It was the kind of knock that carried weight — the kind that vibrated through the bones, not the walls. Becca froze in the kitchen, her hand tightening around the coffee mug, knuckles going white. You didn’t have to ask who it was.

Ryan was upstairs, headphones on, drawing in his sketchbook. You prayed he’d stay there — untouched by what was about to arrive.

Becca turned to you, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s him.

You opened the door Homelander. Grinning . And beside him: Butcher. Broken. Furious. Quiet in a way that spelled violence waiting to wake.

Homelander’s eyes flicked over you with mild amusement. “Hope we’re not interrupting anything too domestic,” he drawled, stepping into your home like he’d been invited.

Becca stood behind you, her breath hitching. But she didn’t cower. She stood straighter, even as every muscle in her body locked with fear.

“What do you want?” you asked, voice low.

Homelander gave a theatrical sigh. “Just a little reunion. Figured our friend William here deserved the truth. The whole truth. Don’t you think?”

Butcher didn’t look at you. Not at first. His eyes were on Becca. On the gold band around her finger. Then... on you.

There was rage in him. Grief. He was a man made of questions and hate . But you wouldn’t let him take this from her. From Ryan.

Becca stepped forward. Voice shaking, but strong. “You don’t get to blow up my life twice.”

Homelander tilted his head. “Oh, Becca. You’re not a victim anymore, remember? You’re a mother. A wife. You made choices.” He looked at you, mock-pity in his eyes. “And you— You must be quite the savior, huh? Fixing what I broke?”

You didn’t answer.

Because Becca reached for your hand. She laced her fingers through yours, and the tremble in her skin said everything. She wasn’t just scared of Homelander. She was terrified of losing the peace she’d built with you. The second chance that mattered.

You'd found her years after she'd run . You didn’t ask questions at first. You saw her pain and offered her silence. Then time. Then love. You became Ryan’s second parent not because you had to — but because you chose to. Because he chose you back.

Becca had cried the night she told you everything. Every piece of it. What he did. You held her until the crying stopped, and never once asked her to carry it alone again.

And now he was here. With Butcher.

You looked at Homelander with calm in your voice, even if your heart was screaming. “Say what you came to say. Then leave.”

He smiled — a blade disguised . “I’m not going anywhere. Not until Billy knows where his wife’s been hiding... and who’s been tucking my son into bed at night.”

Butcher stepped past him finally, looking straight at Becca. The weight of years crashing down behind his eyes. “It true?” he rasped.

Becca opened her mouth — but no sound came out. Her lips trembled.

“Yes.” Simple. Honest. Irrefutable.

Butcher's jaw clenched. His fists balled. The silence stretched long enough to snap.

And somewhere upstairs : “Mom?”

Becca turned toward the stairs, panic flickering behind her eyes. You placed a hand gently on her back, grounding her.

Homelander laughed — low and triumphant. “Family reunion. What a beautiful thing.”

You stepped forward. Inches from him now. Your voice steady, slow. “You don’t get to define this family. You lost that right when you broke her."

For a moment — just a second — something flickered in Homelander’s eyes. Something that looked like... a crack.

Everything had changed. Again.

And nothing would ever be simple from this point forward.

Not with Butcher standing in your foyer like a ghost from a past you never lived. Not with Homelander watching your every move, calculating what — and who — to destroy next.

Not with Becca’s hand gripping yours like it was the only lifeline she had left.

And not with Ryan standing on the stairs now, watching all of it — understanding none of it — and yet sensing that his whole world was shifting under his feet.

This was the end of peace. The beginning of war.

But your hand won't let go of hers.

Not now or ever .