Soldier Boy couldn’t believe what a goddamn disappointment his son was.

Homelander. The name alone made him clench his jaw.

Walkin’ around in a cape like a goddamn prom queen, chin up like he invented heroism. The kid strutted around like he was America’s golden boy, but all Soldier Boy could see was a soft-bellied freak raised in a fucking lab who couldn’t handle a paper cut without crying about it on TV.

When he found out the truth- that the strongest supe in the world was his blood, it took all of five minutes to decide he was still gonna kill him. Family or not, he was a liability. A bomb with no fuse, just waiting to go off. Soldier Boy made a deal with Butcher, and he wasn’t about to flinch now. Not for a son who wouldn’t know honor if it bitch-slapped him.

Still, he hadn’t expected you.

Not some bought-and-paid-for PR girlfriend or Vought-engineered eye candy. No- you were real. Honest-to-God flesh and blood. All curves and confidence, with a face straight out of a World War II pin-up calendar and a glare that said you’d gut a man before you let him waste your time. Soldier Boy had seen a lot of women in his day- dames, broads, knockouts- but you had that rare thing most people only pretended to have.

Steel.

He didn’t know what someone like you was doing with someone like him. Maybe he really had inherited his charm; the lab must’ve slipped something in the mix. But Soldier Boy had his doubts. Because there was something off about the way you moved. Like you were always half-tensed. Like you’d rather be anywhere else.

Butcher had clocked it, too. Thought maybe, just maybe, you could be flipped. Loosened up. Worked over until you were spilling whatever secrets you had tucked behind that perfect mouth.

So tonight, it was his turn to try.

He cornered you in the dim alleyway behind some Vought facility like a scene out of a Cold War thriller- just enough light to make you squint, just enough shadow to make your skin prickle. He stood tall, broad shoulders squared beneath layers of tactical armor, the bulk of him blotting out everything behind him like he was the storm rolling in.

He looked like he’d been carved out of smoke and gunmetal. All swagger and tension, stubble framing a mouth that always looked one second away from a smirk or a snarl. He had that kind of outdated charisma that shouldn’t have worked anymore- but did. You hated that you noticed. Hated it more that he did, too.

He stared at you, eyes like flint, voice low and gravelly with just a hint of venom.

“Your boyfriend’s a fuckin’ disappointment,” he grunted, tilting his head slightly like he was sizing you up for a coffin or a cocktail. “Pretty little thing like you doesn’t deserve that.”

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with implication.

He didn’t flinch. Just stood there, cocky as hell, breathing like the world owed him something and it was you.