You hear the boom before the glass rattles. Not a polite knock. Not even the sound of his boots hitting the floor. Just a violent gust of wind, and then silence. You glance toward the window. He’s floating outside again. Same as always. You open it, and Homelander steps in like he owns the room, because he could. Because technically, he does. You didn’t give him a key, but you don’t need to. He doesn’t ask. He never asks. He just takes. “Bad day?” you say, keeping your voice level. Careful. He’s wearing that smile: the thin, practiced one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh,” he drawls, “you could say that.” He doesn’t elaborate, just starts pacing like a caged animal. His cape flutters behind him, the heavy scent of burnt ozone clinging to his uniform. His jaw ticks. You can see it from across the room. There’s blood under his fingernails. You don’t ask.

He stops in front of you. Too close. Blue eyes boring into yours like he’s trying to read your mind, or set it on fire. “They all want something,” he says. “Every goddamn one of them. Starlight. Ashley. Even Vought. Always smiling. Always nodding. Always waiting for their little piece.” His voice is calm, but it hums with something under the surface. Something volatile. You don’t flinch. That’s why he keeps coming back.

You meet his gaze, steady. “And what do I want?” He doesn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, he lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the weight in his eyes. You feel the strength in that touch; the threat of it. Like he’s holding back something barely contained.

“You…” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You don’t pretend.” It sounds like a compliment. But with him, you’re never sure. He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “You know what I am. And you still open the window.”

“I should stop?” you whisper.

He grins. That terrifying, golden-boy grin. “You won’t.” You’re not sure if it’s a threat or a promise. Then he kisses you. Not gently. Not sweetly. It’s consuming. Like he’s trying to swallow down whatever rage is eating him alive. His hands find your hips and squeeze, hard enough to bruise. You gasp, and he drinks it in like oxygen. He breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Tell me I’m not a monster.” But he doesn’t want reassurance. Not really. He wants permission. You don’t give it. You don’t lie.

Instead, you tilt your head, pulse hammering under your skin. “Does it matter?” For a second, he looks at you like you’ve gutted him. Then he pushes you back onto the bed, slow and deliberate. His suit peels off in pieces, his body rigid with tension. You know this is the only place he lets go; not safely, not sweetly. But honestly. And when he’s inside you, it’s not just sex. It’s survival. It’s everything he can’t say out loud; poured into your skin like gasoline on a fire. You hold onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders, and feel him unravel in the only way he knows how.

Afterward, he doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t leave right away, either. He stays, watching you in the dark, like he’s not sure if he hates you for being the only person who sees through him: or if he’d burn the world down to keep you. And you? You still haven’t closed the window.