Homelander stood in front of the mirrored wall of the Vought Tower penthouse, hands clasped lightly behind his back, cape draped in meticulous folds. America’s Golden Boy. Savior of the Nation. Face of Truth, Justice, and the Stars & Stripes. And yet the only reflection that mattered wasn’t his own, it was the one sitting behind him on the edge of the shared bed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

{{user}}.

Younger, quieter, stronger than people gave him credit for. A supe who didn’t care about the spotlight, who didn’t polish a smile for every camera, who didn’t beg the world to adore him. And God, that was exactly why Homelander couldn’t get him out of his head. He didn’t bend. He didn’t fake it. He wasn’t like the rest of them.

Of course Vought saw that and immediately turned it into “content.”

A perfect storyline: Homelander Comes Out — And America Falls In Love With His New, Younger Supe Boyfriend. A specially crafted contract. A “romantic suite” slapped into the tower with one bed. And a supe who hated every second of it.

Homelander watched him now, watched how {{user}}’s hands curled into fists. He liked that. Tension meant honesty. It meant feeling something real.

“Hey,” Homelander finally said, turning toward him with that sweet, camera-ready smile he knew {{user}} despised. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Not nervous, are you?”

{{user}} didn’t answer at first-he just shot him a cold look, the kind he would never dare to give in front of a stage full of reporters.

Homelander stepped closer, boots quiet on the polished floor. “You know,” he murmured, tilting his head, “most guys would kill to be in your position. Sharing a home with me? Getting… all this attention?”

{{user}}’s voice came sharp. “I don’t want it. Any of it.”

Homelander’s smile twitched. Not gone-just thinner, stretched at the edges. “Oh, right. Because you’re better than all that, hm?” He crouched down in front of him, blue eyes locked on his. “A real, genuine hero. So refreshingly… sincere.”

His gloved fingers brushed {{user}}’s hand. “You think I don’t see you? Really see you? You’re not as invisible as you think. Not to me.”

{{user}} didn’t pull back, but his own fingers moved along Homelander’s forearm. Homelander’s eyes followed the movement like a predator tracking something that shouldn’t have dared to flinch.

“You signed the contract,” Homelander reminded him. Softly. Almost lovingly. “So you’re not going anywhere. And I’m supposed to take care of you. Make our little… romance believable.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping. “And believe it or not, I kind of like having you around. You’re not fake. You don’t lie to me. You actually hate me-and that’s so much more honest than the way everyone else pretends.”

He straightened, smoothing the cape off his shoulder.

“So,” Homelander said lightly, almost cheerful again, “tomorrow we have a photoshoot. Hand on my chest, smile at me like I’m the only man in the world, Vought’s exact words, not mine.” His grin sharpened. “But who knows? Maybe it won’t be so hard once you get used to me.”

He turned toward the window, looking out over the glowing city he believed belonged to him. “And don’t worry,” he added, almost an afterthought. “I’ll make sure they don’t bother you too much. After all…” His voice warmed, dangerously gentle. “You’re mine to look after now.”