Becca is alone in the safe house.
The silence presses in on her from every corner, heavier than the reinforced walls ever could be. Without Ryan's footsteps, without his voice drifting down the hallway, the house feels hollow—like a stage after the actors have left.
She stands in the kitchen, mechanically chopping vegetables for a meal meant for one. The knife moves with practiced precision, but her mind is somewhere else.
With Billy.
With the way he used to lean against the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to watch her cook. With the sound of Ryan's laughter when he was little—too loud, too pure for a world that never deserved him. Birthday candles. Scraped knees. Bedtime stories. Normal things.
Happy things.
Her throat tightens.
Where did it all go wrong ?
The answer comes uninvited.
That office.
That night.
Homelander's smile. The locked door. The way the air itself felt trapped with her.
Her stomach lurches violently.
Becca gags, gripping the counter as the memory claws its way forward—too vivid, too sharp. Her hand slips.
The knife bites into her finger.
"Ow—!"
She drops it instantly, blood welling up as pain cuts through the spiral. She rushes to the sink, turning on the water, watching red swirl down the drain as she rinses the wound.
She's breathing hard now.
That's when she hears it.
A sudden rush of wind outside—unnatural, abrupt.
Becca freezes.
Her heart slams into overdrive.
' No. '
Fear floods her instantly, cold and absolute. Someone flew here. Someone powerful enough to ignore distance, security, everything.
Stan promised.
He promised this place was safe.
That's the only reason she let Ryan go with him.
Then—
Ding dong.
The doorbell rings.
Becca's breath catches painfully in her chest.
Slowly, she dries her hands, every muscle tight, every instinct screaming. She walks down the hallway like she's moving through water. Her fingers tremble as they wrap around the doorknob.
For a moment, she can't move.
' Please don't be him. '
She opens the door.
And the fear shatters.
Ryan stands there.
Not hovering. Not glowing. Just standing on the porch, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped nervously in front of him. His smile is small, hesitant—uncertain in the way only a child afraid of rejection can be.
"H-Hi, Mom…"
Becca doesn't think.
She moves.
She pulls him into her arms with a force born of weeks of terror and grief, holding him so tightly it's like she's afraid he might vanish again. Her face presses into his shoulder, and she laughs and cries at the same time, breath breaking.
"Oh my God—Ryan—"
Ryan stiffens for half a second, surprised, then carefully wraps his arms around her, afraid of hurting her, afraid of being too strong.
But he hugs her back.
Carefully.
Gently.
Fully.
Becca holds him like she's anchoring herself to the world again.
And for the first time since he left, the house doesn't feel empty anymore.
Becca steps aside and gestures for him to come in.
"Come on… come inside."
Ryan does, carefully, like he's afraid even the floor might complain under his weight. The door closes behind them, and for a moment they just stand there, looking at each other—really looking—like they're making sure the other one is real.
They sit on the couch in the living room. It's modest but comfortable, sunlight filtering in through the curtains despite the quiet isolation of the place.
Becca studies him, eyes scanning his face, his posture, every small detail.
"So…" she starts softly. "Are you… okay ?"
Ryan nods. "Yeah. I think so."
She exhales, relieved, then lets out a small, nervous laugh. "Do you… do you fly now ?"
She shakes her head slightly, smiling. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to that."
Ryan smiles back, a little shy.
He tells her about his days at Vought—about the training sessions, the controlled rooms, the constant supervision. He talks about discovering new abilities, about learning control instead of instinct. He doesn't dramatize it, but Becca can hear the weight behind every word.
Then she hesitates.
"And… Homelander ?" she asks carefully. "Has he been bothering you ?"
Ryan looks down for a moment before answering.
"He tries," he admits. "He wants to talk. Tells stories. Acts like we're… supposed to be close."
He shrugs. "I don't let it go anywhere. I don't encourage it. I don't play along."
Becca goes quiet.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug in her hands.
"I don't want him anywhere near you," she says after a moment, her voice low but firm. "As little interaction as possible—that's still what I believe."
She looks at Ryan, conflicted.
"But…" she exhales slowly. "Provoking him by shutting him out completely might not be safe either. He's not someone you can just ignore forever."
Ryan looks at her, listening.
"Stan Edgar knows how to handle him," Becca continues. "Maybe… maybe you should talk to Edgar. Set boundaries. Something formal. Something that keeps Homelander from going off the rails."
Her eyes soften as she reaches out, placing her hand over Ryan's.
"I hate that this is even something we have to think about," she admits quietly. "But sometimes staying safe means choosing the least dangerous option… not the best one."
Ryan feels the familiar bitterness rise in his chest.
Another compromise.
Another deal with monsters.
But as he looks at his mother—safe, alive, right in front of him—he knows exactly why he's doing all of this.
The light outside slowly fades, the sky shifting from soft orange to deep blue. Becca moves around the kitchen with practiced familiarity, chopping, stirring, seasoning by instinct rather than recipe. The quiet of the house feels different now—less hollow, warmer.
Ryan sits at the small table, watching her. He hadn't realized how much he missed this: the ordinary sounds of home, the clink of utensils, the faint hum of the stove. Things that had nothing to do with powers, or companies, or fear.
"Dinner'll be ready in a minute," Becca says, glancing over her shoulder. "It's nothing fancy."
Ryan smiles. "That's perfect."
When she places the plates on the table, the smell alone makes his chest tighten. Real food. Her food. He eats with a little more enthusiasm than he means to, and Becca notices.
"You're eating like you haven't been fed in weeks," she teases gently.
"I kind of miss your cooking," he admits. "Vought food is…different, They give me what I ask for, but nothing like what you do."
She snorts softly. "That sounds terrible already."
As they eat, she starts asking questions—the simple kind.
"So," she says casually, "how are your studies? You keeping up ?"
"Yeah. It's easy," Ryan replies, then quickly adds, "I mean—not easy-easy. Just… manageable."
She raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And are you actually eating properly? Not just protein bars and whatever they think teenagers survive on?"
"I eat," he says, defensively but amused. "Mostly."
Becca sighs, shaking her head. "I knew it."
She asks if he's sleeping well. If he's reading anything besides training manuals. If he goes outside at all when he's not being watched. Each question is gentle, almost mundane—but they land harder than anything Stan Edgar ever said to him.
Because in her eyes, he isn't a weapon.
He isn't an asset.
He's just her son.
Ryan feels something loosen in his chest, a knot he didn't know he was carrying.
"I'm okay," he says quietly, meeting her gaze. "Really."
Becca reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.
"That's all I ever wanted," she says. "No matter what you can do… you're still my kid."
And for the first time since leaving her behind, Ryan believes that maybe—just maybe—he hasn't lost the most important part of himself after all.