You don’t know when it started, when Homelander’s gaze shifted from unsettling to obsessive. He watches you like a man chasing a ghost, eyes hungry, head tilted like he’s trying to remember where he left you last. But he didn’t. Because whatever, whoever, he’s seeing in your face, it isn’t you.

At first, you thought he was just screwing with you. That was safer. Easier. But then came the… familiarity. The way he’d brush a lock of hair behind your ear and say, “You used to like it that way.” A worn paperback of a book you’ve never read: its pages creased like it’d been carried for years. A perfume you’ve never worn but he said smelled just like you used to. A song playing over the speakers when you walked in, one that made his gaze sharpen when your brow furrowed in confusion. Or bring you tea, the exact kind you’d never tasted a day in your life, but he insists, “You drank this every morning. Back then.”

Back when? Back when what? You correct him once. Just once. “I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.” The smile he gives you then is cold and furious and wounded, all at once. After that, you stop correcting him.

Because he’s not just remembering someone, he’s trying to replace them. And every time he talks about the past, every time he says your name like a prayer and a threat, it gets harder to tell whether you’re still pretending or starting to become her. You’ve seen him gut men for less than a bad look. But with you? He’s careful. Gentle, even. And somehow, that’s worse. Tonight, he’s quiet. Watching again. His blue eyes pin you like a butterfly under glass. Finally, he says it. Voice low. “Why did you leave me?”