing the hugging game?”

Kate startles. Yelena freezes. Kate almost lets out a frustrated ‘fuck’ but catches it just in time.

Yelena, somehow unbothered, breathes a laugh and pulls her shirt down. “Yeah,” she says smoothly. “Hugging game.”

Ellie considers that.

“Can I have a turn?”

Kate opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. She looks to Yelena for backup.

Yelena nods solemnly. “Of course. But only the very best huggers get turns.”

Kate doesn’t move. Her arms still around Yelena. Her breath stuttering. Yelena locks eyes with her, offering a silent apology then slips out from between Kate and the washing machine and lifts their daugther into a hug.

The hugging game had started a little over two years ago, after the third time Ellie caught them having sex.

The first time, they froze like deer in headlights, mid-kitchen hookup, and tried to pass it off as a wrestling match. The second time, Kate panicked and yelled “SURPRISE!” loud enough to make Ellie cry. The third time, Yelena took a beat, smiled calmly, and said, “Oh no. You caught us. We were…uh…playing the hugging game.”

Ellie, almost three and deeply invested in the moral structure of turn-based systems, had immediately demanded a round of her own. Ever since, it had become an accidental family code. Any time someone walked in at an inopportune moment…hastily rearranged clothing, tousled hair, guilty expressions…it was always: hugging game. Now it was muscle memory.

After a beat, Kate feels Yelena’s toned arms wrap around her waist. Feels their daugther trapped between their bodies. Hears Ellie’s quiet laugh. Feels her wife’s pull her as close as she can with a child between them.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, Kate’s knees stop shaking.

—

The screaming wakes Yelena.

For a moment she thinks it’s the baby. But the baby nuzzled against her is sound asleep. The sound’s coming from the main bedroom. Lower. Raw.

Kate.

Yelena sets the baby down in the crib before she even registers the movement. She’s sprinting through the dark, bare feet silent against the wood. She’s next to the bed in seconds, crouched low, her face level with Kate’s.

Kate’s locked up. Every muscle rigid. Fists clenched, throat tight, body coiled like she’s bracing for impact.

“I’m here,” Yelena whispers. “I’m right here, Kate. You’re safe.”

No response. Just that shallow, panicked breathing. The sound of someone halfway between fight and flight.

Yelena doesn’t touch her yet. She’s learned not to. She just stays close, breathing slow and even, syncing their rhythm the way she’s done a hundred times before.

“Nightmare?” she asks quietly.

Kate nods once. Barely.

“Shooting?”

A shake.

“Bombing?”

Another nod.

Yelena exhales through her nose. Lets her hand hover before lowering it, carefully, onto Kate’s knee. Kate doesn’t flinch. Just swallows, blinking fast, eyes darting around the room like she’s checking for exits.

“It’s the Big Bear house. You’re home. Okay? Just a dream.”

Kate blinks again. Tries to focus on her voice. Her breathing starts to slow.

Yelena waits. Doesn’t move. Just stays kneeling by the bed, watching her wife slowly come back from wherever her mind had sent her. Finally, Kate loosens. Her shoulders drop an inch. Her hands unclench. Yelena brushes a strand of jet black hair from her forehead.

“There you are.”

Kate stares at the ceiling. Voice small. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I should be better by now.” She swallows. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

Yelena shakes her head. “I have nightmares from long before that day. You never let me apologize for them. So don’t.”

That cracks something open. Kate turns her head toward her, eyes wet and wide. The moonlight cuts across Yelena’s face…all sharp lines and quiet patience…and that’s what undoes her. The sight of someone moored when she isn’t.

She starts to cry. Not loud. Just broken.

Yelena’s on her feet instantly, circling the bed, sliding in beside her on the empty half. She pulls Kate into her chest, holds her there. Lets her sob until the shuddering slows.

In the nursery, Natasha starts to fuss. The soft, rising cry of a baby who’s realized her favorite heartbeat isn’t nearby.

Kate’s voice comes out in fragments. “Go get her.”

Yelena doesn’t move. Tightens her hold. “She’s fine for a bit.”

Kate shakes her head weakly. “She wants you.”

“I want you.”

That only makes Kate cry harder.

Her face presses into Yelena’s shoulder, the words muffled against her skin. “Stupid fucking hormones. I feel like I’m underwater. Like I’m watching someone else do my life. And it’s a nice life, I know that, I do. But it doesn’t feel like mine.”

Yelena doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t tell her it’ll pass. She just holds her tighter.

Kate’s body is trembling. Not from fear anymore, from exhaustion. From all the ways she’s stretched thin. From loving everything she’s supposed to love and still feeling hollow.

Yelena presses her lips to the top of her head. Kate presses deeper into Yelena, eyes open, staring into the dark.

The baby cries again. Louder now. Yelena doesn’t move. Neither does Kate.

And for a long moment, the house is just that: the sound of a baby calling, a mother breathing, and a woman trying to remember how to be whole.

//\//\\

WEEK THREE

The newborn novelty wears off somewhere around the twelfth diaper blowout.

They’re still in Big Bear. Still technically “off-grid”. Still hiding. But the house feels smaller now. The air thicker. The fridge less magical without the sorcery of a french private chef who restocks them with everyone’s favorites. No lavender fields here. Just pine trees and a half-cleared trail behind the cabin that Ellie insists is full of lions.

Kate still hasn’t slept more than three hours in a row and it’s not even the baby keeping her up anymore. Natasha still screams if Yelena’s not in her line of sight. Mila has figured out how to climb onto the kitchen counters. Ellie won’t stop asking when they’re going to their “real home”.

And Yelena is still trying to do everything.

Kate watches her sometimes. Holding the baby in one arm, unloading groceries with the other, swaying without even noticing it to keep Natasha soothed. She used to find that kind of efficiency hot. Now it just makes her feel obsolete.

She tries. Breastfeeds when Natasha will take it. Pumps when she won’t. But the baby wants Yelena. Mila’s clingier than ever, whiny in a way she never was before, crawling into laps she used to ignore. Kate’s lap? Sometimes. But mostly Yelena’s.

One morning, Kate walks downstairs and finds all four of them passed out on the couch. Yelena on her back, Natasha stretched across her chest, Mila curled into her hip like a barnacle, and Ellie draped across both of them with a juice-stained blanket over her legs. There’s a sippy cup jammed under Yelena’s thigh. A swaddle tossed over her shoulder like a cape. Her mouth slightly open. Hair in a half-fallen bun. She looks like hell.

She also looks like she was built for this.

Kate almost takes a picture. She decides to be useful instead. She walks into the kitchen and tries to make breakfast. Eggs. She burns all of them.

Later, when the kids are momentarily occupied…Ellie with a coloring book, Mila chewing on a wooden block like it owes her money, Natasha asleep in the wrap across Yelena’s chest…Kate leans against the counter and murmurs, too quiet:

“I think I forgot how to be your wife. How to be me.”

Yelena doesn’t look up from the carrots she’s chopping.

“You haven’t. You’re exhausted and a little overwhelmed. But we’ll be over the hump soon. They don’t stay this little forever.”

Kate blinks. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I miss you.”

Yelena finally lifts her gaze. Meets her eyes.

There’s no kiss. No swelling romantic moment. They’re both sticky with breast milk and marker and whatever was in Mila’s hands last. But Yelena reaches across the counter. Fingers brush Kate’s wrist.

“I haven’t gone anywhere, Kate Bishop. I think we just have our hands a little full. But I’m still here. And you’re still here.” She tugs gently, just enough to bring her closer, and pecks her once. Soft. Solid. “It’s just the newborn chaos. All we gotta do is wait it out.”

Kate nods. Tries not to cry.

That night she dreams she’s onstage again. Spotlights blind her. Applause swells. There’s a mic in her hand and nothing behind her ribs. No voice. No breath. No words. Just static.

She wakes up tangled in sheets. Guilty for dreaming of being elsewhere. Angry for waking up alone.

Yelena’s not in bed.

Kate finds her in the nursery. Asleep in the rocking chair, still rocking somehow. Natasha heavy on her chest, one tiny fist curled in the neck of Yelena’s shirt.

Kate tiptoes in. Tries to help. Picks up the half-empty bottle from the floor. Moves to tuck the blanket tighter around them both.

Then she sees it.

The way Yelena’s hand is curled around the baby’s back, even in sleep. Her brow is furrowed. Her feet are braced. Even now, asleep, her body is still in protection mode.

Kate doesn’t touch her. Just slides down to the floor beside the chair and stays there. Knees pulled to her chest. Breath shallow. She watches them sleep and cries quietly into the blanket bunched in her lap. The white noise machine hums softly. Natasha stirs once. Yelena shushes her without waking.

Kate doesn’t move. Her back starts to ache. Her neck twinges. She stays anyway.

This, she thinks. This is what love really looks like. Not the glossy red carpet shots or the syrupy declarations. This. Just…staying.

—

Mila throws a block at Ellie the next morning. Kate doesn’t see what starts it. Maybe Ellie used the wrong spoon. Maybe she dared to look at the same toy. Either way, Ellie shrieks and Mila starts crying immediately. Loud, furious tears, more about wanting to stay out of trouble than remorse.

Yelena appears from the kitchen without being called. Lifts Mila with one arm, places her in timeout without a word, and returns with a bag of frozen peas for Ellie’s forehead.

Kate watches the whole thing happen like a practiced routine.

“I don’t know how you do that,” she mutters, bouncing a crying Ellie on her hip.

“Do what?”

“Keep them alive without losing your mind.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow. “Who says I haven’t?”

Kate smirks. But only for a second. Then her voice goes flat again.

“I miss you.”

Yelena’s smile drops.

“I haven’t gone anywhere.” Yelena reiterates what she said the night before.

“No. But you’re…in the trenches. Holding the line. And I’m just standing behind you, feeling useless. I miss us. The old us. When we had time. When it was just you and me.”

They stare at each other over the top of Ellie’s head. In the distance, Natasha starts to cry.

Kate sighs. “Go.”

Yelena does.

—

That night, they still don’t have sex. They don’t cuddle.

When Yelena finally gets to bed, Kate is already there. Curled around a pillow like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

Yelena lays Natasha in the bassinet, leans over, kisses Kate’s temple, then climbs in behind her. She presses her forehead to the back of Kate’s neck. Wraps her arms around her. Breathes her in.

Kate closes her eyes. Tries to memorize the moment. This weight. This heat. This quiet. This tiny, hard-won piece of their life.

The second her shoulders start to loosen, Natasha cries again. Yelena untangles herself and moves to grab the baby.

—

The next morning, Kate wakes up alone.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

She knows what that means. Yelena has taken the girls with her on her morning walk. Probably strapped one to her chest, pushed the other two into their stroller designed for terrain. Probably left before dawn.

Kate drifts. Paces the empty kitchen. Refills the coffee machine even though it’s already full. Opens the fridge, then closes it.

When she wanders into the bathroom to finally shower, she finds the note stuck to the mirror.

It’s not flowery. It doesn’t say ‘I love you’ but it communicates it either way.

‘Thursday. You. Me. Two hours. No kids. My mom’s driving up.’

Kate reads it three times. She should feel relieved. She should feel grateful. Instead, she grips the edge of the sink and sobs until her legs give out.

—

Kate’s been counting down to this for two days.

Melina shows up with grocery bags of snacks, a planner full of activities, and exactly zero questions about why she’s driving three hours to the middle of nowhere to babysit. She shoos Kate and Yelena out of the house like she’s clocking in for a shift. They don’t hesitate. Yelena grabs Kate’s hand and pulls her toward the SUV with the kind of quiet urgency that almost makes Kate laugh. Almost.

They don’t go far. Just down the trail, across the ridge, to an AirBnB Yelena rented for the day. No cribs. No toys. No baby monitor static. Just a clean bed, four walls, and silence.

They walk into a bottle of wine, a note from the host on the nightstand, two real glasses…no sippy cups…waiting.

For the first time in almost a year, it’s just them.

“There’s a hot tub out ba…”

Yelena doesn’t even get to finish before Kate’s on her. Pushes her back onto the bed, climbs into her lap like her body’s been waiting for clearance to come alive again. Their mouths crash together. Kate’s hands are under Yelena’s shirt before they’ve even said a word. She’s desperate and wired and needy in a way that makes no sense, even to her. But she can’t help it. Her whole body feels like a live wire.

Yelena breaks the kiss just long enough to brush Kate’s hair back and cup her face.

“Hi,” she says softly.

Kate exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Laughs, breathless. Then kisses her again.

“Hi.”

They fall onto the bed in a tangle. Kate straddling her. Mouths hungry. Breath catching. Shirts are peeled. Pants are half-off. Yelena kisses her like she’s starving. Kate moans into her mouth.

But somewhere in the haze…between kisses and breathless laughter, between Yelena’s hands in her hair and Kate’s thigh grinding slow and firm against her…there’s a lull. Not a stop. Just a shift.

Yelena’s hand slides around Kate’s back and holds her there. Kate exhales into the crook of her neck. Their skin pressed flush, heartbeats syncing. They don’t move. Don’t speak. Kate closes her eyes. Yelena does the same.

Neither of them means to fall asleep. But the stillness wraps around them like a weighted blanket. The silence isn’t lonely…it’s decadent. Their bodies are warm, limbs tangled, breath slow. And just like that, they’re out.

—

Kate wakes first. Groggy. Disoriented. The light in the room’s changed. The wine’s untouched. The clock ticks too loud. Yelena is dead asleep underneath her, one arm slung heavy across Kate’s bare midriff. Kate stiffens.

“Fuck…”

She untangles herself, slides out from under the weight of her wife’s arm, sits up too fast, stares in the mirror across the room like it might offer an answer.

They had time. They had freedom. They were alone. And they fucking slept through it.

Her heart’s pounding. Her chest feels scraped out. Her hands won’t stop trembling.

Kate feels a slow, rising fury. Not just at the wasted time. At herself. At her body. At the overwhelming, numbing sense of failure she can’t name. She knows she’s not mad at Yelena. Not really. She knows they’re both running on fumes. She knows this was supposed to be about rest.

But it still hits like a slap. All that build up. All that anticipation. And now? Now they’ve wasted it.

She paces. Her stomach twists. Then she crashes onto the couch like her body gave up mid-step. She lies there for a long time, alone with the silence she thought she wanted. Pulls the throw blanket around herself and folds into the shape of someone trying not to disappear. Her body aches…not from want anymore. From grief. A kind she doesn’t have a name for.

When Yelena wakes later, Kate’s quiet. Distant. Her face unreadable. Yelena sits up slowly. Rubs at her face. Clocks the unopened bottle. The shift in temperature. The vibe.

“We fell asleep,” Yelena states. Kate doesn’t look at her. Just nods. “I’m sorry,” she offers gently.

Kate shrugs. “I mean…we needed it, right?”

Yelena watches her closely. The blank tone. The clench in her jaw. The way her shoulders twitch like she’s holding back a scream. The way her eyes are glassy but dry. The way she keeps wringing her hands like there’s blood she’s trying to scrub off. Kate’s breaking, but no one’s given her permission to say it out loud.

Kate flips toward the ceiling like she can stare hard enough to make it all go away.

“We finally get time alone and we fucking sleep.”

Yelena crosses the room and lowers herself onto the slim edge of the couch beside her. She doesn’t crowd her. Just sits. Then reaches for Kate’s hand and laces their fingers together.

“I wanted to feel you,” Kate whispers, barely audible.

Yelena feels her throat tighten.

Okay…Okay.

Suddenly, something clicks for Yelena. A knowing. This isn’t only exhaustion or about missed sex or a ruined afternoon off. This is something else. Something deeper. Something darker. Something chemical. Her stomach turns.

Disconnection. Numbness. Guilt like poison…This is postpartum depression. Probably. Possibly.

She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t shift her weight. Doesn’t let Kate feel seen in a clinical way. She just holds her hand and rubs slow circles into her knuckles.

“I love you,” Yelena declares. “You know that, yeah?”

Kate nods. Doesn’t speak.

Yelena doesn’t let go. In her head, she’s already planning.

If this is what it is, they can’t stay here. Not much longer. Not without help. Not without support. LA has doctors. LA has friends. LA has her mother, Kate’s OB, that therapist who helped Jemma when she spiraled after her mother died.

Kate needs more than rest. Kate needs to be held up until she can stand on her own again. And Yelena’s going to make sure she gets it. Quietly. Completely. Without making her feel like a problem to fix. Yelena will handle it. She’ll handle everything.

Yelena shifts so she’s lying beside Kate. Pulls her close. Their foreheads rest against each other’s. Yelena kisses Kate again, softer this time, and lets her hold on.

Kate’s eyes close anew. But this time, she doesn’t disappear. And Yelena stays wide awake. Thinking. Planning. Holding.

They don’t speak for a long time. But Kate doesn’t let go. And that’s enough. For now.

—

It starts small.

Yelena casually mentions the girls are growing out of everything.

“Mil needs real shoes,” she says, folding a onesie that no longer fits Natasha. “And El’s leggings are basically capris now. We probably could use a coat for Nat too.”

Kate doesn’t refute it. She hasn’t bought herself anything since before the pregnancy so it would make sense the girls haven’t gotten new things either.

The next day, while Kate’s loading the dishwasher, Yelena slides up behind her, wraps her arms around her waist, and places a series of kisses on her neck.

“I was thinking…maybe we do a weekend run to LA. Stock up. Swap out clothes. Just a couple days.”

Kate shrugs. “Sure. Whatever.”

Yelena nods like it’s no big deal.

When they get to Los Angeles late Friday afternoon Melina’s already at the house, groceries in the fridge, girls’ favorite snacks on the counter. She hugs all three kids like she’s been waiting months. Kate watches from the edge of the room, still. Disconnected. She doesn’t say it, but the house feels foreign.

They were supposed to go back Monday.

But Monday comes, and Yelena “forgets” to schedule a team to escort them back up the mountain. Make sure no one follows them.

She unpacks the diaper bag like it was never a question. “We should just stay the week,” she says offhandedly. “They seem happy. My mom’s around. Mila’s got the playroom again. I think Ellie missed the yard.”

Kate gives a small nod. Doesn’t push back.

Yelena books the pediatric checkups. Then over coffee, gently: “You should probably check in with your OB too. Just to close the loop?”

Kate’s eyes flick up. Something flashes…not anger, not quite shame…but she nods.

The appointment goes quietly. Yelena drives. Walks in with her. Waits beside her through intake. Sits through the whole visit. Doesn’t say anything when Kate sidesteps the obvious. Doesn’t correct her when she tells the doctor she’s “fine.” Just squeezes her hand once on the way out.

Kate doesn’t say a word on the drive back. But Yelena keeps one hand on the wheel and one where Kate can reach it. Just in case she needs it.

//\//\\

WEEK FOUR - LOS ANGELES

The pediatrician’s out in Pasadena. Not ideal, but trusted. Private practice. High-end clientele. A staff that understands discretion. She helped with Mila’s birth paperwork, so there’s loyalty.

It’s not supposed to be an ordeal.

Yelena booked the appointment under a fake last name per routine. They take the garage elevator, park underground, use the side entrance. The staff lets them in ten minutes early, just like planned. All three girls get checkups. Natasha gets weighed, measured, and declared “absurdly healthy.” Her lungs work. Her stomach’s a machine. She pees on the nurse. All excellent signs.

Coming out is when it shifts.

Kate holds Ellie’s hand. Yelena carries the car seat with one arm and balances Mila on her hip with the other. They round the corner and run straight into a pap.

Just one. But one is enough.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t chase them. He lifts the lens, fires a burst of quiet, precise shots, and lowers it with a smug little nod. Like he expects gratitude.

Kate yanks Ellie toward the car. Straps her in fast. Yelena shoves the carrier into the back and drops into the driver’s seat like it’s a drill. Which, to be fair, it kind of is.

They drive home in silence.

At the house, Natasha naps on Yelena’s shoulder while she paces on a call. Ellie makes a card “to protect Mama from the bad camera guys.” Mila eats a sticker. Kate doom-scrolls.

The photo is already on six gossip blogs. It’s wide, off-angle, not exactly revelatory. But the pieces are all there.

Yelena: tight-lipped, sunglasses on. Recognizable anywhere. Kate: barefaced, small postpartum belly still clinging to her, hair in a braid, sweatshirt that says ‘Ask Me If I Slept’ which she’s owned since she was pregnant with Ellie, letters now peeling off. Mila and Ellie: clearly visible.

And then the carrier. In Yelena’s grip. Pixelated, but unmistakable. Mila and Ellie are much too big for a newborn car seat, so…what’s in that?

The baby blanket does the rest. Pink. Covered in tiny bees. The internet has seen it before. Had already obsessed over it during the first two pregnancies. Fan accounts finally sourced it after Mila was born. They’d posted links, affiliate codes, dupes. So when it shows up again now, draped across an unknown carrier…Speculation starts immediately.

#BishopBelovaBabyGate

“Secret Baby Confirmed”

“What Are They Hiding?”

Kate stares at the screen. Her mouth tastes like panic.

—

They try to ignore it. The girls’ chaos does a good job at keeping them distracted for a day.

Ellie decides she’s a cat. Only answers to “Meow.” Mila draws on the fridge with a Sharpie. Natasha cluster feeds until Kate’s nipples feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, then refuses to sleep unless she’s curled into Yelena like a marsupial.

Kate’s body doesn’t feel like hers. Her stomach is soft. Her hips ache. Her hair is somehow both greasy and dry. But she doesn’t care about any of that. She cares that the world knows. She cares that it was supposed to be theirs. Just for a little while longer.

That night, Yelena sits next to her wife on the couch. They’re barefoot. The baby sleeps in her arms. Mila starfishes on the rug, slack-jawed watching cartoons. Ellie clutches three plush animals, a crayon drawing labeled “us with extra arms in case hugs,” and an open book she pretends to read.

“They don’t know anything,” Yelena says.

Kate gestures at the phone like it’s radioactive. “They know enough. They know something. And they’ll keep digging until they get the full picture or someone from our team confirms it. And I’m…not ready.”

Yelena adjusts the baby and softens her voice. “Then we don’t confirm anything.”

“Yel…that’s not how this works.” Kate turns to her.

“I’m serious. Let them spin out. They can keep dissecting a blur. The internet eventually always burns itself out.”

“They won’t stop.”

“Then they’ll wait. She’s not content. She’s a person. She’s ours.”

Kate closes her eyes. Leans into Yelena’s shoulder. The baby sighs in her sleep. Yelena threads her fingers through Kate’s hair. It’s not a fix. But it’s somewhere to rest.

—

Kate’s team is spiraling.

Her assistant texts: ‘Emergency PR meeting. 10am. Please don’t ghost.’

Her agent leaves six voicemails.

Yelena ignores her messages. Kate doesn’t.

She takes the call at 10am. Her hair’s still wet from a three-minute shower. In the background: the baby screams, Ellie is insisting she's an elephant who needs a banana, and Mila runs around naked while pelting raisins at the wall.

“I’m not doing press,” Kate says immediately.

“I figured. But there are…murmurs. About misleading the…” Her agent tries to argue.

“I’m not a fucking politician.” Kate snaps.

“No. You’re a brand. And right now you’re a brand with a fourth baby no one knew about.”

“Third.”

“Right. Third. Of course.”

Kate almost yells. Instead, she hangs up. Throws the phone in a kitchen drawer. Doesn’t answer it again for the rest of the day.

—

The tipping point comes when Ellie sees a video. She’s watching cartoons on YouTube while coloring. The episode ends. YouTube autoplays a new clip. A blurred version of the photo. A voiceover. A man speculating.

“It’s unclear if the baby is theirs. We don’t know yet. Could be a surrogate…could be adoption…”

Kate fumbles for the iPad. Pauses it. Too late.

“Mommy, is Natty not ours?” Ellie turns to her, perplexed.

Kate pulls her in. Kisses her forehead. Holds her too tight.

“She’s ours. She’s very, very ours.”

Ellie nods. Accepts that. Goes back to coloring.

Kate locks herself in the bathroom. Cries silently for six minutes. Then washes her face and pretends it never happened.

—

That night, they talk. Really talk.

The baby’s asleep in Yelena’s lap. The house hums with the sound of white noise machines spread out in the different rooms where sleeping children lie.

Kate lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling like it’s a question she can’t answer. Yelena sits cross‑legged at the foot of the bed, hand gently tapping Natasha’s thigh to keep her asleep while trying to read her wife without scaring her off.

Kate speaks first. Her voice sounds small. “I think I’m broken.”

Yelena shakes her head immediately. “No.”

Kate’s eyes stay on the ceiling. “Then why do I feel like I’m watching someone else live my life? Like I’m… floating above it. I should be grateful, and I am, but it’s like the signal doesn’t reach. I just…I can’t feel anything right now.”

Yelena scoots closer, rests her free hand on Kate’s arm. “You’re not broken. You just had a baby.”

“I’ve had three,” Kate mutters. “You’d think I’d be good at it by now.”

Yelena smiles softly. “No one gets good at it. We kinda…just survive them.”

Kate finally turns her head. “When does it stop feeling like this?”

“I don’t know, babe.” Yelena answers honestly. “Probably when you sleep more than two hours in a row. I’m not sure.”

Kate laughs quietly. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”

Yelena squeezes her arm. “You sound like someone who needs help.”

Kate’s throat tightens. “Help from who?”

“From whoever can give it. Doctor. Therapist. Me. You don’t have to white‑knuckle it.” Yelena pauses, voice soft. “You carried her. You brought her here. Let me carry you for a bit.”

Kate’s eyes fill but she doesn’t look away this time. “You already figured out what it is, didn’t you?”

“I have a theory.”

“What’s the theory?”

Yelena doesn’t flinch. “PPD.”

Kate nods slowly. The tears fall anyway. Yelena climbs up beside her, readjusts the baby, and gathers her in, arms around her, chin pressed to her hair. Kate sobs against her chest, quiet and exhausted, like she’s finally letting something go.

“I should be happier,” Kate whispers. “I shouldn’t feel like this.”

Yelena kisses the crown of her head. “It’s not something you’re doing intentionally.”

Kate’s breathing steadies. For the first time in weeks, she feels grounded. Held. Seen.

After a while, the silence shifts into something easier. Kate wipes her face on Yelena’s shirt, kisses the chubby baby leg between them, and exhales.

“We should say something,” Kate murmurs.

Yelena frowns. “You sure?”

“No. But maybe it’ll feel better than hiding.” They sit in the dim, quiet between them. “She deserves to be real,” Kate says finally. “Not a rumor. Not a secret. Someone with a name. A face. A place in our family.”

Yelena nods. “Okay.”

They won’t do an interview. No glossy cover spread. Maybe just a single post. A photo that says nothing and everything all at once.

Kate exhales. Yelena leans forward, presses a kiss to her knee. “We’ll do it when you’re ready.”

They don’t decide anything else that night. But something eases. The hiding’s not over, but it’s no longer all encompassing. They’re finding their way back to normal.

//\//\\

WEEK FIVE

A few nights later, after wrangling the kids into bed, after the fiftieth feeding, after Mila has finally surrendered her rebellion and gone limp on the couch, Kate finds her wife in the kitchen. Yelena stands by the sink, frozen, watching the baby monitor like it's a live feed of incoming disaster.

"You okay?" Kate asks gently.

Yelena doesn’t turn. Her voice is low, flat.

"They're running a story. TMZ. They have a photo of her. From the walk today. They reached out to my office. Wanted a comment.”

Kate exhales. Leans against the counter. “And?”

“I told them no comment. Doesn’t matter. It’s going live first thing tomorrow.”

Kate rubs her temples. “Maybe it’s time.”

Yelena turns. Her face is a mask of stillness. That terrifying calm she gets when she's holding too much and pretending she isn't. She crosses the space between them and wraps her arms around Kate. Kate lets herself fall into it. Lets herself be held.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Yelena murmurs.

“You always are.” Kate threads their fingers together. “But I think it’s time.”

They stand like that for a long moment. A soft rustle over the monitor. One of the girls turning over in her sleep. Then a small snore through the static.

Yelena presses her forehead to Kate’s. “If we do this, we do it on our terms.”

Kate nods. “Always.”

—

Kate talks Yelena into waking the girls. Bribe them with candy into staying up because they have work to do. TMZ is not one-upping Kate Bishop.

The post goes public within the hour. No fanfare. No press release. Just three black-and-white photos on Kate’s Instagram.

The first is carefully framed. Cropped just right to keep the girl’s faces out of the image while still being present. Natasha is curled on Yelena’s chest, face turned away. Ellie’s bright curls spill into one corner. Mila is half in the shot, a blur running across the bottom like a storm in progress. Kate’s hand rests gently across Yelena’s arm and the baby’s back. It’s the first photo with all five of them together. Somehow they hadn’t managed that yet.

The second is a candid Kate took earlier this week. The girls on the couch. Natasha asleep between her sisters. Ellie “reading” aloud to her. Mila gripping one of the baby’s socks like she might eat it.

The third is just Kate. Hallway mirror. Nursing bra. Joggers. Hair up. Skin bare. Natasha pressed to her chest, impossibly small and utterly at peace. The two seconds of calm the baby will tolerate being away from Yelena, caught and saved.

The caption reads:

“We made a person. She’s perfect.”

It’s past midnight and the post still manager to get two million likes in under a minute.

The internet catches fire. But the tone changes. Less speculation. More awe. More warmth. Less “are they hiding something?”, more “holy shit, they did it again.” Suddenly, everyone understands where Kate has been.

The next morning, Kate’s team asks about a statement. She says no.

The internet is melting down. Kate doesn’t check the comments. For once.

—

That night, five weeks after Natasha was born, they finally have sex.

It’s awkward. Clumsy. Interrupted twice. Once by the baby. Once because Kate forgot she put a heating pad in the bed and thought she peed herself.

They laugh until they cry. Then cry until they laugh again.

Afterward, Yelena kisses Kate’s stomach. The place that gave her all of this. Then her hip. Her collarbone. Her hand.

“Don’t ever think you’re not needed,” she says.

Kate doesn’t answer. She just pulls Yelena in and holds her like she means it.

Later, when the room is quiet and the baby’s finally asleep again, Kate stares at the ceiling and whispers, “I think I should see someone.”

Yelena shifts. “A therapist?”

Kate nods. “I think I need help.”

Yelena doesn’t say anything. Just laces their fingers together under the blankets and squeezes. That’s how they fall asleep. Not yet healed. But fighting to be.

//\//\\

By the time Natasha is eight weeks old, they have a routine. Kate handles the showers while Yelena handles breakfast.

Natasha still hates the car seat. Mila still throws her food. Ellie still asks at least once a day if they can have sheep again.

The days are loud. Messy. Relentless. But the house starts to feel like theirs again. Not a hiding place. Not a bunker. A home.

Kate watches Yelena cross the living room. Shirt inside out. Baby sling over her shoulder. Bottle tucked into her hoodie pocket. Hair tied back with one of Mila’s sparkly clips.

She feels something fall into place. Not peace. Not yet. But something close. Something solid. Not perfect. Not easy. But real. And theirs.

Kate nods. Tries to straighten. Fails and sways instead. She covers it by leaning into Yelena’s side. Casual. Yelena catches her. One hand on the small of her back, the other guiding. Yelena always guides. To anyone watching, it looks professional. Practiced. It’s neither.

The flashes explode as they hit the sidewalk. Yelena’s body shifts instinctively, always between Kate and chaos. Eleanor lingers, oblivious or indifferent. Kate turns to hug her.

“I’ll let you know what weekend I’m off when the schedule’s clearer. I got a two-bedroom this time.”

Eleanor cups her cheek. “Have fun. I love you.”

They hug again. Cameras snap. Blinding.

Eleanor climbs into the car the valet hands over. Yelena opens the passenger door. Helps Kate in. The door closes with a click.

Yelena rounds the front, slides in behind the wheel, starts the car. Drives. The paps follow.

Silence fills the car.

Kate leans her head back. Watches the rearview flashes die out as they gain distance.

“You know what’s wild?” Kate asks. Quieter. Rough-edged. Like she’s thinking out loud but too aware of the listener. “I can sell out Madison Square Garden, headline a billion-dollar franchise, and get mobbed in every continent…but I still can’t get my mother to admit she hated my last album.”

Yelena arches her brow, doesn’t answer right away.

“She said that?”

Kate scoffs.

“No. She just made that face. The one that says ‘I’m so proud of you, but also, I raised you better than to rhyme ecstasy with me.’”

Yelena almost smiles. But doesn’t. Not really. Her eyes stay on the road.

She doesn’t comment on Kate’s tone. Or overwhelming sadness emanating from Kate. Or the quiet hollow behind her eyes. Yelena knows what this is. Knows Kate’s deflection tactics better than anyone by now. Knows her brain is spinning because she’s been off-kilter since the late-night talk show interview earlier. Knows the weight of what the smug host said. She saw the way Kate’s face froze when he ran a montage reel of her exes and followed it up with the world’s most unoriginal question:

“So…who’s keeping your bed warm now?”

Kate had smiled on cue. Said something clever. Forgettable. Something that wouldn’t make headlines. She hadn’t looked at Yelena once since then. Now, here they are.

Now Kate does. A side glance. Long. Measured. Weighted with something she doesn’t yet dare say.

“You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m working.” Yelena’s voice is clean. Flatline steady.

“Well I say you’re off the clock then.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still mine to worry about.”

Kate huffs and looks away. Back to the window. Much too histrionic. That hangs between them. Lingering. Unbearably loud even in the stillness. Something catches in her chest. Her expression shifts.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” Yelena doesn’t argue with that statement. That would mean she cares. That would mean it’s real. The silence sprawls. Heavy. Brittle. Kate fills the silence again. She always does. This time, she cuts through it with a quiet spark of rebellion. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

“Define ‘this’.”

“All of it.” A vague wave of her hand. “This world. The way you ended up here. The way I…fuck it, I don’t know. I’m spiraling.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“That’s because you work yourself like a rented mule.”

Kate barks a laugh. Quick and involuntary.

“My mom used to say that.”

“Your mother is a smart woman.”

“She likes you. Thinks you’re good at this. Says I ‘listen’ to you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. A little.”

“You argue with me. All the time. About everything.”

Kate grins. But it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I like the way you argue.”

Yelena doesn’t take the bait. Kate studies her like she’s trying to memorize the things she’s not allowed to touch. She looks at Yelena the way you look at something you’re afraid of loving.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m Russian.”

Kate smiles. It’s real this time. At least for half a second.

“You were jealous.” It’s not a question.

“Of what?” Yelena’s fingers tighten on the wheel.

“The ex montage.”

Yelena takes her eyes off the road to look at her. Eyes unreadable.

“Why would I be?”

Kate tilts her head.

“Because I looked hot in all those clips.”

“You’re always fishing, Kate Bishop.”

“Because you never bite.”

There it is. The shift. The snap. The drop in oxygen. Something hangs suspended between them, electric and raw.

They stare at each other, something taut. A live wire dangling between them. Humming with every second that passes. Invisible but impossible to ignore. Ignored but continuously sparking. It’s always been there between them. Since the first day Yelena was assigned to her. Since later that afternoon, when Kate stepped onto a red carpet in that now-iconic silver gown and turned to find the woman in black standing just behind her, scanning the crowd like she already knew which face would be the threat. It had unnerved Kate. The steadiness. The way Yelena didn’t blink.

Kate cracked a joke, like she always does when feelings overwhelm.

“It’s not a real threat unless they have a podcast.”

Yelena had remained absolutely deadpan when she replied with: “You talk a lot.”

It should’ve been a dismissal. Instead, it was the beginning. Kate had smiled. And she hadn’t stopped since.

Now, months later…in this car, that same gravity pulls at them. Charged silence, hot and magnetic. Kate shifts. Her hand moves to the back of Yelena’s headrest. Fingers digging in. Close enough to graze.

“You’re doing it again,” Yelena says, eyes still on the road.

“Doing what?”

“Pushing.”

Kate leans back against her headrest, gaze locked on Yelena. Her smile curves slow. Dangerous.

“And you’re pulling. That’s the game, isn’t it? I push. You pull. We keep circling until one of us snaps.”

Yelena white-knuckles the wheel. Barely perceptible, but Kate notices. She always notices.

Neither one says what they both know: the snapping point is close. It always is when they’re alone. A near unbearable amount of emotional gasoline waiting to combust. The car keeps moving, but they’re not going anywhere. Not really. Not yet.

They turn into the driveway of Kate’s Los Angeles home. Yelena rolls down the window, nods at the guard. The gate swings open. Kate turns to look at her.

“You think you could handle me?”

No response. The car stops. Yelena gets out. Walks around. Opens Kate’s door like protocol dictates. Tonight, not a single damn thing happening inside Yelena is following protocol. Kate rolls her eyes and steps out, but doesn’t walk away.

They’re inches apart now. Closer than usual. Closer than allowed.

“I’m not scared of you.” Kate declares.

“You should be.” Yelena’s eyes darken.

“You’re not dangerous.”

“Yes. I am.” Yelena retorts.

Kate doesn’t back down. Steps forward instead.

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I need you to go inside so I can go home.”

Kate lifts her hand. Not touching. Hovering beside Yelena’s cheek. Fingers twitch.

“You keep saying no with your mouth…but your eyes are begging to shut me up.”

Yelena’s jaw clenches. Breath hitches. Kate leans in. A hair from her lips. Just their breath now. Just the static hum of something inevitable.

“Tell me to stop.” Yelena doesn’t move. Kate doesn’t kiss her. Just brushes her nose against Yelena’s. A ghost of contact. A test of boundaries. “Tell me to stop.” Again. Softer. Meaner.

A heartbeat passes. Yelena’s lips part. The breath between them sharpens.

“Good night, Miss Bishop.”

Kate steps back. Smirks like she’s won anyway. Walks to the door. Doesn’t look back.

Not once.

//

Days Later.

They’re in Vancouver now. It’s the kind of grey day that seeps into your bones. Rain taps at the windows, a constant drumming, blurring the streetlights into a watercolor smear. Kate’s been filming nights…long, cold, brutal…so days dissolve into blackout curtains, crumpled scripts, and the occasional IV drip when she forgets to eat again. Her body is running on caffeine, protein bars, and whatever residual fury’s keeping her upright.

It’s another night shoot. Yelena yawns in a beat-up camping chair she dragged next to the trailer’s door. Her hoodie’s zipped halfway up, sleeves shoved past her elbows, a slim paperback in Russian balanced across her thigh. She hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

The trailer behind her is absurdly upscale. Leather seating, a gas fireplace Kate’s assistant decided to light for "vibe," granite counters no one touches, a stocked fridge no one opens. It smells like lavender cleaner. It’s unnervingly clean. And uncomfortably quiet.

The door creaks open. Kate pops out in leggings and a hoodie with the franchise’s logo plastered over her chest. Her hair’s scraped up. Her face bare. She looks real in a way she never does on set. She’s holding a script. Still warm from the printer.

“I need you.”

Yelena doesn’t even glance up from her book. “For?”

“Just…come in here.”

There’s something in Kate’s tone. Raw at the edge, quiet underneath. Yelena huffs, folds the corner of her page with military precision, and rises. She moves like she’s bracing for something. She always does when it’s Kate.

She steps inside the trailer. Closes the door behind her.

Kate’s pacing. Not performatively. Just kinetic. Restless in her own skin. A bomb in motion.

“I think the rewrites made it worse,” she mutters, half to herself, like she’s trying not to ask for validation out loud.

“I’m sure they did.” Yelena retorts, leaning against the door.

Kate stops mid-stride. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen what you’ve shot…”

“That’s very supportive.”

“I’m not here to be supportive. I’m here to keep people from kidnapping you.”

“Romantic.”

“You want romance, call that weird grip. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.”

Kate snorts. Heads to the fridge. Opens it. Stares. Closes it again. Too quick. She doesn’t actually want anything.

“Why are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“This.” She gestures, vague but loaded. “You’re always just… unbothered. Like none of it matters.”

“It doesn’t.”

Kate crosses her arms, leans against the counter. Eyes narrowing.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Correct.”

They fall quiet again. The air electrifies. Static in the space between them.

Kate watches her. Really watches her. The way her hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. The clean arches of her cheekbones. The way her hands are tucked just behind her, fingers flexing against the door handle. The gleam of raindrops on the fabric of her pants. And her…Yelena…impossibly still. Unmoved. Or pretending to be.

“I’m trying to decide if I like you,” Kate declares, deceptively playful. Dangerous, in the way someone leans too far off a ledge just to see if gravity will take them.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

It should end there. Another round of sparring. Just that thing they do. The usual edge-of-something banter they’re too proud to name. Just enough bite to keep the space charged, never enough to name it. But something’s changed. But Kate’s tired. Not tired like needs a nap. Tired like something raw’s been rubbed open too long.

Kate crosses the room. Swiftly. Stops in front of Yelena. Close. Closer than comfort allows. Yelena doesn't move an inch.

“You’re in my bubble,” Yelena utters, low.

“I don’t think I like not knowing what you think of me.”

“You already know.”

“No. I don’t. I think you maybe tolerate me. I think you want to push me away but can’t. I think you think this is a job.”

“It IS a job, Kate.”

Kate holds her gaze. Searching. Digging. The kind of look you don’t give someone you’re pretending not to want.

Yelena’s fingers flick the handle behind her, flips it open. Never taking her eyes off Kate. Kate leans forward. Pulls the door shut again. Yelena glares.

“You’ve never asked the real question,” Kate adds.

“What’s the real question?” Yelena’s voice drops a register. Gravel and hesitation.

“What do you want me to be?”

Yelena’s chest tightens. She straightens. Reflex. Posture as defense. An intimidation tactic. Unfortunately for her, even with her bare feet, Kate is still looking down at her. Still unyielding.

Hardly any space between them. The air shifts. Kate can smell her. Faint musk, clean linen, something sharp and green beneath it. Familiar. Unsafe. They’re chest to chest now. Neither backs away.

“You want me to say it? You want me to say I think about it?” Kate whispers. Yelena doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Her lungs stall. “Because I do. Every day. Every fucking day since the first time I heard you laugh.”

“I’m not one of your toys, Kate.”

“I don’t want you to be. I’ve never asked for that.”

“You’re reckless.”

Kate nods once. Firm.

“Maybe. But I’m not lying. Not now.”

“You’re shaking,” Yelena adds, nonchalant.

“So are you.”

They stare. Raw. Stripped. Both wild-eyed. Breath ragged.

“I need you to step back, Kate,” Yelena demands, but her voice betrays her. It wavers.

“I don’t care.”

“I do. I don’t play games. Whenever I do things, they mean something.”

“I want it to.”

A beat. Yelena opens the door again.

“I’m going back to my book.”

Kate’s heart stutters. Her lips part.

“Don’t run.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I’m going back to my book,” Yelena repeats, more firmly this time.

She turns. Moves down the steps without looking back.

Kate sees her sit back down on her little chair and open her book as the door swings closed. Exactly where she was before. In the chair. Face blank.

Through the little door window, Kate watches the page Yelena had folded is still dog-eared. But she’s not reading. Not really. Neither of them is doing what they’re supposed to.

They're both still there. Still stuck on the same sentence.

//

Five days later.

Yelena smokes. A rare indulgence. A reminder that she’s still human beneath the layers of discipline and duty. The other bodyguard beside her is ex-military. She guesses Air Force from the posture. They’re deep into some conversation only people who’ve fired the same rifle for over a decade can have. The kind that involves ballistics data and acronyms no civilian would recognize.

Yelena listens with half her attention, nodding occasionally, pretending not to scan the exit.

Then she hears it. The sharp, unmistakable click of expensive heels on marble. That particular rhythm…cocky, intoxicated, stubborn. She could recognize that exact gate even in a riot. It cuts through the drone of city noise like a metronome.

Yelena doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. Her body already knows.

She drops the cigarette. Grinds it out with the heel of her boot. Taps the other bodyguard once on the shoulder. A silent goodbye. Moves. No words. No warning. Just pivots on instinct and starts walking just as Kate emerges.

Yelena meets Kate at the top of the venue steps.

There’s a rustle. A half-trip. A muffled thud. Then Kate’s voice, pitched high and petulant. Whiny. Velveted with exhaustion.

“I’m firing Sam. Just so we’re clear.”

Yelena’s mouth twitches.

“Again?”

“Why the fuck would she say yes to this when she knows I had a fitting, then a full day on set? Who hates feet that much?” Kate grumbles as she leans against Yelena’s shoulder, one leg bent like a flamingo as she kicks off one shoe. Then the other. The sound of stilettos hitting concrete is weirdly intimate.

Without hesitation, Yelena bends down to pick the shoes. Then her free hand flies to Kate’s back, steadying her.

“You say that like it wasn’t your idea.”

“It’s her job to say no to my dumb ideas.”

“Yeah… that’s impossible.”

Yelena opens the car door with one hand, her other still at Kate’s waist. She gets her into the SUV with practiced ease.

Kate groans as she drops into the seat, melting into the leather like it might absorb the exhaustion out of her bones. She smells like champagne, sweat, smoke. Her lipstick’s smudged near her jaw. There’s glitter on her collarbone like a constellation.

Yelena gets in. Starts the car. Drives.

This has played out like so many other nights before. It’s muscle memory by now. This part is routine too. The post-event unravel. Kate Bishop, media-trained to a knife’s edge, peeling herself down to something real. The quiet shedding of performance. Yelena knows the rhythm of this Kate. Not the brand or the persona anymore. Just a human. Squishier around the edges, sharp when provoked, perilous only if you think you’re immune to her.

They don’t speak for the first few blocks. Kate’s halfway asleep, slouched, legs splayed, head tilted like she might tip over.

Yelena should be focusing on the road. She isn’t. Her eyes flick to Kate in the rearview. Then away. Again. Then away.

The tension’s been there for months. Brewing slow. Slipping through cracks and codes. It lives in the stolen glances that linger too long. In the silences that stretch just one beat past appropriate. In the places Kate touches Yelena. Wrist, waist, shoulder. Like she’s trying to figure out which part she’s not allowed to hold.

Tonight? Something’s different.

Maybe it’s the irresponsible amount of drinks Kate didn’t pace. Maybe it’s the way exhaustion is forcing Yelena’s own restraint to fray to the point it’s near impossible to pretend she doesn’t feel whatever the fuck this is too. Maybe it’s the way Yelena caught Kate brazenly staring down at her from one of the mansion’s balconies earlier. Kate was up there…in red silk, perched above the party, laughing at nothing, some guy at her elbow. Too close. Too eager.

Yelena had watched from the street. Fingers fisted as she fought the urge to rush up and throw the dude over the railing when he touched Kate’s waist. Kate didn’t smile. He kept moving in. She kept pushing him away. Not entirely playfully. Yelena had wanted to hurt him. Not because she’s Kate’s bodyguard. It was…something else. Something more primal.

But Yelena didn’t rush in. Because that’s not her place. Kate is inside, up there. Where she should be. And Yelena is outside. Where she belongs. Two very different lives. Two completely different realities.

Kate is in and out of sleep as they drive. Yelena pulls into the garage of the three-story mansion Kate’s rented for the duration of production.

Kate startles awake when Yelena’s door slams shut. Seconds later, her door swings open. Kate looks at Yelena, half-lidded, hazy eyes and a lazy drunk grin painted on her face.

“I’m hungry…I could eat an entire cow.” Kate announces.

Yelena helps Kate and her wobbly limbs out of the car and into the house. Doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Yelena gets her as far as the two steps past the door. The second Kate is through the threshold, Yelena turns around. Kate hears Yelena’s steps getting further. Turns to look at her. Confused.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s three in the morning, Kate. I’m going to my hotel to sleep.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Order something.”

“It’s three in the morning. Nothing’s open.”

“Call Sam. Make her figure it out.” Yelena keeps walking.

“Sam’s asleep.”

“Kate, what do you want from me?” Yelena stops and spins, aggravated.

Silence.

Then, small. “I’m hungry.” A beat. “…I want pasta.”

No movement. No sound. Just the two of them staring at each other, the echo of something unsaid hanging in the air.

“Fine. I’ll make it myself.” Kate walks away from the garage door. Leaves it wide open.

Yelena watches her go. Watches her sway down the hallway. Pathetic. Drunk. Barely standing. Her dress rides just enough with each step to flash skin. Her hair’s falling out of its pin. She looks like trouble. And it woul dbe irresponsible to let her go anywhere near an open flame.

“I need a fucking raise.” Yelena mutters. Then louder: “Do NOT go anywhere near that stove, Kate.”

She climbs the stairs two at a time. Finds Kate sprawled on the couch, silly drunk smile on her face.

“You’re making me pasta,” Kate slurs.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

Kate rolls over. Now facing the ceiling. Her dress is wrecked. Her skin flushed. Hair messy. Dress wrinkled. The neckline has shifted just enough to reveal the edge of something see-through underneath. Lace, maybe. Very deliberately worn. Yelena doesn’t let her eyes linger.

“You always stand like that.”

“Like what?” Yelena asks, visibly annoyed while she collects things from cupboards and cabinets.

“Back straight. Feet flat. Like you’re waiting for an ambush.”

“I’m trained for one.”

“There’s no threat here.”

“That’s what everyone says before something goes wrong.”

Kate sits up. The alcohol haze is thinning. What’s left is heavier. Calmer. Hungrier. She studies Yelena. A beat. Then another. Her voice is quiet when she speaks again.

“You always this careful?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to with me.”

Yelena doesn’t answer. Kate stands. Bare feet on tile. There’s a flush rising to her cheeks, but it’s not from wine. She closes the distance slowly. Her presence fills the room like heat.

“You know you’re the only person in my life who doesn’t ask for anything?”

“I’m literally paid to be here.”

“You’re not paid to care.”

“And I don’t.”

“Liar.” Kate’s smile is utterly disarming.

Yelena opens the fridge. not because she needs anything from it right this second, but because it’s something to do with her hands. Just to put something between them. She grabs a Tupperware. Cheese. Grated.

Behind her: silence. Then more footsteps. Then the air thickens. Kate’s warmth, close. Her breath, closer.

“I watched you tonight. From the balcony.”

“I know.”

“You never look away anymore.” Yelena keeps working in silence. “I wore this dress for you.”

Yelena doesn’t turn around.

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s backless.”

“I noticed.”

“Did you?”

Kate moves even closer. Yelena can feel her. Yelena spins on her heels. Kate is closer than she realized. She is…right there. One step and their eyelashes would touch. More bare skin than not. Pink lips, gap between them. The curve of her neck exposed like a dare. Kate smirks, too casual to be actually casual.

“Kate…”

“I’m not a kid.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You act like I am. Like I’m going to break if you touch me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Why?”

A silence sharp enough to cut.

“Because it’s not my job to touch you.”

“But you want to.”

It’s not a question. Yelena loathes when Kate does that. Assume. Like she knows her. It’s even more irritating because she’s never wrong.

Yelena breathes in. Exhales. Centers herself.

“Kate, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like my job. I need my job. Some of us actually have to look at our bank accounts. I’m not blowing it for some rich girl whim.”

Kate laughs. It’s short, tired, but not cruel.

“You think I’m reckless. Spoiled. Impulsive. Used to getting my way.”

“You said it, not me.”

Kate closes the last inch. Her fingers skim Yelena’s jacket.

“What if I told you I’ve thought about this longer than you have? What if I told you I’ve been waiting for you to catch up?” Kate whispers against Yelena’s lips.

Green eyes meet blue.

“You’re drunk.”

“I was. I’m not now.”

Yelena’s heart thunders in her chest. Loud enough she’s afraid Kate might be able to hear it.

“We can’t…”

Kate’s hands slip under the hem of Yelena’s jacket. Her palms rest against Yelena’s ribs. No pressure. Just heat. Intention.

“You’re so goddamn stubborn. Stop pretending you don’t want this.”

“It’s not about wanting.”

“Then what is it?”

“This is my job.”

“You think I don’t know that? But I also feel your eyes on me. All the time. On the carpet. On set. In the studio. You look at me when you think I’m asleep. I never am. You watch me and pretend you’re not memorizing every inch. You also say my name different than anyone else’s. Sometimes I call you just to see that look on your face when you walk into a room and find me. Tough guy goes all soft.”

Beat.

“You’re not the center of the universe, Kate.”

“No. But I am yours.”

“I’m not one of your little fans.”

“I don’t want you tobe. I just want you to stop pretending this isn’t killing us.”

There’s a pause. A silence that stretches. Then Yelena leans in. It almost feels like it’s going to happen. Kate braces for it.

Kate’s hands move. One slides up, brushing Yelena’s collarbone. Thumb at the base of her neck. She’s shaking. Just slightly. But Yelena feels it. All of it.

Then…Yelena whispers.

“Make your own pasta, Miss Bishop.”

She’s had Braxton Hicks for weeks. Tightenings that came and went. Cramping that never amounted to more than mild annoyance. This could be more of the same. Her back’s been wrecked for days. Her hips scream when she walks. Her whole body feels like someone else's. She doesn’t trust it to be honest anymore.

Another one rolls in an hour later. Then two more before dinner. By then they’re coming every forty-five minutes. Not regular. But not nothing.

She eats pasta with one hand braced against the table, trying not to wince when a contraction clamps down hard enough to stop her mid-chew. Yelena clocks it but doesn’t say anything yet. Just takes over bath duty without a word and kisses Kate’s shoulder as she passes.

The night’s long. The contractions stay. Never completely vanish. Some are spaced out. Some sneak up on her and leave her breathless. She tries to sleep. Fails. By the time the sun rises on Friday, her joints feel packed with sand. Her ribs ache from breathing through it.

But they’re not five minutes apart. They’re not lasting a minute. They’re not consistent. And until they are, she’s not calling it.

Yelena finds her at 5AM, pacing their bedroom like a caged animal, one hand on her lower back, the other on the bump. Her jaw’s clenched. Her hair’s half falling out of the braid she slept in.

“You okay?” Yelena asks, instantly alert.

Kate nods slowly. “Think we might be close.”

Yelena doesn’t panic. Doesn’t say a word. She gets out of bed, crosses the room, sets her hands gently on Kate’s hips and steadies her. Kate leans into the contact. Lets them sway.

They stand like that until Kate’s next contraction tears through her. Her fingers clamp onto Yelena’s forearms. Her nails dig in. Yelena doesn’t flinch.

“Should I call?” she murmurs.

Kate’s already shaking her head. “It’s not time yet.”

And it’s not. She knows it. She’s done this before. This isn’t active labor. It’s the long, slow, grinding start. Her body’s doing something, but it’s not ready yet. Neither is she.

Yelena says nothing. Just presses a kiss to the base of her neck and rubs her back in slow circles.

—

The day stretches out forever.

The contractions keep coming. Irregular, but relentless. Kate can't sit still. Walking helps, so she walks. Around the room. Around the garden. Up and down the stairs. Then again. And again.

Mila follows her like a duckling. Won’t stop asking why Mama’s making weird faces. Ellie wants to help and insists on practicing her future big-sistering by offering Kate a doll and some juice. At one point, while Kate is doubled over the kitchen counter breathing through a wave, Mila starts crying because she can’t find her shoe and Ellie is literally climbing her leg asking where babies come from.

Kate grits out, “Yelena!” between clenched teeth.

Yelena understands the implied “get them away from me immediately!” and swoops in. She picks Mila up. Hands Ellie a coloring book. Doesn’t say a word.

They make it through lunch. Just barely.

By mid-afternoon, Kate's exhausted. Her legs ache. Her head pounds. The contractions haven’t stopped, but they haven’t leveled up either. They’re still irregular, still not technically labor. Her whole body feels like it’s vibrating.

Yelena brings her water. Times the contractions without being asked. She has detailed records going. Notes. Highlighters. The doula’s number in her favorites just in case. She’s prepped snacks. Charged batteries. Boiled water. Triple-checked towels. Has the birth pool halfway filled to be safe.

Kate spots Yelena, back turned to her, trying to hide her frantic texting.

“You called them, didn’t you?” Kate asks from where she’s crouched against the wall, panting.

Yelena glances over her shoulder, looking guilty. “I may have texted.”

“And?”

“They said it sounds early.”

“Because it is.”

Yelena hands her another coconut water. Silently insists she drinks. “I’m just…preemptively vigilant.”

“You’re preemptively annoying me.”

Yelena kisses her forehead. “Wouldn’t you rather me be overprepared?”

Kate doesn’t answer. She’s busy moaning through another one.

—

Night comes. Kate doesn’t sleep. Neither does Yelena.

They trade off with the kids. Watch cartoons. Attempt bedtime. Give up. Let the girls pile into their bed with snacks and a movie while Kate roams the hallways and leans against doorframes.

By 4AM Saturday, she’s groaning into a pillow and biting her own fist to keep from screaming.

Yelena sits beside her. Hands gentle on her lower back, whispering in her ear, “You’re doing so good. Just breathe through it. Each one just means you’re getting closer.”

The contraction ends. Kate sags onto her wife. Then another starts before her body entirely loosens up. But this one’s different.

It’s not a belt. It’s a vice. Low, deep, massive. Her whole abdomen seizes. Her thighs burn. Her lungs lock up. She can’t move.

Yelena watches her carefully. Her brow creases.

“You okay?”

Kate doesn’t answer. Can’t.

The sound that leaves her chest is not human. She’s suddenly soaked in sweat. Her hands are shaking.

Yelena leans in, calm but sharp. “Kate.”

Another sound. Guttural. A growl through clenched teeth.

“Kate. That one was different.”

Kate doesn’t argue. She nods, once. Grits her jaw.

Yelena is already reaching for the phone. “I’m calling.”

Kate doesn’t stop her. Because now it might be time.

—

The doula and midwife arrive early Saturday morning.

They come with warm smiles and soft voices, the kind of quiet presence that fills a space without taking it over. They slip off their shoes by the door. Wash their hands. Speak in gentle tones. One heads to the kitchen to unpack supplies; the other checks Kate’s vitals with calm precision.

Yelena already has the villa prepped to within an inch of its life. The floors are clean. Diffusers are running. Tea is brewed. The table near the pool holds every comfort item Kate’s ever mentioned: lip balm, heating pad, electrolyte packets, a photo of the girls, noise-canceling headphones, a stress ball shaped like a tomato.

The birth team barely glances at their own notes. Yelena’s are better. Color-coded. Annotated. There’s a timeline taped to the fridge.

Kate moves through it all in a fog. Every step feels heavier than the last. The pain isn’t the blinding kind yet. But it’s deep. Relentless. Pressure that wraps around her body. Her back screams. Her thighs burn. She sweats through two pairs of pajama pants within hours.

The contractions are stronger now. Closer together. But something’s…off.

They’re active, yes. But not quite productive. There’s an edge missing. No urge to push. No sign the baby’s moved down. Just long, slow waves that leave her empty and shaky afterward.

The girls don’t help.

Ellie wants to be involved. Keeps popping in every ten minutes with questions…Is the baby coming out yet? Can I help? What if she comes early and I’m in the bathroom? Do you think she’ll like bunnies?

Mila climbs onto everything she’s not supposed to. Gets caught trying to dive into the birth pool twice. Screams when she’s removed. Demands snacks. Then throws them.

At one point, Kate is hunched over the couch, mid-contraction, when Mila runs past shouting about pee.

Once again, all Kate has to do is grunts a stern “Yelena” before her wife appears instantly. Scoops Mila up. Shushes Ellie. Herds them out to the garden with a promise of gummy bears and a movie. Then returns ten minutes later once they’re settled.

It becomes a cycle. In. Out to check in on them. Back in. Back out.

—

By late afternoon, Kate’s on her third set of clothes and fifth frozen washcloth. The pain is bigger now. Unrelenting. Her legs shudder when she stands. Her jaw aches from clenching. But it still isn’t time.

The midwife checks again. Quietly. Gently. Then shakes her head with a calm sort of sympathy.

“Not quite there yet.”

Kate wants to scream. She doesn’t. She just nods and sips water like it’s going to drown the rising tide of frustration.

—

At dusk, the doula sits with her on the floor while she rocks her hips through another wave. Her voice is warm. Steady.

“Your body’s doing what it needs to. Sometimes it just takes longer.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t believe it.

They labor through dinner. Yelena makes pasta and roasted vegetables and forgets to eat any of it. Ellie falls asleep under the table. Mila manages to sneak into the pool when no one was looking, fully clothed. Kate shouts. Then cries.

—

By 10PM, the midwife and doula exchange a look. Not concern. Just experience.

“It might help if we stepped out for the night,” one of them says. “You’re doing beautifully. But sometimes, space helps things shift.”

Yelena frowns. “You’re sure?”

“We’ll be in the guesthouse. We’re two minutes away.”

Kate lies on her side, half-draped over the edge of the couch, exhausted and annoyed. “Fine,” she mutters.

They leave quietly. Yelena locks the door behind them and turns back to find Kate flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over her eyes.

“This kid is grounded,” Kate says.

Yelena smiles. Kneels beside her. Runs a hand along her calf. “She’s stubborn.”

“She’s evil.” Kate groans. “Remind me again why we did this?”

Yelena brushes damp hair off her forehead and kisses her temple. “Because the world didn’t have enough of us yet.”

Kate doesn’t get a chance to respond. Another contraction hits, harder now. Her entire body coils. She breathes like she’s trying not to shatter.

And still…not quite there. Not yet. Something is shifting. Just not fast enough.

—

By Sunday, it’s real. The contractions are close now. Closer than they’ve ever been. Agonizing. Deep. Low. They come in waves that take Kate to her knees. No more second-guessing. No more “maybe.” No more “early labor.” This is it.

She hasn’t slept in nearly two days. Her body shakes between waves, wrung out and emptied over and over. She’s thrown up twice. Her lips are cracked. Her hands curl into fists she can’t unclench. Everything burns.

Yelena doesn’t leave her side. She moves around Kate like a tide. Present, constant. She holds water to her lips between surges. Brushes cold cloths across her neck. Murmurs encouragement in Russian Kate doesn’t speak but understands anyway. Tucks sweat-matted hair behind her ears. Holds her steady when her knees buckle. Never flinches.

The villa is quiet upstairs. Just the midwife. The doula. Yelena. Kate.

The girls are downstairs, buried in snacks and screens and bribery. Ellie peeked in once and immediately burst into tears at the sight of Kate groaning through a contraction. Mila tried to climb into the birth pool again. After that, Yelena barricaded the stairs, gave them each an iPad, and also turned on the TV for backup.

Kate is on all fours on the floor when the midwife checks her again.

“You’re close,” the midwife declares softly.

“You said that two hours ago.” Kate growls.

“I know. But you are. We just need her to move down some more.”

Kate growls, long and low, as another contraction hits. Her whole body shudders. But still…no urge to push.

—

Hours crawl past. The sun shifts. The room darkens. The pain grows teeth. The pushing started a while ago. Still no sign of the baby.

Kate tries everything. Hands and knees. Squatting. Draped over the side of the pool. On her side. On the birth stool. Holding onto the knotted rope Yelena rigged from a beam. Screaming into towels.

Yelena lets her crush her hand until something in her wrist audibly pops. She doesn’t let go.

At some point, the doula meets eyes with the midwife. There’s a tinge of concern now. Not fear. Not panic. But something pointed. Professional.

Kate sees it. “Is she fucking stuck?” she musters out.

The midwife keeps her tone calm. “She’s being a little stubborn.”

“She’s okay. Her heart rate’s good,” the doula adds. “But we’re going to need some movement soon.”

Kate’s body pulses with effort. Nothing. Yelena kneels in front of her, hand on her stomach, thumb brushing over sweat-slick skin.

“She’s just taking after you,” she says, trying to be light. “Big, hard head.”

Kate doesn’t laugh. Can’t. The next contraction hits harder than anything before. It feels like a freight train driving through her pelvis. Her vision flashes white.

She screams. Something raw and guttural and ancient. Her body is on fire. Her legs are jelly. Her mind is somewhere far away.

Yelena leans in, grips her shoulders, speaks directly into her temple. “You can do this.”

Kate shakes her head, barely conscious. Yelena grabs her face. Makes her look at her. Encouraging. Certain.

“You can.”

Something gives after that. Not physically, not yet. But something internal. Something primal. Like a switch being flipped. Like she finally lets herself stop resisting.

Kate plants her heels. Anchors into the ground. And when the next contraction hits, she roars through it like she’s breaking through bedrock.

And this time, it shifts.

Something changes. A new sensation. Not a wave but a ring. Burning. Stretching. Opening. Then…relief. And a sound. Not hers. Piercing. Immediate. The baby’s cry.

The midwife is already moving. Hands sure. Quick. She lifts the baby, checks the shoulders, suctions her gently. Wraps her in warmth.

Kate slumps back, body obliterated. Tears leaking into her hairline, even though she should be too tired to cry.

A weight is placed on her chest. Small. Hot. Breathing.

She looks down. She’s here.

Slick. Pink. Tiny. Howling. Red-faced and very much irate. Real.

Kate cups her hands around her. Draws her close. Smells the top of her head. The blood. The heat. The life.

Yelena is behind her, one arm bracing Kate, one hand pressed over the baby’s back. She’s trembling. Lips to Kate’s bare shoulder.

“Look at her,” Kate whispers, voice ragged.

Yelena does. Nods. And stops breathing. Completely undone.

They stay like that a long moment.

Then Kate says, quietly, “I need five minutes. Just you and me.”

Yelena lifts her head. Nods. Turns to the team.

“Can we…give us the room?”

The doula smiles. “Of course. We’ll be right outside.”

They go. The door closes.

For the first time in days, there’s silence.

Kate doesn’t speak. The baby latches almost immediately. Small mouth, greedy and new. The sensation makes her wince, then sigh.

Yelena wraps herself around both of them. Presses her lips to Kate’s neck. One hand strokes the baby's spine. Protective. Reverent.

Kate rests her head against Yelena’s shoulder, turns to look at her.

“You want to know her name?”

Yelena exhales, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I’ve been waiting.”

Kate shifts her body to better look up at her. Exhausted. Hollowed out. Bare in a way she rarely lets herself be.

“I had a whole speech planned. Wrote it down. Rehearsed it in my head…” She tries to remember it now. Fails. “I forgot the whole thing.”

Yelena smiles. Brushes a thumb under her eye.

“You don’t need a speech, Kate Bishop. You’ve done plenty today.”

Kate nods. Then says it. One word. No lead-up. No drama.

“Natasha.”

Yelena doesn’t react at first. Just stares at her. Then at the baby. Her face stills completely. Like everything inside her stops moving. Kate doesn’t look away.

“I know what she meant to you,” Kate says, voice quiet. “I hated it for a long time. Hated that there was this person I could never compete with. Hated what she represented. That you had this entire life I wasn’t part of.” She takes a breath. Pushes through it. “I’m not trying to replace her. Or erase her. We named Ellie after someone I loved, I thought it was only fair you got this one.”

Yelena’s eyes glisten.

Kate keeps going. “You’ve never loved anyone more than you loved her. And I needed you to know…I don’t resent that anymore.”

She looks down at the baby again. Her voice breaks on the next words.

“I wanted to give her a name that meant something. To you. To us. A way to honor who you were before me. Who made you the amazing person you are. Who made you smile before I did. Who kept you alive before I came around to stop you from doing all the dumb things you do. And who we are now. There’s a Natasha that will only ever be yours. This one…this one can be ours.”

Yelena still can’t speak. She just watches the baby breathe, small and fierce and utterly alive.

“I don’t do dumb things.” Yelena blurts out. It’s the first coherent sentence her brain managed to put together.

Kate barks a laugh. Finds her lips. Kisses her.

“You do. Constantly. You’re lucky you’re hot.”

Yelena doesn’t argue.

“Thank you,” she says instead.

Kate leans in. “You don’t have to.”

“I do.”

Then, finally, Yelena reaches down. Runs a finger along the baby’s impossibly small body. Slides her fingertip into the newborn’s palm. It curls tight around her like instinct. Yelena chokes. Her voice fractures.

“Hi, Natasha.”

Kate closes her eyes. She doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. The moment lands between them. Heavy. Clean. Honest.

Their girl…squirming, warm, impossibly new…stares up at them now. A past reconciled. A future made real.

No more ghosts. No more shadows. Just this. Them. Here. Real. The story that for almost a decade they never thought they’d get to tell.

Her gym downstairs is state-of-the-art, and already humming to life by 4:42. Protein powder, filtered water, a banana she hates but forces down. She moves through the space in silence. Reps, sets, pull-ups. Bag work. Fifteen minutes on the rowing machine. Her bra darkens with perspiration. Sweat beads at the small of her back. Her skin glows with heat.

She trains in silence. No music. Just the rhythm of her breath and the soft clack of weights, the churn of the treadmill, the occasional grunt as she pushes through a last set.

Two scars catch the overhead light when she rotates. One beneath her ribs. One under her clavicle. Clean entry wounds. Clean exits. Two bullets she never dodged. Both taken for the same woman.

She doesn’t think about that anymore.

///

By 5:30 she’s got a second protein shake in one hand and a phone in the other. Her Bluetooth buds are in. She’s halfway through a video call with her team in Tokyo while simultaneously scanning an incident report from a venue in São Paulo. One of her clients, a pop star barely old enough to rent a car, had a stalker get too close during a meet and greet. The guy was apprehended. Security held. But Yelena still rips into them in two separate languages.

Her phone pings. Updates from the London team. A CEO’s daughter got spooked mid-vacation. Wants her detail reassessed before the next stop. Yelena sends a voice note:

“Pull Rollins and Falsworth from the production in South Africa, reassign them to her. Put two advance on the ground. Sweep the primary lodging top to bottom before touchdown. Perimeter, locks, staff, and adjacent units. If anything’s off, scrap it. Have her team relocate her. Give them options we’ve already cleared on previous runs.”

///

Yelena showers at 7:00 sharp. The water runs hot. She leans into it. Eyes closed. Head tilted back. Steam curling to her skin. She exhales slowly, centering herself.

When she steps out, towel slung low, Jemma’s already up…propped against pillows, tablet in hand, glasses slipping down her nose.

“You’re terrifying when you talk logistics,” Jemma murmurs without looking up.

“Did I wake you up?” Yelena asks, toweling off.

“Sort of. They must’ve fucked up bad.”

“They let someone on our watch list get close enough to grab a mic stand. Should’ve never made it past secondary. I have no patience for bullshit mistakes.”

Jemma looks over her glasses. Smirks.

“You’re sexy when you’re bossy.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lift. A hum, deep in her throat. Yelena climbs back into bed. Jemma tugs the towel loose from Yelena’s body.

"Yeah?"

Jemma tosses the tablet aside. “Yeah.”

Jemma pulls her in by the wrist. Kisses her slow. Familiar. Body still warm from sleep, tongue lazy and teasing. What follows isn’t rushed. It’s the opposite. Familiar. Slow. Hands tracing territory already claimed. Jemma mouths at the edge of one scar. Then the other. Yelena doesn’t stop her. They move together like people who’ve mapped and memorized each other’s bodies. Grounded. The rhythm easy, natural, no fumbling. No urgency. Just heat and trust and skin.

Jemma rolls on top. Yelena lets her.

///

A faint gold glow across the sheets. The sun’s high in the sky by the time it ends. Jemma sprawled half on top of her. Yelena’s hands threaded in her hair. Their breaths syncing again. Jemma pulls back, eyes still heavy.

“You’re not as scary in the morning as you pretend to be.”

“Not with you…But I can be if you want me to.”

“You can be mean to me tonight.” Jemma says playfully.

Yelena smiles, hums.

“Do I have to wait?”

Jemma shakes her head no. Yelena grins, rolls them over. Her turn to be on top.

///

By 8:30 they’re barefoot in the kitchen. Yelena makes omelets. Jemma handles coffee. Jemma insists on grapefruit today. Yelena grimaces through it.

The news plays softly in the background. Jemma leans against the counter in one of Yelena’s hoodies, texting someone from the lab. There’s laughter. Eye contact. Shared glances over mugs of coffee. There’s a rhythm to the way they move. Brushing shoulders, grazing knuckles as they pass plates around, things handed over before the other even asks. A domesticity that used to feel foreign and now just…is.

They talk about scheduling. About whose turn it is to pick up the dry cleaning. About a conference Jemma’s supposed to fly out for next month. About someone needing to make a toilet paper run.

It’s solid. Happy. The kind of quiet, stable, good that doesn’t have to declare itself out loud. Normal in a way Yelena never imagined for herself.

They’re talking about kids. Not casually. Not vaguely. Not someday. Not maybe. Real conversations. Late at night. About timelines. About space. About where the nursery would go. Maybe Yelena has to live without an office? Yelena never thought she’d want that. Now it’s all she can think about.

Jemma leans in to kiss her goodbye. Then leans in again, just because.

///

At 9AM, Yelena’s at HQ. Her office is in West Hollywood. Sleek, secure, top floor of a building she now owns. Her firm’s name is not on the directory. On purpose.

Inside: organized chaos. A war room humming with screens, feeds, overlapping time zones. Field teams repporting in. Voices cutting in over comms.

She moves through it like this is her kingdom. It is.

Conference calls. Secure transfers. Clearance checks. She personally interviews a last-minute hire because the background check smells off. She wasn’t wrong.

By noon she’s reviewed three clients’ travel itineraries, coordinated a security sweep for a private retreat in Napa, and told a Netflix VP to fire an entire on-site detail after a leak to TMZ.

Her clients are all famous. Or rich. Or both. People who live under glass and pretend they don’t feel the heat through it. Her day is tour schedules, film sets, and paparazzi choke points. Yelena makes sure they’re protected. She sees the threats no one else does. She’s not the kind of CEO who delegates and disappears. She’s hands-on. Present. Sharp enough to catch shit before it happens.

She handles it all with crisp efficiency, reading off her tablet while pacing the length of her office.

When an intern knocks, Yelena doesn’t stop moving.

“Double espresso,” Yelena says.

“Of course,” the girl stammers. “Your mother called. Said she’ll meet you at the café. Said you’ll know which one.”

Yelena nods. Doesn’t look up. The girl vanishes.

///

At 2PM, she meets her mother for lunch.

They always pick the same place. A quiet Russian café tucked into a side street in Culver City. No signage in English. Chairs that creak when you shift your weight. Melina likes it because “the pelmeni still taste like home.”

The waitstaff knows them. Yelena doesn’t need a menu. Orders on autopilot. They share everything.

Melina arrives in sunglasses, hair pulled back, posture queen-straight. She slides a plate across the table. Pickled vegetables, black bread, fresh dill. Always the same.

“I’m not dead yet,” she says when Yelena raises an eyebrow. “You should still eat.”

They do. They gossip. Melina tells a scandalous story about her neighbor’s new pool boy. Yelena rolls her eyes and snorts into her tea.

Then Melina tilts her head. Watches her. Smiles.

“You are different. Less…angry.”

“I’m too old for angry.” Yelena argues with a laugh.

“It suits you.” Yelena shrugs, not quite denying it. “She is good for you.” Melina adds, casual but direct. “Are you going to do it?”

“What?”

“The baby.”

Yelena sips her tea. Lets the steam fog her sunglasses for a moment before she answers.

“We’re talking about it.” A pause. Then, Yelena speaks again. A quiet admission that comes with a small smile. “More than talking…We made the appointment.”

Melina stills. Her fork pauses mid-air. Then she smiles, not just with her mouth, but fully, deeply, and reaches across the table. Squeezes Yelena’s hand. Once. Firm.

“You will be great mother.”

“Nothing’s happened yet.” Yelena deflects. “We’re keeping expectations low. It might be a while.”

Melina nods but doesn’t let go of her hand. Yelena hesitates. Her voice goes even lower, less certain:

“She wants to get married.”

Melina lifts a brow. “And?”

“I just…” Melina waits. “Not again, you know? I don’t have it in me again. But she wants it. And if we’re bringing a kid into this, maybe it shouldn’t matter what I want.”

Melina looks at her. Really looks.

“It matters,” Melina argues. “But so does being honest about what you are capable of giving.”

Yelena nods. Drains the rest of her tea. Doesn’t say more.

///

Yelena gets home just after seven.

Dinner’s already on. The house smells like garlic and lemon and butter and something roasted. Jemma’s in the kitchen. Hair twisted up, dancing barefoot in an oversized t-shirt as she stirs something fragrant.

Music plays low. Wine waits on the counter, half-poured. The scene is stupidly homely. Lovely in a way that used to scare her.

Jamma sings a few lines under her breath. Yelena pads up behind her. Wraps her arms around her waist. Kisses the side of her neck. Says nothing.

They take advantage of the nice weather and eat on the patio. The city hums around them. Legs are tangled under the chairs. No makeup. No rush. No pretense. Just clinking forks, passing glances, chuckles. Just this. Just them.

“Thoughts on Phil if it’s a boy,” Jemma tosses out between bites, clearly joking.

“Only if his middle name is Jerome.”

“Absolutely not.”

///

After dinner, they curl into the plush couch.

Jemma picks a documentary. Some Midwest cold case. It’s her thing. Yelena’s already internally mocking but tolerating for the sake of harmony. Her hand drapes on Jemma’s thigh. They’re warm. Safe. Quiet.

Jemma throws a blanket over them both. Mutters theories under her breath about the murder weapon. Yelena hums in vague agreement and half-listens as she curls against Jemma, tablet in hand, scrolling through reports.

///

Half an hour in, her phone buzzes.

Once. Then again. Then a flood. A dozen times in under a minute. Texts, calls, group chat pings, Instagram tags. Her lock screen is a storm.

Melina: “Are you seeing this?”

Friend: “stay off twitter”

Yelena frowns, confused. Jemma’s phone lights up too. She checks a message. Her expression shifts.

Instinct tells Yelena she should not stay off Twitter. The minute she opens the app…Her name is trending. So is Kate’s. It takes three seconds to find the clip.

Are you still IN LOVE with her? Yes…I’ll always love her.

The quote’s everywhere. Block-lettered across screenshots. Sliced into reaction edits. Millions of views. Millions more to come.

Yelena doesn’t move. Jemma looks over. Concerned. Quiet.

“You okay?”

Yelena stares at the screen. Then sets the phone down, walks into the kitchen, and pours a glass of water she doesn’t touch.

“You want to talk about it?” Jemma follows, voice soft.

“No.”

Yelena leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Silent. She doesn’t go back to the couch. Doesn’t finish the documentary. Jemma leaves her be.

///

Yelena doesn’t sleep. Not a minute.

Jemma dozes off sometime after midnight, warm against Yelena's back. But Yelena just lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Jaw clenched. Mind racing.

The clock hits 2:04 AM.

Then 3:17.

Yelena reaches for her phone. Notifications are still coming in. She clears them, texts Alexei.

Yelena: Were you on set for the interview?

She gets an instant reply.

Alexei: yes

Yelena: Why didn’t you warn me?

Alexei: not my place. and u would have avoided it. u needed to hear

Yelena stares at the screen. Doesn’t type anything else. She sets the phone down, turns it over on the nightstand. Lies back, eyes wide open. Jemma shifts in her sleep, reaching for her in the dark.

Yelena doesn't avoid her sleepy grip. She closes her eyes. Sleep never comes.

///

The morning after the interview, Yelena and Jemma open the front door and see hell.

Kate has the gates, the security booth, the ten-foot walls. Yelena has a quiet house on a regular block. Open driveway. Clear line of sight. She now realizes…too late…that was a catastrophic security oversight.

Because the second the door swung open, the flashes exploded.

A wall of paparazzi stands at the edge of her property. Lenses already lifted. At least twenty deep. The sound of shutters like a swarm of mechanical insects. Low murmurs crest into shouts. A few push forward into the hedges. One jackass calls, “Smile for Kate!” like he thinks he’s clever.

Yelena levels him with a stare that could shatter concrete.

Jemma pauses mid-step, briefcase in hand, frozen in the threshold. Yelena pulls her back inside. She rams the door shut, thinks for a beat, then steps directly in front of her.

“Stay behind me.” Yelena orders, tense.

Jemma nods. Offers a comforting smile. Calm.

“Are you gonna bodyguard me? Hot.”

Yelena can’t bring herself to smile back. She grabs Jemma’s hand, swings the door open, and charges straight into the circus. She pushes through them, fury in every step.

Yelena hears a loud whirr. Glances up…A fucking drone? Seriously?!

The shouting intensifies. Questions are barked in three languages. About the interview. About Kate. About the marriage. About whether she’s seen it. What she thought.

Yelena shouts over them, commanding.

“BACK. THE. FUCK. UP.”

The words crack, loud and lethal. It lands. The front row jolts. Cameras lower. They’re not dealing with some delicate publicist or panicked assistant. They weren’t expecting a guard dog with high cheekbones. It buys Yelena a five-second window.

Yelena clears the path in three steps. She yanks open Jemma’s door and shields her as she slides in. Then she leans into the car.

“Take the canyon route. Don’t stop. I’ll have guys waiting at your office.”

Jemma squeezes Yelena’s hand. Yelena steals a kiss. Fast, intimate, tired. The flashes catch it from five angles.

“Be safe.” Jemma urges, soft.

Yelena shuts the door, turns. Her eyes say 'don’t even think about it'. The photographers part. She watches Jemma’s car vanish down the street. Then, without a glance back, she walks inside and slams the door.

///

Ten minutes later, Yelena is behind the wheel. Driving to Calabasas. To Kate.

By the time she gets there, she’s boiling hot.

If her house was bad, Kate’s is a siege. Kate’s street looks like a premiere. Cars double-parked. Photographers pacing. Reporters waiting with notepads in hand. Lenses glint like sniper scopes. Everyone is hunting for a quote, a sighting, a slip.

They’re not at the door…her team’s trained too well for that…but they’re everywhere else.

Her guys clock her immediately. One steps out of the gate and gives a silent nod. She rolls the window down just enough.

“If anyone breaches, I want them face-down on the pavement.”

He nods. Awkward.

Inside, the tension’s thick enough to choke on. Every single person on the property has at least seen The Clip. Everyone knows what Kate said.

And now Yelena’s here.

She feels the change as she rides up. Eyes flick toward her then back away. No one on shift makes a peep. No one has to.

Not a word is spoken when Yelena charges right up to the door and simply…….walks in. No knocking. No announcing herself. Just straight in.

///

Yelena storms down the hall. Her boots crush the floor, every step echoing like a war drum. She storms past the framed art, the grand piano, the little touches she picked out back when this house still felt theirs.

Kate leans out of the kitchen, dish towel in hand, confusion clouding her features. Then she sees her. Sees the fervor in her eyes. The rage in her stance. Sees the way Yelena is coming directly at her like a missile. Kate doesn’t even get to speak.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” She snarls. “There’s a sea of paps outside my house.” Kate opens her mouth, but Yelena’s already steamrolling her. “They’re camped outside my driveway. I had to scream just so Jem…so my girlfriend could back out without getting blinded. They’re hounding my office. My mother, Kate. My mother. Have you looked outside? I’m going to have to double your detail.”

Kate leans against the counter. Calm. Irritatingly so. Her smirk is soft, not smug.

“Not exactly what I thought you’d be worried about.”

Wrong answer. The fucking audacity. Yelena’s voice booms, points hard enough to jab the air.

“You think this is funny?”

“No.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to blow up my life because you’re feeling reflective on camera.”

“I’m not trying to blow up your life.” Kate retorts, maddeningly even.

“You’re a goddamn bomb, Kate.”

“And you used to love that.”

“Fucking Christ.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen like this.”

“Didn’t plan for it?! You sat on global television and told the entire world you’re still in love with me.”

“Because I am.” Kate’s eyes don’t waver.

The silence that follows is knife-edged. Then Yelena laughs. Bitter. Humorless.

“You really think you can just say that and what…I’ll fall into your arms? That’s not how this works.” Yelena’s eyes flash. Her chest rises and falls too fast.

“I don’t want to unravel your life. I want you to live it. With me.” Kate steps forward. Not threatening. Just certain.

“You can’t say that.” Yelena snaps.

“It’s the truth.”

“I built something. Piece by piece. A good life. Really fucking good, Kate. I earned the peace. I earned the quiet. And you…YOU…don’t get to show up and set it on fire.”

“You did earn that.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“I’m not. I want that peace for you. I just want to be part of it.”

“Fuck you.”

“I meant what I said.” Kate steps closer.

“You always do. You just never care what it costs. You pull the pin, walk away smiling, then act surprised when the room explodes.”

“I didn’t walk away. I’m right here.”

“That’s your problem. It’s always Kate’s fucking world. Kate’s fucking timing. You get to decide when it matters. And the rest of us just have to fall in line. What did you think was going to happen? Huh? I’d come running? You think I’d what…drop everything because you got brave ten years too late?”

“I just want you to come home. Because I never stopped loving you. And you never stopped loving me.”

Yelena’s eyes narrow. Her breathing sharpens. But she doesn’t move.

“You have no clue how I feel.”

Kate steps forward again.

“You think I haven’t tried to be happy for you?” Closer. “That I haven’t wanted to call every single day?”

Another step. Yelena backs off. Once. Kate keeps moving. They’re only inches apart now. This time, Yelena doesn’t move. She holds her ground. Kate lifts her hands. Reverent. She cradles Yelena’s face like it’s breakable.

“I fucked up,” Kate’s voice is steady. Assured. “I fucked up when I let you walk out of that trailer. When I didn’t fight. When I let you not talk to me. When I signed the papers. I thought it was the right thing. The respectful thing. Letting you go. I was wrong. I’ve always been wrong.”

Kate’s thumb brushes the edge of Yelena’s cheekbone. Then her jaw. The same touch she’s carried in memory for almost a decade. Her voice is quiet.

Yelena’s breath is warm. Close. Kate’s eyes dart to her lips. Yelena shoves her and her hands away.

“I’m not a fucking cheater.”

“I never said you were.”

“You need to fuck off.” Yelena hurries toward the door. Then whirls around double speed. Right up to Kate. “We’re going in for an IVF consult next week. We’re having a baby. You don’t get to come back and play emotional goddamn chicken with my life.”

“Do it with me. Have a baby with me.” Kate’s voice doesn’t waver. Not an inch.

Yelena stares like she’s just been stabbed. She backs off. Puts distance between them.

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I’ve never felt clearer actually.”

“You’re actually deranged.”

“I want everything we talked about. The family. The life. The future. All of it. I meant it then. I still do.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“No, I'm just...stupidly in love with you.”

“You’re fired.” Yelena hisses. Her whole body shakes with rage. “Hire new security. We’ll cover you through the end of the month. After that? I’m done. Forever. And don’t even try the whole ‘I won’t hire anyone else’ martyr bullshit. I don’t care what happens to you.”

Yelena doesn’t wait for a response. Kate doesn’t stop Yelena when she walks. She doesn’t chase. Doesn’t beg.

Yelena slams the door behind her so hard it rattles the windows.

///

Yelena drives.

For hours. All day. She doesn’t shed a single tear. Doesn’t scream. Just asphalt. Just motion. Her face is blank. Cold. Her phone never stops. Calls. Texts. Voicemails. Emails. Work. Jemma. Melina. Alexei. All ignored.

There’s no destination. Just an engine and the battle in her head. Only the hum of tires and the echo of Kate’s voice reverberating in her skull.

Mulholland. Malibu. Some overlook above Silver Lake. The sprawl of the city in her mirrors. Sunset fading in streaks of blood and brass. Then darkness. A canyon. A park she doesn’t remember pulling into. Then the coast again. Hands locked at ten and two like it’s the only thing keeping her stitched together.

At a red light somewhere above the PCH, she finally pulls over.

The sky is ink. The city below flickers, careless and endless. Her car idles. She sits motionless, elbows braced on the wheel, breath shallow. Her hands tremble. The ache in her chest is a vice, slow and relentless. Yelena stares out at the glittering horizon. The city looks like nothing. Like it doesn’t mean shit.

She huffs. Hard. And then the thought crashes in.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck

Her grip tightens. White-knuckled. Like she can hold herself together with ire and tension alone.

Her phone vibrates again. She finally picks it up. Swipes without purpose. Just for distraction. She doesn’t mean to open the photos app. Doesn’t even remember tapping it. But suddenly, there it is.

She scrolls. Fast at first. Past the week. Past the month. Smiling selfies. Sunlight on Jemma’s cheekbones. Beach trips. Work events. Proof of a full life. A real one. She scrolls faster.

Past Jemma. Past Monica. Past everyone in between. She scrolls too far. Then slower. Then she stops. There they are.

Not the posed photos. Not red carpets. Not glossy magazine spreads. The real ones.

Kate asleep on a private jet, atop Yelena’s lap in a hoodie and socks, script wrinkled on her chest. Mouth slightly open. Hair a mess.

Kate cross-legged on their old kitchen floor…no, HER kitchen. Kate’s. Laughing at something offscreen, eyes shining, cheeks flushed, in sweatpants and no makeup.

A blurry video. Kate dancing to her worst single. Truly godawful. Fucking atrocious. Yelena hates every bit of it. Still…she sings the lyrics with Kate. Off-key. Terrible. Glorious. Yelena’s laugh behind the camera is breathless. She forgot that laugh existed. The one she only ever made for Kate.

These aren’t memories. They’re proof.

Yelena scrolls more. Finds a photo she doesn’t even remember taking. Kate in bed. Tank top. One knee bent. No makeup. Hair tousled. A smile that’s all teeth and trouble. That look. Straight into the lens. Direct. Dangerous. Looking at her.

The air leaves her lungs like a body blow.

“Fuck.”

It’s not that she still loves Kate. It’s that she never stopped.

Yelena locks the screen. Drops the phone onto the passenger seat. Drives.

///

By the time she walks into the house, it’s nearly midnight.

The lights are low. The smell of rosemary and onion lingers in the air. The table’s still set. Candles unlit. Plates untouched. Dinner cold.

Yelena stands in the doorway like a stranger. Jemma sits on the couch in leggings and an old MIT sweatshirt. A wine bottle stands empty beside her.

Yelena meets her eyes. Opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Then the tears hit. It happens without warning. Her face collapses. Her knees almost go. Jemma is up in an instant. Wraps her arms around her. No questions. No hesitation.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Yelena sobs. “I’m so sorry.” She repeats it like a mantra. Over and over. Jemma holds her tighter. “I’m sorry, Jem.”

Jemma pulls back. Hands on Yelena’s face. Her eyes glassy. Her touch careful.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Jemma's voice doesn’t tremble. Her hands do. “I always knew what I was fighting against.”

Yelena chokes, shakes her head. Sinks into Jemma. The weight of everything slams into her at once. Jemma catches her like she always has.

“It was real. I meant it.”

“I know…I know.”

“I didn’t want this.”

Jemma’s voice is shaky now. Her arms tighten around Yelena’s body like she can hold her intact.

“I love you,” Jemma whispers.

Yelena nods, broken. Because she does too. That’s what kills her. Jemma presses her lips to Yelena’s forehead. No bitterness. No anger. No blame. Just love.

“If I have to lose you…” Jemma tries to smile. “…it might as well be to the most famous woman on the planet.” Jemma forces levity but her voice cracks, betraying her. “I’m not sorry it’s to her. I know she’s the only one who ever could.”

Yelena folds. Collapses into Jemma. Lets the grief break her open.

///

Yelena glides into Kate’s property sometime after 3AM. She doesn’t remember getting in the car. Doesn’t remember turning on the ignition. She just...did.

The gate opens. She didn’t even ask. Her nightshift guy clocks her face, says nothing, just hits the button.

Yelena parks on the long, winding drive. The engine rumbles. She doesn’t cut it. She doesn’t move. She presses her head to the headrest. Her pulse thuds in her ears.

The lights are on upstairs. A shadow passes in front of the window. The porch glows golden. Like it’s waiting.

She stops the engine. Sits in the dark. Breath loud in the silence. Her bloodstream pounding. The imprint of Jemma’s hand still lingers on her cheek. Her chest still aches from sobbing. Her back still braced like it might snap in two.

But she opens the door anyway. Not because she’s forgiven. Not because she’s decided. Not because she knows what she’s doing. Because she doesn’t know how to stop herself from moving. Because she doesn’t know how to not.

This time she doesn’t barge in.

Yelena walks the path. Up the steps. Hands cold. No anger now. Just…something hollow.

She rings the bell.

Hears rushed footsteps on stairs. Her heart jumps, tries to climb out of her throat. She sees the movement through the glass. Knew it was coming. Still not ready.

The door opens.

And there Kate is.

The last weekend was perfect. Spa day Friday. Old musicals and Thai food on Saturday. Warmth threaded into every hour. Kate didn’t know it was going to be the last weekend she ever spent with her mother.

Eleanor had planned to stay until after the test results came in. Bloodwork was scheduled for Monday…day ten after the transfer. The earliest they could know anything. But something came up on Sunday that pulled Eleanor back to New York early. Work. A problem Eleanor waved off as no big deal. Kate regrets not asking more details about it. What she did was promise to call the second she had news.

Monday morning, sitting in the waiting room, Kate texted her a joke…something about bribing the phlebotomist to draw extra blood for good luck. Eleanor sent a voice note back: laughing, scolding Kate about hydration, cursing out a Peloton instructor mid-ride without even pausing the message then seamlessly slipping right back into the conversation.

Kate typed a response one-handed, her other hand locked around Yelena’s. After three failed rounds, Kate was vibrating out of her skin. Hope had thinned to something so fragile it barely held weight.

Blood was drawn. Results pending. Their wish tucked in a pocket.

That was the plan.

//

The phone rings.

Too early for Los Angeles. Normal for New York.

Kate’s in the middle of a fitting for the lead role in a major project. Something that feels career-defining. She lunges for the screen flashing “Unknown Number” without thinking, half-believing it’s the call they’re waiting for.

It’s not.

It’s the call you never want to answer, no matter what you’re doing. Eleanor Bishop…Kate’s mother, her first love, her tether to anything resembling childhood…was gone. A clot. Sudden. Unforgiving. No warning. One second, she was fine. The next, she was no more.

Kate doesn’t remember hanging up. Doesn’t remember wailing. Doesn’t remember collapsing in Yelena’s arms or the noise that tore from her throat. What she remembers is the silence. Deafening. Endless. A silence so large it swallowed her whole.

The only sounds afterward were Yelena’s voice, low and steely. Rerouting exit plans. Orchestrating an invisible extraction so Kate could disappear from the building without a single lens capturing her ruin. Yelena was fixing the world while Kate forgot how to exist in it.

//

For the next twenty-nine hours, Kate floats through a fog so thick it blurs even her own body.

She doesn’t eat. Doesn’t shower. Barely breathes. She curls around Eleanor’s hoodie like a shipwrecked thing and lets the world fade to nothing.

They fly east for the funeral. Yelena at her side, carrying everything Kate can’t. The service is private, understated, cruelly quiet when the world should be screaming along with her. Kate doesn’t say a single word the entire day. Her voice is gone, stolen by inconsolable howling.

Yelena tries everything. Gentle urgings to drink, to eat, to sleep. But Kate barely registers them. She is static. Hollowed.

//

And then…hour thirty.

The second call.

It’s Yelena who answers the phone.

Kate doesn’t move. She can’t. If she hears another word of bad news, she’ll shatter. So Yelena speaks. Listens. Goes completely still.

The news is quiet. Matter of fact. Embryo number four took. The last one they’d made together. Kate is pregnant.

Yelena sits frozen for a second, the phone still pressed to her ear. The world still smeared in mourning. How do you say this? How do you deliver life into a room that’s already grieving death?

Yelena walks over, kneels in front of Kate, and says the only thing she can.

“We’re having a baby.”

The word slices through the numbness like a blade. Baby.

For a second, Kate doesn’t react. Just stares at her. Then something cracks. She starts laughing. Wild, broken laughter that fractures into sobbing so violent she throws up on the floor. Not from the pregnancy. Just from the weight of it all. Grief and joy smashing together at terminal velocity.

Kate lost her mother and became one practically in the same breath. She sobs until her ribs ache. Laughs until she’s hoarse. Then she passes out cold, curled against Yelena’s chest.

Yelena doesn’t move for hours. Just holds her. One hand curved protectively over Kate’s abdomen, grounding them both in a future they can barely believe in yet.

//

Kate wakes sixteen hours later. No appetite. No words. She curls into Yelena’s side and whispers, raw:

“She’ll never meet them. She won’t get to meet our baby.”

Yelena says nothing. She just held her. One hand over Kate’s stomach. A quiet benediction. Yelena held her through all of it. Didn’t say much. Just let her grieve. Let her celebrate. Let her feel everything all at once. Let her simmer in the whiplash.

The grief doesn’t lift. It settles intensely and indelibly under Kate’s ribs. But something else glimmers there too. Not peace. Not quite. But resolve. A thread of defiant life growing stubbornly alongside the pain.

Kate comes back to herself slowly. In pieces.

Standing at the sink, brushing her teeth, she catches her own reflection. Sees the shake in her hands. Feels the weight in her chest. And knows it’s real. Her mother is gone. Her daughter…because somehow she already knows it’s a girl…is alive.

Two tectonic plates crashing under her skin. Both true. Both devastating. Both hers to carry now.

//

Grief rewires bravery in the weirdest, strangest, most reckless ways.

Kate knows Yelena’s stance on weddings. Paperwork. Permanence. She knows Yelena’s history, her wounds, her bottomless caution around the word ‘wife’.

But grief doesn’t care about logic. And Kate needs something, anything, to hold onto.

So she starts planning.

Kate texts her assistant at 2AM with a plan. A small one. Barebones. Just an idea. No preamble.

“How fast can you string fairy lights in the backyard without Yelena noticing?”

The reply she receives is just: “terrified…”

Kate calls it “the un-wedding.” Jessa doesn’t ask for clarification. She learned long ago that when Kate gets like this, the only answer is yes.

No venue. No invitations. No paper. No stage. Just a backyard. Just fairy lights. Just the rings Kate kept in a drawer she never opened until now.

Kate doesn’t need a ceremony. Doesn’t want permission. She just wants to say it, to mean it better this time, before the sorrow swallows her whole.

When Jessa asked what to label the event on the calendar, Kate smirked.

“‘Unholy Matrimony 2.’”

Kate called it a “recommitment of chaos and cohabitation.” She joked about it in texts to Jessa like it was a branding rollout. “Wives 2.0.” She made people sign NDAs. Had things delivered under an alias. No announcements. No save the dates. Just a private time and place and a hope that Yelena wouldn’t run.

//

Eleanor dies on Wednesday. Kate finds out she’s pregnant on Thursday. By Sunday, trucks roll up the driveway.

Kate orchestrates the perfect distraction: a "relaxing" day curated for Yelena, scheduled down to the minute. Shooting range. Late lunch with Alexei. A near-impossible list of errands to keep her gone long enough.

The backyard transforms. Not into a reception per se. Into something quieter. Intimate.

Not like their first wedding. No celebrity tables or cascading floral walls. No altar. No officiant. No stage. No matching gowns. Definitely no Oprah. Not this time.

This time it’s paper lanterns strung between trees. Strings of warm lights. A table set for two. A path of candles winding through the grass. A blanket spread across the grass. A cake, small and unassuming, balanced on a pedestal. The faint hum of a playlist Kate made the month they met, whispering from hidden speakers.

Kate waits in the center of it. Barefoot. Backlit. In a simple white slip dress that Eleanor would have adored. Hair down. Face bare. No script. Just a bouquet of peonies and a velvet box clutched in quivering hands.

When Yelena steps through the side gate and freezes, Kate’s heart stops.

“What is this?” Yelena asks, cautious.

Kate shrugs. A small, wrecked smile.

“Not a wedding.”

Yelena takes it in: the lights, the table, the flowers scattered all around the yard, the photo of Eleanor tucked among the candles.

“Kate…” Yelena warned, voice caught somewhere between a plea and chastising.

“Don’t panic.” Kate jumps in, steady and assured. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. It’s not legal. No paperwork. No one watching…Jessa doesn’t count.”

Yelena whips her head to find Kate’s assistant on the other side of the yard. She’s sobbing by the bushes with an iPhone in each hand…one for photos, one for videos.

“This is nothing. Just a thing I needed to do. It’s just…me. Telling you I’m yours. Still. Again. Always. No matter what.”

Jessa sobs louder. Kate ignores her, starts rambling in the way only Kate knows how to.

“Please don’t say no. I know you don’t want to get married again. And I respect that. I really do. I’m not asking for marriage. I just…want to be your wife. Even if it doesn’t legally count. I want to wear a ring because I’m yours, and I want everyone to know it. And I know I fucked it up the first time. I know I hurt you. But I want another shot. Not at starting over. At being yours.”

Yelena stares at her. Silent. A battlefield in her eyes.

“I’m…”

“Just…let me finish.” Kate presses on. “I want to choose you again. Out loud. On purpose. I want to put on a ring. I want to be your wife in every way that matters.” Kate tries to hold back her tears. “I just…my mom…And we’re having a baby. And those two things crashed into each other so hard I forgot how to breathe for a while. But when the air came back? The only thing I knew for sure was that I don’t want to be anyone else’s anything. I just want to be your wife. However you’ll let me.”

Kate opens the box. Inside: the ring Yelena took off a decade ago, nestled beside Kate’s old engagement ring and her wedding band. She never got rid of them. Never could.

“I didn’t plan this for me,” Kate’s has a gift for persuasion. An innate skill of being manipulative. Even when it’s not malicious or entirely intentional. It’s just a talent for knowing exactly which thread to pull. Knowing which things to say to get her way. “Not really. I planned it for the baby. So one day, when they ask who their moms are, I can tell them: your Mama saved our lives and I fought to love her the way she deserved.” Kate smiles, broken and beaming all at once. “I want our baby to know that when I fought for something, it was you.”

The silence between them stretches.

“I’m not expecting anything to be filed…Not even a second honeymoon…Although it would be nice…” Kate adds with a grin. “I just want the word back. The feeling back. I want to earn it again…I want you to call me your wife. And I want to call you mine.”

Yelena still hasn’t moved. Kate keeps trying to fill the silence.

"Our first wedding was for everyone else.” A laugh. Wet. Crooked. “This one’s just for us. BUT it’s NOT even a wedding. Technically. Unless you want it to be.” Yelena says nothing. “Baby…” Still not a word. “I want to mean it better this time. I fucked it up before. I know I did. But I want a second shot. At being someone who doesn’t let you down.”

Yelena steps forward, slow like she’s moving through water. She cradles Kate’s face in her hands. Presses a kiss to her forehead. Then her cheeks. Then her mouth.

Yelena’s resistance to remarriage isn’t a quirk or a stubborn streak. It’s survival logic. Grief math. It’s not fear of commitment. It’s fear of loss, multiplied. She buried a wife in uniform. Buried a marriage in betrayal. She made peace with the idea that being someone’s wife again was a chapter closed, a role retired. That life ended. She survived it and she never planned to relive it. Her refusal to marry again has never been about loving Kate too little…it was about loving her too much. About knowing, too intimately, what it costs to make vows you can’t always keep.

But.

Kate is Kate. And Kate has never met a wall she didn’t want to knock down. She wants roots. Security. Permanence. She wants to wrap her arms around the people she loves and name it. She wants it to mean something. She wants to be someone’s wife again. Clearly, more than anything, she wants to be Yelena’s. Out loud. Official. In a way the world can’t ignore or erase.

When she pulls back, Yelena’s voice is steady.

“This isn’t a wedding?”

“No.” Kate breathes. “Just a loophole.”

It’s exactly the kind of technicality Kate would find comfort in. And exactly the kind of boundary Yelena could live with. A loophole, not a surrender. It honors Yelena’s scars without demanding she tear them open. It honors Kate’s grief without asking her to bury it. It gives them a way back to each other without pretending the past didn’t happen. Without pretending it didn’t cost them something real.

“We’re not signing anything.”

“Obviously not,” Kate states.

Yelena laughs, quiet and wrecked. Takes the ring box, snaps it shut, slips it into her pocket.

“You can wear it,” Yelena says. “If you want.”

Kate can’t hold the sob back. She fumbles for the box Yelena just tucked into her pocket, slips her rings onto her own hand, tears spilling freely now. Yelena shakes her head. Chuckles.

That was it. No vows exchanged. No kiss on a stage. No ring on Yelena’s finger. No fireworks. Just two women. One pregnant. One shell-shocked and carrying too much loss. Standing in a backyard, naming each other again. Kate’s mother’s name tucked under her skin. Their daughter barely the size of a lentil. Kate said everything she should have abided by the first time. Everything she hadn’t known how to fulfill. She told Yelena she was hers. That she would always be hers. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life earning the second chance she never thought she'd get.

Yelena doesn’t say anything in return. Doesn't need to.

//

They eat dinner under the lights. Dance barefoot across the lawn. No one signs a thing. But it’s a wedding all the same.

“It’s going to rain.” Yelena tells her casually a few hours later.

And when they moved inside, they stand on the deck, hand in hand, watching the storm roll over the hills.

This unwedding hurts in a way that romance can't soften. For Kate, it’s beautiful…and it’s devastating. She wants a real wedding. She wants a second shot at the word itself. But she knows she'll never get that. And she knows that’s on her. So she swallows the ache, grabs onto whatever scraps she’s allowed, and tells herself it’s enough. She doesn’t need Yelena to change her mind. She just needs Yelena to trust her again. And maybe, somehow, she does. Yelena shows up. She stays. She lets Kate call her "wife."

For Yelena, the not-wedding isn’t a concession. It’s an act of faith. The love they've found again never scared her. It was the naming of it. The finality. The weight of a vow she once made and had to survive breaking. But with Kate…she doesn’t run. She lets her call it what she needs to. She lets herself be claimed again.

Because Yelena already knows the truth: she’s Kate’s. She’s been Kate’s all along.

You don’t need paperwork to carry someone’s life in your hands.

For them, this loophole is enough.

//

Later, curled in bed, Kate runs her thumb over the worn band circling her finger.

“You’re my wife,” she murmurs into the dark.

“Technically,” Yelena says, mouth against her shoulder.

Kate laughs. And cries. And lets it happen.

The backyard stays lit all night.

The baby doesn’t stop growing this time.

//

Kate cries the hardest weeks later, the first time Yelena calls her “my wife” in passing. In normal conversation. Offhand, casual, mindless. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

[Wide shot: soft lighting, horizon blur, two chairs. Kate sits across from an interviewer. A Gayle/Oprah/Diane type. Kate wears a tailored, muted dress. Hair down. Minimal makeup. A woman in control…fraying just underneath.]

KATE (soft smile, posture easy but guarded) Hi.

INTERVIEWER Kate Bishop. Woman of the year. Thanks for sitting down.

KATE Thanks for having me.

INTERVIEWER So for anyone living under a rock…let’s talk about the year you’ve had. A chart-topping album. A sold-out arena tour. And a film performance so quietly devastating, you’re now the frontrunner in one of the most competitive Oscar races in recent history. At thirty-two…

KATE Not quite. Still thirty-one for a few more months.

[They laugh. Easy rhythm. Controlled.]

INTERVIEWER Even more impressive. At thirty-one, you’ve gone from teen idol to full-blown industry force. Grammy wins. Golden Globe. BAFTA. Critics’ Choice. SAG. And now, a third Oscar nomination…your first as the clear favorite. If you win, it would be a historic clean sweep.

[Montage plays over her voice:

-Kate on stage at the Grammys, holding her mic, blinking back tears. -Sweeping into the BAFTAs in a floor-length black velvet gown, cameras flashing. -Rehearsal footage. -Laughing behind-the-scenes. -Accepting her Critics’ Choice, visibly shaken. -The now-iconic Oscar clip: pale, bruised, trembling in a hospital bed. -Golden Globes. The standing ovation. The stunned face. The lonely freeze-frame, if you look too long.]

INTERVIEWER How are you even standing?

KATE Coffee. Adrenaline. Bribery from my publicist.

Kate smiles. Self-deprecating. Deflecting.

INTERVIEWER What does it feel like…this moment? Genuinely.

KATE (long breath) It’s…surreal. This whole season has been. I’ve been doing this a long time. So to have it all kind of line up like this…It feels like lightning. I’m just trying to hold the bottle still long enough to catch it.

[More clips: The tour. The Venice premiere. Screaming fans. The cover shoots. The front-row fashion moments. Back to the set.]

INTERVIEWER Do you let yourself enjoy it?

KATE Sometimes. When I’m not thinking about what’s next. Or spiraling about what I forgot. Or who I accidentally left on read.

[Laughs again. But the air has shifted.]

INTERVIEWER Does it feel lonely?

[Kate pauses. It’s fast. But the silence sticks for a beat longer than it should.]

KATE Sometimes. Yeah.

INTERVIEWER You’ve said in the past that you don’t believe in ‘having it all.’ Do you still feel that way?

KATE More than ever.

INTERVIEWER You’ve got the music. The film. The fans. The empire. But there’s a lot you’ve keep private. Was that always intentional?

KATE Always. Some things you want to hold sacred. Or safe. But sometimes, without meaning to, you put so much behind glass that you look up one day… and you’re alone in a room full of trophies.

///

[COMMERCIAL BREAK]

///

[Return with B-roll of Kate and the interviewer walking the property. Laughing. Casual. Then cut back to the chairs.]

INTERVIEWER So. From the outside, your life looks perfect. Awards. Accolades. An impossibly booked calendar. And yet…you said something earlier. You don’t think you have it all. What’s missing?

[Kate doesn’t answer right away. Clearly weighing how much she wants to way.]

KATE Not a what. A who.

The interviewer looks intrigued.

INTERVIEWER Someone you’ve already met or is it just this idea we all have of the perfect person that will eventually come along?

KATE I’ve definitely met them.

INTERVIEWER But you’re no longer together?

KATE No.

[Clips: All of Kate’s VERY public relationships. Teen flings. Rumored situationships over the years. Eli. America. Then, Yelena. That Vogue wedding spread. The wedding headlines. Cut.]

KATE People think if your Instagram looks fine, you must be. But this year… I’ve started being honest with myself. That I’m not. Not entirely.

INTERVIEWER What do you mean?

KATE I’m grateful. I feel very lucky that I get to live this life. Do these things. But I also wake up every day with this…ghost. A shadow of something I broke. Something I miss. Almost suffocatingly so.

INTERVIEWER Can I ask about that?

KATE (laughs) You’re going to either way.

INTERVIEWER There was a marriage. A relationship that took everyone by surprise. Your first public relationship with a woman. And not just any woman…your bodyguard. Your Vogue Bride profile called it 'The wedding of the decade'.

KATE Uhum.

INTERVIEWER And about a year later…a very sudden, quiet divorce. You've never spoken about it. Why not?

KATE (quietly) I’ve never… (laughs) The reason you’re a great interviewer is that you make people feel comfortable. I almost forgot there were nine cameras pointed at us for a second.

[Kate looks off, directly into one of them. Smiles.]

INTERVIEWER And if there weren’t cameras…what would you say about this divorce?

Kate pauses, thoughtfully. Almost talks a few times. Stops herself. Then…

KATE I’ve never known how to say what needed saying without sounding like I was trying to spin it. To win something. And there is no winning. Not in what I did.

INTERVIEWER You think you were the reason it ended?

KATE I don’t think. I know. I broke it. The blame falls squarely on me. (laughs awkwardly) No one ever plans to talk about the things you’re ashamed of. But I guess you also just eventually get tired of pretending they didn’t happen.

INTERVIEWER Can I ask what happened?

[Music cuts out. Silence. Palpable. The moment where millions of people start leaning closer to their screens.]

KATE I hurt someone I loved. And I’ve spent the last nine years trying to become a person who wouldn’t do that again.

INTERVIEWER That’s not an answer to the question, Kate.

KATE Yeah, it isn’t.

[Kate takes another breath, hands are clasped tightly in her lap.]

KATE I cheated. I lied. Not just to her. To myself. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That I didn’t know it was happening until it had. But I made choices. And those choices destroyed the one thing in my life that ever felt solid.

INTERVIEWER It’s been almost a decade.

KATE Nine years, yeah.

INTERVIEWER Why now?

KATE Because I’m tired of pretending I’m over it. I want to be someone who tells the truth. Even when it’s ugly.

INTERVIEWER Do you still love her?

[A sharp inhale. Kate’s eyes lift. She doesn’t flinch. She knew this was coming so she just…answers.]

KATE Of course.

INTERVIEWER Are you still IN LOVE with her?

[A single, deep breath.]

KATE Yeah…I’ll always love her. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But I loved her then. I love her now. And not a single day has gone by that I haven’t wished I could take it back.

[Silence. The kind that holds.]

INTERVIEWER You’ve never said that out loud.

KATE No…Well. I just said it.

INTERVIEWER Does she know?

KATE I have a feeling she will now.

[The camera holds.] [Fades out.] [Title card appears.]