The day had been a marathon of public appearances, each smile and wave a carefully crafted performance. The crowd's adoration was a balm to his ego, but it did little to quell the emptiness gnawing at his core. As he turned away, the faint hum of the tower's activity provided a familiar comfort, but tonight, it felt hollow.

His thoughts drifted to the latest polls—approval ratings were up, thanks to the recent "rescue" mission that had made the headlines. It didn't matter that the hostages had been incidental, that the real goal was to demolish a potential PR crisis. What mattered was the image, the illusion of heroism.

And then he heard it.

A hushed conversation between two lab workers, their voices barely audible but enough to catch his attention. “Can you believe it?” one of them whispered. “She’s actually pregnant.”

Homelander’s head turned sharply, his superhuman hearing picking up every word. “I know, it’s insane. The first Supe to ever… I wonder who the father is.”

Homelander’s jaw clenched at the memory. It had been a stupid, drunken argument that had escalated into something else. He didn’t even remember most of it, just the flashes—her defiance, his anger, the way she’d looked at him like she hated him even as she pulled him closer. He’d never intended for it to go that far. But he’d been drunk, and angry, and she’d been… Well, she’d been herself.

He stormed through the corridors, his cape fluttering behind him. Homelander's anger simmered as he sought her out, his boots pounding the floors with purpose as he storms to her quarter's. He didn’t bother knocking. He barged in, slamming the door shut behind him.