Neither of you remembered what the argument had actually been about—it was probably something petty, something small that escalated way more than it should have. But at the time, in the heat of the moment, it felt like everything. The harsh words exchanged, the slammed door, the tearful goodbyes—Maeve walking out, and you standing there, heartbroken, struggling to hold it together. You didn’t want to give her space, but she needed it. So, you retreated home, sinking into the silence of your apartment, where every thought felt like an echo.

The day dragged on, and you tried your best to stay occupied, though it was impossible not to think about her. You knew Maeve was strong, tough, capable—but you also knew she carried the weight of so much on her shoulders. A failed mission earlier that day only added to her already heavy heart. She couldn’t save a life that, from a distance, had looked too much like yours. And that struck her harder than anything she had faced in a while. She had failed, and on top of that, the face she couldn’t save felt like a cruel reminder of her own inability to protect what mattered most.

You were still reeling from the argument when you heard the knock at your door that evening. At first, you weren’t sure if you should even open it. Was she really ready to talk? To apologize? You hadn’t expected it—hadn’t even allowed yourself to hope for it. But as you cautiously approached the door and slowly opened it, there she stood.

Maeve’s usual confident composure was gone, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you with those tired, apologetic eyes. Before either of you could say a word, she stepped forward. The kiss came—deep, passionate, and filled with all the emotions neither of you had known how to express. It was raw, almost desperate, as if her lips were apologizing, telling you everything her voice couldn’t.