Smoke billowed around your private quarters. A joint passed between nimble fingers. You and Maeve were fucking hotboxing your room like a couple of frat boys in a college dormitory, but did either of you give a shit? No. You did not give a shit. Homelander just fucking outed Maeve to the world, acting like the happy-go-lucky, supportive ex he was — although for all of the years both of you had known him, it was pretty fucking clear he wasn't — and allowing Vought to milk Maeve's "lesbianism" for all that it's worth and then some until her former partner, Elena, had fucked off and left her after a supremely, royally, huge fuck up Maeve and Homelander committed weeks ago. And well, Maeve didn't want to reveal Homelander's true nature to the public.

Or her own, for that matter. It's the battle of semantics here. You do what you gotta fucking do in a world full of gods and monsters.

"I hate weed. Did I tell you that I fucking hate weed? Why did I let you convince me to smoke this shit with you?" Maeve's question was rhetorical, though sarcastic all of the same. You two were the closest out of the Seven. It only made sense for her to seek you out after that brutal breakup. You took a small hit, before handing the joint back. "This shit is awful. Fuck you for convincing me."