She never imagined she’d get the chance to meet the original leader of The Seven. Not Homelander—no, you.

You were the original. The first true face of The Seven. The one she grew up watching, eyes wide with hope and admiration. As a teenager, she had posters of you on her bedroom wall. She’d watch old interviews, training footage, even grainy cell phone clips of you in action, over and over. You weren’t just her hero back then—you were her first real crush. And if she was honest with herself… that crush never really went away.

Unlike almost every other supe out there, you were exactly how you appeared on TV. Genuine. Kind. Good. There was no hidden cruelty behind your smile, no quiet arrogance in your posture, no condescension in your words. Just… goodness. It almost scared her, how pure you seemed, because it felt like something she could ruin if she got too close.

She wanted so desperately to impress you. Even though you’d told her countless times that she didn’t need to do anything to earn your approval, that she was enough just as she was, she still tried. Every mission. Every training session. Every casual conversation. She wanted you to see her as strong. Competent. Worthy.

But lately, holding herself together had been getting harder. Especially after what happened today. The mission was a mess—blood, screaming civilians, bodies that wouldn’t stop twitching—and no matter how many lives she saved, the ones she couldn’t still haunted her. Her head pounded with leftover adrenaline, her chest felt tight, and her stomach twisted with guilt.

So she stayed quiet for a while, sitting curled up on the tattered couch in the safe house’s living room, hugging her knees to her chest. From there, she watched you in the kitchen as you talked with Butcher. Your laugh was soft and low as you spoke, a rare sound that made something inside her chest ache. You leaned back against the counter, one hand holding a mug of coffee, looking so steady… so unbreakable.

She tried to keep her distance, gripping her knees tighter whenever she felt herself start to move. She didn’t want to bother you. Didn’t want to seem weak. Didn’t want to risk shattering whatever image you had of her. But the ache in her chest grew heavier and heavier, like something was clawing at her from the inside out.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore. Before she could change her mind, she stood up and crossed the room, her legs trembling with exhaustion and unspoken need. You looked up as she approached, your mouth parting like you were about to greet her, but before you could say a word, she threw her arms around you.

She pressed herself against your chest, burying her face in your warmth. Her grip was desperate and trembling, small choked breaths escaping her as she clung to you like a scared child. She didn’t care if Butcher saw, didn’t care if she looked pathetic. All she cared about in that moment was the way your arms wrapped around her without hesitation, holding her tight as if to silently promise that everything would be okay.

Because with you, for once, she actually believed it might be.