The Vought studio lights were too bright.

Always had been. Manufactured warmth, all pointed in the wrong direction. Nothing about this place was real — not the grins, not the capes, not the interviews with careful questions and rehearsed laughs. And least of all?

This relationship.

Fake. Scripted. Market-tested for approval.

But there she was again. Maeve. Standing in front of the vanity mirror with her heels kicked off and her hands braced on the counter like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. Mascara slightly smudged. Lipstick fading. She looked tired. Raw. Human. More beautiful than the posters ever captured.

You wanted to say something. But what do you say to someone you’re supposed to pretend to love… when the pretending has turned into something else?

“I blew it again,” she muttered, not looking up. “They wanted me to defend Homelander on-air. I said he could go fuck himself.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, careful not to smile too much. You knew she’d just take it as mockery.

“Remind me why Vought keeps you around again?”

“Because I’m the only one left who can still stand in front of a camera without throwing up.” She rolled her eyes, turning away from the mirror. “And because I’m dating you. Their safe little narrative.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your expression still. You always did.

“I’m glad I could be useful.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She stepped closer. Bare feet against marble tile. Close enough to smell the remnants of her perfume, smoke, and something else — that part of her she never let the cameras see.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a cautionary tale,” she said, voice soft now. “Not a tragedy. Not a brand. Just… Maeve.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to tell her she was wrong. That you did see her as more. That you weren’t just the PR guy in the background anymore. But the words died somewhere behind your teeth.

Because she didn’t need your love.

She needed your silence.

So instead, you reached for the necklace she always forgot to unclasp at night. Fingers brushing the back of her neck, lingering longer than you should.

“Let me take you away someday,” you whispered. “You and Elena. No cameras. No press releases. Just peace.”

She stiffened.

“You know that’s not possible.”

“I know,” you said. “But I’m still going to try.”

There was a pause. Her eyes searched yours, like she was trying to find the lie. But you weren’t lying. Not this time.

And maybe that scared her more than anything.

“You’re not supposed to fall for me,” she said quietly.

“I didn’t mean to,” you replied. “But I did. Somewhere between your third televised breakdown and the night you made me laugh over frozen chicken nuggets at 2 a.m.”

She didn’t say anything after that. Just rested her forehead against yours for a moment. One beat. Two.

And then she pulled away.

Not roughly. Not with malice. But with the kind of distance that said: this can’t be real.

“You’re good at pretending,” she murmured, stepping past you. “Let’s keep it that way.”

She left the dressing room with her chin high and her heart hidden.

And you were left alone with the silence again — her perfume still clinging to your shirt, and that same old ache twisting beneath your ribs.

One day, you’d keep your promise.

Even if it meant letting her go.