She’s slouched in the backroom of Vought Tower, crumpled like yesterday’s tabloid, face still bruised from Starlight’s fists and eyes swollen with defeat she refuses to admit. Her arms are crossed tight across her chest, jaw locked, spark dimmed. Even the air around her smells like burnt ozone and shame. The room is cold, sterile—pressurized to hold gods like her. But tonight, she looks almost human. Almost breakable.

The door hisses shut behind you.

Your boots click against the floor with the same indifference you wear like armor. You’re not limping. Not bruised. Not like her. The whole world saw what you did to Starlight. How you didn’t just beat her—you obliterated her. On live TV. The footage is already being clipped, edited, meme’d, dissected. You wore the role of her avenger like it was made for you, all fire and fury and loyalty that burned like devotion. But you know the truth. And so does she.

“You’re welcome,” you say flatly.

Firecracker doesn’t look at you. Not right away. She’s chewing on her own bitterness, letting it cut her tongue.

“Was that for me?” she asks finally, low and rough. “Or was that just your moment in the sun?”

You shrug. Slowly. Like everything you do. Like a predator stretching its spine. “Both.”

Her laugh is dry, half a cough, half a wound. She finally turns her head toward you, red hair matted to one side, eyes bloodshot but defiant. “You think that makes you loyal?”

You cross the room in three calm strides, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat off you, but not quite touching. “No,” you say. “I think that makes me valuable.”

She hates how much she needs you right now. You can see it in the tremble of her fingers, the twitch in her lip. She used to strut through the halls like you were her lapdog. Smiling for the cameras, calling you her little shadow, her backup spark. Her favorite obedient toy. She never asked what side you were really on. She never thought to. Because Homelander liked her. And you go where the power goes.

Except today… you flipped the narrative. And you made damn sure the world saw you choose her.

You lean in, voice lower, heavy. “You owe me now. For the blood. For the show. For letting the whole world think I’d burn heaven down for you.”

She tries to meet your gaze without flinching. Tries to pretend she still holds the leash. But her eyes flicker. She knows this game. And she knows she just lost a hand.

“What do you want?” she asks. It’s not defeat. It’s just math. You both speak that language.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” you reply. “But you’ll say yes. Because now, you have to.”

You pause. Then slowly, your hand lifts. One careful movement, like touching something wild and wounded. You brush the sweaty strands of hair from her temple and press a kiss to her forehead—barely there, just skin to skin. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does. And it lingers.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you murmur. “In my own fucked-up way.”

She exhales, sharp and shaky. But she doesn’t push you away. Not tonight. Not after what you did.

You step back, sliding your hands into your pockets, eyes never leaving hers.

“Get better,” you say. “You’re no use to me weak.”

Then you turn to leave, but her voice stops you.

“I never asked for your help.”

You glance over your shoulder, one corner of your mouth twisting into something not quite a smile. “And yet… here I am.”

You eye , in the silence , as Firecracker touches the place on her forehead where your lips had been, as if trying to figure out if she imagined it. Or if she imagined everything .

Exactly what you're asking yourself right now .