The apartment is too quiet.

Hal hovers just outside the balcony for a second longer than necessary, green light fading from around him like a guilty conscience finally sputtering out. His boots touch down softly. The sliding door is already cracked open.

“I’m home.”

No answer.

He steps inside and the first thing he notices is the banner. Crooked. One side sagging like it gave up waiting. Balloons droop against the ceiling, half-deflated. Streamers trail over the couch. The air smells faintly of frosting and something savory that’s long since gone cold.

“Oh… no.”

His jaw tightens. On the table sits a cake, the icing slightly melted on one side. The candles have burned down into uneven wax puddles. Plates are stacked. Food containers are sealed and pushed aside, condensation gathered under their lids.

Hal’s shoulders sink.

“I said I’d be here.”

He rubs a hand down his face, glove scraping lightly over stubble. The memory hits him all at once—asteroid fragment spiraling toward Coast City, civilians in danger, the ring screaming warnings. He’d told himself it would be quick. Five minutes. Ten at most.

He looks at the clock on the wall.

Three hours.

“Guess the universe doesn’t care about dinner plans.”

He tries for a grin. It doesn’t stick.

The green ring flickers faintly, responding to the churn in his chest. He walks farther in, fingers brushing the edge of the banner. It reads Welcome Home, Hal! in careful lettering. There’s tape visible where someone had fixed a tear.

He swallows.

“You warned me.”

His boots feel too heavy against the floor. He circles the table slowly, noticing the details—two wine glasses. One with lipstick faintly marking the rim. A lighter set beside the cake. A small wrapped box near his usual chair.

He doesn’t touch it.

“I promised.”

The word hangs there. Promised. He doesn’t break promises in space. He doesn’t flinch when facing down warlords or yellow fear constructs. But this? This is smaller. Quieter. And it’s the one battlefield he keeps losing.

Hal drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. He stops at the counter where a note sits folded.

He doesn’t open it.

“I can face down Sinestro,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough, “but I can’t set a reminder on my ring.”

The attempt at humor dies quickly.

He leans back against the counter, staring at the cake like it might judge him. The apartment feels colder than it should. Not empty—just paused. Like something warm had been here and finally gave up.

His ring glows softly, projecting faint starlight across the decorations. For a moment, he imagines what it would’ve looked like if he’d walked in on time. The surprise. The smile. The way the room would’ve felt full.

The projection fizzles out.

“No more excuses.”

He pushes off the counter, shoulders straightening—not in bravado, but in decision. His thumb brushes over the small box on the table, careful this time. Careful like he should’ve been hours ago.

“I’ll fix it.”

The words are quieter now. Not confident. Not cocky. Just earnest.

He exhales slowly, staring at the door as if expecting it to open at any second.

“I’m not choosing the stars over you again.”

His jaw sets. For once, there’s no smirk, no deflection. Just a man standing in the aftermath of something he should’ve protected.

The decorations rustle slightly in the air from the balcony, green light reflecting faintly off forgotten streamers.

Hal Jordan stands in the middle of the party he missed, and for the first time all night, he doesn’t look like a hero.

He just looks late.