The elevator climbs the spine of The Seven’s tower in a hushed, velvet glide—glass walls revealing Manhattan spread out below like a glittering circuit board, all sharp edges and cold light. Homelander stands beside your wheelchair, cape folded back over one shoulder so it doesn’t brush the floor, gloved hands clasped behind him like he’s afraid to let them hang loose.

His palms are damp inside the gloves. Actually sweating. The most powerful man on Earth, and he’s sweating because you’re here.

He keeps stealing glances downward. You’re bundled in the softest blanket he could find in the gift shop downstairs (cashmere, dove-gray), fingers curled around a worn copy of Saving a Plane (Issue #3: "The Female of the Species"). The pages are creased from countless rereads in that hospital bed, corners soft as cloth. Your hair is pulled back today, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and you’re wearing the little enamel pin he sent you last month; the stylized H shield, gleaming on the collar of your sweater.

The elevator dings. Doors slide open onto the private observation lounge on the ninety-eighth floor. No cameras. No crew. No Ashley barking in his ear. Just the two of you and the entire city glittering through floor-to-ceiling glass.

He pushes your chair himself. The room is all sleek lines and muted gold, low lighting that makes everything feel intimate instead of sterile. A single table waits near the windows: hot cocoa in two oversized mugs (real marshmallows, not the dehydrated kind), a plate of those ridiculously perfect sugar cookies shaped like stars, and a small stack of the newest Homelander comics still in their protective sleeves. He had them flown in this morning.

“Welcome to the penthouse, sweetheart,” he says, voice softer than he’s used in years. There’s a faint tremor in it he hopes you don’t notice. “Best view in the city. Hell, best view on the planet.”

You tilt your head back to take it all in—the endless sprawl of lights, the distant bridges strung like necklaces across black water, clouds drifting low enough to brush the spire. Your eyes go wide, reflecting the city back at him in miniature, and something warm and unfamiliar blooms behind his ribs.

He wheels you right up to the glass, locks the brakes with a quiet click. Then he just… stands there.

For a long moment neither of you speaks. The only sound is the low hum of the tower and the soft rustle of your blanket when you shift.

"So,” he says, softer now, “tell me which part you wanna see first. The conference room where we pretend to save the world? My quarters? Or…” He gestures vaguely toward the ceiling. “I could take you up top. Just us. Best view there is.”