#lillian luthor

“Hey, Y/N,” she says, soft. “Didn’t know how you take your coffee. So I brought two. One with cinnamon, just in case.”

You blink at her and stay silent long enough to make it weird.

She smiles wider. “I’m Kara.”

“I know.”

“Right.” She laughs, awkward. Crosses the room and sets both mugs on the nightstand. “Lena’s in a conference call, so I thought I’d check on you.”

Check on you.

You want to laugh. Or ask if she’s here out of duty, guilt—or worse, pity. But you don’t. Showing your cards never got you far.

You nod toward the mugs. “Cinnamon.”

She lights up like you passed a test. “Knew it.”

“You don’t need to do this.” 

She tilts her head, confused. “Do what?”

“Check on me. I’m Lena’s younger sister, but I'm not a child.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, smiling again. “I’d never offer coffee to a child.”

You think it’s a joke. The kind people tell to chase the heaviness out of a room. You're not used to light like the one she has. Don’t know how to move in it without flinching.

“So,” you ask, voice flat, “you’re fucking my sister?”

She chokes. Red as a warning light. “I mean—” She adjusts her glasses, smooths her cardigan, flounders.

You watch her carefully. Looking for cracks. For tells. You’ve always had to. But then you catch yourself—stop. You’re not under threat. 

Kara clears her throat. “We’re… together,” she says gently. “Yeah.”

You stare. She doesn’t squirm or over-explain. Just lets it stand like a truth that doesn’t need permission.

You glance at your mug, then back at her. “Thanks for the coffee.”

A pause.

Then Kara backs away toward the door, like she understands you're kicking her out of a room that isn't yours.

“Sure! Let me know if you need anything,” she gives you two thumbs up. “Seriously.”

You don’t answer.

There’s not much you have to say to the world—and even less to someone who loves a Luthor like it won’t destroy her.

You come out an hour later, hoping the apartment will be empty.

You don’t want to see Sunshine Danvers, or worse, your sister living her perfect life. You don't want to be reminded that some people survive the Luthor name and come out loved on the other side.

But of course, the universe laughs in your face.

Kara’s in the kitchen, barefoot, humming under her breath, sleeves pushed up as she whisks something in a bowl. There’s flour on her cheekbone like it belongs there. Like this is her kitchen, her home. She looks so at ease, it makes something twist in your chest.

She doesn’t see you at first, which gives you time to hate her for how easily she fits here. You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re not angry at her. Not really.

You’re just... tired. Raw. And watching her smile like life has always been good is enough to make you want to vomit.

Then Lena walks in, already mid-call, voice low and focused as she sets her tablet down without even glancing up. She passes Kara, presses a hand briefly to her waist—barely a touch—and it still feels like too much. Like you just witnessed something you weren’t meant to see.

It’s not a kiss. Not even a full second of contact. But it’s real. It’s practiced. Familiar.

And it guts you.

No one’s ever looked at you like that. Touched you like that. Loved you so easily it became a reflex.

You stand there, frozen, choking on something you won’t let yourself name.

You were raised to be feared, not chosen. You were taught how to command rooms, not exist in them. And watching this—them—just reminds you of all the things you’ll never be.

Lena finally looks up. “Hey, kid.”

She says it like she means it. But you don’t know what that means anymore. You don’t know how she sees you now.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” you lie. “Nice bed.”

“You hungry?”

You shake your head. Another lie. But it feels safer than asking to be cared for.

Kara doesn’t say anything. Just moves like she’s done this before—makes you a second cup of cinnamon coffee, like she somehow knows. Like you’re not just the damaged younger sister crashing in their guest room. Like you’re not one bad headline away from being erased completely.

You sit across from Lena at a table that looks like it’s never seen a single Luthor-style dinner. Kara sets a plate in front of you—pancakes, fresh berries, too much whipped cream. It’s ridiculous. Sweet. Warm.

It makes your skin itch.

“You should eat something with that coffee,” She tries.

You look at her too long, trying to figure out what her angle is. Why she’s being kind. What she wants from you. You were never taught to accept anything without suspicion. Least of all love.

The news murmurs from the other room—Lex’s face flashing across the screen. You don’t even have to look. You can feel the weight of his name sinking the room.

Lena speaks, like she’s ignoring it. Like she’s trying to. “Kara’s sister is hosting game night tonight. Thought it might be nice for you to meet everyone.”

You blink. “What?”

“Game night,” she repeats. “Food. Chaos. Kara losing dramatically.”

“Hey—I’m not that bad.”

You let out a dry laugh. You don’t mean to. “God, Lena. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do that. Whatever that was.”

“You mean inviting you?”

“No. I mean pretending.” You stop yourself. Barely. You almost say pretending I’m a part of your life. Instead, you force a smile. “Look, I’ll be out of your hair soon. I just need a job. Somewhere that’ll hire a Luthor now that Lex has managed to screw us all over again.”

Lena’s expression shifts. “Kid, what Lex did has nothing to do with you.”

You look at her like she’s joking. “Have you been outside recently?”

She doesn’t answer that, because she knows.

“I know it’s not your fault,” she says instead. “Never your fault. And they'll learn it too.”

You don’t believe her. Not really. 

“I’ll find something,” you say. “And get out of your perfect suburban life.”

It’s a cheap shot. You know it. But it still lands—sharp enough to draw blood, even if no one bleeds out loud. You don’t even mean it the way it sounds. Not exactly. You’re not angry that they’re happy. You’re angry it feels like happiness is something you’ll never be allowed to touch.

You were always too bitter to be a good sister. Too sharp at the edges, too used to defending yourself before anyone had the chance to hurt you.

And yet too fragile to be a bad one. Never cruel enough to belong to the legacy your last name demands. Never cold enough to kill the part of you that still wanted to be loved.

A Luthor in limbo. Caught somewhere between the myth and the wound. 

You don’t belong with Lex, and you’ll never belong with Lena either—not really. Because people like you don’t get safe homes, warm kitchens, or second cups of cinnamon coffee. You get exile and silence. You get remembered for the things you never meant to become.

So yeah, it was a cheap shot. But it was also the truth.

Lena swallows—maybe the Luthor part of her that would give you her honest answer. “You could come help me at L Corp.”

You snort. “Pretty sure they all hate me there as well. Besides, mother wrote me off of the will, in case you don't remember why I'm here in the first place.”

“I run it now. Not Mother. And what's mine is yours.”

Something bubbles up in your chest—something that could be a laugh, if it didn’t sound so much like a scream caught under your ribs. “You’re a fucking liar, Lena Luthor.”

You push your plate away, untouched.

“You know what?” you mutter, standing. “This was nice. Really. But we all know I don’t belong here, so let's stop pretending.”

“We’re not pretending,” Kara says, too fast, too certain.

You meet her eyes. And for a moment—just one—you believe her.

But belief is dangerous. Belief gets you burned. You’ve made that mistake before, trusted softness just long enough for it to cave in around you.

So you look away.

And walk out.

Because staying here, watching them love each other like it’s easy, like it’s safe—it hurts more than anything your mother ever taught you to fear.

It’s colder now. Or maybe it just feels that way because you haven’t moved in hours.

At some point, the streets blurred together. You walked and walked until the city lost its edges, until even the skyline looked unfamiliar. That’s when it hit you—this isn’t Metropolis anymore. And National City? So far, it feels like the same disappointment in different colors.

You’re on the ledge of a building you can’t name, midtown maybe. Not tall enough to matter, not low enough to be safe. You picked it because it was empty. Because there was no one to see you like this—Raw, vulnerable and honest, for once.

You turned off your phone the second you left Lena’s penthouse. You didn’t want to be found. Didn’t want anyone pretending they cared. And even if they did—what would you do with that? You wouldn’t know how to hold it. You’ve never learned how.

You just wanted a few hours of silence. No careful smiles from your sister. No concerned glances. No Kara Danvers with her ridiculous warmth and her maddening, impossible belief in you.

God. That kindness—there’s something about it that feels almost cruel. Because it makes you ache. Because you want to believe in it, and you can’t.

You’ve been raised on suspicion. On strategies. On the inevitability of being left behind. So kindness? It feels like a setup. A slow, sweet trap you’ll never crawl out of.

The wind changes, and you already know.

A soft hum, steady and low, almost like the air is holding its breath. You don’t need to turn. You already know who it is.

Her boots hit the gravel behind you, and that’s when you spin around—too fast, fists clenched, heart hammering like a warning bell in your chest.

“I don’t know,” you snap. The words tumble out, half-choked. “I have no fucking clue where Lex or Lillian is. I don’t know anything about their plans. I’m not even a part of the family anymore, okay? So please, just—just leave me alone. I can’t—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard. “I can’t keep proving myself to the world and I want nothing to do with any of the Supers.”

Your body is shaking. Cold, rage, panic—you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

But she doesn’t move.

Just stands there. Cape swaying in the breeze, hair haloed gold in the city light. Calm. Still. Like she sees the storm in you and isn’t afraid of getting caught in it.

When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle. “Your sister’s worried. She asked me to find you. You didn’t come home.”

Home.

You blink. The word lands heavier than it should.

Supergirl steps forward—slow and deliberate, like she’s approaching something skittish. Not broken. Not dangerous. Just tired of being misunderstood.

“I don’t care about Lex,” she says, voice steady. “I know you’re not working with him. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You don’t believe her. You desperately want to. But how can you trust a Super? And how can one of them trust a Luthor?

But there’s something in her face. Something frustratingly open. Something you weren’t expecting.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe,” she says. “So... can I, please, take you home?”

And that’s what breaks you.

It unspools something inside you—slow and quiet, like a thread pulled loose. You weren’t ready for this kind of softness.

“I don’t have a home.”

She tilts her head. Doesn’t flinch. “It looks to me like your sister thinks you do.”

That throws you harder than anything else could have.

She doesn’t speak again. Just flies you back—arms steady around you, no questions asked. Not a lecture. Not a test.

When your feet touch the balcony again, she looks at you like she means it. Like she sees someone worth it.

“Safe and sound,” she says. And then she’s gone, just a blur of red and a gust of wind that smells faintly like ozone.

You barely have time to process it before the door swings open.

And then Lena is there—rushing out barefoot, face pale, eyes red-rimmed.

She launches into you like she might fall apart if she doesn’t, like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, and her voice breaks halfway through.

Her arms go around you so fast, so tight, it knocks the breath out of you. It’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s desperate.

You just stand there, frozen.

“I didn’t know where you went,” she says into your hair. “I didn’t know if you were safe. I was so scared. I thought—”

You’re still not hugging her back. You can’t. Your body won’t move, too caught between confusion and guilt and something that feels almost like grief.

Eventually, she pulls back—only far enough to see your face. She tucks a piece of wind-tangled hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little.

“You okay, kid?”

You nod.

Liar.

She doesn’t push. Just takes your hand—warm, grounding—and guides you inside.

The apartment is dimly lit, but it’s not cold. There’s a blanket folded neatly on the couch. A lamp turned on in the corner. You steal a glance at Lena. Her eyes are bloodshot. She’s been crying. For you.

That’s the part you don’t understand. That’s the part that sticks.

“Tea?” she offers, already heading toward the kitchen. “Or something stronger?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m good.”

“You’re not,” Lena says softly. “And that’s okay.”

She doesn’t move at first, like she’s afraid that if she does, you’ll disappear again. But then she exhales, slow and shaky, and walks over to the couch—kneeling in front of you, like it’s instinct to get closer even when everything still hurts.

Her hand finds yours, light at first, like she’s asking for permission.

“I’ve been where you are,” she says quietly. “That feeling like you’re breaking apart, and if anyone sees it, they’ll never look at you the same way again.”

You try to look away, but her fingers tighten slightly, grounding you.

“I remember what it was like to sit in that same spot, after Lex, after Mother, after… everything. Telling myself I didn’t need anyone. That no one could possibly understand.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just something tired and true. “I was wrong. But it took me a long time to admit that.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

“I know how Kara is,” she says, a little more dryly now. “Maybe too nice for our fucked up standards.”

That gets a sound out of you—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

“But she means well. And I am here for you.” Her voice steadies, hardens. “I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. I just won’t. No matter how much you push me away, okay?”

Your eyes sting. You blink fast, but it doesn’t help.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to know,” she says. “You just have to stay. Let me help you. That’s all I’m asking.”

You nod, because you’re not sure you can do anything else.

But even as her hand wraps around yours, steady and warm, even as the room finally starts to feel less like a war zone and more like a place you could breathe in—you still brace yourself.

As if some part of you is counting down the seconds before it all falls apart again.

Because kindness this soft? Promises this gentle? They’ve never lasted before. And no matter how much you want to believe her—Lena, with her calm eyes and iron voice—there’s still a piece of you curled up inside, waiting.