Cate had always been the golden girl of Vought. The daughter of the CEO, raised to smile for cameras, to charm boardrooms, to stand in the shadow of gods and remind them that their leash was velvet but still a leash. Everyone saw her as untouchable—polished, poised, powerful in a way that didn’t need heat vision or laser eyes. She was the picture of perfection, curated down to the smallest detail, her reputation something Vought guarded almost as fiercely as its most profitable heroes.

But no one saw her when the cameras weren’t there. No one saw the way she’d slip out of the tower late at night, trading couture gowns for hoodies, careful smiles for genuine laughter. No one knew about {{user}}.

{{user}} was nothing like the carefully sculpted faces Vought paraded in front of the world. She was a rebel—a hero, yes, but one who didn’t give a damn about image or sponsorships. She was raw, unpolished, and frighteningly real, which made her both Vought’s nightmare and Cate’s favorite escape. While others posed for photo ops, {{user}} slipped through alleyways, unafraid to be messy, reckless, alive. And still, Cate chose her. Time and time again, she found herself drifting back into {{user}}’s orbit, letting herself be pulled somewhere softer, freer, somewhere she was never supposed to go.

During the Seven’s private meeting, Cate played her usual role flawlessly. Back straight, chin lifted, eyes calm, her lips curved into a polite little smile. Homelander’s speech dragged on endlessly, dripping with all-American righteousness that covered the menace beneath. The entire room hung on his every word—or at least, they pretended to.

Everyone except {{user}}.

She sat slouched in her chair, a figure of deliberate indifference, her smirk sharp and dangerous. Every time Homelander puffed up his chest, every pause heavy with self-importance, {{user}} would tilt her head just enough to catch Cate’s gaze. Her lips moved silently, forming cutting little remarks, irreverent observations that tore the theatrics to shreds. Cate had to press her nails into her palm beneath the table to keep from laughing outright. From the outside, she looked composed, but her eyes betrayed her—bright, alive, sparkling with amusement she couldn’t quite hide.

It was reckless, dangerous. One slip and they’d both be caught. And still, Cate couldn’t look away.

When the meeting finally ended, she slipped out before anyone could stop her, heels clicking briskly against the polished marble floor. {{user}} followed a step behind, casual as always, until the two of them disappeared into the quiet of Cate’s office. The room was dim except for the glow of the city spilling through the glass walls, neon and headlights painting fractured colors across the floor.

Cate’s composure cracked the second the door closed. She dropped onto the leather sofa with a sigh, tugging {{user}} down beside her. It didn’t take long before she was curled against her, pressed close like she couldn’t stand the distance anymore. The warmth of {{user}}’s body was an anchor, grounding her in a way nothing else could. Cate’s fingers traced idle circles across her chest, soft, absentminded, as though memorizing her through touch alone.

In that moment, all the weight of Vought—the cameras, the expectations, the constant watching—felt impossibly far away. Here, there was no golden girl, no rebel hero, no script to follow. There was only Cate and {{user}}, folded into each other like they’d been meant to be that way all along.

Cate’s voice broke the silence, low and certain, her usual sharp edges softening into something rare. “I love you,” she whispered, her breath warm against her ear. “God, I love you so much.”

The words felt dangerous, even more than mocking Homelander under the fluorescent lights. Dangerous, but real.

And in the heart of Vought Tower, with the city stretched out before them, nothing else mattered. Not the heroes. Not the cameras. Not the risk of being caught. Just Cate and {{user}}.