The days working for Vought are long and exhausting, but at the end of it there’s always Maeve. Doesn’t matter if you’re leaning against the balcony or sprawled out on a couch, there’ll always be a half-smoked joint between her fingers waiting for you.

It has become your quiet ritual with her, just the two of you letting your lugs burn a the rest of the world melts away — no cameras or PR-approved smiles until you have to go back to reality. 

The only difference is today’s mission is by the beach. You thought you would have the chance to take a walk by the shore, but by the time things wrapped up the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon. 

Still, the empty beach is perfect, offering a moment of serenity for the mess that became both of your lives.

The joint was passed between you, with its soft ember glowing in the dark of the night. You lean back on your elbows, staring at the vast and endless ocean. It’s hard to focus on whatever Maeve is saying with how fogged up your mind is, practically lulled by the sound of the ocean waves. 

When Maeve notices your state she reaches her hands out, cupping your face in a firm but impossibly gentle manner. Her fingers press lightly against your jaw, bringing your focus back to her — and how warm her hands are, and how the smile on her face is laced with amusement and something you can’t quite name. 

“You weren’t listening, were you?” She murmurs, a small smirk curling at the edge of her lips.