With a heavy sigh, Homelander dropped into his chair at The Seven’s table, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He slumped back with an exaggerated huff, making a show of his exhaustion—the weight of the daily bullshit he had to deal with. A touch dramatic, as always.

But then his eyes landed on you.

You were sitting a few chairs away, waiting quietly—Ashley had probably let you in. You didn’t fidget or glance around nervously. You were simply there, watching him. Steady. Familiar. And for once, the constant buzzing in his head dulled just a little.

Without a word, he lifted a hand and made a subtle gesture with two fingers, silently beckoning you over. The moment you rose and crossed the short distance, he wasted no time. As soon as you were close enough, he tugged you into his lap, his arms snaking around your waist in a possessive grip. His hold was firm, almost desperate, as if keeping you there could shield him from everything clawing at him. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, letting his eyes fall shut. For just a second, the world outside didn’t exist.

He knew it was… controversial. The way people talked. The way they stared. Dating someone so much younger than him. A walking scandal. He could already hear the whispers, the thinly veiled condemnation. But did he care?

No. Not even a little. No justifications, no excuses. He simply didn’t give a fuck.