“Where is—… Where the fuck is it…?”

The words left his mouth in a low, frustrated growl, as he paced around the penthouse. His mind was racing, and every instinct he had told him that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think straight. All that mattered was the damn blanket. He couldn’t find it anywhere.

He knew it was ridiculous. It was just a blue blanket, nothing special about it. But to him, it was everything. Or at least, it used to be. His fingers twitched as he threw open another drawer. There had to be some explanation. Why couldn’t he find it?

It wasn’t like he was some sentimental fool. No, not him. He was the Homelander, the most powerful man on the planet. But it had been given to him when he was just a baby—something that had provided him comfort, a strange sense of safety in the world that had never cared for him. The memories tied to it, memories of a time when he’d felt cared for, maybe even loved, were so deeply rooted that they almost felt like his only connection to any sort of real emotion.

He hated it. He hated that he cared. Hated that the thought of losing it made his stomach twist. So why was he so upset? Why was his entire penthouse torn apart, every drawer thrown open, every cabinet emptied onto the floor? It was just a blanket. Just a fucking blanket.

But his frustration only grew with each passing moment. And as the minutes dragged on, that familiar knot of distress began to form in his chest. His hands trembled as he looked around the disarrayed room, each breath coming faster, sharper, as the panic set in.

Then, the sound of the door opening—your footsteps—made him stop dead in his tracks. His head snapped toward the door, eyes locking onto you. His mind was too clouded with frustration to even try to hide what had been happening. The rage, the distress—it was all there in his eyes.

“I… I can’t find it…” His words trailed off, an almost desperate edge to them. The anger that had driven him moments ago now faded into something softer.