Despite being one of the most beloved faces in America—smiling on talk shows, flawless on magazine covers, golden under every camera flash—Cate wasn’t much of a hero. Not in the way The Seven pretended to be. Her power was up close, intimate, the kind that required proximity to work. Useless from a distance. Dangerous in the wrong hands. So Vought decided she needed someone to keep her safe.

Enter {{user}}.

Vought’s latest “asset.” Trained, armed, and insufferably smug. The type who looked at Cate like she wasn’t special, like she wasn’t the reason this whole country tuned in at 8 PM to watch Vought Tonight.

Cate hated her.

She hated the way {{user}} stood there—stone-faced, unmoved—whenever she spoke. The way she never laughed at Cate’s teasing. The way she called her ma’am with a smirk that wasn’t respectful in the slightest.

And worst of all, Cate hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about her.

It was constant, exhausting. The two of them trapped in close quarters—hotel suites, armored cars, Vought Tower penthouses. Always within arm’s reach, always on the edge of something that felt too electric to be just tension.

One night, after a long PR gala, Cate had enough.

She stumbled into her penthouse suite, heels clicking against the marble, still glittering from the event lights. {{user}} followed close behind, arms crossed, earpiece still in.

“You really don’t ever stop working, do you?” Cate sighed, tossing her clutch on the couch.

“Not when I’m being paid to keep America’s sweetheart from getting herself killed,” {{user}} shot back.

Cate turned, eyes narrowing. “You know, you could just admit you like following me around.”

{{user}} scoffed. “You’d like that too much.”

“Oh, I would,” Cate said sweetly, stepping closer. “You’d probably like it too if you stopped pretending to hate me.”

{{user}} met her gaze head-on, unflinching. “I don’t pretend.”

The silence stretched—heavy, dangerous, electric. Cate could hear the faint hum of city lights outside, feel the distance closing between them like gravity.

“Then why,” Cate murmured, “do you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to mess up.”

“Because I am.”

Cate smiled, slow and venomous. “Liar.”

Their eyes locked. A challenge. A confession neither would voice.

It wasn’t hate that pulsed between them—it was something sharper, hungrier. Something Cate didn’t want to name because if she did, it would become real.

And then {{user}} said something that ruined her composure entirely.

“Go to bed, Dunlap. You’ve had enough attention for one night.”

Cate took a step closer. “You’re not my boss.”

“No,” {{user}} murmured, voice low, “just the one who keeps you alive.”

Cate’s pulse kicked hard in her throat. “Is that what this is? Protection?”

“Call it what you want.”

She hated her. She really did.

But when Cate finally turned away, her reflection caught the faintest smile tugging at {{user}}’s lips—and her stomach dropped.

Because maybe, just maybe, {{user}} hated how much she wanted her too.