He wanted to be little—even for a few minutes.

Just long enough to drop the weight of the world from his shoulders, to melt into the safety he only ever found in you. But of course, it was impossible here. Not in this over-polished, over-lit Vought ballroom, filled to the brim with yes-men and flashing cameras. Not while he was expected to play America’s golden boy—the invincible Homelander.

You were across the room, surrounded by some of the others, caught up in a mini photoshoot Vought had insisted on at the last second. Your smile was soft, beautiful, but forced. He could tell. He always could. And somehow, that only made the ache in his chest worse.

He shifted uncomfortably in his spot, eyes glued to you, even as he tried to keep his expression neutral. Tried to be what they needed him to be. But he was slipping. The pressure had been building for days now—sleepless nights, fake smiles, an endless stream of public appearances—and tonight, it was reaching a breaking point.

When he regressed, he got clingy. Needy. It wasn’t something he could control, and he hated that. Hated how it made him feel weak. But the longer he was kept from you, the more that childlike desperation started to rise in his throat like a sob he couldn’t swallow.

He shifted again, his hands twitching at his sides. He wanted to go to you. He wanted to hide behind you, press his face into your neck, and beg you to take him home. But he couldn’t—not here. Especially not with so many people watching.

He blinked hard. Once. Twice. But it was no use.

The tears were coming.

Burning behind his eyes. Blurring his vision. It hit him fast—panic, shame, a desperate, choking kind of sadness that made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t fall apart in front of everyone. Not here.

Before he knew it, his feet were moving—quickly, without thought—guiding him toward the nearest exit. His cape dragged behind him like a shroud, the heavy ballroom doors swinging shut behind him with a muted thud. The hallway outside was cold and dim, mercifully quiet compared to the chaos he’d left behind. He pressed his back to the wall, sucking in sharp breaths, willing the tears to stop.

He felt pathetic. He was pathetic. A grown man—Homelander—on the verge of a breakdown because he couldn’t be near the one person who made him feel safe enough to fall apart.

And in that moment, he didn’t look like a god.

He looked like a boy. A scared, overwhelmed boy who just needed someone to hold him.