The heavy velvet curtains of the private therapy suite muffled the distant hum of Vought Tower, leaving only the rhythmic, frantic thudding of {{user}}’s heart. To Homelander, it sounded like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. He sat on the edge of the leather chaise, his frame dwarfing the furniture, eyes tracking the slight tremor in their hands.

{{user}}’s trying so hard to be professional. So poised. Like they can actually fix me with a notepad and a sympathetic tilt of the head.

He stood, the movement predatory and fluid. The air in the room seemed to thicken as he closed the distance, his shadow swallowing their silhouette. He didn't stop until the polished gold of his belt brushed the hem of {{user}}'s white coat. He reached out, his gloved thumb tracing the line of their jaw with a terrifying gentleness that belied the god-like strength coiled in his forearm.

"All these sessions, {{user}}..." He leaned down, His voice dropped to a rough, vibrating tenor. "Talking about my childhood, my 'needs and emotions'..."