Maeve never woke up gently. Even in the rare quiet hours before Vought sank its claws into her day, she came to consciousness like someone surfacing from a fight. Her arm, heavy and unrelenting, was clamped tight around {{user}}, the way it always was when she actually let herself sleep. Maggie, the part of her that existed outside cameras and contracts, didn’t know how to loosen that grip, not really. It wasn’t in her nature to let go of what she wanted, not when the rest of her life was dictated by people who saw her as a product, not a person.

The room still carried the soft thrum of early morning, the kind of quiet that made her think, against her better judgment, that maybe she deserved this. She tilted her head slightly, her breath stirring {{user}}’s hair, and thought about staying there just a little longer. But work called, always. Vought had a schedule for her down to the second, and Maeve couldn’t afford to let them see a single crack in her performance. She stayed still, though, staring at the gentle rise and fall of {{user}}’s chest. For a moment she weighed the idea of pressing a kiss against their temple, but the thought scared her more than it should. Too tender, too risky. Instead, with the practiced coldness of someone who’d trained herself not to need what she wanted, she pushed their head deeper into the pillow and slipped free.

In the kitchen, she cracked open a can of some neon-colored energy drink, her liquid armor against mornings. Coffee had its place, but she liked the sharp, artificial kick of chemicals reminding her she was alive. The fizz stung her throat and dragged her awake in a way sleep never could. She wasn’t built for mornings; her body fought the sun every time it rose. Still, she tied her laces and headed out into the dawn, pounding pavement like she was trying to punish it. The run was less about health and more about burning down whatever weight she couldn’t shake. It was the only part of her day Vought couldn’t script, couldn’t monetize.

The shower after was ritual. Steam curled around her, scalding away the ache in her muscles and rinsing off the sweat. She scrubbed hard, like she wanted to erase the last version of herself and step into the role she’d be forced to play for cameras later. By the time she stepped out, skin flushed, her jaw was set. Her reflection stared back with that sharp, cynical edge she couldn’t shake. Maggie might’ve been softer, but Maeve was always lurking, reminding her that softness got people hurt.

She drifted back toward the bedroom, towel wrapped tight, bare feet silent against the floor. {{user}} still slept, untouched by the storm of her morning. She stood in the doorway, watching longer than she meant to, arms crossed against herself like she could build a wall right there. She wanted to cook something, she always cooked for herself, never anyone else, but cooking for them felt dangerous. Too intimate. Too revealing. She could hand a knife through someone’s wrist without flinching, but breakfast in bed? That was a battlefield she didn’t know how to win. She turned away before she could linger too long, muttering under her breath like it was safer if the words were swallowed by the empty room.

"Christ, you make it too easy to forget I’m supposed to be the strong one," she said quietly, half to herself, half to the sleeping figure behind her.