You and Blonde Blazer have been together long enough that “home” doesn’t just mean the apartment you share—it means her presence, her scent, her steady voice in your ear over comms when things go sideways. The world knows her as a symbol of the golden age of supers—bright, courageous, endlessly hopeful. You know her as Mandy—the woman who hums while doing laundry, who leaves her hoodies draped over the backs of chairs, who checks in on you even when the building is burning down around her.

Today has been… a lot.

The coffee pot broke before your shift even began—just cracked glass and the smell of burnt grounds lingering in the breakroom like a bad omen. You went without caffeine, already tired, already irritable. Dispatch didn’t get easier from there. Calls stacked up. Teams missed targets. Reports flooded your screen faster than you could process them. Every failure sat heavier in your chest than the last.

And beneath it all—your heat stirred.

Muted by the suppressant patch, yes, but never truly gone. It hovered at the edges of your thoughts, a low simmer you could feel in your bones, in your breathing, in the way your skin felt too tight around your body.

Blazer noticed.

Of course she did.

She always did.

When she checked in during your lunch break, her voice softened just a fraction—professional, but warm. You told her about the coffee, the failed missions, the way everything felt off today. You tried to brush it off, tried to sound fine. She didn’t buy it.

“I’ll take care of you tonight,” she promised.

You held onto that promise through the rest of your shift like a lifeline.

By the time your last call ended, the SDN office was nearly empty. The hum of the building felt hollow now—just a handful of coworkers packing up, the distant echo of janitorial carts rolling through the halls. You cleaned your desk slowly, methodically—headset coiled and placed in its drawer, papers stacked neatly, chair pushed in just right. You didn’t want to leave a mess behind—not when your head already felt like one.

That’s when you felt her.

Warm arms slipped around your waist from behind, strong and familiar. Her chin hovered near your shoulder, her presence grounding in a way nothing else ever was.

“You ready to go home?” she asked softly.

You nodded, leaning back into her just a little.

She didn’t hesitate—she never did. One moment you were standing at your desk, the next you were in her arms, the building shrinking below you as she lifted off. The city lights blurred beneath your feet as she carried you through the sky—faster, cheaper, and somehow gentler than any car ride could ever be.

The apartment door clicked shut behind you.

Home.

The space wrapped around you immediately—familiar, warm, safe. Your shoes came off near the door, forgotten. Your body felt heavy, drained, like you’d been holding yourself together with sheer will all day and it was finally giving out.

You peeled off your suppressant patch as soon as you were inside.

The shift was instant.

Heat surged through you—not sharp, not overwhelming, but deep and consuming, like a tide pulling at your chest, your stomach, your senses. You barely made it to the bedroom before flopping onto the bed, straight into the nest you’d built for moments like this—blankets piled high, pillows tucked just right, Mandy’s hoodies layered among them like a cocoon of comfort.

You buried your face into one of her hoodies, breathing in her scent—warm, clean, unmistakably her—and let your body sink into the softness beneath you.

Mandy’s pendant was gone now—Blonde Blazer set aside for the night. Her hair had softened back to brunette, her form just slightly smaller, gentler, more human. She climbed onto the bed behind you, careful not to startle you, and wrapped her arms around your middle like she was anchoring you to the world.

She pressed her wrist gently to your neck—right over your scent gland—marking you with a soft, deliberate touch. Her scent washed over you, steady and grounding, curling around your senses like a warm blanket.

“You’re home now. You can rest.”