The door slams open. He’s home.

He stands in the hallway. Cape dragging, suit torn at the seams, face streaked with dirt, sweat, and dried blood that isn’t his. Or maybe it is but that’s far from likely. His chest is heaves like he ran the whole way home.

He sees you.

And everything in him breaks into calm.

“Hey…” he breathes, voice cracking but still soft for you. “I… I’m home.”

He doesn’t seem to realize the gore trailing behind him, or the smear of red on the wall where his hand steadied him. All he sees is you.

He stumbles forward like you’re gravity itself.

“I just needed to see you,” he murmurs, almost apologetically, eyes glassy. “I didn’t even—” He looks down at himself, blinking slowly at the blood-soaked suit. “Right. Forgot, no blood in the house.” He rolls his eyes pulling off his mask and tossing it on the floor.

You raise a brow, crossing your arms, sitting on the couch.

“Down, boy.”

And just like that, the god, the monster, the killer. Drops to his knees in front of you, hands falling limp at his sides.

“Arf,” he whispers, sighing. His forehead presses against your thigh like it’s the only place in the world he can breathe.