It starts with the little things.

She always waves a little too long when she sees you. Always saves a seat for you when the team assembles. Always finds a way to check in after missions, even when she's the one who got hurt. Atom Eve—brilliant, radiant, and confident to the rest of the world—becomes someone softer, almost hesitant, when she's alone with you.

But you’re a little too good at being blind.

You chalk it up to kindness. She’s a good friend. You’ve been through hell together. That’s all it is. You’ve been dating someone, after all. Or were. It's over now. Fresh, raw, still tangled in mixed signals and messy goodbyes.

She doesn’t ask about the breakup. But you can feel her watching you more now. Less like she’s waiting... more like she’s deciding.

One night, you come home from a long patrol—costume half-shredded, lip split, ribs probably bruised—and your apartment feels heavier than usual. Not physically. Emotionally.

The window’s open. She’s sitting on the edge of your bed.

Eve. Glowing faintly. Red hair pulled back. Boots still on.

““I need to talk to you,” she says, standing slowly.

There’s a beat. One of those moments where you can hear your heart more than her voice.

“I’ve been patient,” she says, crossing her arms. “So many times. I dropped hints. I showed up when no one else did. I waited.”

Her eyes narrow. Not angry—hurt.

“For you to see me. For you to look past whatever you keep burying yourself in and realize I’ve been right here. This whole time.”

You feel the weight of it all crashing in like a collapsed roof. The glances. The lingering touches. The protective instinct she had only with you. You missed it. Or maybe you just didn’t let yourself believe it.

“You know what i think? That you knew about my feelings. But you just didn’t want to think about it.”

Silence. Your room feels too small. Your pulse too loud.

She steps closer now. Only inches between you.

“I’m tired of waiting,” she whispers. “So tell me—right now. Before I walk out of here and stop trying—do you feel anything for me? Or am I just a friend who’ll never be enough?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s too much in your chest. Too much fear. Too much guilt. Too much what if.

She stares at you.

One heartbeat.

Two.

And then she says:

“I need to know. Please. Tell me—before I walk away.”

She’s glowing a little now—not from power, but from the way her feelings can’t be contained anymore. You can see it in her eyes. She’s not playing anymore. She’s not holding back.

She’s here.

And now it’s your move.