The cocktail party ended well past midnight.
Starlight said her apartment wasn’t far.
Miles Vance said okay.
Instead of calling a cab, they walked south along Fifth Avenue.
The night breeze was cool, washing away the scent of perfume and champagne that lingered on their clothes.
Starlight was still wearing his suit jacket.
The sleeves were a bit too long, making her look like a child playing dress-up in an adult’s clothes.
The streets were empty.
Occasionally, a taxi would drive past, its headlights sweeping over them before vanishing into the night.
Starlight walked slowly, the sharp click of her heels echoing off the pavement.
Miles walked beside her, slowing his pace to match hers.
They didn’t speak.
But the silence wasn’t awkward—it was as if they both knew some things had to wait for a safer place to be said.
Starlight’s apartment was on a quiet street.
It wasn’t one of those luxury high-rises—just the fourth floor of an old brick building with no elevator.
The stairwell lights were sound-activated; they had to stomp their feet on every landing.
She pulled out her keys and opened the door.
The apartment was small.
A one-bedroom, with the kitchen and living area joined together.
But it was clean.
There were no hero posters on the walls, no trophies, no Vought logos—nothing associated with Vought at all.
On the windowsill sat a pothos plant, its leaves draping down and swaying gently in the night breeze.
A beige plush throw pillow lay on the sofa, its corners slightly frayed.
Miles stood at the entrance, scanning the space.
This was the least “Seven-like” residence he had ever seen.
“Make yourself at home,” Starlight said.
Miles sat on the couch.
It was soft, sinking slightly beneath his weight.
Starlight went to the kitchen, poured two glasses of water, brought them over, and sat down beside him.
They sat a fist’s width apart.
She set the glasses on the coffee table.
The surface of the water was still, reflecting the ceiling light.
A long silence stretched between them.
It wasn’t the kind of silence where they didn’t know what to say.
It was the kind where there was too much to say, and neither knew where to start.
Starlight spoke first.
“Do you know?”
Miles looked at her.
“On my first day in The Seven, Homelander made me kill someone.”
Miles’s fingers tightened slightly on his knees.
“An ordinary person. Not some villain, not a criminal. Just… an ordinary guy who saw something he shouldn’t have,” Starlight said, her voice flat, as if telling someone else’s story.
“He was tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. Homelander handed me a gun and said, ‘Kill him.'”
She lowered her head, looking at her hands.
“I refused.”
Miles didn’t say anything.
“He said—’If you don’t kill him, I’ll kill your whole family.'”
Starlight’s breathing grew faint, as if mentioning those words made her chest involuntarily tighten.
“I killed him.”
She looked up at the opposite wall. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
It was bare—plain white, without even a painting.
“Since then, I haven’t been a hero.”
Miles looked at her profile.
Her eyes weren’t red—it was as if she had told this story so many times she had no tears left.
He reached out and took her hand.
Her fingers were cold.
“You’re not a murderer,” Miles said.
Starlight didn’t move.
“You’re a victim.”
Starlight’s fingers twitched.
She turned her head to look at him.
Her eyes welled up—not the kind of redness before a sob, but the kind that comes when something bottled up for a very long time is finally understood.
“You’re the first person to ever say that.”
Miles didn’t let go of her hand.
Starlight stared at him for a long time.
Then she leaned in and kissed him.
This kiss was different from the one on the balcony.
It wasn’t out of gratitude.
It was: “I need you.”
Miles could feel her lips trembling.
It wasn’t nervousness, but rather…
like she had held everything in for so long and finally found an outlet to let it go.
Her fingers gripped the collar of his shirt so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Miles wrapped his arms around her back.
They slid off the sofa, though neither knew who had moved first.
Their knees bumped against the edge of the coffee table, shaking the water glass and sending ripples across the surface.
Then they lay back onto the couch, Starlight looking down at him from above, her hair cascading down to create a semi-enclosed space.
In this space, there were only the two of them.
No Homelander.
No Vought.
No Butcher.
No missions.
Just her and him.
Starlight lowered her head, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
Her breath was hot, brushing against his skin.
“Don’t leave,” she said.
“I won’t.”
They moved from the sofa to the bedroom.
It wasn’t wild passion—it was the gentle tenderness of “I need you here.” Every movement was slow, as if confirming each other’s existence.
Starlight’s fingertips trailed across his back, leaving a faint sensation.
Miles’s fingers ran through her hair, the strands wrapping around his fingers.
Afterward, Starlight buried her head against his chest.
Her hair was spread across the pillow, glowing faintly in the light of the streetlamp outside.
Miles rested his chin on the crown of her head, smelling her sweet orange shampoo.
“You’re the first person who makes me feel safe,” she said.
Her voice was soft, as if she were afraid someone might hear.
Miles didn’t speak.
He tightened his arms, holding her a little closer.
Starlight placed her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
One, two, three—rhythmic and steady. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“Your heartbeat is very steady,” she said.
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Like my dad’s.”
Miles looked down at her.
“Your dad?”
“When I couldn’t sleep as a kid, I’d lay my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. I’d fall asleep listening to it.”
Miles didn’t reply.
He felt Starlight’s breathing gradually slow down, her body relaxing.
“Do you hate him?” he asked.
Starlight was silent for a moment.
“Who?”
“Homelander.”
Starlight didn’t answer right away.
She moved her hand from his chest to her side.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I think he’s a victim too—created by Vought, kept in a cage since he was a kid. But most of the time, I think he’s just an asshole.”
Miles curved his lips into a smile.
“That’s a pretty accurate assessment.”
Starlight smiled too, a soft smile heavy with sleep.
“Do you have to work tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah. Hero Relations Department, eight-thirty.”
“Then you have… six hours left.”
“That’s enough.”
Starlight didn’t say anything else.
Her breathing grew slower and deeper.
Miles felt her body go completely limp, as if she had finally let down all her guard.
He looked down.
She was asleep.
She didn’t look like a hero of The Seven.
Not like the superhero who glowed in front of the cameras.
Just like an ordinary twenty-three-year-old girl.
Her eyelashes were long, her breathing light, the corners of her mouth curved slightly upward, as if she were having a sweet dream.
Miles watched her for a long time.
Then he gently kissed her forehead.
He reached out and picked up his phone from the nightstand.
The screen’s light illuminated his face.
He opened his messages and sent a text to Butcher:
“I’m going to investigate S-017 to the end.”
Butcher replied instantly: “Finally came around?”
Miles didn’t reply.
He set his phone aside and lay back down.
In her sleep, Starlight rolled over and buried her face in his shoulder.
Her warm, even breath brushed against his collarbone.
Miles stared at the ceiling.
Outside, the sky was starting to lighten.
The first ray of light filtered through the gap in the curtains, drawing a thin golden line on the wall.
He didn’t sleep.
He was thinking—how was he going to survive doing this?