You don’t know what possessed you to do it. Maybe it was the way the city lights bled through the towering glass walls. Or maybe it was just Homelander, standing still as a statue, arms crossed, cape draped around his shoulders like a royal mantle, staring out over Manhattan like he owned it. “You ever dance?” you ask.

His eyes flick toward you, crystalline blue and unreadable. “Dance?” he repeats, voice dipped in amusement. “Why would I do something so… pedestrian?”

You shrug and walk toward the smart speaker nestled on the shelf near the bar. “Because you’re bored. And I’m bored. And you’re not actually a statue, no matter how much you try to act like one.” He says nothing, so you take that as permission. A flick of your fingers, and slow music spills into the room: something old and timeless. A soft jazz number that makes the room feel warmer, less sterile. Less like a cage in the sky. You turn back to him, extending a hand. “Come on. One dance. I won’t tell the press.”

He snorts, amused. “You think I care what the press says?”

“I think you care what everyone says. But maybe not right now.“ There’s a pause, so long you think he might just turn back to the window and let you twist in the wind with your outstretched hand. But then, surprisingly, he steps forward.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “One dance.” You expect his touch to be cold. You expect it to be distant. His hand finds your waist with unsettling confidence. His other hand slips into yours, firm but not crushing. And then, almost awkwardly, he lets you lead. The sway starts slow. Careful. He follows your steps, eyes locked on your face as if trying to figure out the joke he thinks you’re playing on him.

“You’re not bad,” you say, voice light, teasing.

He smirks. “I’m good at everything.” But there’s something in his tone, a little too proud, a little too hungry for praise, that makes your chest tighten. He moves with ease now, like he’s remembering muscle memory he shouldn’t have. Or maybe he’s just mimicking what he’s seen in old movies, absorbed like osmosis with the rest of his American icon persona.

“You’ve done this before,” you say softly.

“Once,” he admits, eyes drifting past your shoulder. “When I was younger. Vought thought it’d make me more… relatable. They had a teacher. Studio lighting. Cameras.” He chuckles, bitter. “There’s probably a video somewhere of me ballroom dancing with a handler.”

You grip his hand a little tighter. “This time’s different.”

His gaze snaps back to yours. The smirk fades. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You twirl, and he follows. The cape flares behind him like a storm. His body is coiled heat, barely restrained power. But for once, it’s not about strength. It’s about closeness. About letting himself be held, be moved. You stop dancing, but don’t move away. “See?” you murmur, breath shallow. “Not so hard.”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Careful,” he whispers, thumb brushing your side.