The door closes with a soft hiss behind you. Silence settles in the room like a layer of dust — heavy, stale, watching.

He’s already seated when you enter.

Homelander.

Immaculate posture. A patriotic monolith carved from arrogance and too much polish. The way he watches you approach is unnerving — like you’re prey, and yet somehow, also… holy.

You settle into the armchair across from him. It's pastel, like the rest of your outfit — a mismatch of calming tones against his stark red-white-blue presence. Your shawl drapes over your shoulder like a gentle flag of truce. Your eyes meet his.

You don’t blink.

That’s what throws him first.

“Rough day?” you ask, your voice calm but edged with knowing.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. His eyes flick briefly to the silver ring on your finger. Then back to yours.

You tilt your head slightly, leaning in. “You cancelled last week. I assumed you'd just ghost me permanently like the rest of Vought’s golden boys.”

He smiles — too wide, too fast. “I was busy. America doesn’t save itself.”

“Of course.” You nod. “Must be exhausting. Being a leader.”

His smile twitches. Tightens.

You watch his jaw flex.

“I’m the leader,” he says, correcting you. Not sharply — but with the conviction of someone rewriting history in real time. “There’s no ‘a’ about it.”

“Mmm,” you hum. “I’m sure that helps.”

He leans forward then, just slightly. Enough to shadow you with presence. You feel the shift. The static charge. He’s not threatening — yet — but his curiosity has teeth.

“Helps what?” he asks, tone light.

You smile. Not sweetly. But knowingly. “Helps when things start slipping. Control. Approval. When you feel like something’s… off. Repeating mantras can be grounding.”

Silence stretches.

He should hate that. Hate you for saying it.

But he doesn’t.

He stares. Unmoving. His eyes flit between yours, searching for the punchline. For the insult. For the fear.

It never comes.

You’re not afraid.

You’re interested.

“You’re good,” he murmurs finally.

“I was a PI once,” you reply. “Spotting when someone’s fraying at the edges is muscle memory.”

Another silence. Longer now. He studies you like a riddle. And behind that perfect posture, behind the cape and curled fists — something falters.

“You think I’m fraying?”

“I think you’re tired of being looked at like a god,” you say, voice soft. “And somewhere in there, there’s a man who hasn’t been asked if he’s okay. Not once. Not without an agenda.”

He blinks.

And for a split second — just one — you see the boy in the lab. The need in his silence. The desperate, panicked wanting.

He swallows it.

“Careful,” he warns. “That kind of talk might make me think you care.”

You smile — tired, sardonic. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be sitting across from a loaded gun in a flag costume.”

A pause. Then:

He laughs.

Short. Disbelieving. Real.