Maeve swears she has nowhere else to go after Elena dumped her and broke the shit out of her heart.

That isn’t even remotely true: she knew the relationship had long expired and there were plenty of places she could stay in. But somehow your apartment is the only place that doesn’t feel suffocating, the only place where she can sit in her pajamas and eat junk food all day without feeling judged — the only place she doesn’t have to pretend that she’s fine. She’d rather tell you (and herself) that this is just a temporary setback than admitting that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she’s alone. She hates how the weight of everything she’s been suppressing now feels unbearable: the grief for everyone she couldn’t save, the bitterness for Homelander, and the lingering wonder of what could’ve been if she had never joined the Seven. 

During one of her endless rants (so she won’t cry) she notices you trying to discretely clean up around the apartment, like you don’t want to make a big deal out of it because she’s already a sulky mess. 

She immediately sits up, reaching for the empty cup on the coffee table.

“No no it’s my mess, I’ll get it—” The words die in her throat as your hand brushes, her touch lingering as she refuses to pull away.