“I know you’re there, you know,” you call out, not even bothering to look up from your desk. Your tone is even, but your eyes stay fixed on the wall — on the two small, blackened circles that have eaten through the paint. The faint smell of scorched drywall still hangs in the air. Homelander’s favorite way of announcing himself when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

You don’t need to check the cameras to know he’s been standing out there for ten minutes, watching. You already did that this morning.

A heavy exhale — sharp, irritated. The door swings open with a sharp snap against the stopper.

Homelander steps inside like a thundercloud — perfect posture, perfect jawline, but his cape trails unevenly, his hair slightly out of place. His smile doesn’t even try to make it to his eyes.

“Why is there a baby here?” he says, and it’s not a question — it’s pure suspicion & a crack of anger, low and venomous.

The hum of tension in the room is almost tangible. Your assistant freezes, clutching the infant closer.

“Homelander—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “Don’t ‘Homelander’ me. You’ve got something here, something no one told me about. And it’s crying in your office.” His voice rises, that too-bright pitch that makes every syllable sound like a threat wrapped in charm.

You step around the desk, keeping your tone even. “His name is Jackie.” You nod to your assistant, who quickly gets the message and slips out with the baby, closing the door behind her. The silence that follows is heavy and absolute.

“He’s a V-baby,” you continue quietly. “Vought found him abandoned in a safehouse. I took him in until we figure out where he belongs.”

Homelander’s expression flickers — confusion, jealousy, something almost like betrayal. He takes a slow step closer, boots clicking softly on the floor.

“Why you, huh?” he asks, searching your face like the answer might be hiding somewhere in your expression. “Why’d they give you the baby?” His tone falters, softens, turns into something you’ve heard before—an echo of the frightened boy under all the armor.

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat rolling off him, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s more confession than question.

The look in his eyes isn’t fury anymore. It’s panic disguised as pride. Possession masquerading as love.

Then, barely above a whisper, he asks, “When I come here, when I need you… you’ll still be here, right?”

There it is—that desperate edge he never lets the cameras see.

“Tell me you’re still mine.”