that’s really Super

Supercorp

Who's that girl? It's Jess! #

Found in Translation #

North !

It Started With a Kiss !#

Lena's Birthday !#

All Caught Up #

The Secret of Us !

The Secret of Us - part 2 !

The Secret of Us - ending!

Kara x Lena x Reader (love triangle)

The other Kryptonian !

The other Kryptonian- part 2 !

The other Kryptonian- part 3!

The other Kryptonian - final part (ending with Lena)

The other Kryptonian- alternative ending (ending with Kara)

The other Kryptonian - alternative ending (ending with both!)

The Snap !

The Snap - part 2 !

The Snap - part 3 !

The Snap - Final !

Ace Reporter #

Ace Reporter - part 2 #

Ace Reporter - part 3 #

Ace Reporter - part 4 #

Ace Reporter - final #

I Forget You Aren't Mine !

I Forget You Aren't Mine 2 !

They don’t comfort her.

A part of her, the version of herself from an hour ago, would have clung to that, would have replayed it over and over again, smiling, hopeful, certain that love meant something solid. Something safe. Now it just feels unfinished.

But I don’t know about her.

Kara squeezes her eyes shut, like she can push the words away, like she can rewind the last day and do it differently this time, like there’s a version of this that doesn’t end with Lena walking out.

There isn’t.

There’s no telling her sooner, or telling her everything, that would change this. No waiting. No saying it right off the bat. No lying. No telling her the truth. There’s nothing she could have done today that would have made this go a different direction.

Her chest tightens painfully, a sharp, unfamiliar pressure that has nothing to do with any fight she’s ever been in, nothing to do with physical pain at all, and everything to do with the way Lena looked at her like she didn’t even know her in the first place.

Like Kara had been standing in front of her this whole time, and Lena is only now realizing she never actually knew who she was.

Kara drags a hand down her face, her fingers catching briefly against the edge of her glasses before she pulls them off entirely, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes like she can hold this in. As if it’s not already spilling over.

Her shoulders drop as she exhales, the tension draining out of her all at once, leaving her heavier somehow, like gravity has doubled just to make sure she stays exactly where she is.

One day. Just one damn day, and she managed to blow this up to unrecognition.

Yesterday, Lena was her best friend. Today Kara kissed her, realized she was in love with her all along, told her the secret, and then lost her.

And she feels it, big and everywhere. In the way her apartment feels hollowed out. In the way it feels like the absence of life and love and certainty.

But it’s worse.

It’s the absence of Lena.

No sense of her, steady and constant, somewhere in the city like something Kara could always reach if she needed to.

Kara’s breath catches.

Because she doesn’t reach. She could. She knows she could.

But this isn’t something she can punch her way through. It isn’t something she can outrun or outfly or solve in the span of a heartbeat. This is something she has to wait for. Something Lena has to decide.

Kara has never felt more powerless in her life.

She leans forward slowly, pressing her forehead into her hands, shoulders curling in just slightly like she’s trying to hold herself together, like if she stays still enough maybe the world won’t shift any further out of place.

It doesn’t work. It never really does.

Because the truth is still there, sitting heavy and undeniable in the center of everything.

Lena loves her, but not all of her.

She tries to breathe, tries to let the moment pass, to let the feeling dull into something manageable, something she can carry without it cracking her open from the inside, but it doesn’t. It builds instead, loud and overwhelming now, a pressure behind her ribs, steady and insistent, like her body is trying to move without her permission.

Go.

The thought comes without warning, barely even a word before her muscles tense in response. Kara stills immediately, her jaw tightening as she shakes her head once, sharp and instinctive.

“No,” she mutters, quieter than she expects. “She asked for space.”

But it’s easier said than done.

Because her ears are tuned to Lena’s heart. They have been for a while now, even if she never noticed it before. Her hands are wired to Lena’s skin. Her eyes have always worked better when they were looking at her.

And now she has to do this. This space thing she has never really been good at.

Because space feels like distance, and distance feels like loss, and loss is something Kara has never accepted easily. Not when she can do something about it. Not when she can just go.

She hears it without meaning to.

A soft, muffled sound. A break in breath. The kind that doesn’t need words to be understood.

Lena is crying.

Kara’s whole body reacts before she can stop it, something in her pulling tight, ready to move, to close the distance, to fix what she broke before it settles into something permanent.

She should try to make this right.

Go.

“No,” Kara says, sharper now, the word catching on something fragile in her throat. “No. I’m not going.”

But the words don’t hold.

Because not going feels wrong in a way she can’t explain, not logically, not even emotionally, just wrong, like ignoring something important, something urgent, something she is built to answer.

“I can’t. I can’t go to her.”

The realization comes right after, quiet but absolute.

If she can’t go to Lena… then she can’t stay either.

Because staying means listening. Staying means feeling the distance every second, every breath, every heartbeat she refuses to stop following. Staying means breaking in a way she won’t be able to come back from.

And staying means not respecting what Lena asked for.

She already crossed that line once today.

She won’t do it again.

The Fortress doesn’t greet her. It never does, but today the silence feels wrong in a way Kara can’t quite name. She lands too fast, boots scraping against the frozen ground, and the sound echoes sharp and distant, swallowed by the kind of quiet that doesn’t soften anything.

She doesn’t stop moving once she’s inside.

If she does, she knows exactly what’s going to happen.

Her steps carry her forward, then sideways, then back again, an uneven path that turns into pacing before she even realizes it, like her body is trying to burn something off that won’t settle. Her hand drags through her hair as she turns again, sharper this time, breath uneven.

“I should call Lena,” she mutters, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

A soft chime answers her from somewhere behind, quiet, unnoticeable.

She huffs out a breath, already shaking her head. “No. No, I should— I should practice first. That’s… smarter.”

Her gaze drifts, landing on a familiar crystal console, and after a second she steps toward it, fingers brushing along its surface until a small image flickers to life. It’s simple, a captured moment she wanted to have forever. Lena mid-expression, eyes sharp, lips just barely curving like she’s about to say something Kara will pretend to be offended by.

Kara stares at it for half a second too long, then exhales.

“Okay,” she starts, already shaking her head like she’s arguing with something that hasn’t even spoken yet. “Okay, look, I—I know what you’re going to say.”

Her hands lift, gesturing vaguely toward the image before dropping again, restless.

“Real mature of me, running away again. Yeah, yeah, I know. Not very Supergirl-ish of me. I got that part, thanks.”

She turns at the end of her path and comes back the other way, not quite looking at the hologram, not quite not.

“But you didn’t exactly leave me a lot of options, did you? With the whole ‘I need to think this through and I need to be alone’ thing? What was I supposed to do with that?”

She lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, except it falls flat halfway through.

“Just stay there? Just stand there and—what—pretend I couldn’t hear you walking away? Pretend I wasn’t feeling it? Because that’s kind of a big ask, Lena,” she says, pacing faster without noticing. “I’m not exactly built for sitting still while someone I care about walks out the door. That’s not— that’s not how this works for me.”

She turns again, sharper this time, her eyes landing on nothing and everything all at once.

“You expected me not to lose my mind over this? Over you being in love with me while I’m also in love with you? Over not being able to kiss you breathless again?”

The question hangs there, and for a second it almost sounds real, like she might actually get an answer.

There’s only silence.

Kara exhales, slower now, the edge in her voice catching on something as she keeps moving.

“Yeah,” she mutters, quieter, glancing away for a second before dragging her gaze back. “I’m hearing it. And yeah,” she adds, the words heavier now, “I know that’s exactly how you felt.”

The admission lands harder than everything else.

“When I kissed you and then just left you there to figure it out on your own. I didn’t give you a choice either, and of course I know that was wrong. I know it, you know it. And you know I’m sorry about it too. I’ve said it a million times.”

She swallows, the words catching now instead of rushing.

“But it’s not enough, is it? It’s never going to be enough.”

She slows, just slightly, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t. There’s too much inside, pushing to get out instead of taking up all the space in her chest.

“I keep telling myself there wasn’t a better way to do this. That no matter what I said, no matter when I said it, it would’ve ended like this anyway.”

Her gaze flickers toward the hologram for half a second, then away again.

“But that’s not really true, is it?”

The question is quieter, almost careful, like she’s testing it.

“I just didn’t give you the chance to decide before everything got complicated, and if I had… if I—”

Kara finally slows to a stop, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly, like she ran farther than she meant to.

“Rao, Lena, I can’t go back. I can’t make it what it was supposed to be. The only thing I can do is…”

Her eyes fix on Lena’s mouth, steady now, even as they start to burn.

“Make it right from now to forever. Make it up to you for the rest of our lives.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, quiet and unguarded.

“Please. Please, Lena, just give me the rest of our lives to make this right.”

Silence stretches, heavy and complete.

And then—

“…Kara?”

The voice is small. Careful. Real.

Kara doesn’t move.

For a second, she genuinely thinks she imagined it.

Then her head snaps up, eyes darting around the Fortress like the sound might have come from the walls themselves.

“…Lena?” she breathes, the name fragile, disbelieving.

A faint crackle answers her this time, and then Lena again, so soft it sounds like a dream.

“You didn’t mean to call me, did you?”

Kara’s stomach drops.

The chime. The console. The stupid voice-activation feature Kal insisted on installing last week.

“I—” Her voice fails her, and she swallows hard, trying again. “I didn’t know— I wasn’t—”

“I know,” Lena says quickly, and there’s something gentler than Kara expected in it. “I figured that out.”

Kara presses a hand to her chest, like she needs to keep her heart from climbing out of her throat.

“You talk a lot when you think no one’s listening,” Lena adds, and there’s the faintest trace of something there, not quite humor, not quite sadness, but something that feels like both.

Kara lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Lena, I—”

“I heard you,” Lena cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop her from spiraling into apologies. “All of it.”

That stops her.

Completely.

Kara swallows, her throat suddenly too tight, every word she could say feeling smaller than the ones Lena already heard.

There’s a pause on the other end, and when Lena speaks again, her voice is more careful.

“Forever is a very big promise, Kara.”

Kara closes her eyes for a second, her grip tightening slightly on the edge of the console.

“I know,” she whispers. “But I promised myself forever with you a long time ago. Least I could do is make that promise to you now.”

“You always do that,” she says, and there’s something fragile in it now, awfully honest. “You say something that sounds impossible… and then somehow make me want to believe you anyway.”

Kara’s breath stutters while Lena exhales softly, the sound faint but there.

“Okay,” Lena continues after a moment, quieter now, but steadier in a way that matters. “I’ll give you the rest of our lives to try.”

Kara’s breath stops, like her body forgot how to do it.

“You… will?”

There’s the faintest shift on the other end, almost like a smile threaded through Lena’s voice.

“If you get here in the next thirty seconds—”

Kara is already moving before Lena finishes the sentence.

The Fortress blurs around her, crystal and ice dissolving into streaks of light as she launches forward, the ground cracking softly beneath the force of it. There’s no hesitation, no second thought, no careful planning this time. Just instinct pulling her in one direction and one direction only.

She’s never flown this fast.

There has never been an emergency that felt bigger than this, sharper than this, more urgent than the sound of Lena’s voice not hanging up.

The sky tears open around her as she breaks through it, wind screaming past, the cold biting at her skin, but she barely registers any of it. All she can hear is the echo of Lena’s words, looping, grounding, impossible and real all at once.

The rest of our lives.

Kara leans forward, pushing harder, faster, like she can close the distance between them and everything that went wrong in the same breath.

Thirty seconds.

It’s never felt so long.

It’s never felt so short.

“Twenty seconds,” Lena is there when Kara lands on her balcony, looking at her watch.

Kara can barely breathe, unsure of what it means, of what to do next.

“That means you have ten seconds left to kiss me breathless again.”

And Kara? Kara doesn’t even need a second.

The distance between them disappears in a heartbeat, Kara crossing it in one step that turns into two that turns into nothing at all as her hands find Lena’s waist and her mouth finds hers like she’s been holding this in for too long and it finally snapped. 

It's not gentle, anything but. It's desperate as if it's the only thing keeping her alive right now. It's messy and breathless and deeper than all the words they’ve been trying and failing to say.

And when Lena cups her face and kisses her back like she’s never going to stop, Kara’s hands, treacherous things she can’t control, are already lifting her, pulling their hips flush without thought, without pause, like closer is the only thing that matters.

They kiss until Kara forgets everything that isn't this. That isn't now. Until the only thing in the world is Lena Luthor and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, loud and constant, something Kara can’t help but listen to even as she feels it under her palm.

And Lena is her best friend. More than that, really. She is family, she is constant, she is safety. She is the person Kara can always count to make her feel human, and good enough as just that.

To everyone else, Kara Danvers is a cover. A version of herself carefully pieced together, soft and harmless and easy to understand. Someone the world can accept without asking questions about what else she really is: alien, kryptonian, super. To Lena she truly is just the doofus journalist who loves her friends more than anything, and yet that's enough. That's all Lena needed to fall in love with her.

And that’s the cruelest part of it, isn’t it?

That Lena didn’t fall for the girl who can stop bullets or lift buildings or burn through steel with her eyes. She didn’t fall for the symbol, or the cape, or the impossible weight of being Supergirl.

She fell for Kara. Just Kara.

And Kara—Rao, Kara let her. Let Lena see that version of her. Let her believe that Kara Danvers is all she is, when she is so much more.

Why did she do that? Why did she lie for so long? Why does she keep lying to Lena, and to herself? And most importantly, how does she make this right?

Because this thing clawing its way up Kara’s chest, settling beneath her ribs and making it hard to breathe, isn’t just guilt, and that realization lands heavier than anything else so far, pressing into her until she can’t quite ignore it anymore. The worst part is that she doesn’t even know how to fix it, doesn’t know where to begin untangling something that feels like it has been building quietly for years.

She exhales shakily and drags a hand through her hair as she turns in another restless circle, as if movement alone might keep the thoughts from catching up to her, but it doesn’t work, it never does, and her gaze inevitably lands on her phone where it sits abandoned on the couch.

It lands on Lena.

Because whatever that kiss meant, it doesn’t belong only to Kara and the echo of it still lingering on her lips. Lena is out there somewhere, carrying the other half of it, turning it over in her mind or maybe trying not to think about it at all, and somehow that second possibility feels worse.

Her thumb hovers over the screen as she tries to find the right words, something that won’t make things worse, something that might somehow explain everything without actually explaining anything at all, but every attempt feels wrong the second it forms in her mind.

She tells herself it shouldn’t be this hard. She has faced things far worse than this, has made impossible decisions in the span of seconds, has stood her ground against threats that could tear the world apart, and yet standing here with a blank screen in front of her feels infinitely more daunting. Because this matters in a way those things never quite did, and Lena deserves more than the half-answer Kara has been giving her for far too long.

Kara: Lena, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Not without talking to you first… Kara: So… Can we talk?

The silence that follows feels immediate and overwhelming, stretching too wide, too quiet, and Kara finds herself staring at the screen as if willing it to light up, as if Lena’s answer might come quickly enough to spare her from sitting with everything she has just set in motion.

She tells herself it hasn’t been that long. A few minutes, maybe ten. Lena has a life that doesn’t revolve around checking her phone the second Kara decides to spiral into a crisis she created herself. The thought is reasonable, logical, the kind of thing Kara would tell anyone else without hesitation.

It doesn’t help.

The message remains unread.

And that is an answer of its own, no matter how much Kara tries to argue with it, no matter how many excuses she reaches for.

Because she knows Lena. She knows that she always answers.

Not always with words, but she shows up. She leans in. She meets Kara halfway, every time, like it’s instinct, like it’s something she decided a long time ago and never questioned since.

Until now.

And that’s when it hits. Not all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… certain. Inevitable.

Because this isn’t about a message. It isn’t about the kiss, not really, not in the way she’s been trying to understand it.

It’s about the way her chest feels too tight when Lena pulls away. The way silence from her feels like something is wrong, fundamentally, like the world has stopped and Kara is the only one who noticed.

It’s about how Lena is not optional. How she never has been. How just the thought of hurting her, takes the air out of her lungs. How the thought of losing her feels like something she wouldn’t survive.

This is…

Kara squeezes her eyes shut, the word forming anyway, stubborn and unrelenting.

Love.

Not the easy kind. But the kind that sinks its teeth in. The kind that rewrites the shape of things. The kind that makes the thought of losing someone feel like the ground giving way beneath your feet.

Her throat tightens, her voice barely there when she finally exhales it, like saying it out loud might make it too real to survive.

“I’m in love with her.”

The words don’t echo. They don’t need to. They settle. Heavy. Impossible to take back. And suddenly everything makes sense in the worst possible way.

The jealousy. The kiss. The panic. The way Lena’s silence feels like it’s carving something out of her, piece by piece.

Kara lets out a shaky breath, her hand still pressed to her chest as if it might quiet the way her heart is racing now, too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to break out of her.

“Of course,” she whispers, a broken sort of laugh slipping through the tears, soft and disbelieving all at once. “Of course it’s Lena.”

Like it could ever have been anyone else.

Kara stays there for a moment longer after the words leave her mouth, like saying them has drained something out of her, like she’s been hollowed out and left with nothing but the truth sitting heavy in her chest.

Love.

It doesn’t feel dramatic anymore. It doesn’t feel like a revelation. It feels obvious. Like something that’s been there all along, quietly shaping everything, waiting for her to finally catch up.

And now that she has named it, waiting feels unbearable.

Kara’s gaze snaps back to her phone, the screen still dark, still unchanged, still offering her nothing in return, and something sharp twists in her chest at the sight of it.

She told herself she could wait. That she should. That Lena deserved space, deserved time, deserved the chance to decide whether she even wanted to have this conversation at all.

But the thought of sitting here, of letting this stretch on any longer, of giving Lena the distance that might turn into something permanent… Kara can’t do it. Not now. Not when everything in her is finally aligned in the most terrifying, undeniable way possible.

Because if Lena is pulling away, Kara needs to close the distance.

Her phone is still clutched in her hand as she moves, grabbing her keys almost on instinct, her heartbeat picking up again, not with panic this time but something sharper, more certain.

Purpose.

She’s halfway to the door before she can second-guess herself, already reaching for the handle, already bracing for whatever comes next, because at least this way she won’t be waiting, won’t be stuck in this awful, quiet limbo where everything feels like it’s slipping just out of reach.

She pulls the door open.

And freezes.

Lena is standing there, hand lifted, knuckles hovering just inches from the wood, like she had been about to knock. Like she had been standing there long enough to hesitate.

For a second, neither of them moves. Kara forgets how to breathe. Because Lena is there. Not a thought, not a possibility, not a message waiting to be answered.

Close enough that Kara can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her composure is holding but only just, like something underneath it is threatening to crack. Close enough that Kara can see the hurt. It hits her harder than anything else.

Kara’s voice doesn’t quite cooperate when she tries to speak, coming out softer than she intended, almost disbelieving.

“Lena…”

“How dare you?”

Lena steps forward, her voice sharp enough to cut through whatever air is left between them, and Kara instinctively takes a step back, startled by the force of it, by the way it lands.

“What was that?”

“I—” Kara tries, but the words that had been so loud in her head a second ago vanish all at once, leaving her with nothing but the weight of Lena standing in front of her. “I’m sorry.”

It slips out the second Kara sees the tears in Lena’s eyes, raw and immediate, and somehow that makes everything worse.

“You’re sorry?” Lena lets out something that isn’t quite a laugh, already turning away, her hands dragging through her hair as she starts pacing, restless and furious in a way that makes Kara’s chest tighten. “Really? That’s what you have?”

“I know, I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say sorry again!”

Kara flinches, the words dying in her throat as Lena turns back to her, eyes burning now, bright and wet and impossibly sharp.

“Look, I just—I couldn’t stay,” Kara tries again, the words coming out uneven, tripping over each other. “Lena, I’ve been keeping a secret from you, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to kiss you like that without you knowing—”

“Well, Kara,” Lena cuts in, her voice suddenly too steady, too controlled in a way that feels more dangerous than the shouting, “I have a secret too.”

Kara stills. Lena’s gaze locks onto hers, unflinching, like she’s already decided there’s no taking this back.

“I’m in love with you,” she says, the words landing clean and sharp between them. “And that kiss sure didn’t help.”

Something in Kara’s chest tightens, but the answer comes out before she can stop it.

“I know.”

The silence that follows is immediate, disbelief crossing Lena's face.

“I know,” Kara repeats, softer now, but no less certain. “I heard you telling Sam on girl's night.”

Lena blinks at her, confusion flashing first, quick and disoriented, before it sharpens into something else entirely.

“You couldn't. Not over all that noise. Not from here.” she says slowly.

Kara hesitates. There it is. The edge she’s been circling. And now there's no more running from it.

“I can,” she admits quietly. “I have super hearing.”

For a second, Lena doesn’t react. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“Lena, I’m Supergirl.”

Then something in her expression shifts. Not confusion. Not even just anger. Something deeper. Something that settles in like the ground just gave out beneath her and she’s realizing, all at once, how far the fall is going to be.

“You… what?” Lena’s voice is quieter now, but it’s worse, stripped of everything except disbelief and hurt.

Kara swallows, her pulse loud in her ears, every instinct in her screaming that there is no easy way out of this.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you sooner,” she rushes out, the words tumbling over each other like they always do when it matters the most. “I just—I didn’t know how, and then everything kept getting more complicated, and then you told Sam you were in love with me and I couldn’t just pretend I didn’t hear it because it mattered, Lena, it mattered so much and I—”

“You heard me.”

Kara falters.

Lena doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.

“You heard me,” she repeats, slower now, each word landing with sharp precision. “You listened to a private conversation I had, and then you stood there and said nothing.”

Kara shakes her head quickly, stepping forward. “It wasn’t like that, I didn’t mean to, I just—I hear things sometimes, I can’t always—”

“But you kept it,” Lena cuts in, her composure cracking at the edges now. “You kept it and you used it, Kara.” Her voice falters for a second, then steadies again, tighter. “You've been lying to me for years, and if that wasn't enough, you used my own feelings against me?”

“No. Lena, no. I– I kissed you because I couldn't not do it. Because it’s you, Lena, it’s always been you and I just didn’t—”

“Stop.”

The word lands harder than a shout.

Kara’s voice dies instantly.

Lena takes a step closer, her eyes burning now, wet but unflinching, all of her focus locked onto Kara like she’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through her fingers.

“You don’t get to do that,” she says, her voice trembling despite the control she’s forcing into it. “You don’t get to stand there and turn this into some… romantic revelation.”

Kara flinches. Because that’s exactly what she’s been doing.

“This isn’t about your feelings,” Lena continues, sharper now, the hurt bleeding through. “This is about the fact that you have been lying to me since the day we met.”

Kara’s breath catches.

“This is about the fact that you stood there and let me trust you,” Lena says, her voice breaking now, anger unraveling into something raw. “While you—while you were that.”

She gestures at her, at all of her, like the word itself won’t come out.

“And you listened to me,” Lena adds, voice rising. “You listened to me when I thought I was safe!”

“Lena, I didn't mean to—”

“Shut up! SHUT UP!” Lena’s hands hit her chest, a sharp, sudden push that makes Kara take a step back more out of surprise than force.

Kara sees it then, realizes how much Lena needs this. How much she needs the physical release so she can work through it. And who's Kara to stop something she has earned the right to feel?

“You lied,” Lena says, the words breaking apart as they come out.

Another shove, harder this time.

“You lied to me for years!”

Kara doesn’t stop her.

Doesn’t move to block it, doesn’t grab her wrists, doesn’t do anything except stand there and take it, because she is right.

“I trusted you,” Lena chokes out, her hands fisting in Kara’s shirt now, pulling instead of pushing, like she doesn’t know whether she wants distance or closeness, like she’s caught between both and it’s tearing her apart. “I trusted you and you just—stood there and—”

Her voice gives out completely.

The next push isn’t really a push at all. It’s weaker, uncoordinated, more frustration than force, her hands trembling against Kara’s chest before they clutch tighter instead, gripping the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left.

“You lied,” she says again, softer now, the anger collapsing in on itself, turning into something raw and aching. “You lied, you lied—”

Kara’s chest aches at the sound of it, at the way Lena’s voice keeps breaking, at the way her hands shake where they’re still tangled in her shirt.

“I know,” Kara whispers, her own voice unsteady now, barely holding together. “I know, Lena, I’m so sorry, I—”

Lena lets out a broken sob, her forehead dropping forward until it presses against Kara’s chest like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up anymore.

And that’s when Kara moves. Slowly. Carefully. Like Lena might still pull away.

Her hands come up, hovering for just a second before settling gently against Lena’s arms, then sliding around her, pulling her in just enough to offer support without forcing it.

Lena doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t push her away this time.

Instead, her grip tightens in Kara’s shirt, her shoulders shaking as the fight finally drains out of her completely, leaving nothing but the hurt underneath.

“I was selfish, I know. I just… I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t bear to lose this.”

“You don’t get to decide what I deserved to know,” Lena adds, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy, still searching. “You made that choice for me. Every day.”

Kara nods, swallowing hard, forcing herself to hold Lena’s gaze. “And I was wrong. I’ve always known that.” Her voice softens, something fragile threading through it. “I wish I had done things differently, but I didn’t. And now I don’t know how to make this right.”

And then Lena steps back. Fully. Far enough that Kara feels it immediately, like something essential just slipped out of reach, like her hands don’t know what to do without Lena there anymore.

“I need to think this through,” Lena says, wrapping her arms around herself like she’s holding something in place. “I need to be alone for this.”

Kara doesn’t move. Doesn’t follow. Even though everything in her is screaming to.

“Because I love you, Kara Danvers,” Lena adds, her voice quieter now, like it costs her something to say it again.

Kara’s breath catches. Lena looks down, swallowing hard.

On the couch, Lena exhales through her nose, “It’s not like that.” It's what she manages, even though it is exactly like that.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Lena. I've known you for years. You've never looked at anyone the way you look at Kara. Why don't you just tell her?”

“Sam.” It’s meant to end the conversation. A warning. A full stop disguised as a name. “This isn’t the place,” Lena mutters under her breath, glancing toward the kitchen where they are still loudly debating toppings like national policy depends on it. 

“They can't hear us. I'm surprised they can even hear themselves.” 

In the kitchen, Kara’s hands curl tighter around the edge of the counter, knuckles paling.

“Do we really have to?” Lena tries, but Sam just shrugs. “Fine.” She exhales, the fight draining out of her all at once. 

“I realized I was in love with her when she was dating that douche, Mike. I hated him far more than he deserved. Still do. But I think she’s still not over him. So there’s no version of this where I get to tell her about my feelings, okay?”

Sam tilts her head. “Maybe you could help her get over him.”

“Or maybe I destroy a good thing. You said it yourself. We’ve never had this before. Women who show up for us. Who don’t compete. Who don’t leave.” Her voice softens, almost betraying her. “It’s great. It’s family...”

Lena swallows, half exposed, half heartbroken. “I don’t want to be the reason that ends just because I caught feelings.”

In the kitchen, Kara stops hearing the argument in front of her entirely. Alex is still talking. Ruby is chiming in with extremely loud confidence. But it all fades into a dull hum and all she can hear is how her heart is beating too loud.

Sam studies Lena carefully. “Can you handle not doing anything about it?”

The question hangs there, heavy and patient. Kara swallows her own breath just so she can hear it better, as if she needs that. As if she isn't hearing Lena's heart drumming on the other side of the room, caught, bare, honest. As if she can't hear her own blood rushing through her veins all the way to her cheeks as if she were the one exposed.

Alex throws her hands up in triumph. “Pizza. Settled.” 

Kara doesn’t respond. She can’t. The world feels oddly tilted, like gravity shifted half an inch to the left.

On the couch, Lena stares at the blank TV screen for a long moment.

“Yeah,” she says finally, her voice steadier than she feels. “The only thing I can’t handle is not having Kara in my life.”

And in the kitchen, Kara’s fingers press so hard into the counter there's a finger-shaped dent on the granite she'll have a really hard time explaining later.

Alex is saying something about extra cheese. Ruby is cheering. The world keeps moving with the audacity of it.

Kara hears Lena’s heartbeat settle after the confession. Hears the soft exhale that follows like she’s just placed something fragile back in its box.

“Okay, okay. I won't bring it up again,” Sam murmurs.

Lena huffs a quiet laugh. “Doubt it.”

It hits Kara, then. Too fast, too bright, too honest. Lena is in love with her. Her best friend. The only person who can make her feel safe in her humanity. One of the few people who has no idea she has an alter ego.

Across the room, she drops a spoon. It clatters loudly against the counter, metallic and accusing. She’s grateful for it. Grateful for something she can blame the way her hands are shaking on.

Alex glances at her. “You okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Pizza. Great choice. Love it. Pizza, I mean. I love pizza.”

Her smile feels like it was stapled on.

From the couch, Lena looks over. And there it is. That look Sam was talking about. Soft. Open. The kind of gaze you don’t use on someone you only see as a friend. She sees it now, how obvious it had always been. Obvious enough that not knowing felt less like ignorance and more like deliberate denial.

Kara almost looks away. Almost.

Instead, she meets Lena’s eyes for half a second too long. It’s not enough to expose anything. But it’s enough to make her chest tighten painfully. Because now she knows. 

Now she hears the word love and feelings and longing. She hears it all again just by looking into Lena's eyes. And she doesn't know what to do with the words.

By the time the pizza arrives, Kara has already rehearsed what normal looks like.

She laughs when she is supposed to. Argues passionately about toppings. Insists on one particular rom-com and one specific braid-style. 

On the surface, she is exactly the same as she was an hour ago. Underneath, she feels like she unlearned how to stand under Earth's gravity.

They end up on the floor in front of the couch. At some point, hair-braiding becomes inevitable. Alex makes an elaborate show of sectioning Sam’s hair with clinical precision while Ruby offers loud and entirely unqualified advice.

Lena settles behind Kara without either of them acknowledging the choice. It feels instinctive, like something that has happened a dozen times before. And it has. Kara remembers other evenings where Lena’s hands ended up in her hair, where she leaned back without thinking, trusting the closeness.

Now she is thinking about it far too much.

Kara feels Lena before the first strand of hair is gathered, the quiet warmth of her presence settling behind her in a way that has started to feel dangerously close to home. Then comes the gentle press of Lena’s knee against her lower back, close enough to blur the edges of personal space. When Lena’s fingers finally slip into Kara’s hair, careful and deliberate, Kara has to concentrate not to let out an inappropriate sound.

“Good?” Lena says softly, her tone light, almost teasing.

Kara nods, because she does not trust her voice.

Lena’s touch is patient, familiar. It is such an ordinary intimacy, the kind built over months of comfort and shared evenings. The only difference now is that Kara knows those hands belong to someone who said she was in love and meant it.

The knowledge prickles under her skin, impossible to ignore.

“You're okay? Is it too tight?” Lena asks after a moment, her fingers pausing at the nape of Kara’s neck.

“No, it’s good,” Kara hears the thinness in her own voice.

Behind her, Lena goes still for half a second. Kara does not need super hearing to feel the change. She has always melted easily into touch, leaning back without thinking, tilting her head to give Lena better access. Tonight she holds herself carefully, as if any additional movement might betray her. Because apparently all of her old movements have already betrayed her in this friendship.

Lena resumes the braid more slowly, more thoughtfully. Her fingertips brush the back of Kara’s neck as she gathers another section of hair, and Kara’s breath catches before she can stop it.

The sound is small, but not small enough. She's scared that someone other than Lena has noticed. 

The movie is in the grand confession scene, complete with swelling music and a dramatic kiss in the rain. Alex groans at the predictability of it, and Ruby hides her face behind her hands with delighted embarrassment. Sam watches the screen with a small smile, but her gaze flickers toward Kara and Lena, sharp and observant.

Kara barely register it. She is too aware of the space behind her, of Lena leaning just slightly closer as she secures the end of the braid. Close enough that Kara can feel her breath on her shoulder. Close enough that turning her head would mean their faces are only inches apart.

Kara wants to turn.

She wants to say something reckless and honest and ruinously sincere. She wants to tell Lena that she is not still hung up on Mike, that she barely remembered his name before Lena said it tonight. She wants to tell her that Lena would not ruin anything by catching feelings, that in fact the only thing ruining this is secrecy.

Instead, she stays perfectly still.

Because she was never meant to hear any of it. Because responding now would mean admitting she did.

By the time the night winds down and goodbyes begin, Kara feels scraped raw from the inside. Every glance has felt like a minefield. Every accidental brush of hands like contraband she is not allowed to keep. Her heart has been racing so furiously she is half afraid someone will hear it over the television, half afraid she'll pass out over the sheer violence of it all.

She has had enough.

And she has no idea where to go from here.

Everyone leaves, but Kara doesn't. Not because she is in her own home, but because she can't leave the moment behind. 

She re-reads every single undertone, overanalyzing it from every angle: front, back, sideways. Looks for signs in the gaps in the silence. Kara re-lives it until she knows the words by heart, until the way Lena looked at her gets embroidered into the fabric of her being.

Sleep does not dissolve it. Morning does not either.

She tells herself nothing has changed. Lena said she wouldn’t act on it. Lena said she wouldn’t risk what they have. That should make Kara feel safe. Stabilized. Protected.

And yet she can't understand why the idea of Lena deciding to want less from her feels like a structural weakness in her bones. Lena choosing distance would be reasonable. Lena guarding herself would be healthy. Lena folding those feelings back into something smaller and safer would be mature.

So why does the thought claw her insides? Why does it haunt every minute of her day until the only thing she can think of is seeing Lena again? 

By the time Kara lands outside L-Corp that afternoon, she has convinced herself she is being dramatic. Lena deserves peace, clarity, someone who doesn’t come with entire galaxies of secrecy stitched into her identity, someone who is, at least, sure.

Kara tells herself this as she walks in the building, repeating it like a mantra, as if repetition might make it true.

It falls apart faster than she expects.

She is making a habit of it. Listening to conversations she shouldn’t, that is. A habit she spent most of her life trying to break. But when it comes to Lena, Kara has always listened way too closely.

“Okay Lena, listen,” Sam starts.

Kara’s hearing sharpens instantly as the elevator doors slide closed.

“I know you’re in love with Kara,” Sam continues, matter-of-fact, “but you’ve decided not to do anything about it… correct?”

“I'm pretty sure you said you wouldn’t bring this up again,” Lena replies, weary.

“Lena, I don’t want you breaking your own heart. Bottling all this up isn’t exactly healthy.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lena answers dryly. “A lifetime of being a Luthor made me very good at it.”

There’s a rustle of paper.

“Right. Well. Here.”

“What’s this?” The edge in Lena’s voice is immediate. Kara feels it like a tug in her chest. She glances at the glowing numbers above the elevator door and wonders why the ride suddenly feels endless, like the building has decided to grow extra floors out of spite.

“That woman you thought was hot at the fundraiser,” Sam says casually. “The one in the blue dress?”

Woman. Hot. 

Oh. 

Oh no.

“She asked me if you were single. I told her you were and I gave her your number. But if you wanna speed up the process of forgetting Kara Danvers… That's her number.”

The words land gently. The impact does not.

When the elevator dings open, Kara is suddenly afraid to move. For a moment she just stands there, staring at the open hallway like it might bite. The only reason she eventually steps forward is because her body does it without consulting her.

“Oh,” Lena says faintly somewhere down the hall.

That one soft syllable is enough.

Before Kara realizes what she’s doing, she’s moving (more like running) toward Lena’s office. She needs to see her face. Needs to know not just what Lena is saying, but what she isn’t.

Needs to know how happy she is to actually move on from her.

“Hey—hi—hey! Lena, hey!”

Lena looks caught. Her cheeks are flushed, color high along her cheekbones, and her breath is just a little short, as if Kara has interrupted something important.

“Hi, Kara.”

Kara searches her face automatically, cataloguing everything: the surprise in her eyes, the way her fingers are curled against a piece of paper, the faint tension in her shoulders.

What does it mean? Embarrassment? Annoyance? Is she upset that Kara barged in like this?

“Oh, Kara,” Sam says smoothly, as if none of this is strange at all. “I was just giving Lena someone’s number. I think she needs to go on a date, she's been in National City long enough and she is too hot to be single. Don’t you agree?”

“I—Um—”

That’s all Kara manages because what would she be agreeing to? Is Lena too hot? Duh, is like saying the sun is too hot. Or would she be agreeing to Lena going on a date?

She touches her glasses and smooths her hands down the front of her cardigan trying to calm herself, but nothing helps. Her heart is pounding so loudly she’s surprised the entire office can’t hear it.

Lena. On a date. Lena. Who is in love with her. Lena. With someone else.

“Anyway,” Sam says, already moving toward the door, “I have to get back to work.” She passes Kara, pausing just long enough to rest a hand on her shoulder, smiling like she knows something Kara does not. “Counting on you to convince Lena to have a love life.”

“B–Bye, Sam.”

Lena does not speak at first. Kara doesn’t either. Words feel impossible, too small for the chaos currently rattling through her chest. She tries very hard not to look at the paper beneath Lena’s fingers.

She fails almost immediately.

The small square of paper might as well be glowing. Kara can picture it vividly: herself stepping forward, plucking it from under Lena’s fingers, and reducing it to ash with the smallest flicker of heat vision. The imagined relief is vivid, a burst of satisfaction she cannot quite justify, but feels in her bones all the same.

“So,” Lena says at last, recovering with that smooth composure she always seems able to summon first. “What brings you down during work hours? Please don't tell me it's for an interview.”

The question opens a door inside Kara’s mind that she has been bracing against for hours. Behind it waits a chaotic flood of realizations that refuse to line up in any orderly fashion. Lena is in love with her. Lena might go on a date with someone else. Lena might slowly build a life that does not include Kara standing awkwardly in the doorway, pretending that friendship is enough.

The thought hits with surprising force, like gravity decided to play games with her again. And it's winning. Again.

Kara opens her mouth to answer Lena’s question and discovers that honesty has staged a coup against her better judgment. Her heart is racing so violently she feels it in her throat, and before the rational portion of her brain can intervene, her body simply decides to act.

She moves around the desk in two quick steps.

Lena straightens in her chair, clearly startled by the sudden shift in proximity. Kara is so close, she can see the faint freckles across Lena’s nose, close enough to notice the slight widening of her eyes as confusion flickers across her face.

Then Kara kisses her.

The kiss is impulsive and clumsy in the way all deeply honest things tend to be. Kara is not thinking straight, because if she were, she might be terrified of Lena pulling away, of ruining everything they have carefully balanced for so long. Instead she only feels the warmth of Lena’s lips beneath hers.

Her hands, traitorous things that they are, slide instinctively to Lena’s waist as she pulls her closer and up her desk.

Lena inhales sharply as she sits on it, and that's when her stillness breaks. Her hand rises almost automatically, catching lightly at Kara’s sleeve before slipping upward into her hair as she leans forward and returns the kiss.

The world tilts. Falls. Holds its breath.

And Kara? Kara doesn't stop. Instead, she kisses Lena harder. Better. Deeper. Her mouth tilts, her tongue slips, and the whole thing shifts into something dizzying and electric. Kara feels it everywhere: along her spine, in the low of her belly, in the center of her chest where jealousy and relief and something dangerously close to awe collide.

Lena’s hands are in her hair, her legs wrapped around Kara’s torso as if she’s afraid Kara might pull away, even though Kara is basically on top of her now.

Eventually they’ll have to breathe. Kara knows that much, somewhere beneath the blur of sensation and racing thoughts. Air will become a necessity, gravity will reassert itself in the most inconvenient way possible.

Gravity has been fucking with her a lot lately.

But the moment they break apart, they will have to face reality. Words will follow. Explanations. Consequences.

And Kara is not ready for any of them.

But Lena breaks apart whether she is ready or not.

Kara can't believe what she's done. Can't believe what she is seeing. Lena, flushed and wide-eyed and utterly stunned. Her lips are parted, swollen. She has never looked as beautiful as she does right now, Kara knows this much, even if she doesn't know a whole lot right now.

The silence that follows is louder than anything that came before it. Kara’s stomach drops. Rao, what was that? What did she just do? How bad did she fuck things up?

The question detonates all at once. She has kissed Lena without explanation. Without context. She heard something she should not have. She acted on something Lena explicitly chose not to just a mere day ago. She also still hasn't told Lena that she is Supergirl.

Footsteps echo faintly in the hallway outside. Lena’s phone begins to ring on the desk under them. Reality slams back into place.

Kara steps back as if the space itself has burned her. Lena’s hands fall away slowly, reluctantly, confusion etched into every line of her face. 

But Kara does not trust herself to stay. She does not trust what might spill out if she does.

“I–” She wants to say she is sorry. She wants to tell Lena everything. 

You reach for your own phone and almost get dizzy at the simple act of existing as yourself. At least digitally. There’s a reminder waiting there, polite and merciless.

A date. Tonight. As you.

You stare at it, thumb hovering. You’d almost forgotten that version of your life still exists. The one where you show up somewhere without a cape or a cardigan. Without a borrowed smile. Without pretending.

You type an apology that sounds reasonable. Responsible. Vague enough to avoid follow-up questions. And cancel.

Just like you did three days ago. And two days before that. And last week.

Because there is no time. To be Kara and smile too much, trip over nothing. To be Supergirl and patrol, rescue, bleed if necessary. And to be yourself in whatever thin, exhausted hours are left over.

You tell yourself this is temporary. That this is what love looks like. Kara would do this for you. Kara has done worse for you. That thought carries you through daylight, when everything is bright and Kara’s personality shines like the sun.

But at 3:12 a.m., when your own life demands living, the thought slips away easily.

Your laptop glows on the kitchen counter, casting a pale rectangle of light across your hands. The rest of the apartment is dark. Outside the tall windows, National City hums at a lower frequency, traffic reduced to a distant, occasional sigh.

The email sits at the top of your screen.

You’ve read it enough times that you no longer need to scroll.

“We were counting on this. This delay is concerning. Let’s discuss the consequences first thing in the morning.”

Morning.

Your chest tightens around the word.

You press your fingertips against your temple and try to think clearly. This wasn’t just another assignment. This was the project. The one that proves you’re more than competent. The one that moves you forward instead of keeping you safely in place.

You start typing.

Due to unforeseen circumstances—

Your hands still on the keys. The cursor blinks at you, patient and accusatory.

Unforeseen circumstances. That’s one way to describe inhabiting someone else’s life while she recovers under a bank of artificial suns in a subterranean government facility.

You lean back and exhale through your nose, a humorless almost-laugh catching in your throat.

You're going to lose your job.

The thought settles instead of exploding. Calm. Predictable. Like a forecast you’ve been ignoring all week.

If that happens, what then? When Kara wakes up at the DEO and takes her name and her glasses and her life back without even realizing she ever set them down, what will you return to? An apology? An empty inbox? A position already reassigned to someone who hasn’t been splitting themselves into thirds?

Your phone vibrates against the counter. The sound startles you more than it should.

DEO alert, but of course.

For a single, shameful second, you consider ignoring it. The DEO has taken enough for you already, hasn't it?

Then a second shameful thought comes right behind it. Haven't you already failed enough tonight? Are you actually going to ruin someone else's life because you just ruined your own?

You grab her boots from beside the door. The cape follows, muscle memory guiding you through motions that no longer feel theatrical. Outside, the night air is sharp and cold, slicing clean through the fog in your head as you fly out the window.

The city looks deceptively peaceful from above. Streetlights glowing amber. Windows dark. A grid of quiet lives suspended in sleep.

The warehouse is already loud when you land. Shouting. Metal clanging against concrete. A weapons exchange turned ugly, the details feeding into your ear from the DEO as you step forward.

A man breaks from the cluster to your left, anger overriding strategy. You register the movement, but your body doesn’t respond with its usual precision. The punch connects just beneath your ribs. A solid impact that drives the air from your lungs. Damn it! What happened to the days when the bad guys were just guys?

You stagger back before you can stop yourself.

It isn’t catastrophic. Something cracks, you can hear even without your super hearing. Pain blooms bright and immediate, and for a split second the room holds its breath with you.

You recover because you have to. To maintain Supergirl's reputation alone.

The rest unfolds quickly after that. Disarmed weapons skitter across the floor. Hands are restrained. Sirens approach, growing louder until they fill the space you just vacated.

When you take to the sky again, your side aches with every inhale. The night air feels heavier than it did before.

You could go back to the apartment, but living Kara's life is already hard enough without a cracked rib. There's no reason to make it even harder.

The DEO is quieter at this hour, caught in that thin stretch before shift change. The med bay is completely empty if not for one person.

Kara lies beneath the solar lamps in the adjacent bed, bathed in artificial daylight. Even unconscious, she looks steady. Anchored. As if the world bends around her rather than the other way around.

You lower yourself onto the cot near her and reach for her hand. Maybe if she feels how much you're falling apart, she can wake up. One can only dream.

You close your eyes just long enough to pretend you've fallen asleep. But you're still awake, patting yourself on the back for the incredible job you've done. Because apparently the only thing that you're doing is never doing enough. You wonder when will you stop fucking things up.

Footsteps echo down the corridor.

You sit up too quickly when Alex steps into the room, coffee in hand, already mid-sentence to someone behind her. She stops when she sees you.

Her gaze takes in the bruise darkening along your jaw, the stiffness in the way you hold yourself, the exhaustion you haven’t figured out how to hide.

“What happened?” she asks, and there’s no accusation in it. Just concern.

But you hear accusation anyway. You hear expectation. You hear the unspoken reminder that this has to be seamless. That Kara’s name carries weight. That mistakes are not part of the branding.

“Oh nothing,” you say before she can take another step closer. The words come out too quick, too polished. “Just wanted to see how Kara's doing.”

Her eyes flick down to your side and to your hand there pretending you're not in pain. She knows. Of course she knows.

She opens her mouth, but you don't have time for this. It's morning, which means you have to get fired from your real job, and then go to Kara's so she doesn't get fired from hers.

“Late for CatCo. Let me know when she wakes up.” you add, already moving toward the exit.

You take off before she can press further, the morning light climbing higher over the city as if nothing at all is unraveling.

Behind you, Kara sleeps beneath a manufactured sun.

Ahead of you, her life awaits.

And somewhere inside you, your own life screams.

You leave your office building with your boss’s new deadline echoing in your head like a verdict deferred. You are not fired. That almost feels crueler. You have been granted one more chance to prove you are not already slipping through the cracks.

You tell yourself you can do this. You have done harder things. You have carried worse.

Kara's phone lights up before you even reach the corner.

Miss Grant: You have two minutes to get here or you're fired. And there won't be a second chance.

Your heart slams so violently it feels mechanical. Two minutes. Kara’s job. Kara’s reputation. Kara’s carefully curated, slightly clumsy, painfully human career. You cannot be the reason it implodes.

You launch.

The city drops away beneath you in a rush of glass and steel. Wind claws at your face. Your rib protests the acceleration, a sharp reminder that you're not 100% recovered, but you push faster anyway. You can tolerate pain. You cannot tolerate failure.

You calculate distance. Velocity. You can land unseen. You can run upstairs and smile like Kara Danvers has never once been late in her life.

The watch vibrates on your wrist.

DEO alert.

You hover without meaning to, momentum faltering as the notification burns against your wrist. CatCo is west. The DEO is south. Your own deadline sits somewhere behind you, ticking like a quiet menace.

For one reckless second, your body tilts toward the DEO. Kara is still under solar lamps because she almost died. If something is happening now, if someone needs help now—

Your heart climbs into your throat so high it feels like you might choke on it.

You cannot lose Kara’s job. You cannot ignore the DEO. You cannot miss your own deadline again.

You are three thousand feet above National City and you have never felt more cornered.

Your vision blurs at the edges. Not from altitude. From the hot, humiliating sting behind your eyes. You press your lips together hard enough to hurt. Crying mid-air would be absurd. You don’t have time for absurd.

You cannot split yourself again. There is nothing left to split.

And so you turn. Not west. Not south. East.

Toward L-Corp.

You push inside without ceremony, cape still swaying behind you, composure in ruins. Lena looks up from her desk, startled only by the force of your entrance.

You don’t bother with humor. “Can you clone me?”, your voice already unraveling. 

“What?”

The words spill before pride can stop them. “Cat just threatened to fire Kara. The DEO needs Supergirl. I’m way past all the deadlines from my actual job. Kara is unconscious and I’m supposed to be holding everything together and I can’t even think straight.”

Your hands are shaking. You hate that she can see it.

“I can’t be in three places at once,” you whisper, and now the fear slips through clean and sharp. “If I choose wrong, something breaks. I don’t know which thing I’m allowed to break besides myself.”

There it is. The truth beneath all of it.

For a heartbeat you are certain she will see what you see: a liability. A variable too unstable to rely on.

Instead, Lena walks toward you slowly as if approaching something fragile but not broken.

“You are not choosing wrong,” she says, voice calm enough to cut through the noise in your skull. “You are choosing alone.”

The distinction hits harder than you expect.

Your shoulders sag despite yourself. “I’m scared, If I fail, it won’t just be me. I’ll be failing Kara, National City, Alex…”

“No, darling. If you fail, you'll only be failing the expectations. But you are bigger than that. better than those.”

“Am I, really? Because I can't do it. I almost got fired today and I'm pretty sure I just got Kara fired too. When she wakes up… Lena, I don't want her to be disappointed.”

“Y/N, you know your sister better than I do. And yet we both know Kara would never be disappointed in you. Not for trying your hardest. Not for putting your life on hold to live hers.”  

She reaches out, squeezes your arm. And you do your best to swallow your tears. 

“Come on. Let's handle this together.”

She calls Cat herself. Tells her she needed Kara for an exclusive. Cat is tamed pretty fast. Next she grabs your phone, texts Alex from it, because she knows you wouldn't be able to. 

You: Sorry, unable to be Supergirl today. A lot on my plate. Please ask J’onn. Alex: Okay! We’ll talk when you can. 

Then Lena leads you into a quiet conference room. The lights are dimmed. A white-noise machine hums softly in the corner. There is more food on the table than you have eaten in the last twenty-four hours combined.

“Eat.” She says, you open your mouth to argue, but before you can, “Non-negociable. After you eat, you can either take a nap or finish your own work. Inside these four walls, you're Y/N. Not Kara. Not Supergirl. Only yourself.”

You sink into the chair like gravity has finally remembered you.

Your heart is still racing, but it is no longer clawing its way out of your chest. The sky is no longer pressing in on you. For the first time all day, you are not suspended between disasters.

You scrub at your eyes with the heel of your hand and let out a shaky breath that almost becomes a laugh.

“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself, but you don't mind if she hears it. “Kara needs to marry this one.”

A smile touches Lena’s mouth.

"See you in four hours, Y/N.”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you’re staring at your laptop screen, Lena’s white-noise machine humming like distant rain, and the next you’re waking to the sound of your own name.

Your eyes blink open slowly. The room is dimmer now, afternoon light softened into gold. The food is mostly gone. Your report is finished. Sent. The tight, coiled dread in your chest has loosened into something survivable.

Lena is standing in the doorway.

“Alex called, Kara's awake.” she says gently.

Awake.

The word lands softly, but it moves through you like a shockwave.

Kara’s awake.

This thing — this impossible, stretched-thin, borrowed life — is finally over.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it leaves you in a long, trembling exhale. Your heart seems to release with it, like it has been braced for impact for two straight weeks and has only just been told it can stand down.

You stand too fast, chair scraping against the floor, but Lena is already beside you before the dizziness can tip you sideways. You don’t even remember grabbing her and flying. You just know you’re not walking into the DEO alone.

The facility feels different this time.

The sterile air doesn’t press against your lungs the way it did at three in the morning when exhaustion made everything harsher. The solar lamps in the med bay have dimmed to a softer glow. The room no longer feels like a shrine built around absence.

Kara is sitting up.

Her hair is a mess. There’s a crease on her cheek from the pillow. She looks disoriented, blinking at the brightness, one hand braced on the mattress like she’s testing whether the world is solid.

She looks alive. The sight hits you so hard your vision blurs instantly. You don’t even try to stop it.

“Oh, thank Rao—” The words break apart as you close the distance between you.

You’re crying before anyone else can speak. Full, unguarded, humiliating sobs that don’t care who is watching. You fold into her like you’ve been waiting to fall for days, pressing your face into the fabric of her hospital shirt as if you need proof she’s real.

There’s too much inside you to separate into tidy sentences. Relief. Terror. The memory of the solar lamps humming while she didn’t move. The weight of her life sitting on your shoulders while yours quietly burned in the background.

She is here. She is breathing. She is warm.

Two weeks of silence and stillness and artificial sunlight, and now she is laughing softly above you like this is only mildly inconvenient.

“Hey, hey,” Kara murmurs, hands sliding into your hair, steady and gentle. “Were you scared?”

You pull back just enough to look at her, tears still tracking down your face without permission.

“Yeah!” The word comes out louder than you intend. Raw. “You were gone for two weeks. Two. I almost flew you to the surface of the sun myself just to speed it up.”

She laughs that bright, unmistakable laughter of hers. The one you could never replicate. And the sound is so achingly familiar that it punches the air from your lungs all over again.

That’s when it truly sinks in. She’s back. And you’re… not Kara Danvers.

Her hands slow in your hair as she takes you in properly for the first time. Her gaze travels over the cape. The crest. The boots still dusted faintly from city rooftops.

Her eyebrows lift. “Why are you dressed as Supergirl?”

The question is innocent. Curious.

Behind you, you can feel Alex watching. You can feel Lena’s quiet presence like an anchor at your back. You let out a shaky breath that almost becomes a laugh. Because where do you even start?

With the deadlines? The cracked rib? The all-caps threats? The hovering over the city with no idea which life to save?

You swipe at your face and try for composure. “Well,” you say, voice still unsteady, “funny story.”

And for the first time in two weeks, the story doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you. It feels like something you survived.

Alex chimes in, the whole plan was her idea, she says in a guilty tone you didn't realize she was feeling. Lena says almost apologetically that she helped, but not enough. She should've checked on you more. And Kara stands there and listens while you tell where her life head to while she was unconscious. 

“You—” she starts, and her voice cracks slightly. “Did you sleep? Did you have time to eat?”

You almost laugh. After all of that, after the near-death coma and the identity juggling and the emotional implosion, that’s what she asks.

“Look,” you say, waving it off. “Lena smoothed things over with Cat. You’re not fired. I finished my own report. My rib is fixed. It’s—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes sharpen. Not angry. Protective. There’s a difference, and you feel it all the way down.

She looks at Alex. “Never again. If I lose my job, then so be it. Okay? That toll is not for Y/N to carry.”

“Kara,” Alex tries gently, “I was only trying to help.”

“I know.” Kara’s voice softens, but she doesn’t back down. “And I appreciate what you did. I do. But Y/N’s life is just as important as mine.”

The room goes quiet after that.

Because you didn’t realize, until this exact second, that part of you believed it wasn’t.

You’ve spent two weeks proving you could carry her world. You’ve been sprinting through burning buildings, meeting deadlines mid-flight, smiling through panic, convincing yourself that you were strong enough to hold everything together if you just tried hard enough.

And here she is, fresh from unconsciousness, telling everyone that you don’t have to.

Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s not from fear. It’s from being seen.

Kara reaches for you, and you step closer without thinking. The movement is instinct, muscle memory, gravity. She presses her forehead gently to yours, and the contact is grounding in a way nothing else has been for two weeks.

“You don’t have to be me,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft, but it carries. “I need my baby sister. Not a replacement.”

The word lands deep. Sister. Not hero. Not stand-in. Not contingency plan. Just you.

Something in your chest loosens. Not completely. The exhaustion is still there, the bruises under your skin, the thinness of your patience after two weeks of holding up the sky. But the weight shifts. It’s no longer yours alone.

Kara pulls back slightly, just enough to look around the room. There’s color in her cheeks now, life in her eyes. “CatCo is nice. I like working there,” she says, almost shyly. “But that’s just it. What’s important in my life is here.”

Her hand reaches for Alex first. “My big sister.”

Alex squeezes back immediately, jaw tight, like she’s daring the universe to try that again.

Then Kara’s hand finds yours. “My baby sister.”

You huff out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh. You feel about five seconds away from crying again and you refuse to be the only one dehydrating in this room.

Then Kara looks at Lena.

It’s subtle, the shift. But you feel it. The air changes. Lena, who has negotiated hostile takeovers and stared down interdimensional threats without blinking, suddenly looks like someone standing on the edge of something terrifying and hopeful.

“And, um, my…”

You lean closer, voice low but urgent. “Don’t you dare say best friend.”

Kara’s lips curve, that familiar, reckless softness in her smile. She doesn’t break eye contact with Lena.

“And my love.”

The words are simple. No grand gesture. No dramatic music cue. Just truth, set carefully between them.

Lena exhales like she’s been underwater since the day Kara fell. Her composure fractures in the smallest, most human way. “You’ve just woken up from a two-week coma,” she says faintly. “We can revisit this when you’re less… solar-shocked.”

Kara laughs, bright and steady, the sound alive in a way that still feels miraculous. “I’ve been unconscious,” she says gently, eyes never leaving Lena’s, “but the feelings could never change.”

Alex makes a sound somewhere between exasperation and relief. “Took you long enough.”

You stand there watching them, heart still raw from everything you carried. Two weeks of flying in her suit. Two weeks of juggling CatCo deadlines and DEO alerts and pretending you weren’t terrified of failing her. Two weeks of trying to be the only sun in a sky that felt too big.

And here she is, choosing all of you, instead of all that.

Because the only thing you all need is family.

Outside this room, the world is still chaotic. Cat will still send texts in all caps like it’s a competitive sport. The DEO will still call at the worst possible moments. But in here, something fragile and powerful has been spoken out loud.

And for the first time in two weeks, you don’t feel like you’re splitting yourself beyond recognition. Right now, you're just one. The one you should be.

Epilogue.

“Oh, there she is. Finally.”

Kara pauses just inside Cat Grant’s office, brows knitting together. Cat doesn’t look up immediately. She finishes signing a document with deliberate elegance, then lifts her gaze.

“I’m assuming you’re fully recovered,” Cat continues smoothly, “and that your twin will not be taking your place any time soon.”

“My twin?” Kara repeats, blinking.

“I can only assume,” Cat says, leaning back in her chair. “She pulls off a very convincing Kara Danvers. Slightly more sleep-deprived. Marginally more intense eye contact. But convincing.”

“You knew?” Kara steps forward, genuinely startled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Cat studies her like a chess player who has already calculated the board. “I needed an assistant. She performed the job. Admirably, I might add. I’m not in the habit of disrupting efficiency.”

Kara stares at her, somewhere between impressed and betrayed.

Alex stands in front of you with that look she gets when she’s already out of options. The one that says she’s not asking because it’s a good idea, but because it’s the only one left.

“Just until she’s better,” Alex says. “Mostly flying. People won’t see your face.”

That part, you can almost believe. Supergirl is a blur. A streak of red and blue against the sky. A symbol more than a person. You can be a symbol. You can follow a script. You're good at that.

That isn't the part that stops you. What stops you is the 'and.' There is always one with Alex. “Also, Cat’s already asking questions, because the thing she loves most about Kara is that she doesn't get sick. If we don't do something she might figure this out.”

“Wait, what?”

“I just don't want her to come sniffing around. You know how Cat is, it won't be hard for her to put two and two together.”

You stare at her.

“So your solution is sending me to CatCo dressed as Kara?” you ask, because surely she misspoke. Surely this is where the physics of the lie stops working.

Alex exhales, long and tired. “I mean, yeah.”

“Alex!” You can't help the laugh bubbling in your stomach. “You're joking, right?” Except she doesn't look like she's joking.

“I would never joke about that.”

“So you think she might come to the conclusion that Kara is Supergirl, but not to the conclusion that I'm not Kara?” 

You're met with silence, like she doesn't even have to answer that one. And goddamn it, she truly doesn't. Cat won’t question something given, but she would absolutely bring the world down to find out something she shouldn't.

Still, you shake your head because this one is impossible. You can wear the clothes, sure. Glasses, cardigan, that particular hopeful slouch. But the light? The thing people recognize before they even know they’re recognizing it? You don’t have that.

“It won’t work,” you say. You’re thinking of micro-expressions, the tilt of a chin, the way Kara’s posture is an invitation while yours is a boundary. “This isn't about looking alike, Alex. You’re asking a shadow to pretend it’s the source of the light. People will know.”

“Maybe.” She bites her mouth, in deep thoughts. “But isn't it worth the shot?” Then she says, very quietly, “You know that Kara would do it for you without a second thought.”

It’s a cheap move. A tactical strike against the one part of your logic that doesn't hold up: it's Kara. Kara would trust you with her identity as if it were a borrowed sweater, certain it would come back unharmed. She has a pathological inability to see the risk in the people she loves. It’s her most dangerous trait, and the one Alex is using to dismantle your defenses.

You close your eyes.

You think of your sister under the sun, healing slowly, stubbornly, hating every second of being still. You think of the city that believes in her. You think of how much easier it is to protect someone else than it is to protect your own carefully constructed idea of yourself.

“Give me that stupid cardigan.”

Famous last words. Or at least, they’ll look good on the autopsy report of your social life.

You don’t go to CatCo first. That would be suicidal.

You need a controlled environment. A stress test. A place where Kara exists in muscle memory more than scrutiny.

So you go to Noonan's.

You stand outside for a second longer than necessary, checking the assembly. You did the uniform correctly. Glasses. Cardigan. Sensible shoes. Hair tamed into something soft and well-meaning. You even practiced the posture in the mirror, shoulders slightly rounded, like you’re always on the verge of saying excuse me.

"Come on. You can do it.” You whisper to yourself, forcing one foot in front of the other. “For Kara.”

You step into line.

This is the moment, you think. This is where the universe corrects itself. Someone will squint. Someone will frown. Someone will say something, someone will—

“Kara!” the barista calls, already smiling, already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

Your brain stutters.

There’s a very specific kind of vertigo that comes with being mistaken for someone you love. Not the fun kind. It’s the sensation of stepping onto a stair that isn’t there and discovering, too late, that gravity has opinions.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently.

The barista doesn’t even blink. She’s writing K-A-R-A in aggressive marker, the same way she always does, like this is just any other day.

“Muffin too?”

You nod.

“Eight seventy-five.”

You give her the money. Tip her like Kara always does and your coffee appears, exactly the way Kara likes it and exactly how you hate. You take it with a quiet thank you that sounds close enough to hers to make your throat ache.

You look around before stepping out and every face feels like a loaded gun, until you realize none of them are aimed at you.

A waiter bumps into your shoulder and mutters, “Sorry, Kara,” like it’s punctuation. That’s when it lands.

They’re not fooled because you’re convincing. They’re fooled because they’re not looking. This was supposed to be impossible. Supposed to fail spectacularly. You built your certainty on the idea that Kara is unmistakable. That her light announces itself. But somehow it worked.

And now you have to take this Halloween costume of your sister to CatCo and hope they don’t look twice either.

CatCo feels wrong the second you step inside it.

Not hostile. Not suspicious. Just… indifferent. Like a machine that doesn’t care what you are, only that you keep moving in the right direction. Kara belongs to that rhythm. You don’t. You feel it immediately, the way your pulse jumps, the way your body braces like it’s about to be corrected.

You barely make it past the doors before James is there, already talking, already wound tight.

“I swear, it was perfect,” he says, thrusting his camera toward you. “Perfect light, perfect angle, and then—” He exhales sharply. “—and then the sun moves and ruins everything.”

He stops because you stop.

“Now guess what? I have to stay all day on the top of that building to take another one.”

You nod. You make the appropriate sympathetic sound. Your chest is loud. Too loud. Surely he hears it.

He doesn’t.

James sighs, already turning away, frustration reclaiming his attention like gravity. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

Funny. He’s a man who makes his living through a lens, though he doesn't once look at your face. And yet you can't help the way your stomach drops so fast it feels like freefall.

“KIERA.”

The name cracks across the bullpen, sharp and inevitable.

Cat Grant stands in her office doorway like a summons made flesh. Sunglasses on. Judgment fully operational. Her gaze sweeps the room, catches on blonde hair, glasses, cardigan.

Locks.

“My office. Now.”

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You follow her in, heart galloping, palms already damp. This is it. This is where it breaks. You’re too stiff. Too careful. You don’t belong in this room. You are not Kara.

“Two days,” she says, pacing. “Two days without notice, without explanation, and suddenly you materialize like this is a suggestion-based workplace.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your tongue feels thick, uncooperative.

“I don’t care,” Cat continues, slicing the air with a hand. “Whatever excuse you’ve rehearsed, save it. I need this week's copy by the end of the day, and I need you to get a quote from Lena Luthor that isn’t a waste of ink.”

“Yes, Miss Grant.” you say, because that’s what your body supplies.

She turns then, looks directly at you.

This is the moment. This is where she sees it. The absence. The lack. The missing thing. Your heart is almost exploding in your chest. You're sure you're sweating through your clothes.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Stop looking at me like a deer caught in red light, and move. You're not on vacation anymore.”

You do. You walk out on legs that feel borrowed, like they might give you back to the floor at any second.

You make it to Kara’s desk and sit down hard. The mess on her desk is organized in the same chaotic hierarchy as your childhood bedroom. The phone is broken as if she grabbed it too hard. And you kind of want to do the same right now.

“Kara, man.” Winn turns around.

Your heart slams so hard it hurts. You turn slowly, already rehearsing the collapse. He squints at you. Studies you. Really studies you. Your skin prickles.

“Did you do something different to your hair?”

Your breath catches. 

“I—”

“I like it,” he says immediately, smiling, already swiveling back to his screen. “Very you.”

Just like that, it’s over.

Your heart is still trying to escape your ribcage, but underneath the fear, something else settles in. Not relief. Something worse.

Confidence.

Ten minutes.

Ten whole minutes inside CatCo, and no one questioned you. Not James, who makes a living noticing details. Not Cat Grant, who lives to smell blood in the water. Not even Winn, who knows Kara well enough to notice when she changes her shampoo.

You were scared to face Lena Luthor when Cat said you had to go there, but right now? You're sure you can do it.

Sure she is Kara's best friend, but she is also brilliant and busy and wrapped in a thousand thoughts, so she probably won’t look twice. It seems that people never do when they know what to expect. And this makes it the easiest magic trick in the world.

Just don't tell Alex that. 

L-Corp doesn’t stop you. Of course it doesn’t. The guards barely glance up. Kara Danvers is a constant here. Trusted. Familiar. Waved through without friction.

The elevator ride is too smooth. Too quiet. Your heart lodges itself somewhere behind your teeth as you stare at the numbers climbing, rehearsing nothing because there is nothing to rehearse. Kara belongs here.

Lena’s office feels different today. Or maybe it's just you.

She’s at her desk, head down, fingers moving fast over her tablet, hair falling forward in that way that always feels a little too intimate to witness. For a heartbeat, you almost forget why your chest hurts.

“Hi, Lena.”

Your voice lands perfectly. Too perfectly.

She hums, distracted, still buried in whatever she's doing on that screen. “Hey, just give me one sec—”

Then she looks up. The pause isn’t dramatic; it’s computational. A fraction of a second where her brain registers the visual input, compares it to the internal map she has of Kara, and finds the error. Her expression goes blank like a system rebooting.

Her eyes move over you. Glasses. Cardigan. Kara. Then they narrow, just slightly. Your stomach drops.

“Why are you dressed as Kara?”

The floor does that awful thing where it seems to fall away without warning.

“I—” Your tongue trips. You swallow. Try again. “Sorry?”

Lena leans back in her chair, studying you now with full attention, like she’s turned a light on in a dark room and isn’t afraid of what it might reveal.

“You’re wearing her clothes,” she says evenly. “You’re standing like her. You even said hello the way she does when she’s trying not to interrupt me.”

Each word lands clean and precise, no wasted motion.

Your pulse roars. This was supposed to be safe. This was supposed to be instinct and familiarity and the one place you wouldn’t have to try. Instead, it’s the one place where trying won’t save you.

“What’s going on?” she asks, quieter now. “Where is Kara?”

Something in your chest gives way. Not because you’ve been caught, but because of how effortlessly she knew. Like recognizing a voice you love in a crowded room. Like instinct that doesn’t need proof.

Your shoulders drop, just a little. The lie finally sloughs off, exhausted.

“I’ve been trying my hardest,” you admit, the words barely holding together.

“To do what?” Her head tilts. “Pretend you’re her?”

You nod, weakly. 

“Y/N, what is happening?”

Hearing your name is like being hauled out of deep water. It’s the sharp, burning relief of being a person again, instead of a performance. You sink into the chair across from her, lungs burning, and it takes a minute before you can explain everything. Alex. The city. The lie that snowballed faster than anyone could stop it. When you finish, Lena just stares at you.

“You’re joking,” she says finally, disbelief threading through the words. “And everyone fell for it?”

You shrug, helpless. “You didn’t.”

Her expression softens, but her gaze stays steady.

“I always notice Kara,” she says. Then, more quietly, “And of course I’d notice if someone else were trying to be her.”

That’s when it really hits you. Not that you failed. But that Kara Danvers is not invisible here. Not interchangeable. Not reducible to clothes and habits and a smile people expect.

The question slips out before you can stop it, “Why? Why do you always notice her?”

Lena blinks, caught off guard. Doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tap once against the arm of the chair, a small, restless tell you’ve seen a hundred times and never catalogued until now. 

“That’s… not a simple question.” 

You huff out something that might almost be a laugh. “Figures.”

Her mouth curves, just barely, but her eyes stay serious. 

“Kara is very good at being seen,” Lena says. “But not in the way people think.” She gestures vaguely, like she’s brushing aside a cliché. “Not the smile. Not the clumsiness. Not even the optimism, though God knows that’s loud.”

She stands, looking at you, looking around.  “She notices everything. People. Their moods. The way a room shifts when someone walks in upset and pretending they’re not. She sees that, and then she… responds to it. Adjusts. Softens. Makes space.”

Your throat tightens. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

“She looks at me,” She turns her back to the window, her voice dropping to a secret. “like I’m something worth understanding. Not fixing. Not fearing. Understanding.”

The word hangs there between you, fragile and exposed.

“That’s why I notice her, because when someone looks at you like that, you don’t forget it. You feel the absence immediately.”

You swallow. Hard.

“So I failed the vibe check,” you say weakly. “Didn’t laser-focus my love at you.”

Lena exhales a short, surprised laugh, the tension cracking just a little. “You were very convincing,” she admits. “Technically. If I hadn’t known her as well as I have, if I hadn’t—” She stops herself, shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“No, finish.” you say, too quickly. You think you know where she is going, but you can't just infer it. Not something this big. This life-changing. 

Lena hesitates.

“If I hadn’t fallen in love with her by accident,”

The words land softly. That’s somehow worse.

She looks at you when she says it, not the floor, not the window, not some safer middle distance. Straight at you, eyes steady, unflinching, like truth is a thing she’s long since stopped apologizing for.

“And then on purpose. If I hadn’t catalogued her the way you catalogue something you’re afraid to lose. Something that felt right for the first time in your life.”

"Lena,” You don't mean to sound pitiful, but that's how your voice comes out, “I'm guessing she doesn't know?”

“No, I—I haven't found the words yet.”

“Well, you should use those ones. They were very good.” The laugh that follows is startled and genuine. A sudden, necessary break in the heavy atmosphere. Lena bites her lower lip, a flicker of the 'human' beneath the 'Luthor' showing through.

“Maybe.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not hostile. A shared understanding settling into place like dust after a collapse. For a long moment, the only sound is the low hum of the L-Corp ventilation. You feel the weight of what she just gave you and you feel how heavy it is to carry it in a borrowed cardigan.

“Well,” you say eventually, “before I go… I still need a quote from you for CatCo, or Cat Grant might actually realize I’m an imposter.”

She straightens, CEO posture snapping back into place. “Alright. I’ll do you a favor, if you keep my feelings a secret.”

“It dies with me.” You pause, logic catching up. “Actually, for the sake of your psychological well-being, I hope it doesn’t. But that’s your decision, not mine.”

Lena goes still for half a second, heart doing that quiet, traitorous flip it’s been practicing lately. Kara is already drifting again, having dropped the sentence like a pebble into deep water, utterly unconcerned with the ripples.

Lena exhales, slow and careful, and lets herself stay exactly where Kara keeps finding her.

She always does this. Says the first thing that crosses her mind, bright and unfiltered, and never stops to wonder what it might do to Lena. Whether it will build her up or undo her entirely. Whether it will make her believe it’s true, even when everything else insists it can’t be.

Kara’s watch lights up against her wrist, pulsing insistently, and Lena is certain that if Kara were the swearing type, the air would be considerably bluer by now.

“Fine, fine. I’m up,” Kara groans, untangling herself at last. Late, as usual. Lena really shouldn’t be surprised anymore. “Sorry, I have to—”

It’s a blur after that. Kara vanishes into Lena’s bathroom and reappears seconds later already dressed, cape settled, boots laced like the laws of physics have simply given up around her. “Okay, Alex, I’m on my way.”

She’s halfway to the balcony when she doubles back, like she’s forgotten something essential. She presses a quick kiss to the top of Lena’s head, easy and familiar, like punctuation. “Emergency in London. See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Lena says. “Call me if you’re coming for dinner.”

Kara pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “If I don’t, will you eat?”

Lena doesn’t answer. She just smiles, small and telling.

Kara grins, victorious. “Then I’m definitely coming for dinner.”

“Go,” Lena says, warmth threading her voice despite herself. “Go save the world.”

Kara’s gone a heartbeat later, leaving behind quiet and the faint echo of wind. Lena stays in bed longer than she needs to, staring at the ceiling, wondering when this became normal. When Kara wove herself so thoroughly into the fabric of her life that every night seems incomplete unless it ends like this. Tangled, half-asleep, unnamed.

It’s just another one of their rituals. Lena knows that.

They accompany each other to boring work things. That’s all. It was settled ages ago, back when Lena invited Kara to the first L-Corp event she hosted in National City, back when it made sense to have someone familiar in the room. After that, it simply… stuck.

The habit is so embroidered into their friendship—relationship?—that neither of them needs an invitation anymore. Just a heads-up.

So when Kara texts her,

Kara: Boring CatCo thing tonight. Cat is going to talk forever. I’ll need distraction.

Lena smiles at her phone, already reaching for it.

Lena: I’ll bring my A game.

And she does.

She chooses her favorite dress, the one that knows exactly what to do with her collarbone and doesn’t pretend not to understand the assignment when it comes to cleavage. She tells herself she’s dressing for the room, for confidence, for herself. All perfectly reasonable explanations.

Kara seems to agree anyway.

She notices it immediately, since it's a little hard not to, and then seems entirely incapable of stopping. Her eyes keep drifting back, like they’ve found a point of orbit they weren’t warned about. She misses half of Cat’s opening monologue. She bumps her knee into Lena’s chair and murmurs an apology that doesn’t sound particularly sorry.

Lena catches it. The looking. The way Kara’s attention keeps snagging and returning.

For a moment, something in her pauses. Tilts.

Then she smooths it over, neat and practiced. Kara is bad at subtlety. And to be fair, she knows this dress is… a little too distracting. Anyone would look.

That explanation settles easily enough.

Lena crosses her legs, leans closer so Kara can hear Cat complaining about bad journalism, and lets the thought dissolve before it can finish forming. She’ll just— not wear this dress again around Kara. You know. Not to distract her.

It’s somewhere between Cat’s third digression and Kara’s fourth barely-suppressed yawn that someone else notices.

Maxwell Lord, unfortunately, decides to exist near them.

He slides into the space beside Lena like he owns it, smile slick, eyes doing that slow, evaluative drag that makes Lena’s shoulders tighten by instinct. “Ms. Luthor,” he says, voice low, intimate in a way he very much hasn’t earned, “you really should warn people before you wear something like that. It’s distracting.”

Lena’s expression doesn’t change. She’s perfected that. The polite half-smile, the mental note to forget this man later. “I’ll be sure to take that under advisement,” she replies coolly, already turning back toward the stage.

She would’ve let it pass. Filed it away as another small indignity in a long career of them.

Kara doesn’t.

Something in her posture shifts immediately. She straightens. Grows taller. Not metaphorically. Literally. Just enough that Maxwell has to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.

“That’s inappropriate,” Kara says, bright smile gone. Her voice is calm, but there’s steel under it now. “You don’t get to comment on her body.”

Maxwell chuckles, dismissive. “Relax, I meant it as a compliment.”

Kara steps closer. Close enough that Lena can feel the heat of her, the solid certainty of her presence. Kara’s hand finds Lena’s waist firmly. Protectively. Claiming in a way that makes Lena’s breath catch despite herself.

“She doesn’t need your compliments,” Kara continues, eyes steady, unblinking. “Everyone here already knows she’s brilliant. And kind. And powerful.” Her grip tightens, just slightly, a quiet warning. “So if that’s all you’ve got to offer, you can walk away now.”

Maxwell adjusts his posture, chin lifting, pride bruised and scrambling to recover. Lena recognizes the look immediately. The one that precedes a bad decision. She’s about to intervene, about to soften the edges, when Kara steps in again.

“Or,” Kara leans just a fraction closer, voice dropping, “I can make you walk.”

The air thickens, charged, like the room itself has learned how to hold its breath. Something old and unmistakable glints behind Kara’s eyes now, no longer human-small, no longer willing to play along. Maxwell sees it. He goes pale around the edges.

He huffs, scoffs, takes a step back. “Whatever,” he mutters, retreating. Then, smaller. Meaner. “Lesbians.”

The word hits the space between them and falls flat, powerless. Kara doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just watches him go with the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly how breakable he is.

Only when he’s gone does the room slowly exhale.

Kara’s hand is still at Lena’s waist.

“Kara,” Lena says quietly, not as a reprimand, and definitely not a warning.

Kara blinks, like she’s coming back into herself. “Sorry,” she says, immediately, pulling her hand away. “I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“I know,” Lena interrupts, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounds. Her pulse, however, is doing something reckless and unhelpful. “Thank you.”

Kara nods, sheepish now, hands tucking into her pockets like she’s trying to make herself smaller again. But the echo of her presence lingers undeniable.

They turn back toward the stage. Cat is still talking. The world keeps spinning.

And Lena, heart humming, thinks not for the first time tonight, that whatever this is, it’s starting to resist being unnamed.

It turns out that Kara seems to be more ready to name it than her. 

They’re on a thing. Lena doesn’t call them dates, because dates are for couples, and Kara and her are...not that. Right?

They’re having lunch together about a week after the incident with Maxwell Lord, something easy and familiar, when Clark Kent walks into the restaurant like he belongs in daylight. All earnest smiles and impossible posture.

“Kal! I mean,” Kara schools herself quickly, “Clark! I didn't know you were in National City!”

“Had some business to take care of. Thought I'd stop by and say a hello.”

“Oh, it's good to see you!” She hugs him tightly. When she lets go, she points at Lena with a smile, “You know my girl friend, Lena, right?”

Clark’s brows furrow for half a second. Lena’s nearly meet her hairline. “Yes.” He finally says, “Ms. Luthor, how are you?”

“Good.” Lena swallows. Confused, but good. “Please, join us for lunch.”

“I’d love to,” Clark says, already stepping back, “but I actually have to fly—take a flight back to Metropolis now.”

He looks at Kara. A look that lingers, knowing and fond.

Then he’s gone.

Kara sits back down like nothing remarkable has occurred. She picks up her fork, resumes eating, utterly unbothered by the tectonic shift she’s just caused.

Lena stares at her plate.

Girlfriend, her mind supplies calmly. Not a question. Not a panic. Just the conclusion. The word she’s been looking for. Because, if she’s honest, friends couldn’t begin to explain it.

Not the flying almost daily to Dublin just to bring her scones. Not the way they share a bed more nights than not, bodies fitting together with the ease of long habit. Not the hand at her waist the moment someone else dares to show interest. Not the lunches that are somehow always just the two of them, or the movie nights with legs tangled together like ivy, growing wherever there’s space.

And most of all, not the way Kara comes home to her. Like Lena is an anchor point, not a stopover. Like no matter how far she flies, this is where she lands.

Friends don’t do that.

Girlfriends do.

The realization doesn't panic her. Instead, it provides a strange, clinical relief. All the data points finally align. If this is a relationship, she’ll be good at it. Better than she’s already been. Because once Lena commits to a course of action, she is nothing if not thorough.

She starts the ‘campaign’ by sending flowers the very next day. Because that’s what she should have been doing all along, and stupid, stupid her has apparently been falling behind.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately.

Kara: [picture 📸] Kara: My favorite! You know me so well ❤️

Lena smiles at her phone, warm and pleased, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows she’s doing something right.

Lena: I was selfishly trying to convince you to come to my yoga class with me.

Kara: You’re trying to buy me out?? Whoa. I was not expecting that. Kara: Do I really have to?

Lena: No, I suppose not. There’s a girl there who seems interesting. I could try talking to her instead.

There’s a pause. Longer this time.

Kara: Kara: Fine. Kara: I’ll see you there.

Lena’s smile deepens, slow and satisfied. She's so good at this girlfriend thing.

The yoga studio smells like eucalyptus and quiet ambition. Lena unrolls her mat with practiced ease, stretching like she belongs anywhere she decides to be. The class hasn’t started yet, the room full of soft conversation and polite distance.

Someone settles onto the mat beside hers.

“Hi,” the woman says easily. “I’m Ella. I think I’ve seen you here before.”

“Yes,” Lena replies. “Lena.”

They talk. Lightly. Harmlessly. Ella compliments her balance, asks how long she’s been coming here. Lena answers, relaxed, grounded. She doesn’t invite anything forward, but she doesn’t retreat either. There’s no need.

And then the door bangs open.

“K—sorry! Sorry—hi—sorry!”

Kara barrels in like a natural disaster with legs, bag half-zipped, shoes in her hands. She skids to a stop when she sees Lena, relief flashing across her face so brightly it’s almost embarrassing.

“You started without me,” Kara whispers loudly as she hustles over.

Lena turns, unbothered, serene.

“Oh,” she says, gesturing. “This is Ella.”

“Hi.”

“And this,” Lena adds, smoothly, without looking back at Kara, “is my partner, Kara. She’s usually more on time.”

Kara drops her bag and blinks.

“Oh.” A beat. Then she brightens, entirely pleased with herself. “I didn’t know we needed partners for this class. Good thing I made it.”

She plops down on the mat beside Lena, grinning, stretching like this was always the arrangement.

Ella looks between them. She notices the way Kara’s knee nudges Lena’s without hesitation. The way Lena doesn’t move away. The way her hand drifts, absent-minded, to rest against Kara’s wrist like it belongs there.

“Right,” Ella says, polite, understanding. She smiles again, this time with an edge of resignation. “Well. That makes sense.”

Lena smiles back, perfectly composed.

“Lucky you,” She says to Kara, already rolling up her mat. “I’ll see you around, Lena.”

Kara, meanwhile, leans closer and whispers, stage-quiet, “Did I miss something?”

Lena doesn’t answer. She just lets her fingers lace with Kara’s.

Because some things don’t need clarification.

It’s late, and it’s raining in National City, so Lena assumes Kara isn’t coming tonight. That assumption has never been particularly reliable.

“Hey!” Kara calls as she steps in from the balcony, rainwater still clinging to her hair and jacket. “I’m super wet, so I’ll just take a quick shower first.”

Lena glances over her shoulder and nods, because what else is there to do, and Kara is already halfway to the bathroom anyway, moving fast like she’s afraid of dripping rain into the house itself.

A few minutes later, she’s back, wrapped in a towel and looking sheepish. “So… all the clothes I left here are dirty.”

Lena smiles, small and indulgent. “Just do it. You don’t have to ask.”

Kara’s grin is immediate, bright. She disappears again and returns wearing Lena’s clothes from head to toe, including an oversized sweater that doesn't look big on her, pajama shorts that hug her thighs in a way that almost makes Lena choke, and to complete the look mismatched socks. 

“You know I have matching socks, right?” Lena tries, knowing it's useless.

“What’s the fun in that?” Kara replies easily, already heading toward the kitchen. “What did you have for dinner?”

It turns out Lena didn’t have dinner. Not because she forgot, or because she was too busy, but because she was expecting something like this to happen, and she didn’t want to be full when Kara arrived.

“Lena!” Kara protests, head buried in the fridge. “You have to eat! Honestly.” She straightens, frowning. “Am I the only one who cares about your health?”

Lena just smiles, leaning against the counter, watching Kara move through her kitchen like she belongs there. Kara doesn’t ask where things are. She just knows. Opens the right drawer. Finds the pan Lena favors without thinking. Pulls ingredients out like this is a memory she’s revisiting, not a space she’s borrowing.

“Okay,” Kara says, decisively, tying Lena’s apron around her own waist like this is settled law. “Sit. You look like you’re about to argue, and I will win.”

“I don’t argue,” Lena says mildly.

Kara shoots her a look over her shoulder. “You litigate.”

Lena huffs a laugh despite herself and does as she’s told, perching on a stool, chin in her palm. She watches the small things. The way Kara rolls up sleeves that aren’t hers. The way she tastes the sauce, frowns, adds something, tastes again, nods like she’s solved a riddle only she was given.

It’s domestic. Obscenely so.

Kara talks while she cooks, filling the space with nonsense about CatCo and a printer that hates her personally, and Lena hums at the right moments, lets the sound of Kara’s voice settle into her bones. When Kara finally slides a plate in front of her, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just nudges it closer, hand brushing Lena’s fingers.

“Eat, please.” she says, gentler now.

Lena does. Because Kara is eating with her, so it makes sense now. Because it feels like being cared for without being inspected.

They end up on the couch afterward, rain louder now, the city blurred into watercolor beyond the glass. Kara kicks her feet up, mismatched socks resting against Lena’s thigh. At some point, without ceremony, Kara reaches out and tucks a strand of Lena’s hair behind her ear. The motion is so automatic it barely registers on Kara’s face.

It lands in Lena like a dropped plate.

She doesn’t think about it. Not really. There’s no strategy meeting, no internal debate. She just turns, slow, careful, and kisses Kara.

It’s brief. Soft. A question asked with her mouth and answered immediately by the way Kara goes utterly still.

When Kara pulls back, her eyes are wide, bright, a little stunned, like someone just shook her entire world.

“Oh,” Kara says. Then, helplessly, “Oh.”

Lena watches her, heart steady, mind calm in a way it rarely allows itself to be. Girlfriend, it supplies again, softly. Not a panic. Not a question. Just the word settling into place.

“You—We—” Kara stands abruptly, pacing like the room has wronged her personally. She opens her mouth, closes it, rubs a hand through her hair. Words seem to scatter the moment she reaches for them.

“You’re okay?” Lena asks, a sliver of unease finally slipping into her voice.

“I mean—you just—you kissed me!” Kara blurts, stopping short in front of her, eyes wide like this is breaking news.

“Well, yes,” Lena says, genuinely puzzled. “That’s what girlfriends do. It did take us long enough.”

“Girlfriends?” Kara repeats faintly. “You mean, like—like Alex and Kelly?”

“Well, they’re married now,” Lena says reasonably, “but essentially, yes.” She tilts her head. “Why are you surprised? You’re the one who called me that.”

Kara freezes.

Somewhere, very far away, the truth finally begins to catch up with her.

“I said girl—pause—friend,” Kara blurts. “You know. Like… girls. That are friends.”

Lena stares at her.

“What?” She stands too, shock snapping through her composure. “Who talks like that? No one talks like that!”

“I thought—wait—” Kara winces. “Is this what you meant by partner? At yoga?”

“Yes, Kara!” Lena throws her hands up. “How did you not realize?” She sinks back onto the couch, mortified. “The woman who saw us once figured it out before you did.”

She presses a hand to her face, groaning.

“Oh my god. I feel so stupid. I’ve been acting like we’re dating for weeks.”

The room goes very quiet.

Kara swallows, standing there in mismatched socks, staring at Lena like she’s just discovered gravity has been optional this whole time.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay the night,” Lena says at last. The words come out steady, but they hurt anyway. “I don’t think I want to wake up tangled in someone who isn’t my girlfriend.”

Kara looks like she’s been struck. Her voice drops, barely there. “But I love waking up tangled in you.”

Oh God. Lena absolutely cannot do this. She can’t handle her own stupidity, let alone Kara’s. She is mortified in a way that feels permanent, like a personality flaw. She considers, very seriously, never leaving her apartment again.

“God, Kara,” she says, pressing a hand to her face. “You don’t get to say things like that after telling me we’re just friends.”

“I didn’t say that,” Kara insists quickly. “I just—” She falters. “Apparently didn’t realize we were already… there.”

Lena scoffs, rolling her eyes, and that’s when the tear escapes, uninvited and traitorous. She doesn’t wipe it away fast enough.

Kara’s chest tightens painfully at the sight.

“But hey,” Kara says softly, dropping to her knees in front of her. “I’m all caught up now.”

Lena looks down at her, wary, arms crossed like she’s bracing for impact. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Kara says, her hands finding Lena’s and holding them gently but firmly, stilling her before she can hide her face, “that I’m an idiot. A huge, flying, catastrophically oblivious idiot.” She lets out a breathy laugh, more fond than amused. “I’ve been living in your house, wearing your clothes, spending every spare second figuring out how fast I can get back to you… and I genuinely thought I was just very good at being a friend.”

Lena’s lip trembles despite herself, annoyance and hope tangling together in her chest. “You called me your girlfriend in front of Clark,” she says. “And for the record, that man absolutely thinks you meant girls who are in love.”

Kara nods, immediate and unrepentant. “Okay. Then he’s right.” She leans in, resting her forehead against Lena’s. “Because you’re my person, Lena. You always have been. You’re where I land. So girlfriend, partner—whatever word you want—they’re all true.”

Lena exhales slowly, the last of the tension draining from her shoulders. “Why am I surprised you’re late even to us?”

Kara laughs, bright and warm and relieved. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops, unmistakably intentional now, lingering on Lena’s mouth. “But I’m here. And I want to wake up tangled in you. So I’m not going anywhere.”

This time, when they kiss, it isn’t a question. It’s an answer. Slow, sure, like something finally locking into place after weeks of hovering just off-center.

When they pull apart, Lena is breathless, composure mostly restored, heart still sprinting ahead of her.

“Okay,” she says lightly, like she isn’t smiling. “Fine. Then take me to bed, girlfriend.”

Kara’s grin is immediate. “You got it, partner.”

Lena rolls her eyes, fond. “Yeah. I hear it.”

“Good morning!” you say, turning with a smile so bright it nearly knocks her flat. “I made breakfast to thank you for letting me stay.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Kara says, stepping closer despite herself. She wants to steal that cute smile right off your mouth with a kiss. Wants to make it bigger. Wants to make it hers. Wants wants wants. How very inconvenient for her.

“Well, good news,” you continue, oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening three feet away. “Lena made some calls, and apparently I did have home insurance. Which is wild, because I absolutely do not remember being responsible.”

You laugh, light and a little breathless, and Kara feels it tug somewhere behind her ribs.

“I’ll be out of your hair in, like, a week.”

The word hits her like a dropped plate. “Don’t—” It’s out before she can stop it.

You turn fully now, eyebrows lifting, curiosity soft but immediate. “Don't?”

Kara swallows. Reroutes. Builds a bridge out of scraps.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, too fast, like speed might pass for certainty. “You can stay as long as you need. No need to hurry.”

You look at her for a second.

Not suspicious. Just attentive. Like you’re cataloguing her tone, her timing, the way she didn’t quite meet your eyes. You file it away somewhere gentle, not as evidence, just as information.

“Okay,” you say at last. “Thank you.”

You turn back to the stove, and Kara exhales a breath she hadn’t realized she’d trapped behind her ribs. Relief washes through her, bright and brief. She tells herself she’s safe now. Safe from the thought of you belonging here. Safe from the image of this becoming permanent.

Then you turn around.

Your smile is huge, reckless. You’re holding out a fork with a small bite of pancake balanced on it, steam curling like it’s proud of itself.

“Try this?”

You step closer. And closer. Close enough that Kara can smell chocolate and coffee and something unbearably you. The smile on your face is infuriating in its innocence, in the way it seems unaware of the havoc it causes. Something sparks low in her body, entirely unhelpful, deeply awake.

She leans in before her brain can intervene.

The bite is good. Too good. And when she pulls back, a few drops of melted chocolate have betrayed you, streaked across your fingers.

Your solution is swift. Casual. Probably engineered to kill her.

You lick it off your hand, slow enough to be a choice, eyes never leaving hers.

“Mm,” you say. “Good, right?”

The sound Kara makes in response cannot reasonably be classified as language. It’s something strangled and honest and doomed. Thank Rao you accept it as enthusiasm.

You wink at her, pleased. Then you turn back to the stove like you haven’t just detonated something vital.

“It’ll be ready soon.”

She crosses her legs, and thanks Rao she is not a man. This is fine, Kara tells herself, is temporary. Controlled. Fine.

But the smell of pancakes fills the room. Morning settles into the corners of her apartment like it knows the place. Like it plans to stay. And Kara can’t shake the quiet, bone-deep terror that you needed very little time at all to rearrange her world completely, to make her forget every careful rule she’s ever survived by.

She is aware she’s the one who asked you to stay longer. She is also painfully aware that it’s getting harder to live with how much she loves you and how much she wants you. Swallowing words only works to a certain extent. Eventually, they stack up in her chest, heavy and insistent, until it becomes impossible to breathe around them. Through them.

So what if she’s spending more time at work than she needs to? Who’s counting her hours, really? Besides her.

And Winn, apparently.

“I’m Supergirl,” Kara insists, arms crossed, chin up. “I don’t run from anything.”

Winn swivels in his chair, delighted. “Except from Y/N.”

Kara’s face betrays her instantly: heat, color, the whole solar flare. “I don’t run from her. I— I simply give her space. To exist. Away from me.”

“Uh-huh.” He grins, merciless. “That’s funny, because from where I’m standing, I’m pretty sure she wants to exist on top of you.”

“WINN!”

Kara hides her face in her hands, mortified, heroic, hopelessly in love.

Somewhere in her apartment, your laugh drifts and somehow finds its way all the way to CatCo. Kara straightens, exhales, and stares toward the sound like it’s a direction she might someday learn how to fly toward instead of away from.

Kara starts to think it’s luck when the city needs her. A mercy. A distraction.

She craves being home with you. Watching every movement you make, every breath you draw, every tiny laugh that escapes your mouth, so full of life and in defiance of her heart. But she can’t be around anymore. Not kissing you has become unbearable. Not loving you out loud has been eating parts of her she promised she didn’t have.

Today, the fight drags on. Too long. Too brutal. So when she finally gets home, she barely makes it to the couch before collapsing, cape discarded, glasses crooked, face bloodied, hands aching from punching the world back into place.

She’s half-asleep when you find her.

“Hey, hey” you say softly, already kneeling, hands hovering like you’re afraid to touch her and afraid not to. Your eyes track the blood at her temple, the split skin, the way she’s holding herself together out of habit more than strength. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kara murmurs, words slurred with exhaustion. “All part of the job.”

You’re already up, already moving. Towels. Water. The quiet efficiency of someone who hates that this could be a part of any job. You come back and sit close, closer than necessary, and start dabbing gently at her face.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says again, quieter now. “A little sunlight and I’ll be good as new.”

“I know,” you reply, not stopping. “I still don’t like seeing you like this.”

Your fingers brush her cheek. Careful. Reverent. Like she’s something fragile instead of invincible. Kara’s breath stutters. She tells herself it’s the pain. The exhaustion. Anything but this.

You clean the blood from her lip, your thumb lingering for half a second too long. Your gaze flicks up, catches hers. The world narrows. No alarms. No city. Just the space between your mouths, shrinking without either of you deciding to move.

She can feel it then. Clear as prophecy. You here, always. This couch. This care. Your hands knowing her body and injuries and love by heart. A future so solid it settles in her bones.

The oven timer goes off.

Neither of you flinches.

The sound stretches, insistent, forgotten. Your breath ghosts against hers. Kara’s heart is loud enough to be its own emergency.

Then she pulls back. Too fast. Like she just touched fire.

“Uh—” She clears her throat, already retreating. “The food. You—you should check it.”

You blink, like you’re waking up from some warm dream. 

“Oh. Right.” You stand, a little dazed. “Yeah. I will.”

You walk away. The timer keeps screaming. Kara stays frozen on the couch, hands clenched, lungs burning, because she knows that if she had leaned in, even a fraction more, she wouldn’t have stopped.

Time does something strange after that. Slips. Softens. She doesn’t remember taking her boots off. Doesn’t remember when the apartment got quiet again. Her body shuts down before her thoughts do.

She’s drifting when you come back.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting the food down, kneeling beside her like this is where you belong now. Like you’ve always done this. “Dinner is ready.”

She smiles, somewhere between here and elsewhere. “Smells good.”

“Come on,” you coax gently, brushing her arm. “Let’s eat. Then you can fall asleep properly. In bed.”

She doesn’t move. You think she’s drifted off again.

“Come on, babe.”

The word lands between you like a dropped match.

Kara’s eyes snap open. Not startled. Worse. Caught. Like something sacred just happened without permission. Her heart stumbles, forgets the rules, beats like it’s never practiced before.

She can hear yours too, heart beating suddenly faster. You know what you said. You felt it happen. But you don’t take it back. You don’t laugh it off. You don’t apologize for it.

Babe.

The word that’s been haunting her for weeks is suddenly real. Out in the world. Said with no fear at all.

And Kara, who’s spent weeks swallowing that word like it might undo the planet, realizes with dizzy, terrifying clarity that you just said it like it was the safest thing in the world.

There’s a strange moment after. A pocket of time where neither of you knows how to move without making things worse. So you move first, to the other side of the couch with your dinner.

You eat. She eats. Forks scrape softly against the plates. The mundane sounds feel too loud, like the apartment is holding its breath along with you.

You worry you’ve ruined something by letting the word escape. Kara worries she’s ruined everything by not saying it back.

You're left to fill the silence so you frame it as good news. As if it’s something she’s supposed to be relieved about.

“So,” you say lightly, eyes fixed on your food. “I found a place.”

Her fork stills. Just for half a second.

“Oh,” Kara says. It comes out practiced. Supportive. Heroic. “That’s… that’s great.”

“Yeah.” You nod, smiling, a little too carefully. “It’s close to L-Corp. Small, but I get to move in tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

The word lands wrong in her chest, like it skipped a step in gravity. 

“I figured,” you add quickly, too quickly, “you don’t have to worry anymore. About me invading your space. Or… you know.”

Kara’s chest tightens. Yes, she knows. knows what you mean and she also knows that this is it. The moment. The fork in the universe where she either speaks or condemns herself to orbiting you forever like a lonely satellite.

She can feel the words lining up, desperate and clumsy and alive.

Don’t go. Stay.  I love you. I have loved you since the day I met you. I am terrified and it’s because of you and also because of how much I want you.

Her mouth opens.

She sees it then, she knows what loving you would mean. Sees the target on your back in burning red. The danger. The way villains would smile if they knew. The way the world has a habit of punishing her for wanting anything.

She closes her mouth again. “That’s… good,” she says instead, hating herself immediately. “I’m proud of you.”

You blink. Just once. Something dims, like a flickering candle in the wind. She swallows hard not to take it back.

“Thanks,” you say. “I didn't want to be a burden anymore.”

“You're not—” The words don’t make it out. Kara nods instead, because nodding is easier than breathing through the horrible thing you just said.

That night, you pack quietly. You don’t ask her for help. She doesn’t offer. Every folded shirt feels like a countdown. Every box a small erasure.

In the morning, you stand by the door with your bag over your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say, sincere. “For everything.”

She wants to grab you. Wants to confess in a rush, messy and too late. Wants to rewrite the last month with one honest sentence. Wants to kiss you even more than all those terrifying moments she lost her sanity to it. She smiles instead.

“Anytime.” she says.

You leave. The door closes.

And Kara finally understands the cruelest part of her rule: Hiding her weakness doesn’t make her strong. It just makes her feel out of place in her own place.

She’s met with silence every time she enters her home. She hates it. She’s met with the knowledge that she could have had everything if she wasn’t so scared of the world taking it away from her. Worst of all, she broke your heart, and she hates that this is something she apparently just has to live with.

The word babe still reverberates through the apartment. It bounces off the walls, gets caught in corners, slips under doors. It haunts her sleep, shows up in the half-dreams right before waking, where for one blessed second she thinks she hears you again.

She could have said something. Should have.

The thought gnaws at her in the dark, relentless as gravity. Who would’ve blamed her if she did? Who would’ve looked at her, finally choosing herself, and called it wrong?

The world takes things whether she offers them up or not. It always has.

And that’s the part that won’t let her rest.

Because she did everything right. She followed the rules. She hid the weakness. She chose the greater good. And here she is: miserable, alone, with a broken heart and your broken heart to show for it. Proof of her discipline. Her supposed strength.

And for what?

What’s the point of saving the world if she doesn’t even want to live in it anymore? If every night she comes home and feels like tearing it apart with her grief, like the loneliness is loud enough to crack the walls? 

What’s the point of having a planet if the one person she loves most was exiled from her life by her own two hands?

That’s when something finally gives.

Her heart starts pounding so loudly she can’t hear the city anymore. Her hands shake so violently the tears don’t even get the chance to fall. They just stop, stunned, like they’ve realized this isn’t sadness anymore.

This is it. This is the version of the world where she didn’t choose you. Where she chose duty, fear, everyone else.

And guess what?

She knows now she would rather risk losing the world than keep losing you in pieces.

Your new place is still barren. Not enough furniture to call it a home yet. Echoes where laughter might someday live. Boxes stacked like decisions made too fast. Too soon.

When you open the door, surprise flashes across your face, before you school it into something warm.

“Hey!” you say, bright, sincere. “Welcome to my home!”

This isn’t your home, Kara’s mind screams, your home is with me.

She swallows.

“What brings you by?” you ask, casual, gentle. Brave in that way that always undoes her.

She wants to say everything. Wants to say I was wrong, I was scared, I love you so much it terrified me. The words line up, rearrange, beg for release, but then she looks at your eyes and all of them disappear. Because there's one thing she wants more than anything…

Kara steps closer. She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t give herself time to flinch. She slips an arm around your waist and pulls you in, breath uneven, heart finally honest.

“Something I should've done ages ago.”

And she kisses you.

Not careful. Not restrained. A kiss full of confession and apology and relief all knotted together, messy and honest and long overdue. Like she’s been carrying it in her chest for months and finally ran out of room.

You don’t flinch.

You kiss her back with the same intensity, because you’ve been waiting too. Because whatever doubt you had about her feelings burns away the second her hands find you. Because this is the thing you always knew was coming, even when she kept pretending it wasn’t.

She pulls back just long enough to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, words tumbling over each other. “I wanted this since I met you and—”

“No apologies,” you cut in, breathless, forehead still pressed to hers. Your hands stay on her like you’re afraid she might disappear if you let go. “Kiss me again if you mean it.”

Her answer is immediate.

She kisses you again. And again. And once more, like she’s making up for lost time, like she’s terrified that if she stops you’ll both remember how to be afraid. Her hands are sure now. Certain. When she lifts you, it’s instinct, a desperate need.

She carries you, but not toward the bed in this new, half-empty apartment. Not the one built out of boxes and loneliness and almosts.

She takes you home.

The kissing only really stops so she can finally say the thing that’s been living at the back of her throat, pressed there by fear and habit and restraint.

“Babe.”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing,” she says, breathless, almost shy now that it’s out. “I just wanted to finally say it out loud.”

You smile that bright, soft, deceptively innocent smile, and that’s when Kara realizes those smiles were never innocent at all.

“Oh yeah?” you tease. “Then say it again.”

“Babe.” She punctuates it with a kiss, like a period she’s been waiting weeks to place.

“Again.”

“Babe.”

Your laughter spills free, cascades through the room, bounces off the walls and fills the space like it’s been waiting for that sound specifically. Like the apartment exhales with you.

“Again.”

“Babe, babe, babe…” Kara trails the word along your skin: your neck, your jaw, your cheek… Each one less afraid. Then she leans in close, mouth brushing your ear, and whispers it one last time.

“Babe.”

And this time, it doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like coming home.

That's when she realizes that the thing she’s been calling weakness all along was never that at all. Like the hero she’s been trying so hard to protect the world from losing is standing right here, hands shaking, heart bare, finally brave enough to want something for herself. Brave enough to want something so big the rest of the world shrinks around it.

You were Lena’s friend first. You came all the way from Central City to help her create one simple thing. Something that turned out to be anything but. So you stayed. Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months. Lena grew almost dependent, not just on your inventive mind, but on the way you listened to her fully, entirely. She leaned on you without realizing it, confided in those late, low moments when the office lights were dim and the city felt heavy.

Then it just… spread.

Tuesdays with Winn started casually. One shared comment about a game, one you play too? moment, and suddenly it’s become a ritual. He pretends he’s not emotionally invested. He is deeply emotionally invested.

Mondays with Nia began as an accident and turned out to be sacred. Coffee, sunlight, gentle complaining about the week ahead. Nia clocks the feelings you don’t even know how to name, but she doesn’t say anything. She just smiles, like she’s holding a secret in her pocket.

Alex’s protectiveness was instinctive and a little fierce. To her, you look like someone who might apologize for existing too loudly. Alex decided, immediately, that the world is not allowed to be mean to you. This includes aliens. This includes her own sister, if necessary.

And Kara?

Kara wants a kiss. Repeatedly. Intrusively. At inappropriate times.

It shows up without asking. While Winn is talking. While Lena is monologuing. While the world continues as normal and Kara loses entire seconds of her life to the shape of your mouth.

It’s all she can think about. It follows her into sleep, into dreams she wakes from too fast, heart racing, embarrassed by her own brain.

Which is why she can’t do it. Cannot, will not, must stop doing it.

Because you’re not just important to her. You’re important to everyone. Which means Kara’s fear gets smarter. Loving you wouldn’t just be dangerous. No. It would be selfish. Possessive. Risky in ways she knows too well. 

So she smiles. She shows up. She keeps her lips to herself.

Like the hero she is.

The takeout containers are spread across the table, cardboard moons orbiting empty plates. It’s loud in a good way. Winn arguing with Lena about something fictional and therefore extremely serious, Alex stealing fries off Kara’s plate with the confidence of blood relations, you and Nia giggling about something no one knows about. And here Kara is, losing whole stretches of conversation to the idea of your mouth: how it curves when you smile, how it might curve after a kiss, how there are sounds she is suddenly, inexplicably sure you could make.

Everyone sees it at the same time. There’s one potsticker left. There’s a beat. A collective, unspoken understanding. Kara Danvers and potstickers are a known law of nature.

Kara reaches for it. Pauses. 

She’s noticed you haven’t eaten much. You do that sometimes, get so absorbed in a conversation, in a story, that food becomes an afterthought. It doesn’t help that you eat incredibly slowly, while the rest of them—animals, really, except for Lena—basically inhale their meals. Kara most of all.

It’s a selfless act. That’s what she tells herself. The hero in her.

“Here.” She places it on your plate. “You have it.”

Winn inhales so hard, he starts coughing. Alex squints. Nia’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. Lena tilts her head just slightly, curious in that way that has ruined men.

You notice how the room has gone quiet. Not awkwardly quiet. Scientific quiet. Like something has just defied gravity and people have to document it.

“You sure?” Your voice is low, but the room is so still you might as well have shouted.

“Yeah.” Kara swallows. Everyone is still staring. “Not hungry anymore.”

You glance up at her, amused but gentle, because you’ve decided not to pull on the loose thread. “If you change your mind,” you say, holding up the potsticker, “I can share.”

Kara doesn’t think about the food. She thinks about your mouth. About the way your lips curve around words, around food, around things she is very much not allowed to want.

She looks away like that might undo the thought. It doesn’t.

“No,” she says softly. “That’s okay—” babe.

Her tongue knows the shape of it before her brain catches up. It almost slips out. Familiar. Easy. Babe. 

It rises to the back of her throat before she can stop it, before she remembers herself, the room, the careful lines she’s drawn and redrawn. Babe. 

She swallows hard, and lets the moment pass like it never existed.

Around the table, everyone very pointedly returns to their food. But something has changed. Not enough to be named. Just enough to be remembered later as something more.

She needs to fix this.

That’s the thought that lodges itself behind her eyes sometime after midnight and refuses to leave. Fix it. Smooth it out. Be normal. Be good. Be Kara Danvers, Earth’s most emotionally constipated hero.

So she compensates.

Aggressively.

Winn mentions coffee and the next morning she hands him his exact order, memorized down to the detail he only uses when he’s stressed. She smiles too hard. Calls it nothing. Lena gets pastries flown in from Dublin because Kara remembers an offhand comment and decides this is what being friends is supposed to look like now. Nia needs help and Kara is already there, already lifting, already saying friend like it’s a rule she can’t break.

This is just who she is, she tells herself. Helpful. Attentive. Overly invested in everyone equally. A model of emotional responsibility.

It backfires immediately.

“I don’t understand,” Winn says, staring at Kara’s TV. Pixel Paladins glows on the screen, unmistakable. His game. Yours too. “Why are you playing this now?”

“Because I love it,” Kara says easily. Too easily. “It’s fun.”

Winn slowly looks at her. She’s fairly certain she called him a nerd for this exact game three weeks ago, but she's ignoring that for now.

“Really? You like playing video games now?”

“I have passion, Winn. So much passion.”

He doesn’t even look up from his controller. “Truly inspiring. I’m moved. Would you like that embroidered on a pillow?” Then, casual as a knife between ribs, “Speaking of passion… Here comes your biggest one.”

“What?” Kara turns, heart immediately attempting to evacuate her body.

You’re walking toward them, distracted, smiling at something on your phone, utterly unaware that Kara has just been emotionally pantsed in her own living room.

“Shut up, nerd.” Kara mutters, too late, too quiet.

Winn grins like he just won a prize.

“Hey! Another Paladin is joining our quest, nice!” You drop down on the couch next to her. Close, deliberately so, like there was never another option. So close she actually has to hold her breath so she won't accidentally touch you. “I knew you would like it, if you gave it a chance. Now you can come play with us every Tuesday.”

Kara is staring at your lips.

She has been thinking about them for an alarming amount of time.

Yep, Kara thinks, turning to look straight ahead while her shoulder screams, this has completely backfired.

She’s safer at game nights. With this many people, the distance doesn’t feel chosen. It feels required.

Kara doesn't have to look at you, even though she steals glances consistently. She doesn't have to be your partner at games, though her heart drops on her chest when you reach inside the bowl and pull out Lena's name for the night. She doesn't have to feel weird to have bought your favorite type of soda, when she also bought everyone's favorite snack.

And she doesn’t have to feel bad for using any excuse to get out for a second, before the thought of you steals her breath again.

She's in the kitchen, dumping more popcorn into a bowl, when she feels a hand settle at the small of her back. A small pressure. The touch doesn’t ask permission. It assumes it.

And she doesn’t have to look because it's obvious by the way her body reacts to it. Heart kicking hard enough she’s briefly worried it might actually escape.

“Need any help?”

She could hear it somehow. The babe that never comes, lingering in the space after your voice like she’s the one finishing the sentence. 

If this never happened before, why does it feel so familiar? Right in the way nothing ever has before, settling somewhere deep and instinctive, like it’s always known where to land.

Kara’s grip tightens on the bowl. This is nothing. This is normal. People touch each other all the time. Friendly. Casual.

Entirely survivable.

The bowl snaps.

A sharp crack, plastic giving way in her hands, popcorn spilling like evidence across the counter.

“Here, let me—”

Your hands touch as you reach for it, fingers brushing hers.

Kara’s heart somersaults clean out of her body, leaves her hollow and shaking in its wake. The want hits her all at once: violent, instinctive, terrifying. She wants to kiss you. Has to. Like breathing. Like gravity. Like something she won’t survive if she lets herself finish the thought.

That’s what scares her. Not the feeling. The loss of control.

She drops the bowl.

And bolts.

The next time she sees you, Kara has already schooled herself back into containment. The walls are back up. The rules rewritten. She can’t afford to be in love. The world can’t afford her dividing her attention, giving more to one person than to everyone else.

She can’t. She won’t.

And then there you are.

Soaked. Completely. Water slicking down your hair, clinging to your lashes, tracing the line of your jaw before dripping from your chin. You’re holding your phone in one hand, your computer tucked awkwardly under your arm, a pillow pressed to your chest like it might still mean home.

“It’s all I could save,” you say, breathless, apologetic. Like this is somehow your fault.

Kara’s brain stutters.

Because she wasn’t there when it happened. When the pipe burst and turned your apartment into a rushing, rising thing. When seconds mattered. When water swallowed walls and floors and everything familiar. She wasn’t there.

The realization hits harder than the sight of you standing in her doorway, drenched and shivering and trying to smile through it.

This is what her control costs.

She reaches for you without thinking. “Come in,” she says, voice steady in a way she does not feel. “Stay. Stay as long as you need.”

It isn’t logic that makes her say it. It isn’t duty. This time, it isn't the hero in her.

It’s the simple, unbearable fact that when you needed someone, she wasn’t there. And she will not let that happen again. Never again.

The door closes behind you, water pooling on her floor, and Kara knows with a clarity that frightens her, that whatever lines she thought she’d drawn have already dissolved.

Water usually does that.

“I'm sorry I just showed up here, I should have gone to Lena's, it's just that… God, you know Lena. She would've bought me an apartment the second I told her about mine. Hell, she probably already has a spare one.”

“Probably.” She forces. She wants to comfort you in the only way she can think of right now. She wants to kiss you. Not gently. Not carefully. She wants to do it like she’s been holding her breath for weeks and just remembered how air works. 

“Nia has so many flatmates already, and Winn's apartment smells like dirty socks and men.” You drop your things, after you just saved them, and Kara has to control herself not to catch them before they hit the floor. “God, what am I doing? Why am I here?” you say quietly. “You don’t even like to spend time with me.”

“What?”

The word comes out sharper than she means it to, startled loose from her chest. It echoes faintly in the hallway, absurdly loud for something so small.

You freeze. Actually freeze mid-movement, shoulders tensed, hands hovering uselessly above nothing. Like you didn't mean to say it out loud. Like you're scared of what she might say back.

“I mean… You literally bolt every time I come closer.” You breathe out loud, shake your head, “I'm sorry, this is stupid. I apparently have a tendency of ruining everything, including but not limited to apartments. I shouldn't stay. I should just call Lena. She probably has a penthouse she's forgotten she owns anyway.”

“No. Y/N, no. Don't go. Don't—” She almost spills everything, tells you it's the opposite. It's love, can't you see? It's LOVE! “I obviously like you. And you—you came here for a reason, so just stay, okay? Take a shower, warm yourself up. I'm gonna go to your apartment and see what I can salvage.”

“Okay.”

“I'll bring dinner too.” Kara pauses at the door. For half a second, she considers saying something else. Something careful, something rehearsed, something that won’t echo later when she’s alone. She fails. Instead, she points at you, earnest and a little frantic.“Hot shower,like… surface-of-the-sun hot. And don’t apologize anymore. For anything. Especially not existing.”

You smile at that. A real one. Tired, crooked, warm.

“Yes, ma’am,” you tease, and she feels it in places she absolutely cannot afford to feel anything.

Your apartment is a disaster. Waterlogged, ruined, smelling like copper and panic. But she handles it like she handles everything else: with efficiency, fierceness, and a jaw set just a little too tight. She saves what she can. Clothes. Books. One framed photo she pretends not to linger on.

She orders food without thinking. Enough for two. More than enough for two.

When she finally comes back, arms full and cape tucked away, the apartment smells like takeout and clean soap. You’re curled on the couch in borrowed clothes that are definitely too big, and yet fits perfectly. You're on your phone telling Lena she doesn't have to worry. You're safe.

And that's when it hits her. You look safe. You look like you're home. Like you've always been home.

Something in Kara’s chest loosens. Something else tightens to compensate. Something she tries very hard not to register.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey—” babe. No. She bites the word down hard, like it has teeth. Babe. No. Not now. Maybe not ever. She clears her throat instead, uselessly. “I, uh. I brought food. And what I could save. Unfortunately it wasn't much.”

“More than I was able to.” You point at the single three things you managed to grab before running scared. “I had to borrow something to wear. Sorry.”

“No more apologies. You can use anything here.” Kara says, too quickly. Then, softer, “You hungry?”

You nod, setting your phone aside. “Starving. Trauma does that.”

She huffs a laugh before she can stop herself. It escapes her chest, betrays her. You look up at the sound, surprised, pleased, like you’ve found something shiny on the ground.

She sits on the opposite end of the couch. On purpose. On paper. Kara hands you a container, careful not to touch you again because she’s learned a lot from the bowl incident. You eat quietly for a moment, the kind of quiet that isn’t awkward but isn’t empty either. It’s… settling. Like dust after something breaks.

“This is good,” you say around a bite. “Even if it could feed an entire family.”

She laughs, “I panic-ordered.”

“Ah. A classic.”

You lean back, tugging your legs up beneath you, wrapped in her hoodie like it’s always belonged to you. Kara pretends very hard not to notice. She fails quietly.

“You can take the bed,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“The bed,” she repeats, gesturing vaguely beyond the door. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Kara, no. It’s your apartment.”

“And you’re a guest whose home is currently looking like Atlantis.”

You consider it, lips pursed, then shake your head. “I’ll take the couch. I have already invaded enough.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Loses the argument somewhere between your face and her own stubbornness. She almost suggests sleeping together, the idea flaring bright and reckless in her chest before she can smother it. She doesn’t. She can’t do that to herself. Or to you. Or to the world, which she drags into it like a witness she didn’t call but refuses to dismiss.

She laughs, soft and sleep-rough, and it feels like the sun’s finally noticed you. Her hand traces idle patterns against your skin, like she’s memorizing how you feel without realizing it. For a while, it’s quiet again, just the faint rhythm of her breathing against your chest and the city waking up outside.

Then she moves far enough to break the spell.

Her voice is quieter when she speaks, deliberate in a way that makes your stomach sink before she even finishes the sentence. “This—” she pauses, “doesn’t have to change anything, you know?”

You blink, not understanding at first. “Change… what?”

She sits up, pulling the sheet with her like an armor or a shield. “We don’t have to make it… complicated. It can just be what it was. Just casual.”

And that’s when it hits — the hollow echo of casual.

“Lena, what are you saying?”

“It's just that… We're friends. Good friends, right?” You blink at her, but that's not really an answer. Not that she needs one anyway. “This was fun and all, but—” 

“Fun?” 

“Come on, Y/N, you know what I mean.”

You swallow. No, you don't know what she means. Sure last night was fun. It was fun the way she moaned your name, the way your hands got to explore each other's bodies, the way she kissed you over and over again.

But it was also like the world was finally giving you permission to have Lena the way you've always dreamed about. Like releasing a breath that had been trapped in your throat since the first moment you saw her and couldn’t kiss her. Like finally being alive.

You sit up too, the room suddenly colder than it was seconds ago. And you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable in your own skin. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” you manage, but it sounds wrong, like someone else said it through your mouth.

She looks relieved, and you wish she’d read what you were really trying to say instead of what you actually did. But she smiles, small and practiced, like she’s already moved on from whatever last night meant.

You nod, pretending it doesn’t sting. Pretending you’re not still replaying the way her hand had fit against your ribs like it belonged there. Pretending her body isn't burning on your mind and on your retinas forever. Pretending you can just walk away unscathed. 

“I should probably go then.” 

“Right,” she doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t reach out. By the time you’re at the door, you’re half-convinced she never actually did before.

You don’t remember the elevator ride down. Or the street outside. Just the sound of your pulse, still syncing to the rhythm of her voice. The city moves around you, indifferent, while you’re still caught in the orbit of something that is supposed to mean nothing.

You almost don’t notice when Supergirl lands beside you, an ice pop in hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Hey! Where did you disappear to last night?”

“What?”

“I went by your apartment so we could talk about… you know who. But you weren’t there.”

You swallow. You hate lying to your best friend, you always have, but right now, you know you couldn’t get two words out about it without falling apart. So you deflect, “Why are you eating an ice pop at eight in the morning?”

“Oh! I saved a guy who sells these! He tried to give me the whole cart, so I thought it’d be rude not to accept at least one… or two” Kara finishes it in one bite, beaming like the world is just amazing and easy.

You force a small smile, watching the stick snap between her fingers.

“I should get home and change for work,” she says, cleaning her sticky lips on the back of her sticky hand. “We’ll talk about you-know-who later, okay?”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. You’re not sure which will hurt more, if it's talking about Lena, or pretending you don’t desperately want to.

It’s late by the time you get home. The city hums outside your window, distant and uncaring. You did your best all day at work not to think about Lena or the night before. You swatted the memories away like intrusive bugs in your mind, swallowed down the ache to call her, to have her again, to want her.

And now here you are. At a place where she fills in more than you'd like to admit. You thought maybe time would dull it by now. It hasn’t. Lena’s touch still lingers on your skin like static that won’t fade.

You’re halfway through convincing yourself that you can go to bed without crying when there’s a knock on the door. 

Kara.

She’s holding a takeout bag, smiling like she’s here to fix something she doesn’t know is broken. “I brought food,” she says, stepping in before you can think of refusing. “I know it's a tough conversation and that you were drunk when you told me about…”

“Lena?” You can’t remember how to smile, so you give her something that might pass for one. “I’m tired, do we have to do this today?”

“Umm, yeah. The only reason we didn't do this yesterday it's because I couldn't find you.”

She settles on your couch, the smell of noodles filling the air, grounding and safe. You sit beside her, careful not to unravel.

“I was thinking,” Kara starts, half a mouthful of dinner in, “I know how much you like her. And I get it. She’s incredible. Totally your type. But she’s also, um, not great at… relationships.”

You hum, a small sound that might mean anything, but it's the only thing keeping you from screaming.

“She’s been through a lot,” Kara adds quickly. “It’s not her fault, it's the whole Luthor curse. It’s just that… she keeps people at a distance. I don’t think she’d even know how to have something real.”

You nod because it’s easier than speaking. The air feels too thick to breathe in. Your own apartment feels like it's closing in on you.

“She does care about you,” Kara goes on, trying to be reassuring, and that’s the cruelest part. “But you know Lena. She’s built for friendships, business, saving the world… She’s not built for the messy stuff. She only knows how to keep things... casual.”

You force yourself to eat something, anything, because it gives you an excuse not to answer. You swallow the bite alongside your tears, and it burns going down. You swallow again, harder, the word casual going down your throat sharp at the edges.

If you told her now, she’d look at you with that open, worried face. The one that makes you feel small and ashamed. She’d say Oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry, and what good would her being sorry do for you now?

You sit there and listen while Kara tells you that Lena’s heart is complicated and fragile and off-limits, and every sentence feels like she’s drawing a chalk outline around something that’s already dead.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Y/N. You deserve someone who's ready to give themselves completely to you.” Kara says softly, touching your arm.

You nod again, afraid that if you meet her eyes, she’ll see the truth of what you did, written all over your skin.

When she finally leaves, the quiet crawls back in. You stare at the takeout box half-open on your table, the noodles drying out in the air, and your chest tightens until you think you might break apart.

You want to call Lena. You want to hate her. You want to stop wanting her.

Instead, you just sit there staring at the reflection of the city lights in your window, and wishing they’d stop flickering like her eyes did when she said it was casual.

You tried to get out of it. Really, you did. The idea of the alien bar made your chest tighten like it was being squeezed, every memory from that night threatening to bubble up in front of strangers. But Kara had planted herself firmly in front of you, grinning like sunshine incarnate.

“Nope,” she said, arms crossed. “You’re going. It’s karaoke night, and I am not leaving without my best friend belting ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ with me.”

You groaned. Fine. You followed. Not fine.

The bar smells like fried food, cheap perfume, and the tang of alien alcohol that makes your stomach churn. Lights flash over the crowd, colors bouncing off faces and reflective surfaces. And then you see her.

Lena.

It's been a whole week. You have schooled your emotions back into nothing. Back into the thought of you and her never happening, but god it happened. It did.

And looking at her now, even from afar, makes something burn inside you. Memories come flooding back. 

The way she looked at you when she opened her door, that little flicker of something behind her eyes. That stupid little smile she gave you that made you believe she was in it too. 

“I'm glad you came.”

“Oh, yeah?” You looked at the board game on the coffee table with an amused expression. “You really wanna practice playing games? Are you really that desperate to win the next game night?”

“Oh please, tell me you're not upset that the Danvers sisters win every week.” She guided you to the place she's been sitting on the floor. The rug was soft beneath your bare feet. 

You shrugged, “You get used to it. Besides, not everyone plays to win.”

Lena looked at you as if you grew a second head. “What do you play for?”

“Mostly? To look at you.”

Normally you would have won a laugh from her end. She would play it cool, coy, collected. But not that night. No, that night Lena bit her lower lip, and looked you up from hooded eyes. 

“See, I can never tell when you're being serious.”

You moved a little closer, just enough to pretend it wasn't intentional. “Oh, I'm always serious about you.”

She moved closer too, under the same guise of not being too real, but the way she was looking at you, it left no doubt. 

You drop into a chair next to Kara, trying to disappear behind her enthusiasm. Kara leans forward, oblivious. “It’ll be fine!”

You try to focus on Kara’s laugh, on the way her hair catches the neon light, but your eyes keep drifting back. Lena’s gaze eventually finds you. Just briefly, just enough to make you shiver, but she doesn’t flinch the slightest. Doesn’t smile, just stares at you with empty eyes as if she never even met you before.

The distance between you feels like a canyon. You want to collapse into her arms, to scream that it wasn’t nothing, it wasn't casual, that you don't want to be good friends. But instead, you sit there, pretending the world is normal.

She lifts her glass slightly in a mock toast, polite and impersonal, and your stomach twists. You force yourself to drink your own beer in answer, pretending the burn helps keep your thoughts at bay.

How can she look at you and pretend you're someone she’s never met?

Kara claps her hands. “Come on! We’re next! Let’s do this!”

You nod mechanically, forcing a smile, forcing your body to cooperate, forcing yourself to pretend you’re someone Lena doesn’t already know intimately.

You don’t make it through the song. Halfway through the chorus, your throat closes up, the words snagging somewhere between your chest and your mouth. You mumble something about needing the bathroom, ignoring Kara’s confused look as you push through the crowd.

Inside, the lights are too bright. The mirror is too honest. You grip the sink, trying to steady the tremor in your hands. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, not over her, not again, and definitely not in here. But the tears come anyway, hot and reckless, falling before you can stop them.

It’s like your body is finally catching up to what your heart’s been screaming all week. You press your palms to your eyes, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. You cry for everything that could’ve been, for every word you didn’t say, for the way she said fun like it wasn’t your heart on the line, for the way her eyes have been either keeping you up or haunting your dreams.

The door creaks open. You flinch.

 “Hey,” a soft voice says. “You okay?”

You turn, half-embarrassed, half-exposed. It’s a woman you’ve seen around the bar before. Pretty, kind smile, the sort of person who looks at you without expecting anything.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… long week.”

She tilts her head, studying you for a moment. “Well, long weeks deserve a drink. Come on, I’ll buy you one. You shouldn’t cry alone.”

You almost say no. But the thought of sitting here with your swollen eyes and cracked heart feels worse. So you nod. “Sure. One drink.”

Back at the bar, the noise hits like a wave. Laughter, clinking glasses, a new song starting. Kara’s on stage, microphone in hand, singing like she means it. You can’t help but smile, small and fragile.

The girl (Claire/ Clara/ something like that) orders two shots and slides one toward you. You clink glasses out of courtesy. She leans in close, says something about how you have a nice smile, and you almost laugh at the irony.

Then you feel it. A gaze. Heavy. Familiar. Burning.

You glance across the room and, yeah, Lena’s watching you.

Her posture is perfect, her expression unreadable, but her eyes, god her eyes!, are sharper than you’ve ever seen them. She’s staring at the girl’s hand on your arm, the closeness between you, and for the first time since the whole thing, you see her flinch.

Your heart stumbles. You turn back to your drink, pretending you didn’t see, pretending you’re fine. But her gaze lingers, and suddenly the air feels too thick, too alive, like the space between you might catch fire if either of you dared to move.

You don’t even realize you’re laughing at something Claire/ Clara/ something like just said, until the sound leaves your mouth. Light, effortless, almost foreign since this whole week started. Since you got everything you've ever wanted and it was snatched away the very next morning.

You’re mid-laugh when you feel a shift in the air, sharp and cold. And a hand squeezing your tight that wasn't there before.

“Y/N.”

You turn, and Lena’s there. Calm. Composed. Perfect, as always. Only her eyes betray her.  Too sharp, too dark, awfully honest.

She leans in, closer than the other girl is. “Kara’s looking for you.”

“Oh.” You blink, a little too long. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Claire/ Clara/ something like that tilts her head, teasing. “Sure. Let me know if you need saving again.”

You give her a small smile and then you follow Lena  through the crowd, through the pulse of lights and laughter, until the night air hits you, cool and merciless.

You cross your arms, looking around the empty street. “So? Where’s Kara?”

Lena doesn’t look at you right away. Her jaw tightens. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

She turns to you with anger in her eyes. Spits the words as if they taste bitter in her mouth. “Inside. With that girl.”

“That?” You laugh, but it’s dry. “That’s called flirting, Lena.”

Her eyes flash that quick, dangerous spark she gets when something hits too close. “You move on fast, don’t you?”

Something inside you snaps at her words. “Are you serious right now?” 

You spent a week crying over her. Blaming yourself for wanting her in a way she couldn't, wouldn't give to you. And now… Now this? 

Your voice rises, sharp and trembling. “You said it was casual. You made sure I knew it was nothing. So don’t you dare stand there and act like you have any right to—”

“Don’t finish that,” she says, stepping closer. Her voice is sharper now, low and trembling. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You stare at her, heartbeat roaring in your ears. “We're just good friends, right?”

Lena's hand is grabbing your face before you realize what's happening. She only did it once before, but somehow you know exactly what's coming after.

Because of that night.

“You know, the thing is you're too much of a flirt, but nothing comes after.” She had said, her voice low, teasing, dangerous. “So, I'll tell you what Y/N…” Her hand had found your jaw, firm and sure. “This is your chance. You either kiss me right now or—”

You kissed her. 

Then everything blurred. Her weight above you, the fur rug soft against your skin, her breath against your mouth, her hand under your skirt, her eyes full of fire and want and something dangerously close to love.

You blink the memory away. This worked once, but it won't work this time. You're not about to have your heart broken by Lena once again.

“Stop.” You move your face away from her, out of her reach. “We're not doing this again, Lena.”

“Y/N—”

“No. No.” You take a step back, your voice shaking with anger that’s half heartbreak, half love. “You don’t get to use me like that and call it casual, okay? It’s not casual to me and you know damn well how I feel about you! Hell, all of our friends know.”

The tears come hot and fast, blurring the world around her. “You don’t get to sell yourself lies anymore. And you definitely don’t get to break my heart just to protect yours.”

“Damn it, Y/N!” Lena’s voice cracks as she looks away, then up at the night sky like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I love you!” she says, almost a whisper, like she can't believe she's admitting it.

Your breath catches.

“I love you,” she says again, louder this time, desperate, raw. “And it terrifies me. Because you—you make me forget how to be careful. You make me want things I’m not supposed to want, things I'm not built to have. I’ve spent my whole life building walls so no one could ever hurt me again, and then you walked in and...”

She steps closer, eyes wet, voice trembling between confession and plea. “You just walked in, didn't you? Easy as that.” 

Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to be. “Lena…”

Her laugh breaks apart before it even forms. “I thought if I called it casual, it would be a pre-emptive countermeasure. I thought if I pretended it didn’t matter, I could survive it when you decided you didn’t want me anymore. But I was wrong.” Her voice fractures, raw and human in a way you’ve never heard. “I was wrong because I lost everything when you left that morning.”

You can’t move. You can barely breathe. The world narrows down to the sound of her voice and the space between you, and suddenly, all that pain feels like proof that it was always real.

The silence that follows is heavy, alive, almost sacred. You can feel her heart in every word still hanging between you.

You take a step big enough to close the distance, grab her jaw as if it's the only thing keeping you tethered to this world, and god it might be. 

And you kiss her.

Your tears mingle, your breaths unite, and your hearts marry. It’s messy and desperate and perfect, the kind of kiss that rewrites every lie you both ever told yourselves.

You can’t help whispering “I love you” into the space between your lips.

She can’t help the laugh that stumbles out of her, soft and shaking, her forehead falling against yours. “I love you. Don't ever flirt with any other girl, okay?”

“Don’t worry, darling,” you whisper, smiling against her mouth. “I’ve always been yours.”

She wakes early, despite promising herself she wouldn’t. She lies still beneath the sheets, pretending not to listen for the faint sound of boots on her balcony, for that soft knock before the door opens and light floods the room. But the city hums quietly outside, and no one lands.

Lena leaves the balcony open anyway. Just in case.

Sam and Ruby call first thing in the morning, loving and cheerful, and Lena makes herself sound casual, as if it doesn’t matter that someone remembered. She tells herself it’s silly to care, but when she hangs up, her chest feels a little less empty.

At the office, Jess greets her with flowers — orchids, her favorite — and lunch from that place she likes by the river. Lena thanks her with the perfect smile, the one that makes people believe she’s genuinely touched. But the moment Jess walks out, the expression slips, her face returning to something quieter, heavier.

The day goes on like that. The employees stop by her office with well-meaning smiles, gifts she didn’t ask for, kind words that almost reach her. And she appreciates it, she really does, but she keeps catching herself glancing at the balcony, expecting the sound of someone arriving, a familiar voice cutting through the hum of work.

It doesn’t come.

Maybe Kara’s busy, she tells herself. Maybe there’s a crisis. Maybe she’s somewhere halfway across the planet saving someone’s life. And it should be enough, that thought should be enough, but every time she tries to convince herself, her chest tightens anyway, like her body refuses to believe her mind.

By afternoon, the excuses start to sound thin even in her own head.

She shuts her laptop earlier than usual, stares at the city through the tall windows, and tries to swallow the restlessness sitting at the base of her throat. Then, because she can’t stand the thought of waiting anymore, she decides to find Kara herself.

The Tower feels alive when she walks in. The lights hum, screens flicker, voices echo softly. Brainy smiles when he sees her, followed by Alex’s warmth, J’onn's kindness and Nia’s earnest enthusiasm. There’s a cake waiting on the table, a single candle trembling in the air.

“Happy birthday, Lena! We're so glad you're a part of our lives!” Nia says, her eyes bright, her voice full of that effortless kindness Lena both envies and adores. The others follow with hugs, gifts, laughter that fills the space like sunlight.

It’s lovely. It’s everything birthdays are supposed to be. And yet, the longer she stands there, the heavier her smile feels.

Because Kara isn’t there.

Her gaze keeps flicking toward the elevator, toward the sound of the boots landing on the balcony, toward anything that might mean Kara’s on her way. But every minute stretches into another reminder that she isn’t.

She hates herself for the disappointment. Hates the way she can’t seem to stop caring. Hates that she doesn’t even understand why this feels like rejection, or why this feels like heartbreak.

“Where’s, um, your sister?” she asks finally, trying to sound casual, though her throat feels tight around the words.

Alex hesitates. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “She hasn’t been in all day, but I’m sure she’ll show up later. You know Kara.”

“Of course,” Lena says with a smile that tastes false even to her.

She stays a while longer, pretending to be present, pretending that she isn’t mainly looking toward the elevator doors. Eventually, she makes an excuse and leaves.

Her apartment greets her in silence. Not the peaceful kind, but rather the hollow one. The kind that fills the space behind her ribs and makes her able to hear her own heartbeat. She drops her bag, slips off her heels, and stands in the middle of the living room without turning the lights on.

The balcony door is still open. She hadn’t realized she’d left it that way.

She almost closes it. Almost.

That night, she dreams of voices and laughter that aren’t there.

The morning after her birthday is worse.

Her phone lies face down on the nightstand. She’s been pretending not to care since she opened her eyes, but she keeps reaching for it anyway. Fingers brushing the edge, heart stuttering each time she gives in. Some part of her still expects a message. Something simple. Happy birthday, Lena. Sorry I was late. Something that would make this ache make sense.

But there’s nothing. No messages. No calls. Just silence.

She sets the phone down with careful precision, because if she doesn’t, she might throw it just to hear something break that isn’t her heart.

She tells herself she’s fine. She’s always fine. She’s outgrown birthdays. She’s outgrown waiting for things that never come.

But by Thursday, the mask begins to slip. She’s shorter with Jess than usual. Her patience frays in meetings. She avoids Alex’s calls, leaves Nia’s messages unread.

She doesn’t want comfort. Doesn’t want pity. She just wants to understand why this hurts so much.

Why one forgotten birthday feels like something else entirely, like something she can’t name, like something that feels too close to being left behind.

By Friday night, the silence has hollowed her out.

She sits on her immaculate white couch. The cushions are untouched, the lines too sharp. A new bottle of wine rests beside her, an empty one next to it. Her laptop glows faintly, a half-written document open and blinking, each unfinished sentence staring back like a reminder of everything she can’t quite say.

She tells herself she isn’t waiting anymore. She’s above this, past this. But her phone lies face-up on the table, and every time the screen lights, her pulse betrays her in a way she can't quite fake. That split second where hope stirs, desperate and uninvited, before collapsing in on itself again.

She hates that she’s doing this. Hates the smallness of it, the absurdity of sitting in the dark waiting for someone that should’ve already come.

She thinks of all the times Kara went out of her way for her, crossing oceans just to bring back the perfect scone from that café in Ireland because Lena once mentioned liking it; dropping by unannounced with takeout when she knew Lena hadn’t eaten; the way she remembered every insignificant detail, from how Lena took her coffee to the melody she hummed while she worked. Kara, who once promised to take her to Argo, to show her around as if she was the prize, or maybe the best thing Kara had on Earth. Kara, who always kept her promises.

Except this one. Except for her birthday.

The thought lands like a weight in her stomach — dull, humiliating, final.

It’s gut-wrenching to want something so small and still not have it.

Her vision blurs, and for a moment she convinces herself it’s just the wine. But then a tear slips free, warm and treacherous, and another follows. She blinks hard, furious, but it’s too late. The sob comes up strangled, raw, as if dragged from somewhere deep and childlike. A sound she hasn’t made in years. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to quiet it, to cage it, but her chest trembles anyway.

“Pathetic,” she whispers, voice cracking on the word. “When did you become so pathetic, Lena Luthor?”

Her name sounds like an accusation in her own mouth. A curse, almost.

Her chest aches the way it always does when it’s Kara. When she’s laughing, when she's leaning in, when she’s angry, when she’s gone. It’s an ache that knows Lena better than she knows herself. It sits in her bones, quiet and constant, something she pretends not to notice until nights like this, when the silence around her feels carved from it.

The thought cuts through her mind before she can stop it, sharp and reckless and awfully real.

No. That can’t be it.

She laughs under her breath, shaking her head as if motion could undo the thought. “God, no. Don’t be ridiculous, Lena.”

But the wine has softened her edges, and the apartment feels too still, too alive with absence. The silence answers her back like an echo.

That’s why it hurts. Because it’s Kara. Because somewhere along the way Lena's world began to orbit around her and her only. Around her smile, her voice, her presence. Around the way Kara makes her feel like she is more than just a Luthor, more than the sum of every mistake and every headline. The way she is seen, truly seen, in a way that no one else has ever managed.

Her throat tightens.

“No,” she says again, louder now, as if she can drown it out, as if the sound could fill the hollow she’s been ignoring. “I’m drunk. I’m tired. She’s just—she’s my friend. That’s all. Stop—thinking—nonsense.”

But the word friend scrapes against her tongue like something broken, something she’s outgrown without realizing it. It tastes bitter and wrong in this sentence, a lie her heart refuses to swallow.

She leans forward, pressing her palm hard against her eyes, as if she can push the thoughts back inside her skull. Her voice is smaller when she speaks again. “People don’t cry like this for a friend, Lena.” 

The admission leaves her body like a wound exhaling air.

It’s absurd.

It’s impossible.

It’s true.

She’s in love with Kara.

The glass slips from her hand before she realizes she’s loosened her grip. It hits the edge of the coffee table and cracks, a sharp, ringing sound that startles her into stillness. Red wine spills across the white couch, spreading like a stain she can’t control.

For a second, she just stares.

Then she sees the blood.

A thin line, bright and wet across her palm. It doesn’t even sting at first. It's just there, quiet proof that she’s been bleeding, inside and out, for someone who never even came. She presses a napkin against it, watching the fabric bloom red.

She sits there like that for a long time, bleeding quietly in the dark.

And still, the thing that hurts most, the thing that sits like glass in her throat, is that Kara still hasn’t called.

She tips her head back, eyes burning, and lets the silence press against her once more.

There’s no knock at the balcony. No voice in the dark. No miracle. Just the slow, steady pulse in her hand, and the echo of her own foolish heart finally telling her what it’s been trying to say all along. She's in love with Kara and Kara doesn't love her back.

Morning comes cruelly bright.

The first thing Lena feels is the pounding in her head. Sharp, rhythmic, merciless. The kind that makes her angry at herself for drinking this much, for letting it get this far. The second is the taste of old wine on her tongue, the bitter kind that clings to regret. Her eyes are half-open, unfocused, and the world tilts when she tries to move.

“Lena?”

The voice reaches her through the haze. Soft, urgent, too real.

She groans, pressing her face into the couch cushion. “Not now, Kara,” she mumbles, voice rasping, half-asleep.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then her eyes snap open. Her heart stutters, then races. She sits up too fast. “Kara?”

The pain flares behind her eyes, but she ignores it — ignores the blur, the nausea, the way her whole body protests — because there she is. Kara, coming in from the balcony, hair wild from the wind, still in her Supergirl suit, eyes wide with panic.

“Lena, Rao, what happened?” She’s at Lena’s side before she can even blink, before Lena can decide whether this is real or some cruel hangover hallucination she’s conjured out of longing.

Lena blinks, dazed. The scene around her sharpens. The glass shattered on the floor, the bottle tipped over, the white couch stained in red that’s part wine, part blood. She hadn’t even noticed the dried streak on her palm until Kara takes her hand, thumb tracing the cut like she’s afraid she could hurt Lena any more.

Kara’s studying her hand, then her face. There’s so much intent in her eyes it almost hurts to look at her. Like she’s seeing too much. Like she might hear every thought echoing in Lena’s mind. I love you. I’m in love with you. Kara Danvers, I’m so in love with you.

“It’s okay,” Kara says, her voice soft but sure. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Lena wants to let out that bitter, acid laughter that’s been bubbling in her stomach alongside the wine. But before she can form it, Kara is gone again, moving through the apartment like she belongs, like this is normal.

She comes back with a first-aid kit, water, aspirin. The domesticity of it nearly undoes her. Kara kneeling before her, golden morning light catching in her hair, focused and gentle as she wraps the bandage around Lena’s hand.

“Oh, Lena…” Kara’s voice cracks on her name. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lena manages, her voice raw and small. “I don’t matter.”

“What?” Kara frowns, and the sound is full of disbelief, not at Lena’s words, but at the fact that she could ever think them.

Her gaze searches Lena’s face like she’s trying to learn it by heart, to understand every fracture. Kara’s hand lifts, hesitates, then touches her cheek — so soft, so careful that Lena can’t help but close her eyes.

“Let’s get some food into you,” Kara murmurs. “You’ll feel better.”

By the time Lena can stand without swaying, Kara’s made her eggs and toast and is watching her with that ridiculous, hopeful expression. The one that’s half guilt, half sunshine, and wholly unbearable.

Lena loathes it. Hates her. Absolutely loves her.

“Feeling better?”

Lena can’t answer. Can’t speak. Realizing she’s in love with Kara feels like stepping onto thin ice. Every breath is a risk, every glance a crack spreading under her feet. How is she supposed to survive Kara Danvers now, with her mind humming her name like a fever? How is she supposed to swallow back this feeling when lying to herself isn’t an option anymore?

She nods. It’s all she can manage.

Kara’s eyes light up immediately, too bright, too warm. “Good.” She smiles and Lena’s stomach somersaults, her pulse betraying her completely. “I, um, actually need a favor.”

There it is. That’s why Kara suddenly remembered her.

Lena forces a thin smile. “Sorry, I think I’ve met my quota of crises this week.”

“It’s… kind of important,” Kara says, fidgeting with her glasses. Restless hands smooth over her suit, as if even her skin can’t stay still. “Just… trust me? Please?”

Maybe it’s the hangover, or the exhaustion, or maybe it’s just Kara — that soft please, that pleading look, eyes shimmering with hope like she’s offering salvation instead of another stabbing in the heart. Whatever it is, Lena gives in. Begrudgingly. Stupidly. Entirely.

The flight is quick, though the scenery changes so completely it feels like crossing continents. When they land, there’s only quiet. Trees stretching high above them, a lake that mirrors the pale sky, and sunlight so gentle it almost feels undeserved on Lena’s skin.

“Kara, where are we?”

“Come on,” Kara says, reaching for her hand, lacing their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if they’ve always done this. Lena’s breath stumbles in her chest, and she has to ignore the pounding in her heart long enough to make sense of what’s happening.

The cabin is small, simple. A kitchen, a couch, a fireplace, a door slightly open that hints at a bedroom. There’s nothing unusual about it. Nothing familiar.

Except—

A birthday cake on the kitchen table. A banner strung above it, Kara’s unmistakable handwriting curling into Happy Birthday, Lena! Balloons. Flowers. Ribbons. Like a child’s dream of joy brought to life.

“What is this?” Lena asks, voice low, thin, already trembling with disbelief.

Kara’s smile is soft, hesitant. “Happy birthday, Lena.”

And that’s what breaks her.

“Really?” Lena’s laugh is sharp, bitter, cracking halfway through. “My birthday was days ago, Kara. Days! You didn’t call, didn’t stop by, didn’t even text. And now you think you can make it up with a secret celebration?”

Her tone slices the air clean open. Kara flinches, shoulders tightening like she’s taken a physical blow.

“But—”

“What? I’m not even worth being celebrated out loud?” The anger comes out faster now, wild and shaking, the kind that’s born from hurt that’s been stewing too long. “You—of all people—you forgot. You always remember everyone else, but not me.”

“Lena, no,” Kara blurts out, eyes glassy as she shakes her head. “I didn’t forget. I sent you flowers! Orchids, your favorites. A card, and, um, food from that place you love so much. The one you said reminded you of Dublin.”

The words hit like static — flowers? card? Lena’s mind scrambles back through the blur of that morning: Jess handing her the bouquet, saying someone sent them. She hadn’t even seen a card, just assumed it was from Jess.

For the first time in days, Lena doesn’t know what to say. Because she spent all week thinking Kara didn't care, didn't remember her, when there was a card. 

"Wait—Wait…You sent the flowers and the food, but you didn't show up there to wish me a happy birthday in person?”

Kara bites the inside of her mouth, looks down, “You didn't read the card, did you?”

“I—Might have thought the flowers were from Jess.” Lena breathes out, confused. “I don't get it, why does it matter?”

Kara is silent for a while, like she is choosing word by word to make the most perfect sentence, but when she opens her mouth, she doesn’t say much. “Well, look around.” Her breath catches like she’s been caught mid-confession, like there’s something else buried under all her words that she doesn’t know how to say.

Balloons. Flowers. Ribbons. A banner that says ‘Happy Birthday Lena!', a cake that reads… She steps closer, furrows her brows, reads it more times than she needs to understand those simple words, but she needs to be sure. A cake that reads ‘Happy birthday, I love you like you're mine.’

Wait.

Lena’s throat tightens. The words on the cake blur again, not because she can’t read them, but because she finally can.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, heart drumming against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Slowly, she looks up. Kara is standing there, hands clasped together in that nervous way she has, shifting her weight like she wants to disappear and stay forever in the same breath.

“Does this…” Lena swallows, her voice quieter than she means for it to be. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

Kara’s lips part, a small, trembling smile forming there, and her voice breaks on the honesty of it. “It means I’m in love with you.”

It’s so simple. So Kara. No theatrics, no hesitation—just truth, bare and steady, like sunlight through glass.

“I’m sorry you thought I wasn’t celebrating you out loud,” she goes on, voice soft but certain. “I just… I wanted you all to myself. For once.”

Lena doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until it leaves her all at once, a fragile sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. The air feels lighter now, impossibly so, like the world has shifted and she’s the only one who knows it.

For a moment, she can’t move. Just stands there, staring at the woman who has always been too much light for her eyes to adjust to.

“You’re serious,” she whispers, almost to herself.

Kara steps closer, searching her face with those wide, open eyes that feel impossibly soft and loving. “I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

Kara’s still watching her, still waiting for something. Permission, maybe. The kind of patience that makes Lena’s chest ache, because who waits like this for a Luthor? Who loves her like this?

Lena takes one small step closer, then another. The air between them hums. Kara’s hand finds hers again, warm, steady, fingers lacing as if they were made to hold each other like this.

“You’re in love with me,” Lena says, the words tasting strange and holy all at once.

Kara nods. “Hopelessly.”

The confession is still echoing somewhere between them when Lena leans in and kisses her. It’s clumsy at first, a little too desperate, but Kara catches her halfway, one hand finding Lena’s cheek, the other the back of her neck, holding her like she’s something precious and breakable and wanted.

The kiss deepens, softens, finds its rhythm. It tastes like all the unspoken words Lena’s been choking on for years. It tastes like a confession she can’t take back, and doesn’t want to.

When they part, barely breathing, Lena murmurs against Kara’s lips, “Well, Kara Danvers, I’m in love with you too.”

Kara laughs, bright and unguarded, head tipping back, eyes small with joy. “Good,” she says, grinning. “That kiss would’ve been really weird if you didn’t.”

And Kara looks at her again, with those eyes as if she can see right through her, see all of her, want only her. “Happy birthday, my love.” And the word makes Lena's heart stop, explode, and race all at once. 

“Next time, please read the card.”

Lena finds it on Monday morning, still tucked between the almost-dead flowers, and reaches for it without hesitation.

Dear Lena, happy birthday. 

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.

I love you. 

Not like a friend. Not like family. 

I love you like you're mine.

PS: I know this is too much, and maybe you don't feel the same way, so… If you do, give me a call? And if I don’t hear from you, I'll just know to give you some space.