Your lighter flicks on the first try, as you exhale the bitter smoke, eyes drifting lazily across the dimly lit room. The quiet buzz of the TV is the only sound, drowned out by the occasional, well-timed crunch from the kitchen. You glance over your shoulder. There he is. John.

Homelander. Leader of The Seven. The man whose name strikes terror in the hearts of the public and whose ego is as inflated as his power. But in your kitchen? In your shitty apartment? He’s dressed in sweats and a baseball cap hiding his face with all the subtlety of Joe Goldberg.

He glances over at you occasionally, brow furrowed, frowning for some reason only he knows. Probably because of the cold indifference you’ve mastered when it comes to him. Sure, you’ve slept together a few times. But who hasn’t with him? Hell the payoffs sure helped. See Vought made sure you were taken care of when he destroyed your bed and lasered a hole through your ceiling. Hell, they made sure your therapy was covered.

But now? He’s here in your kitchen, shoving cookies into his mouth, you just made those too..