Rain still hissed against the bulletproof glass, turning the New York skyline into blurry streaks of red and gold. Homelander lay on his back in the middle of the massive bed, silk sheets tangled around his hips, his cape and suit tossed in a careless pile near the door. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths, the glow of the candles you’d lit earlier catching on the faint sheen of sweat across his skin.

You were curled against his side, warm and soft in all the ways the world outside wasn’t. One of your legs draped over his thigh, your fingers threading lazily through his blond hair, stroking in that slow rhythm he never admitted out loud how much he craved. The afterglow still hummed under his skin, a lazy heat that made his muscles feel loose for once.

He turned his head slightly, nose brushing the crown of your head. You smelled like him now—his cologne mixed with your skin, a little salty from sweat, that faint floral trace of your shampoo. It grounded him. Made the buzzing in his head quieter.

“Fuckin’ Soldier Boy,” he muttered, voice still rough from earlier, when he’d been groaning your name into your neck. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until you're pressed against his ribs. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me today. Like I’m some fucking disappointment he scraped off his boot. ‘Still playing dress-up, kid?’ That’s what he said. Right in front of the whole damn Seven. Like he didn’t spend decades frozen like a goddamn popsicle while I built all of this.”

His free hand gestured vaguely at the ceiling, at the tower itself, at the empire he’d clawed together with smiles and threats. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but they kept spilling anyway. You were the only one who didn’t flinch when the cracks showed. The only one who didn’t laugh behind his back or whisper “crybaby” when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Your fingers kept moving through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in that perfect way that sent little sparks down his spine. He let out a shaky breath, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the rain-streaked window.

“I mean, who the hell does he think he is?” Homelander continued, the insecurity bleeding through despite the venom in his tone. “He’s obsolete. A walking relic. And yet every time he opens his mouth it’s like… like he knows exactly where to twist the knife. ‘You’re not even a real man,’ he said once. Can you believe that shit? Me. Homelander. The strongest supe alive. And he says I’m not a real man because I wasn’t born in some dirty barn in the forties.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He hated how much Soldier Boy’s words still landed. Hated how small they made him feel.

You shifted a little, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. The touch was feather-light, but it hit him harder than any punch. He swallowed thickly, turning fully toward you now, blue eyes searching your face in the dim light. You looked so calm, so steady. His anchor in a world that kept trying to remind him he was made, not born. A lab experiment with a god complex and a crying habit he buried under laser eyes and perfect smiles.

“You’re the only one who gets it, baby,” he whispered, the pet name slipping out softer than he intended. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, feeling the warmth of your skin, the faint marks he’d left earlier. “Everyone else… they see the cape. The lasers. The speeches. But you… you see the rest. The shit I can’t say out loud without wanting to blow a hole through the wall.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in deep. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted, voice cracking just a fraction. He hated the vulnerability in it, but with you it felt almost safe. “Sometimes I think if you left… I’d just… I don’t know. Burn it all down. Or cry like a little bitch in the sky until someone put me out of my misery.”