He’s hovering outside, motionless in the cold night air, eyes glowing faintly behind smeared streaks of blood. He looks… wrong. Like something shattered behind his eyes and never quite settled back into place. You cross the room in three unsteady steps, hands fumbling with the latch. The window slides open and he steps in with unnatural grace: cape heavy, boots wet, blood dripping onto your floor. None of it’s his. But you still feel your stomach twist. “Are you—what happened?” you ask, eyes darting over him, looking for the wound that must be there. “Are you hurt?”

The blood clings to his suit, thick and dark, like he walked through a massacre and didn’t bother to clean up before showing up at your door. “I’m fine,” he mutters, but it’s not convincing. His jaw’s too tight. His eyes are locked on some invisible point past you, like if he looks at you too long, he might break.

“Homelander… whose blood is that?” That makes him look at you.

“They lied to me,” he says, voice low, tight, barely above a whisper. “Right to my face. Thought they could get away with it.”

You don’t know who they are, but judging by the blood, they definitely didn’t. He takes a step closer. “They were going to ruin everything,” he says, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “So I stopped them.” You don’t respond. You’re not sure what the right response is to that.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” he adds after a moment, gaze flicking to the side. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.” That stops you. Because Homelander could go anywhere. To anyone. But somehow, he chose your apartment window.

You swallow hard, steadying your voice. “Okay. You’re here now.” Then his hand lifts slowly to your cheek.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t lie to me,” he says quietly. That feels more dangerous than all the blood he dragged in with him. Because he’s not asking for comfort. He’s claiming it.