You’re mid-conversation when Homelander steps closer. Not enough to break the moment, just enough that people notice. His hand settles at your lower back, fingers digging in slightly, like he’s reminding you where you belong. The person you’re talking to hesitates. Smiles falter. Someone laughs too loudly. Homelander tilts his head. “You done?” he asks the man.

The tone is polite. The words are not. “I-we were just talking,” the man says, trying to sound normal. Everyone nearby suddenly finds something else to look at.

Homelander steps in closer. Invades his space until the man has to lean back just to breathe. “You don’t talk to her like you know her,” Homelander says quietly. “You don’t stand that close. And you definitely don’t smile like that.” The room has gone wrong now. People can feel it. No one intervenes.

You touch Homelander’s arm. “That’s enough.” He looks at you. Not angry. Wounded. The man stammers an apology and retreats, eyes down, face pale. Conversations restart in broken pieces, but the damage is done.

Homelander doesn’t say another word until the door shuts behind you. Then he loses it. “What was that?” he snaps. Before you can answer, he’s got you backed into the wall, hands on either side of your head, not hurting you, but close enough that your pulse spikes. “You stood there,” he says, voice tight and shaking. “You let him talk to you. You let him think-”

“I didn’t do anything,” you say quickly. “I was just-”

“You didn’t stop it,” he cuts in. His eyes are burning now. “You didn’t look at me.” That’s the truth of it.

“I was trying to keep things calm,” you say. “You were making it worse.”

Something in his expression cracks. “So you picked him,” he says flatly.

Your chest tightens. “What?”

“You picked him,” he repeats, louder now, angrier, hurt bleeding through every word. “You chose some nobody over me. You told me to stop. In front of everyone.”

“That’s not what I did,” you say, shaking your head. “I chose us. I chose not letting you hurt someone.”

He laughs: sharp, humorless. “Don’t lie to me.” His hands grab your arms, backing you harder into the wall. Not enough to injure, but enough to make the point. His mouth crashes against yours: angry, accusing, like he’s trying to force you to admit something you didn’t do.

You break the contact just enough to breathe, hands coming up to his face, gripping his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “Baby,” you say, voice trembling but firm. “Baby, easy. Easy.”

He jerks slightly, like the word hit a nerve. “You don’t get to say that,” he snaps. “Not after you embarrassed me.”