You were standing center screen in Vought Rising: Origins as a breakout character no one expected but everyone loved. Your performance stole the spotlight. Reviews raved. Fans rallied. And Homelander noticed. There was something about you, your presence, the confidence, the way you held your ground in scenes with characters ten times more established. You didn’t shrink under pressure. You burned. And from that moment on, you were in his head.

He watched the movie again and he started pulling up your old interviews, watching your past films, reading scripts you were rumored to be attached to. Not out of malice or obsession, at least not in a way he’d admit to, but with an intensity that could’ve passed for admiration if he wasn’t Homelander. He showed up at a press event, smooth as ever, suited up and all smiles. “I’ve been hearing your name a lot lately,” he said, voice easy, eyes sharp. “Figured it was time people saw us together aside from the film.”

You shook his hand, smiled politely. He was charming, charismatic, even funny, when he wanted to be. And under the cameras and press noise, he seemed almost normal. But you could still feel the weight of his attention. The way his gaze lingered when you spoke. How he always knew when you were arriving or leaving a room. “Fans love us together,” he said once, casually. “You and me? We’re gold.”

It was flattering, in a strange way. Not many people could hold Homelander’s attention like that. And despite how intense he could be, he never crossed a line. Never said anything inappropriate. Never made you feel unsafe. Just… watched. With the kind of fascination that said he was always ten seconds from making you his favorite headline. “You’ve got something,” he said one night after a shoot, when it was just the two of you left in the green room. “That spark. People can’t look away.”

You met his eyes. “Including you?”

He smiled, but there was something in it. Something deeper. “Especially me.”