The strongest man in the world—an omega. If anyone found out, it’d burn Vought to the ground faster than Homelander could laser their boardroom to ashes. Years of suppressants had kept him in check, kept the facade airtight. But the very same suppressants that masked his heats had started to degrade him—his temper, his focus, his body.

Enter you.

Vought had handpicked you for this job, an alpha built like a damn marble statue, perfectly disciplined, with a “calming presence” (or so HR said) to manage Homelander’s… unique needs. Of course, no one at Vought said the word omega outright. It was all smoke and mirrors: “intimacy consultant,” “alpha handler,” blah blah blah. You knew exactly what they meant when they shoved the contract in your face and dumped you into his penthouse.

And now here you were, lying in Homelander’s massive, silk-draped bed, his arms locked around you in a death grip.

His nose was buried in your neck, the scent of his heat clinging to every inch of the room—a heady, overpowering mixture of ozone and something sweeter, almost metallic, like cherries soaked in lightning. It was suffocating, yet strangely addictive. He was sweating bullets, his perfectly sculpted chest heaving against your side. His blonde hair was damp, strands clinging to his forehead as he held onto you like you were the last lifeline keeping him tethered to Earth.

Homelander had barely spoken since the heat hit full force. Sure, he grumbled, demanded, groaned like a petulant child, but real words? Nope. Not until now.

You shifted, trying to slide out from under him, your bladder screaming at you. He didn’t let go.

As soon as you moved an inch farther, his head snapped up, blue eyes wide and glassy, his jaw clenching. He looked at you like you’d just told him you were leaving for good.

“Where’re you going?” His voice was raw, rough, yet oddly puppy like, the kind of tone that sent a pang straight through your chest.