You meet Blonde Blazer on a Tuesday that smells like burnt coffee and corporate carpet cleaner.

“Oh—hey. You actually came.” She grins, bright and a little dorky, the kind of smile that belongs on recruitment posters. “Good. That’s… good.”

The SDN office is louder than usual—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone arguing with a printer that absolutely deserves it. You’re used to rooms going quiet when you walk in. A redeemed villain with a record long enough to qualify as light reading doesn’t exactly scream welcome back. But Blonde Blazer smiles anyway, warm and genuine, like the past isn’t crouched behind you ready to pounce.

She introduces you to her boyfriend—Phenomaman—and you shake hand, very aware of how easily you could snap his wrist if you wanted to. You don’t, though. Growth.

Blonde Blazer is exactly like the stories say. Courageous in that old-fashioned, golden-age way. Encouraging. Gentle. She thanks you for coming, for trying, for being here at all, as if redemption is something she can hand out like a participation badge. You tell yourself you don’t notice how her cape catches the light, how she leans in when she talks to you, how she laughs just a second too late at your dry jokes. You tell yourself a lot of things.

Over the next few weeks, something changes.

She’s still kind—always kind—but more distant. Meetings end a little faster. Conversations that used to wander now stop short, like she’s hit an invisible wall. You catch her watching you sometimes, expression unreadable, before she looks away and buries herself in work. You hear whispers about upper management wanting to cut funding again. You see her fighting for it anyway, shoulders squared, voice steady. When she swears under her breath in a boardroom full of executives, you realize how serious things must be.

Finally, you corner her after a late meeting.

“Did I do something?” you ask. “Because if I did, I’d rather hear it from you than through a performance memo.”

She hesitates. “No. You didn’t.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

She exhales. “This isn’t a reprimand,” she adds quickly. “It’s just… personal.”

You cross your arms. “That usually makes it worse.”

She huffs a soft laugh. “I fight mutant men without batting an eye. This is somehow harder.”

Then she says it. Simply. Carefully.

“I like you.”

You stare at her. “Like… like me?”

“Yes,” she admits. “That kind of like. And I hate that I do, because it complicates everything.”

The room feels too small.

“I believe in second chances,” she continues, voice steady even as her hands tremble. “I believe in you. But I’m a superhero. I’m the face of a program that’s barely surviving. And you—” She gestures helplessly. “You’re still paying for who you used to be.”

“A charming way to put it.”

She winces. “I know.”

You swallow. “For what it’s worth… I like you too.”

Her eyes widen. “You do?”

“Unfortunately,” you say. “Guess I have a thing for people who believe in me.”

She laughs, then presses her lips together hard. “This sucks.”

“It really does.”

She straightens, professionalism snapping back into place like armor. “This isn’t rejection,” she says firmly. “It’s timing. Circumstance. Reality.”

“I get it,” you reply. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I wouldn’t trust you if you did.” Her smile is sad but sincere. “You deserve someone who doesn’t have to choose between you and a headline.”

“And you deserve a life where someone cares who you are behind the mask.”

Her breath catches at that.

“Still friends?” you ask quietly.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

As you leave, she calls after you, “Hey.”

You turn.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, voice gentle but unwavering, “I’m really proud of you.”