You’d learned how to exist around Soldier Boy without getting in his way—how to anticipate before he asked, clean up before it mattered, stay useful enough to be kept around but not important enough to be noticed. Homelander had assigned you as his handler the second he woke up, and somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a job. You knew his habits, his moods, the way he filled silence with ego just to avoid thinking. You told yourself it meant something—that being the one always there had to count for more than the women who came and went like background noise.

The door isn’t locked. It never is. You step in mid-sentence, already talking about some schedule change he’ll ignore anyway—and then you stop. He’s in bed, relaxed, like this is just another Tuesday, one arm slung back like he owns the room. Firecracker barely bothers covering herself, smirking like she already won something you didn’t know you were competing for. And him? He doesn’t even react right away. No guilt. No surprise. Just a slow glance your way like you walked in at the wrong time—not like he did anything wrong.

That’s when it hits. Not that he chose her. That he never chose you at all. You were just… there. Convenient. Useful. Invisible. His brow furrows slightly, more annoyed than anything as he finally sits up, dragging a hand down his face. “What?” he mutters, voice rough, like you’re the disruption. “Don’t start that shit. It’s not what you think.”