Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There are some people who watch NASCAR for the highly skilled driving - but most people watch it for the crashes.”

-John Oliver

August 28th, 2016

She powered through turn three, foot the floor, feeling the car surge beneath her. No speedometer—they weren’t allowed—but she didn’t need one. She knew her car. Knew the tachometer’s sweet spot, the vibration of the wheel—she knew she was pushing a hundred and sixty miles an hour. Maybe more. She knew this machine better than anyone.

Well, almost anyone.

Heat pulsed through her, her body damp with sweat, trapped inside by the harsh material of her fire-resistant suit. Even with the tube of water threaded through the helmet, her mouth was dry, adrenaline burning its way though her veins, blurring the edges of her focus until all that remained was the track.

She was closing in on two hundred miles an hour as she came off the turn, hugging the line tight, inching for third place.

Car No.76 loomed too close to her left rear bumper. That was fine—pack racing was always a battle of inches. But up front? That was a whole different problem.

All at once the world went wrong.

Up ahead, the leader’s car—a deep blue with a golden No. 90—lifted.

No warning. No time.

The back end snapped up. The nose pointed skyward.

For half a second, it hovered—suspended in an impossibly moment.

Then it slammed back down, crashing into the SAFER barrier. Metal shrieked. The car rebounded, ricocheting back onto the track, spinning. Out of control.

“Yellow flag up.” The words crackled through her helmet, nearly drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears— the track’s light flared to life. She veered high, trying to escape the chaos.

Too late.

She had braked too late. No way out.

No. 76 loomed from behind, inches from her left rear bumper— pressuring, pushing, trapping her. She could feel the draft pulling her forward, accelerating her into disaster.

The outside  wall boxed her in on the right.

No escape.

And dead ahead— dead still—the mangled No.. 90 sat in the middle of the track. No amount of braking would slow her down enough.

She knew what was coming.

In the split second before impact, she let go of the wheel, hands instinctively snapping to her chest.

Kara’s car slammed into the metal coffin with full force.

Chapter Text

“In NASCAR, you don't have to be as physically strong as in some other forms of racing. You've just got to be able to endure the heat and endurance of it.”

-Jeff Gordon

April 16^th, 2016

The soft buzz of an alarm startled Kara from sleep. She groaned, fumbling through the tangled mess of her blankets as weak sunlight began to creep through the curtains. Her hand blindly searched for the alarm clock, silencing it as quickly as possible—no point waking Alex, even if her sister’s bed was only a few feet away.

But when Kara finally opened her eyes, she found the bed already made, the lingering scent of coffee finally registering in her sleepy mind.

“Morning,” Alex greeted gruffly, her voice still rough with sleep as she leaned against the mini-fridge, stirring her coffee with slow, deliberate movements.

Kara squinted at her, then smirked. “You look like shit.”

Alex scoffed. “Good morning to you too.”

Kara huffed a breathless laugh, stretching as a familiar weight settled deep in her chest—race weekend nerves. She knew Alex felt it too. They both carried it, that tension coiled tight beneath their ribs, the burden of expectations pressing down on their shoulders.

“When’d you finally crash?” Kara asked, voice still thick with sleep.

Alex took a sip of coffee. “Not sure. Maybe around two. I was watching last year’s race film—figuring out what worked, what didn’t.”

“Alex, you’ll be fine—”

“It’s Fawcett.”

Kara sighed, rubbing her face. “Yes, it’s Fawcett. Yes, it’s the ‘Last Great Colosseum.’ Yes, it’s Thunder Valley. And yes, it’s a short track with thirty-degree banking. But come on, Alex—we’re Danvers. It’s in our blood.”

Alex gave her a dry look. “Okay, okay. Says the one from Krypton with infamous race car drivers in the family.”

Her smirk faded.

The words landed heavier than either of them had expected, a lead weight sinking into the space between them. Kara clenched her jaw, unwanted emotions surfacing way too early for this conversation. Alex noticed the shift, saw the flicker of pain behind her sister’s eyes, and sighed, redirecting. They both knew it had been a low blow, but that was the nature of racing siblings—especially when the stakes were high.

“I wish I had your sunny optimism,” Alex muttered, a weak cop-out at best.

Kara exhaled, shaking off the tension as she stood from the bed. She bypassed the hotel’s cheap coffee without a second glance—her tastes leaned more toward overpriced caramel lattes anyway—and instead rummaged through her duffel bag, half the contents strewn across the floor.

“You want to go for a run before we head to the track?” she asked, digging for a sports bra and a clean pair of shorts.

“Sure.”

Kara heard the soft clink of a coffee cup against the wooden desk, then the sound of Alex shuffling toward her own duffel—pristine, perfectly packed, not a single item out of place.

It took them a few minutes to get ready, mostly because Kara managed to put her shorts on backward, which led to Alex teasing her, which escalated into an argument over who got to use the bathroom first to brush their teeth. Eventually, though, they made it to the hotel elevator.

The ride down was awkwardly quiet, the air thick with unspoken tension—not between them, but among the other drivers crammed into the small space.

Kara shared a furtive glance with Alex.

Maggie Sawyer, No. 27, kept sneaking nervous glances at Alex, shifting uncomfortably. Barry Allen, No. 21, offered Kara a reassuring smile, while Cisco Ramon, No. 46, scowled at his phone, tapping at it with more force than necessary.

Then there was Leslie Willis.

Livewire.

The No. 14 driver stood across from Kara, arms folded, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. Her ghostly pale skin and stark white hair only made the glint in her eyes look more malicious. Ever since Kara had moved up to the Cup Series, Leslie had made her life miserable.

She played dirty—always just clean enough to avoid penalties, but aggressive and unpredictable on the track. And for some inexplicable reason, she hated Kara.

Kara could see it in her expression. Leslie wanted to say something. Maybe a cheap shot about Kara’s sexuality. Maybe a dig at her team’s color scheme. Something trite.

But Alex was there.

And everyone knew better than to mess with Alex Danvers—especially when it came to Kara “Sunshine” Danvers.

Not that Leslie usually cared. She’d probably consider Alex’s right hook worth it if it meant getting under Kara’s skin. But the elevator was packed, and Leslie wasn’t stupid. She knew she was outnumbered.

A sharp ding broke the tense silence, the doors sliding open to the hotel lobby. The drivers spilled out into the morning air, and Kara barely had a second to register the crisp breeze before Alex was muttering under her breath.

“That fucking twit—”

“Al,” Kara sighed. “She didn’t even say anything.”

Alex’s fists clenched and unclenched in quick succession.

“She doesn’t have to,” Alex snapped.

Kara just gave her a lopsided grin, and the tension in Alex’s shoulders immediately bled out. Without another word, Alex started jogging toward the sidewalk, forcing Kara to shake her head before catching up.

“She just makes me so mad, Kara. She’s a bully, and no one ever does anything about it.”

Kara side-eyed her sister, narrowly dodging a leaning campaign sign cluttering the sidewalk. “It’s NASCAR, Alex. There will always be bullies. Remember Max Lord? Sinestro? Hell, even my old crew chief back when she was still racing. It’s just part of the sport.”

Alex’s jaw tightened.

Kara hadn’t said it outright, but they both knew there was one name she hadn’t mentioned. One bully who had done far worse than run his mouth.

Hank Henshaw.

The driver who pushed too hard. Who clipped Jeremiah Danvers’ car just wrong on this very track. Who sent it flipping, rolling seven times before coming to rest in the dead center of the concrete.

Fawcett was small.

There was nowhere to go.

A dozen cars slammed into him.

Jeremiah Danvers was dead before the paramedics even got there.

Alex exhaled through her nose. “Sometimes I wish that wasn’t the case,” she murmured.

Kara had no response.

They finished their run in contemplative silence, grief hanging over them like a storm cloud. By the time they returned to the lobby, the sun had fully risen, and the smell of powdered eggs and burnt coffee filled the air.

“I know it’s not Noonan’s sticky buns back home, but…” Alex hesitated. “Hotel breakfast?” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Kara huffed a quiet laugh. “Me? Decline food? Alex, I thought you knew me better than that.” She earned a playful shove for that one.

They joined the rest of the drivers milling around the buffet, Kara loading up her plate before spotting most of her team huddled together at a table—Nia, Brainy, Kelly, Winn, and James. Jack and Sam were suspiciously missing. They were whispering to one another, probably gossiping about driver rivalries.

Strangely enough, they immediately stopped talking when Kara approached.

Her fork paused midair. “What?”

Silence.

Her eyes darted between them, their guilty expressions not exactly subtle. Oh, something was definitely up.

Kara finished a bite of her eggs as she sat at the table, glancing at her team with a raised brow. “What’s up with you guys? You’re acting weird.”

“Nope, nothing weird here—” Winn was quick to counter.

James followed smoothly, “Nothing to worry about, Kara—”

“I do not understand why we don’t just—” Brainy started, only to be cut off as Nia clamped a hand over his mouth. Kara’s eyebrows shot up in growing suspicion.

“Don’t mind Querl,” Nia said quickly. “He’s just been going over footage—”

“Yeah, of your run at Fawcett in the Xfinity Series last year—” Winn interjected before trailing off awkwardly. His eyes widened as Alex let out a disbelieving scoff.

“The only thing weird here is your team, Kara.”

Kara’s gaze flickered to Alex, then back to her team, whose expressions ranged from scowls to exaggerated eye rolls—none of which held any real heat. But something about the way Alex had so casually dismissed the situation felt… off. Alex Danvers didn’t just let things go. She was relentless when it came to uncovering the truth—you couldn’t keep a secret from her.

Still, Kara shrugged and went back to her breakfast. “Okay then… You know, if they added a little salt and pepper, these eggs wouldn’t be half bad.”

The tension broke as their easy banter resumed. Jokes, inside references, and meaningless chatter filled the space, all deliberately skirting around the real subject—what Fawcett meant to them.

They delayed as long as possible, lingering until they were the last group in the common area. But when J’onn—Alex’s crew chief—sent a pointed look their way, they knew they were out of time. It was already 8:10. The track was only fifteen minutes away, but with meetings at nine, media obligations at ten, and practice at eleven-thirty, they had to move.

With resigned sighs, pats on the back, and murmured good lucks aimed at Alex, they finally started to move. First they went to their hotel room, changing into jeans and t-shirts— nothing special when most of the day would be spent in their race suits— grabbed an energy drink, and eventually they piled into the the rental car, bound for the infamous Fawcett Motor Speedway.

—-

They whole ride had been spent with more easy banter, at least, until their car entered the infield tunnel, and came to a stop just outside the garage area. More encouragements were given until the only two who remained outside the garage area were Alex and Kara. Without a word the two embraced, with bruising intensity that said more than words ever could.

They went separate ways.

The infield was already alive with movement as Kara crossed the garage area, the hum of generators and the occasional burst of an air wrench echoing in the crisp morning air. The sun had fully crested over the grandstands, casting long shadows across the pavement, glinting off the polished exteriors of the haulers lined up in neat rows.

It smelled like rubber and fuel—like race weekend.

She adjusted the strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder, weaving through the maze of team members, media, and crew guys rolling stacks of tires toward the pit stalls. Some of the other hauler doors were already open, crew members leaning against the metal ramps, sipping coffee from gas station cups or going over notes on clipboards.

Fawcett’s  infield was always tight—haulers stacked nearly bumper-to-bumper, teams working elbow to elbow. No room for privacy, no room for mistakes.

Kara’s hauler was easy to spot. The bright red, orange, and yellow of her Big Belly Burger sponsorship stood out against the sea of darker, more subdued rigs. The massive logo stretched across the side in bold, cartoonish letters, flanked by streaks of white that mimicked speed lines. It was almost ridiculous—like a moving advertisement for fast food glory—but at least it wasn’t forgettable.

She climbed the metal steps, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Inside, the tight space was a familiar kind of suffocating. Toolboxes lined one wall, their drawers labeled but always slightly disorganized no matter how many times someone tried to keep them in order. A set of mounted monitors flickered with live track conditions, lap data, and past race footage, the faint hum of their processors filling the silence. The lounge area, if it could even be called that, was cluttered with half-empty water bottles, stray wrenches, and a few wrinkled notes someone had scribbled adjustments on and promptly forgotten. The couch cushions had been beaten into submission over time from exhausted bodies crashing onto them between practices and race meetings.

Jackets and fire resistant suits hung from hooks, and the overhead cabinets were slightly ajar, revealing stacks of radios, gloves, and boxes of protein bars shoved into the corners.

Kara dumped her bag onto the bench and exhaled. The air was thick, stifling in a way that had nothing to do with the size of the space. She could already feel the weight of the morning settling in—the tension lingering from the last few races, the frustration gnawing at her gut.

She wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Mike Matthews  was already here, slouched against a tool chest with his arms crossed, looking like he had better places to be. Nia was perched on the counter, idly swiping through her tablet. And Cat stood in the center of it all, clipboard in hand, her sharp gaze sweeping over the room.

Kara sighed and leaned back against the bench.

This was going to be a long morning.

“Alright,” Cat started, slapping her clipboard against her palm, the sharp crack echoing through the space. “Let’s get this over with. The last few races have been a damn disaster.”

Kara huffed out a dry laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

Cat ignored her. “Let’s start with the basics. Nia, what’s our data from last week tell us?”

Nia, perched on the counter, swiped through her tablet. “We were running three to four tenths off the leaders consistently. You lost most of your time on corner entry. The car just wasn’t rotating, and when it finally did, it snapped loose on exit.”

Kara nodded. “That tracks.”

Mike scoffed. “Maybe stop throwing it in so hard.”

Kara’s head snapped to him. “Are you serious? If I back up my entry anymore, I’ll be in the damn grandstands.”

Cat held up a hand before Kara could go for his throat. “Kara, describe it in detail.”

Kara sighed again, leaning forward. “It’s tight everywhere. I have to crank the wheel so much to get it to turn that the second I touch the gas, the rear kicks out. And it’s not even a controlled loose—it just snaps. I can’t trust it.”

Cat turned to Mike. “What changes did we make from last week?”

Mike scratched at his scruffy beard. “Uh… stiffened the right rear spring, took some rebound out of the left front shock…”

Cat stared at him. “That’s it?”

Mike shrugged. “Didn’t want to go too far.”

Kara clenched her teeth, exhaling slowly through her nose. “We are already too far off. You can’t just throw one change at it and hope it magically fixes itself.”

Nia scrolled through her notes. “Tire data shows severe right-front wear. It’s getting overworked.”

Cat’s eyes flicked to Mike. “Did you even look at the tire data?”

Mike shifted. “Didn’t think it was worth it. Tires are tires.”

The silence in the hauler was deafening.

Nia physically winced. “Oh my God.”

Kara’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”

Cat pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tires tell us everything. That right-front wear means we have way too much weight on it. We need to free the car up so Kara isn’t plowing into the corner and killing the front end.”

Mike muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Cat’s tone was ice.

Mike exhaled sharply. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

Kara flexed her fingers against her knee, forcing herself to focus. “Drop the front bar preload. Go up on right rear compression, not down. We need it to plant better on exit. And for the love of Rao, check the damn tire wear before we make another blind adjustment.”

Cat jotted it down, nodding. “Nia, what’s the track doing?”

Nia flipped screens. “Fawcett’s already taking rubber, so expect the groove to move up fast. Leaders will probably be rim-riding by the time we get on track. You’ll have to adjust entry points as the run goes on.”

Kara nodded. “Good. That means we can start low and move up once it slicks off.”

Nia hesitated. “You’re gonna need to be aggressive on restarts, Kara. Track position is everything here. If you get stuck on the bottom for too long, you’re toast.”

Kara smirked. “I’m always aggressive.”

Nia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, more than usual.”

Cat checked her watch. “Alright. Final checklist. Fuel mileage?”

Nia pulled up the numbers. “Full tank runs about 140 laps. If we go green, expect pit stops around lap 130.”

Cat nodded. “Pit stop strategy?”

Kara rubbed her chin. “If we get an early caution, we might as well stay out. Tires don’t wear as fast here, so track position matters more. Depends on who pits though.”

Cat looked satisfied. “Good. Any final concerns?”

Mike muttered, “Yeah, I got one.”

Everyone turned.

Mike gestured vaguely toward the back of the hauler, where a woman stood, silent and observing.

“Who the hell is she?”

Kara turned, finally noticing her. The woman stood with her arms folded, gaze sharp and assessing, as if she’d been cataloging every single one of Kara’s complaints.

She hadn’t said a word.

Hadn’t made a sound.

Just watched.

It was almost  like she didn’t exist.

Before Kara could open her mouth, Cat’s voice cut through the space.

“That’s not your concern.” Kara’s stomach twisted.

Then whose concern is it?

Kara was still glaring at Mike when Cat clapped her hands together, effectively cutting through the tension. “Alright, moving on. Media obligations are at ten sharp, so whatever attitude you’ve got going on, Danvers, I suggest you check it before you get in front of a mic.”

Kara groaned, dropping her head back against the wall. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Cat said flatly.

Nia smirked. “Think of it this way—maybe they’ll ask you about why you’ve been so off the pace lately. That should be fun.”

Kara shot her a glare. “Not helping.”

Cat ignored the exchange, flipping through the papers on her clipboard. “Standard lineup—pre-race interviews, a couple of one-on-ones, then the press scrum. Expect questions about Fawcett, your struggles the last few races, and oh, your little incident with Oliver last week.”

Kara groaned louder. “Are they seriously still talking about that?”

“Of course they are,” Nia said. “You shoved him on pit road, Kara. That stuff trends.”

Kara threw up her hands. “He ran me into the wall! He’s lucky I didn’t do worse.”

“Yeah, well, the reporters don’t care about that part,” Cat said dryly. “They care about the drama. So smile, keep it vague, and for the love of God, don’t say something that’s going to cost us a fine.”

Kara muttered under her breath but didn’t argue.

Nia tapped her tablet. “What’s the PR angle? If they ask about the struggles, are we blaming the car or giving a non-answer?”

Cat exhaled. “Keep it neutral. Something like ‘We’ve been working hard to improve, and I trust my team to get us where we need to be.’”

Kara frowned. “But that’s—”

“A lie?” Nia finished for her, shooting a glance at Mike.

Cat’s lips twitched in amusement. “It’s called being diplomatic.”

Kara grumbled, crossing her arms tighter.

Cat sighed, then pinned Kara with a knowing look. “Actually, while we’re on the topic, we need to talk about something.”

Kara blinked. “What?”

“The way you handle interviews,” Cat said, voice edged with something that felt pointed. “You give the press nothing.”

Kara stiffened. “I answer their questions.”

“You skirt their questions,” Cat corrected. “Every time they ask about your background, your childhood, your family—hell, even how you got into racing—you shut it down. Deflect. Give them some vague, generic answer.”

Kara swallowed hard. Her throat felt suddenly dry.

“That’s because it’s not their business,” she said carefully.

Cat held her gaze. “I understand that. But you’re a driver in the national spotlight. If you keep dodging everythingpersonal, people are going to start asking why.”

Kara clenched her jaw. She knew why. She knew why. Because if she let them dig too deep, they’d find out. That she wasn’t from here. That she was only Kara Danvers legally. That she was Kara Zor-El, daughter of Zor-El and Alura, last surviving heir to a driver-duo legend from a place the rest of the world hardly even knew existed in the Brooks Range of Alaska.

No one knew besides the Danvers and Kents, and no one else could know. She refused to be stuck in their shadow, refused to receive any of the pity and sad looks— she despised them because yes it was something that happened to her, but it wasn’t her, her life wasn’t defined by it.

But Cat… Cat suspected something.

She wasn’t saying it, wasn’t outright calling Kara out, but there was something in her tone. A sharpness in her gaze, like she was testing the waters.

Kara swallowed. “I just don’t like talking about my past.”

Cat’s expression softened just a fraction. “I get that,” she said. “But you can’t be this closed off forever. Eventually, they’re going to push. And if you keep giving them nothing, they’re going to start filling in the blanks themselves.”

Kara exhaled slowly, forcing a tight nod. Kara knew she didn’t have a choice. NASCAR’s PR team already had an eye on her after last week’s scuffle with Oliver—one wrong comment, and she’d be the week’s headline for all the wrong reasons.

Cat checked her watch. “Alright. We’ve got about twenty minutes before we need to head out. Any last-minute thoughts?”

Kara shook her head, stretching her arms over her head. She could already feel the weight of the day settling over her. Media, then practice, then more media. And somewhere in between all of that, she had to find a way to get her car to stop handling like absolute garbage before qualifying.

But as she shifted her gaze, her eyes landed on her.

Still standing in the back.

Still watching.

Kara’s frustration flared again. She had no idea who she was or why she was even here, but something about the way she was observing—silent, composed, like she was analyzing every single word—set Kara on edge.

But before she could say anything, Cat was already moving toward the door.

“Let’s go, people. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

The hauler door clanked shut, leaving Kara in rare, fleeting silence. The scent of rubber and fuel still lingered in the air, but underneath it was something more distinct—the worn-in smell of Nomex and sweat, a scent that had been ingrained in every race suit she’d ever owned.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the meeting. The frustration still simmered beneath her skin, but she couldn’t carry it into the media pen. Cat would have her head for that.

Instead, she focused on the motions. The routine. The familiar rhythm of getting suited up.

She quickly stripped until she was left in her sports bra and boxer briefs, then she unzipped her duffel and pulled out her fire-resistant base layer, the material soft but unyielding beneath her fingers. It clung snugly as she pulled it over her sports bra. She tugged at the collar, the form fitting material threatening to make her feel claustrophobic. Then came the matching bottoms, sliding over her legs, the waistband settling against her hips. It wasn’t comfortable—Nomex never was—but after years of wearing it— or rather, something similar back home, in Krypton—  she barely noticed.

Kara reached for her race suit on one of the nearby hangers, shaking it out before stepping into it. The fabric was thick but pliable, the legs sliding up as she tugged the sleeves over her arms. Her gloves were stuffed in the pocket, but she left them there for now—she wouldn’t need them for media.

She worked the zipper up, the red, orange, and yellow of her suit settling into place as she fastened the Velcro at the collar. The Big Belly Burger logo stretched across her chest, a bold contrast against the colors. It was ridiculous, but at this point, she was used to it.

Finally, she grabbed her fireproof socks, pulling them up before stepping into her racing shoes. They were lightweight but stiff, molded perfectly to her feet.

For a moment, Kara just stood there, flexing her fingers, trying to ground herself.

The hauler still felt too small, the walls pressing in with the weight of everything unsaid. The meeting had made it clear—this car wasn’t where it needed to be. And the stranger in the corner, the one who had watched instead of spoken… Kara didn’t know what to make of her yet.

But that was a problem for later.

Right now, she had to go smile for cameras and pretend she wasn’t ready to throw Mike into the nearest tire barrier.

With one last breath, Kara grabbed her sunglasses, pushed open the hauler door, and stepped out into the sun.

The morning sun had risen high enough to burn away the lingering chill, leaving the air dry and heavy with the scent of rubber and motor oil.

She rolled her shoulders once more, exhaling slowly as she adjusted the collar of her fire-suit, trying to shake off the weight of the last hour. It didn’t help.

The infield was even busier now, a constant flow of crew members, officials, and drivers weaving through the tight spaces between haulers and pit boxes. Engines snarled in the distance as teams fired up their cars for final adjustments. Somewhere nearby, a team was rolling a set of sticker tires toward their garage stall, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of rubber against pavement nearly lost beneath the noise of the paddock.

Kara barely had time to process any of it before a PR rep—one she barely recognized, just another face in the endless rotation of people trying to manage her schedule—fell into step beside her.

“Media’s waiting,” they said, barely glancing up from their clipboard.

Right. Because of course, after that meeting, she had to go smile for the cameras.

Kara bit back a sigh and adjusted the sleeves of her suit, already bracing herself for the next part of the morning.

The smell of fuel and fried food mixed in the air, thick and familiar; The pavement radiated heat under her feet, the soles of her racing shoes thin enough to feel the groves of the ground beneath her.

The path was familiar, no matter what track she was at, cutting through the organized chaos of the infield. A few crew members nodded in passing, others barely spared her a glance, too focused on their own machines. Kara kept her strides even, purposeful, ignoring the eyes that trailed her as she passed. A few drivers were already there—Clark, standing just outside the media bullpen, talking to one of the Ford drivers. Barry, rocking on his heels, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Someone called her name, but she barely turned an ear toward it. Not a reporter—just some crew member who probably recognized the colors of her suit.

She rolled her shoulders, keeping her expression neutral. The frustration from earlier still clung to her, but she locked it down. She could be annoyed after. Right now, she just had to get through this.

The bullpen was nothing fancy—just a roped-off section near the garage where a handful of media members had already gathered, cameras poised, recorders in hand. The sight of them made her jaw tighten. She hated these. Not because she couldn’t handle the questions—she could—but because they were never really about racing. It was always the drama, the storylines, the moments that stirred up headlines. And after the last few weeks, she knew exactly what was coming.

She slowed her pace, forcing a neutral expression onto her face as she neared the group. The low murmur of conversation quieted when she stepped into the makeshift circle, the cameras shifting toward her like vultures scenting blood.

Here we go.

Kara stepped onto the designated media stage, the heat of the late morning sun pressing down on her fire suit. The fabric felt stifling, trapping the lingering tension from the earlier meeting. She rolled her shoulders again, forcing a relaxed stance, though her fingers twitched against her hip. Cameras clicked, the murmur of reporters filling the air as she took her spot behind the mic, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny. 

She recognized most of the faces in the press pool, some more persistent than others, their voices sharp with the hunger for a soundbite. The air smelled of hot asphalt and motor oil, the distinct aroma of a track coming alive. 

First question. “Kara, it’s been a rough few weeks for you. P12 at Gorilla, P17 at Vanishing Point, and that DNF at Bludhaven. What’s the mindset going into Fawcett after that?”

Kara exhaled through her nose. She already knew these questions were coming, but that didn’t make them easier to answer. “You know, every race is a new race. We’ve had our struggles, sure, but I believe in my team. We’re working hard, and I think Fawcett’s a great opportunity to turn things around.”

She could feel Cat’s gaze from the edge of the media zone, sharp as a blade. Kara knew exactly what her crew chief was thinking—stop giving them fluff. Give them something real. But how could she, when every real answer danced too close to a truth she wasn’t ready to share?

Another question came, this one from a familiar voice. “Kara, the car’s been inconsistent lately. Is it setup issues? Driver error?”

Her jaw tightened for half a second before she forced an easy smile. “We’re fine-tuning things, figuring out what works best. It’s been a learning process.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. The truth was, the car was fighting her. Loose when it should’ve been tight, sluggish when she needed speed. She knew how to handle a car. She knew when the problem wasn’t her. But calling it out outright would just cause more questions, and Mike—mediocre as he was—was still part of the team. 

“What about the incident with Oliver Queen last week at Opal Motor Speedway?” Piped up a reporter. Kara had to force herself to not glance at Cat, that would be telling. Instead she ducked her head, plastering on a shy smile that was the exact opposite of how she felt.

“At the end of the day, we’re just race car drivers. I mean, we were both hovering around a hundred and fifty miles an hour, accidents happen. I’m not sure the details of what caused Oliver to push me into the wall, but exiting the turn,, I hit the angle all wrong, snapped loose and bumped into his car just as we were passing pit road.” It was her longest answer yet, some of them taking it skeptically, others seemed in intrigued.

The questions kept coming, picking apart her season, her strategies, her chances at Fawcett. She answered with careful enthusiasm, enough to sound confident but not too much to invite deeper scrutiny. Then came the one she had been dreading. 

“Kara,  you’ve been in the sport a while now, but we still don’t know much about your background. You’re one of the few drivers who hasn’t really shared a lot about their journey. Can you talk about where you came from? Who influenced you?”

She could hear the shift in tone, the calculated interest. This wasn’t just about racing anymore. This was about the empty spaces in her story, the ones she so carefully avoided filling in.

Kara’s smile stayed in place, but it felt stiff now, like a helmet strap pulled just a little too tight. “I’ve had a lot of great influences in my life. My family, my mentors. Racing’s always been my calling, and I’ve been lucky to have people who believe in me.”

Vague. Deflective. But safe. 

The reporter didn’t look satisfied, and neither did Cat. Kara could feel the disapproval radiating off her, even from across the way.

Then they changed tactics.

“Kara, this is your first race at Fawcett Speedway since joining the Cup Series. Given what happened to Alex’s father here, does that add any extra weight to this weekend for you?”

Kara felt her shoulders stiffen before she could stop them. The reporter wasn’t wrong to ask. It was a fair question. But that didn’t mean she liked it.

She inhaled, slow and steady. Kept her expression neutral. “I know what this place means to Alex and our family,” she said, voice even. “But when I’m in the car, my focus is on doing my job.”

It should have been enough to move on, but another voice piped up. “Does racing here bring up any personal memories for you outside of Jeremiah Danvers?”

Kara blinked, and for a split second, she was thirteen years old again, standing in a hospital hallway, hearing words that shattered everything she knew.

She swallowed. Locked it down. “Losing family changes everything,” she said, tone clipped. “But it’s not something I talk about.”

The weight of the statement hung in the air. A few reporters exchanged glances, but no one pressed.

Another question came, shifting the conversation back to the race, and Kara exhaled slowly through her nose. Focus. Just a few more minutes, and then she could walk away.

The tension sat heavy in her chest as she fielded a few more questions before PR wrapped it up. 

As she stepped down from the stage, the weight of it all pressed down on her—expectations, curiosity, the relentless pull of the past. And somewhere, just beyond the cluster of media personnel, the woman from earlier  stood in the background, quiet, watchful. Unnoticed.

Kara barely had a moment to breathe before Cat was striding up beside her, a clipboard in hand, sunglasses perched low enough on her nose to let Kara see the unimpressed arch of her brow.

“You’re killing me, Danvers,” Cat drawled, flipping a page like she was reviewing a failing report card. “You could have at least given them something to chew on.”

Kara ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. “I gave them answers.”

“You gave them oatmeal,” Cat shot back. “Bland, unsatisfying, and forgettable. You want to control the story? Then give them a better one to write.”

Kara bit her tongue. She knew Cat had a point, but she couldn’t give them what they really wanted. Not without opening doors that were better left shut, and anything about Jeremiah’s death was for Alex to disclose, not her.

Before she could respond, Nia appeared at her side, all but bouncing on her toes. “Alright, boss, time to go. I know I’m just the lowly spotter, but even I know you don’t want to be late to practice.”

Kara seized the opportunity to escape. “Guess that means we’re done here.”

Cat sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “For now.”

Together, Kara and Nia wove through the maze of the infield, the distant hum of engines already setting her nerves alight. The pit area was bustling, crew members working efficiently under the looming grandstands. 

As they reached the garage, Mike was already by the car, arms crossed, looking far too relaxed for someone whose setup had been so off the past few weeks. Kara’s frustration stirred again, but she tamped it down. She needed to focus. 

She made sure all her zippers and velcro were fastened as they should be, and reached for her awaiting helmet, fingers tightening around the familiar weight. This was where the talking stopped. Now, it was time to drive.

——

The growl of engines echoed through the tight confines of Fawcett Motor Speedway as Kara tightened her grip on the wheel. The half-mile bullring was a beast—high-banked, fast, and relentless. Practice had just begun, and already the track was heating up, rubber streaking the grooves as drivers laid down laps.

“Alright, kid, let’s shake this thing down,” Cat’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “Take it easy first run, get a feel for the car. We’ll start trimming from there.”

Kara exhaled, rolling her shoulders before settling into the cockpit. She eased the No. 11 Chevrolet Camaro onto the banking, merging high out of pit road before cutting low into Turn 1. The car gripped, but the second she rolled onto the throttle, it fought her. The nose wanted to push up the track, resisting her inputs.

Damn, okay. Tight. Too tight.

She rolled into Turn 3. Fawcett wasn’t about outright speed—it was about rhythm, precision, knowing exactly when to pick up the throttle without breaking loose. One mistake, and she’d be in the wall or losing positions before she could blink.

First lap: steady. Feel it out.

Second lap: pick up speed. She stayed low into Turn 1, feathering the throttle as she arced through the banking, letting the car drift up just enough to kiss the groove where rubber had already built up. The moment she saw the exit, she was back on the gas.

It’s fighting me. No rotation. Feels like I’m dragging an anchor through the center.

Nia’s voice broke through. “Traffic ahead—Hal Jordan, high line.”

She spotted the bright green No. 24 ahead, rim-riding right against the wall. Behind her, Barry Allen’s No. 21 was closing in fast. She barely had a split second to process before Oliver Queen’s No. 7 slowed in front of her.

Three cars. No margin for error.

Low line was open, but Barry would take it if she hesitated. Hal had the top rolling. Oliver was a roadblock. Kara made the call in a snap—dove low into Turn 1, sailing past Oliver before sliding back up ahead of Barry.

He’s gonna try the crossover—

Barry ducked under her in Turn 2, but she was ready for it, pinching him just enough to make him back out. The moment he lifted, she powered off the corner and gapped him down the backstretch.

“Nice work,” Cat mused. “Don’t get too cocky.”

“Not cocky,” Kara muttered, but she was too focused to argue. The car wasn’t just tight—it was killing her in traffic. She could feel the front tires overheating, scrubbing through the center of the turns, making her work twice as hard to hold her line.

The backend was twitchy, too. Not loose, not in a way she could work with, but unsettled. Every bump in the track sent a shudder through the chassis, throwing off her rhythm just enough to be frustrating.

She couldn’t  race like this, the car was  a handful.

She fought through another handful of laps, adjusting her entry points, changing her throttle application, but nothing made it better. The car just wouldn’t rotate through the center. She was working harder than she should be just to stay on pace.

“Alright, Kara, bring it in,” Cat’s voice cut through the hum of the engine. “Let’s make a wedge adjustment, see if we can loosen you up a hair.”

She rolled onto pit road, slowing just enough to avoid speeding but keeping the pace high. The crew was waiting, already swarming the car as soon as she stopped. A wedge wrench slammed into the rear window, a half-turn adjustment happening in seconds. They checked tire pressures, made a slight track bar adjustment, and slapped on a fresh set of right-side tires to compare wear.

Kara pulled off her gloves, flexing her fingers as she pushed up her visor. Her heartbeat was still high, her brain running faster than the engine idling under her.

“Car’s tight in the center, feels like I’m losing roll speed,” she reported quickly, her words coming just as fast as her thoughts. “Rear’s skittish, especially over bumps. I can’t commit to throttle without it pushing up the track.”

Cat nodded. “We just freed it up a little. Get back out there, give me five solid laps.”

Kara barely had time to exhale before she was pulling her gloves back on and rolling back onto the track. Fawcett didn’t give you time to think—it demanded instinct. And her instincts told her the next run was going to be better.

She got right back into rhythm, picking up speed with each lap. The car immediately felt looser, responding better in the center of the turns. She tested her limits, diving in a little deeper, pushing back to throttle just a split second earlier. The backend stepped out slightly in Turn 4, but she caught it, correcting with a small flick of the wheel.

Better. Not perfect, but better.

The final minutes of practice ticked down. Traffic thickened as drivers fought for clean air, everyone making their last adjustments before qualifying. Kara settled into a long run, hitting consistent lap times, threading through cars as they ran different lines. The Camaro felt more manageable—still a little tight in traffic, still twitchy over bumps, but workable. She could wrestle with this setup if she had to.

“Two to go,” her spotter called. “Clark coming up behind.”

Kara smirked. The No. 90 was fast, and Clark was smooth—always patient, always in control. But she wasn’t about to just let him by.

She sent it deeper into Turn 1, hugging the bottom while Clark took the high line. He had momentum off the exit, inching up to her door down the backstretch. She edged ahead into Turn 3, but he stayed right there, waiting.

White flag. One more lap.

Kara stayed low again, holding her line as Clark’s Ford powered off Turn 2, pulling alongside her down the back straight. She couldn’t block—this was just practice—but she could make it hard on him like any good cousin would. She kept him pinned high into Turn 3, forcing him to lift slightly. That was all she needed. She hammered the throttle off Turn 4, crossing the line just ahead as the session ended.

“Nice run,” Clark called as their cars dropped in speed and his saddled up next to Kara’s, amusement clear in his tone.

Kara laughed, finally letting herself breathe. “Yeah, you too.”

She coasted around on the cool-down lap, rolling back to pit road. The car wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And better was enough—for now.

Later was qualifying. Tomorrow was race day and then? The real fight began. But now, the time was inching toward twelve-thirty, which meant she was getting even closer to more media obligations.

Kara sighed as she unlatched the net from her window, handing her helmet off to James before climbing out of the car. She yanked her balaclava down, the cool air a relief against her flushed skin.

Her team colors stood out garishly against James’ dark skin. She knew she was a rookie, knew her sponsorship options were limited, knew her scattered deals couldn’t compete with the big-name, full-car sponsors—but, Rao, did she hate it. And it wasn’t even the brand. Kara loved Big Belly Burger, practically lived off their takeout and potstickers. But the colors? She loathed them.

James chuckled, following her gaze before glancing down at his own suit. “That bad, huh?”

Kara threw her head back with a laugh, the sheer ridiculousness of it all washing over her. “I swear it’s not you, James—”

“That’s what they all say.” He shot back, mock-wounded, which only made Kara laugh harder as they started toward the hauler.

“It’s just a lot, you know?” She exhaled, shaking her head. “The media digging into my past, this awful color scheme, and Mike—Rao, James, Mike. He’s a terrible mechanic. How does someone like that even get into NASCAR?”

She hadn’t realized they’d stopped walking until she caught the way James was looking at her. Worse, her voice had risen enough to draw attention—some from passing crew members, some from nosy reporters. Kara groaned and started walking again, muttering under her breath.

“Nepotism,” James said simply, falling into step beside her.

Kara nearly tripped over her own feet. “What?”

James arched a brow. “You didn’t know?”

Kara threw up her hands. “Didn’t know what, James? Rao, no one ever tells me anything! I get that I’m just the driver and not involved in every little decision, but come on—this is my career too! It’s just—ugh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

James nodded, an amused glint in his eye. His fire suit crinkled as he shrugged. “Go on, don’t let me stop you.”

“Oh, shut up.” Kara rolled her eyes. “Now spill. What am I apparently the last to know?”

James smirked. “Kara, what would you do without your pit crew feeding you all the inside gossip?”

“Probably wither and die.”

James shoved her. “Don’t let Alex hear you say that.” He paused, then said, “Mike’s mom is Rhea Matthews.”

Kara blinked. “W-wait. Wait. Hold on.” She turned to face him fully. “You’re telling me—seriously—that that useless excuse for a mechanic is the son of The Daxamite? Rao, she and Cat used to crash each other on purpose back in the day. Before the rules were stricter, anyway.”

“Did you just call Cat old?” James grinned. “I’m so telling—”

Kara slugged him in the arm. “Focus! You’re telling me that his mother is The Daxamite—the same Rhea Matthews who had a legendary rivalry with the Queen of Racing?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” James’ grin was far too smug. He’d clearly been spending too much time with Winn. It was going to be the death of her.

“How could you all hold out on me like that?”

“We thought you knew!”

Kara groaned, resisting the urge to bang her head against the hauler wall. She was about to fire off another round of complaints when the door swung open.

Cat stood in the frame, unimpressed. “What are you two clowns doing standing around? Debrief. Now.”

Kara and James exchanged a look, biting back grins.

“How did you all even get back here before us?” Kara asked.

Cat’s stare was dry as dust. “We don’t waste time chit-chatting. Chop chop.”

With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared inside. James and  Kara fought back laughter as they followed.

Like usual, the hauler was crowded, hot, and smelled like sweat, fuel, and rubber—just like every post-practice debrief Kara had sat through since the start of the season. Except, unlike this morning, her whole pit crew was stuffed inside.  She took a seat, then she shifted, resting her elbows on the folding table as Cat flipped through the pages of her trusty clipboard.

“Alright,” Cat started, pen tapping against the paper. “You finished P12 in practice, about two-tenths off the leader. Traffic held you up, but even in clean air, the car’s still a handful. Let’s break it down—what’d you feel out there?”

Kara exhaled, her whole body tense. “Tight center, like we talked about. It’s better after the wedge adjustment, but I still feel like I’m scrubbing too much speed through the corners. The backend’s twitchy over the bumps, especially in three and four. I can catch it, but it throws off my rhythm.”

Sam, sitting cross-legged on a stack of tires, nodded. “We saw that in the data. You’re chasing it a little on exit, having to lift just a hair more than you should.”

Kara sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “Yeah, it’s making it tough to commit to throttle early.”

Kelly, arms crossed over her fire suit, glanced toward Kenny. “What’s fuel burn looking like?”

Kenny shrugged. “About what we expected, but she’s working the wheel more than she should be. Could be burning off the right-front faster than we want over a long run.”

James leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Right-sides had some extra wear when we pulled ‘em. Not terrible, but enough to keep an eye on.”

Jack, ever blunt, grunted. “Isn’t gonna matter if she’s got no grip to start with.”

Kara huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Thanks for the optimism, Jack.”

“Despite being an irritable Brit, he’s not wrong,” Cat muttered, flipping to another page. “Your lap times were consistent, but the No. 90 and No. 3 had a little more drive off. We need to free you up just enough to let the car roll through the center without killing exit speed.”

Nia, quiet up until now, tilted her head. “From up top, it looked like you were carrying good entry speed, but you were fighting it from the center out. You had to wrestle it more when you got in traffic, too.”

Kara nodded. “Yeah, I had to really work to keep it from pushing up the track. The setup feels okay when I’m by myself, but in traffic, it gets worse. It just doesn’t rotate.”

“Confirming,” Brainy added, looking at his data pad. “Your steering input increased noticeably in dirty air. Your slip angle also widened, which correlates with the additional tire wear Kenny observed.”

“Translation,” Winn cut in, glancing between Brainy and Kara, “you’re sawing at the wheel more than you should, and it’s costing you drive-off. You’re probably getting loose over bumps because you’re overloading the right-rear trying to compensate.”

Kara sighed. “Yeah, that tracks. What do you think—free it up a little?”

Cat exhaled, scribbling something down before looking back up at the crew. “Alright. Let’s get ahead of it before qualifying. We’ll take a quarter round out of the right-rear, drop the track bar a smidge, and free her up a touch more.”

Kenny nodded. “I’ll double-check fuel loads, make sure weight distribution’s not throwing it off.”

Jack stretched, cracking his knuckles. “If we gotta throw more wedge at it, I’ll be ready.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you love digging around in that rear window,” Sam smirked.

Jack just grunted, while Kelly shook her head.

Brainy, still studying his screen, frowned slightly. “I will monitor real-time telemetry during qualifying. If instability persists, we may need to reevaluate ride height adjustments.”

“Ride height? If we start messing with that, we might lose straight-line speed,” Winn pointed out.

“I am aware,” Brainy said, unconcerned. “That is why we are not doing it yet. I am simply presenting contingencies.”

Cat ignored them, turning back to Kara. “You comfortable with the change?”

She hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I can work with that.”

“Good.” Cat snapped the clipboard shut. “Then let’s get to work, and whatever the hell you do, it better pass inspection.”

The crew filed out one by one, already talking about adjustments, fuel loads, and tire strategy. Kara lingered, running a hand through her sweaty hair. She had a decent car—better than before—but she knew damn well “decent” wouldn’t cut it tomorrow.

She just hoped they got it right before qualifying.

On the upside, Cat hadn’t grilled her about media obligations again. On the downside, media was exactly where she had to be next.

Kara had just enough time to grab a quick snack in the hauler—picking through the few cabinets not crammed with equipment and eyeing the tiny mini-fridge that looked completely out of place in what was essentially a mobile garage. She forced herself to take a few bites, sipped water like she was supposed to, anything to keep from feeling lightheaded when she climbed back into the car for two high-stakes laps.

But even as she ate, her mind churned.

The whole situation with Mike gnawed at her, leaving a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the food. At least she wasn’t him. Her parents hadn’t paved her way into the Cup Series—she’d clawed her own way up, proved she belonged. She was a damn good driver who had just gotten saddled with a terrible nepotism hire.

Then there was the fact that this was Fawcett. She hadn’t seen Alex in hours. Didn’t know how her practice had gone, whether her car was fighting her the way Kara’s was. And she couldn’t ask, because that meant giving a competing driver a full rundown of her setup struggles. And Alex, for all her sisterly love, would absolutely use that information to her advantage.

Because on the track, nothing else mattered.

Blood or not, they were sisters through and through, but once that green flag dropped? All bets were off. If it came down to it, if the race demanded it, Alex would put Kara in the wall without hesitation. Kara would do the same.

And then there was the media.

Everyone knew she hated it. She had to sidestep half-truths, be so careful about what she said. About the Danvers—because yes, she was a Danvers, but first and foremost, she was a Zor-El, and she refused to take Alex’s legacy from her. About Clark—because even the smallest slip could open a can of worms she wasn’t remotely prepared to deal with.

And then there was her.

That woman. The one Kara kept spotting at her meetings, lingering near media interviews like a shadow. She was almost unnervingly composed, regal in a way that made Kara question what the hell she was doing at a NASCAR race in the first place.

And it was driving her insane not knowing who she was—or why she suddenly seemed to be everywhere Kara turned. The beeping of her phone alarm dragged her from her thoughts. One-fifteen. Media.

——

Kara’s second round of media for the day was worse than the first.

The exhaustion was setting in. Not physically—she could push through that—but mentally. Practice had been frustrating, the car still wasn’t quite where she needed it to be, and with qualifying creeping closer, she could already feel the weight of expectations pressing down. Now, she had to slap on a polite smile, dodge loaded questions, and pretend she enjoyed talking to people who only cared about how they could spin her words into a headline. At this point, tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. At least tomorrow, for several hours she’d be strapped into a two tonne machine traveling an average of a hundred and thirty miles an hour, with no reporters near her.

She walked into the designated media area, where reporters had gathered in a loose semi-circle once again. The bright camera lights made the space feel ten degrees hotter.

“Alright,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her shoulders in a nervous tic. “Let’s get this over with.”

The first few questions were standard—how the car felt, what adjustments the team was making, what her expectations were for qualifying. She kept her answers vague but professional, careful not to tip her hand.

Then came the questions she hated. Why did they never let up? The media loved to beat a dead horse.

“Kara, your rookie season hasn’t been the easiest, but you’ve started gaining momentum. What’s been the biggest challenge so far?”

Kara’s jaw tensed, but she forced a neutral expression. She knew what they were really asking. They wanted her to talk about the rocky start, the struggles she’d had—not because they cared about her growth, but because they wanted a soundbite about her failures.

She wasn’t giving them one.

“Rookie seasons are always tough,” she said evenly. “It’s a learning curve. My team and I are working hard to improve every week, and I feel good about where we’re heading.”

Short. Simple. No ammo for follow-ups. Kara felt like a different person entirely when she did interviews.

More questions. Some about her competitors. Some about her expectations for the rest of the season.

Then—

“Kara, we saw someone new hovering around your team today. A woman—dark hair, dressed pretty sharp. Any idea who she is?”

Kara blinked. That was not the question she was expecting. Not at all.

She kept her face blank, despite the flicker of unease. So the media had noticed her too.

“I don’t really know,” she answered smoothly, maybe the first time she’s ever been truly honest with the media. “We’ve got a lot of people working behind the scenes.Probably just someone from the team.”

It was a terrible answer, and she could feel the reporters picking up on it.

“Do you think she’s with LuthorCorp?” another reporter pushed. “There’s been speculation that—”

What?

“I’ve got to get ready for qualifying,” Kara cut in, flashing a practiced, polite smile as she stepped away. “Thanks, guys.”

She didn’t wait for more questions, didn’t look back.

Because now, instead of focusing on her car, her mind was stuck on that damn woman. Who she was. Why she was everywhere today. And why exactly LuthorCorp’s name was suddenly being thrown into the conversation.

LuthorCorp had no business being around her team. That much she knew.

They were a powerhouse in the sport—not because they were the best, but because they were the biggest. They owned half the teams in NASCAR, either directly or through convoluted sponsorship deals that made it impossible to untangle who was actually calling the shots. It wasn’t just that they had money—it was that they used it in ways no one else could. They threw around sponsorship dollars like weapons, used their deep pockets to ensure fines never amounted to anything more than a slap on the wrist, and made sure their teams had advantages that others never would. If a rule didn’t benefit them, they’d lobby to change it. If a competitor got too close to threatening their dominance, they’d find a way to push them out—whether that was through shady backroom deals, strategic sponsorship pullouts, or conveniently timed “accidents” on the track that never quite got ruled intentional.

There wasn’t a single major decision in the sport that didn’t have LuthorCorp’s fingerprints on it. Officials wouldn’t admit it, but everyone knew they had influence. And the worst part? No one could stop them.

Kara had spent her whole career steering clear of them. The last thing she needed was to be dragged into their orbit. So why the hell did it feel like they were watching her now?

Kara was on the hunt for Cat Grant, but time was running out before qualifying, and her damn crew chief was nowhere to be found. Texting Cat was pointless—she never responded, and Kara wasn’t in the mood for a game of hide-and-seek.

She wished she could talk to Alex right now. More than ever.

LuthorCorp sticking their nose where it didn’t belong was bad enough, but if Kara let herself dwell on her worst thoughts, she couldn’t shake the gnawing worry that they were maneuvering to push her out of the sport entirely. They owned half of NASCAR, had their hands in everything. Hell, they practically wrote the rulebook with how much they dictated behind the scenes. And if they wanted Kara gone?

They had the money, the power, and the influence to make it happen. To hell with the media, putting these thoughts in her head.

Alex would know what to do. She’d been dealing with LuthorCorp’s hounds for six years now, fighting them tooth and nail. Kara, though? She was still new to the game. And she was running out of time to figure it out.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

One-thirty-five. Qualifying started in ten minutes.

Kara let out a sharp breath through her nose, cursing under her breath as she turned back toward her pit box. As much as she wanted to stomp her way over there like a petulant kid—it would feel good, damn it—she wasn’t about to hand the media that kind of headline. One bad mood, one wrong expression, and she’d be dealing with a week’s worth of speculation she didn’t have the energy for.

So instead, she kept her pace measured, controlled. She weaved through the chaos of pit road, the air thick with the scent of fuel and rubber, the soundtrack of impact wrenches and revving engines ringing in her ears.

By the time she reached the pit box, the crew was already deep in their final checks, making notes, passing around data sheets, double-checking everything they could before she got behind the wheel.

Earlier, she had wanted to skip right to race day, to the thrill of competition. But now, standing just feet from her No. 11 car, a water bottle being pushed into her hands by Sam, all she could think about was how bad this was going to be if the car wasn’t fixed.

If she failed.

Her gaze flickered to Cat, a lump forming in her throat. “Past inspection?”

“Flying colors, Sunshine.”

Kara hummed, but it didn’t sound convinced, and Cat—who knew her far too well—caught onto it immediately.

“Keep your head on straight, Danvers. You’re the only car on track during qualifying, so you better not put my damn car in the wall.”

Kara huffed out a dry laugh. “One time, Cat. One time. Will you ever let that go?”

“No.” Cat scribbled something down on her clipboard. “Victor’s just finishing his lap. You’re up next.”

With a slow, steadying breath, Kara turned toward her car as the crew wrapped up their final checks. Everyone but Jack moved behind the wall. He stood by, holding up the window net with one hand and her helmet with the other.

With practiced ease, Kara swung a leg into the cockpit, gripping the roll bars as she lowered herself into the tight, molded seat. She took one last long gulp of water before handing the bottle back to Jack, who remained silent but steady—an anchor she was quietly grateful for.

She pulled on her gloves, then her helmet, securing the straps. The HANS device came next, locking into place. Jack leaned in, making sure her five-point harness was cinched down tight before pulling the window net up.

“You’ll do great, kid,” he said simply before stepping away.

The radio crackled to life. Winn’s voice came first. “Radio check.”

Kara pressed the button on her steering wheel. “Check, check.”

Then Brainy, ever the human polygraph, chimed in. “You are approximately 7.3% more tense than usual. Breathe, Kara.”

A quiet laugh huffed through her nose—of course Brainy would notice that. But she listened, drawing in a slow, deep breath.

Outside, the crew finished their last once-over. Cat stood with her arms crossed, her gaze locked onto Kara, waiting. Everyone was waiting.

Then came Cat’s voice, steady and sure. “Alright, kid. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Kara flipped the ignition switch, and the engine rumbled to life beneath her. The noise, the doubt, the weight of LuthorCorp’s shadow over her?

It all faded away.

Kara gripped the wheel and took a deep breath as she rolled onto the track. First lap was a throwaway—build speed, find rhythm. But the moment she entered Turn 1, she felt it.

The car was different. Gone was the sluggish, tight mess from practice— hell, even the past several months. Now, it rotated through the center like it was on rails, planted but responsive. The rear stayed stable over bumps, no more skittish corrections. It was the kind of car she could push, the kind she could trust.

What the hell?

No time to dwell. She sent it harder on lap two, sailing into Turn 3, the tires gripping perfectly as she rolled back to throttle earlier than before. The Camaro shot off Turn 4, humming beneath her like it was built for this track—like it was an extension of her.

Checkered flag.

“Damn, that was clean,” Cat said. “P2, for now. Might hold.”

Kara let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. That… felt good. Too good. 

She coasted into pit road, pulling the Camaro into her team’s stall. As she climbed out, a swarm of cameras and reporters hovered, waiting for interviews. Damn them.

She flipped her visor up,, adjusting her fire suit before stepping forward. A reporter from Fox Sports shoved a mic toward her.

“Kara, solid qualifying run. Car looked strong. What’s the difference between practice and now?”

Kara hesitated for a second. “Uh… yeah, the car felt great. Way more balanced. We struggled a bit earlier, but the team made some good changes. Credit to them.” But really, Kara had absolutely no idea. She didn’t think Mike capable of this. 

“Your first time at Fawcett in the Cup Series—how do you feel heading into the race?”

She offered a tight-lipped smile. “Fawcett’s a beast, but I like a challenge.”

A few more quick questions—standard stuff—before the media dispersed. Kara turned back toward the garage, brows furrowed, and not particularly concerned with the media now. She knew she’d have to deal with official media later, especially after placing P2.

She wasn’t imagining it. Something changed. 

She spotted Cat leaning against the pit wall, watching her with an amused smirk. 

“What did you do?” Kara asked, crossing her arms.

Cat snorted. “Not me. Mike’s gone.”

Kara blinked. “What?”

“Fired him after practice debrief,” Cat said casually. “Brought in someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

Before Kara could respond, a voice cut in behind her.

“Car was way too tight on entry, rolling through the center like a dump truck.”

Kara turned and found herself staring at a woman dressed in standard mechanic gear—coveralls, sleeves pushed up, grease smudged on her knuckles, steel toe boots. She looked like any other crew member, but the confidence in her stance, the sharp green eyes, and the quiet smugness in her expression told a different story. This was the same pristine woman from earlier.  

“Fixed your track bar, softened the right rear a touch, adjusted your cross weight.” The woman wiped her hands on a rag, expression neutral, almost bored. “You should be able to get back to throttle earlier now without it snapping loose. You were catching bumps harder in three and four— your rear-end was bouncing more than it should, so I adjusted the shock rebound slightly. That should keep the car settled over rough patches instead of unsettling your line.”

Kara frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who are you?”

The woman extended a hand, lips curving just slightly. 

“Lena Luthor. Your new mechanic and car chief.”

Kara’s brain stalled.

Luthor.

In her pit box. Under her hood. 

The media was right.

Her entire body locked up as she stared at Lena, standing there like she belonged, like she hadn’t just flipped Kara’s entire world sideways. Kara had just climbed out of her car, adrenaline still thrumming in her veins, heart hammering from the fastest, smoothest qualifying run she’d had all season.

And she was the reason why.

Lena Luthor.

The name hit Kara like a gut punch.

Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into the skin as she fought to keep her reaction in check. A thousand thoughts fired off in her head at once—like pistons in an engine. She knew LuthorCorp had its claws in nearly everything—sponsorships, teams, half the damn rulebook—but she hadn’t expected them to reach into her own team.

Yet here was Lena, sleeves rolled up, hands smudged, a line of grease smeared across her jaw, standing comfortably in her pit box like she’d been there all season.

But Kara knew better.

She knew what Luthors were.

Calculated. Cold. Self-serving.

And yet—

Kara yanked off her helmet, tearing down the balaclava, her hair a tousled mess as she tried to catch her breath, sweat still cooling on her skin. She should be celebrating. She’d just put down a hell of a lap. Front row start.

But all she could think about was the fact that a Luthor had been in her car.

“You—” Kara started, voice hoarse from the heat of the car.

Lena raised a perfectly shaped brow, head tilting just slightly. “Something wrong?”

The way she said it—cool, amused, knowing—made Kara’s blood heat. She knew exactly what was running through Kara’s head. The name. The reputation. The implications.

And she was enjoying every second of Kara trying (and failing) to mask her reaction.

But there was something else, too.

It was too small for anyone else to notice, but Kara caught it—because Lena was too composed.

Every single movement, every breath, every flicker of her expression—it was deliberate. Controlled. Crafted.

Like she was playing a part.

Like she knew exactly what people expected from a Luthor and was leaning into it.

That smirk. That slow tilt of her head. The way her arms folded over her chest, casual but measured, like she was inviting the scrutiny while also making it clear she didn’t give a damn. It was armor.

And Kara wasn’t sure why, but she noticed.

She noticed in a way that made something deep in her chest go tight.

Kara clenched her jaw, shoving her hands onto her hips. “Just didn’t expect—”

Lena’s smirk deepened. Slow. Deliberate. “Didn’t expect what? Your car to actually handle well?”

Kara bristled. Oh, she was going to be insufferable. Maybe she was a real Luthor after all.

A flicker of movement behind Lena caught Kara’s attention. The rest of her team stood just a few feet away—Sam, Jack, James, Brainy, even Winn—each of them suddenly very busy not looking at her. That sent another wave of irritation rolling through her. They knew.

They all knew since this morning that Mike was out and Lena was in. That’s what they were discussing and trying to cover for. Alex. Alex let it slide. How did Alex know before Kara?

And none of them had told her. Not even Alex.

Kara inhaled sharply through her nose. Unbelievable.

She shot a glare at Winn, who at least had the decency to look a little guilty. “Are you serious?”

Winn rubbed the back of his neck. “It wasn’t exactly—”

James cleared his throat, stepping in before he could finish. “Look, Kara, we didn’t tell you because we knew you’d react exactly like this.”

Kara turned her glare on him, playful humor from earlier completely gone when she looked at him, now replaced with anger. “Like what?”

James gestured vaguely to her whole stance—arms crossed, jaw tight, barely restrained anger rolling off of her. “Like that.”

Kara opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Okay, maybe they had a point. But still.

“I should’ve been told.”

Cat’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “And what, Danvers? You would’ve done what, exactly?”

Kara turned to face her crew chief, but Cat was already stepping forward, taking control of the situation like she always did.

“You would’ve what—stormed into my hauler, demanded I put Mike back?” Cat folded her arms, one brow arching. “Because last I checked, you hated working with him.”

Kara clenched her jaw. “That’s not the—”

“That’s not the point?” Cat finished dryly. “Oh, it is the point, sweetheart. Your car was running like trash, and he wasn’t fixing it. She did.” She jerked her chin toward Lena. “So unless you’d rather be starting mid-pack tomorrow, I suggest you get your head out of your ass and deal with it.”

Kara’s ears burned, embarrassment flaring hot under her skin. Cat had a point. A frustratingly good one.

And the worst part? Lena knew it too.

She was still standing there, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange unfold like she was amused.

But now Kara was watching her more closely. Not just at the way she smirked, but at the way she held herself—too still, too measured, too much control.

Because if Kara hadn’t spent her life learning how to control every muscle in her body, she might not have noticed.

Lena was hiding something. It wasn’t a tell. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even guilt. It was restraint.

The kind that only someone who had learned how to survive in a room full of knives could master. The kind Kara recognized because, for a long time, she had done the same thing.

Kara exhaled sharply, running a hand through her damp hair. “You should’ve told me.”

Cat shrugged. “Would that have changed anything?”

Kara scowled.

Lena finally spoke up again, voice smooth as ever, and this time Kara caught the slight lilt of an accent, something certainly not American. “Well, this has been a fascinating little display, but you should probably get ready for your media session. Unless, of course, you’d rather let them speculate why Kara Danvers looks like she just found out her crew chief was actually a Luthor in disguise.”

Kara’s eyes snapped to her, and—God—there was so much satisfaction in Lena’s expression.

But now Kara wasn’t sure if it was real.

Because she had a very, very small inkling that maybe—just maybe—Lena Luthor wasn’t quite who she wanted everyone to think she was, like she was shoving her Luthor name in everyone’s face to just get the scrutinizing done and over with.

The pit box was emptying out.

Slowly. Gradually. One by one.

First, James and Winn, casting her glances that ranged somewhere between cautious and worried as they excused themselves—James with a knowing shake of his head, Winn with a poorly concealed grimace, muttering something about needing to check telemetry. Then Brainy, who lingered a second longer than necessary before offering Kara a slow nod, as if he could calculate the precise amount of time it would take for her irritation to boil over. Jack and Sam exchanged a glance before heading out together, leaving only the crew still breaking down the pit setup, loading up what they could before tomorrow’s race. Even they peeled away eventually, one by one, until it was just Kara and Lena.

And silence.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of burnt rubber and fuel, the metallic tang of overheated brakes still clinging to Kara’s skin. The heat from the track had settled deep in her bones, mixing uncomfortably with the tension winding tighter in her chest. Her suit felt too warm, the sweat drying sticky against her skin, but she ignored it.

Lena hadn’t left either.

Kara wasn’t sure why she was still here.

She should be cooling off in the hauler, preparing for media, debriefing about the run with Cat—hell, she should be anywhere but here. But her feet stayed planted, arms still crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Her mind was still whirring, still trying to process the last hour—hell, the last twenty-four hours. The lap. The team. The fact that every single person she trusted had conveniently left out a critical detail.

That Lena had been hovering around all day. Watching. Waiting. And she hadn’t said a damn word.

Kara exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her still-damp hair. It clung at the edges of her gloves, the moisture sticking between her fingers. Lena, for her part, looked entirely unbothered. Or at least, she was trying to. She stood a few feet away, arms folded, weight shifted onto one hip, head tilted just so—like she was waiting, like she had all the time in the world to let Kara sit in her own frustration. But there was something about it that didn’t sit right.

Because Lena hadn’t left either.

Kara eyed her, trying to pick apart the layers of carefully placed ease, the deliberate smirk, the way she rolled her shoulders as if she hadn’t spent the entire day weaving through the garage like a ghost, barely speaking, barely making her presence known. But Kara had noticed. She always noticed when someone was watching her. And Lena had been there. Just on the edges. Just out of reach.

“You were here all day.”

Lena’s brow arched, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was amused by the statement. “Observant.”

Kara’s fingers curled against her bicep. “You never said anything.”

A slow blink. A fraction of a shrug. “You were busy.”

Kara let out a sharp, humorless breath, shaking her head. “Right. That’s why.”

Lena’s voice was smooth, even, but Kara caught the way her fingers flexed subtly against her arm, like she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted to seem. The dim lighting of the garage cast faint shadows along her features, highlighting the delicate smudge of grease just below her jaw. It was almost out of place against the otherwise pristine sharpness of her posture.

Kara wasn’t sure why she noticed that.

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable, crackling with something neither of them seemed willing to name. Kara wasn’t even sure what she was waiting for. An explanation? An apology? Some kind of acknowledgment that this whole situation—her car, her team, her entire damn life—had been upended without so much as a heads-up?

Lena wasn’t giving her anything.

Just standing there, unreadable, infuriatingly composed, letting Kara’s frustration build and build. And yet, underneath it all, there was something else. A hesitation. A restraint. The kind Kara recognized because she lived with it every single day.

“You knew I’d find out eventually,” Kara said, voice quieter now, but no less tense.

Lena held her gaze, the smirk fading just slightly. “Of course.”

Kara studied her, searching for cracks, for something real beneath all the poise. “Then why not just tell me yourself?”

A flicker of something passed over Lena’s face, too quick to name. But Kara saw it. She felt it. The smallest shift in breath, the way Lena’s fingers twitched where they rested against her arm. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with that same infuriatingly smooth demeanor.

“You wouldn’t have listened.”

Kara inhaled sharply, something twisting low in her gut at the certainty in Lena’s tone. Because she wasn’t wrong. If Lena had walked up to her this morning and said she was her new mechanic, Kara wouldn’t have believed her. Wouldn’t have given her a chance. Would’ve shut it down before she could even process it.

She hated that Lena knew that.

She hated that Lena was right.

Another beat of silence. Kara’s pulse drummed against her ribs, the frustration still there, still hot, but cooling just enough for something else to creep in—something unfamiliar, uneasy.

Finally, Lena let out a breath, a quiet thing, barely audible over the distant hum of the track. “You should get going. You have media.”

Kara stared at her, at the way her posture hadn’t changed, at the way she still looked perfectly at ease, like she hadn’t just dismantled Kara’s entire perception of her in a matter of minutes.

But Kara saw it now.

The armor. The deliberate way Lena held herself. The way she hadn’t run, hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t done a single thing to demand Kara’s trust—only stood there and let her own actions speak. And maybe that was the part that was throwing Kara off the most.

Because Lena Luthor was supposed to be cold. Calculated. Manipulative.

But this didn’t feel like manipulation.

It just felt like waiting.

Kara exhaled, slow and measured, before finally taking a step back. Then another. The distance felt necessary, like she needed space to think, to process, to stop looking at Lena and seeing something she wasn’t ready to name.

“See you tomorrow,” Kara muttered, turning on her heel.

She didn’t check to see if Lena was still watching her when she walked away. But somehow, she knew she was.

Kara barely registered the walk from the garage to the media center. One moment she’s standing by her car, Lena’s sharp green eyes still burned into her thoughts, the next she’s being ushered through the brightly lit hallways of the infield building. Her fire suit feels heavier with every step, exhaustion wrapping around her limbs like lead. She had already been running on fumes before, but now, after everything, the weight settles deeper. Kara moves  on autopilot, feet carrying her forward while her mind lagged somewhere behind, still stuck in the pit box, still seeing the way Lena’s eyes had flickered, the way her fingers had twitched against her arm. The way she hadn’t run.

The media center is colder, more formal than the bullpen outside. Bright lights beam down from overhead rigs, bouncing off the sponsor-clad backdrop behind the podium. A row of cameras and reporters sit waiting, their voices merging into an indistinct hum as Kara takes her place. The microphone in front of her looks identical to the one she held earlier, but this setting is different—structured, official, draining.

She was exhausted. She’d been exhausted before—mentally, physically, in ways that sleep never seemed to fix—but now it clung to her like a second skin, heavier with every step. The day had stretched impossibly long, draining in ways she hadn’t anticipated, and somehow, it still wasn’t over.

The cameras clicked to life, the murmurs quieting just enough for the first question to land.

She answered on instinct. The words came easily, practiced and empty, looping through the same lines she’d given twice already today. Yes, the car felt strong. No, she wasn’t worried about tomorrow. Yes, the team was working hard. No, she hadn’t seen the replay yet. Laughter where it was expected, nods where it was required. The script unfolded as it always did, automatic, detached.

She kept her expression steady, her tone even, but she felt like she was watching it all from a step outside herself. The questions blurred together, indistinct, like static on an old radio. She heard her own voice answer, but the words felt distant, weightless. It was muscle memory at this point, the same cycle of talking and nodding and smiling without thinking, without feeling.

And yet, beneath it all, Lena lingered.

The way she had stood there, unflinching. The way she had known Kara wouldn’t have listened. The way she had been right.

A question pulled her back, sharp enough to cut through the fog. Something about tomorrow. About expectations. About what she thought she could do.

Kara blinked. Forced a smile. Answered. 

She didn’t remember what she said.

By the time she was shuffled off the stage, she felt wrung out, her limbs leaden as she moved through the motions of thanking the PR rep and exiting into the hall.

Cat was waiting for her, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the casual tilt of her head. “Well, you didn’t say anything mortifying. That’s an improvement.”

Kara blinked at her, words slow to catch up. “Thanks?”

Cat sighed, already walking. Kara followed on instinct, barely processing what was said. Kara barely registered  the debrief with Cat. She nodded when appropriate, offered  a few half-hearted responses, but the words blurred  together—lap times, tire degradation, race strategy—it was all just noise,  the words blurred together, muffled by the leftover static in her head. She knew Cat noticed. The sharp-eyed crew chief always did, but mercifully, she didn’t press. Not here. Not now.

“…and try not to look like you’ve been hit over the head in the next interview. That’s my job, not yours.”

Kara blinked again. “What?”

Cat gave her a look, then waved her off. “Go get some sleep, Danvers. You look like death.”

By the time she made it to the car, Alex was already waiting, one hand tapping against the wheel. She took one look at Kara and snorted. “Long day?”

Kara slumped into the passenger seat with a groan. “You have no idea.”

Alex hummed knowingly. “Chinese?”

The answer was obvious. 

The ride back to the hotel with Alex was quiet, save for the rustling of the takeout bag between them. The familiar scent of their usual order filed  the car—garlicky noodles, sweet and tangy orange chicken, and the unmistakable fried aroma of Kara’s potstickers. She should be hungry. She hadn’t ate since several hours before. But exhaustion sat heavy in her bones, pressing down with a weight that food wouldn’t fix.

By the time they got back in their hotel room, Kara had already kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the bed, takeout container balanced in her lap. Alex flopped down beside her, their shoulders knocking together as she popped open her own container, ignoring her own bed a foot away. The room was dim, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over rumpled sheets and the mess of food spread between them.

They ate in silence for a while. Kara picking at her potstickers, tearing one in half without eating it. The silence stretched before Alex finally sighed.

“Alright, what’s up with you?”

Kara didn’t answer right away. She chewed on  the inside of her cheek, staring at the shredded potsticker in her hands. “You didn’t tell me about Lena.”

Alex’s brows furrow. “Lena?”

“My new mechanic. Car chief.” Kara finally looked at her. “Lena Luthor.”

Understanding dawned in Alex’s eyes, followed by something more cautious. “Oh. Right.”

Kara waited,, but Alex didn’t immediately say anything else. That alone was telling.

“How did you know?” Kara pressed.

Alex sighed, setting down her chopsticks. “Because Winn can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

That tracks. Kara exhaled and shook her head. “Of course he couldn’t.”

Alex watched her for a moment, then tilted her head. “Okay, but why do you look like you just got hit with a brick about it?”

Kara hesitated, then shrugged, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “I just— I didn’t expect her.”

Alex let out a snort. “Yeah, no one expects a Luthor in their garage.”

Kara shot her a look, but Alex just shrugged again, popping another piece of orange chicken into her mouth. “Look, I get it. I do. The Luthor name isn’t exactly a beacon of trust. But from what I’ve heard, she’s not in with LuthorCorp anymore.”

Kara shifted, nudging a piece of broccoli around her container. “I know. I think. It’s just… I don’t know. She fixed my car. I didn’t even realize we had a problem that wasn’t simple, but she did. And then she just—she looked at me like—” Kara stopped herself, suddenly feeling absurd for even voicing it.

Alex raised a brow. “Like?”

Kara shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Alex leaned back against the pillows, studying her. “Look, I’m not saying you should trust her. I’m just saying maybe don’t assume she’s out to get you.”

Kara huffed, flopping onto her back. She hated when Alex was reasonable. The ceiling blurred as exhaustion dragged at her limbs. But for the first time since the media room, since the garage, since Lena—she feels something close to steady.

Alex nudges her foot. “Eat your potstickers before I do.”

Kara snorted again, but she grabbed one anyway, popping it into her mouth. It’s was still warm, the crisp edges giving way to a savory, familiar comfort.

They fell into a companionable silence after that, the quiet hum of the hotel’s air conditioning the only sound between them. Kara leaned her head back against the pillow, eyes slipping shut. The exhaustion was still there, but it’s softer now, no longer clawing at her ribs.

For the first time all day, she thinks—just maybe—she might be able to rest.

Chapter Text

“You don’t win a race in one lap—you win it lap by lap, corner by corner. Stay patient, stay focused, and keep digging.”

-Jeff Gordon

April 17^th, 2016

Waking up was anything but pleasant.

Why was Alex shaking her like she was trying to rattle her bones loose?

“I’m up, I’m up—Rao, what is it?” Kara groaned, pushing herself upright as the blankets slid down to her lap. Her vision was still blurry, but she could make out Alex hovering over her, looking—well, awful. Worse than yesterday.

“Alex?”

Alex swallowed hard. “Sorry—just nervous. And you weren’t waking up to your alarm, and I know we’re competing drivers, but I really don’t want to face this track without my sister…and, and I…” She trailed off, her voice catching, eyes darting away like she wasn’t sure she should’ve said it out loud.

Kara blinked at her, brain still sluggish with sleep. She scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling the faint indentations from her pillow. “Al, I thought I was the one who rambled all the time.”

But then she really looked at her.

Alex’s hair was a mess, her D.E.O. Racing polo already on but disheveled, like she’d put it on without thinking. There were deep circles under her eyes, and her shoulders held a tension that wasn’t just pre-race nerves.

“Come here—”

She barely got the words out before Alex crashed into her, nearly knocking the air from her lungs as she collapsed onto Kara’s chest. The sheer weight of her, the way she clung on too tightly, pressed Kara back into the mattress.

This wasn’t like Alex.

Her sister had raced Fawcett a dozen times since Jeremiah died, but today was different. Today, the race fell on the anniversary.

Kara knew Alex wouldn’t cry. Not now. She was too busy holding herself together, keeping her chin up, trying to pretend it was just another race day.

So Kara did the only thing she could—wrapped her arms around Alex and held on, the same way Alex had done for her before every race at the Atlantis Superspeedway.

If Alex wasn’t ready to fall apart yet, Kara would be strong enough for both of them. But time was ticking. They couldn’t stay here all day. They needed to prepare for the day ahead, they needed to shower, eat, hydrate, attend all the meetings, and about a dozen other things until finally that green flagged dropped at three.

“Would it make you feel better if I let you win?”

Alex scoffed. “No, not really.”

Kara offered Alex a small smile before tossing the covers aside, ruffling her sister’s already messy hair on her way to the bathroom.

She hated cold showers. But she took one anyway—forced herself to, just like always. It wasn’t a habit so much as a ritual. A House of El ritual.

Technically, there was nothing special about a cold shower. It wasn’t some grand tradition, nothing extraordinary. But she was from Krypton, Alaska, where the water bit harder, cut deeper, and jolted the nervous system awake in a way nothing else could. The water here wasn’t the same—never cold enough, never sharp enough—but it counted.

Her parents had done this. Her grandparents too. A reset. A way to strip everything else away before the hours of grueling competition ahead.

And here, in a hotel bathroom indistinguishable from a hundred others, the chilled water was just enough. Just enough to make her feel like she was still a Zor-El, even if the world knew her as a Danvers.

By the time Kara stepped out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair, the scent of cheap hotel coffee had already filled the room just like the morning before. Alex was sitting on the edge of her bed, one shoe on, the other in her hand, staring at the floor like it might have the answers she needed.

Kara didn’t say anything—just grabbed her clothes, notably the Big Belly Burger polo,  and got dressed, letting the quiet settle between them. She knew today wasn’t easy. It never was.

By the time they made it downstairs, the hotel breakfast spread was in full force again. It wasn’t great, but it was free—which meant Kara had loaded her plate with three waffles, a mountain of scrambled eggs, and an unhealthy amount of bacon.

Alex, across from her, stirred a cup of coffee she hadn’t taken a sip from yet.

Kara took a bite of her waffle, smothered in a mixture of chocolate syrup and regular syrup, watching as Alex just kept stirring. “You do know the goal is to drink the coffee, right?”

Alex blinked, barely looking up. “Huh?”

Kara chewed, swallowed, then gestured toward the sad, untouched plate in front of her. “You gonna eat, or just move stuff around until it goes cold?”

That earned a half-hearted glare, but Alex still picked at her eggs with zero enthusiasm.

Kara sighed, setting down her fork. “Al, you need to eat.”

“I know.”

“You won’t make it to driver intros if you pass out in the hauler.”

“I said I know.”

Kara didn’t push, just sat back in her chair and let the silence settle.

The dining area wasn’t empty—a few other drivers and crew members were scattered around, drinking coffee and mumbling about track conditions. But Kara was only focused on Alex.

And Alex was staring at the table, eyes distant.

The anniversary. Again.

Kara couldn’t fix it—not really. But she could at least get Alex to stop treating breakfast like a chore.

So she stabbed a piece of bacon off Alex’s plate, popped it in her mouth, and said around a mouthful of food, “You know, if you’re not gonna eat this, I will.”

That earned a look.

Then—finally—a quiet snort.

“God, you’re disgusting.”

Kara grinned. “I know.”

And when Alex finally took a bite of her eggs, Kara counted it as a small victory.

And while yesterday felt like it dragged on and on, like it was never ending, Kara had a feeling today would go by faster than she could blink.

They didn’t linger over breakfast.

Alex drained her coffee in a few quick gulps, like she was trying to force herself awake, and Kara polished off the last of her waffles before grabbing an extra banana for the road. Neither of them said much as they gathered their things and headed out to the parking lot, the quiet settling between them again—not tense, just… there.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of birds, but it did little to shake the weight in Alex’s shoulders.

Kara slid into the passenger seat as Alex started the rental car, the engine sputtering to life.

The rental car smelled like stale coffee and anxiety.

Kara sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching the scenery blur past. The early morning sun cast long shadows over Fawcett’s  winding roads, but the closer they got to the track, the heavier the air felt.

Alex was gripping the steering wheel a little too tight.

Kara wasn’t tense, not exactly—but she wasn’t relaxed, either. Today was big. Not just because it was Fawcett, not just because it was the anniversary, but because there was a feeling in Kara’s gut.

A weight. A pressure.

Like something was going to change today.

She exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, and focused on the road ahead.

Alex still hadn’t said much, which was never a good sign.

“So,” Kara started, drumming her fingers against her knee, “are we gonna talk about the fact that you’re driving like we’re already three-wide off Turn 4?”

Alex’s grip didn’t loosen. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Not true.”

Kara shot her a look. “Alex, you once tried to convince Mom that you hadn’t been drinking at that high school party—while literally wearing a ‘Corona Extra’ hat.”

Alex finally glanced over, and despite everything, her lips twitched. “That was a great hat.”

Kara smirked. “You were a dumbass.”

The moment was brief, but it helped. Alex’s shoulders eased, just barely. Kara let the quiet settle again, watching as the track came into view, towering over everything.

Fawcett Motor Speedway. Half a mile. Concrete walls. Nowhere to hide. She swallowed, her fingers curling against her jeans.

Somehow she was more intimidated by the looming structure today than she was yesterday.

But as Alex pulled into the lot and found a spot among the sea of team vehicles, Kara’s stomach twisted all the same. The moment Kara stepped out of the rental car, she felt it.

The energy. The low hum of anticipation that settled over the garage area like an electric charge. Even this early, the track was alive—crew members hurrying between haulers, pit boxes being fully set up, the distant whine of engines being fired up for systems checks.

Fawcett had a pulse.

She pulled her duffel over one shoulder, adjusting the straps as Alex locked the car. They didn’t say much as they made their way through the infield, flashing their credentials to the NASCAR officials standing by the gates. Kara kept her head down, but eyes up, taking in the environment as they walked.

She still wasn’t used to this part. The routine. The way some of the older drivers just blended in, moving through the motions like it was just another Sunday. Kara wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel that way.

Her hauler was parked alongside the other rookie teams—not far from Alex’s, but far enough. The top-tier drivers had their setups closer to the front, near the garage entrance, but Kara was still in the proving grounds.

She was fine with that. For now.

“Alright,” Alex said, stopping just before they split off. “You good?”

Kara huffed, shifting her bag. “I’m fine. You?”

Alex’s jaw tensed. “Peachy.”

Kara squinted at her.

Alex sighed, rubbing at her temple. “I’ll be fine once we’re in the cars.”

That, at least, was something Kara understood. She reached out, gave Alex’s shoulder a quick, firm squeeze. “See you in the meetings.”

Alex smirked, just a little. “Try not to be late, rookie.”

Kara rolled her eyes, turning toward her hauler.

The door was propped open, and the familiar buzz of her crew inside was oddly grounding. She stepped in, immediately greeted by the scent of coffee, motor oil, and fresh tires.

Lena was already there.

Kara froze for half a second before forcing herself to move, pushing past the weird, lingering tension from yesterday. Just another morning. Just another race day.

Atleast, that’s what she kept telling herself. Nothing about today followed her usual race day.

Lena barely spared her a glance, already focused on the data spread across her tablet. Kara exhaled, shifting her grip on the straps of her duffel before stepping fully into the hauler.

The usual pre-race motions—double-checking notes, mentally preparing for the hours ahead—helped push aside whatever odd tension still lingered between them. There wasn’t time for it. Not today.

Kara dropped her bag onto the small bench inside, rolling her shoulders before grabbing a water bottle from the mini-fridge. A quick glance at the clock told her she had just enough time to get to the driver’s meeting at nine.

She twisted off the cap, taking a quick sip. One more deep breath. Then she was moving again.

By the time she slipped into the meeting room, the usual low murmur of conversation had settled into something more focused.

Kara sat toward the back of the room, arms crossed over her chest as she listened to the NASCAR officials run through the usual pre-race briefing.

Fawcett wasn’t a track that forgave mistakes—not with its half-mile bullring shape, high banks, and tight racing quarters. The meeting covered everything: competition cautions, restart procedures, pit road speed limits, and, of course, the unspoken warning about retaliation.

Because at Fawcett? Tempers flared fast.

She could feel the weight of the room around her. Some drivers looked relaxed, like they’d been through this a thousand times—because they had. Clark, Diana, Bruce, Hal. The veterans. Others leaned forward, elbows on their knees, nodding along with every word. Wally, Garfield, Kate. The ones who needed every scrap of information they could get.

Kara?

She was somewhere in between.

She tapped her fingers against her bicep, only half-listening as the official droned on about track limits.

Her focus kept drifting. To Alex, two rows up. Stiff posture, jaw tight. To Lena, standing against the back wall near the crew chiefs, arms folded as she quietly listened. Kara swallowed, looking away.

Lena’s presence was—new. Not unexpected, but still… strange.

A Luthor, standing among the mechanics instead of in some glass-walled VIP suite? It didn’t add up. And yet, she was there.

Kara shook the thought away, forcing herself to refocus as the official wrapped up.

“…and remember, respect the racing line. Good luck today.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as drivers stood. Some lingered, chatting. Others made a quick exit.

Kara stayed put for a moment, exhaling slowly.

Just a race.

She had a long day ahead, and wondered if she kept telling herself “it’s just a race,” if it would somehow make it true. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it— Cat had already left her side, as did most the team, heading to the hauler for the team meeting at nine-thirty.

Kara made her way through the bustling infield, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline thick in the air, the familiar scents helping ground her. The garage area was alive with activity—teams making final adjustments, pit crews running through their pre-race checklists, reporters lurking for a last-minute quote.

She weaved her way through the chaos until she reached her team’s hauler. The door was open, and inside, her crew was already gathered.

Cat Grant stood at the front of the small space, arms crossed, a no-nonsense expression fixed on her face. “Danvers,” she said the moment Kara stepped inside. “Nice of you to join us.”

“I’m only a minute late Cat, and you just saw me.” Kara slid into an empty seat next to Winn, who handed her a bottle of water without looking up from his tablet.

 “Feisty today?” he muttered.

She ignored him.

Cat wasted no time. “Alright, let’s get to it. We all know Fawcett’s  a meat grinder. The track’s tight, the cautions will come fast, and if you get caught up in someone else’s mess, you’re done before you know it.” Her gaze flicked to Kara. “That means patience. No hero moves. No throwing it three-wide when you don’t need to.”

Kara pressed her lips together but nodded.

She felt more than saw Lena in the corner, standing with her arms folded. Kara hadn’t expected her to be quiet. The day before had been… tense, to say the least.

She still didn’t trust her.

Not completely. She still was going to be strapped into the machine that Lena was elbow deep inside, but it didn’t automatically make things easier. Kara was a little worried for her safety— Luthor and all, plaguing her thoughts.

But Lena had been quiet so far. Focused. Not pushing. It was so unlike Mike, that it felt strange to not have someone combative in the hauler.  That was… new.

Cat continued. “Pit strategy. We’re watching tire wear. Fawcett eats them up fast, so we’ll call you in when we need to. Trust the strategy, don’t fight me on it.”

Kara arched a brow. “Would I do that?”

Cat gave her a pointed look. Okay. Fair.

Winn cleared his throat. “Weather’s good. No rain in the forecast, track temp’s rising, so grip will improve as the race goes on.”

James nodded. “Pit road’s gonna be a nightmare, though. Small stalls, and a lot of people fighting for the same real estate. We need you hitting your marks, Kara.”

“I will,” she assured.

Brainy finally spoke. “Statistically speaking, the probability of a multi-car pileup within the first fifty laps is—”

“Not something we need to dwell on, Brainy.” Kara cut him off before he could finish.

He huffed. “Fine.”

Cat clapped her hands together. “Alright. Everyone knows their job. Let’s go get ready.”

The team started to disperse, heading off in different directions. Kara stood, stretching, but before she could leave, Lena spoke.

“Danvers.”

Kara turned without thought, as if her brain was given a command and her body was forced to comply.

Lena had that unreadable look again—like she was holding something back, but her green eyes were just as sharp as yesterday. It was unnerving, and for a second, Kara thought she might say something about yesterday. About the fact that Kara had not been particularly welcoming.

But instead, Lena just tilted her head.

“Don’t get caught up in the chaos.”

Kara blinked.

Then Lena was gone.

Kara exhaled, running a hand through her hair. Yeah. Easier said than done. Kara was in the hauler for another twenty minutes, technically when she was running behind, dreading the fact that she had to see Lena again. She released another sigh, feeling like all she did was sigh, before she stepped back out into the light of day, forcing her legs to move when all she wanted to do was hide out in the hauler and avoid the Luthor at all cost. If only her world was that simple.

Kara’s thoughts were still racing as she made her way toward the garage. The encounter with Lena was leaving her uneasy—those green eyes, so sharp and unreadable, like she knew something Kara didn’t. It was hard to shake the feeling that there was something more beneath the surface of that simple advice: Don’t get caught up in the chaos.

She couldn’t focus on it too much, though. There were more pressing matters at hand. The tension in the air, the weight of the upcoming race, it all pushed her forward. She needed to clear her mind.

As she reached the garage, the familiar sounds of the team getting to work enveloped her. The garage was alive with noise—the hum of impact wrenches, the chatter of mechanics, the occasional rev of an engine being tuned.

The mechanics were already in motion, everyone focused and determined, making sure that everything was the exact same as yesterday— the perfect setup for Fawcett. But it was Lena who caught her eye, already hunched over the engine, her hands expertly working with a precision Kara didn’t understand.  

This time, Kara felt even more off balance. In the half hour since she last saw Lena, something had shifted. Like the rest of the pit crew, Lena was now wearing the standard Big Belly Burger fire-resistant suit. The bright, bold colors seemed out of place—almost jarring against the sleek, composed figure that was Lena. She was all sharp angles, all business in her posture and expression, and the vibrant colors—Kara wasn’t sure anyone else could make them work quite like that.

The white portion was already stained with grease, but Lena didn’t seem to mind.

Winn was beside her, his eyes glued to the tablet in his hands, scanning diagnostics with the speed of a seasoned engineer. His words were muffled by the noise of the garage, but Kara still caught the tail end of the report.

“Everything looks good. Engine temps are right where they should be. Fuel mapping is set.”

Kara let her hand drift over the smooth, familiar surface of her car as she approached. This was her office, her battlefield. She trusted it more than she trusted most people. But now, a Luthor had been all over it, was currently in the engine bay of  her car, and it left her feeling conflicted and uneasy— like she was being tugged in two different direction. The optimistic sunshine part of her that wanted to judge Lena on her own merit, and the cynical part of her who had lost far too much from the Luthors, the part that was terrified of that name.

Kara paused for a moment, watching the two of them work in sync, as if Kara wasn’t even an intrusion to be noticed.. The contrast between Lena’s calm, controlled demeanor and the high-energy chaos around them was striking. But that was the way it always was. Lena worked like she had nothing to prove, but somehow, it was impossible to ignore the impact she had.

Kara shook her head, pushing aside the lingering thoughts. There was no time for distractions now. The race was closing in, and she had to be ready.

Just as she was about to speak, Lena beat her to it, glancing up from her work. “You feeling good?”

Of course. Lena noticed everything, even when her focus was entirely on mechanics.

Kara hesitated, sensing the weight of Lena’s gaze. Her voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp—studying Kara as though she was trying to figure something out. There was no warmth behind the words, just the cool precision of someone handling a business deal.

Kara shrugged, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. Just—Fawcett, you know?” The words felt detached as they left her lips. This Lena was different from the one she had been alone with just half an hour ago. The other Lena had been softer, more open. This one, though—this one was all business, all sharp edges. This one was performing.

Lena nodded, wiping her hands on a rag. “Yeah. It’s… a lot. Just focus on the track, not any of the noise.” Lena didn’t give an inch, her voice still smooth like it was practiced.

Kara didn’t know why that made her pause. Maybe it was because Lena Luthor wasn’t supposed to get it. But she said it like she did.

“Here.” Lena stepped aside and motioned for her. “Go ahead. Get a feel for it.” Kara couldn’t help but notice the stiffness of Lena’s posture. She couldn’t help but notice a lot of things about her.

But Kara did as instructed and climbed her way into the driver’s seat, hands instinctively wrapping around the wheel. She tapped the brake, feeling the give. Shifted in her seat, testing the fit of her harness. The car felt solid. Responsive.

She let out a slow breath, trying to trust this car like she’d trusted any other car in her career. And then Winn had moved on to something else, which in their world, meant they were alone despite the dozen other crew members who were setting up around them.

Lena leaned down to meet her eyes. “The car is ready. You just focus on the drive.”

Kara studied her for a second. There was no smugness, no condescension, no rough edges. Just quiet certainty.

What was throwing Kara off about Lena was the stark shift in her behavior. Without an audience, Lena wasn’t acting like a Luthor at all. There was something unguarded, almost soft, but not quite about her that Kara hadn’t expected. But as soon as they weren’t relatively alone, that version of Lena was gone. In her place was the Luthor—sharp, focused, and precise.

And Kara didn’t know what to do with that. The sudden flip unsettled her, like she’d taken a corner too fast and snapped loose,  spinning out of control.

“Yeah,” Kara said finally, forcing a grin. “Let’s hope the driver’s as ready as the car.”

Lena’s expression shifted instantly, a smirk replacing the fleeting softness as she leaned back from the car. She wiped her hands on a rag with deliberate calmness. “Guess we’ll find out.”

It was like a switch had flipped. The warmth, the unspoken understanding from moments before, was gone—replaced by that cold, businesslike precision Kara had always expected. Lena was all Luthor now, every bit the professional, every bit the calculated strategist.

Kara climbed out, shaking her head and trying to shake off the moment. She had a race to focus on.

“Alright,” she said, her fingers fidgeting at her side restlessly. “I should get to the driver’s meeting.”

Lena didn’t look up, already back to double-checking the car’s setup, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Kara turned, heading toward the meeting area, but the shift lingered in her mind. The instinctive distrust she’d felt yesterday—toward the Luthor name, toward Lena— was starting to shift. She wasn’t sure how or why. And that made her nervous.

The mandatory drivers’ meeting at nine was much the same as the NASCAR drivers’ meeting at ten-thirty— only real difference was this meeting was only drivers, and the goal was to hammer the information into them. Drivers weren’t always known for keeping level heads, and everyone knew it. This drivers’ meeting was held in the same large conference room as earlier, the previous neat rows of folding chairs now a disorganized mess. The air was thicker with anticipation and caffeine than earlier,  the same  mix of rookies from before trying to look like they belonged and veterans who had done this a hundred times before.

Kara found a seat toward the middle this time, rolling her shoulders as she settled in. She wasn’t new to race meetings—she’d been through dozens in lower series—but Cup Series meetings had a different weight to them, especially when it was only the drivers around. You could feel like tension from rivalries stifling the air— a butter knife could cut through the tension in the room without the crew chiefs around to babysit.

Across the room, Alex caught her eye and shot her a small nod. It was reassuring in a way Kara hadn’t expected.

A NASCAR official stepped to the front of the room. Straight to business. Definitely didn’t want to keep all the drivers alone in one room longer than needed.

“Alright, drivers, listen up.” His voice cut through the quiet, and all murmurs died down. “Today’s race conditions are clear, track temp is holding steady, and we don’t anticipate any weather interference. Fawcett’s tight, you all know that. Respect the space, respect each other, and remember—aggressive driving is one thing, but we’re not here to make enemies before the season’s halfway through.”

A few people chuckled—Fawcett  made enemies fast.

The official continued, running through competition cautions, stage breaks, pit road speed limits, and restart procedures. It was all standard, but Kara listened intently.

Then came the reminder everyone expected, the real reason they had this meeting twice.

“This track doesn’t give second chances. We will not tolerate retaliation under caution. If you wreck someone intentionally, we’ll park you. No debate.”

The message was clear: Fawcett had a history of tempers boiling over, and NASCAR wasn’t in the mood for it today. Kara flicked her gaze to the side, catching sight of Oliver Queen leaning back in his chair, arms crossed like he was already planning something. Great.

Even better, Livewire was across the room, waving her hand at Kara as her eyebrows moved with intent.

As the meeting wrapped up, the official’s tone shifted.

“Look, I know some of you have been racing here for years, and some of you—” his eyes landed on the handful of rookies in the room, including Kara, “—are about to experience Fawcett  in a Cup car for the first time. It’s not like anything else. Stay smart, stay patient, and if you make it to the final stage, that’s when you go for it. One last thing, there will be another meeting at twelve-thirty once the final rules for Fawcett have been posted.”

The meeting adjourned, chairs scraping as drivers stood. The energy changed immediately—some people lingering to chat, others heading straight out to avoid possible brawls before the race.

Kara exhaled, standing as Alex fell into step beside her.

“You good?” Alex asked, eyeing her.

Kara nodded. “Yeah.”

Because she was.

She had 500 laps at Fawcett  ahead of her. And she was ready. What she was never ready for, was media.

At eleven sharp, not a minute late or a minute sooner, Kara appeared in front of the media.

Kara hated media scrums, and she was starting to wonder if the media had caught on to that yet.

It wasn’t that she disliked the reporters themselves—most were just doing their jobs—but standing in the center of a semi-circle of cameras and microphones while fielding questions that often had nothing to do with actual racing made her skin crawl and it always would— even more so today than yesterday. Today was race day. 500 laps, 266 miles, 3 hours being strapped into a metal machine. It would be insane if she wasn’t more stressed today.

She adjusted her Big Belly Burger cap, shifting her weight as she waited for her turn. Around her, other drivers were handling their own interviews. Clark was already speaking with a small group of reporters, his answers measured and polite, like always. A few spots away, Barry gestured animatedly as he spoke, all smiles and enthusiasm.

Then it was Kara’s turn. The first few questions were easy—How’s the car handling? How do you feel about today’s race?

Kara answered with the kind of neutral confidence expected from a driver. “The car’s been good all weekend. The guys have worked hard, and I think we’ve got a solid shot today.”

Then came the more pointed questions.

“Fawcett’s  known for short tempers. You’ve had some run-ins this season—are you expecting any retaliation on track?”

Kara kept her expression even. “I race hard, but I race clean. If someone has an issue, that’s on them.”

A few reporters chuckled at the diplomatic answer.

Someone else spoke up. “There are rumors that Lena Luthor has  joined your team. Was there any tension —how’s that relationship working out?”

Kara hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

Lena.

It had been  less than twenty fours hours and they had barely anything remotely close to a real conversation. The weight of the Luthor name still lingered in Kara’s mind, but yesterday had proven one thing—Lena knew what she was doing. And that… complicated things.

Kara forced a small smile. “Lena’s a great mechanic. She knows these cars inside and out, and she’s been a huge asset to the team.”

The words weren’t a lie, but they weren’t the whole truth either. Either way, Kara wasn’t sure she believed the words herself. She didn’t know anything about Lena other than one second the car was shit, and the next it was great.

The reporters latched onto it anyway. “So there is no tension?”

Kara tilted her head, fingers flexing as she fought to remain neutral. “We’re focused on winning races. That’s all that matters.”

Before they could push further, one of the PR reps stepped in. “Alright, that’s all for now.”

Kara exhaled as she stepped away, barely resisting the urge to run a hand through her hair. She turned, only to find Lena watching from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable. It was impossible not to to recognize the woman now, clad is bold colors.

Kara didn’t know if Lena had heard any of that.

She also didn’t know why it mattered.

Her mind was already on the next task—her team meeting. The weight of the race hung heavy in the air, and every second felt like it was pushing her closer to the starting line. Kara took a deep breath, shaking off the nerves that always  lingered from media interactions.

She made her way through the bustling paddock. Lena fell in step next to her and Kara tried to focus on the sounds of crew members prepping cars and the buzz of anticipation filling the air. Anything but Lena. It felt like an eternity of awkward tension until she finally reached the team hauler, where Cat was already inside, poring over data on a tablet, and the rest of the crew was gathered around. The door swung open as Kara entered, quietly holding it open for Lena, and the immediate shift in atmosphere was palpable. Inside, it was all business—familiar faces, quick exchanges of information, and the urgent hum of a team that knew exactly what needed to be done.

The war room.

That’s what Cat called it.

It wasn’t an official title, but it fit. The team meeting before the race was where strategies were finalized, contingencies were outlined, and everyone got their marching orders for the next few hours.

Kara sat in the middle of the room, hands wrapped around a water bottle, as the team assembled. Cat was at the bench, scanning over notes, while Sam, Kelly,  Winn, Brainy, Nia, Jack, James, Kenny, and Lena each had their respective data in front of them as they sat in various places in the cramped space— Lena had decided to stand

Nia leaned over from where she sat beside Kara. “So, you survived the media scrum.”

“Barely.” Kara sighed, twisting the cap on her bottle.

“Anyone ask about Lena?”

Kara shot her a look. Nia just smirked.

Before she could respond, Cat clapped her hands together, immediately commanding the room’s attention.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got 500 laps ahead of us, which means we have 500 chances to either screw this up or make it count.” Her gaze flicked to Kara. “Let’s aim for the latter.”

Kara nodded. “Got it.”

“Good.” Cat turned to Winn. “Tell me something useful.”

Winn straightened . “Tires are going to be everything today.”

“Winn’s right. Track temp is a little lower than expected, which should help keep wear in check, but Fawcett eats through right sides like nothing else.” Sam had easily interjected.

“We’re planning for at least ten stops, maybe more if we get cautions.” Kelly finished, glancing at her own tablet.

Cat hummed. “And fuel?”

Kenny didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Approximately 130 laps per tank. Under green conditions, we’ll need four full fills to make it to the end, but strategy depends on cautions.” Brainy nodded along, clearly agreeing with the assessment.

Kara nodded, filing the numbers away in her mind.

Lena finally spoke up. “The car’s in a good place, but you’re going to have to manage the brakes. Fawcett’s hard on them, and if you overwork them too early, we’ll have issues later.”

Kara glanced at her. “I can handle it.”

Lena held her gaze. “See that you do.”

A flicker of irritation sparked in Kara’s chest. Lena Luthor still had a way of making everything sound like a challenge.

Cat, sensing the shift in energy, smoothly took over. “As for track position—qualifying put us in a decent spot, but it means nothing if you can’t hold it. If there’s a long green-flag run, it’s going to be about managing lapped traffic and not burning up the car too early.”

Nia tapped her headset which sat around her neck. “I’ll be in your ear. You just need to listen.”

Kara smirked. “That’s assuming I don’t tune you out.”

Nia rolled her eyes.

Cat exhaled. “Alright. We all know what to do. Let’s go get this done.”

“You’ll don just fine Kara,” James reassured, while Jack gave a simple not that had more weight behind it than expected.

Kara stood with the rest of the team, rolling the tension out of her shoulders. The next time they all sat in a room together, the race would be over.

And she had no intention of walking away without a trophy. Her next stop on her agenda, was once again, another meetings.

She spared one last glance at Lena before she stepped out of the hauler, heading to the same building she’d already been to twice today.

This time when Kara entered, she stood by the back wall, inching to get to the race track even though it was still a few hours away. This was just another item in her checklist to complete.

The NASCAR officials ran through the pre-race briefing, nearly the same as before. The atmosphere was slightly different than earlier, a mix of focused tension and quiet anticipation that had built tenfold since they were here last. Some drivers leaned back in their chairs, clearly tuning out the noise.

At the front of the room, the race director stood behind a podium, flipping through notes.

“Alright, drivers, here’s what you need to know for today’s race,” he began, voice firm. “500 laps. Choose rule is in effect. Double-file restarts. Pit road speed is 30 miles per hour. No shortcuts.”

Kara tapped her fingers against her knee. They had dropped the speed limit for pit road— it was forty five yesterday.

“You all know how this track races…” Kara tuned out after that, wonder if these people had anything better to do than repeat the same thing three times a day.

Kara glanced around, noting the faces of the other drivers. Alex sat a few rows ahead, arms draped over the back of her chair, chewing on a piece of gum— a habit she developed when she gave up smoking. Barry Allen, always restless, bounced his knee up and down. Diana Prince sat like a statue—calm, composed, but ready.

The official went on. “No pushing below the apron to advance your position. No changing lanes before the start-finish line on restarts. Be aggressive, but don’t be stupid.”

Kara swore she felt Cat’s voice echo in the back of her mind: Don’t be stupid.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. No more unnecessary delays. No nonsense. Just the final reminder—go out there and put on a good race.

As the drivers filed out, Kara kept her head down, focused. The next time they’d all be together like this, it’d be on the starting grid.

——

Kara had been stopped by a few roaming reporters, so by the time Kara made it back to the team hauler, it was almost one o clock and she could feel the weight of the day settling over her. The morning had been a nonstop sequence of obligations—media, meetings, briefings, meetings, meetings —but now, for a brief window, there was nothing left to do but eat and wait.

She grabbed a prepped meal from the team cooler—grilled chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables. Nothing exciting, but predictable and easy on her stomach. That was all that mattered.

She startled when she saw Lena was sitting inside, flipping through a tablet with data from practice, the top half of her suit puddling around her waist as she sat, revealing the black fire resistant under layer she wore, fitting perfectly to her body and hugging every curve.

Typically after the War Room Meeting, Kara didn’t see anyone again unless it was a pit stop and then after the race.

Kara hesitated for half a second before stepping further into the small room. She still didn’t know what to make of Lena.

Their first meeting had been…well, Kara wouldn’t say it had been her best behavior. And Kara had spent most of today skeptical, waiting for Lena to slip up, to prove she was just another Luthor— a real Luthor. But that moment never came. Instead, Lena had been sharp, focused, eerily calm even when Kara snapped at her, even when her guarded mask appeared and disappeared on whim alone.

And now?

Kara had caught herself watching Lena more than once. Not in a suspicious way, but in a curious one. She still didn’t trust her—not completely—but she couldn’t deny the way Lena seemed to know exactly what she was doing, couldn’t deny that Lena had known what Kara needed the whole time in her setup and fixed it. She seemed to care. In a strange Luthor way, as far as Kara could tell.

Kara still felt incredibly off balance with Lena nearby, not being able to make any sense of her.

“You gonna eat, or just stand there?”

Kara blinked. Lena hadn’t even looked up from her tablet.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Kara sat down across from her and started picking at her food.

The hauler was quiet, aside from the faint hum of activity outside. It was oddly peaceful, considering how chaotic the day had been so far.

Halfway through her meal, Kara finally spoke.

“You always this quiet before a race?” It wasn’t meant as an attack, just an observation.

Lena glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Kara huffed, shoving a bite of rice into her mouth. But she couldn’t help but notice how Lena hadn’t said it as sharp as she could have.

They didn’t talk much after that, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time since meeting Lena, Kara didn’t feel like she had to keep her guard up. Somehow that felt more dangerous but Kara tried not to dwell.

Instead she let the time tick by, let it tick until Lena had nervously glanced at the clock. Kara wasn’t sure why Lena hadn’t left yet— she didn’t seem like the type to push the clock the way Kara did. “We should get going. Driving introduction are soon.”

Kara didn’t say anything, just nodded and rose from her seat. She followed Lena out of the door, and the uncharacteristic quote of their walk to the track gnawed at Kara. There were no engines runnings right now, but the hubbub of eighty thousands fans surely made up for it. It felt odd to have a silent moment between her and another person in an atmosphere like this. It was something she’d never really experienced.

At this point in the day, it was all high energy and double checking data. It surprised Kara that Lena didn’t have more to say about the car, but at the same time her quietness wasn’t surprising. She was in control.

By the time Kara started to say something, they were already going separate ways; Kara left lena behind at the barricade and stepped into her designated spot.

The waiting was always the worst part.

Kara stood with the other drivers near the stage set up on the frontstretch, the crowd buzzing with excitement as the announcer worked through the introductions. One by one, names were called, cheers echoing through the grandstands as each driver took their turn waving to the fans.

She rocked on the balls of her feet, trying to stay loose. Her stomach wasn’t exactly nervous, but there was something about this moment—standing here, knowing the race was right around the corner—that made her pulse tick up a notch.

Alex was a few feet away, arms crossed as she chatted with Clark. Bruce stood nearby, looking as stoic as ever. Barry was bouncing on his heels, the energy practically rolling off of him like always. She wondered if he ever stopped moving.

And then there was Eobard Thawne, standing off to the side, his expression unreadable as he stared out at the track.

Kara tensed. She still wasn’t sure what it was about him, but something about the way he raced, the way he carried himself, the way he target Barry, put her on edge.

“Try not to look like you want to shove someone into the wall before we’ve even started.”

Kara turned her head, surprised to find Lena still standing just behind the barrier separating the drivers from the crew members.

“I don’t want to shove anyone into the wall,” she said, though her tone wasn’t all that convincing, and her thoughts did jump to Leslie Willis.

Lena smirked. “Sure.”

Kara rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Before she could say anything else, the announcer called her name.

“Driving the No. 11 Big Belly Burger Chevrolet—Kara Danvers!” The roar of the crowd was louder than she expected. A quick wave, a small grin, and she jogged down the stage steps, moving to stand with the rest of the field.

Soon, the ceremony would begin— the anthem, the invocation, the flyover. Then, it would be time. Kara took a deep breath, shaking out her hands in an attempt to steady her nerves. The weight of everything that had led to this moment pressed against her chest, but there was no room for distractions now. The introductions were almost over, and all she had to do was focus on what came next.

But she simply couldn’t.

One by one, drivers were called up, each name echoing across the speakers. Kara stood there, trying to keep her focus, but her mind kept wandering. Her eyes kept returning to Lena, across the way. There was something magnetic about her. Kara watched as Lena leaned in, having a quiet conversation with Cat, then quickly moved on to probably discuss something technical with Winn, then Brainy. The motions were fluid, practiced. But something caught Kara’s attention as she observed Lena talking to Sam and Jack.

There was a subtle shift in Lena’s posture, something more relaxed, more familiar. A comfort in their interaction that Kara hadn’t seen with anyone else. It was a brief moment, but it made Kara pause. There was something almost… intimate in the way they moved, the way they worked together. Kara couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing something, if she was somehow on the outside looking in.

Before she could finish the thought, Lena’s eyes flicked to hers. A quick glance, but it felt like everything slowed down. Kara’s pulse quickened, her stomach tightening. She held Lena’s gaze, and for a moment, everything else around her faded. Lena’s stare was sharp, assessing, and yet there was something beneath it that Kara couldn’t place. A fleeting softness? Or maybe it was just the weight of everything hanging between them, mistrust, suspicions, reputations, hidden things neither would admit. Kara wondered if Lena knew who she was— if she knew the hand the Luthors had in her parents death. Before she could decipher it or think further about Luthors, Lena looked away—quickly, as if nothing had passed. But Kara couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, that she had been seen in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Driving the No. 20 Animal Planet Ford—Garfield Logan!” The announcement broke through Kara’s thoughts, pulling her gaze back to the podium. She barely noticed the rest of the introductions as her mind remained locked on Lena.

The last driver was called—“And lastly, driving the No. 28 Fusion Energy Toyota—Jefferson ‘Jax’ Jackson!”

Kara forced herself to pay attention again, glancing over to Jax as he waved with his usual easy charm. The crowd cheered, but Kara’s focus didn’t waver. She had seen Jax’s boyish grin a thousand times before, but this time, her mind couldn’t fully settle on it.

“And there you have it, folks—your starting grid for today’s race! A thrilling mix of seasoned veterans, rising stars…” The announcer’s voice faded into the background as Kara’s gaze moved back to Lena.

She was staring at Kara now—unwavering, calculating. Lena’s green eyes felt like they were reading her, peeling back layers, unrelenting in their scrutiny. Kara’s muscles tensed. She wanted to look away, but something about the way Lena was watching her rooted her in place.

A single perfect eyebrow arched upward, a silent question hanging in the air. Kara’s throat tightened, and the strange urge to smile tugged at her. She fought it, biting down on her lower lip to suppress the involuntary reaction. But somehow, she knew Lena had noticed. The way her gaze sharpened, the slightest twitch in her own lips told Kara everything she needed to know.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

They were being ushered back to pit road, the hum of the crowd fading as the familiar tension of the race took over. Kara forced herself to look away, walking toward her car, which now sat in the starting grid, ready to go. But even as she settled into the routine, her mind kept returning to Lena. The unease, the shift, the strange and lingering connection that hung between them, unresolved. She couldn’t shake the feeling that today might change everything.

The pre-race ceremony was always the last moment of stillness before the chaos. The only time the track ever saw anything close to  silence.

Kara stood at the grid beside her No. 11 car, hands clasped in front of her as the chaplain delivered the invocation. The sun was warm on her face, the scent of rubber and fuel thick in the air. The entirety of pit road was a swarming mix of colors, as every single driver and crew member stood on pit road— at Fawcett, it felt like being packed in a can of sardines.

She barely heard the words of the prayer, her mind already racing ahead to the first few laps—the start, the rhythm, the way the track would feel under her tires.

Alex stood a few cars down—P5 on the grid, her head bowed, but Kara knew she wasn’t really listening either. None of them were. This part was a formality, something they did before every race.

Then came the anthem. She straightened up, pressing a hand over her heart as the singer’s voice carried over the speakers. She did it out of respect— not wanting to draw attention to herself. But she was Kryptonian first, and as the crowd rose to their feet, thousands of fans standing in unison, Kara recited the Krypton National Anthem in her head. She  flicked her gaze toward the pit box—Cat stood with her arms crossed just outside the wall, sunglasses shielding her expression, while Lena had her hands clasped behind her back, her posture as composed as ever.

When the anthem ended, a brief hush settled over the speedway. It was broken moments later by the distant roar of jet engines.

Kara barely had time to look up before the fighter jets screamed overhead, the flyover cutting across the sky in perfect formation. The ground seemed to tremble beneath her feet, the sheer force of it vibrating through her bones.

Then, just like that, it was over.

The tension shifted—no more ceremony, only one last thing to do. Kara took a deep breath, took a glance at pit road to see everyone dispersing— either to pit boxes or cars— and climbed into her car, pulling the belts tight across her shoulders as the final moments of calm ticked away. The world outside her Camaro felt distant—muffled, like she was already halfway into the zone.

She got adjusted, pulling up her balaclava, sliding her helmet over her head, and getting the HANS device situated. Jack was there, making sure her harness was tight, that her HANS device was secure, and then he was netting up her window before disappearing back to the pit box. She could hear the fans, the last bits of pre-race chatter over the team radio, the low hum of crews making final checks. But all of it faded into the background as she adjusted her grip on the wheel.

Then, over the PA system, the words that always sent a jolt through her veins—

“Drivers! Start! Your! Engines!”

Kara flipped the switch, and the car rumbled to life beneath her. The deep, throaty roar of the V8 engine sent a vibration through the seat, up into her chest, grounding her in the moment. Around her, a symphony of engines fired up, filling the speedway with raw, untamed power.

Her radio crackled.

“Alright, kid,” Cat’s voice came through, cool and controlled. “Time to go to work.”

Kara exhaled slowly, fingers flexing over the wheel. “I won’t let you down, Cat.”

“Don’t prove my faith in you wrong.” Another smiled tugged at Kara’s lips, Cat Grant’s sentiment a strange thing. She acted aloof and sometimes cold, but Kara knew better, knew she truly cared deep down.

She glanced at the cockpit camera, winked, and then slid her visor down. She hit the mute button on the steering wheel. “Eka d’van, steady my hands, weesh’nar kot-ell, guide my heart. Zor-nar m’nar k’tra, give me strength, Hak r’aas k’tal, keep me focused. Joru-zor k’tek, let the race be true, Nar’r sael’tor, grant me peace. Speed, strength, and focus—Zor-nar ki-fek, Kara’nar kel’tor, guide me through.” The strange mix of Kryptonese and English rolled off her tongue easily, grounding her, centering her.

She hit the unmute button.

Shortly after, they got the go ahead.

The field rolled off pit road in two orderly rows, snaking onto the banking as they settled into formation behind the pace car.

Kara let out a slow breath, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek as she gripped the wheel. This was it. Every race before this had led to now—her first start at Fawcett in a Cup car, her first time tackling five hundred laps of pure chaos on this half-mile bullring.

But she wasn’t buried in the pack. She was starting P2.

Front row.

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

Her radio crackled.

“Alright, Kara, pace laps. Let’s get a feel for the track, watch for any changes.”

That was Winn—always technical, always analyzing.

Then came Nia.

“Track temp’s dropped a few degrees since practice, but that inside groove is still gonna be a mess for a while. You know the drill—stay patient, pick your battles.”

Kara hummed in acknowledgment, eyes flicking to the car beside her. Barry Allen in the No. 21 Ford sat on pole, the Flash Energy Drinks sponsorship gleaming under the sun, his car rolling smooth and steady. He’d been fast all weekend, and she knew he’d be aggressive when the green flag dropped.

Lena’s voice broke through next, calm, measured, precise. “Brake bias is still set where you liked it in practice, but you might need to adjust as the run goes on. Stay predictable on restarts. You’re on the front row, so make sure you don’t spin the tires.”

Kara’s fingers twitched over the brake adjuster knob, but she didn’t touch it. Not yet.

She still wasn’t sure how to feel about Lena. Didn’t know what to make about the intense staring between them. The strange dichotomy of Lena Luthor and all the feelings that brought.

Yesterday, she hadn’t trusted her at all. She’d didn’t know her. And yet, here she was—already trusting her voice in her ear, already feeling like she needed to prove something to her. That realization struck Kara like a train.

Her radio crackled again.

“One to go at the line.”

The pace car lights flicked off.

Kara’s pulse thrummed as the field bunched tighter, engines growling, the energy inside the coliseum reaching a fever pitch.

She exhaled sharply.

The field rolled through Turns 3 and 4, two-by-two, engines snarling beneath the deafening roar of the Fawcett crowd.

Kara tightened her grip on the wheel.

Deep breath. Focus. Feel the car.

Barry Allen controlled the start from the inside lane. The moment the pace car peeled onto pit road, he inched forward, dictating the launch.

Then—

“Green, Green, Green—“

Kara stomped the throttle before Nia could even get the first syllable out.

“Boogity, boogity, boogity!” Winn’s voice cracked through, forcing a smile to escape Kara.

Her rear tires twitched against the worn-out concrete, hunting for grip. Barry surged ahead, the inside lane rolling better than she expected.

Clear down?

She barely had time to ask before Nia’s voice came sharp in her ear—

“Not clear! Outside still there!”

Kara stayed tucked to Barry’s right-rear quarter panel, trying to force the run off Turn 2. Behind her, cars fanned out three-wide as the mid-pack scrambled for position early in the race.

Barry drove deep into Turn 3.

Kara sent it in just as hard, keeping him pinned low.

Her right-side tires kissed the marbles—just barely. The car twitched. She corrected. Kept her foot in it.

They stormed off Turn 4, side-by-side under the flag-stand.

Lap 1: Dead even.

“Still there, still there,” Nia called, voice steady.

Kara narrowed her eyes, the world around her blurring as her focus tunneled in on the No. 21 Ford.

Barry was good—one of the best on short tracks—but Kara had an edge. She could feel it.

Lap Three.

Barry’s tires chattered as he fought for grip on the bottom lane.

There it is.

Kara pounced, rolling the center of Turns 1 and 2 faster, getting the drive off.

“Clear! Clear! Take it!”

She didn’t hesitate.

Tucked to the bottom. Took the lead.

The roar in her headset swelled as she crossed the stripe—P1.

Kara let out a breath, hands relaxed on the wheel, heart hammering against her ribs.

Four hundred ninety-seven laps to go.

Lap Four.

The g-forces slammed her back into the seat as she powered down the front stretch, but Kara didn’t fight it—she moved with it, part of the machine, every vibration and adjustment flowing through her as if the car were an extension of herself. The roar of the crowd dulled to a distant thrum in her ears, the world outside the track fading into irrelevance. Only the concrete, the cars, and the relentless need to stay ahead mattered now.

She dove into Turn 1, the No. 11 slicing down to the white line with precision. The tires bit hard, sidewalls flexing under the load, and for a fraction of a second, the car felt weightless—on the edge of slipping, of losing grip. But it held. She feathered the throttle, feeling the backend twitch as she powered out of the corner, her breath syncing with the rhythm of the track. Inhale—turn in. Exhale—roll onto the throttle. Her heartbeat matched the cadence of the engine’s roar.

She was in first. It felt right. But there was no time to dwell on that.

“Livewire’s working her way through the pack.” Nia’s voice crackled in her earpiece.

Kara’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Of course she is.” She flicked her eyes to the mirror before returning them to the track. “Top ten?”

“You, Barry, Clark, Alex, Diana, Bruce, Sara, Slade, Arthur, and Leslie.”

Her jaw clenched. “I thought she was P18. How the hell did she—”

A blur of motion in her side mirror cut her off—No. 21 charging up fast. Kara reacted instantly, easing the car up just enough to stall Barry’s run. The air off her spoiler disrupted the airflow to the 21’s nose, forcing Barry to check up. Kara felt the subtle shift in pressure as her car wobbled, the air disturbance affecting them both, but she kept it steady.

A battle was brewing. And Kara had no intention of giving an inch..

“Aggressive is how,” Kara muttered, barely shifting her focus.

By the time lap twenty-six rolled around, Leslie Willis was glued to her bumper, drafting, pushing hard, testing every inch of Kara’s control. The pressure was relentless. Every turn, every straightaway, Leslie was there, waiting for a mistake, waiting for the smallest crack to split wide open.

Nia’s voice crackled in her ear. “Nice pace, Kara. Keep it tight. Leslie’s right behind you—don’t let her pressure you.”

“That just means don’t do anything stupid.”

The air inside the car was thick—hot, stale, laced with the sharp bite of burning rubber and gasoline. Sweat clung to her back beneath the fire suit, her grip firm on the wheel despite the tension humming through her muscles.

She flicked her eyes to the mirror. Leslie’s car twitched left, then right, hunting for an opening, a weakness. But Kara gave her nothing. Her movements were precise—small adjustments to her line, just enough to disrupt Leslie’s momentum without breaking her own rhythm. It was a game of patience, but Kara wasn’t the one getting frustrated. She could feel it—the way Leslie’s car edged closer, the way the pressure behind her built like a storm about to break.

A nudge. Not hard, not enough to send her sideways, but enough to make a point. It was too early in the race for anything more.

Kara exhaled sharply. Leslie was getting desperate already.

Fine. Let her try.

Kara tightened her grip, jaw set as she controlled the track, not the driver behind her.

Lap Thirty.

The battle for position was fierce. Kara’s car responded beautifully, every adjustment seamless, but Leslie wasn’t backing off.

Heading into Turn 3, Leslie made a daring move—cutting low, threading the needle between Kara and Bruce’s No. 9. The risk was reckless, desperate even, but Kara knew Leslie well enough to expect it. Her heart rate spiked. This wasn’t just about the lead—Leslie was making a statement. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Watch her, Kara,” Nia warned, her voice steady despite the chaos unfolding. “She’s diving for the inside. Don’t let her in.”

Kara reacted instantly. Her grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles white as she let the car drift just high enough to cut Leslie’s angle off. They barreled into Turn 4, inches apart, their tires wobbling from the turbulence. The air pressure shift between them sent vibrations through Kara’s seat, through her chest, through every nerve firing on instinct.

And Bruce—he was right there too, less than a quarter second behind, an unmovable force ready to capitalize on the smallest misstep.

The pressure mounted. Kara felt it like a weight pressing against her ribs—the expectation, the stakes, the sheer fury at Leslie’s reckless driving.

“She’s a fucking asshole,” Kara bit out, the words sharp through clenched teeth. Her patience for Leslie had already worn thin, and they weren’t even halfway through the first stage.

“Don’t feed into it,” Nia reminded her, voice even.

Leslie tried again, a subtle nudge, her front fender creeping up beside Kara’s rear quarter panel. Kara’s muscles coiled. One wrong move, one slip into the marbles—those loose rubber fragments collecting outside the racing groove—and she’d be spinning straight into the wall. But fear didn’t drive her. She knew this game.

Kara held firm, keeping the car balanced, trusting the setup, trusting herself. The space between them was razor-thin, but she wasn’t giving it up. Not to Leslie. Not like this.

“What the actual fuck is she playing at?” Kara muttered.

Her hands stayed steady, but her mind was calculating, adjusting, anticipating. Leslie was pushing the edge, but Kara refused to be the one to cross it.

“Nice job,” Nia said. “But she’s not going to give up. Stay sharp.”

Then Cat’s voice cut through, all business, all ice. “Show that asshole what CatCo Racing can do.”

Kara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Jaw tight, focus locked, she set herself up for the next move. The fight raged on.

Lap Fifty.

“Yellow, yellow.”

Kara’s foot lifted off the throttle instinctively, her body reacting even before her mind processed the call. The car coasted smoothly, the sudden shift in speed pressing her forward against the harness. The track, moments ago a battlefield, now fell into an uneasy calm as the pace car rolled out to set the field.

“What happened?” She glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the telltale bloom of smoke swirling behind her, the acrid scent of burnt rubber filtering into the cabin.

“No. 46 and No. 99 were bumping too hard. Forty-six snapped loose and spun out of the turn. Four, twenty, and forty-eight got caught up in it.”

Kara scoffed. No doubt Eobard had been the cause of Cisco breaking loose. That bastard always played dirty.

Cat’s voice cut through the radio. “Pit this time, 11. Tires and fuel.”

“Copy that.” Kara adjusted her line, smoothly arcing down toward pit road, her eyes flickering to the digital readout on the dash to ensure she was nailing the speed limit. The last thing she needed was a penalty for something as avoidable as pit road speeding—she didn’t even want to imagine what Cat would say.

As she rolled into the box, she hit her marks perfectly, stopping on a dime. The second she did, the crew was on it, a synchronized blur of movement. The car rocked slightly as the jack lifted the right side. Wrenches whirred, the rhythmic whap-whap-whap of the air guns firing in rapid succession as lug nuts spun free. Tires off, tires on. The fuel can clanked into place, the scent of gasoline momentarily overpowering everything else.

Six seconds. That’s all it took.

Kara’s eyes flicked to Winn, who flashed her a thumbs-up. But her attention was drawn—inevitably, instinctively—to Lena. The nod Lena gave her wasn’t exaggerated or showy, just a quick, almost imperceptible acknowledgment. It was nothing. It was everything.

Then—throttle.

The moment the car dropped, she launched forward, the rear tires snapping to attention as she rejoined pit road, keeping steady, keeping fast.

“Reentered in fifth,” Nia relayed.

Solid. But not where she wanted to be.

“Alright, focus. We’re not done yet.” Nia’s voice was even, sure, like she could feel the frustration bubbling in Kara’s chest and was there to cut through it.

Kara exhaled sharply, nodding to herself. Time to fight her way back.

Lap Fifty-Six.

The restart was chaos.

Engines roared in unison, a deafening snarl as the green flag waved. Kara slammed the throttle, feeling the power surge beneath her as the rear tires dug into the concrete of Fawcett. But the field was tight. Bunched together, no room for error, no margin for hesitation.

She dove into the pack, threading the needle between Wally West and Siobhan Smythe. Her pulse spiked as she squeezed between them, the space barely enough for her to slip through without making contact. A gamble—but it paid off. By the time they crossed the line, she was in third.

Leslie was still out front. She hadn’t pitted.

Kara’s jaw locked. Fine. Let her have it for now.

She settled in, recalibrating, her mind already working through the next sequence. Every move, every corner, every overtake. The track felt different now—sharper, narrower, like it was challenging her just as much as her competitors were. But she welcomed it.

She was on the hunt.

Lap Ninety.

“Car feels good—”

“Caution, caution!” Nia’s voice cut in, steady but firm.

Kara exhaled sharply, easing off the throttle as the field slowed. “Well, that was a longer green at Fawcett than I was expecting.” She let out a breath, settling in for the delay—until Nia kept talking. Unprompted.

“Multi-car pileup, turn two. Main three involved are No. 52, 23, and 31.”

Kara’s stomach dropped.

No. 31. Alex.

Her hands clenched around the wheel, grip going white-knuckled. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she seems fine. Splitter’s torn off, though. She looks a little shaken, but she’s moving to pit.”

Kara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, chest loosening just enough for her mind to function again. Automatically, she started scrubbing her tires, weaving back and forth to keep the rubber warm, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Not today. Not today of all days.

Alex had always been the steady one, the unshakable force in Kara’s life. The one who had kept her grounded when the weight of the past threatened to pull her under. But racing had never cared for sentimentality. It had its own rules, its own merciless way of making you confront what you feared the most.

Kara knew what that fear was.

The twisted wreckage. The sickening crunch of metal. The helplessness of watching, unable to do a damn thing.

She swallowed hard, shaking the thoughts loose before they could settle. Alex was okay. The car was just a car. It could be fixed.

“Staying out?” Nia asked, gently pulling her back to the present.

“Yeah,” Kara said, her voice firm, steady. “I’m staying out.”

She tightened her grip on the wheel, jaw locking. The race was far from over.

Lap Ninety-Five.

The restart hit Kara like a shock to the system—a sudden, violent jolt that reminded her just how unpredictable this race could be. The field was packed tighter than before, every driver fighting for space, every move a battle for control.

She didn’t hesitate.

Her foot pressed down hard on the throttle, power surging through the car as she tore forward. The world blurred at the edges, the sensation of speed coursing through her as she threaded her way through traffic, carving through the pack with calculated aggression. Every movement was precise—every turn, every straightaway a chance to claw her way back to the front.

By Lap 100, she was back in second.

Zatanna was just ahead, her silver-and-purple car gliding over the concrete with almost effortless grace. But Kara was faster. She could feel it.

Leslie loomed behind her, a predator waiting for an opening. But Kara wasn’t worried about Leslie—not right now.

She honed in on Zatanna instead, watching, studying. The way the car shifted ever so slightly exiting the corners. The small but telling drop in speed at the apex. A hesitation so minor that most wouldn’t notice it.

Kara noticed.

A plan formed in her mind, sharp and precise. The next turn was crucial—she needed to commit, dive low, force her way past before Zatanna could react.

Her fingers tightened around the wheel.

This wasn’t just about winning. It wasn’t just about beating Zatanna or Leslie or anyone else on this track.

It was about proving—to herself, to everyone—that she belonged here. That she wasn’t just another rookie.

That she could take on the best. And win.

The engine screamed as she set up for the pass.

Lap One Hundred and Thirty.

Stage One had wrapped with Kara inside the top ten—fourth—netting her seven crucial points. It wasn’t the lead, but it kept her in the fight.

Now, she was clawing her way back.

She dove low on the backstretch, pulling up alongside Zatanna. The No. 91 wasn’t giving up without a fight. Zatanna’s defensive driving was calculated, blocking Kara at every turn, forcing her to adjust, to rethink. They were locked in a relentless cat-and-mouse battle, their cars almost side by side for several laps, neither willing to concede an inch.

Kara refused to stay boxed in.

She played the long game, timing her throttle perfectly off the exit of Turn 4. Her car surged forward, momentum carrying her just past Zatanna’s nose.

Clear.

She slid into third.

The crowd’s roar was a distant hum in her ears, but she felt it. The energy, the surge of adrenaline. She was back in the game.

But she wasn’t alone.

Leslie was still there.

Kara could feel the No. 14 stalking her, the presence of the neon blue-and-white car lingering just close enough to remind her that this wasn’t over.

Every lap felt like a fresh challenge, a constant battle to keep control, to make every second on the track count.

Lap One Hundred and Fifty.

“Yellow, yellow! Caution, wreck in Turn 2!”

Kara’s muscles tensed as she instinctively lifted off the throttle. The field slowed, cars coasting into position as the safety car rolled out.

She barely hesitated. She needed fuel.

“Pitting.”

Cat’s voice was sharp. “Copy. Box this lap. Four tires, full tank.”

She hit her marks perfectly. The moment the car stopped, the pit crew sprung into action—tires off, tires on, fuel nozzle locked in place. Every second counted.

Kara could feel the tension in the air, the precision, the pressure. The crew was fast, but they had to be perfect.

The jack dropped. Go.

She powered out of the stall, the backend snapping into place as she floored the throttle up to pit road speed.

Seventh .

She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to her competition.

Leslie.

Zatanna.

Both still ahead.

The restart was going to be tight.

Kara set her jaw.

Time to fight her way forward—again.

Lap one Hundred and Fifty-Six.

The restart was chaos.

Kara’s Camaro sliced through the field, weaving through the packed cars with precision and instinct. This was where she thrived—the surge, the risk, the raw battle for position. She shot forward, cutting through the traffic like she belonged at the front.

By Lap 160, she was back in fourth.

Leslie was still ahead.

Kara could see the No. 14 up front, holding onto the lead with the same ruthless aggression she’d come to expect.

And that’s when the exhaustion began to creep in.

Her arms burned, her shoulders ached from the constant, grueling fight with the steering wheel. The heat inside the car was unrelenting, sweat soaking into her fire-suit.

But she blocked it out.

There was no time for weakness. No space for discomfort.

Keep moving forward.

Lap one hundred and eighty.

Second place.

She’d clawed her way past Clark, but Leslie was still in control.

It was just them now—a battle for the lead, for the win.

Kara took the high line through Turns 3 and 4, searching for an opening, testing angles.

Leslie didn’t give an inch. She never did.

But Kara was relentless.

She knew this track by now. Knew its grip, its rhythm, its limits.

And more than that—

She knew where Leslie was vulnerable.

Lap one hundred and ninety.

Kara went for it.

She dove low into Turn 1, her Camaro gripping the concrete with precision as she pulled alongside Leslie.

Side by side.

The battle for the lead once again.

Their engines roared in unison, a deafening war cry as they thundered down the backstretch. Kara’s heart pounded, her pulse matching the rhythm of her machine, fingers locked around the steering wheel.

She could feel it—Leslie was about to make a move.

Block me, and we’re both going for a ride.

They barreled into Turn 3, and that’s when Kara saw it.

Leslie’s entry was just a little too wide—a mistake, a vulnerability, a chance.

Kara took it.

She dived low, capitalizing on the momentum, the Camaro sticking to the track like it was built for this moment.

Her tires bit into the concrete, the car surging forward as she pulled ahead inch by inch.

By the time they powered out of Turn 4—

Kara was leading.

But she wasn’t in the clear.

Her eyes flicked to the mirrors—Leslie was still there, too close, too aggressive to back down.

Kara zoned in.

Everything else disappeared.

It was just her.

The car.

And the next corner.

Lap two hundred.

Kara led the race.

The roar of the crowd was a distant murmur, drowned out by the hum of her engine and the rhythmic screech of tires against the track.

But she didn’t let herself relax.

Not for a second.

Leslie was still there. Lurking. Waiting.

Kara felt it more than she saw it—the pressure, the threat. The worst thing she could do right now was ease up.

Nia’s voice cut through the static in her earpiece, calm, steady. “Great job, Kara. Keep it smooth. Top five’s not far behind you and Livewire. Keep your rhythm.”

Kara exhaled through her nose, nodding to herself.

Steady hands. Steady breathing. Stay in control.

Up ahead, traffic loomed—lapped cars stacking up on the short track, each one a new variable, a new obstacle.

This was where things got complicated. Well. More complicated.

Every lap felt like an eternity, her grip on the wheel tightening as she navigated through the congestion. The car beneath her—her Camaro, her weapon, her lifeline—responded to every movement, every adjustment.

But Leslie was closing the gap.

Kara flicked her eyes to the mirror—there she was, carving through traffic like a storm, relentless and ruthless.

Kara gritted her teeth.

Leslie wasn’t done

And neither was she.

Lap Two hundred and Fifteen.

Kara’s strategy was simple: hold the line, stay consistent, attack when needed.

Simple. But never easy.

Leading the race came with its own kind of pressure. Every lap, every turn—every decision—held weight. One mistake, one miscalculation, and it could all slip away.

She entered Turn 1, the tires whining as they clung to the worn-down concrete. The car twitched—just a little. The faintest hint of a slide.

Not now. Not now.

Doubt flickered in her mind, but she shoved it aside.

This—this moment, this fight, this battle for the lead—was what she worked for.

Leslie was still there, right there, practically breathing down her neck. Kara could almost feel the heat of her aggression, the way she boxed in Hal Jordan behind them like a predator keeping the rest of the pack at bay.

Kara tightened her grip on the wheel.

One slip, and Leslie would pounce.

But Kara didn’t slip.

She kept her foot down, pushing through the turns with the precision of a scalpel. The world blurred into the rhythmic scream of tires and the thunderous roar of engines, her car moving in perfect sync with her thoughts.

All there was was the race.

Nothing else mattered.

Lap Two hundred and Thirty.

The sudden flash of yellow flags snapped Kara out of her trance, and Nia’s voice crackled through her earpiece at the same time.

“Caution’s out, wreck in Turn 4. Keep it steady.”

Kara feathered the brakes, slowing just enough for control, tires skidding slightly before they caught grip again. Her pulse spiked.

Another restart. Another chance for Leslie to attack.

She exhaled sharply, refocusing. Cautions were a necessary evil—they messed with momentum, but they could also make or break a pit strategy. The field bunched up under yellow, a restless pack preparing for another fight.

Kara’s eyes flicked to pit road. The tires were near their limit, and she needed fuel. No question about it.

“Pit in. Pit in,” Nia confirmed. “Keep it smooth.”

Kara peeled off into pit lane. Her mind briefly snapped to Leslie in the mirror—she was still right there. Always right there.

The pit crew sprang into action. Jack, Sam, and Kelly moved with machine-like precision, swapping tires in seconds. Kenny refueled. Every motion mattered. Every second counted.

Kara’s gaze caught Lena. Just for a second.

Then she was gone. Back on track. Back in the fight.

4th place.

Time to claw her way back before the stage ended.

Lap two hundred and thirty six.

The green flag dropped, and Kara’s instincts took over.

The tension in her chest coiled tight, but she forced it down, channeling every ounce of it into her control.

Focus. Drive. Attack.

She launched forward, diving hard into Turn 1. The car responded instantly—gripping the track like glue, the engine screaming as she threaded the needle through traffic.

By Lap 240, she was back in 2nd.

She’d sliced through Diana and Garfield in one clean motion, but her real problem was right in front of her.

Leslie.

The blue-and-white car was a constant threat. A storm waiting to break.

Kara didn’t just need to be fast. She needed to be smarter.

The race had turned into a high-speed chess match.

One mistake. That’s all it would take.

Kara just had to make sure it wasn’t hers.

Lap Two Hundred and Sixty.

She’d won Stage 2.

17 points. Back in the lead.

But Kara felt it worse now.

The tightness in her shoulders. The sting of sweat in her eyes. The steady burn in her arms from gripping the wheel lap after lap.

Her breaths came in shallow bursts, sharp reminders that—despite everything—she was still human. That even she had limits.

Fawcett was relentless. A track that gnawed at you, that wore you down from the inside out with each pass over thirty degrees of banking.

But Kara couldn’t afford to think about that.

Not now.

The crowd roared, and she let their energy wash over her, let it fuel her as she settled  back in.

Leslie was still there.

A shadow. A presence.

Kara could feel it—the waiting, the pressure, the threat.

But this time, she didn’t let it shake her.

She held her.

Kept steady.

Didn’t flinch.

Lap Two Hundred and Ninety.

Her lead over Leslie was growing. A few seconds now, but Kara knew—it wasn’t enough.

Lapped cars.

They clogged the track, obstacles she had to cut through, dodging slower traffic with razor-sharp focus. Her grip on the wheel was iron-clad, but—

Her hands were shaking.

Her arms felt like lead.

The exhaustion was creeping in, growing steadily over the race and  dulling the edges of her vision, turning every lap into a fight against her own body.

“Kara.”

Nia’s voice was sharp in her ear. Grounding. Unwavering.

“Focus. You’ve got this.”

Kara clenched her jaw.

She couldn’t slip now.

Tires screamed as she dove into Turn 4, the car sliding just a little before biting back into the concrete.

She started counting the laps down in her head.

Each one, its own little victory.

Lap Three Hundred.

The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the track, but inside the car—it was suffocating.

Kara was burning up.

Sweat clung to her skin, dripping into her eyes. She blinked it away, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Every muscle in her arms ached, her fingers cramping from the relentless grip she kept on the wheel.

And Leslie was still there. Always there.

Kara could feel her—closing in, inch by inch.

She grit her teeth, forcing herself to block it out. One lap at a time.

Another lapped car loomed ahead. No hesitation. She adjusted, diving low, keeping her foot steady on the throttle. The car responded, gripping the track as she powered forward.

But Leslie wasn’t letting up.

Kara’s heart hammered. She couldn’t let her get closer.

Not now.

Not this far into the race.

Lap Three Hundred and Twenty.

This was it. The endgame. Stage Three.

Every movement mattered now. Every inch on the track could make or break her lead.

Kara kept the throttle steady, her grip like iron despite the way her hands ached. The tires slipped—just slightly—under the relentless pressure, but she adjusted, breathed through it.

Stay sharp. No mistakes.

Leslie wasn’t backing down.

Kara could feel the desperation and anger creeping into her rival’s driving— more than before—the way she lunged into corners, trying to rattle her. Trying to force her into a mistake.

But Kara wouldn’t budge.

She had fought too hard, bled too much for this race.

She wasn’t giving it up now.

Lap Three Hundred and Seventy-Five

The weight of the moment pressed down on Kara’s shoulders, but she refused to let it shake her. She flexed her fingers against the wheel, her pulse a steady drum beneath her fire suit. The heat inside the car was maddening, her skin slick with sweat, but she barely noticed. All that mattered was the track ahead. And Leslie who had coasted into first.

The yellow flag had slowed the field to a crawl, engines rumbling like caged animals just waiting to be unleashed. Leslie had managed to get in front, forcing Kara to check up. A single car between Kara and victory. Not for long.

She inhaled deeply, exhaled slower. Stay calm. Stay sharp.

The pace car peeled off, and for a fleeting second, there was silence—just Kara, her heartbeat, and the hum of the Camaro beneath her.

Then—

Green flag.

Kara slammed the throttle. The rear tires gripped the concrete, launching her forward like a bullet. The air roared around her, the deafening scream of engines filling her ears. Leslie reacted just as fast, keeping the inside line as they barreled toward Turn 1.

Kara’s muscles tensed as she flicked the wheel, threading the Camaro into position. The car trembled beneath her, raw power barely restrained. Leslie was just inches away, the side of her Toyota dangerously close to Kara’s door as they hurtled toward the corner.

Kara knew Leslie would block—it was what she did best.

But Kara wasn’t going to let her.

She braced herself as they rocketed into Turn 1.

Lap Four Hundred

The field was packed tight, engines snarling like a pack of wild animals barely kept in check. Kara sat rigid in her seat, her hands locked onto the wheel, her breathing measured. A hundred laps left. That was it.

Everything that had happened before—the pit stops, the cautions, the lead changes—none of it mattered now. This was the moment that defined the race.

The restart loomed, tension coiled in her muscles, anticipation thrumming in her chest. Her Camaro idled beneath her, heat radiating through the floorboards, every vibration sinking into her bones.

She knew what was coming. Leslie was still ahead of her, but Kara was doggedly trying to change that.

The official raised the green flag.

Go.

Kara slammed the throttle. The car shot forward like a slingshot, tires clawing at the concrete. The sudden burst of speed pinned her to the seat, the roar of the engine deafening, drowning out the world.

Leslie was already moving to block, anticipating Kara’s attack, but Kara had expected that. She darted low, just enough to test the inside, but Leslie mirrored her, shutting the door.

Fine. Let’s play.

The crowd’s roar blended into the howl of the cars, but Kara didn’t hear it anymore. It was just her and Leslie. A battle waged at nearly 130 miles per hour, a test of endurance, skill, and nerve in the Last Great Coliseum. It wasn’t the fastest track in NASCAR, but it was the most difficult.

They’d done this dance before. Week after week, race after race. Always pushing, always fighting, always toeing the line between brilliance and disaster.

But tonight?

Tonight, Kara wasn’t leaving anything on the table. This was the best her car had ever ran, and this time, this race, she was finally going to beat Leslie. She feigned right to the outside of the turn, knowing Leslie would block, before she dived to the inside and took the lead.

Lap Four Hundred and Twenty-Seven

The air inside the car was stifling, thick with heat and the scent of burning rubber. Kara’s hands continue to ache, every muscle in her arms screaming from the relentless grip she had on the wheel. No time to shake it out. No time for weakness.

She could feel Leslie behind her—not just see, but feel. The No. 14 car had been a constant threat, a shadow in her mirror, and obstacle at her nose, waiting for the right moment to pounce, to block. Kara had held her own, pulled ahead once again, but Leslie wasn’t done.

Neither was she.

The engine’s roar rattled through her ribcage as she powered out of Turn 2. The car twitched beneath her, the tires worn past their prime, but she kept the throttle steady, refusing to lift when not necessary. The track was a blur—gray concrete streaked with tire marks, flashes of the catch fence whipping past her peripheral vision.

Focus. Keep the line. Don’t give her an inch.

Leslie tried again—this time diving low.

Kara saw it coming a split second before it happened. She adjusted, cutting off the inside line just enough to force Leslie to check up. It was risky—one misstep, and they both go spinning—but Kara didn’t misstep.

Not tonight.

The crowd was a wall of noise, a steady, pulsing roar that grew louder with every lap. The finish was closing in. It was a knife fight inched apart, and Kara wasn’t about to drop the blade.

Lap Four Hundred and Thirty-Five.

The yellow flag snapped into the air, cutting through the tension like a blade. Kara’s stomach dropped for a split second before she forced herself to breathe. Stay in control. Read the situation.

She eased off the throttle, letting the Camaro settle as she scanned ahead. The wreck had unfolded near the front of the pack—lapped cars, tangled in a desperate fight for position, now sliding helplessly toward pit road. Smoke curled into the air, and the scent of burning rubber seeped into her helmet.

Her eyes flicked to the mirror. Leslie’s car was still there—further back after a failed move, but close enough to be dangerous.

Then, Cat’s voice cut in, steady and decisive. “Stay focused, Danvers. Don’t pit. We’re holding the lead for now.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Kara’s mind. Her tires were worn, the grip fading with every lap. A fresh set could mean security. But pitting meant giving up track position. And after everything—after the battle she had waged to keep this lead—she wasn’t about to hand it over now.

Nia’s voice followed. “You’ve got this. Stay calm.”

Kara nodded, even though they couldn’t see her. She needed this breather. The adrenaline pumping through her veins hadn’t let up for the last hundred laps, and her muscles were starting to feel it. But she couldn’t relax. Not with Leslie back there.

As the caution laps began, she watched the wounded cars limp toward pit road, their nights effectively over. But Leslie hadn’t been caught in the mess. She was still there, still waiting.

The No. 14 had been relentless, her strategy clear—pressure Kara until she cracked. And she wasn’t done yet.

“Don’t let her rattle you,” Nia warned. “She’ll try something. Just stay in your rhythm.”

Kara inhaled sharply, flexing her fingers around the wheel. She could practically feel Leslie’s eyes locked onto the back of her car, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It wasn’t over.

Lap Four Hundred and Twenty-Nine.

The green flag dropped, and Kara’s Camaro lunged forward, its engine screaming as she slammed the accelerator. The force pressed her into the seat, her heart hammering against her ribcage. This was it.

The world blurred around her—just the track, the car, and the fight ahead.

But then, a flash of movement.

Leslie.

Kara caught the No. 14 darting high in her mirror, a sleek blur slicing toward her right-rear quarter panel. Too soon. Too aggressive. Leslie was trying to force the issue before they had even cleared Turn 1, throwing the car into an all-or-nothing charge on the outside.

Desperation at its peak.

Kara knew what this was—Leslie was running out of time. And a driver like Leslie? She wasn’t going to just sit back and let this slip away.

Kara gritted her teeth and held steady, her hands tightening on the wheel as she hugged the bottom lane. Hold your line. Don’t flinch.

The tires screamed beneath her, fighting against the forces threatening to pull her car loose. She could feel every inch of the track beneath her—every bump, every shift in grip. The car wanted to slide up. Leslie wanted her to make that mistake.

But Kara wasn’t giving her the space.

She forced the Camaro to stick, keeping it planted against the track like she was willing it into submission.

Leslie’s nose crept up, barely inches from her right-rear fender.

Kara’s breath hitched. If Leslie tapped her here—if she so much as breathed on that quarter panel—Kara would be sideways before she could react.

But she didn’t lift.

She didn’t flinch.

Kara took Turn 2 with ice in her veins, her foot buried in the throttle as the car rocketed onto the backstretch. Leslie was still there, but she hadn’t gotten past.

Not this time. Not again.

Lap Four Hundred and Thirty.

Kara could feel it—Leslie was coming and she was reaching her breaking point..

The No. 14 was inching forward again, hunting for that sliver of daylight, that one mistake that would let her wedge her way in. Kara didn’t even need to check the mirror to know how close she was—she could feel it.

Breath. Keep steady. Hold the line.

Leslie had been hammering the outside lane for the past hundred laps, testing her, probing for weaknesses. And now, she thought she had one. Kara could hear the shift in engine tone, the way Leslie’s RPMs flared as she lunged for the right side. A move made on instinct. A move made of fear..

But Kara was ready for her.

The moment Leslie went high, Kara reacted—not with panic, not with hesitation, but with precision. She didn’t slide up recklessly, didn’t overcorrect. She eased her Camaro outward just enough to clip Leslie’s momentum, forcing the No. 14 into a tighter squeeze than she wanted.

Leslie had two choices now—back off or commit.

She committed.

Kara felt the contact before she saw it.

A sharp jolt at her right-rear quarter panel.

Not enough to send her spinning, but enough that the car shuddered under the force. The tires screamed in protest, chattering against the asphalt.

Kara grit her teeth. She didn’t lift.

The steering wheel fought her hands, the vibrations rattling up her arms, but she held firm. If Leslie thought she could muscle her way through, she had another thing coming.

Kara’s grip tightened as she fought through the exit of Turn 2. She felt her car slipping, the edge of control razor-thin. Any more pressure, any more speed, and she’d be the one skating toward the wall.

But Leslie was slipping too.

Kara caught the twitch of the No. 14’s nose—just the smallest loss of stability. That was all she needed.

She buried the throttle.

The Camaro surged forward, breaking just far enough ahead that Leslie had no choice but to tuck back in behind her.

A small victory. But it wasn’t over.

Kara exhaled sharply, heart pounding as they barreled down the backstretch. Leslie still wasn’t backing down.

Lap Four Hundred and Thirty-One.

Leslie was trying again. Hard. Fast. Desperate.

Kara barely had time to react before she saw the No. 14 make an aggressive dive toward the inside—too aggressive.

Too soon.

Kara’s heart pounded. She flicked her eyes to her mirror, tracking the movement in her periphery, but Leslie wasn’t waiting. She was throwing everything at this pass.

Think fast. Control the line.

At the last second, Kara adjusted. A slight twitch of the wheel, a calculated shift in position—just enough to force Leslie to check up or risk turning them both.

But Leslie didn’t back off.

The hit came hard.

A sharp, metallic crack rang through Kara’s cockpit as Leslie’s front bumper slammed into her rear. The force jolted through her seat, her hands, her spine. The Camaro bucked violently, the back end snapping sideways.

Kara’s grip tightened, knuckles white as she fought the slide. The world blurred for a split second—the grandstands, the track, the cars behind her spinning in a dizzying rush.

Steady. Don’t overcorrect. Feel the tires.

Her hands moved on instinct, easing the wheel to the right just enough to catch the car before it looped. Her rear tires screamed, fighting for grip, but she held the throttle steady.

And then—she caught it.

Her Camaro straightened just as Leslie’s didn’t.

“You okay?”

Kara barely had time to glance in her mirror before she saw the No. 14 snap around.

Leslie’s car pitched sideways in a brutal, uncontrolled spin, tires smoking as she skidded across the asphalt. Then came the impact.

A sickening, crunching thud.

The No. 14 slammed into the outside wall, nose-first. The force of the crash sent a violent plume of smoke and debris billowing into the air.

Kara’s breath caught in her throat.

“Yellow, caution, caution.”

The radio crackled to life, but Kara barely heard it. Her pulse was a hammer in her ears as she flicked her eyes to the mirror again. Leslie’s car sat crumpled against the wall. Two more cars had been caught in the wreck, spinning down.

Kara exhaled hard, forcing the tension out of her chest.

“Leslie’s done,” Nia’s voice came through her radio, calmer now. “Same for the other two. That’s it for them.”

Kara swallowed. One less problem. But she didn’t relax. Not yet.

The pace car rolled out as they crossed into Lap 432. Yellow lights flashed around the track. The race paused.

Then, another voice—officials over the loudspeakers.

“Leslie Willis has been assessed a penalty for causing the wreck. She will be relegated to the back of the field for the restart. No further action on the other drivers involved.”

Kara could almost hear the relief ripple through the crowd. Through her pit box. Through her own pulse.

Leslie had pushed too hard. She’d gambled and lost.

Kara exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. But it wasn’t over.nShe still had competitors behind her, waiting. Watching. Lined up and ready to pounce.

Hold steady. Stay sharp. Finish this.

Lap Four Hundred and Thirty Three.

The pace car peeled off.

Kara took a deep breath, fingers curling tighter around the wheel.

The green flag dropped.

And she was gone.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Nine.

Kara’s grip on the steering wheel was tight enough to leave impressions in the suede. Her heart pounded, her breath coming in measured intervals as she took the white flag. One more lap. Just one.

She barely registered Nia’s voice in her ear over the roar of the engine. The No. 11 Camaro had been a rocket all day, but it hadn’t come without its challenges. A near-miss in a three-wide battle almost ended her day, her constant duel with Leslie for the lead, but she’d kept it together, kept fighting. And now, it all came down to this—fending off Barry Allen, one of the fastest and most aggressive drivers in the field. Once Leslie was taken out of the equations, once her overly dangerous driving was taken out, the other cars seemed to get a second win. Diana was chasing just behind Barry.

“Clear by one,” Nia called, her voice sharp with focus. “He’s gonna get a run out of two.”

Kara’s gut twisted as she felt the push of air from Barry’s Ford closing in. She drove it deep into Turn 1, keeping her line tight to the bottom. She knew Barry would try to cross her over on exit, using the draft to slingshot past on the backstretch.

“Hold your line,” Nia instructed. “He’s looking outside.”

Kara didn’t flinch. Instead, she inched up just enough to dirty the air in front of Barry’s nose. He bobbled—just slightly—but it was enough. She powered off Turn 2, her Camaro rocketing down the back straightaway. The grandstands blurred in her peripheral vision, but she didn’t dare look. Every ounce of focus was on the final two corners.

Lena’s voice crackled over the radio for the first time since the warm up laps. “You got this.”

Kara barely had time to process it. Lena had been a source of tension since yesterday. A Luthor in her garage? She hadn’t trusted it. She hadn’t trusted Lena. But that voice in her ear wasn’t arrogant, wasn’t overconfident. It was certain.

And, for some reason, Kara believed it.

She sent the car into Turn 3, holding the bottom, feeling every bump of the racing surface beneath her. Barry tried one last move, diving to barely there apron of Fawcett, but she knew better than to flinch. She held her ground, foot buried on the throttle.

Off Turn 4, the checkered flag in sight, Kara could hear the roar of the crowd even through her helmet, even through the roar of the engines. Barry was still there—too close for comfort—but he wasn’t close enough.

She flew across the finish line.

“KARA DANVERS NO. 11 WINS HER FIRST CUP RACE!” The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium speakers as she let out a shaky breath.

A moment later, the realization hit. She won.

A breathless laugh escaped her, quickly drowned by the whoops of celebration from her team over the radio. Nia was screaming. Cat’s voice cut through with a sharp “Damn right, kid!” Winn was yelling something about telemetry, but Kara couldn’t hear a word of it. And Lena—

Lena’s voice came through soft, but proud. “Nice work, Danvers.”

The words sent a jolt through her, disbelief hitting first before the weight of what she’d done crashed over her. She had just won at Fawcett Motor Speedway. One of the toughest short tracks in NASCAR, the kind that chewed up and spat out even the best drivers. And she had conquered it.

The cooldown lap was a blur. She could hear the stands, the cheers vibrating through the car. Her crew’s voices filled her radio, Alex somewhere in the mix yelling her approval, Cat’s usual sharp tone uncharacteristically warm with satisfaction. 

Burnout time.

She slammed the throttle down, yanking the wheel to send the car into a tight spin, smoke billowing up from the rear tires as she left her mark on the track. The roar of the engine, the smell of burning rubber, the sheer exhilaration of the moment—it was intoxicating.

When the smoke cleared, she pulled the car to a stop near the start/finish line and unbuckled. Climbing out onto the doorframe, she raised her arms, and the crowd erupted. A track official jogged over, handing her the checkered flag, and she took it with a grin, waving it high above her head before hopping down to the pavement. 

Her crew was already rushing toward her, a tidal wave of team colors and unrestrained celebration. Someone—probably Kenny—slammed into her with enough force to nearly knock her off balance. But the first person to reach her wasn’t even her crew.

Alex.

She had abandoned her own car in her pit box, still in her fire suit but with the top half peeled down and tied around her waist. She reached Kara in record time, crashing into her with a fierce hug, arms locked tight around her shoulders. "You did it! You freaking did it!" she yelled over the roar of the crowd, pulling back just enough to shake her by the shoulders before yanking her in again. 

Then came the crew. Handshakes, cheers, the weight of the winner’s sticker being pressed into her palm by a NASCAR official—something she’d get to place above her driver’s side door later. And, to Kara’s absolute shock, even Cat Grant pulled her into a brief, rare hug before quickly stepping back and smoothing down her hair, as if the moment hadn’t happened. 

Victory Lane was next, a blur of flashing cameras and a massive trophy being shoved into her arms. The scent of cheap champagne filled the air as she got sprayed from all directions, her fire suit drenched, hair dripping, and she laughed—loud, unrestrained, a sound of pure, unfiltered joy. 

Then came the media.

She barely had time to breathe before the microphones were in front of her face, reporters firing off questions about the race, the car, her first win at Fawcett.

"Kara, talk us through those last ten laps— and how were you able to hold off Leslie Willis for so long?"

She pushed wet hair out of her face, still catching her breath. "Just had to be smart, Barry Allen is a damn good racer— and it was all about timing. And Leslie— I knew she was gonna try and move me, so I made sure to defend. Car was good, handling held up—I just had to do my job."

"This is your first win at Fawcett. What does this mean for you and your team?"

Kara exhaled, shaking her head with a small grin. "Means everything. This track is brutal—you don’t win here by accident. My crew gave me a hell of a car tonight, and we made it happen."

“What was your mindset battling Leslie the whole race? You never bent to her tactics— almost like you were made of steel.”

“I mean, honestly, I felt like I had a fighting chance tonight. That running through my head, there was no way I was gonna give her an inch.”

More questions. More photos. Kara felt the adrenaline finally start to settle into exhaustion by the time she peeled off her fire suit down to her black undershirt and tossed it into the hauler. The noise and chaos of Victory Lane still rang in her ears as she walked barefoot across the pavement, fingers still curled around the winner’s sticker. 

Her body ached in that satisfying, bone-deep way that only a hard-fought race could bring, but there was still one thing left to do.

Her feet carried her toward the garage without her even thinking about it. The celebrations could wait. She had someone to see first.

The air in the Fawcett garage was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, the distant roar of the crowd still echoing through the night as the race wound down. Kara had done it—her first win under the lights, her first victory at one of the toughest short tracks on the circuit. She should’ve been riding the high, celebrating with the team, soaking in the moment.

Instead, she found herself looking for someone in particular.

She spotted her near the back of the garage, crouched beside a massive red Snap-on toolbox, methodically wiping grease from her hands with the same quiet precision she applied to everything. Lena Luthor hadn’t sought her out after the win—hadn’t been on the pit wall for the celebrations, hadn’t so much as acknowledged Kara’s name being called as the Fawcett champion. And maybe that shouldn’t bother her, but it did.

Kara approached, footsteps muffled by the concrete floor, the golden winner’s sticker still clutched loosely in her fingers. She wasn’t even sure why she had come looking for Lena. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was gratitude, or maybe it was something else entirely—something unspoken, something unsettling. The whole race, she’d felt the difference in the car, the way it handled like an extension of herself, smooth and precise in ways it hadn’t been before. That wasn’t luck. That was someone knowing exactly what she needed before she even knew to ask.

She should’ve been asking more questions about that. About Lena. But instead, she was here, standing in front of the woman like she had something to prove.

Lena didn’t look up, but Kara knew she was aware of her presence. She could feel it in the shift of her posture, in the way she took a beat longer to fold the rag in her hands before finally glancing up.

“Figured you’d be off celebrating,” Lena said, voice level, unreadable. 

Kara shrugged. “I was.” A pause. “Came to bring you this.”

She held out the sticker, the small emblem that would be placed above her driver’s side door—a badge of honor, proof of victory. Lena’s gaze flickered to it, then to Kara’s face, her expression giving nothing away.

“You earned it.”

Kara huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, but I didn’t do it alone.”

Lena’s lips curved slightly—an almost-smile, gone too fast to be sure it was ever really there. She leaned back against the toolbox, resting an arm on its edge. The metal was scuffed, the drawers slightly dented, a sign of how often it was used, how much it had seen. And yet, Lena herself looked pristine—oil-streaked hands notwithstanding. There was something about the contrast that made Kara’s stomach twist. 

Her eyes flicked up, drawn to Lena’s face. Not for the first time, Kara found herself caught on Lena’s eyes—sharp and knowing, a green so deep it was almost unnatural under the fluorescents. It wasn’t just the color, though. It was the way she looked at Kara, like she already knew what she was thinking before Kara had figured it out herself. There was something piercing about it, something that made her feel seen in a way that was almost unsettling.

“You were fast tonight,” Lena said. “Car handled well.”

Kara smirked. “Almost like someone knew what they were doing.”

Lena arched a brow. “Almost.”

Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. Kara shifted her grip on the sticker, then finally just set it down on the edge of the toolbox. “Thanks,” she said, and she meant it. For the car, for the adjustments, for whatever the hell had changed between practice and qualifying that made her machine go from barely manageable to a rocket.

Lena studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Kara blinked. “What?”

Lena smirked, and there was something infuriating about it—quietly arrogant, like she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go. “Winning. I hate working on cars that don’t win.”

Kara scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you happy, then.”

Lena tilted her head, something amused flickering in her eyes. “Guess so.”

Kara didn’t know what this was yet—what to make of Lena, of the shift in their dynamic—but she knew one thing: she wanted to find out. And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Chapter Text

“Momentum is a big thing in racing. It’s hard to gain and easy to lose.”

- Tony Stewart

April 18^th, 2016

It was well past midnight when Kara finally stepped out of the garage—only to be immediately ambushed by Cat.

“Where the hell are your shoes?” was the first thing out of her mouth, followed by, “Put this damn polo on!” and an exasperated, “Christ, Danvers, I know it’s your first win, but the media isn’t done with you yet.”

Kara blinked at her, still running a lap behind mentally. She knew that—of course she did—but her race suit was soaked in champagne, Gatorade, and half the damn rubber off the track. And, if she was being honest, her mind was already somewhere else. She needed to see Lena.

Before she could get a word in, Cat was shoving a Big Belly Burger cap onto her tangled mess of hair, herding her into a polo and a pair of shoes like she was a wayward child. Then, with a firm push, she was sent straight toward a PR rep, the media storm waiting for her once again.

 “Kara, this way!” The PR rep guided her toward the media center, a blur of faces and flashing lights. Reporters swarmed, shouting her name, throwing questions before she could even process them. Someone handed her a bottle of water. She downed half of it in one go.

“Big win tonight! Walk us through those last few laps!” A microphone was shoved in her face.

Kara barely paused. “Barry was back on me the last few laps—I knew he’d try to push it. But the car was hooked up, and I wasn’t about to let it go.” Her voice came out faster than usual, words tumbling over themselves, heartbeat still matching the rhythm of the race. “That restart was everything. Tires were slipping, but I just had to hold on.”

Someone else jumped in. “That contact with Leslie—was that just hard racing, or did you feel like she crossed the line?”

Kara let out a breath, a sharp grin flashing. “You tell me. She tried the same move ten times before. It was bound to happen eventually.”

More hands guided her forward. The press room. Cameras. A podium. She barely remembered sitting down, but suddenly, she was there, the NASCAR backdrop behind her, the microphone in front of her. A moderator called on the first reporter.

“Kara, your first big win. How does it feel?”

Unreal. Like she was still inside the car, still gripping the wheel, still fighting. She could feel the vibrations of the engine in her bones. She swallowed, trying to ground herself, but the rush of it all—Rao, it was so much.

“It feels like I could go another 500 miles.” The reporters laughed, but Kara wasn’t joking. If they let her, she’d be back in that Camaro right now.

A few more questions. Tire strategy. The pit crew. The wreck. The penalty. Kara fired off answers without hesitation, the words coming to her like second nature.

Then, before she knew it—“That’s all the time we have, thanks everyone.”

Kara blinked. The press room shifted around her. Someone pulled her to her feet. Another PR rep was talking in her ear.

“TV interviews next—NBC first, then Fox.”

Another room. Another camera. More bright lights. “Kara, incredible race. Let’s talk about that final restart—”

A mic in her face. More words. More reliving it. The crowd. The adrenaline. The moment Leslie made contact, the second Kara nearly lost it but didn’t.

Next interview. Another question. Her voice was still too fast, her hands still shaking, her heart still racing.

Then another. And another.

By the time she was shuffled toward the hauler, toward her team, toward freedom, the night had blurred into one long, unbroken streak of motion. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was still in the car. Still in the moment. Still pushing forward.

Then, finally—finally—she spotted her crew. Nia, grinning ear to ear. Winn, practically vibrating out of his skin. James, clapping her on the back. And Lena, standing just a little further away, arms crossed, smirking like she knew exactly what was going through Kara’s head.

Only then did it really hit her. The race was over. And she’d won.

And holy hell, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep at all tonight.

The adrenaline was still in her veins, making everything feel sharper, louder, faster—like she was still racing, still gripping the wheel. She was wondering if it would ever fade.

The Big Belly Burger hauler loomed in front of her, the back doors swung open as the crew worked in synchronized efficiency. James and Kenny were already loading up the toolboxes, while Sam and Kelly secured the spare tires. Jack was tightening the straps on the backup car, making sure it wouldn’t shift during transport. Winn was perched on a crate, his laptop balanced on his knees, still pulling data from the race. Brainy stood next to him, listing off telemetry numbers at lightning speed.

Lena was near the front of the hauler, wiping the grease off her hands with a rag, her expression unreadable as she scanned over a clipboard. Even in the chaos, she was calm, methodical. The sight of her—still in her fireproof work suit, sleeves rolled up, a streak of oil smudged near her wrist—made something in Kara’s stomach flip. Her mind flashed to their meeting in the garage a few hours ago. Lena had the victory sticker tucked safely under the clip of her clipboard.

Cat was standing off to the side, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the scene like a hawk overseeing her empire. The moment she spotted Kara, she arched an eyebrow. “Took you long enough, Danvers. Thought we’d have to leave you behind with the press.”

Kara let out a breathless laugh, the adrenaline still making her voice lighter than it should be. “Had to give the people what they wanted.”

Cat scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, she gave a curt nod. “Good race. Enjoy it while it lasts. You’ve got another one next week.”

That was Cat’s way of saying congratulations.

Kara turned to the crew, grinning. “We’re getting food, right? Please tell me we’re getting dinner.”

James chuckled as he secured the last of the equipment for the night. “Figured you’d be starving by now.”

“Starving is an understatement,” Kara said, stretching her sore arms over her head. The exhaustion was starting to creep in, but the buzz of victory still kept her upright.

Lena finally looked up from her clipboard, her gaze meeting Kara’s for a split second before she smirked. “Might want to shower first, champ.”

Kara blinked, and—oh. Right. She was still covered in sweat, Gatorade, and probably half the rubber from the track despite the fact she had taken the race suit off hours ago. Sometimes she envied all the male drivers with short hair— they didn’t have to deal with washing out the champagne out of their hair the same way she did.

“Yeah, okay, fair point.” She laughed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Make it five,” Nia called as she hopped down from the hauler. “Because if we don’t leave soon, every other team is gonna take the good spots at Waffle House.”

Kara groaned but turned toward the door, her legs already protesting the movement. She shot one last glance back at Lena, who was already focused on double-checking the hauler’s inventory. But Kara didn’t miss the way Lena’s smirk lingered, just for a second, before she turned back to work.

Still buzzing with energy, Kara stepped out of the hauler, ready to head toward the showers. The infield was buzzing with noise as everyone worked to pack up for the night— back up cars being lifted by hydraulics, straps being secured, toolboxes shutting.

Then she heard footsteps—fast, heavy, angry.

“Danvers!”

The voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and burning with frustration. Kara barely had time to turn before Leslie was on her, storming forward with all the force of a driver who wasn’t done fighting.

“You got something to say?” Kara asked, already knowing exactly what was coming.

Leslie’s eyes were blazing. “Yeah. I do.” She stepped in closer, voice low but vibrating with anger. “You really think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”

Kara inhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. “Leslie—”

“NASCAR might be eating out of the palm of your hand, but you and I both know you should’ve been the one penalized.” Leslie jabbed a finger toward her chest. “You ran me up the track, forced me to lift, and I got blamed for it?” She let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Guess you really are just made of steel, huh? Walk away from everything like nothing can touch you.”

The words struck a nerve, sharp and pointed. Kara clenched her jaw.

“You got aggressive,” she said evenly. “You took a risk, and you lost.”

Leslie scoffed, shaking her head. “You think you’re some golden girl, some girl of steel who can’t do any wrong?” Her voice pitched higher, carrying now, drawing attention. “That you can just push people around on the track and get away with it?”

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision—cameras.

Kara could feel them now, the presence of lingering media who hadn’t packed up yet, their lenses trained on the confrontation. It didn’t matter that the race was over—if Leslie wanted to make a spectacle, they’d be more than happy to capture it.

Kara exhaled sharply, stepping back. “I’m not doing this here.”

“Oh, but you had no problem running me into the wall in front of thousands of people, huh?” Leslie’s voice dripped venom, but there was something else beneath it—a raw edge of humiliation.

Kara shook her head. “That’s not what happened.”

Leslie’s expression twisted. “Screw this.”

Before Kara could react, Leslie’s fist swung.

A flash of movement—impact.

Pain exploded across Kara’s jaw, her head snapping to the side as the force of the punch landed clean.

The force of it knocked Kara to the ground, the concrete biting into her am, tearing skin.

Shouts erupted around them.

“Whoa!”

“Kara!”

“What the hell, Leslie?!”

Her crew surged forward, Nia among them, eyes wide with alarm. Someone grabbed Leslie, yanking her back before she could take another shot. Kara rose to her feet again.

Kara barely flinched. She blinked, rolling her jaw, testing the ache. It hurt—Leslie hit hard—but she’d taken worse.

Leslie was still fuming, still struggling against whoever had a grip on her. “You don’t deserve this win, Danvers.”

Kara wiped at her lip, checking for blood. “Yeah?” She met Leslie’s glare head-on. “Well, you’re the one who’s walking away with nothing.” Blood dripped onto the concrete from the gash on Kara’s arm.

The words landed. Leslie’s nostrils flared, but security had stepped in now, ushering her away before things could escalate further.

The cameras were still rolling. The moment would be everywhere soon—replays, interviews, analysis.

Then there was Lena, standing a distance away. Her jaw was more pronounced— if possibly— a hard set to it. Her eyes were intense with something Kara couldn’t place. It felt like anger, but her features were still smoothed into neutrality despite the tight clench of her teeth.

Kara just exhaled, shaking off the hit, ignoring the dull throb in her jaw, the ache of her arm.

“Are you okay?” Nia asked, hovering beside her.

Kara cracked a small, wry grin, the action causing an ache to erupt into her cheek. “Yeah.” She rolled her shoulders, glancing after Leslie’s retreating figure. “Guess I should’ve expected that.”

Nia huffed. “I told you she had a never ending grudge.”

Hell of a way to end a race.

Kara exhaled through her nose, still feeling the lingering sting in her jaw. She touched it lightly—yep, definitely gonna bruise. Nia was still looking at her like she was expecting her to suddenly keel over, and the rest of the crew was lingering nearby, exchanging glances as if waiting to see if they needed to intervene.

Kara sighed. “Don’t tell Alex.”

A sharp scoff cut through the air.

“Oh, please.”

Kara turned just in time to see Cat Grant striding toward them, arms crossed, eyes sharp with both amusement and exasperation.

“If you think for one second that this won’t be all over the news tomorrow, then I severely overestimated your intelligence,” Cat said, her tone dry as sandpaper. She gestured vaguely toward the remaining media personnel still loitering in the distance, cameras undoubtedly already uploading the footage. “By sunrise, there will be slow-motion replays, analysis pieces, think pieces, and at least one poorly written op-ed about sportsmanship in modern NASCAR.”

Kara groaned, dragging a hand down her face. Which hurt.

Cat smirked. “So unless Alex has suddenly developed a complete aversion to the internet, somehow avoided driver gossip completely, I’d say she’ll find out in about… oh, two hours, give or take.”

Nia winced. “That’s being generous.”

Kara sighed again, heavier this time. “Great. Just great.”

Cat patted her once on the shoulder, not unkindly. “Cheer up, Danvers. At least you won the race.” She smirked, stepping past. “And, from what I saw, you took that punch beautifully.”

Kara groaned again. It was going to be a long night. She just hoped the bruise would wait to show until after dinner.

She continued her walk to the shower facility, fishing out her phone as she did so.

Kara Danvers

meet at nearest waffle house? gotta shower, i’ll take the shuttle with my crew

.

Alex’s response had came through by the time she was out of the showering and towel drying her hair.

Alex Danvers

If you insist. meet you there in twenty

After her shower, she rummaged through the first aid kit in the bathroom. The cut—well, gash more like— was too big for a bandaid, so she ended up wrapping it in a thin layer of gauze. She then threw on her post race sweatpants she pulled from her bag, and a solid red Big Belly Burger hoodie with the No. 11 plastered on the back. It didn’t take her long to meet up with the rest of the team at the shuttle.

The team piled into the shuttle with the kind of weary energy that only came after an impossibly long day at the track. The seats were a mix of occupied and slumped-over, with helmets and bags shoved into the overhead compartments or wedged between tired bodies. The hum of the engine was the only sound for a moment—until, predictably, Winn broke the silence.

“I swear to God, if they don’t have hashbrowns, I’m gonna riot,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the seat.

Kelly let out a tired laugh from the row behind him. “It’s Waffle House, Schott. They always have hashbrowns.”

“Yeah, but do they have enough for me?” Winn countered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Kara sat near the window, one knee bouncing as she stared out at the highway stretching ahead of them. The adrenaline had yet to fully leave her system, leaving her feeling jittery and oddly restless. Across the aisle, Lena sat with her arms crossed, head tilted back against the seat, looking like she was deep in thought.

“You know,” Cat’s voice cut through the low murmurs, “in my prime, I’d be taking my team to a real restaurant for a post-win celebration. Somewhere with actual ambiance, not—” she gestured vaguely, “—sticky menus and questionable coffee.”

James, who had somehow managed to look moderately put together despite the long day, turned in his seat with a smirk. “Good thing we’re not in your prime, then.”

A collective groan rose up from the team as Cat shot him a withering glare. “You’re lucky I like you, Olsen.”

The conversation ebbed and flowed, punctuated by the occasional stretch of silence as exhaustion settled over them all. Kara let herself sink back against the seat, watching the headlights flicker past.

It wasn’t long before the familiar yellow glow of the Waffle House sign came into view, the neon casting an inviting glow onto the mostly empty parking lot. As the shuttle rolled to a stop, Kara took a deep breath, trying to shake the lingering buzz of the night.

She wasn’t sure if she was exhausted or still running purely on victory-fueled adrenaline—but as the doors hissed open and the team filed out, one thing was certain: this was the perfect kind of night for a Waffle House stop.

The hum of buzzing fluorescents cast a sickly yellow glow over the cracked pavement, and inside, the air smelled like burnt coffee, butter, and something fried that had been on the griddle for far too long.

It was well past three, and after the chaos of the race, the fight with Leslie, and the never-ending media gauntlet, Kara still felt wired. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet—not fully. She could feel the dull ache in her jaw, a reminder of Leslie’s cheap shot, and the weight of exhaustion pressing just at the edges of her mind, but it still hadn’t caught up to her.

The team had crammed into the booths as best as they could, spreading across three sections. Kara, Alex, Kelly, and James had claimed one booth, while Winn, Brainy, and Nia were packed into another, with Lena, Cat, Kenny, and Sam taking the last. Jack had gotten stuck with the counter, looking vaguely annoyed about it but resigned to his fate.

“I can’t believe we’re at a damn Waffle House, incredibly cliché,” Alex muttered, slumping back against the booth. She looked better than she had earlier, but Kara knew the crash had shaken her.

“I can’t believe I let myself get dragged to a Waffle House,” Cat deadpanned from the other booth, arms crossed, her expression making it painfully clear she was questioning every life decision that led her here.

“You love it,” James said, grinning.

“I detest it,” Cat corrected, taking a sip of the coffee that had been unceremoniously poured into her cup before she could protest.

“Oh, lighten up, boss,” Kelly said. “This is a NASCAR tradition.”

Cat shot her an unamused look. “So is getting into fistfights after a race, apparently.”

Kara groaned, sinking further into the booth. “We are not talking about that.”

“Oh, we’re talking about it,” Winn called from his booth, grinning. “Because you are officially the main character on Twitter right now.”

Kara let her head thunk against the table. “I hate it here.”

Lena, who had been quiet up until this point, cleared her throat. “You should work on your form,” she said, sipping her own coffee. “If you’re going to get punched, at least make it look good.”

Kara lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to get punched.”

Lena’s lips twitched, almost like she wanted to smirk. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Can we just focus on the important thing here?” Winn said. “Which is that Kara got decked on live television, and Alex doesn’t even know about it yet.”

Alex, who had been too focused on her menu, finally looked up. “…What?”

There was a long silence. Kara winced.

“…Don’t tell Alex,” she muttered.

Cat didn’t even look up from her coffee. “It’ll be all over the news tomorrow.”

Alex blinked. Once. Twice. Then turned to Kara with a look that promised a long lecture. “Kara.”

“I’m fine,” Kara said quickly.

“Kara.”

“It wasn’t even that bad!”

Alex rubbed a hand over her face. “I swear to God, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”

Kara huffed. “Technically, it was more than five minutes.”

James snorted. Kelly and Nia outright laughed.

By the time their food arrived—greasy hashbrowns, waffles drowning in syrup, eggs cooked in a dozen different ways—the exhaustion had started to creep in. Conversations grew quieter, the frenetic energy of the night finally wearing off.

Kara let herself breathe, let herself sit in the moment. The race, the fight, the cameras, the chaos—it was all over now. What was left was this. Her team. Her family. Crammed into booths in the middle of Fawcett, eating food that was objectively terrible but somehow exactly what they needed.

The rest of there dinner— or was it breakfast?— was spent in equal measure silence, and laughter as Kara’s win helped bleed out the tension. And then there was Lena, siting like she’d belonged here the whole time.

Kara hadn’t meant to stare.

Really, she hadn’t.

But between the lingering adrenaline, the exhaustion creeping at the edges of her mind, and the fact that Lena Luthor was currently sitting in a Waffle House booth like she belonged there—Kara found it impossible to look away.

Lena had taken a seat with Cat, Kenny, and Sam, positioned on the inside of the booth, like she was keeping herself tucked away. But she wasn’t exactly closed off, either. She was listening—really listening—to whatever debate Sam and Kenny were having over the race, her eyes flicking between them, fingers absently spinning her coffee cup.

Her hands.

Kara knew those hands could do delicate, meticulous work, could fine-tune an engine with the kind of precision that only came from years of experience. Kara knew that first hand, almost intimately well, after driving in Lena’s car for hours. But here, under the fluorescent lights, they were still smudged with grease, the faintest streak of oil stubbornly clinging to the inside of her wrist. She had washed up after the race, sure, but not completely. And Kara found herself caught on that detail, on the contrast between the immaculate, razor-sharp exterior Lena presented on Saturday and the proof—right there, in her hands—that she didn’t just direct people on what to do. She did the work herself.

That had been obvious in the race, too. Kara could still hear her voice in the radio, steady and precise.

That same steadiness was here now, in the way Lena carried herself—shoulders relaxed, gaze sharp, fully present in the moment.

Then Cat said something dry, unimpressed, and Lena’s lips curled—just slightly, just enough to suggest amusement before she took a slow sip of coffee.

Kara’s stomach twisted.

It was such a small thing, such a nothing moment, but it struck her all the same. That sharpness, the way Lena seemed to take in everything around her, always calculating, always aware. But there was something else, too—something more effortless, something quieter, in the way she leaned slightly toward Cat when she responded, something almost… natural about the way she fit into the space.

And then, as if she could feel Kara looking, Lena glanced up.

Kara froze.

Lena’s eyes locked onto hers, and for a second—just a second—Kara’s mind blanked.

It wasn’t just that Lena had caught her staring. It was the way she held her gaze, something almost assessing in it. There was no smirk, no raised brow, nothing teasing or accusatory. Just that same sharp, quiet intensity.

Kara’s fingers twitched against her glass.

It was the same feeling she got when she came out of a turn too hot, when the car was on the edge of control and she had to make a split-second decision to either push harder or back off.

Then, just as quickly as she had looked, Lena dropped her gaze back to her coffee, fingers tapping idly against the ceramic like nothing had happened.

Kara exhaled, forcing herself to look away, to focus on anything else. Her Coke was too cold against her palms.

She didn’t know what that had been.

Maybe it was just the exhaustion, the leftover adrenaline still working its way through her system.

But somehow, somehow, after everything—after the race, the media frenzy, the fight with Leslie, the sheer overload of the last few hours—this was what stuck with her.

——

Now, back in the hotel room, it was quieter than it should’ve been. Alex was sitting on the bed, freshly showered, a bruise already forming along her forearm from the harness impact. She was fine. She kept saying she was fine. But she wasn’t moving much. She was exhausted.

The exhaustion wasn’t just from the race—it was from the fear, the helplessness that had gripped Kara’s chest the second she saw Alex’s car slam into the wall. Even though Alex was fine—had gotten her car to pit road and back on the track in record time—it still lingered. The sight of it. The sound of it. The way Kara’s stomach had plummeted when she heard Nia’s voice in her ear, relaying that No. 31 was involved in a crash.

Kara hadn’t let herself say anything yet—not at the track, not at dinner, not even when they walked back into the hotel. She’d been waiting—giving Alex space, letting her be the tough, invincible driver she always pretended to be.

But now, as Alex sat there, rubbing absently at her arm, the weight of the day settled in Kara’s chest like a lead block.

“I—” Kara exhaled sharply. “I thought you were—”

Alex looked up then, her face softening in a way that almost made it worse.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know, Kara.”

Kara swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists against her lap. “I couldn’t do anything. I saw it happening, I heard Nia—” She shook her head. “I thought I was gonna lose you in that split second of panic.”

Alex sighed, shifting forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “But you didn’t.” Her voice was calm, steady, like she was trying to convince both of them. “You didn’t, Kara. I walked away.”

Kara let out a bitter laugh. “That’s not always how it ends.”

Alex flinched, just slightly. Of course she knew that. This track had already taken one father from them. It didn’t need to take a sister, too.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment before Alex let out a breath.

“You won today.” Her voice was quieter now. “You won, Kara.”

Kara blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “Alex—”

“No, I mean it.” Alex looked up at her, something raw in her expression. “You didn’t let it stop you. You could’ve, but you didn’t. And I’m—I’m proud of you for that.”

Kara’s chest ached, something sharp twisting deep inside her. “I just—” Her voice caught. She exhaled, pressing her lips together. “I don’t want to lose you.” There words held deeper meaning then she said, so much baggage, almost too much.

Zor-El. Alura. Jeremiah.

Alex gave a small, lopsided smile. “You won’t.” She reached out then, gripping Kara’s hand, grounding her. “Not today.”

Kara squeezed her hand back, holding on for just a moment longer than necessary.

A buzz against the nightstand broke the moment. Kara frowned, reaching for her phone, her breath catching when she saw the unknown number.

Not bad, Danvers.

Even now, with everything still settling in her chest, she knew who it was.

Lena.

Kara exhaled, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Not bad.

It wasn’t, was it?

She put her phone back down, shifting under the covers as Alex did the same. There were still things to process, things they weren’t ready to talk about yet. But for now, Alex was here. Alive. Bruised, but breathing. And Kara had won—had fought, had survived.

Tomorrow, they’d leave this track behind. But tonight, at least, they were still here.

——

Technically, this morning was better than the last.

At least Alex wasn’t trying to rattle her bones from her body with another aggressive wake-up call. Small victories.

On the other hand, Kara felt like she’d been put through a meat grinder.

Her jaw ached, a dull throb that flared every time she clenched it wrong. Her shoulder protested every movement—probably from the moment Leslie slammed into her on track, a hit so hard Kara was still surprised she’d managed to correct in time. Her arm ached with a pulsating sensation.

And sleep? Barely four hours. Maybe.

The real problem, though, wasn’t the soreness or the exhaustion. It was Alex. Specifically, Alex being awake.

And worse—Alex having the TV on.

Blearily, Kara blinked against the morning light seeping through the curtains, rolling just enough to see what was playing.

She regretted it instantly.

The first thing on screen was her—mid-punch, slow-motion, a dramatic Fox Sports headline running across the bottom.

Leslie’s fist connected again in pristine HD, the frame-by-frame breakdown making sure every single person watching could see the exact moment Kara took the hit, the exact moment she hit the ground.

Kara groaned, dropping her face into the pillow. “You have to be kidding me.”

Alex didn’t even glance away from the screen. She was leaning forward, arms crossed, jaw set.

And Kara knew that posture.

It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t amusement.

Alex was watching because she wanted to finish the damn fight herself.

Kara sighed, flopping onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “You know, you could’ve at least let me wake up before watching me get punched in slow motion.”

Alex let out a sharp exhale through her nose—half a scoff, half a barely restrained growl. “I should’ve hit her first.”

Kara groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Alex.”

“No, really. Maybe I should find her.”

Kara sat up too fast, her body immediately regretting it. “Please don’t do that.”

Alex turned to her, unimpressed. “She hit you.”

“Yeah, and?” Kara gestured vaguely toward the screen. “And now it’s a sports media circus. Imagine what happens if you hit her too.”

Alex huffed. “She deserves it.”

Kara flopped back down, pulling the pillow over her face. “I beg you. Just let me have one quiet morning.”

The slow-motion punch replayed again.

Kara groaned louder.

“One quiet morning?” Alex snorted, not even looking away from the TV. “You do know you’re a NASCAR driver, right?”

Kara let out a long, suffering sigh, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her some kind of divine intervention. It didn’t.

Instead, the slow-motion footage of Leslie decking her played again.

Without even thinking, she grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it straight at Alex’s head.

It hit with a satisfying thud.

Alex barely flinched, just slowly turned to glare at her, unimpressed. “Really?”

Kara muttered something unintelligible into the mattress. Probably something about unfair sibling dynamics.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex said, stretching as she stood. “Come on, you can sulk in the hauler. We’ve gotta head back to the track—teams are packing up, and we still need to figure out flights.”

Kara groaned louder but forced herself up, her muscles protesting the movement. As much as she wanted to crawl back under the blankets, she did need to get moving. The hauler wouldn’t load itself, and Cat would probably chew her out if she left everything to the crew.

With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her duffel bag. “God, how did we manage to spread so much stuff in just two days?”

Alex, already halfway through stuffing clothes into her own bag, scoffed. “We? This disaster zone is all you, dumbass.”

Kara huffed but didn’t argue as she shoved her dirty clothes into her bag. Somehow it all smelled like champagne, Gatorade, and rubber despite the fact her dirty race suit was in the hauler—she’d have to deal with that later. She grabbed her Big Belly Burger hat off the nightstand, hesitating for a moment before stuffing it inside too. The cameras had caught enough of her last night.

Alex zipped up her duffel and swung it over her shoulder. Kara rubbed at her aching jaw as she glanced at her. “Please tell me I’m not stuck on the same flight as Leslie.”

Alex smirked. “PR’s already on it. They don’t want you two in the same building if they can help it.”

Kara exhaled, relieved. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

She threw on her hoodie, slung her bag over her shoulder, and followed Alex toward the door. The low hum of the TV still filled the room. Just before stepping out, Kara glanced at the screen one last time. Footage of her first win played side by side with the fight, flickering between triumph and chaos like they were two sides of the same story.

Maybe, in her world, they were.

——

By the time Kara and Alex got to the track, the garage was already alive with movement. It always amazed Kara how quickly a team could break down what had taken an entire weekend to set up. Every piece of equipment, every tool, every spare part had to be accounted for, packed up, and loaded before they could even think about leaving for Ivy Town.

Their hauler was already partially packed, but there was still plenty left to do. Kara rolled up her sleeves, biting back a yawn as she joined the effort. She wasn’t about to stand around while the rest of the team did the heavy lifting.

Jack and James were handling the tires, rolling the used sets onto racks while Kelly and Sam worked on the pit boxes, making sure everything was properly secured before they were lifted into the hauler. Kenny was double-checking the fuel cans—empty now, but still needing to be stored correctly—while Winn was hunched over a clipboard, scribbling down inventory like his life depended on it.

Lena was off to the side, deep in conversation with Brainy, likely going over data from the race one last time before they packed away the telemetry equipment.

It was a process. A long one, only partially done the night before.

The car itself had already been pushed into the hauler, but that didn’t mean they were anywhere close to done. Kara had helped load up her fair share of race haulers before, and she knew how tedious it was. Every toolbox had to be latched and secured. Every piece of gear had to be in its proper place. If something got thrown in haphazardly, they’d regret it when they got to the next track.

Hours blurred together. Kara lost track of how many times she climbed in and out of the hauler, carrying equipment, strapping things down, making sure nothing was going to shift during the drive. The sun, which had barely finished rising when they got here, was now high in the sky, baking the pavement. Sweat clung to the back of her neck.

At some point, she passed Alex, who was hauling a crate of tools toward her own hauler.

“This always takes forever,” Kara muttered, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm.

Alex smirked. “Welcome to post-race reality, champ.”

Kara groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“I regret telling you she said that.”

Alex just scoffed and continued on to her own hauler.

By midday, the hauler was almost packed. The garage, once cluttered with tools, tires, and spare parts, was almost empty. Kara let out a breath as she leaned against the side of the hauler, stretching her sore shoulders.

Lena walked past, a clipboard in hand. “Everything’s accounted for,” she said, mostly to herself before looking up at Kara. “You did more than I expected.”

Kara, caught off guard, blinked. “Uh. Thanks?”

Lena smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

The lights at Fawcett had long since dimmed by the time they finished, and the once-roaring track was now just a skeleton of steel and concrete under the Tennessee night sky. Most of the teams had already cleared out, their haulers rolling toward the next battleground. Kara’s team was among the stragglers, packing up the last of their gear, making sure nothing got left behind before the trip to Ivy Town.

Kara stood outside the team hauler, hands on her hips, watching as James and Kenny loaded up the last of the equipment. Winn was perched on a stack of tires, typing away on his tablet, likely already running Ivy Town’s  telemetry data. Cat, naturally, was nowhere to be found—she had flown out earlier because, in her words, “I refuse to suffer through a five-hour drive with you degenerates.”

“You’re staring,” Alex’s voice came from beside her, her hauler already gone.

Kara blinked, turning to her sister, who looked more awake than she had any right to after a full race weekend. “At what?”

Alex smirked, following Kara’s gaze toward the hauler—where Lena was in deep conversation with Sam and Kelly, arms crossed, nodding along as they reviewed something. “At who, you mean?”

Kara groaned. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure.”

Before Kara could argue, the PR rep walked up, handing her a duffel bag. “Your flight’s in an hour. Try not to be late, or we’re leaving you here.”

Kara blinked. “Wait—flight?”

“You and Alex are flying with the other drivers. The hauler’s full, and frankly, I don’t trust you to not be a menace on a road trip.”

Alex snickered. “Damn. They caught on.”

Kara sighed but accepted the bag, tossing it over her shoulder. “Fine. Who else is flying?”

“The usual suspects,” the PR rep said, checking their clipboard. “Clark, Barry, Wally, Diana—”

“Diana?” Kara perked up.

“She drives alone most of the time,” Alex said. “She’s probably flying just for the hell of it.”

Winn finally looked up from his tablet. “You guys flying commercial or—?”

“Charter,” the PR rep said. “They don’t trust drivers in normal airports. Something about too much chaos.”

Kara smirked. “To be fair, that’s accurate.”

The last of the equipment was finally packed away, and the hauler doors slammed shut with a final clank. Kenny stretched his arms over his head. “Alright. We’re good to roll.”

“You sure you guys don’t want to drive?” Kelly asked. “Five hours isn’t that bad.”

Alex shrugged. “I don’t mind the flight. Beats sitting in a car all night.”

Kara glanced at Lena, who was now walking toward them. The moment she caught Kara’s eye, her gaze sharpened like she knew something Kara didn’t.

“I assume you two are flying?” Lena asked, her voice even.

“Yeah,” Kara said. “You?”

“I’m with the hauler.”

Kara wasn’t sure why she felt disappointed by that.

Lena tilted her head slightly, studying her. “Try not to lose anything in the next twenty-four hours.”

Kara opened her mouth to argue but was immediately cut off by Alex dragging her toward the waiting car. “Come on, superstar, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

The next stop? Ivy Town, Virginia.

And then, they’d do it all over again.

——

The airport was a mess of colorful racing polos, ballcaps, and duffel bags. It always was after a race weekend. A steady stream of drivers, crew members, and team personnel moved through the private terminal, checking in for their chartered flights to the next track or home for the few days in between.

Kara had been through this process enough times that it should’ve been second nature by now—show up, get through security, board—but somehow, it was always a little chaotic.

“You’d think with how much we travel, people would figure out how to board a plane by now,” Alex muttered beside her, shifting the weight of her duffel over her shoulder.

Kara smirked. “You’re saying that like you don’t spend half your flights passed out against the window.”

Alex shoved her lightly, but she wasn’t wrong.

The security process for charter flights was faster than commercial, but it was still a pain. A few drivers were pulled aside for extra screening—not uncommon when they traveled with as much gear as they did. Further up in line, Oliver Queen was arguing with an agent about something—probably trying to charm his way through some minor inconvenience.

“Always one,” Kara murmured.

A few people turned their heads as she and Alex walked past, but most of the drivers were too busy going through the motions to pay attention. They were all exhausted. Some, like Kara, were riding the adrenaline high of a strong finish. Others, not so much.

Siobhan Smythe, still fuming from a rough race, nearly ran into Barry Allen as she stomped toward the gate. Barry barely managed to sidestep her, shooting Kara a look that said she’s going to be fun to sit next to for the next few hours.

Meanwhile, Leslie was nowhere to be seen. That was by design.

Kara had already been informed—firmly—by PR that they were to be kept apart until things “cooled off.” Separate flights, separate gates, separate everything. It made sense. The last thing anyone wanted was for the media to catch round two of last night’s fight in the middle of the terminal.

“Guess I won’t be seeing Leslie at baggage claim,” Kara muttered.

Alex snorted. “Yeah, somehow I think PR likes it that way.”

Eventually, they made it to their gate, where most of the other drivers heading to Ivy Town  were already waiting. Some were sprawled out in seats, some standing in loose groups talking strategy or grumbling about the race. Others were on their phones, catching up on whatever they’d missed during the weekend.

Kara dropped into a seat, stretching her legs out in front of her. Across from her, Clark sat with his arms crossed, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just spent the weekend battling for position.

Diana sat beside him, scrolling through her phone, while Bruce—because of course he was—was staring intensely at a laptop screen.

“I think he’s making a PowerPoint,” Alex murmured, nodding toward Bruce.

Kara didn’t doubt it.

The boarding process was about as smooth as expected, which was to say it was slightly more organized than complete chaos. Drivers filed onto the plane, dropping into their assigned seats with varying degrees of energy.

Kara ended up with a window seat, Alex beside her. Across the aisle, Barry and Wally were already debating something—probably lap times, or whose pit stop had been faster.

As the plane taxied onto the runway, Kara let her head rest against the window, watching the track shrink in the distance.

Fawcett was behind them. Ivy Town  was next.

The plane had barely leveled out before Wally and Barry started arguing again.

“I’m just saying,” Wally said, hands gesturing wildly, “I definitely had the fastest pit stop of the race.”

Barry scoffed. “You’re kidding, right? Did you even check the stats? My crew got me out in 10.1. Your guys barely broke 11.”

Wally turned in his seat, practically clambering over the armrest to look at Alex. “Back me up, Danvers.”

Alex, who had finally gotten comfortable with her ballcap tugged down over her eyes, groaned. “You do realize I spent most of that race trying not to get wrecked, right? I was a little busy.”

Kara snorted. “She’s not going to admit to paying attention to your pit stops.”

“Thank you,” Alex muttered, crossing her arms.

Across the aisle, Bruce Wayne didn’t even look up from his laptop as he said, “If you want actual data, I have the race analytics here.”

Barry blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Bruce turned the screen slightly so they could see. He had, in fact, pulled up every pit stop from the race.

Wally narrowed his eyes. “…Why do you have this?”

Bruce shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”

Diana, sitting beside him, sighed as if this was a conversation she’d had a thousand times before.

Kara chuckled and leaned back in her seat. The noise, the bickering—it was a nice distraction. But only just.

Because despite how exhausted she was, despite the dull ache in her jaw and the way her body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, her mind wouldn’t stop.

It had been a hell of a weekend.

Her first win. A fight in front of cameras. The look on Lena’s face when she’d seen Kara on the ground.

Kara frowned slightly, staring out the window. The moment was burned into her memory—Lena’s sharp eyes scanning her, taking in every bruise, every little cut, like she was cataloging them.

Like she was mad about them.

Kara wasn’t sure what to make of that.

And it wasn’t just that.

She still couldn’t shake the sight of Lena standing by the hauler, arms crossed, talking with one of the truck drivers while everyone else boarded the plane.

A Luthor. Choosing to ride in a hauler.

It made no sense.

Owners, engineers—Luthors—didn’t take the long, grueling drive between tracks. They flew. They always flew. It was just what they did.

And yet, Lena had barely looked at the plane before heading for the hauler lot.

Kara had wanted to ask why. The question had been right there, sitting on the tip of her tongue. But Lena had moved with such ease, such certainty—like it was normal. Like it wasn’t even a decision at all.

And Kara hated that it got under her skin.

She wanted to think it was just her natural skepticism—the whole a Luthor choosing grease and long hours on the road over first-class flights and penthouse suites—but deep down, she knew it wasn’t just that.

It was the pattern.

The way Lena knew her car inside and out. The way she didn’t shy away from the heat of the garage, didn’t act like she was above the long nights and the oil-stained hands. The way she watched Kara—not just like an owner assessing her driver, but like she was… looking out for her.

It didn’t fit.

Kara had spent years building walls when it came to the Luthor name, and Lena kept slipping through the cracks, and they barely knew each other, had only met two days ago.

Across the aisle, Clark had finally looked up from whatever article he was reading. “Are you planning on actually resting at some point?” he asked.

Kara rolled her eyes. “Define resting.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Not running on four hours of sleep and whatever caffeine you can get your hands on.”

Kara waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Clark didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

Alex, however, didn’t. “She’s not fine,” she muttered.

Kara shot her a look. “I am fine.”

Alex gestured at her jaw. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”

Kara huffed, but before she could respond, a commotion broke out a few rows ahead of them.

Siobhan Smythe was standing, hands on her hips, glaring down at Mick Rory.

“You ate my pretzels?” she accused.

Mick, who looked completely unbothered, shrugged. “Should’ve kept a better eye on ‘em.”

Siobhan looked like she was about to launch herself over the seat.

Sara Lance, seated nearby, sighed. “Jesus Christ, it’s a two-hour flight.”

“Yeah,” Siobhan snapped, “and I was saving those pretzels.”

Sara looked around for backup. “Is anyone going to stop this?”

Oliver, who had been flipping through a magazine, didn’t even look up. “Not my problem.”

Garfield Logan, sitting nearby, pointed at Mick. “Dude, you never take a girl’s snacks. That’s, like, a rule.”

Mick just shrugged again. “I was hungry.”

Siobhan gritted her teeth. “I hate you.”

Kara chuckled under her breath. Just another normal flight, apparently.

She turned back toward Alex, expecting her to still be in overprotective big sister mode, but Alex was already shifting into her own brand of travel routine—arms crossed, hat pulled down, tuning out the world.

“Wake me up when we land,” Alex muttered.

Kara rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

Maybe she should get some rest.

Because Ivy Town  was waiting.

And something told her that Lena Luthor was going to be on her mind a lot more than she wanted her to be.

The descent into Ivy Town was smooth, the kind of landing Kara barely noticed. She was too wired, too restless, exhaustion buzzing under her skin but still  refusing to settle. Despite Clark’s persistence, she wasn’t able to get any rest in the plane, her mind stuck on Lena.

The moment the plane touched the ground, people were already shifting in their seats, unbuckling, stretching, and preparing to disembark.

The usual chaos followed—bags being pulled from overhead bins, voices overlapping, the slow shuffle toward the exit. Kara stuck close to Alex at first, but as they stepped out of the airport, Alex slowed.

“I’m gonna catch up with Sam,” she said, nodding toward where Sam was chatting  with Kelly.

Kara waved her off. “Yeah, sure. I’ll find the room.”

The drivers and teams dispersed outside the airport, piling into waiting rental cars and team vehicles. Kara ended up in the same car as Clark and Barry, half-listening as they talked about upcoming press obligations while she stared out the window.

Her thoughts circled back to Lena—again.

She still didn’t understand that.

It wasn’t like it was bad, but it was odd. Every instinct told her that someone with the last name Luthor should be on a private jet, not spending hours on the road with the hauler drivers. She couldn’t reconcile it.

But maybe that was the thing—Lena wasn’t like every other Luthor.

She just didn’t know what that meant yet.

The car pulled up in front of the hotel, and Kara climbed out with her duffel slung over her shoulder, making her way inside. The lobby was bright, filled with the hum of conversation as drivers and crew checked in, grabbed room keys, and scattered toward the elevators.

Kara got her key without issue, but for a few hours, she spent time in the lobby decompressing with other drivers.

By the time she made her way down the hall, the rest of the team had made it to the hotel. She slowed at the sight of a familiar figure standing just outside a room across from hers.

Lena.

She was talking to Brainy, arms crossed, her expression cool and unreadable as he rattled off some long-winded explanation.

“Statistically speaking, air travel is the safest mode of transportation,” Brainy was saying, voice matter-of-fact. “The likelihood of a plane crash is approximately one in—”

“I’m aware,” Lena interrupted, her tone clipped but not unkind. “It’s not about the statistics.”

Kara froze mid-step, feeling like she was intruding on something she shouldn’t be hearing.

It wasn’t about the statistics.

Her mind raced to put the pieces together.

Before she could stop herself, she shifted her duffel higher on her shoulder, making sure her footsteps were loud enough to be noticed as she approached her door. “Hey,” she said casually, inserting herself into their space as naturally as she could.

Lena turned at the sound of her voice, her gaze flicking over Kara with that sharp, assessing look Kara was beginning to recognize.

For half a second, she expected Lena to say something about the fight—her bruised jaw, the way Leslie had nearly taken her out on track.

But Lena just nodded toward her door. “You’re across the hall, then.”

It wasn’t a question.

Kara blinked, thrown off by how normal the statement was. “Uh. Yeah.”

Lena hummed, turning back to Brainy. “Let me know if the data gets uploaded before morning.”

Brainy gave a sharp nod and headed toward his own room, leaving Kara and Lena alone in the quiet hall.

For a beat, neither of them moved.

Kara’s jaw still ached, and she swore she could feel Lena’s gaze trace over it, but no comment came. No dry remark about the fight, no pointed question about how she was holding up.

Instead, Lena just sighed, reaching for her keycard. “Get prepared, Danvers. It’s going to be a long day.”

With that, she slipped into her room, leaving Kara standing there, more confused than she’d been before.

Because that—that was not the reaction she had expected.

Kara lingered in the hallway for a second longer before shaking herself out of it. She turned, pushed into her own room, and let the door shut behind her.

One glance in the mirror already had her dreading the press today.

The hotel room door clicked shut behind Kara, and she collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh. She had exactly four minutes to breathe before the day swallowed her whole.

She barely had time to kick off her shoes before her phone buzzed.

Nia Nal:

Heads up. PR just added you to a media spot. 30 minutes. Hotel conference room.

Nia Nal:

Try not to look like you got in a fight.

Kara groaned. So much for resting.

She rolled out of bed, changed into something sponsor-appropriate (which, per Cat’s earlier text, meant long sleeves and subtle makeup to make the bruising less obvious), and downed a bottle of water before heading downstairs.

By the time she reached the hotel’s makeshift press area, a handful of drivers were already there—Clark, Diana, Barry—running through the same cycle of interviews.

Kara barely had time to brace before a microphone was shoved in her face.

 “Kara, your first win in the Cup Series—how does it feel?”

Kara forced a smile. “Unbelievable. It’s still sinking in.”

“And the altercation with Leslie Willis—what do you have to say about that?”

Kara kept her tone easy. “Things got a little heated, but at the end of the day, I’m just focused on racing.”

The questions kept coming, and Kara went into autopilot, giving safe, polished answers. PR-approved responses.

She spotted Clark watching her from a few feet away, giving her the stop sounding like a robot look. Kara ignored him.

The second media rounds wrapped up, Kara was shoved into a rental car with Barry and Wally for a last-minute sponsor event. Some local dealership meet-and-greet.

She could barely keep track of where they were going. All she knew was that she’d spent the last forty-eight hours running on adrenaline and caffeine, and the second she sat down for autographs, her body tried to shut down entirely.

“Earth to Danvers,” Wally muttered. “Try to look alive.”

Kara straightened up as a young kid placed a diecast of her car in front of her.

“Whoa,” she said, pushing past exhaustion. “You got my car?”

The kid nodded excitedly. “You beat the bad guy!”

Kara blinked. “Uh. What?”

The kid’s dad winced. “He means Leslie.”

Barry snorted. “Yeah, Danvers. You’re a superhero now.”

Kara sighed, signing the car and handing it back with a smile. “Just a race car driver.”

The event dragged on—photos, handshakes, forced energy. She was so ready for the day to be over.

By the time Kara got back to the hotel, she had exactly fifteen minutes before Cat Grant pulled the whole team together for a strategy meeting.

The conference room had been taken over—data sprawled across a projector screen, Winn pacing as he muttered about telemetry, Brainy methodically listing Ivy Town’s optimal racing lines.

Lena was already there, leaning against the table with her arms crossed, watching everything with an unreadable expression.

Cat didn’t waste time. “Alright. Let’s make this quick because I refuse to let any of you ruin my night. Ivy Town. Short track. What are we dealing with?”

Brainy gestured to the screen. “Ivy Town is a three-quarter-mile D-shaped oval with progressive banking. It demands strategic tire management and disciplined throttle control.”

Cat gave him a flat look. “English, Brainy.”

Lena spoke up, her tone even. “It’s a short track. Heavy braking, tight racing. Kara, you’ll need to be aggressive but controlled.”

Kara nodded, but her mind caught on aggressive but controlled. That wasn’t exactly how she’d handled things last race.

She waited for Lena to say something about that.The fight. The bruises. Something.

But Lena didn’t. Instead, she glanced at the screen and said, “If you get stuck on the outside, commit to the line early. Don’t hesitate.”

Kara blinked. That was it?

She barely had time to process before Cat clapped her hands. “Alright, unless anyone has something earth-shatteringly important to add, let’s call it a night.”

Kara exhaled, already halfway out of her chair.

But Cat wasn’t finished.

“One last thing.” She leveled them all with a look. “Dinner. No Waffle House.”

Winn groaned. “Oh, come on, why not?”

“Because I have standards,” Cat said briskly. “Unlike all of you.”

Brainy nodded in agreement. “I support this.”

Winn muttered something under his breath about corporate elitism, but Cat ignored him.

“We’ll meet in the lobby in twenty minutes. Do not be late.” And just like that, the meeting was over.

Kara filed out with the rest of the team, her mind still stuck on Lena.

No mention of the fight. No comments about her jaw.

Just normal conversation.

Somehow, that was even more unsettling.

Kara sighed as she stepped into her hotel room, shoving the door shut with her foot. The second she was alone, she rolled her shoulders, finally letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The day had been nonstop, and her body felt it. Hell, the last several days have been nonstop. Between travel, team meetings, and sitting through yet another media debrief where PR tried (and failed) to control the headlines, she was ready to collapse.

She tugged her race-branded polo over her head, tossing it onto the bed before pulling on something more comfortable—just a soft Henley and jeans.

For a moment, she considered flopping onto the bed and not moving.

But Cat had made it painfully clear that anyone who skipped dinner would regret it.

So, Kara grabbed her phone and headed for the door.

She walked down the hallway, mindlessly scrolling through Twitter—bad idea.

Her notifications were flooded with headlines:

“Kara Danvers vs. Leslie Willis: Clash at Fawcett Sets NASCAR Abuzz”

“Fists Fly in the Garage: Danvers and Willis Square Off”

“Rookie Fire: Did Kara Danvers Go Too Far?”

Kara scowled. Of course, they’d spin it like she was the problem.

She was so caught up in reading that she didn’t notice someone turning the corner until she walked straight into them.

A soft oof sounded as they both stumbled back.

Kara barely had time to register green eyes, a sharp gaze, and a familiar scent of motor oil and something subtly floral before Lena huffed, steadying herself.

“Well,” Lena said dryly, smoothing out the sleeve of her black blouse. “Nice to see you too.”

Kara blinked. Oh. Oh no.

Lena wasn’t in her work clothes.

No grease-stained coveralls, no fire suit tied around her waist, no polo embroidered with the team logo. Instead, she was wearing fitted slacks, a blouse that looked ridiculously good on her with a blazer draped over her arm, and—Rao help Kara—her hair was down.

Kara swallowed. Was it always this wavy? She had only ever seen it pinned back, kept practical for the race, but now it fell over Lena’s shoulders in loose waves, like she’d just casually walked out of some high-end photoshoot.

Which was stupid. Because Lena was literally just standing there. Existing. And somehow that was messing with Kara’s brain.

Lena arched an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

Kara realized she had been staring for way too long.

“No! Nope. Nothing.” She cleared her throat and shoved her phone into her back pocket, suddenly desperate for something else to focus on.

Lena glanced at Kara’s pocket. “Something interesting?”

Kara hesitated. She could brush it off. Say no. But Lena was already tilting her head, like she could see right through her.

Kara sighed. “Just… headlines about Fawcett.”

Lena hummed, her expression unreadable. “Let me guess. They’re either calling you reckless or an inspiration.”

Kara blinked. That was… more accurate than she expected.

Lena crossed her arms, the fabric of her blouse shifting with the motion. Why was Kara noticing that?

Lena continued, “It’s predictable, really. The media will spin you into whatever narrative suits them. You’re either the fearless rookie who doesn’t back down or the hotheaded troublemaker who doesn’t belong.”

Kara studied her, caught off guard. “You sound like you’ve dealt with this before.”

Lena gave a small, humorless smile. “Let’s just say I’m familiar with public scrutiny.”

Kara nodded slowly. That made sense. Luthor wasn’t exactly a name people heard without forming an opinion. Herself included.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice that Lena hadn’t said anything about the fight itself. No comment on Kara’s bruised jaw, no judgment, no concern. And for some reason, that left her off balance, but on the other hand it was refreshing in away— to not face judgment or scrutiny over something so trite.

After a beat, Lena shifted, glancing toward the elevator. “We should probably get downstairs before Cat hunts us down.”

Kara blinked, forcing herself to catch up. “Right. Yeah.”

They walked in silence for a few steps before Kara, for some reason, felt the need to fill it.

“So… you don’t fly?”

Lena glanced at her. “Excuse me?”

Kara shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I mean, I just—figured you’d be on the team plane. Most people in your position wouldn’t ride with the haulers.”

Lena’s expression barely changed, but Kara caught the subtle way her fingers curled against her arm.

“I prefer ground travel,” Lena said smoothly. “Flying is… not my thing.”

Kara tilted her head. That was an interesting way to put it.

A Luthor. Not liking flying.

That didn’t make sense.

But before Kara could push further, Lena smoothly redirected, nodding toward the lobby doors. “You coming, or are you planning to stand in the hallway all night?”

Kara huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she followed.

She still wasn’t sure what she had expected from this conversation.

The lobby was already bustling when Kara stepped off the elevator. Cat had made it clear—this was not an optional dinner. And judging by the way Kara’s teammates were dressed, she had been right about it being someplace fancy. Kara felt slightly underdressed, but she was dying to be in comfortable clothes for once.

Nia, Kelly, and James were chatting near the entrance, while Winn adjusted his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. Brainy looked unbothered, likely calculating the exact amount of time this meal would take.

Cat, standing with her arms crossed and an unimpressed expression, surveyed the team like a general preparing to lead them into war.

“Finally,” she drawled as Kara approached. “If we waited any longer, I would’ve ordered takeout and spared myself the agony of a group meal.”

“You love us,” Nia teased.

“I tolerate you.”

Before anyone could respond, Cat turned on her heel and marched toward the waiting black SUVs. The team trailed behind, half amused, half resigned.

——

The restaurant was upscale—the kind of place where menus didn’t have prices, the portions were too small for a race team, and everything was plated like it belonged in an art exhibit.

“Of course,” Kara muttered under her breath as they were led to a long, private table near the back.

Cat took the head seat, looking far too pleased with herself as the rest of the team settled in. Kara ended up across from Lena, who had slipped in quietly, her expression unreadable.

The conversation was lively, full of the usual teasing and camaraderie that came with a team that had spent too much time together.

“Winn,” Kelly said, smirking, “if you spill anything on this table, I swear—”

“That was one time!” Winn protested.

“It was at last night at Waffle House,” Nia added.

Brainy nodded. “Statistically, it is likely to happen again.”

Winn groaned as everyone laughed.

“I trust,” Cat said dryly, setting down her napkin, “that this will be a step up from last night’s debauchery.”

Winn blinked. “Debauchery?”

Cat shot him a withering look. “Waffle House. At three in the morning.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Cat said, “I am a woman of class. You degenerates, however, have the culinary taste of teenage boys with no impulse control.”

“It was so good, though,” Winn argued.

“Yeah,” Sam added, crossing her arms. “And you didn’t seem to hate it when you stole half of my hash browns.”

“I have no recollection of that,” Cat said, sipping her wine with a suspiciously satisfied look.

“Oh my God,” Nia whispered, eyes wide with betrayal. “She liked it.”

Kara chuckled, shifting in her seat—and then her knee brushed against something solid.

Lena.

Kara froze.

The contact was brief, barely even noticeable—except it was noticeable because now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She glanced up, but Lena wasn’t even looking at her.

Instead, Lena took a casual sip of her wine, her lips curling into something far too knowing.

“Something wrong, Danvers?” she asked, her tone light, teasing—but with an edge.

Kara cleared her throat, sitting very, very still. “Nope.”

Lena hummed, amused. “Hm.”

Kara wasn’t sure what that meant, but it felt like Lena knew exactly what had just happened.

Kara focused on her plate, willing herself to act normal.

Which was hard when Lena was right there.

And Lena, in true infuriating Lena fashion, was perfectly at ease.

Kara risked another glance.

How was she like this?

She looked so completely different outside of a race weekend. Yesterday, Lena had been in a fire suit, hair pulled back, smudges of oil streaked across her jaw as she worked under the hood of Kara’s car. She had been sharp, efficient, coolly detached except for the occasional sharp remark.

And now?

Now she was sitting across from Kara like this—perfectly put together, business-casual, wine glass in hand, looking like she belonged at a high-stakes boardroom negotiation rather than a team dinner.

Kara swallowed. Why was the contrast messing with her head so much?

She didn’t even trust Lena.

Not really.

Sure, Lena had gotten Kara’s car across the finish line. Had held onto her victory sticker. Had looked at her like she was mad about Kara being hurt.

But she was still a Luthor.

Kara knew better than to trust a Luthor.

Didn’t she?

She risked another glance—bad idea.

The warm restaurant lighting made Lena’s unfairly green eyes even brighter. She was so at ease, so unshakably confident, and it was so damn confusing.

Kara clenched her jaw, trying to ground herself, to not notice all the little details about Lena that she absolutely shouldn’t be noticing.

Lena arched an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

Kara nearly choked.

“I—I’m not.”

Lena’s smirk deepened. “Oh, my mistake.”

Kara wanted to die. Wanted the earth to swallow her whole. And across the table, Cat Grant was watching.

Kara didn’t notice it at first, too busy trying to keep it together, but when she finally looked up, Cat was eyeing her with a sharp, knowing look.

Like she had already figured something out before Kara even knew there was something to figure out.

And that?

That was even worse.

But the more Kara looked, the more she noticed things she wasn’t supposed to.

Like the way Lena’s fingers curled delicately around the stem of her wine glass. The way she tilted her head just so when she listened.

Kara clenched her jaw.

This was not helping.

Kara proceeded to try very carefully to eat and not look like a fool. She wasn’t that successful.

But, Kara had successfully not looked at Lena for a full five minutes.

She was very proud of this achievement.

That pride lasted exactly ten seconds before Winn, with all the grace of a man who had never been in a nice restaurant before, reached across the table to grab the butter dish and knocked over his water glass directly into Kara’s lap.

“Oh, come on!” Kara yelped, pushing back from the table as ice-cold water seeped into her jeans.

“Crap, crap, crap—sorry, sorry—” Winn scrambled for his napkin, but it was too late.

Kara was already soaked.

Across from her, Lena had frozen, her wine glass halfway to her lips.

And then—it happened.

Lena laughed.

Not a scoff. Not a quiet, amused hum.

A real laugh.

And it was so unfair.

Kara had never heard Lena laugh before. She didn’t know what she had expected—something cold, maybe, or sharp, calculated.

But this?

This was warm, effortless, the kind of laugh that lit up a whole damn room.

Kara hated that she noticed.

She hated even more that her brain short-circuited completely.

Because holy hell.

Lena was laughing—because of her—and suddenly, Kara couldn’t remember how to function.

“Oh my God, that was—” Lena broke off, biting back another chuckle as she set her glass down. “That was spectacular.”

Kara scowled, absolutely ignoring the way her face felt like it was on fire. “Glad I could entertain you.”

Lena just smirked, reaching for her own napkin and very deliberately handing it to Kara.

Kara should not have taken it.

She had her own damn napkin.

But she did.

And when her fingers brushed Lena’s, she felt everything.

Electricity. Heat. A full-body crisis.

She snatched her hand back way too fast.

Lena noticed.

Of course she did.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something far too knowing.

And then, like she hadn’t just sent Kara spiraling, she turned back to her plate, effortlessly composed.

Meanwhile, Kara was still sitting there, drenched in water, short-circuiting like a broken toaster.

Winn, bless him, was oblivious.

“Oh man, that was a lot of water,” he muttered, still dabbing at the table. “Maybe we should ask for some towels or—”

Across the table, Brainy cleared his throat. “I must point out that, statistically, Winn was extremely likely to knock something over at this dinner, considering his track record from previous meals.”

Winn scowled. “Dude.”

Brainy shrugged. “The numbers don’t lie.”

Cat exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You are all deeply embarrassing.”

Kara groaned, dropping her head in her hands. This was a disaster.

And across the table, Lena was still smiling.

By the time the plates had been cleared and dessert was being passed around, Kara had mostly recovered from her earlier humiliation.

Mostly.

She had carefully avoided looking at Lena too much for the rest of dinner, which was difficult when Lena’s foot kept brushing against hers under the table.

Kara was convinced it wasn’t on purpose.

It couldn’t be.

Right?

No. No, she was just overthinking things. That’s all this was.

It wasn’t helping that Lena had been so damn unreadable all night.

One moment, she was smirking, teasing in that dry, sharp way of hers.

The next, she was quiet, her expression perfectly neutral, like she was thinking about something else entirely.

It was infuriating.

And yet.

Kara still hadn’t figured out why she had been so thrown by Lena’s transition from grease-stained mechanic to business-casual elegance.

The Lena she had met at the track was all sharp edges, sleeves rolled up, hands on the car. She was blunt, confident, difficult to read but easy to be wary of.

But this Lena?

This Lena, who smirked over her wine glass, who laughed when Kara made a fool of herself, who kept tilting her head at Kara like she was trying to figure something out—

This Lena was dangerous.

And Kara didn’t trust her.

Not fully.

But it was getting harder and harder to remember why.

“Danvers.”

Kara nearly jolted out of her seat at the sound of Cat’s voice.

“Hmm?” she blinked, looking over.

Cat was giving her a very specific look. One that said I know exactly what’s going on in your head right now, and it’s embarrassing for you.

Kara had no idea what to do with that.

“Are you planning on finishing your drink,” Cat asked, gesturing lazily toward Kara’s half-full glass, “or are you just going to keep staring at it like it holds all the answers to life’s questions?”

Kara scowled, immediately downing the rest of it out of pure spite.

Across the table, Lena smirked.

And Cat just looked more amused.

“Anyway,” Cat continued, glancing around the table, “I trust no one is about to do anything to embarrass this team before the race weekend officially starts?”

Kara made a valiant effort not to look directly at Winn.

Instead, she just nodded. “Nope. We’re good.”

Cat didn’t look convinced.

Still, she just sighed, reaching for her wine. “Fine. But if I wake up to find that anyone decided to sneak off and make questionable life choices, it better not be at a Waffle House.”

Winn and Sam immediately protested.

“Oh, come on, Cat!” Winn groaned. “You liked it, admit it!”

“I did no such thing,” Cat replied, taking a sip of her wine.

“Then why did you order a side of waffles and hashbrowns?” Sam shot back.

Cat set her glass down with a pointed look. “Because I was forced to eat there, and I refuse to suffer more than necessary.”

Kara snorted. “Sure.”

Cat just rolled her eyes, muttering something about being surrounded by children.

The conversation drifted after that, easy and comfortable.

But Kara?

Kara could still feel the ghost of Lena’s laughter, still feel the warmth of her leg brushing against hers under the table.

And she had no idea what to do with it.

The team spilled out of the restaurant, laughter still lingering in the air as they made their way back to the hotel. The night was warm, the city buzzing with the usual hum of traffic and late-night pedestrians.

Kara stuck her hands in her pockets, walking beside Jack as Winn recounted, in excruciating detail, how he had definitely not knocked over the wine glass earlier.

Thankfully the hotel wasn’t that far of a walk— especially since they somehow forgot to designate a designated driver. Kara very pointedly walked in front of Lena. No chance of noticing something that way.

Except.

The rhythmic thump of heels on pavement just slightly behind Kara was rattling around in her skull.

“I’m just saying,” Winn insisted, gesturing dramatically, “it was not my fault. The table was uneven.”

Brainy, who had been walking a few steps ahead, turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. “The likelihood of a table in an establishment of that caliber being uneven is less than three percent.”

Winn groaned. “I hate you.”

Brainy didn’t look up from his phone. “No, you don’t.”

Kara chuckled, shaking her head as they reached the hotel entrance. She stretched her arms over her head, exhaustion finally starting to settle in.

It had been a long day. A long, confusing day.

She was ready to crash.

The team started peeling off toward the elevators, Cat muttering something about how if anyone woke her up before 7 AM, they’d be fired on sight.

“I’m taking the stairs,” Sam announced, clapping Winn on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s move.”

Winn groaned. “Why are you like this?”

Kara shot Alex a message: two full convos with lena tday

Sam grinned. “Because I’m right.”

Kara rolled her eyes as they disappeared toward the stairwell. She was about to follow the others toward the elevators when she caught a familiar figure standing near the front desk.

Lena.

Kara blinked, watching as she spoke quietly with the concierge. Her blazer was draped over one arm, her hair slightly tousled from the walk back.

Kara hesitated.Her instincts told her to just keep walking. But instead, she found herself waiting. After a moment, Lena turned, spotting Kara standing there.

Their eyes met.

Lena raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning on just standing there all night?”

Kara cleared her throat. “Uh—no. Just, uh. Heading up.”

Lena hummed, stepping toward the elevators. “Then I suppose we’re going the same way.”

Kara had no good reason to feel nervous about that.

And yet.

She followed Lena into the elevator, hitting the button for their floor as the doors slid shut.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Kara shifted on her feet, eyes flicking toward Lena. She looked… different.

Not in a drastic way.

Just less composed, somehow.

Like the weight she carried during the day was finally slipping from her shoulders.

Kara shouldn’t notice things like that.

But she did.

And it was very annoying.

“So,” Lena said suddenly, breaking the silence. “No more dramatic spills tonight?”

Kara scoffed. “That was Winn.”

Lena smirked. “I know. But your face when it happened was quite entertaining.”

Kara huffed, crossing her arms. “I was just—caught off guard.”

Lena let out a quiet chuckle, the sound unexpectedly warm.

Kara’s stomach did something weird.

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open. Kara very quickly stepped out, needing space from whatever was happening in her own head.

Lena followed at a much more casual pace, giving her a knowing look as they walked down the hall.

As they reached their doors—directly across from one another—Kara hesitated.

She wasn’t sure what she expected Lena to say.

Maybe something about the fight. Maybe something pointed about her jaw being bruised.

But instead, Lena just gave her a small, amused smile.

“Try not to walk into any more doors tonight, Danvers.”

Kara blinked. “…I don’t—”

Lena simply lifted an eyebrow before disappearing into her room. Kara stared after her for a second, then exhaled, running a hand down her face. She had no idea what to make of Lena Luthor.

And she was starting to think she never would.

Kara let the hotel door shut behind her with a quiet click, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath the entire walk upstairs. She kicked off her shoes, not caring where they landed, and ran a hand through her hair as she crossed the room.

Alex was already sprawled out on her bed, one arm tucked behind her head, scrolling through her phone with the other. She didn’t even look up as she said, “You look weird.”

Kara blinked. “Excuse me?”

Alex finally glanced at her, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You’re doing that thing. The thinking too hard thing.”

“I do not have a ‘thinking too hard’ thing.”

Alex arched an unimpressed eyebrow. “Crinkle.”

Kara sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I’m so getting that Botoxed.”

Alex snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Kara groaned and flopped down onto her bed, lying spread-eagle as she stared at the ceiling.

“…It’s Lena.”

Alex let out an immediate groan. “Oh, great. What did she do now?”

“That’s the thing!” Kara huffed, turning her head to face her sister. “She didn’t do anything. She just—” She gestured vaguely at nothing. “Exists!”

Alex blinked at her. “That is… usually how people work, yeah.” Kara shot her a look.

Alex smirked but stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. Kara sighed, rubbing her hands down her face. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve known her for, what? Two days? And today was the first time we even had an actual conversation.”

Alex’s smirk widened. “Twice.”

Kara groaned louder. “Twice!”

Alex chuckled. “And yet here you are, lying awake thinking about her.”

Kara shot up, pointing at her. “See?! That’s the problem!”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “That you’re thinking about her?”

“Yes! Why am I thinking about her?” Kara flopped back down, covering her face with her hands. “She’s a Luthor, Alex! I don’t even trust her!”

“Okay,” Alex said slowly, “then what exactly are you thinking about?”

Kara let out a long, dramatic groan. “That’s the other problem!” She threw her hands in the air before letting them drop back onto the bed. “She just—confuses me. One second, she’s all serious and sharp and—intimidating. With her stupid perfect outfit and her stupid perfect hair and—her stupid little eyebrow thing—”

Alex snorted. “Oh, you noticed her eyebrow thing?”

Kara ignored her. “And then, at dinner, she was just… different. Not casual, but—” she gestured vaguely, “a different kind of sharp. Like, still poised, still effortlessly put together, but—”

Alex smirked. “But you liked it?”

Kara opened her mouth, then scowled. “That’s not the point.”

“It kinda feels like the point.”

Kara groaned into her hands. “It’s not. The point is that she’s Lena Luthor. And I don’t understand how I went from not trusting her to—” she hesitated, “—noticing her.”

Alex hummed thoughtfully. “Well, that’s easy.”

Kara glanced at her warily. “Oh yeah?”

Alex smirked. “You think she’s hot.”

Kara launched a pillow at her face.

Alex caught it with a laugh. “Hey, I’m just helping you get to the root of the issue.”

“The issue,” Kara grumbled, sitting up again, “is that none of this makes sense. I barely know her! Why am I noticing things about her? Why do I keep remembering things about her?”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe because she’s interesting?”

Kara huffed. “Or maybe because I’m suspicious.”

Alex gave her a look. “You think your suspicion is why you keep staring at her?”

Kara opened her mouth, then promptly shut it.

Alex smirked. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Kara groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

Alex nudged her with her foot. “Look, I get it. She’s a Luthor, and that alone is enough to make you wary. But she’s also… just a person. And from the sound of it, a person who’s really getting under your skin.”

Kara flopped back down with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t like it.”

Alex chuckled. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

Kara turned her head toward her sister, frowning slightly. “What am I supposed to do?”

Alex shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe just… let things happen and see where they go.”

Kara frowned, mulling it over. She didn’t like not having an answer. She liked things to be clear. Trust or distrust. Good or bad. Black or white.

But Lena was none of those things.

And that? That scared her more than she wanted to admit.

——

The room was dark except for the faint glow of Kara’s phone screen. Alex was already asleep, her breathing slow and even in the bed a foot away.

Kara, on the other hand, was wide awake.

She had tried—really, she had—to shut her brain off, but it just wasn’t happening. So, with a heavy sigh, she had grabbed her phone and typed two words into the search bar:

Lena Luthor.

She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. A reason not to trust her? A reason why she couldn’t stop thinking about her?

What she found was… contradictory.

The first batch of headlines was almost too clean.

“Lena Luthor Launches Initiative to Combat Food Insecurity in Low-Income Communities”.

“Lena Luthor Pledges $50 Million to Renewable Energy Research.”

“The Lena Luthor Foundation: Reshaping the Luthor Legacy Through Philanthropy.”

Kara frowned, scrolling further.

Then, she found the other side of it.

“Just Another Luthor: How Lena Luthor Can’t Escape the Family Name.”

“Blood Money in a Green Dress—Is Lena Luthor’s Philanthropy a PR Move?”

And, because Kara’s world was NASCAR, of course there were ones more relevant to her:

“From LuthorCorp to NASCAR Mechanic: A New Face, But the Same Dirty Hands?”

“Luthor Money Still Rules the Track—Is Lena Luthor Just Another Player?”

“LuthorCorp’s Shadow Over Racing: Can the Newest Luthor Be Trusted?”

Kara clicked on one, skimming the article.

Most of it was speculation, trying to link Lena’s business ventures to LuthorCorp’s infamous stranglehold on motorsports. Pay-to-win sponsorships. Quiet but aggressive legal threats. The way Luthor-backed teams always seemed to skirt the rulebook and come out untouched.

And yet, nothing solid. No proof Lena was part of it.

Actually, every time her name came up in reference to racing, it was about how she wasn’t involved in LuthorCorp’s dirty dealings. About how she had cut ties with the company.

So why did people still lump her in with them?

Then Kara remembered her own reaction to Lena. Now she just felt embarrassed about it.

Kara scrolled back up to the articles about Lena’s foundation, her philanthropic efforts, the renewable energy research.

None of it fit the Luthor mold.

And the more she read, the less sense it made.

If Lena had all of this—a multimillion-dollar foundation, global influence, the ability to make real change—then why the hell was she spending her days covered in grease, elbow-deep in engine parts?

It wasn’t a vanity thing, either. Kara had seen enough rich people play mechanic to know the difference. The way Lena worked on the car—Kara’s car—wasn’t for show. She knew what she was doing, and she cared.

So… why?

Why this world? Why NASCAR of all things?

Why was someone with Luthor money and Luthor power here as a mechanic?

Theories spiraled through Kara’s mind, none of them fitting quite right.

Maybe it was a control thing. Maybe it was about reshaping the narrative, proving that she was different. Or maybe—somehow—it was something simpler. Maybe Lena just loved it.

The thought shouldn’t have been as unsettling as it was.

But it was.

Because that meant Kara was back to square one.

Not knowing what to make of Lena Luthor.

Not knowing what to make of the way she looked at Kara like she was trying to solve a puzzle of her own.

Not knowing why any of this was bothering her so much.

Kara let her phone drop onto her chest with a heavy sigh, staring at the ceiling.

This was ridiculous.

She had known Lena for two days.

Two.

And today was the first time they had even had a real conversation. Twice.

Kara squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop thinking about it.

About Lena’s sharp wit. Her dry humor. The way her green eyes sparkled with something unreadable when she teased Kara at dinner.

About how she had looked in that crisp button-down and blazer. About how it had somehow been even worse seeing her in something race sponsored earlier.

About how, no matter how much Kara tried to make sense of her—she couldn’t.

She groaned, dragging a pillow over her face.

This was going to be a long weekend.

Chapter Text

“There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.”

-David Reutimann

April 19^th, 2016

The hotel hallway was quiet except for the sound of Alex locking their room behind them. Kara stretched her arms over her head, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. She hadn’t gotten much.

And she definitely hadn’t stopped thinking about Lena.

Which was probably why, when the door across the hall clicked open at the same time, Kara almost tripped over her own feet.

Lena stepped out, looking effortlessly put-together in a fitted black sweater and slacks, her dark hair neatly pinned back. She smelled like something expensive—dark and sharp with the faintest trace of something mechanical beneath it.

Kara barely had time to process that before Lena’s gaze flicked toward them, and she offered a short, polite, “Morning.”

Then, just like that, she started walking.

Kara didn’t even think—she just reacted. “Wait up!”

Lena paused, turning slightly. Kara jogged a few steps to catch up, leaving Alex trailing behind, watching with an unreadable expression.

Kara took a breath. “Okay, so, um—” She winced. That was not a smooth start. “I, uh, may have… Googled you?”

Lena’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Oh?”

Kara felt Alex’s stare burning into the side of her head, but she forged ahead. “Yeah, I just—I read about how you cut ties with LuthorCorp. And how you started the Lena Luthor Foundation, and all the work you do for renewable energy, and the food insecurity stuff, and—” She exhaled sharply, realizing she was rambling. “And I just—wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Lena blinked. “For what?”

Kara shifted awkwardly. “For… assuming things. For judging you before I knew anything about you.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I mean, I knew the Luthor name came with baggage, but I still shouldn’t have—”

She cut herself off, sighing.

Lena just looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind sharp green eyes.

“You did know the Luthor name came with baggage,” Lena said, voice smooth, a hint of something wry beneath it. “And you were right to be cautious.”

Kara frowned. “Still. It wasn’t fair.”

Lena studied her for a moment before speaking. “Most people don’t take the time to reconsider their assumptions.”

Kara swallowed. “Yeah, well. You’ve, uh… surprised me.”

One of Lena’s brows arched, and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Good surprises, I hope.”

Kara’s brain short-circuited for a second, caught between Lena’s teasing tone and the way her lips curled just slightly, just enough to make Kara feel off-balance. The memory of Lena’s treacherous leg at dinner suddenly plagued her mind.

“I—yeah,” she stammered, before quickly adding, “I mean, yeah! Good. Good surprises.”

Lena hummed, amused. “That’s nice to hear.” Then, after a beat, she tilted her head slightly. “Although, I have to ask… was the internet kind to me?”

Kara’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Because no, the internet had not been kind to Lena. Between the glowing articles about her philanthropy, there had been plenty of slander. Searing headlines about how she was “Just Another Luthor,” about how she would “never escape her family’s shadow,” about how she was surely just as corrupt as LuthorCorp.

Kara didn’t know what to say, but Lena just let out a soft chuckle at her silence, eyes glinting.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she mused.

Kara rushed to respond. “I mean, the good outweighed the bad! Like, by a lot! And the bad stuff was obviously just people trying to—”

Lena’s lips twitched. “Kara.”

Kara immediately clamped her mouth shut.

Lena just looked at her for another second before nodding once. “Duly noted.”

Then she turned, continuing down the hallway.

Kara stood there for a moment, stuck in the aftershock of the interaction.

Until—

“Crinkle.”

Kara groaned, turning to glare at Alex, who was still watching her with barely-contained amusement.

“I am getting that botoxed,” Kara muttered.

——

Kara knew Tuesdays were necessary, but that didn’t make them any less exhausting.

She stood in front of a green screen, arms crossed, offering the camera a practiced, easygoing smile. Behind the lens, a production assistant gave her the cue.

“Alright, Kara, let’s get a couple of sponsor promos. First up—Big Belly Burger.”

Kara sighed internally but kept her grin intact. “Hey, race fans! This is Kara Danvers, driver of the number 11 Big Belly Burger Camaro. Whether you’re at the track or on the go, nothing fuels your day like a classic Big Belly double with cheese. See you at the next race!”

“Great! Now one for NASCAR social.”

She barely had a second before the PA was back. “This time, say something about your Fawcett finish and looking ahead to Ivy Town.”

Kara adjusted her stance, shifting her weight. “Had a solid race at Fawcett—winner, great speed all weekend. Now we’re looking ahead to Ivy Town, where anything can happen. But the 11 team is ready to take on the challenge!”

“Perfect. Last one—just say ‘Catch all the action this weekend on Fox Sports!’”

Kara fired off the line, and with that, she was finally done. At least with this part.

Cat, standing off to the side, didn’t bother hiding her boredom. “Well, that was about as riveting as watching paint dry. Let’s move this along.”

The next hour was a blur of interview questions—some about the race, some about the upcoming weekend, and a few about Alex, as usual.

“How competitive does that sibling rivalry get?”

Kara smirked. “Oh, it’s intense. She’ll tell you she’s the better driver, but we all know the truth.”

The interviewers laughed, then pivoted. “With Atlantis coming up, what’s your strategy for a superspeedway?”

Kara stood in front of the camera, feeling the weight of the question hang in the air. The interviewer’s words about Atlantis cut through her focus, and her pulse quickened. For a split second, the track loomed in her mind like a shadow, the memory of her parents’ crash almost suffocating.

She took a deep breath, forcing her expression to stay neutral, pushing the tightness in her chest down. “Atlantis is all about handling and consistency,” she said, her voice steady, though the effort to keep it even was clear. “I’ll focus on keeping the car stable through the high-speed corners and adjusting to track conditions as we go. It’s a tough track, but I’m just focusing on getting the best out of my setup and staying patient.”

The words were practiced, carefully chosen to deflect. Her eyes stayed on the interviewer, her gaze unwavering, though inside, the memories threatened to resurface.

More questions followed—some about her team, a few about her rookie season, and one or two veering into personal territory, which she expertly dodged.

By the time she was done, she was itching to get out of there.

Later in the afternoon, Kara slipped on the VR headset and settled into the simulator seat, gripping the wheel as the digital version of Ivy Town Speedway stretched in front of her.

“Alright, K, let’s get some reps in,” Winn’s voice crackled through her headphones. “Remember, braking and feathering the throttle is everything here.”

 Kara rolled her shoulders, adjusting her grip. “Let’s go.”

She eased onto the virtual track, merging into a tight pack of AI cars. Ivy Town was a different beast—longer than  Fawcett, but just as dangerous, inches from the bumper ahead, the smallest mistake turning into a multi-car wreck without the high banking Fawcett offered.

The digital version of her Camaro hummed beneath her as she tucked behind a lead car, the draft pulling her forward.

“Good. Hold that line,” Brainy instructed.

She edged closer to the car ahead, the air resistance practically sucking her forward.

“Now what happens if I do this?” Winn asked mischievously.

Suddenly, the car in front of her swerved, and before Kara could react, the AI simulation registered contact—her car spinning out, collecting half the field in a chain reaction.

The screen flashed “BIG ONE” in bright, mocking letters.

“Damn it, Winn!” Kara groaned.

Winn’s laugh echoed through the headset. “Hey, I had to make sure you were paying attention.”

Brainy sighed. “That was unnecessary and statistically improbable. However, it is a reminder that avoiding unpredictable drivers is crucial.”

Kara rubbed her face. “Let’s reset. And maybe this time, let’s not wreck half the field?”

They ran another hour of simulations—working on pit entry, side-drafting, and pack movement. By the time they were finished, Kara felt the strain in her shoulders, the mental exhaustion of hyper-focus weighing on her.

In the evening, she was working on strength training.

The gym door swings open.

Kara doesn’t think much of it at first, still focused on the burn in her arms, the controlled way her muscles flex and release. But then, she catches movement from the corner of her eye—black slacks, a silk blouse, the sharp lines of someone who does not belong in a gym.

Lena.

Kara’s feet hit the ground softly as she drops from the bar, swiping the towel from the nearby bench to mop the sweat from her face. She looks up—

And Lena is staring.

Not just looking. Staring.

Kara can see the moment Lena registers what she’s looking at. The shift in her expression is microscopic but there—her pupils dilate just a fraction, the faintest hitch in her breath, her lips parting before pressing together in a thin line, like she caught herself. And then there’s the blush, subtle but unmistakable, dusting across her alabaster skin, crawling up her throat.

Kara freezes, towel still in hand, watching as Lena forcibly schools her expression back into something neutral.

“I—” Lena starts, but it comes out stiff, uncharacteristically clipped. She clears her throat, straightens her shoulders. “Dinner. We’re heading out soon.”

Kara blinks. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

Lena nods once—sharp, decisive—before turning on her heel and making a quick exit.

Too quick.

Kara watches her go, still gripping the towel a little too tightly, brain scrambling to make sense of what just happened. She’s sure she didn’t imagine that. The way Lena had frozen, the way her eyes had flickered—twice—from her stomach to her face like she hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help herself.

A slow realization creeps into Kara’s thoughts.

Maybe—maybe she hadn’t been imagining things at dinner. Maybe Lena had been playing footsie under the table on purpose.

Before she can spiral too deep, Sam whistles lowly, shaking her head.

“Well, that was something.”

Kara groans, rubbing the towel over her face again as if that might erase the heat spreading across her chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam snorts. “Right. Sure.”

Kara pointedly turns away, reaching for the weights, ignoring the way her pulse is still thrumming just a little too fast. Because Lena had looked at her like—

Nope. Nope. Not going there.

She has a race to focus on.

That focus doesn’t last long.

——

The steakhouse is louder than Kara expected. Not Waffle House loud—no sizzling griddles or late-night chaos—but busy enough that conversations blend into a low, constant hum. Plates clink, silverware scrapes, and somewhere in the background, a bartender shakes a cocktail.

It’s a respectable establishment. One that isn’t Waffle House. And for that, Cat Grant looks extremely pleased with herself.

“You’re all terribly predictable,” Cat had said earlier, as if she hadn’t already known that left to their own devices, they’d all end up at Waffle House for the second time that week. “And I, for one, refuse to consume another bite of whatever it is they consider hash browns.”

So now, they’re here.

The team is scattered around the long table, already settling into their usual chaos. Sam and Winn are debating mashed potatoes versus mac and cheese with an intensity that could rival a championship battle. Jack is absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, nodding along to whatever Kelly and James are discussing about pit stop efficiency.

And Kara? Kara is once again seated across from Lena.

Which is fine. It’s fine.

Except it’s not.

Because at some point between ordering their drinks and the bread basket arriving, their knees touch.

Not an accident. Not a fleeting brush.

Lena’s knee presses into Kara’s just slightly—a deliberate shift of weight, not quite enough to demand attention but just enough to be noticed.

And Kara notices.

She freezes, eyes flicking down before snapping back up. Lena, across from her menu, does not move. If anything, Kara swears she feels just the faintest hint of pressure.

It’s like the foot thing at that fancy place— the one Kara couldn’t even pronounce the name off— all over again.

Kara glances at Lena, trying to gauge if she’s imagining things, if this is somehow just a coincidence. But Lena is just… sitting there. Calm, composed, scanning the menu like she isn’t actively setting Kara’s brain on fire.

Kara, desperate for anything else to focus on, turns to her own menu. But the words blur together, the description of a perfectly normal steak reading more like, Lena’s leg is pressed against yours and you’re losing your mind.

A slow sip of wine. A glance over the rim of her glass.

Lena turns her head, her dark lashes fluttering just a little slower than necessary, and oh, Kara is in so much trouble.

Across the table, Cat Grant is watching.

No, studying.

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The raised brow, the slight smirk, the way she swirls the wine in her glass—it’s enough.

And then Sam notices.

Because of course she does.

Sam, who knows Lena too well, who has been waiting for this to unfold like some slow-motion car crash.

Her gaze flicks between the two of them, the corner of her lips twitching just slightly, before she turns back to her conversation with Winn—except now, she’s listening. Tuned in.

Kara swallows. Tries not to let it get to her.

She fails.

She shifts, but the second she does, Lena shifts too. Matching her.

Is this—?

Kara’s brain short circuits.

Lena’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something there—something teasing, something deliberate, something that says, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Kara is not crazy.

This is real.

The server arrives, breaking the moment. Kara snaps her head up so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash. She orders something—doesn’t matter what—because the only thing her brain is registering is the warm press of Lena’s knee against hers under the table.

And then Lena, without looking away from her menu, murmurs, “Something wrong, Kara?”

Kara nearly drops her glass.

Cat smirks behind her wine glass.

Sam takes a long, slow sip of her drink.

And Kara?

Kara is absolutely screwed.

Kara forces herself to exhale. Inhale, exhale. Breathe like a normal person, act like a normal person.

This is nothing.

Except it is, because Lena’s knee is still there, pressing just enough to be felt, just enough to make Kara hyper-aware of every shift, every twitch, every single inch of space between them that isn’t really space at all.

And the worst part? Lena knows.

Because when Kara finally dares to glance at her again, Lena is still reading the menu, her posture elegant, composed, but there’s the slightest quirk at the edge of her lips, like she’s enjoying this.

Kara presses back, just a little. Testing.

Lena does not move away.

Kara is in hell.

The server finishes taking orders, and just as Kara thinks she might get a reprieve, the conversation shifts. Winn is rambling about something—probably some obscure fact about race telemetry—while Sam listens with a knowing smirk, throwing in the occasional comment to keep him going. Jack has put his phone down and is actually nodding along to whatever Kelly is saying about pit crew strategies. James has taken it upon himself to make sure Kara is still engaged, nudging her shoulder.

“So, Ivy Town,” James says, pulling her out of her downward spiral. “You feeling good about it?”

Kara blinks. Right. Racing. That’s a thing she does.

She clears her throat. “Uh, yeah. It’s a different beast than Fawcett, but—”

Lena shifts.

Kara feels it—just the smallest movement, but the warmth against her leg expands, and Kara’s brain screeches to a halt.

“—but, uh…” Kara swallows, her mouth dry. Lena is still doing this.

Lena is still sitting there, feigning innocence while actively setting Kara’s nerve endings on fire.

James frowns. “You okay?”

Across the table, Cat hides her smirk behind another sip of wine. At this rate, Cat would be drunk by the time they left the restaurant.

“I—” Kara needs to get it together. She has to. “I’m fine,” she says quickly, but her voice is not fine, it’s too high-pitched, and Sam actually snorts.

Oh, Rao.

Sam knows. Cat knows. Kara is probably radiating some kind of distress signal, and Lena is just sitting there, letting it happen, playing some quiet, lethal game that Kara is losing.

And then, because of course she does, Lena hums.

It’s quiet, barely anything, but Kara feels it.

The sound, the subtle shift, the pressure that doesn’t relent—

Kara grips her glass like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

“So,” Sam says casually, but there’s too much amusement in her voice, “what’s everyone getting?”

Kara does not trust Sam.

She knows that tone, and sure enough, Sam’s gaze flicks between her and Lena, assessing, clocking every tiny detail.

“I’m getting the filet,” Lena answers smoothly, like she isn’t orchestrating Kara’s complete and total meltdown under this table.

Sam turns back to her menu, but not before exchanging a look with Cat.

The look is deadly.

Kara is going to pass away. Right here. In this steakhouse.

And Lena is still not moving her knee.

The food arrives, and Kara prays—prays—that the distraction of actual sustenance will save her.

It does not.

Because the moment their plates are set down, Lena crosses her legs under the table.

Which wouldn’t be an issue. Except. Except.

She uncrosses them again.

And in the process, her knee drags against Kara’s in one slow, unhurried movement.

Kara nearly knocks her entire plate off the table.

She catches it—barely—masking the sharp movement by stabbing her fork into her steak with entirely too much force. Across the table, Cat definitely sees it. Sam, mid-sip of her drink, definitely sees it.

Neither of them say anything, but Kara knows.

Lena?

Lena just cuts into her filet like nothing at all is happening.

Kara clenches her jaw, shoveling a bite into her mouth because at least chewing is a distraction. A distraction that is promptly ruined when Lena, entirely too casually, leans in—just slightly, just enough that Kara feels it.

“So,” Lena says, voice low, conversational, but not innocent, “tell me, Kara, do you always get so distracted during dinner?”

She’s doing this on purpose.

Kara swears she hears Sam choke on her drink.

Kara swallows her bite too quickly, nearly choking herself. “I—what?”

Lena doesn’t even look up, just delicately swirls her wine. “You seem… preoccupied.”

Kara’s brain short-circuits. She opens her mouth—nothing coherent forms.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cat chimes in, swirling her own wine with an infuriating smirk. “I think she’s quite focused.”

Kara glowers.

Sam, for her part, is no longer pretending not to watch. She’s leaning back, elbow propped on the chair, amused. “Yeah, Kara,” Sam says, biting back a smirk. “Something distracting you?”

Kara kicks her under the table.

Sam does not flinch.

Lena, still the picture of composure, merely lifts a perfectly arched brow. “I imagine the upcoming race must be occupying her thoughts,” she muses.

Kara has never been less focused on Ivy Town in her entire life.

Sam takes a sip of her drink, dragging it out. “Oh, I bet.”

Kara is going to combust.

Because the worst part? The absolute worst part?

Lena’s leg is still pressed against hers.

And staying there.

Kara tries to focus on her steak—on cutting it, chewing it, swallowing it—anything but the fact that Lena is still pressed against her.

But Lena is warm.

And Kara notices.

She notices the way Lena’s perfume lingers in the air—something expensive, something that makes Kara’s pulse skitter every time Lena shifts just enough to send a fresh wave of it her way, something mixed with the distinguished smell of motor oil that seemed to always cling to Lena.

She notices the way Lena’s skin glows under the restaurant’s dim lighting, the soft golden hue casting subtle highlights on her cheekbones, the sharp cut of her jawline, the graceful line of her throat.

She notices how Lena’s lips—painted in something deep, something red—press together as she takes a slow sip of wine, leaving behind the faintest stain on the rim of the glass.

And then—then.

Lena moves.

Not much. Just a nudge. A tiny, barely-there shift of her knee.

But Kara feels it.

Because Lena isn’t just pressing against her now—she’s shifting, adjusting, almost… flexing.

It’s not a full movement. It’s measured. Controlled. A slow, deliberate shift of pressure—just enough for Kara to register it, to feel the way Lena’s muscles tighten slightly, the way the soft fabric of her slacks brushes against Kara’s bare skin—a whisper of sensation that sets her entire nervous system on fire.

Kara stiffens.

And Lena notices.

She doesn’t look at her, doesn’t acknowledge it in any overt way. But Kara sees the tiniest flicker of a smirk—just barely there at the corner of her mouth, just enough to mock her.

And then she does it again.

A slow press, then a shift—Lena’s knee trailing just slightly higher along Kara’s thigh before settling back.

Kara cannot breathe.

She grips her fork too tightly, her knuckles white. Her skin feels too hot, her pulse hammering way too fast.

It’s—it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Lena knows exactly what she’s doing.

And worse?

She’s winning.

Kara’s entire body is betraying her, hyper-aware of every point of contact—of the warmth, the press, the teasing almost movements.

She risks a glance—just a quick one, just to see if Lena looks as composed as she’s pretending to be.

She does.

But Kara sees it now—the subtle shift in her breathing, the glint in her eyes, the way she swirls her wine a little too slowly, like she’s savoring the moment.

And then—then—Lena finally speaks.

“You seem tense,” she murmurs, voice just loud enough for Kara to hear over the restaurant’s din.

Kara chokes. “I—what?”

Lena hums, tipping her head slightly, considering. “Long day?”

Her knee presses in. Just slightly. Just enough.

Kara forgets how to function.

Sam, across the table, is soaking it in, visibly biting back a grin. Cat, meanwhile, has abandoned all pretense of ignoring the situation, sipping her wine with the laziest expression of amusement Kara has ever seen.

Kara swallows, hard. “Yeah,” she croaks, voice not normal at all.

Lena hums again—slow, knowing. “Poor thing.”

Kara wants the world to swallow her whole, right now.

Eventually, dinner begins to wind down—mercifully, but not nearly fast enough for Kara’s sanity.

Plates are pushed aside, half-empty glasses refilled one last time, and the conversation shifts into the lazy, satisfied lull of a well-fed team. Jack still scrolling through his phone, Kelly and James are debating the merits of a two-tire versus four-tire pit stop in specific late-race scenarios, and Sam is still watching Kara and Lena like she’s just waiting for something to combust.

Kara, meanwhile, is barely holding it together.

Because Lena hasn’t moved.

Not away, at least. If anything, her leg feels even more solid against Kara’s, her presence even more unavoidable. There’s no mistaking it now—this isn’t accidental, isn’t just happenstance.

This is deliberate. Calculated. Intentional.

And Kara is losing her mind.

She’s been trapped in this slow-burning, suffocating game for the entire dinner, stuck in a constant state of hyper-awareness. Every time she so much as shifts, Lena mirrors her—subtle, smooth, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And yet, not once has she acknowledged it.

Not outwardly.

But Kara knows.

She knows because every time she sneaks a glance, she catches it—the slight, sly curve of Lena’s lips, the hint of satisfaction in the glint of her green eyes.

And now, as the bill finally arrives and Cat effortlessly slaps down a corporate card before anyone can argue, Kara finally exhales.

It’s almost over.

Or at least, it should be.

But then Lena shifts—again.

A slow, deliberate press of her knee. Not just against Kara’s, but slightly between.

Kara freezes.

It’s so slight, so subtle, but it’s there. The barest hint of pressure, just enough to be felt, just enough to be impossible to ignore.

And this time, Lena looks at her.

Not directly. Not obviously.

Just a glance—a slow, sidelong flicker of green, meeting Kara’s gaze for half a second too long before she looks away, feigning interest in some last-minute remark from Sam.

Kara stares at her.

Her brain short-circuits.

She has no idea what she’s supposed to do with that—what she’s supposed to make of it.

Because this is new.

The foot thing the other night? Maybe she could have rationalized that. Maybe she could have convinced herself it was somehow a mistake.

But this?

This isn’t a mistake.

And Kara?

Kara is so fucking screwed.

She doesn’t even register when everyone starts getting up, only snapping back to reality when Sam nudges her shoulder with a knowing smirk.

“Coming, champ?” Sam asks, far too amused.

Kara blinks, clearing her throat. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

She moves to stand, and finally, finally—Lena moves too.

The pressure disappears, the contact breaks, and Kara should be relieved.

She isn’t.

She feels cold. Untethered. Unstable.

And when Lena stands beside her, effortlessly slipping her coat on, throwing one last unreadable glance in Kara’s direction before stepping toward the exit—Kara realizes something dangerous.

She doesn’t want relief.

She wants more.

The SUV is cramped—not in a way that’s unbearable, but in a way that makes it impossible for Kara to pretend like she doesn’t notice exactly who she’s pressed against.

Lena, of course.

Because of course it’s Lena.

Somehow—somehow—they’d ended up in the very back row, squeezed together in the smallest, least spacious part of the vehicle. Maybe it was bad luck, or maybe it was Sam’s fault for ushering people into seats with far too much enthusiasm. Either way, here they are.

And Kara?

Kara is still in trouble.

Because this time, there’s nothing hidden beneath a table, no plausible deniability, no convenient cover of darkness to conceal whatever it is Lena thinks she’s doing.

This time, it’s just them.

Just Kara, hyper-aware of the bare inch of space between their thighs. Hyper-aware of the way Lena’s body shifts with every turn, every slight bump in the road.

It’s subtle.

Infuriatingly subtle.

Lena isn’t pushing this time, isn’t pressing like before, but she’s there. And Kara feels her. Every small movement, every accidental brush of fabric against fabric, every tiny shift that doesn’t quite feel like a coincidence.

And then, at a red light, Lena crosses her legs.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And Kara?

Kara stops breathing.

Because in the process, Lena’s knee barely, barely drags across Kara’s. A whisper of contact, the lightest of touches, but it lingers.

And then, Lena exhales.

Soft. Quiet. Barely audible over the low murmur of conversation from the front seats. But Kara hears it.

And then—oh. Oh.

Kara feels it.

Because Lena is warm.

Or maybe Kara is imagining it, maybe it’s just her brain short-circuiting again, but she swears she can feel the slightest trace of heat where Lena’s knee had been.

Lena stays perfectly still.

Kara does too.

She should pull away. She should shift, should move, should do something to break whatever weird tension is settling between them in the back of this too-small car.

But she doesn’t.

And neither does Lena.

She doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything more, doesn’t even look Kara’s way.

But Kara knows.

Because Lena is too still.

And Kara is too aware.

And the entire rest of the ride?

Kara feels everything.

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour, the soft hum of distant conversation and the occasional ding of an elevator the only sounds filling the space. The team is filtering off in different directions—some to their rooms, some lingering behind to grab drinks at the bar—but Kara and Lena are the only two left waiting at the elevator.

They don’t say anything as the doors slide open.

They step inside, side by side, maintaining a respectable distance.

For the first time all evening, Lena isn’t pressing, isn’t pushing, isn’t teasing.

And yet—

Kara still feels her.

It’s infuriating.

The elevator ride is silent, save for the soft whir of machinery. The numbers blink overhead, marking each passing floor.

Lena’s posture is perfect, hands clasped in front of her, expression unreadable. It’s a sharp contrast to the slow-burn torment she’d put Kara through all night. No more lingering touches, no more teasing shifts of weight, no more anything.

Kara should be relieved.

She is not.

The elevator dings.

They step out, walking down the hall together until they reach their respective rooms. Kara pauses at her door, hand gripping the handle, but she doesn’t turn it.

Her heart is pounding.

She can feel Lena just a few feet away, keycard in hand, poised to swipe.

And Kara—

Kara can’t let it go.

She won’t.

She turns, a breath leaving her lips before she even knows what she’s about to say.

“Okay, seriously,” Kara blurts, louder than she means to, spinning on her heels.

Lena stops mid-motion, her keycard hovering just above the lock.

She lifts a brow. “Seriously…?”

Kara gestures vaguely—at the space between them, at the elevator, at the entire evening. “What the hell is going on?”

Lena blinks. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Kara huffs, running a hand through her hair. “Oh, come on—you know exactly what I mean.”

Lena tilts her head, considering her for a long moment.

Then, in the most infuriatingly composed voice, she murmurs, “Do I?”

And Kara—

Kara wants to scream.

Kara narrows her eyes. She knows this game—Lena is playing coy, feigning ignorance, making Kara come to her instead of the other way around. And normally, Kara might let it slide, might let Lena keep her little smirk and her carefully placed denials.

Not tonight.

Not after the foot thing. Not after the knee thing. Not after the entire dinner where Lena had pressed, leaned, lingered—only to act like nothing had happened.

Kara takes a step closer. Lena’s expression remains perfectly neutral, but Kara sees the way her throat bobs, the way her fingers tighten ever so slightly around her keycard.

“Oh, I think you do,” Kara says, voice lower now, a challenge in it.

Lena holds her gaze, unflinching. But Kara sees it—the flicker of something in the green of her eyes, the way her breath subtly hitches.

Then, Lena exhales, slow and measured, and the smirk she gives Kara is just a little too pleased.

“Kara,” she says smoothly, tilting her head in that way that makes Kara’s stomach flip. “If you have a question, you should just ask it.”

Kara glares. “Fine.” She crosses her arms, planting her feet, holding Lena’s gaze like she would on the track, like she would with any opponent refusing to yield. “Were you playing footsie with me on purpose?”

Lena’s lips part slightly, her composure flickering, just for a second. But then—she recovers.

The smirk returns, softer now, almost amused. “Would it bother you if I was?”

Kara scowls. “That’s not an answer.”

Lena hums, tilting her head, eyes flicking over Kara’s face like she’s searching for something. Then, softly—too softly—she says, “I think you already know the answer.”

Kara feels the words more than she hears them, her pulse skipping a beat.

Lena holds her gaze for another moment—long enough to make Kara’s chest tighten—then, with a final, knowing glance, she turns and swipes her keycard.

The lock clicks open.

Lena steps inside.

And Kara—Kara just stands there.

Mouth slightly open, brain short-circuiting, heart pounding.

The door swings shut.

Lena is gone.

Kara blinks. Breathes. Tries to figure out what the hell just happened.

And then, with a groan, she presses her forehead against her own door.

Because she is so screwed.

Kara doesn’t plan to tell Alex anything.

Really, she doesn’t.

But the second she steps into their hotel room, Alex looks up from her phone, barely sparing Kara a glance, and says, “Oh, finally done making eyes at Lena?”

Kara freezes.

Alex smirks.

And Kara—against her better judgment, against every single self-preservation instinct she should have—immediately cracks.

“Okay, first of all,” Kara says, tossing her keycard onto the nightstand with far too much force, “I wasn’t making eyes at her.”

Alex snorts. “Sure.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You so were.”

Kara groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Can you just—just listen to me for a second?”

Alex sets her phone down and leans back against the headboard, arms crossed, giving Kara her full attention.

“Go on,” she says, and oh no.

That’s the tone. The big sister tone. The I’m about to drag you into the depths of hell and enjoy every second of it tone.

Kara exhales sharply. Runs a hand through her hair. Then—finally—collapses onto the edge of her bed.

“Okay,” she says, voice pitched lower. “So, hypothetically—”

Alex groaned.

“No, no, hear me out! Hypothetically speaking, if someone were to—I don’t know—maybe press their knee against yours during dinner. For a long time. And then not move it even when you move. And maybe that same person also played footsie with you last time you had dinner, and you thought you imagined it, but now you’re thinking maybe you didn’t?”

Alex is already grinning.

Kara scowls. “Stop that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re grinning.”

“I’m just listening.”

Kara glares, points aggressively. “If you don’t take this seriously, I’m going to—”

“Oh, I’m taking it very seriously.” Alex shifts, sitting up straighter. “Please, continue. You were getting to the part where you completely lose your mind over Lena Luthor blatantly flirting with you.”

Kara flounders. “She—she wasn’t—”

Alex raises a brow.

Kara groans. “Okay. Maybe she was. But I don’t—I don’t know!” She gestures wildly. “She’s Lena! She’s so—cool and unreadable and she says things in that voice and looks at me like that and—”

She stops abruptly.

Alex is beaming.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I really do.”

“You love me,” Alex corrects, delighted, “and I, as your loving older sister, am here to inform you that you’re an idiot.”

Kara throws a pillow at her.

Alex catches it. Laughs.

“Kara,” she says, softer now, “she’s into you.”

Kara exhales. Hates how much she wants to believe that.

“You think so?” she asks, quieter, uncertain in a way she hates.

Alex softens. “I know so.”

Kara stares down at her hands, fiddling with a loose thread on the comforter. Her mind replays the evening—the pressure of Lena’s knee, the way she had matched every tiny shift Kara made, the way she had looked at her before disappearing into her hotel room.

And then—oh no.

Kara groans, falling back onto the bed.

“What now?”

“She said—” Kara covers her face with her hands, voice muffled—“I think you already know the answer.”

Alex is already laughing.

“God, I hate you so much.”

“You are so screwed.”

Kara groans again.

And Alex?

Alex just keeps laughing.

It was starting to tear at Kara’s insides.

——

April 20^th, 2016

Kara wakes up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing her deeper into the mattress before reality drags her back up. The hotel room is dim, the heavy curtains doing their job, but she can hear the faint sounds of Ivy Town already awake beyond the glass—cars passing, distant voices, the hum of a city that doesn’t care that she just had the biggest win of her rookie year just days prior.

She doesn’t move right away. Her brain, as sluggish as the rest of her, replays last night in pieces. The steakhouse, the hallway, Lena.

“Would it bother you if I was?”

“I think you already know the answer.”

Kara groans, throwing an arm over her face. What does that even mean? It wasn’t said in that sharp, teasing way Lena usually delivers her words—it was softer, like she was actually curious.

She barely has time to spiral further before a pillow whacks her in the stomach.

“Up and at ‘em, Champ,” Alex says, far too awake for this hour.

Kara peeks out from under her arm, glaring. “What the hell was that for?”

Alex, entirely unapologetic, tosses another pillow onto Kara’s head for good measure. “Because I knew you were awake and thinking too hard. And we don’t have time for whatever existential crisis you’re about to have about a certain mechanic.”

“I’m not having a crisis.”

Alex snorts. “Kara, you were making your gay little stress noises in your sleep. I know exactly what’s going on in that fried brain of yours.”

Kara groans again, rolling onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. “I’m going to suffocate myself.”

“Yeah, that’ll be great for our sponsorships,” Alex deadpans. “Now get up, we’ve got media in an hour. Unless you’d rather stay here and mope about how Lena Luthor keeps out-flustering you.”

Kara bolts upright, heart slamming into her ribs. “I am not flustered.”

Alex just grins, like a wolf who’s spotted an opening. “Uh-huh. That’s why you’re blushing right now.”

“I’m not—” Kara clamps her mouth shut, grabs the nearest pillow, and chucks it at Alex’s face.

Kara scowls as Alex effortlessly catches the pillow and tosses it back onto the bed. She hates how smug her sister looks—like she knows exactly how deeply Lena has wormed her way into Kara’s thoughts. Which, unfortunately, she does.

“C’mon,” Alex says, swinging her legs off the bed and stretching. “We’ve got, like, thirty minutes before we need to head down. You’re already behind on coffee, and I’m not dealing with you in pre-caffeine crisis mode and Lena panic mode at the same time.”

Kara grumbles but finally forces herself up, running a hand through her sleep-mussed hair. “I’m not in Lena panic mode.”

Alex, barely listening, throws her a change of clothes. “Yeah, yeah. Make sure you wear something nice for your hotel hallway meet-cute.”

Kara whips a sock at her.

They move through their morning routine in a familiar rhythm, Alex watching Kara out of the corner of her eye, a smirk never far from her lips. Kara, despite her best efforts, is too distracted. She keeps thinking about last night—about Lena in the hallway, about the way she had just looked at her before delivering that line.

Would it bother you if I was?

It shouldn’t have. It doesn’t. Or, well.

Kara nearly pokes herself in the eye with her toothbrush.

Alex sees. Alex laughs.

By the time they’re ready to go, Kara is determined to shake it off. Today is packed, and she is not going to let Lena take up any more space in her brain than she already has.

And then, of course, the minute they step into the hallway, Kara’s resolve shatters.

Because Lena is right there, stepping out of her own room, just a few feet away.

She looks infuriatingly perfect for so early in the morning—pressed slacks, a crisp button-up, not a single hair out of place. Her eyes flick toward Kara as she locks her door behind her, sharp and unreadable, before—

A smirk.

Not a full one, but enough. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Kara, unprepared, nearly walks into the doorframe.

Alex chokes on a laugh.

Lena turns fully toward them now, expression smooth. “Good morning,” she says, and Kara knows it’s directed at her— not Alex.

Kara forgets how to function.

It’s too early for this. She hasn’t had coffee. Her brain is still half-asleep. And yet, somehow, Lena Luthor is standing there in perfectly pressed clothes and perfectly measured confidence, looking at Kara like she knows exactly how much space she’s taking up in her head.

And then—because of course she does—Lena tilts her head, that smirk still lingering.

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep,” she says, voice smooth. “Something on your mind?”

Kara’s brain short-circuits.

Alex, standing just behind her, loses it. She makes an outright gagging noise and claps Kara on the back like a proud older sibling witnessing the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

Kara, desperate to maintain any dignity, scrambles for a response. “I— I slept fine.”

Lena hums like she doesn’t believe her. Like she knows exactly why Kara might not have.

And then—because Lena always knows exactly when to leave Kara in the worst state possible—she just gives a little nod, steps past them, and walks off toward the elevators.

Kara stands there, frozen.

Alex is grinning so hard it’s a miracle her face doesn’t crack.

“That,” Alex declares, slinging an arm around Kara’s shoulder, “was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Kara whacks her hand away. “Shut up.”

Alex, beaming, does not shut up. “You know she was flirting with you, right?”

“She was not.”

“Oh my god, she so was.”

Kara groans, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pocket and storming toward the elevator. “I hate you.”

Alex follows, still grinning. “You love me. Almost as much as you love Lena’s morning voice.”

Kara grumbles, but she thinks she’s escaped.

She thinks she can just storm to the elevator, shake off the way Lena’s words crawled under her skin, shake off Alex’s teasing, and move on with her day.

But the elevator doors are still open, and—

Kara stops short.

Lena, standing in the far corner, leans against the railing with a knowing glance in Kara’s direction. She doesn’t say anything, just lifts one eyebrow in that obnoxiously perfect way, like she’s been expecting Kara to walk straight into this trap. Like she knew precisely how long it took for the elevator doors to close, how long it would take Kara to get to it after her.

Alex, at Kara’s side, audibly chokes on laughter.

The doors start to slide shut, and Alex—being the absolute menace that she is—shoves Kara forward. “Oh no, wouldn’t want you to miss the elevator, sis.”

Kara stumbles inside, sending Alex a glare just as the doors close behind her.

And suddenly, it’s just her and Lena.

Alone.

In an enclosed space.

That is very, very small.

Kara does not breathe.

The elevator hums as it descends, but the air between them is too quiet. It’s suffocating. Kara can feel Lena’s gaze flick toward her, like she’s waiting for Kara to say something—maybe a retort, maybe some awkward excuse about why she nearly walked into a doorframe at the sight of her this morning.

Kara does none of those things.

Instead, she keeps her gaze firmly locked on the elevator buttons.

She is not going to acknowledge Lena’s presence. She is not going to let Lena see her unravel.

And then—because Lena is evil—she shifts.

Not much. Just enough for her shoulder to bump against Kara’s.

Kara jumps like she’s been electrocuted.

Lena hides a smirk.

The elevator dings.

Kara practically launches herself out the second the doors open.

Alex, already waiting in the lobby, watching the whole thing unfold, shakes her head in pure secondhand embarrassment. Kara wonders if Alex had run down the stairs to make it down in time to watch, like it was her favorite entertainment.

Kara glares at her, face burning. “Not. A. Word.”

Alex, grinning, links arms with her. “Let’s go, lover girl. You’ve got media to do.”

Kara tries to shake it off.

Really, she does.

She forces herself to focus as she walks through the lobby, forces herself to let the hum of activity around her drown out the memory of Lena’s smirk, forces herself to ignore the phantom warmth of Lena’s shoulder against hers.

It doesn’t work.

Her heart is still beating too fast. Her brain is still stuck in that elevator. And Alex, the absolute menace, is still watching her with the most insufferable grin.

Kara groans, scrubbing a hand over her face. “I need coffee.”

Alex snorts. “You need therapy.”

Kara glares.

They step outside into the crisp morning air, where a shuttle is waiting to take them to the first media stop of the day. It’s too early, Kara’s brain is still fried, and the idea of answering the same ten questions about her Fawcett win for the next several hours is already exhausting.

But it’s fine. It’s all fine.

She just needs to get through the day.

She just needs to ignore how Lena is still somewhere behind them, walking out of that hotel, moving through the same motions, heading toward the same shuttle.

She just needs to focus.

Kara takes a breath. Straightens her shoulders. Steps forward.

Alex, still grinning, pats her back. “C’mon, lover girl. Time to smile for the cameras.”

——

The conference room is too bright.

Fluorescent lights beam down from the ceiling, reflecting off the polished table where Kara sits, flanked by two other drivers. The steady click-click-click of cameras is already grating on her nerves, and the low murmur of journalists shuffling into position feels oppressive.

She’s been in these rooms before. Too many times in the past three days alone.

Win a race, become a story. That’s how it works.

She’s prepared for the usual questions.

She is not prepared for what happens next.

A journalist in the second row leans forward, voice cutting through the room. “Kara, first off, congratulations on your Fawcett win.”

She nods, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

But the next question has teeth.

“This was your first race working with Lena Luthor as your lead mechanic. Given the rumors around the family, it’s history in the sport, was there any tension there?”

There it is.

Kara stiffens, jaw clenching.

She should’ve seen it coming. Should have known. The Luthor name isn’t just baggage in this sport—it’s a target. And if there’s one thing reporters love, it’s a story with conflict.

She doesn’t look toward the back of the room. She doesn’t need to. She already knows Lena is there.

Hovering by the far wall, out of focus, but not unnoticed.

Kara hates that the question gets under her skin. Hates that she almost feels the need to defend Lena, when just a few days ago, she might have asked the same damn thing.

She exhales, leveling a look at the reporter. “Tension?” She lets the word settle. “You mean, was I suspicious?”

A few reporters murmur, some glancing toward the back of the room.

Kara doesn’t let them fill in the blanks. She squares her shoulders. “Look, I get it. The name comes with a reputation. But Lena isn’t her family.” She knows that now. “She’s smart, she knows cars, and she does her job. We won at Fawcett, didn’t we?”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then—just as Kara dares to think she’s shut this down—another voice cuts in.

“So you’re saying there were no concerns at all? Even after what happened in 2005?”

Fucking hell.

The air in the room tightens. Kara’s stomach turns. She knows exactly what they’re referring to.

Zor-El and Alura.

The crash.

The undeniable fact that Lex Luthor was responsible.

2005 has been the only thing that’s ever gotten tied with the Luthors, the one thing they couldn’t seem to deny and sweep under the rug like everything else they did.

Kara’s fingers curl against the table.

She could shut this down. She should. Give them the PR-safe answer and move on.

But she doesn’t.

Because she knows the truth. And the truth is—Lena Luthor had nothing to do with any of that.

So instead, she keeps her tone measured, but firm. “I don’t make decisions based on a last name.” She finally glances toward the back of the room, where Lena stands—arms crossed, unreadable. “I make them based on facts.”

Their eyes meet.

Lena doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

But Kara knows she heard every word.

And—just for a second—she thinks she sees the slightest shift in Lena’s expression.

Not a smirk. Not amusement.

Something else.

Something that makes Kara’s heart beat just a little too fast.

The moderator clears his throat, steering the press conference back toward racing stats and sponsorships.

Kara exhales, forcing herself to focus.

But even as the questions keep coming, Lena lingers at the edges of her mind.

Like always.

——

The press conference had been exhausting.

Kara stalks down the hallway, jaw tight, her footsteps a little too sharp against the tile. Her pulse thrums in her ears, drowning out everything else. She shouldn’t be this wound up—it wasn’t the worst media session she’s ever had.

But the way they asked about 2005.

She exhales sharply, flexing her hands at her sides.

They didn’t say it outright, but she could hear it in the way the reporter phrased the question—why some might find it unusual that a Luthor was working on her car. Why there could be tension.

She knew why they asked. Everyone knew 2005. It was the most publicized Luthor scandal in NASCAR. The moment everything shifted. The moment Lex Luthor made sure no one forgot his name.

But they didn’t know why it mattered to her.

They didn’t know that she was there. That she had stood in the pits, barely thirteen years old, watching the smoke curl into the sky, watching the wreckage of what used to be her parents’ cars.

They didn’t know that when people talked about 2005 in hushed tones, they weren’t just talking about a scandal—they were talking about the moment she lost everything.

And maybe that’s why it pisses her off so much.

Not just because they assumed the worst about Lena.

But because they said it like it was some distant thing. Like it wasn’t something Kara still felt in her bones, something that still follows her, even now.

She rounds the corner, too lost in her own head to notice the figure leaning casually against the wall until she nearly crashes into her.

Kara catches herself at the last second, boots scuffing against the tile as she stops too short.

Lena.

Kara barely exhales before Lena lifts her head, cool gaze flickering over her.

“You handled that well,” Lena murmurs, arms still crossed, voice as even as ever.

Kara scoffs, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, sure. Nailed it.”

Lena hums, a hint of amusement curving her lips. “You’re upset.”

Kara levels her with a look. “Gee, what gave it away?”

Lena just watches her, sharp and unyielding. Then—“You didn’t have to say all that.”

Kara clenches her jaw. “Didn’t I?”

Lena’s brow lifts, but she doesn’t answer right away.

“You didn’t need to defend me,” she says instead, tone unreadable.

Kara exhales sharply, shifting her weight. “I wasn’t defending you.”

Lena tilts her head, and Kara knows—she knows—that Lena is doing that thing where she waits for Kara to talk herself into a corner.

Kara glares. “I wasn’t.”

Lena’s lips twitch. “No?”

Kara’s stomach twists. Damn it.

She sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I just—” She stops, inhaling sharply. “It pissed me off, okay? The way they were talking, like they already knew who you are. Like you’re just—just your last name.”

Something shifts in Lena’s expression. It’s barely there, but Kara catches it anyway—just a flicker, gone as soon as it appeared.

Lena exhales, glancing toward the far end of the hall. “You get used to it.”

The way she says it—calm, matter-of-fact—makes something hot curl in Kara’s chest.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Kara mutters, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

Lena blinks.

For a second—just a second—something shifts once more.

Something dangerous.

Kara swallows.

Then Lena exhales, stepping back, slipping that perfectly curated mask back into place.

“Well,” she says lightly, “I appreciate the effort, rookie. But I can handle myself.”

It’s not dismissive. Not harsh.

But it still leaves Kara off-balance.

Lena turns, already halfway down the hall when she calls back over her shoulder—

“You coming, or are you going to brood in the hallway all day?”

Kara scowls. “I don’t brood.”

Lena laughs.

And for the second time in three days, Kara hears it.

It should be the same—it’s still Lena, still smooth and sharp all at once. But it’s not the kind of laugh she heard at the restaurant when Winn’s drink tumbled into her lap, not the kind that had been unrestrained, unexpected, real.

This one is different. This one is controlled. Measured. A laugh that has nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with expectation.

And that—that—bothers her in a way she doesn’t understand.

She stays frozen for a second longer, staring after her.

Then she exhales, shaking her head.

She’s losing her mind.

And Lena Luthor isn’t helping.

——

Kara barely had a second to breathe before she was ushered into her next obligation—a series of one-on-one interviews that blurred together in a haze of bright lights, recording devices, and questions she’d already answered a hundred times.

She settled into a chair across from a reporter, a stiff smile in place as the camera blinked red.

“First off, congratulations on the win at Fawcett,” the interviewer started, leaning forward. “That was a hell of a race.”

Kara forced a grin, pushing past the lingering weight of the press conference. “Yeah, it was a good one.”

“Your first big win in the Cup Series, and already people are talking about you as a serious contender. How does it feel to have this kind of momentum so early in the season?”

A safe question. One she could answer on autopilot. She gave the usual response—about the team, about hard work, about staying focused. But her mind was still caught on the moment in the press room, the way her chest had tightened when the reporter brought up 2005. They hadn’t known. Couldn’t have known. To them, it was just another infamous Luthor scandal. To Kara, it was the day her whole world collapsed.

She was barely listening as the questions kept coming. She nodded, laughed when she was supposed to, gave the practiced, polished answers Cat drilled into her. But a part of her—an annoyingly large part—was stuck on the sound of Lena’s laugh as she walked away.

It had been different.

Not the real, unexpected one Kara had heard before. This one had something else threaded through it. A distance. A sharp edge.

It was the mask. Kara couldn’t get it out of her head.

“—and of course, there’s been some chatter about your new car chief and lead mechanic, Lena Luthor.”

Kara’s spine went rigid.

The interviewer smiled, oblivious. “It’s not every day you see a Luthor in the garage instead of the boardroom. How’s that dynamic been so far?”

Kara exhaled slowly through her nose. It wasn’t a trap. It wasn’t about 2005.

Still, she knew exactly what they were really asking.

“She knows her stuff,” Kara said, keeping her voice even. “She’s sharp. Knows the car inside and out.”

“But is there any tension there?”

Kara’s fingers twitched against the armrest.

She thought about the first time she met Lena, the instinctive wariness, the sharp words traded over the car. She thought about how Lena was blunt, decisive, never second-guessing what needed to be done to get the car where it needed to be. She wasn’t controlling—she wasn’t trying to take anything from Kara. But that didn’t make it easy.

Kara had always been the one to call the shots when it came to the car. Every detail, every adjustment, every fraction of control was something she’d held onto like a lifeline. She knew what she needed. She trusted herself. And yet—

She thought about Sunday morning, the way Lena had been all sharp efficiency, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning over everything with precise calculation. Thought about the way she worked with quiet confidence, her hands moving over Kara’s car like she knew it better than anyone else.

Like she knew exactly what Kara needed before Kara could say it herself.

“There was at first,” Kara admitted. “But I think it’s fair to say we both know where we stand now.”

The reporter hummed, intrigued, but Kara wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.

She just hoped that was the last question about Luthors today.

But with the way her luck was going, she wasn’t holding her breath

——

By the time the last round of media wrapped up, Kara was more than ready to be done with it. She barely registered the goodbyes as she stepped out of the press area, the hotel just a short ride back.

The April sun hung high overhead, warm but not oppressive, the scent of pavement and motor oil lingering in the air—a constant reminder of where she was, of what the week was building toward. But even as she made her way back, her mind wasn’t on the race.

It was still on Lena.

The whole morning had felt off-kilter, ever since the press conference. Maybe it was the way the reporter had pressed about 2005, a wound that would never really heal. Or maybe it was the way Lena had walked away after, leaving Kara with nothing but the sharp edge of that laugh and the reminder that for all Kara thought she was getting a read on her, Lena still knew how to lock the doors when it mattered.

Kara shook the thought away as she pushed through the hotel doors, the air-conditioning a stark contrast to the heat outside. She made her way down the hall, past the elevators, past the hushed conversations of other teams filtering through the lobby. She wasn’t the only driver staying here—wasn’t the only one juggling media, prep, and everything in between. But for all the noise around her, her focus remained singular.

It wasn’t long before she reached the makeshift conference room, where the team had already begun to gather.

The space wasn’t much—just a standard hotel meeting room repurposed for race prep, filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional rustle of paper. Cat Grant stood at the head of the table, flipping through her notes with sharp efficiency. Winn and Brainy were already deep in data, while the rest of the pit crew settled into their usual spots.

And Lena—

Lena was there.

Standing near the back, arms crossed, listening to whatever James was saying. She hadn’t looked at Kara. Hadn’t so much as acknowledged her presence. But Kara felt her there all the same, like a static charge just beneath the surface.

She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and took her seat.

It was time to talk Ivy Town.

Kara shifted in her seat, already feeling restless. It wasn’t the meeting itself—she’d been through a hundred of these before—it was everything simmering just beneath the surface. The press conference had left a sour taste in her mouth, the mention of 2005 hitting a nerve she hadn’t expected. And then there was Lena.

Lena, who was now seated across from her, fingers steepled as she listened to Cat run through opening notes. Lena, whose smirk had been burned into Kara’s brain all morning, alongside the sound of her laugh—except this one hadn’t been the soft, almost-genuine one from the nights before. No, this one had been something else, something more practiced, something more… Luthor.

Kara exhaled sharply and forced herself to focus as Winn pulled up track maps and data comparisons between Fawcett and Ivy Town on the projector.

“Alright, so let’s talk setup,” he began. “We’re going from Fawcett, high-banked and bumpy, to Ivy Town, which is still short-track territory but way smoother, flatter, and a bit more temperature-sensitive.”

“Braking’s different, too,” Lena added, leaning forward slightly. “You were able to drive deeper into the corners at Fawcett, but Ivy Town’s gonna need more finesse—if you overcook it, you’re just gonna burn up your right-front and fight tightness all race.”

Kara nodded, absorbing the words even as something prickled in the back of her mind. She knew Lena was right—she’d raced at Ivy Town in Xfinity, knew just enough to know exactly how it played out—but there was still a part of her that resisted. It wasn’t about Lena, not really. It was about control.

“So,” Kara started, tapping a pen against the table, “what’re we changing in the setup? Because I don’t want to lose too much rear grip—I need to be able to rotate through the center without snapping loose.”

Lena’s gaze flickered to her, something sharp in her eyes, but her voice remained steady. “We’re adjusting the rear suspension geometry to keep that rotation, but you’re still going to have to trust the front end to do more of the work here.”

There it was. Trust. The word settled heavily between them, though neither of them acknowledged it outright.

Kara felt her jaw tighten, the instinct to argue flaring up before she could stop it. But before she could speak, Sam shifted in her chair, barely hiding a smirk. Beside her, Cat simply raised an eyebrow, as if she were watching something far more entertaining than a standard setup meeting.

Kara wasn’t notorious for not being combative with mechanics.

Kara ignored them both.

“Fine,” Kara said, a little too sharply. She saw the way Lena’s lips twitched, like she was holding back a smirk, and it only made Kara’s skin prickle hotter. “Just as long as we’re not overcompensating and killing my drive off the corner.”

Lena hummed, tilting her head slightly. “You’ll have the drive off—if you don’t overwork the right rear. But that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

Kara bristled. She knew exactly what Lena was saying without saying it. If she didn’t take care of her tires, if she pushed too hard too early, the car would fade before the end of a run. It was basic. She knew this. But the way Lena said it—so confident, so sure of herself—it got under her skin.

Before she could bite back a retort, Winn cleared his throat, cutting the tension like a blade. “So, uh, moving on—tire strategy. Ivy Town chews up rubber more than Fawcett, but we should have a better idea of falloff after practice.”

Lena sat back, her expression unreadable, but Kara felt the shift immediately. The moment was gone, evaporated into the sea of data and strategy talk. But across the table, Sam caught Kara’s eye and quirked a brow, something far from innocent glinting in her gaze.

Kara scowled and looked away.

The discussion moved on, breaking down pit stop cycles, fuel windows, and restart positioning—Ivy Town’s notorious for stacking the field up on restarts. Cat took over, reminding Kara to expect aggressive racing, especially with short track tempers running high with the back-to-back races.

“We’re still looking at a later-race adjustment window,” Brainy added. “Sunset will cool the track, meaning grip levels should increase, but if your balance shifts too tight, we’ll need to make a call on wedge or air pressure.”

“Right,” Kara muttered, jotting down notes she didn’t need to write, more to keep her hands busy than anything else. Her mind wasn’t on tire falloff or wedge adjustments. It was still replaying the way Lena had said, That’s up to you, isn’t it? in that smooth, steady voice of hers.

She felt—frustrated. Not at Lena, not really. At herself.

Lena was right.

And that might’ve been the most annoying part of all. Lena was always right.

Cat clapped her hands together, signaling the wrap-up. “Lunch in twenty. And before any of you ask—no Waffle House.”

A collective groan rises from the table.

“Oh, come on,” Winn protests. “That was one time.”

“That was one time too many,” Cat corrects sharply. “And I refuse to endure another outing powered entirely by syrup and bad decisions.”

Kara sighs, unsurprised. She knew this was coming.

Sam leans over, stage-whispering to Kara, “She loves Waffle House.”

“Obviously,” Kara mutters back.

Across the table, Cat levels them both with a look over her glasses. “I heard that.”

With that, she gathers her things, leaving them to sort out their lunch plans.

Then Kara made the mistake of glancing at Lena again, just as Lena was rising from her chair.

Lena caught her eye. Smiled.

It wasn’t a smirked.

It was something quieter. Something knowing.

And Kara, despite everything, despite the hours of stress and overthinking and racing thoughts—she couldn’t do a damn thing but stare.

Lena turned, stepping past Sam and out the door, leaving Kara standing in the middle of the conference room, gripping her notebook a little too tightly.

——

Lunch ends up at an Olive Garden, of all places.

Not exactly a high-class establishment, but somewhere Cat tolerates, and that’s really all that matters. It’s close to the hotel, easy to get a table for their whole team, and—most importantly—serves unlimited breadsticks.

Kara’s still buzzing from the meeting, the lingering tension with Lena still pressed into the back of her mind. It was nothing, really. A flicker of something that vanished as fast as it came, but she caught the way Sam and Cat had exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances that made Kara feel like she was on the outside of an inside joke.

She shakes it off as they’re led to their table, everyone settling into their seats.

Cat takes the head of the table, of course, with Sam to one side and James to the other. Kara finds herself across from Lena. Completely unintentional—at least on Kara’s part. But the moment she realizes, she wonders if Lena planned it.

Lena doesn’t say anything at first, just gives a small, knowing smirk as she lifts her menu.

Kara ignores it.

Or at least, tries to.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Winn comments from beside her, breaking her focus.

“I’m not thinking at all,” Kara lies.

“Sure,” Winn says, clearly not believing her.

The conversation flows easily over lunch—mostly lighthearted chatter about the upcoming race, the logistics of their schedule, a few jabs at past pit stop mishaps that have everyone groaning. At some point, Cat starts making not-so-subtle jabs at James for ordering chicken alfredo instead of something more ‘authentically Italian.’

“It’s literally on the menu,” James argues.

“And yet, a disgrace,” Cat quips, sipping her wine.

The mood is relaxed, but Kara is still hyper-aware of Lena. Every shift of movement, every glance, the way she occasionally lifts an eyebrow at something Kara says. Like she knows something Kara doesn’t.

And maybe she does.

Lena is a Luthor, after all.

It happens somewhere between Kara’s second breadstick and her plate of l baked ziti.

A shift—so subtle that Kara almost convinces herself she’s imagining it.

But she’s not.

She knows because it happens again.

A light press against her ankle. Not rushed, not playful like at the steakhouse, but intentional. Careful. Controlled.

Lena.

Kara stares at her plate, twirling her pasta around her fork with a focus that is entirely too intense for the action. She doesn’t look up. She can’t. Because she knows that if she does, she’ll find Lena watching her, and that will only make things worse.

Lena’s foot lingers—not demanding, not insistent, just… there.

And Kara?

She doesn’t move away.

She should. She knows she should. But she doesn’t, because for some reason, Lena is doing this. Again. After their conversation in the hotel hallway. After Kara called her out. After Lena responded with, “Would it bother you if I was?”

Maybe this is Lena’s way of answering that question.

Or maybe she’s testing Kara, pushing just enough to see if Kara will push back.

Kara doesn’t.

Instead, she forces herself to focus on the conversation around her.

“Okay, not to agree with Cat,” Winn says, “but I feel like James could have been a little more creative with his order.”

James groans. “Oh my God, not you too.”

“I’m just saying. Italian food is about passion. Where’s the excitement? The drama?” Winn gestures wildly, nearly knocking over his water glass.

“You’re eating plain spaghetti,” Kelly deadpans.

“Yeah, well, that’s different.”

Kara almost laughs—almost—but then Lena moves.

Just the slightest shift, the pressure against Kara’s ankle turning into a slow, deliberate drag up the side of her calf before slipping back into place.

Kara’s fork clatters against her plate.

Lena doesn’t react.

Doesn’t look at her, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t do anything to acknowledge what she’s doing.

And that? That’s worse.

Because it means Lena knows exactly what she’s doing.

And she’s waiting.

For what, Kara doesn’t know.

But she thinks maybe she’s being tested.

And she has no idea if she’s passing or failing.

But it’s different.

Kara knows that much.

It’s not like the steakhouse. That had been bold, a deliberate game Lena played—one Kara had felt was a game, even if she didn’t understand why Lena was playing it with her in the first place.

But this?

This is not that.

This isn’t some challenge, some amused attempt to watch Kara fluster under the weight of her own reactions. It’s subtle, gentle—a pressure so careful that Kara almost thinks she imagined it, until she shifts and Lena follows.

Kara can’t help but wonder—what changed?

Was it the hallway? The way Kara had awkwardly asked if Lena was playing footsie with her, only for Lena to respond with something softer than Kara had expected? Would it bother you if I was?

Or was it the press conference?

Was it the way Kara had made it clear in front of the media—clear in front of everyone—that she didn’t see Lena as just another Luthor? That she wasn’t interested in fueling that narrative, that whatever initial skepticism she’d had wasn’t there anymore?

Was this Lena’s way of responding to that?

Because Kara had seen the moment Lena’s walls came up again—heard it in the laughter she let slip as she walked away afterward. It hadn’t been like before. It had been controlled, distant—Luthor.

But this?

This feels closer.

Closer in a way that shouldn’t matter, in a way that Kara doesn’t know how to handle.

She shifts again—not away, just enough to see if Lena will move, if she’ll pull back.

But Lena doesn’t pull back.

She adjusts.

And Kara?

Kara doesn’t know if she wants her to stop.

Kara tries—really tries—to focus on lunch.

She listens as Winn goes on about some new telemetry analysis he’s been fine-tuning, nods when Brainy adds an overly complex correction that only makes sense to Brainy and Brainy alone, and even laughs when Jack nearly spills his drink because Sam elbowed him too hard while reaching for the breadsticks.

But it’s hard to focus when Lena is still there—still pressed against her.

It’s not a game. Kara keeps reminding herself of that, over and over, as if it’ll somehow stop the way her pulse picks up whenever Lena moves just the slightest bit—when her foot presses in just a little more, when her calf just barely shifts against Kara’s beneath the table.

It’s not a game.

But that just makes it worse.

Because if it’s not a game, then what is it?

Kara is hyper-aware of all of it now, to the point that she nearly drops her fork when Lena finally pulls back—except she doesn’t pull away completely, she just… repositions.

A slow shift—deliberate, careful—as Lena crosses her legs beneath the table.

Her knee brushes Kara’s again as she settles, but this time there’s nowhere else to go.

She’s right there.

And Kara knows she could move—should move. She should adjust, should shift, should create any kind of space between them, but—

She doesn’t.

She doesn’t.

She stays exactly where she is, still pretending to listen as Cat rolls her eyes at something James says, still acting like she’s completely engaged when Kenny starts talking about race strategy again.

But Kara’s not listening.

Not really.

Because all she can think about is the way Lena’s leg is still pressed to hers, the warmth of it, the weight of it, the fact that Lena hasn’t moved away either.

The steakhouse had been a challenge.

This is not that.

And maybe Kara doesn’t know what this is—maybe she doesn’t know why it’s different, or what’s changed, or why it’s making her feel the way it does.

But she does know one thing.

She’s not imagining it.

And neither is Lena.

——

By the time dessert rolls around, Kara is barely holding it together.

She’s still sitting exactly where she was—still pressed against Lena beneath the table, still pretending like nothing’s happening, still trying to act like she’s not completely distracted by the way Lena hasn’t moved away.

But it’s getting worse.

Because now, Lena is talking.

Not just talking—discussing strategy.

Her voice is smooth, confident, effortlessly self-assured as she breaks down Ivy Town’s track temperature variance at night versus Fawcett, how the long-run adjustments will have to compensate for the tighter radius of the turns, how Kara needs to be careful about how aggressive she is on entry.

And Kara is trying to listen—really, really trying.

Because this is important. Because this is racing. Because this matters.

But it’s so unfair that Lena is talking about all of this while she’s still sitting so damn close.

Kara picks up her spoon and doesn’t even register what she’s eating—chocolate something, maybe?—because all she can think about is how calm Lena sounds, how completely unaffected she is while Kara is fighting to stay normal.

And then—

Then.

Lena moves.

It’s small—just the slow, casual press of her knee, the kind of shift that shouldn’t feel as intentional as it does.

But Kara feels it.

Of course she feels it.

And this time—this time—Lena doesn’t pull away but she also doesn’t push harder.

She stays right where she is, just like before, just close enough to drive Kara completely insane, just casual enough to act like it means nothing.

And Kara is so, so aware of it.

Of all of it.

Of the way Lena keeps talking like nothing’s happening, of the way her voice is so measured and precise, of the way her presence is so warm, so distracting, so there.

And Kara?

Kara is losing her mind.

Kara is staring.

Rao, she’s staring.

She knows she shouldn’t be—knows she should be focusing on what Lena is saying, on how the car is going to handle at Ivy Town, on how she needs to adjust her approach—but she can’t.

Because Lena’s voice is too much.

The way it lilts on certain words, the way it carries that barely-there accent that Kara still can’t quite place—it’s all-consuming.

And it’s not just her voice.

It’s her eyes—sharp, piercing, so green under the dimmed restaurant lighting, catching every subtle shift in the conversation.

It’s the small mole on the slope of her neck, a stark contrast against alabaster skin, something Kara’s eyes keep getting caught on.

It’s the grease and oil still stuck under Lena’s nails—subtle, but there—like a reminder that she’s not just the Luthor name attached to Kara’s team, that she’s the one who’s been under the hood, in the trenches, making sure Kara’s car is perfect.

And Kara knows she should look away, should stop noticing how Lena moves her hands when she speaks, how her fingers flick the stem of her wine glass absentmindedly, how completely sure she sounds when she explains adjustments Kara hasn’t even thought of yet.

But she can’t.

Because Lena is right there, voice smooth and steady, knee still pressed against Kara’s under the table, talking about entry speeds and staggered setups like she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing.

Like this isn’t wrecking Kara completely.

Lunch stretches on, conversation picking up as plates are cleared and dessert is finished—if it could even be called that.

“This is barely passable,” Cat declares, eyeing her Tiramisu like it personally offended her. “Honestly, is it so difficult to get a proper dessert”

“Should’ve gone to Waffle House,” James teases, grinning as he finishes his own dessert.

Cat glares at him over her spoon. “You say that like I wouldn’t end you for some hash browns right now.”

The table erupts into laughter, easy and familiar, stretching the night out a little longer. Conversations weave in and out, voices overlapping, warmth settling in the air. Kara finds herself pulled into it—bantering with Sam, arguing playfully with Winn about setup tweaks, even rolling her eyes at Kenny’s retelling of a pit mishap from last year.

But her gaze keeps flickering—keeps drifting back to Lena.

She tells herself it’s just out of habit, just the remnants of trying to figure Lena out after the last few days. But she knows that’s a lie.

Because Lena is watching her, too.

Not in the way she usually does—not with that smugness, that effortless arrogance that she wears like a second skin.

No, this is different.

The mask is still there, but it’s slipping.

And Kara notices—because of course she does, because she notices everything about Lena despite not knowing why she does.

It’s in the way Lena’s gaze lingers, in the way her lips press together—not in amusement, but in thought. There’s something open about it, something Kara wasn’t supposed to see.

And yet, for a fleeting moment, she does.

The moment lingers with Kara longer than it should.

Even as they leave the restaurant, even as the team chats about the rest of the day’s obligations, it stays—like the phantom pressure of Lena’s touch, like the weight of her gaze, like the quiet shift in something Kara can’t quite define.

The elevator ride back to the hotel is full—shoulders brushing, murmured conversations filling the small space. But when the doors slide open on their floor, Kara and Lena are the only ones who step out.

They don’t speak.

There’s something fragile between them now, something new.

Their steps are quiet against the carpeted hallway, and for a moment, Kara wonders if Lena is waiting for her to say something—to make some remark, to brush off the moment at lunch, to turn whatever happened into something light, something easy.

She doesn’t.

Her hand rests on the doorknob to her room—just like last night.

She stops herself.

Turns, just slightly.

“Lena.” Her voice is softer than she means it to be, quieter, like she’s treading carefully over something neither of them have acknowledged yet.

Lena looks at her, and there’s that flicker again—that fleeting crack in the armor, the same one Kara caught at lunch, the one she wasn’t supposed to see.

“I like just Lena.”

It’s not much. But it’s everything.

Lena’s lips part, her throat working around a response she never gives. Her expression shifts—not quite surprise, not quite understanding, but something in-between. Something unreadable.

Kara doesn’t press.

Doesn’t ask more questions—about what it means, about why it means anything at all.

She just nods once, then disappears into her room, shutting the door behind her.

And for the first time in her life—she relinquishes control.

Lena isn’t a race track she needs to conquer. She isn’t an obstacle to tackle, or a media obligation to navigate. She isn’t the grief that lingers in Kara’s chest.

She’s just Lena.

——

The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet.

Kara stares at the ceiling, arms folded behind her head, willing herself to relax. She has maybe an hour, probably less, before she has to get back to work—before more press events, the meet-and-greet, the never-ending cycle of sponsor obligations. She should take advantage of it.

She doesn’t.

Because her thoughts won’t settle.

Not about the meeting. Not about the way Lena’s calf pressed against hers under the table. Not about how, for a brief second at lunch, Lena’s mask had slipped, leaving something open and unguarded in its place.

And especially not about what she’d said in the hallway.

“Lena. I like just Lena.”

It hadn’t been planned. The words had come out before she could think them through, before she could wonder if they even made sense. But something in Lena’s expression had shifted at the words. A flicker of something Kara couldn’t name.

And then Kara had walked away.

No control. No strategy. No fixing or pushing or figuring anything out.

She still doesn’t know what to make of it.

Kara sighs, dragging a hand down her face. She should nap. She should relax. But instead, she forces herself up and gets ready, because playing the part of Kara Danvers, rising NASCAR star, Big Belly Burger’s favorite sponsor, CatCo Motorsports’ driver, is something she at least knows how to do.

——

The first event is a meet-and-greet—a handful of contest winners, fans who had entered some Big Belly Burger promotion for the chance to meet her in person.

Kara is good at this part. She’s done it several times before—smiling, shaking hands, signing hats, answering questions. She asks about their favorite drivers, their favorite tracks, cracks a few jokes about her last race. They’re nervous but excited, and Kara does her best to make them comfortable.

And then—

One of the fans, a teenage girl, steps forward with a ball cap clutched in her hands. She’s green-eyed. A shade too bright, too sharp—not quite hazel, not quite emerald.

And Kara’s mind drifts—completely unbidden, completely distracting.

Lena’s eyes are nothing like this girl’s.

Lena’s eyes shift with the light—sometimes a piercing jade, sharp and intelligent, like when she’s deep in thought, explaining something mechanical with that clipped precision. Sometimes a cooler, muted green, like sea glass, when she’s tired or just watching, assessing. Sometimes, when she’s teasing, when there’s a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth, they’re brighter, almost mischievous. And other times—

Other times, Kara catches them in moments Lena doesn’t realize she’s looking.

Those moments are softer. A shade Kara doesn’t quite have a name for.

And why the hell does she know this?

Why is she cataloging Lena? She barely knows her, not really, not in the ways that should matter. And yet—

“Uh, Miss Danvers?” The girl is looking at her expectantly, holding out her hat.

Kara blinks, snapping back to reality. She clears her throat, taking the hat and signing it with a grin, like she hadn’t just been completely lost in thought over Lena Luthor’s eyes.

The photoshoot is next.

Big Belly Burger wants promo shots—the usual. Kara in her firesuit, standing in front of the car, arms crossed, flashing that confident, easygoing grin. They pose her in a few different angles—leaning against the hood, one hand on her hip, another with her helmet tucked under her arm.

She’s done it all before. It’s easy.

It should be easy.

Except—

Lena is there.

She doesn’t need to be—her work at the garage was done before lunch—but she lingers anyway.

She’s standing off to the side, arms folded, watching. Always watching. And Kara should be focusing, should be standing at the right angle, should be not thinking about how Lena’s looking at her.

Then their eyes meet.

Kara knows the exact moment it happens because suddenly, she’s grinning too big, her smile turning something more genuine, too real for the carefully curated photoshoot. She can’t help it.

Cat, standing nearby, snickers.

Kara barely notices.

Because Lena—Lena smiles back.

It’s not much, barely there, something that could be missed in a blink. A flicker of amusement, of something softer—something that doesn’t fit the sharp, polished persona Lena usually wears like armor.

And just like that, it’s gone.

The moment passes. The camera flashes. The shoot continues.

But Kara still feels it.

And she doesn’t know what to do with that.

As the day winds down, Kara’s schedule finally starts to ease up. Most of her major obligations—media, sponsors, the photoshoot—are done. There’s still a team debrief later in the evening, a final check-in before tomorrow’s practice, but for now, she has a rare sliver of free time.

Some of the crew talks about grabbing dinner together again, but it’s not a big team outing like lunch was. People are scattered. Sam and Kelly are off somewhere, James mentioned calling his girlfriend, and Cat, after Kara’s less-than-subtle grumbling about the photoshoot, had given her a smirk and said, “You’re free for now, Rookie. Don’t get into trouble.”

Kara’s not sure what to do with the time.

She considers heading back to the garage—checking on the car, keeping herself busy—but she already knows the setup is in good hands. Lena’s hands.

Lena.

Kara still hasn’t shaken the memory of Lena’s almost-smile from earlier, hasn’t stopped thinking about how Lena had watched her, stayed nearby, lingered when she didn’t need to.

And that should be fine. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But it does.

And Kara still doesn’t know what to do with that.

She ends up taking a walk. Just around the hotel, stretching her legs, trying to clear her head. The Ivy Town air is warm, the sky shifting to twilight, and for a little while, it’s nice—quiet.

Then, by chance, as she heads back to her floor, she runs into Lena.

She’s coming from the opposite direction, her hair still tied back from the garage, faint smudges of grease at her wrist. She’s not wearing her firesuit, not in anything that screams “race team,” just simple, casual clothes—dark jeans, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed to her elbows.

She looks—normal.

Just Lena.

And that thought—that realization—lodges itself in Kara’s chest.

They both slow as they approach their hotel room doors, directly across from each other. The air between them is strangely fragile. Not tense, not uncomfortable, but… different. New.

“Hey,” Kara says, because it’s something.

Lena hums in acknowledgment, eyes flickering over Kara, unreadable but still lingering.

Neither of them move to unlock their doors.

Kara almost says something else—almost. But she doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with this new shift between them, this thing neither of them are acknowledging.

In the end, it’s Lena who breaks the moment. A quiet, knowing smirk, before she finally steps toward her door.

“Goodnight, Kara.”

Her voice curls around the syllables, soft, familiar.

Kara’s grip tightens on her keycard.

She doesn’t watch Lena disappear into her room. Doesn’t let herself dwell on it.

Instead, she exhales, long and slow, before finally heading into her own room.

But as much as she tells herself to let it go—

She already knows she won’t.

Kara steps into the hotel room, and Alex barely glances up from where she’s sprawled on her bed, phone in hand. But then she actually looks at her—really looks at her—and her brows shoot up.

“Jesus,” Alex mutters. “You look like you raced the St. Roch 500.”

Kara groans, dropping face-first onto her own bed. “Might as well have.”

Alex snorts. “What, did a sponsor make you sign autographs with your non-dominant hand?”

Kara, still muffled into the comforter, mumbles, “I need to relax.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m going to the hot tub.”

That gets a bark of laughter. “Oh, sure. Drown the tension, that’s a solid plan.”

Kara grunts in response, already grabbing a swimsuit from her bag. She doesn’t bother defending herself—she just needs one moment of peace, away from all the noise, the cameras, the expectations—the green eyes and soft smirks and the way Lena Luthor looks at her when no one else is paying attention.

She shoves that last thought away as she heads out the door.

——

The hotel’s hot tub is tucked in the far corner of the pool area, dim lighting and curling steam making it feel far more private than it probably should.

Kara sinks into the heat with a deep sigh, letting her head tip back against the edge, muscles unwinding.

For a few blissful minutes, it’s just her. No obligations. No team meetings. No Lena.

And then—

The door to the steamy room cracks open.

Kara doesn’t react at first. Maybe it’s just another hotel guest, or a crew member coming for a quick soak.

But then she soft footsteps against tile.

And suddenly, she just—knows.

She doesn’t even have time to brace herself before Lena slips into view.

Lena.

In a one-piece swimsuit.

It’s black, of course, sleek and form-fitting, but Kara can’t process a single detail beyond the sheer, staggering reality of Lena standing there, looking like—like that.

Kara’s brain completely short-circuits. Gets fried.

Tries to reboot. Fails.

Tries again. Barely manages.

Lena, for her part, is unfazed. Her eyes flicker to Kara—to her abs, specifically, because of course they do—but if anything flickers across her expression, it’s gone in an instant. The mask is firmly in place.

Kara, meanwhile, is clinging to the edge of the hot tub like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the mortal plane.

Lena steps forward, gliding closer to the water’s edge. “Alex said I’d find you here.”

Kara blinks. Processes. “Alex—?” She swears she’s going to kill her.

Lena, ever composed, just arches an eyebrow before slipping into the water with zero hesitation. The heat licks at her skin, steam curling around the edges of her hair as she settles into the opposite side, facing Kara with a careful sort of ease.

Kara has no idea why Lena is here.

And, somehow, that’s the most concerning part.

Lena’s head tilts slightly, as if sensing her hesitation. “We haven’t spent much time alone,” she says.

Kara waits for the rest of the sentence, for the real reason Lena is here, but that’s—that’s it?

Lena must see the confusion flicker across Kara’s face, because she exhales, smooth and deliberate, before adding, “As driver and mechanic, we should get to know each other better.”

Kara squints.

She hopes—prays—this does not involve footsie in a damn hot tub.

Lena proposes it like a business deal, her voice level, detached. It’s the mask, Kara realizes. A carefully constructed excuse. A way to make this seem like something simple. Something that doesn’t mean more than it actually does.

And Kara—Kara isn’t sure whether that makes her feel relieved or insanely frustrated.

For a moment, neither of them speak. The only sound is the soft hum of the hot tub jets and the occasional muffled noise from the pool beyond.

Lena leans back against the edge, eyes lidded, arms draped along the rim in a picture of effortless ease. Kara is not fooled.

“Alright,” Kara finally says, forcing herself to relax, stretching her arms along the rim as well. “Getting to know each other. Is this where I give you my favorite color and a fun fact about myself?”

Lena lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “If you’d like.”

Kara exhales through her nose, glancing up toward the ceiling as if that will help her sort through the mess of tangled thoughts in her head.

Getting to know each other.

As if Kara hasn’t been cataloging every detail about Lena since the moment she met her.

She should throw something lighthearted at her, something easy—but she doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts slightly, studying Lena in the dim lighting. “What made you decide to become a mechanic?”

It’s not an unexpected question, but it’s also not a simple one. Kara can tell from the way Lena’s fingers curl slightly against the wet tile.

There’s a beat of hesitation before Lena shrugs, a practiced sort of movement. “It made sense.”

Kara doesn’t let her off the hook that easily. “Did it?”

Lena’s eyes flicker to her, unreadable in the low light. “I like knowing how things work,” she says, voice smooth, measured. “The intricacies of an engine, the way every part fits together—it’s precise. Logical.”

Kara watches her for a moment, then hums. “And yet, you chose a sport that’s about instinct just as much as it’s about precision.”

Lena’s lips twitch, just barely. “And you?”

Kara tilts her head.

Lena gestures loosely. “Why racing?”

Kara could give a dozen answers. Could say something about the speed, the adrenaline, the hunger for competition. Could lie and say it was just about wanting to prove herself.

But instead, her voice comes out quieter than expected. “Because it feels like flying.”

She doesn’t know why she says it, but the words are already there, hanging between them.

Lena’s expression shifts—not in amusement, not in skepticism, but in something quieter. Something unreadable.

Kara suddenly feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that she’s wearing a bikini in a hotel hot tub.

Lena studies her for a long moment before murmuring, “That makes sense.”

Kara swallows. There’s something about the way Lena says it—soft, understanding, like she actually gets it. Like she sees something Kara hadn’t meant to show.

Kara clears her throat, casting around for something else, something safer.

“So,” she says, forcing a smirk, “what’s your favorite color?”

Lena’s lips quirk. “Take a guess.”

Kara rolls her eyes. “Groundbreaking. Black.”

Lena’s smirk lingers. “Correct.”

Kara snorts, but before she can say anything else, Lena tilts her head, studying her in a way that makes her skin feel too tight.

Lena hums, fingers idly tapping against the wet tile. “What about you?”

Kara opens her mouth, ready to say blue—the answer she’s given her entire life, the color of the sky, of the cars she grew up watching fly around the track. The color of home, of comfort.

But instead, before she can think, before she can stop herself, what comes out is—

“Green.”

Lena raises an eyebrow, her smirk just barely there. “Is that so?”

Kara’s throat is suddenly very dry, which is impressive, considering she’s sitting in water. She forces a shrug, hoping it looks casual. “Yeah.”

Lena doesn’t push, doesn’t prod, but something in her expression shifts, something quiet and knowing, like she’s just found the answer to a question Kara didn’t even realize she was asking.

Kara drops her gaze to the water, pulse thrumming beneath her skin.

Green.

She’s never cared much about the color before. It was always just there, an afterthought.

But now—

Now it’s Lena’s eyes in the sunlight, shifting between shades of emerald and seafoam.

It’s the sharp, glinting jade of her smirk when she’s amused, the softer sage when she’s thinking, when she’s peeling back the layers of herself just enough for Kara to see beneath.

It’s the color Kara has been looking for without realizing it.

She swallows, glancing back up. Lena is still watching her, still waiting for something Kara doesn’t quite have the words for.

Not yet.

So instead, Kara clears her throat and smirks. “Predictable,” she teases, nodding at Lena. “Yours being black.”

Lena lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Clearly, I’m an open book.”

And just like that, the moment shifts, easy banter slipping between them once again.

But the answer lingers in Kara’s mind.

Green.

It’s never been her favorite color.

But suddenly, it is.

Lena tilts her head, considering Kara with a thoughtful look. Then, she leans back against the edge of the hot tub, stretching out in a way that seems both casual and calculated. “Alright, rapid-fire,” she declares. “No overthinking, just answer.”

Kara eyes her warily but nods. “Okay.”

Lena smirks. “Dogs or cats?”

“Cats.”

“Summer or winter?”

“Summer.”

“Sweet or savory?”

“Both.”

Lena gives her a look. “That’s cheating.”

Kara shrugs, grinning. “I stand by it.”

Lena rolls her eyes but continues. “Favorite track?”

Kara doesn’t hesitate. “Fawcett.”

Lena’s expression flickers for a moment, something subtle that Kara barely catches before it’s gone.

She moves on. “Last song you listened to?”

Kara furrows her brows, trying to remember. “Uh—something Alex put on in the car. Probably Foo Fighters.”

Lena hums approvingly. “Respectable.”

Kara smirks. “What about you?”

Lena arches a brow. “I thought I was asking the questions here.”

Kara lifts a shoulder. “Rules are meant to be broken.”

Lena chuckles, shaking her head. “Fine. If you must know—Fleetwood Mac.”

Kara grins. “Nice.”

Lena continues. “What’s your guilty pleasure movie?”

Kara groans. “Oh, come on.”

Lena smirks. “No backing out now.”

Kara exhales, sinking lower into the water. “Mamma Mia.”

Lena blinks. “Huh.”

Kara frowns. “What?”

Lena shakes her head, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I just didn’t peg you as an ABBA enthusiast.”

Kara crosses her arms. “Well, I am.”

Lena’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “Good to know.”

Kara clears her throat, ignoring the way her pulse stutters at that look. “Your turn.”

Lena considers for a second before answering. “The Devil Wears Prada.”

Kara snorts. “That’s not even a guilty pleasure. That’s just a good movie.”

Lena lifts a shoulder. “It is, isn’t it?”

Their eyes meet for a second longer than necessary, something warm settling between them before Lena casually shifts the conversation.

“Alright, last one,” she says. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do but never have?”

Kara falters, caught off guard by the weight of the question. It’s easy enough to joke about favorite movies and songs, but this—

This is something else.

Still, she forces herself to answer.

“…Skydiving,” she finally says, though it’s not really the truth. Not the whole truth.

Lena tilts her head, studying her. “Huh. Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Kara shrugs. “Figured I’d try something that isn’t high-speed racing for once.”

Lena smirks but doesn’t push.

Instead, she nods, letting the silence settle between them, filled with the quiet hum of the water jets and the distant sound of muffled conversation from the hallway.

For once, it isn’t uncomfortable.

It’s just…there.

And Kara doesn’t really mind.

Lena watches Kara carefully, then leans forward just slightly, arms resting on the edge of the tub. Her voice is softer now, almost thoughtful. “Alright, let’s raise the stakes a little.”

Kara lifts a brow. “Oh?”

Lena smirks but there’s no challenge in it, no teasing. “What’s something most people don’t know about you?”

Kara exhales sharply, tilting her head back against the edge of the tub. “That’s broad.”

Lena just waits.

Kara huffs. “Fine. Uh… I don’t actually like Big Belly Burger as much as everyone thinks I do.”

Lena gasps in mock horror. “Blasphemy.”

Kara laughs, shaking her head. “It’s not bad, I just—” She shrugs. “It’s more of a nostalgia thing. Something familiar, y’know?”

Lena hums, eyes flickering with something Kara can’t quite place. “I get that.”

Kara suddenly feels too seen, so she shifts the attention back. “Your turn.”

Lena takes a beat before answering. “I used to build things as a kid. Engines, machines, anything I could take apart and put back together. It was… calming.”

Kara studies her, the way her fingers trace the water absentmindedly. “Why’d you stop?”

Lena hesitates. Just for a second. Then she smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t.”

Kara doesn’t know what to do with that, so she just nods.

Lena moves on. “Where’d you grow up?”

Kara stiffens. Just slightly, but Lena notices.

Kara answers before she can think better of it. “Alaska.”

Lena’s gaze sharpens, just for a moment. She tilts her head, green eyes flickering with interest. “Alaska?”

Kara nods, forcing her body to relax. “Yeah.”

Lena doesn’t look away. “Not a lot of people from Alaska end up in NASCAR.”

Kara forces a smirk, trying to play it off. “Not a lot of people from anywhere end up in NASCAR.”

Lena hums, but something about her expression softens. For some reason, that makes Kara’s chest ache more than if she had asked.

But thenLena’s brow furrows slightly. “I thought you were from Midvale. That’s what the official roster says.”

Kara’s fingers twitch under the water. She hadn’t meant to say Alaska. Hadn’t meant to let anything slip.

She shrugs, keeping her voice casual. “I am. That’s where I grew up.” There’s a beat, then, quieter, “I’m adopted.”

Lena’s eyes flicker with something—curiosity, understanding, something gentler than Kara expects. But she doesn’t press.

Instead, she just nods, like it makes perfect sense. “Midvale suits you.”

Kara swallows, not sure what to do with the warmth curling in her chest. She forces a smirk, tipping her head toward Lena. “Yeah? And what about you? Metropolis, right?”

Lena smiles, but it’s small, something unreadable behind it. “Something like that.”

And just like that, the balance shifts again. Neither of them press. Neither of them ask. But something between them settles—unspoken, understood.

Kara licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry despite the humidity pressing in around her. It’s the heat. Definitely the heat.

She’s not staring. She’s not. But her eyes keep catching on things—on the sharp cut of Lena’s collarbone, on the barely-there freckles scattered across her shoulders, on the way a single drop of water trails from her neck down to disappear beneath the dark fabric of her swimsuit.

She shifts, forcing herself to look away, to focus on the sound of Lena’s voice instead. It helps. And it doesn’t.

“That accent,” Kara blurts out before she can stop herself. “I can’t place it.”

Lena hums, tilting her head, watching Kara in that way that makes her feel both studied and utterly transparent.

“Good ear,” Lena muses. “Most people don’t notice.”

Kara scoffs. “Please. It’s barely there, but it’s there.” She leans in slightly, narrowing her eyes like it’ll help her pinpoint it. “It’s not British, not anything obvious. It’s just… something.”

Lena’s lips twitch. “It’s a mix. My mother was Irish. I spent some time there when I was younger, but I grew up in Metropolis. It faded. Mostly.”

Kara nods, but there’s something about the way Lena says mother that makes her pause. Something about the way she leans back against the edge of the tub, her arms draped along the sides, composed but distant.

“You said your mother was Irish,” Kara says carefully.

Lena glances at her, just for a second, before looking away. “I was adopted,” she says, simple, factual, like she’s said it a hundred times but never once meant it. “By the Luthors.”

Something flickers in Kara’s chest. She doesn’t know what to say to that—if there’s anything to say at all.

A beat of silence stretches between them, water lapping gently against the sides of the tub. The steam curls between them, thick with something unspoken.

Kara doesn’t elaborate further on her own adoption. Neither does Lena.

But something shifts. Something neither of them quite know how to name.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than before. Not in a bad way—just… different.

Lena doesn’t press, doesn’t ask the kinds of questions Kara’s used to people asking when they find out she’s adopted. She just looks at her, something thoughtful in her expression, something that makes Kara’s chest feel tight.

She clears her throat, pushing through the weight of it. “So,” she says, forcing a smirk, “is this where I find out you have some deep, dark secret? Some crime against humanity, like… I don’t know, putting ketchup on mac and cheese?”

Lena’s lips twitch, and just like that, the weight between them shifts into something easier. “That’s disgusting.”

Kara grins. “So it’s a no then?”

“Of course it’s a no. I have taste.”

Kara hums, as if considering. “Debatable.”

Lena scoffs, shaking her head, and for a second, Kara thinks she’s let it go. But then Lena tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What about you?”

Kara blinks. “What about me?”

Lena leans in just a fraction. “Your deep, dark secret. You’re deflecting, Kara.”

Kara’s brain stalls at the question.

Deep, dark secrets.

Her stomach twists, because she has them—more than she knows what to do with. Things she never says out loud, things no one else would ever understand. Things that sit heavy in her chest, buried beneath years of silence and half-truths.

She thinks of Krypton, Alaska. Of her parents. Of what she lost, what she ran from, what still lingers in the spaces between who she is and who she pretends to be.

And some part of her—some part of her—wants to tell Lena.

She doesn’t know why.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she forces a smirk, stretching into something easy. Something safe.

“Well,” she says, injecting just the right amount of dramatics into her tone, “if I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore, would they?”

Lena’s eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them, but she doesn’t push. “Oh, come on,” she says instead, smirking. “I told you I was adopted. You owe me something.”

Kara huffs, pretending to consider. “Fine,” she says, lifting a finger. “But only because I’m feeling generous.”

Lena rolls her eyes, but she’s still smirking. “Get on with it, Danvers.”

Kara grins, shifting in the water. “I love caramel lattes.”

Lena blinks. “That’s your deep, dark secret?”

“Yes,” Kara says, grinning wider. “It’s very serious, Lena.”

Lena exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer charming.”

“That’s debatable.”

Kara just grins, heart lighter than before, grateful—maybe more than she should be—that Lena let it go.

Eventually, the conversation ebbs, giving way to a quiet that isn’t uncomfortable but something else—something softer, more fragile, balanced on the edge of something Kara doesn’t dare name.

Lena exhales, tilting her head back, exposing the sharp curve of her jaw, the line of her throat. “I should call it a night,” she says, stretching her arms over the ledge of the tub. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

Kara swallows, her mouth suddenly dry again despite being surrounded by water. “Yeah,” she manages, a beat too late. “Early morning.”

Lena hums, then, without ceremony, moves to climb out of the tub.

Kara doesn’t mean to stare. She really doesn’t.

But then Lena is standing, water cascading down pale skin, glistening in the dim light. The one-piece clings to her, droplets trailing over collarbones and down the line of her spine. Her dark hair, heavy and wet, drapes over one shoulder, exposing the long, elegant curve of her neck.

Kara swallows again, heat crawling up her throat, and looks away. Anywhere but at Lena. Anywhere but at the slow, deliberate way she towels off, pushing damp strands of hair back from her face, fingers dragging against her own skin in a way that—

Kara needs to go. Right now.

She forces herself to move, standing in one swift motion. A mistake, maybe, because Lena’s gaze flickers over her, just for a second, sharp and assessing, before she smooths her expression back into something unreadable.

“Goodnight, Danvers,” Lena murmurs, voice low, something almost amused beneath it.

Kara nods, shoulders tense, fingers clenched a little too tightly around the railing. “Yeah,” she says, stepping out of the tub. “Night, Lena.”

Their rooms are on the same floor. They’ll be walking the same way.

Kara pretends she isn’t aware of it.

Kara barely makes it through the hotel hallway before she’s bursting into the room, still damp from the hot tub, hair dripping onto the carpet. Alex is sprawled on her bed, flipping through channels on the TV, looking far too pleased with herself.

“You sent her,” Kara accuses, pointing a finger at her sister like she’s caught her red-handed.

Alex doesn’t even look up. “Sent who?”

“You know who,” Kara huffs, crossing her arms. “Lena. She showed up at the hot tub and said you told her where to find me.”

Alex finally spares her a glance, eyes raking over Kara before her lips quirk. “Huh. So that’s why you look like you just saw God.”

Kara groans, rubbing her face with both hands. “Alex.”

Alex shrugs, wholly unrepentant. “She asked where you were. I told her.”

“That’s not—” Kara stops, narrowing her eyes. “Did she ask where I was? Or did you just volunteer the information?”

Alex grins, leaning back against the pillows. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” Kara exclaims, then falters. “I mean—no. I don’t know.” She drags a hand through her wet hair, exasperated. “You sent her.”

“Look, I just did what any good sister would do.” Alex smirks. “I helped.”

Kara groans again, grabbing a pillow from her bed and launching it at Alex, who dodges easily, laughing.

“So,” Alex drawls, amusement clear in her voice. “How was the hot tub?”

Kara throws herself face-first onto the bed. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Kara’s muffled groan is all the response Alex gets.

Alex is still smirking when Kara rolls onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “You gonna tell me what happened, or am I gonna have to assume the worst?”

Kara glares at her. “The worst?”

Alex wiggles her eyebrows. “C’mon, you come back looking like that, all flushed and short-circuiting—”

“I was in a hot tub,” Kara grits out.

“Uh-huh.” Alex hums, clearly not buying it. “And Lena just happened to join you?”

Kara throws an arm over her face, groaning. “She said she wanted us to get to know each other better. As driver and mechanic.”

Alex snorts. “Right. Strictly professional.”

“Alex.”

“I’m just saying, if my mechanic looked at me the way you look at Lena, I’d want to get to know them better too.”

Kara snaps her head toward her, eyes wide. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you do.” Alex grins, sitting up. “Kara, I’ve seen you look at a lot of things with love, interest, lust— in your eyes—food, your car, the finish line. But Lena?” She lets out a low whistle. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that.”

Kara’s mouth opens, then closes. “I don’t—” she tries again, but the words don’t come. She doesn’t have an argument, not one she can convince herself of.

Alex watches her for a beat, then softens, patting Kara’s leg. “Look, I’m just messing with you. Mostly.”

Kara scowls.

Alex laughs, shaking her head. “Just—don’t overthink it too much, okay? Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. You’ll figure it out.”

Kara exhales, long and slow. “Yeah.”

Alex stretches across the space of their beds, gives her a final pat, then moves back to her own bed to settle. “Night, nerd.”

Kara mutters something unintelligible in response, but Alex is already half-asleep.

Kara, though, stays awake.

She lies there in the quiet of the hotel room, staring at the ceiling, her mind refusing to settle. Every time she closes her eyes, all she sees is green—every shade of Lena’s eyes, from the deep emerald when she’s guarded to the almost translucent jade when the light hits just right.

She thinks about the way Lena’s accent curls around certain words, the way her voice is both sharp and smooth, laced with something Kara still can’t place.

She thinks about Lena in the hot tub, water glistening against porcelain skin, dark hair slicked back, lips curved in that knowing, unreadable way.

She thinks about how Lena didn’t press when she admitted she was adopted, how she let it go without prying, how she didn’t demand more than Kara was willing to give.

She doesn’t know what to make of any of it.

But for the first time in a long time, Kara doesn’t try to force herself to figure it out.

She lets the thoughts swirl, lets the weight of the day pull her under, and with the quiet whisper of green lingering in her mind, she drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

“It’s amazing how many times you have to lose in order to win.”

-Richard Petty

April 23^rd, 2016

Kara wakes up too warm.

The hotel room is quiet, save for the steady hum of the AC and the occasional rustle of sheets as Alex shifts in her sleep. The air is cool, but Kara’s skin feels flushed, heat pooling beneath the layers of the comforter. The curtains are drawn, but pale morning light slips through the edges, tracing soft golden lines across the ceiling.

For a moment, she doesn’t move.

She lingers in that half-conscious haze—not quite dreaming, not fully awake. Time stretches, thick and drowsy, and for a few blissful seconds, her mind is empty. No thoughts. No weight. No distractions.

But then, like a slow, creeping tide, the past few days come back to her. And with them—Lena.

Kara groans, rolling onto her stomach and shoving her face into the pillow. Because it’s been days since that night in the hot tub. Since Lena had been there—so close, so effortlessly composed while Kara sat there, unraveling. Since Kara had let something slip that she hadn’t meant to say, hadn’t meant to feel.

And since then?

It’s been worse.

Thursday. Friday. Every moment since has been tinged with something she can’t quite name.

It’s in the way Lena looks at her sometimes—not teasing, not sharp, but something else entirely. Something softer, heavier. Something that curls into the back of Kara’s mind and refuses to leave.

Like Thursday, in the garage, when Kara had been discussing setups with Winn and felt it—the distinct awareness of being watched. She’d glanced up and—Lena. Watching.

Not smirking. Not saying anything. Just watching. And Kara had felt it.

Or yesterday, when she’d spotted Lena across the infield, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed as she studied something on her tablet. Kara had barely glanced over—barely—but Lena had looked up immediately. Their eyes met.

Kara should have looked away.

She didn’t.

She held Lena’s gaze a second too long before forcing herself to focus back on her own work. But even after turning away, she felt it. The weight of it. The awareness.

And then last night—after everything, after the long day and final team check-ins—Kara had been heading toward the elevators when Lena had passed by.

Nothing had happened. They hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t even paused. Just a brief flicker of movement, a passing glance. But Lena’s eyes had found her. One look—fleeting, unreadable. Nothing, really.

And yet Kara had felt her whole stomach twist up in knots. She doesn’t understand it. And she doesn’t want to. Which is why she forces herself upright now, rubbing a hand over her face, exhaling sharply. Because it’s race weekend. And she has a job to do.

Kara moves through her morning routine on autopilot. Brushing her teeth. Splashing cold water on her face. Pulling on sweats and an oversized hoodie, tugging the sleeves down over her hands. She tells herself she feels fine. Normal. That today is just like any other race weekend.

Except it isn’t.

Because something has been off all week.

She can feel it in her chest, in the way her mind keeps circling back to things she shouldn’t be thinking about. In the way Lena keeps happening—just appearing at the exact wrong moments, looking too put together, too sharp, too present.

Kara exhales sharply, yanking a baseball cap over her head and shoving her feet into sneakers, barely bothering to tie them.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. She just needs to get through the day. And maybe, if she’s lucky—(She won’t be.)—she won’t run into Lena.

Kara almost makes it. Almost. But the second she steps into the hallway—so does Lena. Kara freezes.Because this—this keeps happening.

The steakhouse. Their knees brushing under the table, Lena’s voice slipping into something teasing, something that still lingers in Kara’s head. That night, the hotel hallway. That glance, that question Lena had asked—Would it bother you if I was?—and the way Lena had looked at her.

The hot tub. The way Lena had listened when Kara spoke, like it mattered. The way she had been so close, and Kara had let herself feel it. And now? Now it’s Saturday, and Kara is still caught in it.

She doesn’t know if it’s coincidence or fate or some cruel joke the universe is playing on her.

All she knows is that Lena is standing there, fresh from a shower, damp hair curling at her collarbone, wearing a fitted beige sweater and dark jeans like she didn’t just step straight out of Kara’s subconscious and into reality.

And Kara has no idea what to do with that.

Lena’s gaze flickers over her, sharp and unreadable, but lingering. Kara knows she looks like a mess. Oversized hoodie. Cap pulled low. Sneakers barely tied. Barely awake.

And yet—somehow—Lena looks at her like she’s seeing something Kara doesn’t understand. Something Kara can’t parse. Lena tilts her head slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite anything else, either.

“Morning, Danvers.”

Kara’s brain stalls—like she’s miscalculated a shift, like she’s about to send herself straight into the wall. Her stomach tightens—not with nerves, not with embarrassment, but with something worse. Because it’s not just the words. It’s the way Lena says them.

Low, smooth—like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And Kara? Kara needs to get out of here. She could just nod. Could walk past her like it’s nothing. Could keep her footing, keep her balance, keep from slipping. But she doesn’t.

Because Lena looks at her again—just for a second, just enough for something unreadable to flicker across her face. And Kara—Kara panics.

She mutters something vaguely resembling a response—something completely incoherent, something humiliatingly weak. Then, instead of handling this like a normal person, she does the absolute worst thing possible.

She turns straight back into her hotel room.

Like a coward.

Like an actual coward.

She shuts the door too fast, too loud, presses her back against it, heart pounding in her ears.

What the hell was that?

For a second, she just stands there. Still processing. Still short-circuiting. Then—From the hallway. A soft exhale of amusement. Muffled through the door, but unmistakable. Lena. Kara groans, burying her face in her hands.

Great. Just great.

She is never going to hear the end of this.

And worse? She is never going to stop thinking about it.

Kara stands against the door, heart pounding, trying to breathe like a normal person.

That did not just happen.

That did not just happen.

Except—it did.

She actually panicked. Actually turned around and fled like a complete idiot. From Lena. Because Lena looked at her. Because Lena exists. Because Lena keeps being there, at the exact wrong moment, looking the exact wrong way, making Kara feel things she doesn’t know how to process. She groans into her hands, willing herself to get it together.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

Lena probably doesn’t even care. She’s probably already forgotten about it.

(She hasn’t.)

And Kara knows that’s a lie. Because Lena is too perceptive. Too intelligent. She notices everything.

And if she noticed this? If she noticed Kara’s completely ridiculous reaction?

Kara is doomed.

She stays there, pressed against the door, arguing with herself in the silence of the hotel room. She could stay here. Just for a little while. Just until she’s sure Lena is gone.

But then what? She’d still have to see her at the track. Still have to deal with whatever this is. She groans again, dragging a hand down her face.

Get it together, Danvers.

This is just another day. Just another race weekend. Just another person on your team.

(Just another person she cannot stop thinking about.)

She pushes herself off the door. Rolls her shoulders. Forces herself to move. The sooner she gets to the track, the sooner she can drown all of this out in engine noise and speed.

With a sharp inhale, she grabs her bag, steels herself, and finally steps back into the hallway.

And—

(The hallway is empty.)

She exhales.

Good. Good.

Maybe she’s luckier than she thought.

Kara steps out, pulling the door shut behind her, and forces herself forward—toward the elevator, toward the track, toward the one thing she knows she can control.

By the time Kara steps into the elevator, the moment has passed. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself. The ride down is quiet, save for the occasional ping of passing floors.

She forces her breathing to even out. Focuses on the steady hum of the elevator. On the weight of her bag against her shoulder. On anything but what just happened.

The doors slide open to the buzzing hotel lobby—a blur of movement and sound. Crew members huddled around coffee cups, some still half-asleep, others already running through the day ahead. Media personnel adjusting camera angles, setting up for the long stretch of coverage. Team PR reps typing furiously on their phones, already miles ahead in their schedules.

The world is moving forward. And Kara? She needs to move with it. She adjusts the brim of her cap and steps outside.

Cool, damp air hits her immediately—thick with lingering moisture from last night’s rain. It smells like rain-soaked asphalt. Like gasoline hanging in the air from late-night transport trucks. Like the city waking up around them.

She breathes it in. Feels the familiar thrum of Saturday settle into her bones.

This. This is normal. The chaos of the paddock. The hum of the garage. The weight of expectation. This is what she knows.

Not Lena’s voice in the morning. Not the sharp intelligence behind green eyes. Not the way Lena’s presence lingers long after she’s gone.

Kara squares her shoulders, tightening her grip on her bag. She spots the waiting team SUV just ahead and starts toward it. Focus on the track.

Not on Lena. Not on anything else. The SUV door shuts behind her, sealing her inside the quiet hum of the vehicle.

For a moment, it’s still. The low vibration of the engine. The occasional click of a turn signal. The faint voices of her teammates in the seats behind her.

Kara exhales, pressing her head back against the seat. This is fine. This is normal. She’ll get to the track. She’ll go through her pre-race routine. She’ll lock in. That’s all that matters.

James turns in the passenger seat up front, throwing a glance at her. “You good?”

Kara nods. “Yeah. Just tired.”

James hums like he doesn’t quite buy it, but doesn’t push. From her other side, Winn stretches his arms behind his head. “So, anyone else notice our dear leader Cat Grant actually seems in a decent mood this morning? Do we think this is a trap?”

James snorts. “It’s definitely a trap.”

Kara forces a laugh, but it’s distracted, distant. She should be listening. Should be keeping up with the conversation. But her mind isn’t here. It’s still back at the hotel. Still caught on a soft exhale of amusement from the other side of her door.

She shoves the thought down, harder this time. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.

She stares out the window, watching the city blur by. Ivy Town waking up. The streets stretching toward the speedway. The quiet before everything shifts into high gear.

She breathes. Focuses. Race weekend. The job. The one thing she can control. The SUV slows as they approach the infield entrance, security waving them through.

Kara sits up straighter. Game face. Time to work. The moment Kara steps out of the SUV, the world sharpens.

The quiet of the car disappears instantly, replaced by the sounds of the infield already waking up. The low rumble of generators. The clank of metal tools being pulled from storage. The steady thrum of conversation, voices layering over each other, team radios already crackling to life. It smells like oil and rubber, like gasoline thick in the morning air.

She adjusts her bag, shifts into motion.

James and Winn fall into step beside her, talking about something—she’s not really listening. Not yet.

Not when the garage is just ahead.

She rolls her shoulders, stretches her fingers, focuses on the feel of solid ground beneath her feet. She needs to be locked in. Needs to be present.

Because in a few seconds, she’ll be in the thick of it. And if she’s lucky—(She won’t be.)—she won’t have to think about Lena Luthor for the rest of the day. Even if that’s irrational because she’s going to the garage— we’re mechanics typically are.

The moment Kara steps into the garage, the world sharpens. The scent of hot metal, brake dust, and coolant lingers in the air, mixing with the faint, acrid bite of welding fumes from somewhere down the row. The air is thick with heat already, even this early, carrying the lingering sharpness of rubber from fresh tire stacks.

The clatter of impact wrenches echoes from a nearby bay, punctuated by the low, mechanical whirr of a drill. Someone—probably Sam—calls for a tire gauge, and Kara catches Jack laughing at something Kelly says as he loads a jack into position.

This is where she belongs.

She falls into step beside James and Winn, adjusting the strap of her bag as they pass by a group at the workbench—Kenny and Nia reviewing data on a laptop, Brainy hovering over them like they might input something wrong at any second.

Routine. Familiar. Safe.

Except— Nothing feels normal anymore. Not when Lena is already here.

Not when Kara has spent two full days trying not to think about her, only to have the universe shove them into each other’s path the second she walked out of her room.

Lena stands near the car, clipboard in hand, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed as she studies something on the tablet propped against her hip.

She looks like nothing happened.

Like she hadn’t just witnessed Kara have a full-body malfunction in a hotel hallway. Kara should be relieved. But she isn’t. Because she knows Lena. And Lena doesn’t forget things.

Kara forces herself forward, pushes past it, steps deeper into the garage.

She’s fine.

This is fine.

She grips the strap of her bag a little tighter. Keeps moving. Keeps her expression neutral. But then—She catches Cat watching her. Leaning against a tool chest, arms crossed, smirking like she knows exactly what’s going on. Kara doesn’t react. Just keeps walking. Because if she acknowledges it—That means it’s real.

And Kara is not ready for that.

——

The garage is a controlled kind of chaos, but Kara knows how to tune it out when she needs to. She leans against the workbench, arms crossed over her chest, listening as Winn and Brainy run through the latest adjustments.

“The rear is still a little loose coming off two,” Winn says, tapping the tablet screen. “We dialed in the wedge, but you might still need to feather the throttle more than you like.”

“Track temp’s rising,” Brainy adds. “We expect a half-degree increase before practice starts.” He glances at Lena, standing next to him, eyes flicking over the numbers on his screen. “That will affect balance, but—”

“We’ll compensate,” Lena says smoothly, not looking up. “I already had Sam adjust the track bar slightly. It should keep the car neutral enough for her entry.”

Kara should be focused on the adjustments.But instead—she’s focused on Lena’s sleeves pushed up again, the way she gestures with the stylus, the way she’s already anticipated the changes Kara will need.

She shakes it off, clears her throat. “So I should be able to get back to throttle earlier in one and two?”

Lena finally glances up. “If you’re smart about it.”

Kara levels her with a look. “I’m always smart about it.”

Lena just hums, unimpressed. “I suppose we’ll see.”

James snorts. “Well, at least the flirting is out in the open now.” Kara chokes.

Lena doesn’t even blink. “If that’s what you think flirting looks like, Olsen, I feel sorry for you.” James just grins.

Kara, still short-circuiting, decides it’s absolutely time to get into her fire suit. “Okay, I’m done with this conversation.” She pushes off the workbench, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of her neck. “I’ll be back in five.”

As she walks away, she doesn’t look back.

(She doesn’t have to. She knows Lena is still watching.)

——

Kara tugs at the sleeves of her fire suit, rolling her shoulders to loosen the stiffness settling in her muscles. The material is snug, familiar—a second skin she’s worn a hundred times before.

Something grounding. Something solid. She exhales slowly, adjusting the Velcro at her wrists, letting the familiar routine settle her. Helmet’s on the table. Gloves folded next to it.

The hum of the garage fills the space around her—crew members moving in and out, voices layering over each other, the low murmur of strategy being discussed over the radio.

She should feel locked in. Focused. Ready. Instead—She’s aware of green eyes flickering somewhere behind her. She hasn’t looked yet. Doesn’t need to. She just knows.

Focus.

She presses her lips together, grabs her gloves, and turns—Just as Cat steps toward her.

“Time for the press gauntlet, Rookie,” Cat says, handing her a bottle of water. “Try not to say anything that’ll get you fined.”

Kara groans, taking a swig. “Define ‘fined.’”

Cat levels her with a look. “Don’t punch a reporter.”

Kara wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and grins. “No promises.”

——

The press area is already set up just outside the garage, a half-circle of reporters and media personnel waiting like a pack of wolves. Kara steps into the space, her media smile falling into place automatically.

The first few questions are exactly what she expects.

“Kara, how are you feeling heading into Ivy Town after that Fawcett win?”

She gives the polished answer—how the team’s momentum is strong, how she’s feeling good about the car, how she’s focused on keeping the positive energy rolling.

Then comes the next round.

“You had a strong finish last week. Do you feel like the expectations are higher now?”

“This is your second short track in a row—do you approach Ivy Town differently than Fawcett?”

“Are you looking ahead to Atlantis at all, or are you taking it one race at a time?”

Her answers are measured, careful.

But that last question—Atlantis—sticks somewhere deep in her ribs. She doesn’t let it show. Doesn’t react. Moves on. More questions. More cameras flashing. And then—a shift.

Because now, it’s not just about racing. Now, it’s about her.

“Kara, we’ve seen some changes on your team’s roster—how has it been working with your new car chief and mechanic?” The air thickens, just slightly.

Kara’s grip tightens around the water bottle. She knows where this is going. She forces an easy smile, shifting her weight. “Lena’s great. Knows her stuff. The car’s been in good hands.” It should be enough.

It isn’t.

“There was some skepticism about her appointment given her last name—how has that dynamic been for you?”

Kara exhales through her nose, keeps her expression neutral. “I don’t hire the team. I just drive the car.” A shrug. Casual. Dismissive. “And the car runs well.” It’s a calculated answer. It’s also not the whole truth. But she’s not about to open that door for them.

Another reporter jumps in, pressing the point.

“You and Lena have been seen talking a lot in the garage—does she take a more hands-on approach than your previous car chief?”

Kara doesn’t hesitate. “She’s involved.” Simple. Safe. Nothing more, nothing less. “Knows what she’s doing.” The words should feel neutral. Should feel safe.

But the second they leave her mouth, she swears she can feel Lena watching her. She doesn’t look. Doesn’t have to.

The media moves on, eventually wrapping up with the standard “good luck today” send-offs. Kara nods, smiles, takes the out as fast as she can.

She steps away from the cameras, back toward the garage—And straight into Lena’s line of sight. Lena is watching her. Not with amusement. Not with smugness. Not with anything Kara expects. Just—watching.

Kara exhales sharply. Keeps walking. Because practice is next. And if there’s anywhere she can drown this all out, it’s behind the wheel.

——

Kara slides into the car, the familiar pressure of the seat grounding her instantly. The belts click tight, snug across her shoulders, locking her in place. Helmet on. Gloves tight. Hands steady. This is where she feels most like herself.

She flexes her fingers against the wheel, feeling the grain of the suede, the resistance of the power steering, the slight give in the gas pedal as she presses it down just enough to test the response. The radio crackles.

“Alright, Danvers,” Cat’s voice comes through first, sharp and clear. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Kara inhales slow and deep, lets the world outside the car fade away, and rolls down pit road. A crew member—James—signals her out.

She presses onto the throttle, easing the car into speed, merging up onto the racing surface. And the second she’s fully up to pace, she knows. This car is completely different from Fawcett.

At Fawcett, practice had been a disaster. The car had been tight as hell, plowing through corners like a freight train, refusing to rotate. But this? This is not that.

This car is smooth. Balanced. Almost effortless. It cuts into the corners like it’s reading her mind, holds steady through the center, and rolls off clean, precise, responsive.

She presses in, pushes harder, sends the car deep into Turn 1 at full commitment—And it sticks. Perfectly. Like Lena already knew exactly what she needed for this track.

She swallows, adjusting her grip on the wheel as she dives into Turn 3, rolling back into the gas sooner than she should, just to test it. The rear steps out just slightly—not too much, just enough to feel it. A controlled slip. A note for later. She catches the car effortlessly, resets.

The radio clicks. “Got a car high—10’s riding the outside,” Nia’s voice cuts in, steady and clear.

Kara flicks her eyes up, spying the No. 10 machine creeping along the high groove. She stays low, hugging the inside line through Turns 1 and 2, letting the other car roll past.

Then, on the backstretch, she sets back in. Breathing even. Hands light. Body completely in sync with the machine beneath her.

“How’s it feeling, Danvers?” Cat again, even, expectant.

Kara keys the radio. “Feels good. Real good. Just a little snug through the center.” There’s a pause. A quiet crackle. Then—

“Copy that.” Lena.

Kara jerks the wheel just slightly, the car snapping a little looser than intended. And in her ear, she swears she hears Cat snort. She grits her teeth, adjusts. Plays it off.

Focus.

But her pulse kicks up anyway.

Because Lena sounds different over the radio.

Crisp. Collected. Measured in a way that sits somewhere between analytical and knowing. Like she’s already figured something out about Kara that Kara hasn’t figured out herself.

A car blows past on the outside, and Kara exhales sharply, resetting into rhythm. She takes another lap, settling back in. Trying to shake it off. But she can’t stop thinking about it.

——

The next few laps are clean, consistent, but Kara can feel where she needs more. It’s subtle—a little extra free-roll on entry, a fraction more throttle response mid-corner.

The car is good. Really good. But it’s not perfect.

Kara flicks her eyes to the mirror—a few cars cycling through laps behind her.

The 42 and 91 are working the top groove, testing the outer lane. The 8 rolls past on the inside, digging hard out of Turn 4. The track is rubbering in. Changing. She’s feeling it.

She keys the radio. “Still a tick tight in the center, could use some help getting back to power sooner.”

A pause. Then—“Understood.” Lena again.

Kara knows what that means. She doesn’t need to see her to know exactly what she’s doing.

She can picture it—Lena, standing over the monitors, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, already working through solutions before Kara even pulls onto pit road. Already calculating, already making adjustments in her head. Already three steps ahead.

That thought does something to her. Something she shoves down. Because the car is good. Better than she expected. And she can’t stop thinking about why.

How the hell does Lena already know exactly what she needs?

She doesn’t know. But she can’t stop feeling it. And that? That’s dangerous.

——

Kara rolls down pit road, foot light on the brakes, guiding the car into the stall with practiced ease.

She hits her marks. The moment she stops, the crew is already in motion. Sam springs forward first, reaching over the hood to adjust the track bar, while James moves to the right side tires, tweaking pressures.

Kenny kneels by the fuel intake, ready, but waiting—this isn’t a full stop, just adjustments. Kelly stands by, hand resting on the spare set of tires, ready for any last-minute changes. Jack is near the jack, not lifting yet, just monitoring. Brainy is flipping through telemetry data on a tablet, calculating the exact degree of change needed.

And then— There’s Lena. Standing just past the nose of the car, clipboard tucked under one arm, completely focused. She’s talking to Sam, pointing to something on the setup sheet, her expression sharp, thoughtful.

Kara watches her. She doesn’t mean to. But she does. Because Lena doesn’t look like a Luthor right now. She looks like a mechanic. Like someone who’s always belonged here. Not just someone trying to prove she does.

Her sleeves are pushed up, exposing a streak of grease along her forearm. Her hair is pulled back in that effortless way that makes her look just a little too good. She’s talking fast, not because she’s rushed—but because she’s already three steps ahead.

Kara can’t stop looking. And then Lena looks back. It’s brief—a flicker of green, sharp and assessing. And Kara— Kara’s stomach twists.

Because Lena knows. Knows she’s watching. Knows exactly what she’s doing. Before Kara can even process that, Lena steps closer. Leans down just slightly. And then—through the radio, directly in Kara’s ear—“We’re freeing it up a tick. You’ll have more rotation in the center.”

Her voice is measured, even. But Kara swears—swears—there’s something else there. Something subtle. Something that makes her grip the wheel a little tighter.

She clears her throat, flicking the radio switch. “Copy.”

Lena doesn’t say anything else. Just nods, steps back, and goes right back to work. Like she hadn’t just— Kara exhales sharply.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

The crew finishes up, the car drops down, and Kara rolls back onto the track.

——

Kara picks up speed, rolling into Turn 1, and—Rao. It’s good. So good. The adjustment is exactly what she needed. She doesn’t have to fight the wheel anymore.

Doesn’t have to muscle the car through the center, doesn’t have to compensate for a setup that isn’t working with her. The rear rotates just enough, letting her roll into the gas sooner, giving her a better drive-off without losing stability.

It’s damn near perfect.

She exhales through her nose, presses in a little harder, testing it. Searching for something to complain about. She doesn’t find one. The car just works.

She keys the radio. “Car’s good,” she says, and she means it. For a second, there’s only static. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible sound through the radio. A quiet, approving hum.

“Understood.” Simple. Clean. Professional.

And Kara, she doesn’t know why that makes something curl in her chest. All she knows is that this practice is nothing like Fawcett.

And Lena is nothing like she expected.

——

Kara settles into a rhythm. Lap after lap, she works the car through the turns. Testing. Adjusting. Pushing.

The Ivy Town surface is slick, well-worn under years of racing and weather. Each pass, the tires lay down rubber, changing the balance—grip building, the car responding differently with every lap. The car is fast. Smooth. Exactly what she needs it to be. And she can’t get that out of her head.

Because last week? Last week, the car was a fight. She spent practice wrestling a setup that wouldn’t turn. Stuck with a car chief who wasn’t listening. Trapped in a machine that felt like it belonged to someone else.

Now?

Now it feels like home. And the only thing that’s changed—Is Lena.

She doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know what to do with the way Lena figured her out so fast. She keys the radio.

“Track’s coming to us. Feels better every lap.”

Lena’s response is instant. “Understood.” And Kara— She swallows hard.

Because Lena sounds so sure. Not questioning. Not second-guessing. Just knowing. Like she expected this. Like she already knows Kara better than she should.

Kara exhales sharply, adjusts her line.

Focus.

This—this is too much. She presses deeper into the throttle, letting muscle memory take over. Trying to drown out the sound of Lena’s voice still lingering in her ear.

——

After another long run, Cat finally calls her in. “Alright, Danvers. Let’s see what else we can get out of it.”

Kara eases off the gas, lets the car coast down to pit road speed, watching the RPMs settle as she guides it back into the stall. The moment she stops— Lena is already there. Standing just outside the pit box, clipboard in one hand, gloves tucked into the other.

Waiting.

Kara can’t read her expression. Which is worse. The crew moves around her, adjusting pressures, checking tire wear, cooling the brakes.

Lena? Lena is focused. She leans down, inspecting something near the front splitter, fingertips brushing the edge of the nose, before turning to Brainy, exchanging a quiet few words.

And then—without hesitation—Lena steps toward her. Right up to the car. She leans in, voice low, measured. “Anything else you need?”

And Kara—She doesn’t know why that makes her chest feel tight. Because Lena isn’t playing a game. She isn’t smirking. She isn’t teasing. She isn’t doing anything Kara has come to expect from her. She’s just asking. And for some reason— That feels heavier than anything else.

Kara clears her throat, forces herself to focus. “Car’s good,” she says. “Real good.”

Lena’s lips press together, something flickering behind her eyes. Approval. Maybe.

But then—Just like that—Lena nods, steps back, and moves on. Kara exhales slowly, gripping the wheel just a little too tight. Because she has a feeling this isn’t the last time Lena is going to throw her off balance today.

——

The moment Kara climbs out of the car, the heat and weight of the fire suit hit her all at once. The Ivy Town air is humid, sticky, wrapping around her like a second skin.

She rolls her shoulders, peeling the top half down to her waist, tying the sleeves around her hips.

The garage is a controlled chaos of movement—Engines shutting down. Tool carts rolling past. Other teams packing up, finishing last-minute adjustments before qualifying prep begins.

She swipes the back of her wrist across her forehead, still feeling the warmth of the track clinging to her skin, and makes her way toward the data station.

CatCo Motorsports is already gathering.

Winn, Brainy, and Cat are deep in discussion, Brainy flipping through telemetry on his tablet while Winn nods along. James and Kenny are off to the side, finishing up fuel calculations. And Lena?

Lena is now leaning against the toolbox, arms crossed, listening. Watching. Kara pretends she doesn’t notice. She grabs a bottle of water, twisting off the cap as she plops down into one of the folding chairs.

Cat barely spares her a glance. “Solid run, Rookie.” Kara shrugs, takes a swig.

“Car’s good.” That’s an understatement.

The car is miles better than anything she’s ever practiced in. And she still can’t stop thinking about how that happened so fast.

Winn flicks through a few more screens before looking at her. “Your corner exit speeds were consistent, but we could tighten you up just slightly for later. You had a bit of slip on exit around Lap 27.”

Kara nods, leaning forward, forearms resting on her knees. “Yeah, felt that. It wasn’t bad, just a tick free.”

Lena tilts her head. “Do you want more rear grip, or do you want to keep it aggressive?”

Kara doesn’t answer immediately. Because Lena asked that too easily. Because Lena already knows the answer. She presses her tongue against her molars before saying, “Aggressive.”

Lena smirks—just barely. Like she was waiting for Kara to say it. Like she knew Kara would. And that does something to her. Kara exhales through her nose, breaking eye contact first. She hates that.

Brainy clears his throat, oblivious to whatever just passed between them. “Tire wear was minimal. Long-run stability looked good. We’ll factor in the track temp rising before qualifying.”

Kara nods, running her tongue along her teeth again. “Sounds good.”

The team continues talking strategy, bouncing through details— Race trim adjustments. Qualifying simulations. Minor tweaks for later.

But Kara? Kara is still hyper-aware of Lena standing just a few feet away. Of the way Lena knew exactly how she’d want the car without even needing to ask. She should be annoyed by that.

She’s not. And that’s the problem.

——

The debrief wraps up, the team filtering off— James and Kenny heading toward the infield for food, Winn and Brainy still hovering over the data station, Cat already halfway through a phone call.

Kara doesn’t move right away. She tells herself it’s because she’s still reviewing the data. But really? It’s because she feels off-center.

Something lingers from practice, something she can’t shake— Lena. She breathes out slowly, rolling her shoulders, trying to loosen the tension she isn’t supposed to be feeling.

She just needs a break. A few minutes away from all of it— Away from the car. Away from the garage. Away from—She turns—

And crashes directly into Lena. Not almost. Not just a brush of movement.

A full-body, close-contact, no-space-left-between-them collision. Kara catches herself fast, hands gripping Lena’s upper arms purely on instinct.

Lena—Lena does not move. Doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t even flinch. Just lets Kara collide with her and stays perfectly, completely still.

And now— Now, Kara is very aware of exactly how close they are. Of the fact that her fingers are curling into Lena’s sleeves, fabric bunched between her hands. Of the way Lena’s face is inches from hers. Close enough that Kara can see the flecks of darker green near the center of her irises. The single loose strand of hair slipping free near her temple. The barely-there twitch of her lips. Kara’s throat works around a swallow.

She should step back. She should. But—Lena gets there first. Not by moving away—no. By tilting her head up just slightly. By studying Kara like she’s just discovered something she wasn’t expecting. By letting her gaze flicker, just barely, down to Kara’s mouth. And Kara?

Kara’s brain completely ceases to function. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcasm, no sharp-edged banter for her to latch onto as an excuse. There’s just Lena. Right there. Too close. Looking at her.

Kara exhales—sharp, quick, barely controlled. And then—

She bolts. Untangles herself too fast. Steps back too quickly. Mutters something vaguely resembling an apology. Practically flees in the opposite direction. She doesn’t look back. She refuses to look back.But—

She can still feel it. The way Lena had looked at her. The way she hadn’t moved away. The way the moment is still sitting heavy on Kara’s chest, even after she’s already halfway down the garage. She steps into the lounge, presses both hands against the counter, and breathes.

One second.

She just needs one second. To reset. To pretend like that didn’t just happen. To pretend like she’s fine. But the truth is— She’s absolutely, positively, undeniably not fine. And worse? She has no idea what the hell she’s supposed to do about it.

Kara presses her palms flat against the counter, trying to ground herself. Trying to breathe past the static in her head. The garage isn’t far. But she tells herself it is.

Tells herself she’s far enough away to think straight. She’s lying to herself. Because the moment keeps replaying. The sudden impact. Something about it feels the same as hitting something in the car— Real. Immediate. Unstoppable.

The solid weight of Lena’s body against hers. The way her hands had curled into Lena’s sleeves before she even realized she was holding on. But most of all—Lena’s eyes.

The way they flickered. The way—just barely, just for a second, just enough for Kara to almost convince herself she imagined it—They dropped. To her mouth.

Kara presses her fingers against her temple, hard.

You imagined it. You’re insane. You’ve lost your mind.

Except—She hasn’t. Because it wasn’t just the flicker. It was the way Lena looked at her after. Like she had just figured something out. Like she was waiting for Kara to realize it too.

Kara inhales sharply, drags both hands down her face.

No. No. No. No.

She’s reading too much into it. This isn’t a thing. She’s just—overwhelmed. That’s all.

It’s been a long week. She’s still running on adrenaline from practice. It was a mistake. A moment of bad timing. A coincidence. A flicker. Just a flicker. Nothing more.

Right?

Right.

She nods to herself, like that’ll help. Like that’ll make it real. Except— She still can’t stop thinking about it. She groans under her breath, grabs a bottle of water off the counter, and forces herself to push away from the lounge.

She needs to focus on qualifying. She needs to focus on racing. She needs to get Lena the hell out of her head. Kara steps back into the garage—

And her eyes, completely against her will, immediately find Lena. Lena, standing near the monitors, listening as Brainy goes over adjustments, completely at ease.

Like she isn’t still stuck in Kara’s mind like a bad song.

Kara forces herself to look away. To focus on the car. Because this isn’t a thing. It’s not. And if she keeps telling herself that— Maybe one day, it’ll actually be true.

——

Kara moves with purpose.

Throws herself into the routine of race prep, forcing her focus onto anything but what just happened. Helmet on the workbench. Gloves folded beside it.

She breathes in, slow, steady.

She takes the moment to mentally reset— Or at least, pretend to.

But no matter how much she goes through the motions, she can’t shake the buzz under her skin. The moment in the garage still lingers.

Because it wasn’t just Lena’s eyes flickering to her lips. It was everything. The closeness. The silence.

The way Lena didn’t smirk, didn’t joke, didn’t brush past it. The way she just looked at Kara. Like she was waiting for something. And Kara doesn’t know what that something is.

All she knows is that she needs to get it together. She grips the edge of the workbench, inhaling slow. She’s here to qualify. She’s here to race. That’s it. That’s all it needs to be.But then— Lena speaks.

“We adjusted the wedge slightly.”

Lena’s voice is even, measured—like she hadn’t just taken up residence in Kara’s head. Kara tenses. “You should have a little more security off the corner without tightening you up too much.”

Kara nods automatically. “Good.”

She does not look at her. She refuses to look at her. Because Lena sounds completely unaffected. Because Kara is not. She busies herself instead—checks her gloves, pulls on her balaclava, focuses on anything that isn’t Lena standing right there.

“You good, Danvers?” Cat’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and perceptive.

Kara snaps out of it, forces her game face on. “Yeah.”

Cat doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Then get in the damn car and go put it on the pole.”

Kara exhales, grateful for the push. Because this? This is what she knows. The car. The speed. The hunt for the best lap. Not Lena. Not whatever the hell just happened. She climbs in, straps down, and focuses.

Because once she’s on the track, everything else disappears. At least— That’s what she hopes.

——

Kara eases the car off pit road, grip steady on the wheel. The second the tires meet the racing surface— Everything else fades away.

The garage. The heat. The media obligations. The way Lena looked at her in the garage. None of it matters now. Because now—It’s just her and the track.

She works the tires into temperature, rolling through the first lap to build momentum before coming around to the start-finish line.

The run begins.

She charges into Turn 1, letting the car roll in deep, just shy of overdriving. The front sticks. The rear rotates just enough—Perfect. Quick, clean throttle application off the corner. Backstretch—fast but smooth.

She braces for Turn 3, the trickiest part of the lap. If she gets it right—it’ll set up her entire run. She brings it in deep, just kissing the seam. The car hugs the bottom, rotates effortlessly.

Right to the limit, but never over it. She’s already back to the throttle before the center of the corner. Perfect.

The car powers out of Turn 4, streaking down the front stretch. Green flag lap complete. She pushes again. The second lap could be better—But it could also scrub speed.

She feels the balance shifting. The tires are warming, grip changing— This might be the best the car has in it. She crosses the line. Checkered. The radio crackles. “Nice and smooth,” Nia’s voice comes through. “Looked fast from up here.” Kara lets out a slow breath.

Now— She just has to wait.

But Kara has never been good at waiting.

Kara coasts onto pit road, foot light on the brakes, guiding the car into the stall with practiced ease. The moment the car stops— She exhales. She did everything right.

She unbuckles, slips the wheel off, and climbs out. And suddenly— She feels everything.

The heat trapped beneath her fire suit, the tightness in her shoulders from holding the wheel so firm, the lingering pressure in her fingertips from gripping too hard. Her pulse is still a little too fast. Not from nerves. Not exactly. But from the way qualifying is a different kind of adrenaline. It’s short. Immediate. High-stakes. It’s over before her brain can fully process it.

And now?

Now, she’s just standing in the aftermath. The garage noise rushes back in— Engines idling, tools clanking. The low murmur of teams watching times roll in.

She tugs at the collar of her suit, letting some air in, forcing herself to breathe slower. Kara pulls off her gloves, stuffing them into her helmet as she steps toward the monitor.

Winn is already watching. “Fast lap,” he says immediately. “Right now, you’re P1.”

Kara barely nods. Reaches for a bottle of water. Takes a measured sip. The water is cool, grounding. She’s quick.But is she quick enough?

The garage feels tighter now—qualifying isn’t over, and she knows there are still fast cars left to go. She lets her gaze drift, just for a second—And—Lena is already watching her.

Of course she is. But this time—She isn’t at the data station. She’s closer. Standing near the workbench, one hand resting lightly on the surface, fingers tapping idly against the metal. Not like she’s waiting for something. Like she’s already figured it out. Kara notices. Not just that Lena is watching her. But the way her fingertips move against the workbench—a slow, absent rhythm, like she’s thinking through something complex.

The way her hair catches the light, just slightly off her face—tucked behind one ear, like she’d done it without thinking. The way her collar is slightly askew, like she’d pushed her sleeves up earlier, then changed her mind. The way the smudge of grease on her arm has faded since this morning, but hasn’t completely disappeared.

Like she’s been too busy to notice. Like she’s too focused to care. And for some reason— That gets to Kara more than the staring. Because Lena isn’t just watching. She’s assessing. Processing. Thinking.

And Kara doesn’t know why that feels different. Her grip on the water bottle tightens. A beat passes. Lena’s fingers still against the workbench. Kara’s pulse kicks up in a way she doesn’t like. She forces her focus back on the monitor.

She’s still at the top.

But for how long?

——

Kara keeps her eyes locked on the leaderboard.

Still P1.

She barely blinks, barely breathes, watching as the rest of the field cycles through. One by one, lap times come in. One by one, they fall short.

She holds. Holds. And then—

Zatanna.

Car No. 91 rolls onto the track.

Kara presses her tongue against her molars. She knew this was coming. Zatanna isn’t always the fastest, but when she gets it right—

The first lap flashes onto the board. Close. Too close.

She feels it in her ribs, in the way her breath stalls just slightly. A split second. A fraction of an inch. The second lap. The board flickers.

P2.

Kara exhales, slow and controlled. She tells herself it’s fine. It’s a front-row start, a great position. She’ll have a clean shot at the lead just like at Fawcett. But still—It’s Fawcett all over again. So close. But not enough.

And the worst part? She doesn’t know if she ever will be. The thought digs in deeper than she wants it to. She shakes out her hands, fingers flexing around the water bottle, trying to reset. It’s just a starting position. It doesn’t decide the race.

But it’s not just about the race. It’s about something deeper. Something she doesn’t know how to name. And then—she feels it. That weight. That presence. The quiet, unwavering pull at the edge of her awareness. She doesn’t have to look. She already knows.

Lena.

Still by the monitors. Still quiet. Still watching. Not with amusement. Not with judgment. Not even with that usual unreadable sharpness. Just—watching. Like she sees something Kara doesn’t. Like she’s already figured something out. Like Kara is a puzzle she’s already halfway to solving.

And Kara—she hates that she notices. Hates that it gets under her skin. Hates that the frustration twisting in her chest isn’t just about P2 anymore. It’s about the way Lena sees her. The way Lena understands things without Kara saying them. The way that, somehow, Lena already knows this stings more than Kara will ever admit.

She forces herself to look away first. Rolls out her shoulders. Breathes. But the frustration? It lingers. And worse—So does Lena.

Kara pulls in a slow breath, rolling out her shoulders again  as the final results settle on the board after Barry’s run.

Still P2. It’s good. It’s great, even. But it’s not pole. She tells herself to shake it off, let it go, move on. She knows better than to let qualifying eat at her. Still— It sits there. Just under her skin. She turns back toward the team, forcing herself to move.

James is the first to greet her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Hell of a lap, Danvers.”

Kara smirks automatically. “Not hell enough.”

Cat hums from the side, arms crossed. “It’s a front-row start. It’s a good position.”

She’s right. Kara knows that. She does.

But— Zatanna’s car rolls past on pit road, and Kara catches just enough of her smirk through the helmet visor to feel the irritation bubble up again.

Z doesn’t need to gloat. The way she drives, the way she plays mind games on the track—that’s gloating enough. Kara exhales sharply, tries to let it go.

And then—“Something on your mind?” Lena.

Her voice is level, casual. But something about it makes Kara’s fingers twitch. She turns, meets Lena’s gaze, and— Nothing. No smirk. No teasing lilt. No challenge. Just Lena, watching her. Waiting. And that? That is always worse.

Kara exhales through her nose, shifts her weight. “Nope. Just—thinking about the race.” Lena doesn’t call her on it. But Kara swears—she knows.

Still, all she says is, “Good.” Then, after a beat, softer—“It was a strong lap.” Kara blinks. That’s not nothing.

Lena could’ve said anything else. Could’ve let it go. Could’ve moved on, ignored Kara’s frustration entirely.

Instead—this. Something measured. Something careful. Something Kara isn’t quite sure how to process. She nods, slow. “Yeah. It was.”

Lena holds her gaze for a moment longer, then simply says, “I’ll see you at the hauler.” Then she’s gone.

And Kara— Kara isn’t sure what just happened, isn’t sure what keeps happening.

She stays standing in the garage a second too long. The team moves around her, the steady hum of activity filling the space.

Winn and Brainy are still buried in data, flipping through telemetry and calculating adjustments. James and Kenny are sorting through fuel strategy, murmuring over notes. Cat is already talking about media obligations, clipboard in hand, barely glancing up.

Everything continues. Everything moves forward. But Kara—She’s still stuck.

“It was a strong lap.”

Not a challenge. Not a tease. Not a half-smirked remark meant to get under her skin. Just a simple acknowledgment. Unprompted. Unavoidable. And it shouldn’t bother her. But it does. Because it makes her want something she doesn’t have a name for.

Kara exhales sharply, dragging herself back into the moment, forcing herself to shake it off. “Alright,” she says, clapping her hands together, forcing energy into her voice. “What’s next?”

Winn gives her a look. That too-perceptive, not-gonna-say-anything-but-I-know-you’re-thinking-about-it look.

But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he gestures toward the monitors. “Long-run prep. We’re going to dial in some adjustments for race conditions.”

Cat barely looks up. “And media, Danvers. Don’t forget you still have to smile for the cameras before the night is over.”

Kara groans. “Yeah, yeah. Can’t wait.”

The team regroups. The next steps take shape. And Kara?

She throws herself into it. She reviews the long-run adjustments, listens as Winn breaks down race pace projections, nods along as Brainy outlines strategy calculations. She forces herself forward. But even as she works, even as she focuses, even as she tries to let the frustration go— She knows she’s not fully present.

Because she can still feel it. That damn moment. Lena’s voice in her head. The weight of those four words. And the way they settled in her chest like something permanent.

——

Kara pushes through.

She keeps her head down, checks every box, does everything she’s supposed to do. Media obligations come first. She stands in front of cameras, microphone in hand, rattling off the same polished, predictable answers.

“Car felt great.”

“Team gave me exactly what I needed.”

“We’ll have a strong shot tomorrow.”

All true.

But none of it is what’s actually in her head. She moves on. Regroups with the team.

Winn breaks down long-run pace adjustments, Brainy pulls up data on tire degradation, James and Kenny discuss pit strategy. Kara listens. Participates. Absorbs. She knows this process. Knows how to flip the switch—how to put her energy into something she can control.

But somewhere in the background—Lena is still there. Not speaking much. Not hovering.

Just present. And for some reason—that is twisting something in Kara. Because Kara feels it. Feels the weight of the moment earlier, still sitting under her skin, still unresolved.

And Lena? Lena isn’t giving her an out. She isn’t distracting her. Isn’t smirking. Isn’t giving Kara something to latch onto and push away. She’s just existing in the same space. And somehow, that’s more distracting than anything else.

Kara forces herself to focus. Strategy. Tire wear. Race pace. She nods along, offers input where needed, goes through every motion the way she should. But by the time the last adjustments are logged, by the time the team starts wrapping up, Kara feels like she’s been running at two speeds at once all day.

Like she’s been caught between two different kinds of adrenaline.

One for the race. And one for something else entirely.

She exhales sharply, rolling her neck, trying to force it all into place. The work is done. For now. But tomorrow? Tomorrow is race day.

And Kara is starting to realize— That might not be the only thing she has to survive.

——

The garage is winding down. The last adjustments are noted, finalized, set. The team’s energy shifts—looser now, relaxed in that way that comes after a long day of work. Kara is just about to head for the lounge, thinking about finally getting a moment to breathe, when—

“Alright,” Cat announces, tone sharp, commanding attention. “For dinner—”

The entire team, in perfect unison, replies: “We know. No Waffle House.” It’s automatic.

Because they’ve heard this before—the repeated refrain from Cat Grant, a woman who refuses to eat anywhere that requires laminated menus and whose palate has only ever tolerated fine dining and Michelin stars.

But then—“Actually, that’s exactly where we’re going.”

Dead silence.

Kara blinks. James chokes on his water. Winn looks like he’s just been told the fundamental laws of physics no longer apply. Even Brainy stops whatever complex calculation he’s been running, turns his head, and frowns like the concept itself is illogical.

“…Come again?” James asks, still coughing.

Cat sips her coffee, unfazed. “I’ve decided I want hash browns.” That is, apparently, all the explanation they’re getting.

Sam snorts. “So that’s all it takes? We could’ve been going to Waffle House this whole time?”

“Of course not.” Cat waves a dismissive hand. “I only crave diner food twice a decade. It happens to be tonight. You’re all welcome.”

Winn, still processing: “But—you’re Cat Grant.”

Cat, taking another sip of coffee: “Observant.”

Another pause. Then—“Screw it, I’m in,” Sam says.

James grins. “Alright, Waffle House it is.”

Kara rubs her temples, already bracing for whatever chaos is about to unfold.

——

The restaurant hums with late-night energy, the neon glow from the sign bathing the parking lot in flickering yellow.

Inside, it’s warm, loud, alive. The air is thick with the scent of butter, coffee, and fried everything, clashing in a way that should be overwhelming but somehow just works.

The seating situation is exactly as chaotic as expected—exactly as chaotic as every other time they’ve found themselves in a Waffle House, regardless of the state they’re in. They cram into a too-small booth, voices overlapping as they shuffle into place.

And somehow—Kara ends up directly across from Lena. She doesn’t know how that happened.

(She does. But she’s choosing to pretend she doesn’t.)

Lena, of course, looks completely at ease. She flips through the menu like she isn’t already perfectly aware of what’s on it. Like this is just another normal night, just another normal meal.

And Kara—Kara is too aware. Of the way Lena tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers brushing against the sharp angle of her jaw. Of the way she leans back slightly, gaze flickering across the table, taking everything in. Of the way she glances at Kara. Brief. Subtle. But weighted.

It’s not just that Kara is noticing Lena. It’s that Lena is noticing her, too. And with interest. And that—That doesn’t happen. At least, not like this. Lena has always been perceptive, observant, sharp. She watches everyone, takes in everything. But this? This isn’t the same.

This isn’t the sharp, assessing way Lena studies telemetry. Isn’t the unreadable way she watches during a debrief. Isn’t the teasing way she smirks after saying something deliberately frustrating. This is different.

This is quiet. Measured. Intentional.

Like she’s actually interested.

And Kara—Kara doesn’t know what to do with that. Because what does that mean? Why is Lena watching her like that? Why does it feel like she’s the only thing in the room Lena is paying attention to? She doesn’t have the answer. So she just grabs a menu, flips it open, and pretends she’s reading.

Like she doesn’t already know exactly what she’s ordering. Like she isn’t thinking about this. Like she isn’t still feeling Lena’s gaze on her, even after she looks away.

Kara keeps pretending she’s reading the menu. But she’s not. She’s very much not. Because across from her— Lena is still watching. Not smirking. Not amused. Not waiting for Kara to look away. Just watching. And Kara—Kara never knows what to do with that. Maybe she never will. But maybe—Maybe she doesn’t have to. She forces herself to tune back in.

James is still going on about hash browns. “Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked—”

 “I refuse to let you monologue about potatoes,” Cat interrupts flatly, barely looking up from her coffee.

James grins. “I’m just saying, there’s a hierarchy.”

“You’re just insufferable.”

Kara almost laughs. Almost. But then—She feels it. A light, deliberate press against her ankle. Slow. Measured.

Not like the steakhouse. Not playful. Not a game. Not like Olive Garden. Not subtle. Not just there. This— This is different. Because this time—They both know.

But what they know isn’t just that Lena is watching her. It’s that she isn’t stopping. That this isn’t hesitation. That this isn’t something Kara can pretend and rationalize away.

Lena knows what she’s doing. And Kara—Kara knows it too. Her breath catches. She lifts her gaze—And Lena is already looking at her.

Not pretending. Not hesitating. Not looking away. Lena’s gaze is something new. Not sharp. Not teasing. Not challenging. Just—intentional.

Like she’s already decided something. Like she’s waiting for Kara to realize it too.

Kara should pull back. She always thinks that. Every time. She should have moved at the steakhouse. Should have moved at Olive Garden. Should have moved every single time Lena got too close. But she never did. And now—Now she’s not sure she should. Because something has changed.

Lena’s foot doesn’t press harder. Doesn’t push. Just stays. And Kara— Kara stays too.

The restaurant moves around them. Orders come and go. Plates slide across the table. Silverware clinks against ceramic, conversations overlap, the low hum of the griddle fills the space.

The team is loud, animated, completely engrossed in their own conversations. And Kara? Kara is not paying attention to any of it. Because she and Lena—They are somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere outside the noise. Outside the team, outside whatever this is supposed to be. Lena’s foot still lingers against hers. Neither of them move away. Neither of them acknowledge it. And yet— Kara watches Lena.

Not like before. Not out of suspicion. Not out of curiosity. Not out of that stubborn need to figure her out. No—

This is different. This is careful. Intentional. She catches the details.

The way Lena’s fingers trace the rim of her coffee cup, slow, absentminded. The way her lips part slightly before she speaks, before she shifts her gaze just so. The way her eyes—sharp, intelligent, too knowing—flicker toward Kara, only to stay. And Kara—Kara doesn’t look away.

The conversation at the table blurs. She barely registers James and Winn still bickering over hash browns. She doesn’t notice Cat’s unimpressed sigh at the state of the coffee. She doesn’t hear Kelly teasing Sam about eating too fast. Because Lena is still there. Watching her.

And Kara, somewhere in the back of her mind—She knows. This isn’t fleeting. Isn’t playful. Isn’t something she can brush off. It’s settling into something real. Something she doesn’t have words for. And she doesn’t know if she wants them. But—They’re not the only ones at this table.

Cat’s eyes flicker toward her. Sharp. Assessing. Catching the smallest shifts, the smallest details. And Sam—Sam notices too. The way Kara is too focused. Too still. The way Lena is too composed—but not in the usual way. They don’t say anything. Not yet. But the looks are there.

And Kara and Lena— They don’t notice at all.

It’s not just the staring. Not just the lingering touch. It’s the way the space between them has changed.

Lena shifts, lifting her coffee to take a sip, and Kara follows the movement without meaning to.  Kara twirls her fork between her fingers, and Lena’s gaze flickers down, tracking the absentminded motion. Every movement, every small adjustment, feels like something. And somehow—Neither of them seem to mind.

The conversation shifts. Expands. Kara isn’t sure how it happens, but suddenly—She and Lena are actually talking. Not about racing. Not about the team. Something lighter. Smaller.

(Not the first time. Not quite like the hot tub. But somehow, it still feels different.)

Lena nods toward Kara’s plate. “You’re really getting breakfast for dinner?”

Kara raises a brow, cutting into a waffle. “Lena, this is Waffle House. No one gets a burger at Waffle House.”

Lena hums, conceding the point. “Fair.”

But then, after a pause—“Still. Just gathering intel.”

Kara scoffs. “For what, exactly?”

Lena smirks, tapping her spoon lightly against her coffee cup. “I have a theory about you.”

Kara leans in slightly, intrigued despite herself. “Oh yeah?”

Lena nods, matter-of-fact. “You’re a creature of habit. You don’t like change, not really. You pretend you do—you’ll talk about adaptability, adjusting on the fly, whatever sounds good—but deep down, you like routine.”

Kara blinks. She hadn’t expected that. Because—Because it’s true. And she hates that Lena is right. She covers it with a half-smirk, half-grimace. “You get all that from me ordering waffles?”

Lena hums. “That, and the fact that you’ve ordered the same thing every time we’ve gone out to Waffle House.”

Kara opens her mouth, then closes it. Because— Yeah. She has. The realization sits too heavy in her chest. She suddenly finds herself very focused on her fork. “Maybe I just like what I like.”

“Exactly.”

Kara’s eyes flicker up. Lena’s expression isn’t smug. It’s knowing. Soft, in a way Kara doesn’t quite understand. And that? That is dangerous.

Kara shifts, looking for anything to turn the conversation back around. “What about you, then? You got some deep, psychological analysis about why you ordered black coffee and toast?”

Lena chuckles, low and warm. “Oh, I already know I have control issues.”

Kara grins, despite herself. Because—Of course she does.

The conversation ebbs and flows. At some point, they end up swapping road trip horror stories. Kara tells Lena about the time Alex made her eat a gas station hot dog in the middle of nowhere Kansas, and she swore she saw her life flash before her eyes. Lena actually laughs at that. Not a quiet exhale. Not a soft huff. A real, unguarded laugh—sharp and warm, and genuine. Kara catalogs the sound immediately, just like she had the first time she heard Lena’s real laugh.

(It’s not on purpose. It just happens. A reflex, like memorizing the details of a track before a race.)

Then, in return— Lena tells Kara about a truly abysmal diner in Gotham that served coffee so bad, she swore she gained new perspective on life. Kara shakes her head, grinning. “See, that’s why I stick to what I know.”

Lena smirks. “And we’re back to my theory being correct.”

Kara groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

Kara doesn’t have a response to that. Because—Because she’s right.

They stay like this.

Wrapped up in their own world.

The team buzzes around them, conversations still overlapping, but not quite in the same space. They’re not talking about anything that matters. But at the same time—It feels like something that does. And for some reason—Kara doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

Because the restaurant doesn’t exist. Not in the way it should. Kara knows they’re in a booth. Knows the smell of buttered toast and sizzling bacon lingers in the air. Knows Winn and James are still locked in a debate over the proper ratio of hash brown toppings like it’s a life-or-death situation. She knows all of that. Logically. But it doesn’t feel like she’s here. Not fully.

Because she’s somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere in the space between her and Lena. Lena, who is watching her with that ever-present, unreadable expression. Lena, who is too poised, too steady, too here in a way that’s unraveling Kara second by second. And Kara—Kara is so far gone she doesn’t even notice what she does next.

Not at first. Because at some point—between the coffee, between the laughter, between the easy, effortless banter that shouldn’t feel like this—

Kara hooks her foot behind Lena’s ankle.

Not forceful. Not teasing. Just a quiet, absentminded tug. A silent, subconscious pull. And Lena lets her. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t jolt. Just shifts, just barely, leg now a fraction closer. And Kara—Kara doesn’t know why she did it.

Doesn’t know why she’s still not pulling away. Doesn’t even fully process that she’s doing it. Just knows that it feels right. This strange little thing.

The conversation continues. Kara tries to act like everything is normal. Lena lets her.

“So,” Kara says, flipping the conversation back on Lena, “I need to know. When did you first decide to make race cars your entire personality?”

Lena huffs out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Says the woman who literally dreams about stagger adjustments.”

Kara scoffs. “Hey, I have layers.”

Lena smirks, sipping her coffee. “I’m sure you do, Danvers.”

And Kara—Kara isn’t sure if it’s the way Lena says it, low and smooth, or if it’s the fact that her foot is still resting against Lena’s—But something about the moment feels different.

She clears her throat. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Lena leans back slightly, tilting her head. “When I was a kid. Before I was a Luthor.”

Kara blinks.

Before I was a Luthor.

Lena hadn’t phrased it that way before— in the hot tub. Kara waits, but Lena doesn’t elaborate. Just sips her coffee, watching Kara like she’s still deciding how much she wants to say.

And Kara—Kara doesn’t press. Just like Lena didn’t press about Alaska. Just like Lena let her keep her own story tucked away, safe, unspoken. Instead, Kara exhales softly, leaning into the easy conversation again.

“Before you were a Luthor, huh? What did little Lena want to be when she grew up?”

Lena’s lips twitch. “A pilot.”

Kara blinks. That—she hadn’t expected that.

Lena smirks at her expression. “Shocking?”

Kara shakes her head. “No. I just—I get it.”

Lena’s brows lift slightly, a silent question. Kara hesitates, then says—soft, honest, without thinking—

“Because it feels like flying.”

It’s out before she can stop it. And for a moment—just a moment—Lena’s expression shifts. Because this wasn’t new, this was something Kara had said before, and now she was echoing it again but this was different—

Because somehow, those five words feel heavier than anything else they’ve said all night. The space between them narrows.

Not physically. Not really. But something has changed. The foot against hers. The way Lena’s gaze lingers. The way Kara—without thinking, without meaning to—finds herself meeting it.

This isn’t just awareness anymore. It’s familiarity. A rhythm. A pull. Something that doesn’t startle her the way it should. Something that feels like it belongs. She tells herself it’s just the moment. Just the exhaustion. Just the kind of haze that settles in late at night, when everything feels a little too close. But that’s a lie.

Because this isn’t new. It’s just something she’s finally stopped pretending not to notice. Kara shifts slightly, but she doesn’t move away. And neither does Lena. And that is what’s different—

Different because when Kara had moved and Lena followed at previous dinners and lunches, it was because she was unsure.

Because she was scared. And now—Now Kara doesn’t even try to pull away from Lena. She doesn’t want to.

Kara tries to shake it off. The weight of Lena’s eyes. The warmth of her leg against hers. The way everything about this dinner has shifted without warning. She forces herself to tune back into the table.

James and Winn are still deep in their hash brown debate, as if the fate of the world depends on cheese-to-potato ratios.

Cat is on her third cup of coffee, sighing dramatically like she’s somehow the one suffering the most, despite the fact that she suggested Waffle House, despite the fact the whole team knows she loves it even if she’ll never admit it.

Kelly is stealing food off Sam’s plate, and Sam is letting her, despite the half-hearted glare she’s throwing her way.

This should feel normal. It should feel like any other night with the team. But then—Lena shifts. Not much. Just the smallest movement. But Kara feels it. The brief, intentional press of Lena’s foot against hers. A lingering moment. A quiet acknowledgment. And then—

Lena pulls away. Kara doesn’t react. Not visibly. But something in her registers the loss. The absence.

Lena doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. She simply lifts her coffee, takes one last slow sip, then exhales.

And then—Like it’s nothing, like this dinner hasn’t fundamentally altered something between them—She stands.

“I should get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.” Casual. Perfectly composed. But Kara knows better—And she isn’t sure when she started knowing better when it came to Lena.

Lena is leaving first. And she never does that. Lena is always the last to leave—When had Kara started noticing that?—Always the one lingering in the background, watching, waiting, never making the first move to walk away.

And Kara wonders—Is she leaving because she wants to? Or because she feels like she has to? Because something about tonight was too much. Because staying longer might mean acknowledging it. Because walking away is easier than sitting with it.

And Kara—Kara hates how much she understands that. Hates how much she feels it too. She just nods. Watches as Lena gathers her things, slides her jacket on with ease, gives the team a small nod before slipping past them.

And just like that—She’s gone. But something about the moment doesn’t leave with her. Kara exhales, pressing her hands flat against the table.

She should get up too. Should do anything other than sit here feeling like something just happened. But she doesn’t. And that’s when she notices it. The look. Not from James. Not from Winn. From Sam and Cat. Both of them, sharper than the rest, watching Kara with something entirely too knowing.

Kara blinks. “What?”

Sam just smirks. Cat, ever composed, lifts her coffee to her lips, takes a slow sip, and simply says—“Interesting.”

And Kara—Kara has no idea how to respond to that. So Kara lingers a second too long.

Not because she’s waiting for something. But because something is still settling under her skin. The weight of it. The shift. The quiet absence of Lena across from her. She exhales, pressing her palms flat against the table before finally pushing herself up.

“Alright,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone. “I’m heading out.”

James and Winn barely look up, now locked in a debate about racing stats, like the numbers might somehow change if they argue hard enough, arguments about hashbrowns suddenly forgotten.

Kelly waves absently, still stealing fries off Sam’s plate. Sam smirks but doesn’t say a word. And Cat—Cat just watches. Not casual. Not passive.

The kind of watching that makes Kara feel exposed, like she’s been caught in something she doesn’t even understand yet.

Like Cat already knows. Kara pretends not to notice.

She just nods, throws a few bills onto the table for her part of the meal, and heads for the door.

The air is cooler now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just enough to be a contrast to the warmth still settled beneath her skin. Kara shoves her hands into her jacket pockets, falling into the familiar rhythm of the short walk back to the hotel. It’s quiet.

And Kara—Kara should enjoy that. She’s constantly surrounded by noise, by race cars and media obligations and sponsorships and fans, meetings, debriefs. She should enjoy the quiet, the reprieve from the high-speed life she leads.

Except her thoughts aren’t quiet. Because Lena is still there. Not physically. But in every other way that matters.

The way her accent had curled around words. The way her foot had pressed against Kara’s. The way she had left first. That part keeps circling back. Because Lena doesn’t leave first.

She lingers. She stays. She watches. Except tonight, she didn’t. Tonight, she walked away before Kara could. And Kara—Kara doesn’t know why that matters. Only that it does.

She exhales, tightening her grip in her jacket pockets, forcing herself to keep moving. Forcing herself not to look for something that isn’t there. Forcing herself not to wonder—If Lena is already back at the hotel. If she’s still walking. If she—Kara shakes her head sharply.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. She’s just thinking too much. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet—She still doesn’t quite believe herself.

Kara steps into the hotel lobby, and the air shifts. Not in any tangible way—nothing changes in temperature, nothing moves. But she feels it. A pull low in her stomach, a restless awareness settling deep in her chest.

It’s quieter than the Waffle House had been, the warmth of the diner left behind in favor of dim lighting and the distant hum of an elevator ascending. The contrast should settle her. It doesn’t.

She moves on autopilot, past the front desk, down the hallway toward the elevators, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. There’s no reason for the weight pressing against her ribs. No reason for the lingering tightness in her shoulders.

She presses the button. Watches the numbers tick down. And then—she wonders.

Is Lena already here?

It’s a stupid question. Of course she is. She left first. But still, Kara finds herself hoping. Not for much. Not for anything, really. Just—for something. Something she doesn’t know how to name.

The elevator dings, the sound sharper than it should be in the hush of the hotel. The doors slide open, and Kara steps inside, pressing her floor number before leaning back against the railing. She exhales.

The ride is quiet. Too quiet.

She almost wishes she’d taken the stairs. At least then, the climb would have given her something to focus on—something to work against, something to force the restlessness from her system. Instead, she’s here. Trapped in her own thoughts.

The elevator dings again, and Kara steps out, her footsteps falling soft against the carpeted hallway. She moves toward her room, the motions instinctive, her body operating on memory. And yet—She slows.

She doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t mean to hesitate. But she does. Because Lena’s door is just a few feet away. Closed. Of course it is. They’re in a hotel. But still, Kara notices it. Registers it.

She wonders, briefly—stupidly—if she had expected anything else. If some part of her thought she’d round the corner to find Lena still awake, leaning against the doorframe, waiting. The thought alone is ridiculous. And yet, she catches herself looking anyway.

The thin strip of light peeks out from the bottom of the door, and Kara knows Lena is still awake. Maybe reading. Maybe on her laptop. Maybe—thinking about the same things Kara is. Kara clenches her jaw, huffing out a soft, frustrated laugh at herself.

This is ridiculous. This is nothing. She forces herself forward, reaches her own door, swipes her keycard. Steps inside. The lock clicks behind her, the sound definitive, closing her off from the hallway, from the thoughts she refuses to follow.

But as she exhales, something sits heavy in her chest. She already knows. She’s not going to stop thinking about this. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe never.

Kara moves through the routine of getting ready for bed with the same precision she approaches race prep.

Keys on the dresser. Shoes kicked off. Hoodie tossed onto the chair. It’s automatic. The same steps, the same motions. But tonight, it doesn’t feel like enough. She peels off her jeans, replaces them with sweatpants, brushes her teeth, rakes a hand through her hair.

Everything exactly the way she always does it. And yet—nothing feels settled. Because Lena is still in her head. Not intentionally. Not in a way Kara wants. But she’s there anyway. In the smallest details. In the way Kara keeps replaying the shift in her mind.

The foot pressed against hers under the table. The way Lena’s voice had sounded—not teasing, not distant, just present. The moment Kara realized something was different. Because it wasn’t just the teasing. Wasn’t just the back-and-forth or the moments that should have meant nothing. It was the way Lena watched her—like she saw something Kara hadn’t figured out yet.

And it was the fact that Lena left first. Not because she had somewhere to be. Not because the night was over. Because she chose to. And Kara—Kara can’t shake that. She exhales sharply, crawling into bed, yanking the blanket over herself. She needs to shut this down. Needs to stop thinking about green eyes and easy banter and the way Lena had said before I was a Luthor like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She turns onto her back. Stares at the ceiling. But her mind doesn’t quiet. Because Lena is still there. And for the first time in a long time—Kara doesn’t try to figure it out. She just lets it be.

But the hours still pass.

The hotel room is quiet.

Alex is already asleep, her breathing slow and even. The kind of deep sleep Kara should be chasing too. Because tomorrow is race day. Because she needs to be sharp. Because she needs to be focused. But her mind? Her mind is still somewhere else.

Somewhere back in the booth at Waffle House. Somewhere in the space between a steady gaze and a lingering touch. Somewhere in the press of a foot and the smallest shift of weight.

She inhales slowly. Exhales even slower. She’s not analyzing it. Not trying to categorize it. Not trying to tell herself it doesn’t matter. Because it does. She wouldn’t be here, stuck in it, feeling it hours later if it didn’t.

So she lets it sit. Lets it exist in the quiet. She doesn’t reach for an explanation. Doesn’t try to fit it into something neat, something easy. She just lets it be. Kara turns onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin, eyes slipping closed.

And the last thing she sees before sleep takes her—

Is green.

April 24^th, 2016

The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet.

Kara wakes before the alarm. Before the soft beeping can pull her from sleep, before Alex shifts in the other bed, before the world is fully awake.

She blinks against the faint glow of dawn creeping through the curtains, staring at the ceiling.

There’s a tightness in her chest—not fear, not nerves exactly, but the weight of race day. She exhales, slow and steady, trying to shake the heaviness that lingers in her limbs.

This happens every time.

The night before a race is always too long and too short at the same time. She knows she slept—she must have. But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like she’s been waiting.

She turns her head toward the bedside clock. 5:58 AM.

Two minutes before the alarm. She shuts it off before it can sound. No point in waiting.

She throws back the blanket and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, rolling her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in her spine. Alex doesn’t stir, still deep in sleep.

Kara moves quietly, slipping into the bathroom, keeping the lights dim. She doesn’t need to think about what comes next. Because this is routine.

She twists the shower knob all the way to cold.Not because she likes it. She doesn’t. But because she needs it. Because this is what resets her. The water hits her skin like ice. She inhales sharply through her nose, but she doesn’t flinch. It’s not the same as Krypton. Not cold enough. But it’s enough.

Her parents had done this. Their parents before them. A ritual. Not for luck, not for superstition. Just a way to strip everything else away before battle.

The race is hours away. But this? This is the start. She tilts her head back, lets the water run over her, lets it ground her in the here and now.

Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Not what’s waiting for her at Atlantis. Just today.

Just Ivy Town.

She stays under the water until the nerves settle, just a little. Then she turns it off, steps out, and lets the chill linger on her skin before wrapping herself in a towel.

By the time she steps back into the room, the sun has crept higher through the curtains.

Alex groans into her pillow. “God, why.”

Kara smirks, toweling off her hair. “It’s race day.”

Alex grumbles something incoherent.

Kara just shakes her head, pulling on her clothes—comfortable, easy, nothing restricting. She checks her fire suit stowed in her bag, double-checks her duffel, even though she knows everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

Her body moves through the steps automatically. She stretches, goes through a few warmups, letting the last of the stiffness shake loose. By the time she’s done, Alex is finally sitting up, hair a mess, blinking at her like she’s offended by Kara’s existence. Kara just grins, already reaching for the hotel room key.

“I’m getting breakfast.”

Alex grunts. “Bring me coffee, and I’ll pretend to like you.”

Kara laughs. “Noted.”

And with that, she steps into the hallway, the weight of the morning finally starting to settle in. It’s race day.

——

The dining area is already alive with the slow, measured hum of race day morning. Conversations overlap—some light, some clipped and businesslike—as teams cycle through their routines. The smell of burnt coffee and scrambled eggs lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of motor oil that always seems to follow crew members, no matter how many showers they take.

Kara steps inside, scanning the room.

The usual groups have already formed. James and Sam are locked in conversation with Jack and Kelly, gesturing over what looks suspiciously like a napkin diagram of pit strategy. Winn is balancing two plates overflowing with waffles, looking far too pleased with himself, while Brainy eyes the chaos with an expression that sits somewhere between horror and scientific curiosity. Cat is in the farthest corner, nursing a black coffee like it’s the only thing tethering her to the mortal plane.

And Alex—Alex is still upstairs, waiting for the coffee Kara was definitely not bringing her.

She should sit with the crew. Slip into the morning camaraderie, the easy banter, the comfort of routine. She should be going through the motions, the way she always does on race mornings. The way she needs to, today of all days.

But then—she sees Lena.

Tucked away in the far corner, alone, half-focused on her phone, a coffee cup cradled in one hand. There’s a small smudge on her cheek—grease, oil, something that means she’s already been in the garage, already working. Already thinking three steps ahead, the way she always does.

And Kara—Kara doesn’t even hesitate.

She moves before she can think about it, before she can question why she’s suddenly here, sliding into the seat across from Lena like it’s the only place she was ever going to end up.

And then—her foot nudges forward. Deliberate. Slow. Not an accident. Not hesitation. A choice.

Lena looks up immediately.

There’s a fraction of a second—a flicker in her gaze. Not surprise. Not amusement. Just awareness. And then, just as quickly, the moment smooths over, settles into something familiar. The smirk. Of course.

“Morning, Danvers.”

Kara shrugs, playing casual, even though nothing about this feels casual. “You’re up early.”

Lena lifts her coffee in response, voice smooth. “And you’re predictable.”

Kara raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Lena tilts her head slightly, studying her, amused in a way that feels almost knowing. “You always beeline straight to the coffee first. Except today.”

Kara blinks. Because—because Lena’s right. Lena is always right when it comes to Kara.

The realization settles warm in her chest, a slow, creeping thing—unsettling and grounding all at once. Because Kara hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t even thought about it.

She’d walked in, scanned the room, and ended up here. Without stopping for coffee, without following the routine she always follows, the routine she clings to.

And Lena had noticed.

Of course she had. She just sips her coffee, watching Kara, saying nothing. Kara doesn’t move her foot. Neither does Lena. And for some reason—that makes the nerves fade. Just a little. Something about this—about Lena, about this morning, about last night—feels different.

And maybe that’s because it is.

She exhales, rolling her shoulders, trying to shift back into something familiar. Race day. That’s what matters. That’s why she’s here.

But Lena is still watching her, and Kara is still not thinking about race day.

“You were in the garage already,” she says, because talking is better than thinking.

Lena hums again, not looking up. “Obviously.”

Kara huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Checking on my car?”

This time, Lena does glance at her, like she already knows where this is going. She takes a slow sip of coffee before answering, voice smooth, unreadable. “Did you expect me to sleep in?”

Kara shrugs. “It’s early.”

Lena tilts her head slightly, considering. Then—just the barest hint of amusement threading through her voice—

“And yet, you knew exactly where to find me.”

Kara stills. Because—because she doesn’t have an answer for that. Or rather, she does, but she doesn’t want to think about what it means. She had options. She could have sat with the team. Could have gone straight for coffee. Could have done anything else. But she didn’t. She came here. She came to Lena.

Her grip tightens around her fork. She stabs at her eggs, trying to look unaffected. “I was just hungry.”

Lena makes a quiet, knowing sound.

She doesn’t push. She doesn’t need to. Because they both know.

They’ve both known since last night, since Waffle House, since something shifted between them in a way Kara still doesn’t have words for.

She glances up—Lena is still watching her, calm, composed, but no longer unreadable. And that? That continues to twist Kara’s insides a little more, a little tighter.

Kara exhales sharply this time, shakes her head. “I really need to start winning these damn conversations.”

Lena smirks, taking another slow sip of coffee. “Good luck with that, Danvers.”

And Kara—Kara really doesn’t know if she’s losing anymore. Because it doesn’t feel like losing. Not even a little bit.

——

Kara isn’t sure how long the silence stretches between them. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just… there. And that, more than anything, is what stands out.

Kara has always felt a need to fill silences. To smooth over pauses, to keep things moving, to make sure the space between words never stretches too far. Because silence has always felt like uncertainty. Like something unspoken waiting to press in, waiting to demand answers she isn’t sure she has.

But with Lena? She doesn’t feel that pressure. She doesn’t feel the need to reach for something, to grasp for the next topic, to make sure the quiet doesn’t linger too long.

With Lena, she can just exist.

The thought should unsettle her. Should make her feel raw, exposed. Instead—it grounds her. But then—Lena shifts.

Not her foot. Not her smirk. Not whatever has settled between them since last night, something unspoken but present, something Kara still doesn’t have a name for.

Her focus.

The light tap of her fingers against the coffee cup stills. Her gaze flickers—sharp, assessing, fully present now. And just like that, Kara knows what’s coming.

“Did the front end feel too stiff coming off Turn 2 yesterday?”

Kara blinks. The shift is sudden, almost disorienting. One second, she’s caught in the steady hum of quiet between them, hyper-aware of the warmth of Lena’s leg against hers. The next, she’s being asked about suspension adjustments like nothing else has existed in the last twelve hours.

But this is how Lena works. Not a game. Not some deliberate push and pull. Just a seamless, calculated shift into what matters.

A flick of a switch from last night’s weight to full focus, locked in on the race, on the car, on the one thing they both need to be thinking about today. Kara should be used to it by now. But she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be used to Lena.

She clears her throat, shifting slightly in her seat. “A little, yeah. It was stable, but I had to work harder than I wanted to on throttle.”

Lena nods, gaze unwavering. “I adjusted for the weather shift, but the track’s going to change again by race time. I’ll soften it slightly—should give you more rotation without making the rear too twitchy.”

Kara exhales, tension bleeding from her shoulders before she even realizes it. “That works.”

Lena watches her for a beat longer, as if making sure she’s really back, then leans back in her chair, satisfied. And that’s when Kara understands.

This is Lena’s way of grounding her. Not with reassurances. Not with meaningless comfort. Just—bringing her back to the car. Back to the thing she knows. And somehow, it works.

Because the second they start talking about adjustments, about fine-tuning what needs to be ready before the race, Kara feels it—the weight in her chest loosening.

Her nerves settling. Her focus sharpening. For the first time today, she actually feels ready. And Lena knows it. Of course she does.

She doesn’t say anything else, just sips her coffee like she hadn’t just flipped a switch in Kara’s brain, like this is just another conversation. Another day. Kara exhales, shaking her head to herself.

Of course. Of course Lena would be the one to pull her out of it. She should’ve expected that by now.

——

Breakfast wraps up in a natural, unhurried way. Conversations ebb and flow, the team slowly peeling away from their plates, pushing back chairs, draining the last of their coffee.

But the shift is already happening.

The easy morning chatter is fading, replaced by something quieter, something sharper. The slow, inevitable pivot to race mode.

Kara feels it creeping in. That familiar, slow-building weight pressing against her chest, wrapping tight around her ribs. It always comes before a race—the knowledge that soon, everything will be different. That soon, the hum of breakfast conversation will be drowned out by the roar of the engine, the crush of media, the sheer force of expectation bearing down on her.

She should be used to it by now.

But this morning—this morning, it feels heavier.

Maybe because last night still lingers, woven into her thoughts like something permanent. Maybe because she still feels the warmth of Lena’s foot against hers, still hears her voice, low and even, saying yes, it does like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Or maybe—maybe because she doesn’t want this moment to end just yet.

Kara pushes her chair back, standing just as Lena does the same. And for a moment—a brief, fleeting second—they are the only ones who don’t move. The rest of the team filters out toward the lobby, but Kara barely registers it. Because Lena is looking at her.

Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not in a way that’s obvious or lingering. But in a way that Kara notices.

A flicker of green. A quiet, unreadable pause. A brief, imperceptible shift in weight. And then—just the faintest quirk of Lena’s lips. Not a smirk. Not amusement. Just… something.

Something that settles inside Kara’s chest like an anchor. Something that makes her feel like she’s already running 150 miles an hour, but for once, she’s not spinning out.

She exhales sharply, tightening her grip on her duffel, steadying her shoulders.

The weight in her chest is still there—but now, it’s different. Now, it’s not nerves. Now, it’s not doubt. Now, it’s something steadier. Because Lena—Lena already knew what she needed before she even knew it herself.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was second nature. And somehow, that makes all the difference. Kara rolls her shoulders, exhales slow, and finally steps forward, following the team toward the exit.

——

The moment Kara steps out of the transport, the world shifts. The air is heavier here—not just thick with humidity, but charged. Alive.

The low morning haze is already lifting, burned away by the weight of race day energy. It hums in the pavement, vibrates in the steel beams of the garage, crackles in the air like a current waiting to catch.

The scent of rubber and gasoline clings to the early heat, the asphalt already warming beneath the rising sun. It’s familiar, sharp, grounding—burnt fuel and scorched rubber, motor oil and sweat. The kind of scent that lingers long after the engines shut down, woven into fire suits and tire treads, into the very fabric of this life.

She hears it before she sees it.

The distant whine of engines firing up, the rhythmic clank of wrenches against metal, the clipped voices of pit crews calling out adjustments. Radios crackle, air guns hiss, toolboxes slam shut. The paddock is alive with movement, a symphony of controlled chaos, every note perfectly in place.

It’s a rhythm she’s known longer than she’s known herself. A beat she doesn’t follow—she moves with it, part of it, as natural as breathing.

And so she breathes it in. Deep. Letting it settle in her bones. Because this is it. This is where everything else fades away.

The paddock is already a hive of motion.

Teams filter in, drivers threading through the crowd toward their haulers, some with their heads down, already locked in, others lingering, giving the press just enough for their soundbites. Crew members move in coordinated strides, carrying tools, checking lists, swapping last-minute notes. Media personnel hover near the garage entrances, waiting to pounce.

It’s loud. Fast. Alive.

And Kara steps into it like she was built for this.

Her feet move on instinct, cutting through the flow with ease, her focus narrowing as she heads for the garage. She doesn’t have to look. She already knows.

Lena is right beside her. Lena, who has barely spoken since they left the hotel. Lena, who doesn’t need to—because her focus is locked on the same thing Kara’s is.

The car.

Their car.

Waiting for them in the garage, gleaming under the overhead lights. And just like that, the rest of the world ceases to exist. The garage is already alive, humming with movement.

Crew members move in synchronized efficiency, darting between workstations, tightening bolts, checking pressures, running diagnostics. Voices overlap in a steady rhythm—directives exchanged, confirmations given, a machine of its own kind operating at full capacity.

The low thrum of an engine warming up vibrates through the space, folding into the ever-present scents of fuel, rubber, and metal.

Kara steps inside, her focus narrowing.

It’s ready.

Fresh tires. A pristine, polished body gleaming under the fluorescents. The Camaro sits there, waiting. And just like that, the last of her nerves settle. Because this—this is what matters.

She moves on instinct, weaving through the organized chaos, slipping between crew members as they work.

Winn is already buried in data, muttering to himself about stagger and camber, his fingers flying over his tablet screen. Brainy barely acknowledges her, too focused on temperature readings, his gaze locked onto numbers only he seems to fully understand. Jack and Kelly stand near the pit wall, speaking in low tones, running through pit stop logistics.

And Lena—Lena is everywhere at once.

She moves with that same sharp, deliberate efficiency Kara has come to expect—fluid, seamless, completely in control. Gloved hands skim over the hood, checking seals, adjusting things no one else would even think to touch. Small, precise movements, each one deliberate, each one necessary. Her voice cuts through the noise—quiet but firm, crisp as she delivers final instructions to the crew. There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing.

Kara watches her.

Because Lena already knows exactly what needs to be done. Because Lena has already done it. And the car—their car—is already right. It hits her all over again—how different this is from last week.

How, at Fawcett, everything had been off. How she had fought the car, lap after lap, searching for something that wasn’t there—until Lena stepped in and fixed it before qualifying.

But here, now—The car is already dialed in. Kara swallows, shifting her weight. She shouldn’t be surprised. But she is. Because Lena understands how she drives. Because Lena has been watching. Because Lena just knows.

And Kara doesn’t know what to do with that. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the window net, grounding herself in the solid weight of it.

Lena glances up. Noticing. Of course she notices.

Her gaze flickers—just for a second, quick, unreadable. Then, smoothly, she gestures toward the car. “Take a look.”

Kara doesn’t move.

Lena quirks a brow, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “What? Don’t trust me?”

Kara exhales, stepping forward, running her hand over the side panel, feeling the smooth, solid readiness of it.

She trusts Lena.

That’s the problem.

Kara exhales, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the side panel, feeling the solid weight of it beneath her palm. The car is ready.

Too ready.

She doesn’t know why that unsettles her.

Lena watches her, steady and unreadable, but there’s something in the way she lingers—like she already knows exactly what’s going through Kara’s mind. Like she’s waiting for Kara to catch up.

And maybe that’s what finally makes Kara move.

She pulls herself into the car, muscles shifting with instinctive ease, the motion as familiar as breathing. Her body fits the seat like it was built for her—because it was, molded to her shape by countless hours on track, by every mile, every lap, every adjustment over the season.

The moment her hands touch the wheel, the rest of the world blurs into the background. It’s smooth. Familiar. Right.

The harness clicks into place, snug but never restrictive, the straps pressing against her chest, grounding her. Beneath her, the seat gives just enough—supportive, secure, designed for speed and impact.

She scans the dashboard, fingers brushing the toggles and switches, confirming everything is where it should be.

It is. Of course it is.

Her shoes find the pedals with ease, pressing lightly, testing. The response is sharp, clean, immediate.

She rolls her shoulders, flexes her grip around the wheel, already falling into the rhythm. And then—Her radio crackles to life.

“How’s it feel?” Lena.

Her voice filters through Kara’s earpiece—calm, clipped, precise. And Kara—Kara swears she feels it like a physical thing. It’s not like she hasn’t heard Lena’s voice over the radio before. But something about this—about hearing it now, with Lena standing just outside the car, watching, waiting—it hits different.

Maybe it’s because of how personal this is. Because Lena built this. Because she tuned it. Adjusted it. Perfected it. Because she already knew what Kara needed before she even got in the damn seat.

Kara swallows, shifting her grip on the wheel. “It’s good.”

A soft hum filters through the radio. Lena. A satisfied sound. And that—that makes something twist low in Kara’s stomach.

Because Lena isn’t double-checking her own work. She’s double-checking Kara. Like she’s already sure of the car but wants to make sure Kara is, too.

Kara exhales slowly, pressing her foot against the pedals, rolling onto the throttle just enough to test the response. It’s sharp. Clean. Dialed in exactly where she wants it.

And she can’t stop thinking about that. Because it shouldn’t be. A car is never perfect right off the bat. There’s always something to tweak, something to adjust.

But here—now—Lena already got it right. Kara tightens her grip around the wheel. The radio crackles again. “Anything feel off?”

Kara hesitates.

Because—no. Nothing feels off. Everything feels right. And that’s—insane. Her jaw tenses as she forces herself to focus, to find something out of place, some minor issue to pick apart. But there’s nothing.

She shakes her head slightly, more to herself than anything. “No. It’s good. Feels solid.”

There’s a pause. Not long enough to mean anything. But just long enough to make her feel it.

Then, softer this time—softer in a way that slides under her skin—“Good.”

Kara exhales sharply, blinking hard, jaw locking. Because Rao—she doesn’t know why that makes her stomach flip. She needs to focus. Needs to get her head straight. She inhales deeply, centering herself, forcing the rest away.

Because the car is ready. And so is she. But then the garage feels smaller all of a sudden.

Kara knows it’s just in her head. Knows it’s because Lena is leaning in. Close. Too close.

Not on purpose. Not intentionally. Not in a way that suggests anything other than what she’s doing. But Rao—Kara feels it anyway. The space between them disappears, swallowed by Lena’s presence, by the quiet, unwavering focus in her movements.

She braces a hand on the edge of the cockpit as she leans in further, her other hand reaching toward the dashboard. Kara barely stops herself from flinching.

Not because she doesn’t trust Lena—because she does. Too much. Because Lena is right there. Close enough that Kara catches the familiar faint trace of something sharp and expensive beneath the oil and engine grease. Close enough that when she speaks, Kara feels the whisper of breath against her cheek. Close enough that if Kara so much as shifted wrong, they would touch.

Lena’s fingers move over the controls—smooth, deliberate, making a minuscule adjustment to something Kara knows doesn’t even need to be fixed.

It’s unnecessary. It’s intentional. And it’s Lena. This is just what she does. She moves through Kara’s life like a force of nature—disruptive, impossible to ignore, throwing her world sideways without even trying. It’s always like this.

Has been from the moment they met, from the second Lena looked at her like she already had her figured out, like she saw her in a way no one else did.

And Kara knows—knows—this won’t be the last time Lena does this. Won’t be the last time she wrecks Kara’s carefully built balance just by existing near her.

Kara swallows hard, forces herself to focus on the car.

Not on how Lena’s ponytail is slightly loose, strands slipping free and brushing against her own cheek. Not on the faint smudge of oil just beneath her jaw. Not on the way her mouth just slightly quirks when she concentrates, like she’s solving an equation only she can see. Not on any of it.

Lena finishes the adjustment, fingers barely skimming the console before pulling away. And for the briefest second, Kara swears she feels the phantom touch of them lingering.

Lena doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t say anything. She just leans back, nodding once, stepping away like none of that just happened. Like she didn’t just upend Kara’s entire world again—without even meaning to.

Kara exhales, slow and shaky, forcing her fingers to unclench from the wheel. The garage is still moving around them—tightening, checking, making sure everything is race-ready. It all feels seamless. Like it’s supposed to be this way.

And Rao, maybe that’s what really messes with Kara.

Because it doesn’t just feel right. It feels like it was always supposed to be like this. Like Lena was always supposed to be in this garage. Like she was always meant to be next to her, watching over their car, knowing exactly what Kara needs before she even says it. Like Kara was always meant to look up and find Lena already there, already ahead of her, already understanding. She doesn’t know how to process that. She never knows how to process Lena.

The radio crackles. The call comes in.

It was time for the last practice session— then a slew of media afterwards before the ceremony began. With a final sigh, Kara flips the ignition switch. The Camaro rumbles to life beneath her, the deep, familiar growl vibrating through her bones.

Lena steps back, arms crossing as she watches. Kara forces herself to spare just one last glance. And Lena holds her gaze. Nothing smug. Nothing playful. Just assessing. Focused. Present.

Rao—if that doesn’t send something sharp through Kara’s chest. She flips the visor down, locking her focus onto the track ahead.

——

The moment Kara rolls onto pit road, everything else fades. The garage, the crew, the weight of Lena standing too close—all of it dissolves into the steady hum of the car beneath her.

Just the low rumble of the engine, smooth and familiar. Just the wheel in her hands, precise, right. Just the rhythm of her breathing, syncing with the machine as she pulls onto the track.

And then—the radio crackles to life. “Alright, let’s get a read on it. Warm it up, ease in. No heroics yet, Danvers.”

Lena. Kara expected it. And yet, somehow, it still lands like a jolt to the system. The calm steadiness of Lena’s voice—measured, controlled, and completely at odds with the teasing glances and lingering closeness from earlier. The way it cuts through the static, through everything. The way it settles beneath Kara’s skin, inevitable, undeniable.

She exhales, flexing her fingers over the wheel, easing onto the throttle as she rolls off pit road. The tires grip. The car is smooth. Balanced. Fast. And Kara knows it instantly.

She feels it in the way the steering responds, how the rear stays planted under acceleration, how the power settles exactly where she needs it. It’s dialed in. Exactly right.

And she shouldn’t be surprised.

She shouldn’t be surprised because she already knew. Knew it back in the garage, when she sat in the cockpit and Lena leaned in too close, her voice low and certain. Knew it during qualifying, when the car felt effortless. Knew it even before she put her hands on the wheel today.

Everything she needs, before she even has to ask for it.

And yet, it still catches her off guard. Because it shouldn’t be this easy. She’s used to fighting for this—for the setup, for the feel, for the confidence in her own machine.

But here, now, the car is already perfect. Her grip tightens on the wheel.

“How’s it feel?” Lena’s voice again.

Kara swallows, rolling onto the backstretch, settling into the rhythm. “Good.” It’s the same thing she said yesterday.

A pause. Then—“That’s it? Just ‘good’?” There’s an edge to it, something expectant. Like Lena already knows the answer.

Kara exhales. Flexes her fingers. “It’s really good.”

Silence, just for a beat. Then—the smallest huff of amusement. “Try to sound a little more shocked, Danvers.”

Kara doesn’t respond. Because she is shocked. And she shouldn’t be—not anymore. She should be past this, past the way Lena always seems to know exactly what she needs before she even says it.

Instead, she keeps her eyes forward, pushes deeper into the turn, and lets the car do exactly what Lena built it to do. Because Lena knew. Lena always knows.

And no matter how many times Kara tries to shove that thought down, it keeps coming back.

Kara tries to force the thoughts away—again. Rolls deeper into the throttle, feeling the shift in weight, the tires biting into the track. The car moves with her, responding exactly as she needs it to, like an extension of herself. Like it knows.

Like Lena knows.

Every adjustment, every microscopic tweak Lena made—right. Kara isn’t holding back now. She brings it up to speed, settling into the rhythm she’s been chasing all morning. The one that should be effortless. The one that should be second nature.

And then—the radio crackles. “You’re tracking a little high on exit.” Cat.

Kara exhales, adjusting her line automatically. “Yeah, felt that.” A beat. And then, honestly—truthfully—she didn’t. Not really.

Because her focus isn’t where it should be. Because somehow, impossibly, Lena keeps pulling her out of race mode like it’s nothing. She’s not even sure she needed the adjustment, but she trusts her team. She trusts them.

Cat’s voice is calm, methodical. “Tightening up in the center?”

Kara tests it again, rolling through the corner. This time she does feel it, but just barely. It’s subtle, hardly noticeable. “Just a tick.”

A pause. Then—Lena. “I’ll make a small wedge adjustment when you pit.”

Kara grips the wheel tighter. Because of course Lena already knows. Of course she picked up on it before Kara even had to say it—before Kara even knew it herself.

The radio shifts again. “Try bringing your entry down half a lane, see if it helps,” Nia chimes in, her voice smooth over the comms. “You’ve got room.”

Kara adjusts, dropping lower, testing it. Better. If the car could even be better than this. The Camaro stays planted, steady, controlled. But her mind isn’t.

Because Lena is still there. Not just on the radio. Everywhere.

She’s in the feel of the car, in every adjustment that’s already dialed in, in the way Kara doesn’t have to fight for it like she’s used to. In the way it feels like someone else already fought for her. Already knew what she needed before she even asked.

Kara presses into the groove, and she swears she hears Cat hum approvingly. Then—Lena again. “How’s that?”

Kara almost laughs. Because Lena already knows the answer. She shakes her head, swallowing. “Better.”

The radio is quiet for half a beat. Then—just the faintest exhale. “Good.” Kara needs to stop noticing that.

She needs to stop noticing the way Lena’s voice settles under her skin, burrows deep into something she doesn’t have a name for. She needs to stop thinking about how, for the first time, her car feels right before the race even starts.

She needs to focus. Because when the green flag drops—Lena won’t be on the radio. Not unless something needs fixing. And yet—somehow, Kara already knows that even if she won’t hear her—Lena will still be there.

She’ll be in the pit box, standing at the wall, watching like she always does. But that’s not what Kara means.

Not even close.

——

Kara rolls onto pit road, bringing the car in smooth, precise. The Camaro settles into the box, tires hissing as it comes to a stop.

And then—the team is on it. Quick. Efficient. Like clockwork. Sam and Kelly move in on the tires, tightening adjustments, checking wear. Kenny  hovers near the fuel intake, monitoring consumption. Winn and Brainy scan data, already running calculations. And Lena— Lena is at her side.

She leans in, one hand braced against the window net, the other making a precise tweak on the dash— except this time Kara’s not even sure if she’s fixing anything, because this feels somehow more intentional— like Lena knows exactly what her proximity is doing to Kara’s brain right now.

Her eyes flick to Kara’s. Sharp. Assessing. Already knowing. Always knowing.

“Still snug in the center?”

Kara swallows. Nods.

Lena hums, glancing toward the right-rear corner of the car. “We’ll free you up just a touch. Half-round out of the wedge.”

She says it like it’s already decided. Like she knows exactly what Kara needs— but then again, Kara, the broken record that she is, is so intimately aware of the fact that Lena does that— that she just knows.

And she’s right. Of course she’s right. Kara shouldn’t be surprised anymore. Because Lena is always right— never wrong, never second guessing.

And yet—she is surprised. Because it’s not just that Lena gets it. It’s the way she’s watching her. Not the way other crew chiefs or engineers do—not just as a driver, not just as a machine to be optimized.

But as Kara. And for once Kara finally understands that that’s what’s different about Lena.

Lena’s fingers flick the wrench one last time before stepping back, signaling to the rest of the crew.

“Alright, you’re good to go.”

Kara blinks, forces herself to focus. Nods once. “Copy.”

She flips the visor back down, heart hammering harder than it should. Because Lena is still looking at her.

And Kara—Kara can’t figure out if she likes it too much or not enough.

Kara rolls off pit road again, merging back onto the track with smooth precision. The adjustment—somehow more perfect. Again.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Not after Fawcett. Not after this morning. Not after Lena has spent the last week proving that she just… gets it.

That she understands Kara’s driving in a way no one ever has. That she knows what Kara needs before she even says it. And Kara—Kara doesn’t know how to handle that.

The car settles into the groove, balanced, dialed in exactly the way she likes it. She picks up speed, running the next few laps with consistent, controlled precision. The track temperature is stable, the rubber laid down from earlier sessions helping with grip.

Everything feels right. But Kara’s head—Kara’s head isn’t. Because no matter how many times she tells herself to focus, no matter how much she tries to tune everything else out—Lena is still there.

Not physically. Not in the car. Not in the pit box. But she’s there.

In the way the steering responds exactly how Kara wants it to. In the way the throttle control feels just right. In the way Kara doesn’t have to fight for anything. And Rao—it messes with her. Because she’s used to having to fight. For respect. For results. For the machine underneath her. But now—now, she doesn’t have to fight at all.

And somehow, that throws her off more than anything.

The radio crackles. “How’s it feeling?” Lena. Of course. With that infuriating lilt of an Irish accent nearly forgotten.

Kara exhales sharply, trying to steady herself. “Good. Real good.”

Another pause. Then—the faintest sound of approval. “Good.”

Kara hates how much that settles something in her chest. She shakes her head, pushing deeper into the run, trying to find something—anything—to be critical of.

But there’s nothing. And that—that’s the problem. Because Kara has never had this before.

She’s never had a car that feels like an extension of herself. She’s never had a mechanic who understands her like this. She’s never had— Lena. And Rao, if that doesn’t shake her more than anything.

Kara brings the car in one last time, rolling onto pit road with the practiced ease of muscle memory.

The Camaro settles into the box, tires hissing against the pavement. She flicks off the ignition, the silence that follows too sudden, too sharp. And then—Lena is there. Waiting. Like she already knew what Kara was going to do.

She steps up to the window net, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. “Talk to me,” she says, voice low, controlled.

Kara exhales, running a hand over her helmet, flipping the visor up before glancing at Lena.

“Car’s damn near perfect.” She says it because it’s true. Because she’s never felt this dialed in before. Because no matter how much she tried to find something—anything—to adjust, Lena had already figured it out.

And that—that messes with her so much. Lena doesn’t react right away. Just watches. Like she’s studying Kara as much as she’s studying the car.

Then—the slightest tilt of her head. “‘Damn near’ isn’t ‘perfect.’”

It’s not a question. It’s a challenge.Kara presses her lips together. Because she doesn’t have an answer.

Because she doesn’t know how to say that the only thing throwing her off is Lena herself. Because this—all of this— The car, the balance, the way Lena understands her before she even opens her mouth—It’s too much.

And she doesn’t know what to do with it. She shakes her head, unclipping the harness. “It’s good.”

Lena watches her for a beat longer. Then—something shifts. A flicker of something Kara can’t place. Something she doesn’t understand. But before she can try to, Lena steps back. Hands sliding into her pockets, cool, composed, effortless. Like she hadn’t just unraveled something in Kara without even trying.

“Noted,” she says simply. And then—just like that—She turns, walking away. Leaving Kara sitting there, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

Eventually, Kara climbs out of the car, but she doesn’t feel steady. Not physically—her balance is fine. But something in her chest—something in her head—won’t settle. Because Lena is too good at this. Because Lena is too good at understanding her. Because for the first time in her career, Kara doesn’t have to fight for the car to be what she needs it to be.

And she doesn’t know how to handle that. She pulls off her gloves, tucking them into her fire-suit as the team starts gathering.

Sam is the first to break the silence. “That looked smooth.” Kara nods. Because it was.

James crosses his arms, smirking. “No complaints?”

Kara almost laughs at the way the team is watching her, like they don’t fully believe that she has nothing to nitpick.

But she doesn’t. For once, she doesn’t.

She shrugs, voice lighter than she feels. “Not unless you want me to start making stuff up.”

Sam snorts. “You? Making stuff up? No way.”

Cat, ever composed, lifts a brow. “So we’re happy, then?”

Kara hesitates. Because ‘happy’ isn’t the right word. Not because she isn’t satisfied—she is. But because she doesn’t know what to do with this feeling. This strange, unsettling sense of ease.

So she does what she always does. She pushes through it. “Yeah,” she says finally. “We’re happy.”

Cat hums, like she knows there’s more to that answer than Kara is letting on. And then—Lena speaks.

“You could stand to roll onto the throttle a little sooner in three and four.”

Kara’s head snaps toward her. Because of course Lena noticed. Because of course Lena picked up on the one thing Kara had been hesitant to say out loud.

Kara’s jaw tightens. Not in frustration. Not in annoyance. Just… something else. Something unsettling. She crosses her arms. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Lena lifts a brow. “Maybe?”

And this isn’t fair. The way Lena looks at her like that. Like she’s waiting for Kara to be honest. Like she already knows exactly what Kara is thinking. Like Kara is the only one in the room.

Kara exhales sharply, looking away. “Yeah. I’ll work on that.”

Lena doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Like that’s all she needed. Like she already got what she came for. And Kara—Kara hates how much that throws her off.

——

The garage didn’t feel any quieter once practice and debrief  ended—it just shifted.

Noise moved elsewhere. Footsteps trailed off. Radios clicked. The hum of the team settled into something looser, something between adrenaline and routine.

But Kara couldn’t shake it.

Not Lena’s voice.

Not the way she’d said it—“Maybe?”—like she already knew Kara was lying. Or, worse, holding back. And like she wouldn’t let her get away with it.

Not today.

Kara replayed it on a loop at every movement, every practiced and mechanical movement. Helmet off. Gloves tugged. Suit peeled halfway down. She nodded to someone—didn’t register who. Brainy said something about tire wear; Kara barely caught it.

She kept her head down. Kept walking.

It wasn’t the critique. It wasn’t even the fact that Lena was right—of course she was right.

It was the look.

The knowing.

Like Lena had seen more than just a line off entry. Like she’d felt Kara hesitate and read it for exactly what it was.

Doubt. The tiniest crack in a mask Kara hadn’t realized she was still wearing.

And Lena hadn’t pushed.

She’d just… waited.

And now Kara couldn’t get her out of her head.

Not her voice. Not her timing. Not the way her eyes had stayed on her long after the conversation ended, like she was still listening for something Kara hadn’t said.

By the time Kara made it back to the hauler, the rest of the team had dispersed—some to the infield, some toward the media paddock. She caught sight of Sam and James talking near the tire stacks, but didn’t stop. Just nodded and kept moving, her pulse still a little too loud in her ears.

She needed to reset.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to get Lena out of her head.

Kara rounds the corner near the hauler, still rattled, still trying to force herself into race mode.

She should be thinking about the car, about her qualifying lap, about what Cat will expect from her in the next strategy meeting—anything but Lena.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Lena is in her head.

Lena has been in her head.

Since Wednesday. Since the hot tub. Since that first flicker of something Kara couldn’t name. Hell, since last Saturday.

And maybe that’s why she doesn’t notice—doesn’t see the person stepping into her path until it’s too late.

They collide.

Again.

For the second time in two days.

And Rao, of course it’s Lena.

The impact isn’t enough to knock either of them over, but it’s enough.

Enough for Kara to grasp instinctively at Lena’s waist, fingers catching in the material of her shirt before she realizes what she’s doing.

Enough for Lena to catch her arms, steadying herself even though Kara is the one who nearly lost balance.

And just like that, they’re close.

Too close.

Again.

Kara barely registers the warmth of Lena’s hands before she pulls away. Not fast, not abrupt—just enough to clear space, enough to regain composure.

Lena doesn’t step back right away.

And that’s the problem.

Because Kara can see everything.

The flecks of lighter green in her eyes, the faintest sheen of sweat at her temple, the way her lips part just slightly as if she’s about to say something—

And then.

Then.

Lena’s gaze flickers.

Not up. Not to the side.

Lower.

And Kara sees it. Clear as day.

Not imagined.

Not misread.

Not just a trick of the moment.

Lena looks at her lips.

And Rao—this is the second time.

Kara knows she didn’t imagine it this time.

Because yesterday, she had tried to convince herself she was seeing things.

But now?

Now she watches it happen in real time.

A flicker. A hesitation. A moment.

And then—just like yesterday—Lena covers it up. Smooth, seamless, like it never happened. Like Kara didn’t just catch her. Like this is just a normal moment in a normal day and not another wrecking ball to Kara’s rapidly deteriorating grip on reality.

And Kara?

Kara doesn’t run.

She ran yesterday.

Ran from the way Lena looked at her, from the way it made her feel. Ran from the unspoken weight of something she wasn’t ready to name. But now? Now she just stands there. Staring. Breath caught.

Lena tilts her head slightly, waiting. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just watching. Like she knows Kara noticed. Like she knows Kara doesn’t know what to do with it.

And Kara—Kara doesn’t move. Her brain is screaming at her to say something, anything. To crack a joke. To make this normal. To do what she always does—deflect, reframe, reset. But she can’t. Because this is not normal. Because this is the second time Lena has done this.

Because this keeps happening.

Running into each other. Colliding. Ending up in each other’s space like the universe is hellbent on making sure Kara notices.

And now she has. And Rao—now she can’t stop. The silence between them stretches. Kara swallows, throat suddenly too dry despite the humidity pressing in around them.

Finally—finally—Lena shifts back, just an inch, just enough to release the breath Kara didn’t realize she was holding.

And then—Lena smirks. Not a wide smirk. Not one of those smug, sharp-edged grins she wears like armor. Just a slight twitch of her lips, like she knows exactly what’s going through Kara’s head right now. Like she’s waiting to see if Kara will acknowledge it. And Kara—Kara absolutely will not.

She clears her throat, looking away. “You—uh—you good?”

Lena exhales, a slow, measured thing. “Perfect.”

Of course she is. Of course Lena isn’t rattled by this. Of course she’s just going to act like nothing happened.

And Kara—Kara wants to believe nothing did. But she knows better now. She knows what she saw. Knows this isn’t a coincidence anymore. Knows that Lena’s gaze flickered to her lips. Again. And that? That is not nothing.

Her heart skips.

Then someone shouts her name from across the lot.

The moment breaks.

And Lena—because she’s always one step ahead—just smiles, smooth and unreadable.

“You’ve got media.”

Then she’s gone.

——

Winn catches her with a clipboard and a time crunch. “You’re late. Cat’s already down there. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Then it’s nonstop.

Media tent.

Drivers’ meeting.

FOX Sports quick-hit segment.

Garage walk-and-talk.

Big Belly Burger mascot photo—again.

Questions blur together.

“How are you feeling going into the race?”

“What’s the team’s chemistry been like?”

“Word is Lena Luthor’s got her hands all over the setup—how’s that going?”

And Kara answers all of it on autopilot.

“Focused.”

“The team’s in sync.”

“She knows what she’s doing.”

Until—“There seems to be a rhythm between you and Lena. Something more than mechanical. Care to comment?”

Kara freezes for a beat too long. And there it is again. That image. That look. The way Lena’s eyes had dropped just briefly, undeniably, to Kara’s lips. Not playful. Not accidental.

And the way Kara hadn’t looked away. “We’re here to race,” she says quickly. “That’s it.”

Zatanna swoops in from nowhere, flashing a grin. “And you’ll get your headlines when she’s holding the trophy. Let the girl breathe.”

Kara exhales, just barely. But her hands are still tight at her sides. Because no matter how fast the morning moves, no matter how many cameras they shove in her face, Lena is still there. In her head. Under her skin. And Kara doesn’t know what’s worse—trying to forget it. Or knowing she doesn’t want to.

But Kara can’t afford to dwell—not on forgetting, not on remembering, and definitely not on the way she didn’t want to forget. Because this is NASCAR. There’s no time for hesitation, no room for unraveling. The day is running short, the race creeping closer with every tick of the clock.

And Lena—

Lena is still in her head.

Not just the memory of that look. Not just the way her eyes had dropped, sharp and deliberate, to Kara’s mouth. It’s the way Kara had felt it. Deep in her chest. The way it had made her pulse hitch, made the rest of the world blur.

And that—That’s the part she can’t shake.

Because she’s supposed to be focused. Locked in. Race-ready. And instead, her thoughts keep circling the same moment, the same heat, like it’s something carved into her skin.

But she can’t linger there. Not now. Not when the day is already shifting again.

The crew’s moving. The garage is clearing. The radio checks are starting.

Pre-race ceremonies are next.

And with them, the pressure. The anthem. The eyes. The weight.

So Kara straightens. Shoulders back. Chin up. Pretends her heart isn’t still catching on a look she didn’t imagine.

And moves forward anyway.

——

The controlled chaos of pre-race ceremonies is always the same. Always loud, always hectic, always buzzing with a different kind of energy than any other part of race day.

The cars are lined up, gleaming under the afternoon sun, crew members making final checks as the clock ticks down.

There’s an order to it—a ritualistic kind of madness.

Drivers making their way down the grid. Sponsors grabbing last-minute photos. Media prowling for interviews, for soundbites, for whatever pre-race drama they can stir up before engines fire.

Kara knows how to navigate it. She’s done this before.

But today—today feels different.

She goes through the motions—grinning for a few sponsor shots, giving a quick pre-race interview about her car, about Ivy Town, about how she’s feeling.

She answers the questions—the polished, expected responses about strategy, about tire wear, about staying patient in the first half of the race.

But her focus keeps slipping.

Her eyes keep searching.

And it’s not for Alex.

Not for Cat.

Not even for her cousin.

It’s for Lena.

And it doesn’t take long to find her. Because Lena is exactly where Kara knew she’d be. Near the car, deep in conversation with Brainy, nodding along to whatever rapid-fire analysis he’s giving.

She’s in her fire suit now, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, sharp and polished even with a faint streak of grease at her wrist.

She doesn’t look at Kara—not at first. She’s too focused, too locked in. And Kara… Kara should be locked in, too.

She should be thinking about the car. About the race. About the strategy, about the long-run adjustments, about everything that actually matters today.

But all she can think about is Lena. And the way this keeps happening. The way she keeps finding herself drawn to her. The way, no matter how much she tries to ignore it, it lingers. Then—Lena glances up. And their eyes meet. And Kara feels it. That shift—the one she still doesn’t have a name for.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not like the moments in the hauler, or the collision in the garage, or the collision from today, or any of the times she’s found herself too close, too aware.

But it’s something. Because Lena holds her gaze. Just for a second longer than necessary. Because Kara knows she isn’t imagining it anymore.

Because there’s no smirk. No teasing look. No carefully crafted Luthor expression. Just Lena. Unreadable. Watching her. Kara forces herself to look away.

She swears she hears Cat snort from somewhere behind her. The ceremony keeps moving.

The national anthem plays. The invocation follows. Drivers begin filing into place for introductions. Kara takes a breath. Prepares herself. Pushes everything down.

And then—her name is called.

She steps forward, acknowledges the crowd, waves, keeps her expression easy, confident. It’s muscle memory now. And then—just like at Fawcett—she tunes out everything else. Because she doesn’t care about the rest of the introductions. Because she’s too busy watching Lena. She shouldn’t be.

She should be preparing, should be going over strategy in her head, should be focusing on what’s about to happen when the green flag drops.

But instead—she watches Lena. And Lena watches her back. Kara sees the exact moment Lena realizes she’s looking. Because Lena’s posture shifts—just slightly. Because Lena doesn’t look away. Because, after a beat, Lena does it again. That almost-smile. That same barely-there curve of her lips that Kara caught at Fawcett. A flicker of something—not quite amusement, not quite neutral. Something more. Something that lingers. And just like before— It stays with Kara.

Even as driver introductions continue. Even as the final pre-race formalities unfold. Even as she makes her way toward her car, slipping back into the carefully choreographed routine of race day. Even as she climbs into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel, eyes sharp, head clear. Even as she closes her eyes—just for a second— And whispers a quiet, familiar prayer. A House of El tradition. A final grounding moment.

Because in just a few minutes—They’ll fire the engines. And she needs to win this race. For herself. For her team. And, maybe— For Lena.

Kara settles into her seat, the world outside the car narrowing to the controlled chaos of pre-race final checks.

Her belts are cinched tight. Her gloves are snug. The inside of the cockpit is familiar, grounding.

The final pre-race instructions echo in her headset—officials confirming track conditions, scanning for last-minute delays, counting down the moments before the command.

She breathes in through her nose.

Holds it.

Exhales slowly.

Then—“DRIVERS, START YOUR ENGINES!”

A roar erupts from the grid as forty cars fire to life.

The deep, rumbling purr of her engine vibrates through her chest, through her bones.

She feels it. The adrenaline. The weight of the moment. The focus tightening in her chest like steel locking into place. She is ready.

“Radio check,” Nia’s voice crackles in. “Kara, you got me?”

“Loud and clear,” Kara replies.

Cat’s voice follows, crisp and direct. “Let’s keep it clean out there, Rookie. You start inside row two—it’s your race to lose. Don’t let me regret this investment.”

A smirk tugs at Kara’s lips. “Yes, boss.”

Lena’s voice comes through. Calm. Steady. Unshakable. “Car should feel good. We tightened it up just enough after qualifying. Be aggressive, but don’t overdrive it into turn one.” And hearing her voice through the radio hits Kara like a damn jolt to the system.

She knew Lena would be on comms pre-race, but it still does something to her.

It reminds her. Of everything. Of how Lena was watching her during introductions. Of how Lena smiled at her. Of how Kara is still thinking about it. She exhales, forces herself to focus.

“Copy that,” Kara says, voice steady. “Car already feels dialed in.”

“It should,” Lena replies, and there’s something in her tone—something not quite smug, but close.

Kara bites back a comment because she doesn’t have time for this—not now. The pace car rolls off. The field follows.

Kara eases onto the throttle, feeling the car respond exactly the way it should. The first pace lap is smooth. The car is already balanced, already locked in beneath her.

She rolls her shoulders back, adjusting in her seat as the field stretches out, coming up to speed behind the pace car.

“Alright,” Cat’s voice cuts back in. “You know the drill. Keep it steady. Let’s have a clean start.”

Kara barely registers the response she gives because she is locked in. The nerves are still there, buzzing beneath the surface. But her focus? Razor-sharp. She doesn’t even notice she’s gripping the wheel tighter than normal. Doesn’t even notice that she’s still thinking about Lena’s voice. Because in just a few seconds— The green flag is going to drop. And Kara is going to chase the win.

The world outside the car is a blur of color and sound.

The grandstands are packed, a sea of movement—fans waving, cameras flashing, the faint echo of the announcers booming over the PA system.

But inside the car? Inside the car, it’s different. Inside the car, it’s just her.

Just the machine beneath her, the straps pressing tight across her chest, the scent of hot asphalt mixing with the sharp tang of fuel and burning rubber.

Kara grips the wheel, her gloves tight against the suede, muscles coiled, the adrenaline sinking deep into her bones.

She breathes in.

Holds it.

Exhales.

The cars around her rumble, forty machines idling in formation, heat waves shimmering off their hoods under the afternoon sun.

Engines purr and snarl, vibrating through the ground, through Kara’s seat, through her entire body.

Her Camaro—their Camaro—shudders beneath her hands, the familiar deep-chested growl of the engine settling into her ribs. It’s alive.

The tires hum against the asphalt. The sun is glaring off the windshields ahead. The scent of burnt fuel lingers heavy in the warm air. Kara adjusts her grip on the wheel. Rolls her shoulders. The car is solid. Balanced. Dialed in.

The field tightens up, creeping toward the line.

Engines growl, coiled and ready, an entire pack of snarling machines waiting for release.

Kara grips the wheel, eyes locked ahead, heart hammering against her ribs.

The pace car peels off. The pack crawls forward. She hovers over the throttle, waiting—waiting—waiting—

Then—GREEN FLAG.

And chaos erupts.

Kara slams the throttle down, tires biting hard, launching forward. Her Camaro surges, hooking onto the rear quarter of the lead car, sucking in behind the draft as the field fans out.

The first few laps at Ivy Town are always a battle. Short-track racing means tight quarters, no room for error, elbows out from the start. And Kara knows it.

She threads through the opening lap, sticking to the low line, fending off a divebomb from her outside.

Leslie Willis—of course it’s Leslie—hangs on her right rear, trying to squeeze Kara out of position.

Kara doesn’t budge.

She holds her line, forcing Leslie to back out before she runs out of room. A grin tugs at Kara’s lips. Not today, Sparky.

——

The field settles into rhythm. Kara is running third. Barry now holds the lead, but only barely—Zatanna is breathing down his neck, already setting up a run.

Behind Kara, Leslie has fallen back several positions but is trying to claw her way forward.

But what Kara doesn’t see—what she doesn’t know—Is that Alex Danvers is blocking Leslie at every turn. Every time Leslie tries to make a move, Alex cuts her off. Every time Leslie looks for an opening, Alex fills the gap.

Not aggressively—just enough. Just calculated enough to keep Leslie pinned.

Kara focuses ahead, pushing closer to the leaders.

The tires are coming in. The car is settling.

She can feel it—the perfect balance, the way the adjustments Lena made have locked everything into place.

She wants more.

Her radio crackles.

“Pace is good. Don’t burn the tires.” Cat’s voice is crisp, no-nonsense.

Kara exhales sharply. Right. Patience. But Rao—she wants to go. She wants the lead. She wants the win.

The lap counter ticks up.

Barry is still in front. Zatanna is still stalking him, waiting. Kara stays right there, watching, waiting. Because if they make a mistake— She’s going to be there to take it.

The laps wind up, the rhythm of the race settling in, but Ivy Town never really settles.

Not with forty cars packed together, not with elbows out, not with tempers already running hot.

Kara stays in third.

Barry is still in the lead. Zatanna is still stalking, setting him up, looking for the right moment.

Kara can feel it coming.

The whole pack can feel it coming.

Because Zatanna doesn’t just send it.

She sets traps.

She makes small moves, subtle feints, nudging Barry just enough to make him adjust—just enough to put him where she wants him.

And Kara—Kara is watching.

She holds steady, running her line, tires gripping perfectly, car feeling locked in.

Lena got it perfect.

But Kara barely has time to process that thought because—

Zatanna goes for it.

Coming off turn two, she rolls out of the throttle just a beat earlier, arcs her exit wider, gets the perfect run off the corner. Barry sees it happening—but he’s already too late.

Zatanna gets under him down the backstretch, fender to fender, door to door.

The crowd is on its feet. Kara hears Nia over the radio. “Here we go.”

Barry tries to hang on. He’s got the preferred lane up top, but Zatanna is too good at this. She’s already got her nose in there, already cutting his momentum, already inching ahead. By turn four—she’s cleared him.

New leader: Zatanna. And Kara? Kara pounces.

She dives low, under Barry, stealing the gap before he can slam the door shut.

It’s close. Too close.

For a second—they’re mirror to mirror, metal to metal, Kara’s tires gripping the absolute limit of the track.

Barry doesn’t give it up easy.

He fights back, holding on through one and two, keeping her pinned low.

She doesn’t lift.

She doesn’t blink.

Coming off two—her momentum wins.

She clears him.

P2.

“Nice work, kid,” Cat says, approving but sharp. “Now settle in. You’re in the right spot. Let her burn up her tires. You know how this goes.”

Kara exhales sharply, calming her breathing, controlling the rush of adrenaline. She’s not in a hurry. She’s right where she needs to be. Behind her, the battle is still raging.

She can’t see it, but she knows it’s happening—knows because Nia is relaying updates, because she can hear it in the tone of the spotters.

Alex is still keeping Leslie pinned.

Every time Leslie tries to make a move, Alex is there.

Blocking. Holding her line.

Not dirty—just smart. Just frustrating.

And Leslie?

Leslie is getting pissed.

Kara doesn’t have time to focus on it.

Because she’s got a race to win.

And right now—Zatanna is in her way.

The gap between her and Zatanna No. 91  is razor-thin, the nose of Kara’s No. 11 tucked tight against the draft, pulling just close enough to feel the shift in the air.

Zatanna is running her line perfectly—too perfectly. Every corner is calculated, every entry precise. Kara knows what she’s doing.

Zatanna wants Kara to overheat her tires. She’s keeping the car just unstable enough to force Kara to react, keeping her line defensive but not dirty.

It’s frustrating. And Rao—Kara hates losing.

She adjusts her line—just slightly, shifting a lane higher in turns three and four. And there it is. A small difference, but a difference.

She picks up a fraction more momentum off the corner, the rear end settling into the groove.

“Better exit. She’s still tight in the center. You can get her.” Nia’s voice is steady in her ear.

Kara keeps her breathing controlled. No sudden moves.

Then Cat, sharp as ever—“Patience, Rookie. Make it count.”

Patience.

Patience.

Then go.

Kara tucks in.

Waits.

Waits.

Then—

She dives low.

Full throttle, tires gripping, sending it into turn one. Zatanna sees it—reacts fast, but not fast enough. Kara is already there, already inside, already side-by-side.

The crowd roars. Nia’s voice sharpens. “Still there—hold it—hold it—”

Side by side, through one and two, inches apart. Kara holds firm, forces Zatanna up a lane.

Off turn two—

She clears her.

P1, Kara Danvers.

A sharp breath—her grip on the wheel iron-tight. “Nice.” Cat’s voice cuts through the radio, the smallest note of approval in it. “Now, don’t waste it.”

Kara exhales. Focus. Control the race.

But then—Nia’s voice shifts.

“Behind you—battle’s heating up. Alex is still blocking No. 14, but No. 27 just got involved. It’s getting messy.”

Kara can’t look—doesn’t need to.

She knows Alex is back there. Knows Leslie is still trying to get past her. Knows Maggie—No. 27—has entered the fight.

And now it’s a three-car war.

Her radio crackles again. “14 is getting aggressive. Watch for a caution.”

Kara’s grip tightens. Because Leslie is pissed. And pissed drivers make mistakes.

She forces herself to block it out—focus forward, control the lead. But the tension is there now, sharp at the edges of her concentration. She needs this race to stay green. She needs to hold onto first. Because she’s not giving this win up. Not today.

Kara grips the wheel tighter, forcing her breathing steady as she settles into first place.

The air is clean up here.

The car feels perfect.

Lena had gotten everything right.

But Kara doesn’t have time to think about that—because Ivy Town is never that easy. She listens to the radio chatter, focusing on the information.

Lap One Hundred and Forty.

A long way to go. Tires are still good. No pit stop yet.

But behind her—the mid-pack battle is getting dangerous. Nia’s voice cuts in. “Uh—Leslie’s not happy. She’s still stuck behind 31 and 27.”

Alex and Maggie. Kara’s jaw tightens. She already knows Leslie’s pissed—she’s been pissed since Fawcett.

Since Kara got the win. Since Leslie got penalized. Since PR had to separate them after the damn punch. And Kara knows—knows that Leslie isn’t just trying to pass Alex. She’s trying to get to Kara.

Cat’s voice cuts in, sharp and controlled. “Focus forward, Rookie. Let your spotter worry about the chaos.”

Right. Focus forward.

She can’t worry about Leslie.

But then—

Nia’s voice spikes. “Trouble—TROUBLE—turn three!” The crowd erupts. Kara’s stomach drops. She can’t look. Can only hear the chaos through her spotter’s voice.

“14 and 27 made contact—14’s loose—BIG save by 31—CAUTION’S OUT!”

Kara exhales sharply, instinct taking over. She lifts off the throttle, lets the car settle as the field slows under yellow.

She can almost hear it now—Leslie’s furious radio chatter, crew chiefs barking orders.

Nia updates quickly. “14 got into 27. 31 avoided it, but 27 spun. No major damage.”

Maggie.

Kara presses her lips together, tapping the wheel as the field bunches under caution. Then Cat’s voice comes through. “Alright, focus up. Pit strategy time.”

Pit stops. This changes everything.

Lap One Hundred and Forty Three

“Four tires and fuel, full stop. No risks. Stay in sync with the field.”

Kara nods, adjusting her gloves. She knows this part. Ivy Town is a tire-heavy track. Shorter laps mean track position is crucial. No one is gambling on two tires yet—not with over 250 laps to go.

Cat’s voice is steady. “Pace car’s out. Pit road opens this time. Stay smooth, no mistakes.”

Kara’s followed by Zatanna, Barry, and the rest of the top ten down pit road.

This has to be clean. She rolls into her pit box, hitting her marks perfectly. The team goes to work. Right side up. Left side up. Fueler in.

Kara grips the wheel, pulse steady, knowing Lena’s watching everything. 9.1 seconds. Flawless.

Kara drops the clutch, rolls out of the box, merges back onto the track. “P1 off pit road. Good stop.” Nia’s voice is smooth.

Kara exhales. Still the leader. But Leslie? Leslie’s still back there. And Kara knows this isn’t over.

Lap One Hundred and Forty Eight

Kara settles into formation at the front, pace car still leading the field under caution. She exhales, flexing her fingers against the wheel. Restart time.

She knows this restart will be aggressive. Behind her, Zatanna and Barry are lined up, waiting. She can’t trust either of them. Not because they race dirty—but because they race smart.

Zatanna will set traps. Barry will go all-out, diving into any gap she leaves open. And then there’s Leslie..

Leslie is still back in P6, stuck behind Alex’s No. 31, Maggie’s No. 27,  and Wally’s No. 12.

But Kara knows it won’t last. Leslie is too desperate, too reckless. She’ll be coming. Kara breathes deep, resets her focus. Cat’s voice breaks through her radio.

“Danvers, remember—Ivy Town is a rhythm track. Get out clean, settle in, control the pace.” Right. Control the pace.

Nia follows up. “Choose your lane.”

Kara doesn’t hesitate. Inside line. It’s the safer play. Shorter distance around the corner, easier to defend. Zatanna chooses the outside, banking on momentum.

Behind them, the field is stacked

Kara resets her grip.

The lights go out on the pace car.

One lap to green.

Her heart pounds.

This is it.

Lap One Hundred and Fifty

The pace car peels off. Kara controls the restart. She waits. Waits.

Then—GO.

She drops the hammer, launching off the restart.

Zatanna hangs tough on the outside, side-by-side into turn one. Barry is right there behind Kara, bumping her rear bumper, trying to push her forward—trying to upset her balance. Kara holds steady, but Zatanna darts to the front.

Mid-pack, chaos unfolds. According to Nia:

Leslie  sends it under Alex, but Alex slams the door shut.

Wally  takes the high side, trying to freight-train past Barry.

Diana’s No. 3, dives low, picking off Tommy Merlyn’s No. 25 in a clean move.

Clark’s No. 90 is methodically picking through the field, moving past Sara Lance’s No. 23.

Oliver’s No. 7 is fighting with Nyssa’s No. 5, neither backing down.

And at the front—Zatanna folds. Kara clears her off turn two, takes full control of P1 once again.

Barry dives under Zatanna—side-by-side for second. Kara sees them in her mirror. Sees the field tightening. And she knows. This race is just getting started.

Lap One Hundred and Sixty.

The restart settles quickly—but no one is taking it easy.

Kara keeps the lead, but she’s not comfortable. Because Barry won the battle for second. And Barry never stops coming. Zatanna had been tough, but she was technical, methodical. Barry? Barry is relentless.

He’s there—right on Kara’s bumper, pushing the pace. “21 is aggressive on entry, but you’ve got him beat on exit,” Nia updates. “He’s burning up his right front.”

Good. Kara can use that.

Cat’s voice cuts in. “Let him overwork. Stay smooth.”

Right. Control the pace. Make him come to her.

Lap One Hundred and Sixty Five.

Behind them, the field is still fighting tooth and nail.

Nia keeps relaying updates—Kara can’t see it, but she hears it.

Leslie  is finally clear of Alex).

Wally and Zatanna  are side by side for third.

Diana is charging forward, picking off Maggie.

Clark is still creeping toward the top ten, steady as ever.

Nyssa and Oliver are still locked in a battle, neither giving an inch.

Leslie’s name lingers in Kara’s mind.

She’s P5 now. She’s coming. Kara knows it.

Lap One Hundred and Eighty.

The field spreads out. Kara focuses in. The car is still good, still stable, still smooth. She can feel how perfect the setup is—how every adjustment Lena made was exactly what she needed.

It’s not just that the car is good.

It’s that Lena knew what she needed before she even asked. That thought lodges in Kara’s mind, sharp and unshakable. Then—a nudge from Barry. A hard bump to the rear bumper, sending her just a little loose.

Not enough to wreck.

Just enough to say I’m still here.

Kara clenches her jaw. Barry is pushing. And she won’t let him win.

Lap One Hundred and Ninety Five.

Nia’s voice cuts in. “Green flag stops coming up. Leaders should be in soon.”

Ivy Town is a tire wear track. Everyone will need four tires, no exceptions.

Cat’s voice is calm, calculated. “We’ll pit around Lap 205. Let the first wave go early, gain time on the back end.”

Right. Strategy. But Kara can’t think that far ahead. Because Barry is still there. Leslie is getting closer.

Lap One Hundred and Ninety Eight.

Kara feels it before she sees it. A shift in the air, a tightening of space behind her rear bumper. Barry is closer than before.

He’s not just riding in her wake—he’s setting up the pass. Nia confirms it over the radio. “21 is diving low—looking inside.”

Kara doesn’t panic. She knows how Barry races—fast, bold, aggressive, but clean. He won’t wreck her. But he will take the position if she lets him. And Kara doesn’t let people take anything. She adjusts her entry. Blocks the inside, forces Barry to lift. The crowd roars, seeing the battle unfold. Barry backs off—resets.

He’s not done. Next lap. He tries again. Kara defends again. She’s not overdriving, not blocking erratically—just making him work for it. Barry hates waiting. And that’s his weakness.

Lap Two Hundred and Two

“New problem,” Nia says. “14 is here.” Kara’s stomach tightens. Leslie has clawed her way to P3. And she’s pissed.

Cat’s voice is sharp. “Ignore her. Race the track, not the driver.”

Easy to say.

Harder to do when Kara can already see Leslie in her mirror—already feel the aggression radiating from her car.

Barry’s still trying to pass, but now there’s a bigger problem. Because Leslie won’t be patient. She’s coming for both of them.

Nia’s voice sharpens. “14 is looking inside 21. They’re fighting now.”

That’s good. That’s really good. If Leslie and Barry are fighting—they’re slowing each other down. Kara uses it. She gains a car-length, breathes for half a second.

Pit stops are coming. She just needs to hold the lead until then.

But Leslie is going to do something desperate. Kara knows it.

Lap Two Hundred and Five.

Nia’s voice is steady. “Leaders pitting this lap. 91, 3, 24 already in.”

Cat makes the call. “Box this lap. Four tires and fuel. No mistakes.”

Kara eases off the throttle, preparing to pit. Barry and Leslie are right behind her, both coming in too. This pit stop will be everything.

The car rolls onto pit road. 40 mph feels like crawling after racing at 120. Kara hits her marks—perfect entry. The team goes to work. Right side up. Left side up. Fuel in.

Flawless.

Kara rolls out of the box, merging back onto the track.

Nia’s voice confirms it—“P1 off pit road.”

Still the leader.

Still in control.

But Leslie?

Leslie’s stop was just as fast.

And now, she’s directly behind Kara.

Lap Two Hundred and Ten.

The field settles, but the race is anything but calm.

Kara is still in the lead. But now—Leslie is right there. Too close. Too eager. Nia’s voice is sharp. “14 is looking—she’s trying to set up something.”

Kara already knows.

She can feel the way Leslie’s car moves, the way she’s not just pushing—she’s hunting. Barry is still behind them, lurking in P3.

Lap Two Hundred and Fifteen.

Kara sees it in the mirror before it happens. A hard dive. Leslie sends it into turn three, low, reckless, shoving the nose of her car under Kara’s left rear quarter panel.

Kara reacts instantly. She hangs tight—keeps the car steady, doesn’t let Leslie take her line.

Contact.

Not enough to wreck.

Just enough to say I’m not moving.

The crowd explodes.

Leslie isn’t backing down.

Nia’s voice spikes. “14 is still inside—she’s forcing it!”

They’re side-by-side out of turn four.

Drag race down the front stretch.

Barry is right behind them, waiting to capitalize.

Kara holds strong on the outside—she knows Leslie is overdriving, burning up her tires just trying to stay with her.

Cat’s voice is ice-cold. “Let her fry her tires. Don’t wreck the car.”

Kara grits her teeth. She won’t wreck it. But she damn sure won’t let Leslie win.

Lap Two Hundred and Twenty.

Leslie isn’t giving up.

But Kara?

Kara doesn’t break under pressure.

She holds Leslie tight on the inside—forces her into a bad angle, bad exit. Barry sees the opening. He dives under both of them.

Nia’s voice is rapid-fire. “THREE WIDE for the lead!”

The entire crowd is on its feet. Kara stays calm, even as the adrenaline spikes. This is racing. And Kara was built for this.

Kara’s car is tight to the wall.

Barry’s No. 21 in the middle, his Ford wedged between them. Leslie’s No. 14 all the way at the bottom, tires digging in hard, trying to force the issue.

Three-wide into turn one.

This won’t work. Kara knows it. Someone has to lift. It won’t be her. Barry hangs tough in the middle, but he’s running out of space. Leslie? Leslie is overdriving the corner.

Nia’s voice is tight. “Careful—14 is loose.” Kara already feels it. Leslie’s car washes up—just barely. Barry reacts, shifts up to avoid her— Right into Kara’s lane. Contact. Just a brush against Kara’s right side—but it’s enough to send Barry up the track.  His tires catch the marbles—he’s sliding.

Kara watches in her mirror as Barry’s car snaps sideways, the backend stepping out.

And just like that—caution.

Lap Two Hundred and Twenty Three.

Barry’s car is sideways in the middle of the track. Leslie tries to avoid it—locks up, slides. Behind them, it’s chaos.

Nia is rapid-firing information. “WRECK—WRECK BEHIND YOU! 21 is around—14 involved—12—5—23—”

Kara keeps her line. Holds the wheel steady. The wreck unfolds behind her, but she’s through. Not everyone is.

The radio explodes with spotter chatter across the field.

Barry spun first—his Ford nosed into the inside wall.

Leslie  got clipped—still rolling, but damage to the right front.

Wally had nowhere to go—piled in late.

Nyssa and Sara got collected trying to avoid.

It’s a mess. Nia exhales hard. “You’re clear. P1 under caution.”

Kara finally breathes. Still leading. Still in control. Leslie? Not out of the race, but hurt. Barry? Probably done.

Cat’s voice is cool. “Breathe, Danvers. You’re good.” Kara knows that. But her hands are still gripping the wheel a little too tight. Because she knows—this isn’t over.

Lap Two Hundred and Twenty Five.

The pace car rolls out, picking up the remaining field. Kara exhales. She’s still leading. But the race just changed.

Nia breaks down the situation. “21 is done. 12 and 23 took big hits. 14 still rolling but hurt.”

Leslie’s not out. But she’s not a threat right now.

Cat’s voice is cool and calculating. “Pits are open this time. Some will come, some will stay. We’re staying out.”

Right. Track position is king.

Nia confirms it. “Majority of the field is staying out with you. A few in the back are pitting for fresh tires, but we’re good.”

Kara watches as some of the mid-pack cars peel off to pit road. The front-runners stay put. Restart lineup forms.

Kara No. 11 - P1

Zatanna No. 91- P2

Diana No. 3 - P3

Hal No. 24 - P4

Clark No. 90 - P5

Leslie No.14  - P6

But Leslie has damage. She won’t be as aggressive—at least, not immediately. But she’s still there. And Kara doesn’t trust her. Nia’s voice softens. “You good, K?”

Kara nods once, gripping the wheel tighter. “Yeah,” she lies.

Cat, as always, sees through it. “Then win the damn race.”

Lap Two Hundred and Thirty.

The Restart approaches. The pace car lights go out. Kara resets. Deep breath. Grip the wheel. Focus. Leslie is still in her mirror. But this restart? This is Kara’s moment. She just has to take it.

The pace car peels off.

Kara knows what she has to do. Control the restart. Launch at the right moment. Don’t let them get a run.

She’s got Zatanna to her outside. Diana  and Hal right behind. Leslie? She’s still in it. But she’s wounded.

The front row creeps forward. Green flag. Kara hits the gas—perfect launch.

Zatanna spins the tires slightly—she’s slow off the line.

Kara clears her before Turn 1. Behind them? Leslie is fading. Nia’s voice is steady. “14 is dropping—damage is killing her speed.” Kara doesn’t look back. She dives into Turn 1—clean air, perfect grip. Diana jumps on Zatanna’s weak start, moves to P2. Hal follows, bumping Zatanna down to P4. Kara breathes. She’s clear. Now she just has to finish the job.

Lap Two Hundred and Thirty Five

Leslie is a non-factor now. But Diana and Hal? They’re right there. And neither of them are going to back down. Nia warns her. “3 and 24 working together—they’re reeling you in.”

Kara grits her teeth.

Lap Two Hundred and Thirty Six.

Kara has clean air. But Diana and Hal are  coming. Nia calls it out. “3 and 24 closing the gap. They’re drafting.” Kara grits her teeth again. She knows what that means.

They’re working together to catch her—using the draft to slingshot forward. Diana inches closer. Hal holds tight behind her, pushing air onto her rear bumper, giving her an extra boost. Kara’s lead? Shrinking.

Lap Two Hundred and Thirty Eight.

It’s not just a two-car battle. Zatanna isn’t out of this yet. She’s recovered from her weak restart. And she’s faster than Hal right now. Nia’s voice is sharp. “91 is making a move on 24.” Kara checks her mirror.

Zatanna dives low—inside of Hal into Turn 3. Side-by-side. Hal holds his ground, but he’s losing momentum. Kara doesn’t have time to focus on that. Because Diana is right there. She looks low. Kara blocks. She looks high. Kara shuts the door again. Diana is strong, aggressive—but she’s smart.

She’s not going to make a reckless move. But Kara knows she’s setting something up.

Lap Two Hundred and Forty Two

Hal finally loses to Zatanna—she takes P3. Now it’s Diana vs. Kara vs. Zatanna. Three of the strongest closers in the field. And only one of them is leaving Ivy Town with a win.

Nia’s voice is clipped. “3 is looking again—she’s waiting for you to slip.” Kara won’t. She stays smooth. Hits her marks. Holds the line. But the pressure is unrelenting.

Diana is patient, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

Zatanna? She’s not waiting for anything. She’s charging forward.

Lap Two Hundred and Forty Five.

Kara’s got clean air.

She’s in P1, the Camaro planted, turning better than it has all afternoon. But the mirror is full—Zatanna is there, stalking her line like it’s choreography. Diana’s right behind her, patient and clinical, and Hal is charging too, closing steadily with that relentless Renegade Racing speed.

“P1 by two-tenths,” Nia’s voice crackles in her ear. “Zee’s peeking high. Don’t chase her—run your line.”

Kara nods—tight, controlled. Eyes forward.

She keeps the wheel steady through turns one and two. Lets the car float up just enough to keep speed on corner exit. It’s holding for now. But her right front is fading. She can feel it.

Lap Two Hundred and Sixty.

Green-flag pit stops start behind her.

Barry ducks onto pit road, followed by a handful of mid-pack runners trying to short-pit and leapfrog forward. Kara stays out. So does Zatanna. Diana. Hal.

“Stretch this run,” Cat says over comms. Calm. Firm. “We pit with the leaders. No risks.”

Lap Two Hundred And Seventy Three.

Traffic.

Kara gets caught behind a lapped car into turn three—briefly. Long enough for Zatanna to close the gap. Hal makes a bold move under Diana into one and clears her by the time they hit the backstretch.

The front four are all within a second.

Nia’s voice: “Clear by one to Zee. Hal’s coming.”

Kara doesn’t respond. Just breathes.

Lap Two Hundred and Eighty Five.

More stops. Zatanna peels off. Hal follows. Kara stays out two more laps. “Box in three,” Cat says. “Tires and fuel. Don’t overshoot.”

Lap Two Hundred and Eighty Eight.

Kara hits pit road. Fast, clean stop. Four tires. No adjustments. She merges back on track, cold tires squirming beneath her for a lap and a half before they grip. She cycles back to P2 as the sequence finishes—Zatanna momentarily in the lead. But it doesn’t last.

Lap Two Hundred and Ninety Eight.

Kara reclaims the lead.

Zatanna tries the high line into three. Kara defends, sweeping up just enough to cut the momentum. Diana’s there again too—low and tight. Hal never left.

Four cars. One second. And sixty laps to go.

Lap Three Hundred and Twenty.

Nia’s calm: “Zee’s taking shallower entry. Hal’s rim-riding. You’re still strongest off exit.”

The car’s loose now—especially on corner entry—but manageable. Kara adjusts her brake bias, not too much. Just enough to settle it through one and two.

Lap Three Hundred and Forty.

Another round of green-flag pit stops begins. Mid-pack cars pit early, trying to gain ground. Cat holds Kara out. “We go with the leaders again. Trust the tires.”

Lap Three Hundred and Forty Eight.

Zatanna pits. Then Hal. Then Diana.

“Box next time,” Cat calls. Kara nods and brings it down smooth—perfect pit entry, no wheel hop. Her crew hits every mark. Four tires. Fuel. Go.

Lap Three Hundred and Fifty Three.

Back on track. Cold tires again. Nia keeps her steady. “Zee’s at your right rear. You’re clear one behind her. Hal’s closing on both of you.”

Lap Three Hundred and Sixty Five.

And then—caution. A spinner in turn four. Smoke but no major contact. The field slows. Kara exhales—just once.

“Caution’s out,” Nia says. “You’re still leader at the stripe. Zatanna P2. Hal P3. Diana P4.”

Cat’s voice is calm: “No need to pit. Hold track position.” Kara rolls along the backstretch behind the pace car, engine temp stable, hands loose on the wheel. She glances in the mirror. Four drivers. All capable of taking it. All right there. And she’s still got to hold them off.

The field rolled under yellow, the cars snaking single file behind the pace car.

Kara flexed her fingers on the wheel, working out the tension in her knuckles. The engine hummed steadily beneath her, but everything else felt suspended—crowd noise muted, track chatter low, the weight of the final laps pressing in on her chest like the air had thinned.

Ahead, the pace car’s lights kept flashing. Behind her, the mirror was full—Zatanna, Hal, Diana. All of them waiting. All of them ready. She took a breath.

And then Cat’s voice broke through her headset. Low. Calm. Measured. “This is where they start thinking about how to beat you.”

Kara blinked. Cat continued, unfazed.

“Zatanna’s planning the outside. Hal’s watching your restarts. Diana’s going to pick the line you hate the most. That’s their job.”

A pause.

“Yours is to not let a single one of them inside your head.”

Kara’s grip tightened.

Cat’s tone didn’t shift, but her voice dropped just a little, like it was meant for Kara and no one else. “You’re not here by luck, kid. You built this car. You earned this spot. Now go finish it.”

The radio crackled. Silence. Kara swallowed hard. She didn’t say anything back. Didn’t need to. She just looked forward. And waited for the lights to go out.

The pace car peels off. Kara’s heart kicks once—hard—but her hands stay steady on the wheel. She’s in control. She has to be.

Green flag.

She launches clean.

Zatanna jumps with her, tucked tight behind her bumper. Hal goes high into turn one, trying to slingshot around the outside. Diana dives low behind him, staying just out of reach.

They fan out behind her like wolves.

Lap Four Hundred and Sixty One.

Nia’s voice: “Clear by a nose. Stay middle. Hal’s hanging high.” Kara keeps her line smooth. Tight exit. The car is just on the edge of loose, but it’s holding. For now.

Lap Four Hundred and Sixty Four.

Zatanna drops back in line. Hal doesn’t. He’s coming. Up the outside in three. Door to door. For one breathless second, Kara’s spotter goes quiet. Then— “Clear. Barely. Hold it.”

She does.

Lap Four Hundred and Sixty Eight

Diana gets under Zatanna—briefly. They battle off turn four, side-drafting each other while Kara slips two-tenths ahead.

But the Camaro is fading. She feels it in her corner entry. The right front’s whispering enough already.

But there’s no time for caution. No time for care.

Just five sets of eyes in the mirror and one voice in her ear.

Lap Four Hundred and Seventy One

“Zee’s coming again.”

Kara breathes out through her teeth. Turns one and two. Her line’s still strong. Her entry’s smooth. But the exit? They’re eating her alive now.

Four Hundred and Seventy Five.

The gap’s gone.

Zatanna’s back on her bumper. Diana’s found new speed, pushing both of them. Hal is still swinging wide, living in that top groove like it belongs to him.

Kara’s car wiggles off turn two but catches. Barely. Nia: “Keep breathing, 11. You’ve got this.”

Lap Four Hundred and Eighty.

The crowd’s on its feet now—Kara can’t hear them, but she sees the blur of it down the frontstretch. Flags waving. Hands gripping the fence.

Four cars. One second. The gap between them disappears.

Lap Four Hundred and Eighty Five.

Hal noses ahead into turn three. Kara chops the line—clean, barely—and keeps it. But the tires are gone. Her arms are shaking. Every corner feels like threading a needle at 130 miles an hour.

She doesn’t blink. She can’t.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety.

Ten to go.

Diana takes a swing. Low in turn one. Slides up—almost clears her. Kara doesn’t lift.

They rub doors down the backstretch. Not enough to wreck. Just enough to rattle.

Zatanna’s there too, waiting for either of them to slip.

And Hal? He’s still riding the wall like a shadow.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Three.

Nia’s voice, tighter now: “They’re all there. Hold your line. You’re the one they’re chasing.”

Kara swallows. Doesn’t speak.

She’s too deep in it.

Hands aching. Eyes locked.

A blur of chrome and white to her right. A flash of red behind her. And the finish line—almost close enough to taste.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Five.

Five to go.

The mirrors are full. Her tires are done. Her body is screaming. And Kara? Kara digs in deeper. Because this is hers to lose.

This is it. Five laps. Four cars. One winner.

Diana isn’t making her move yet. Zatanna is closing—fast. Hal is struggling to keep up.

Kara can feel the pressure, but she doesn’t crack.

She knows she can win this.

She just has to finish it.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Six.

It’s a three-car battle now. Kara. Diana. Zatanna.

Nia’s voice is razor-sharp. “91 is moving—she’s closing fast.” Kara already feels it. Zatanna dives low. Diana goes high.

Three-wide into Turn 1. Kara’s breath catches. She knows this is the move. This is the moment. Hold. The. Line.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Seven.

Kara is in the middle of a goddamn sandwich.

Diana is trying to pinch her down. Zatanna is sending it deep, rolling the bottom line. Three-wide off Turn 2.

Nia’s voice is rapid. “Still three-wide—Diana outside, Zatanna inside—”

Kara keeps her foot in it. She can’t lift. Not now. They come storming down the backstretch, dead even. The Ivy Town crowd? Going ballistic.

Three-wide into Turn 3. Kara knows this can’t last. Someone has to back out. It won’t be her.

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Eight.

Kara holds the middle—steady, smooth, unshaken.

Diana has the best run on the outside. Zatanna is still digging, trying to make the bottom stick.

They are dead even.

Lap after lap, the three of them refuse to break.

Kara’s tires scream in protest, her arms ache from the grip, but she doesn’t let up. She can see the checkered flag ahead, feel the moment slipping closer.

Nia’s voice spikes. “TWO TO GO.”

Lap Four Hundred and Ninety Nine.

It happens in Turn 1.

Diana finally gets loose—too tight in the high groove, loses traction for just a second.

It’s just enough.

Kara surges forward.

Zatanna still there—door to door.

The final lap.

Kara’s car is perfect.

She knows this is it.

Lap Five Hundred.

The white flag waves. One more lap. One last chance.

Kara is locked in a dead heat. Diana on the outside, trying to make the top groove work. Zatanna digging low, sending it into every corner. Kara stuck in the middle—no margin for error.

Nia’s voice is tight, rapid. “Three-wide—still three-wide. This is it.”

They charge down the backstretch, side by side.

Ivy Town is on its feet.

Kara can barely hear the roar over the sound of her own heartbeat.

Turn 3.

Diana sends it in deep, hoping for momentum off the top. Zatanna hangs low, tires screeching, desperate for grip. Kara holds steady—smooth, sharp, fearless.

They fly through Turn 4.

Onto the frontstretch.

Nia is yelling now. “DRAG RACE TO THE LINE—HOLD IT—”

Kara throws everything into it. The checkered flag waves. The three cars come storming across the finish line—side by side.

Too close. Too damn close. The crowd erupts.

Kara can’t breathe. Nia exhales hard. “IT’S A PHOTO FINISH.”

Kara doesn’t even know if she won. She gave everything. But Zatanna? Diana? They were right there. The official review is taking too long.

Cat’s voice cuts through. “Hold tight, Danvers. We’re about to find out.” Kara clutches the wheel, heart hammering.

Seconds stretch. Then—The announcement crackles over the speakers.  “After review… the winner of the Atomic 400 is—”Kara squeezes her eyes shut. “KARA DANVERS IN THE No. 11 CAR!”

The radio explodes. Nia screams. Cat laughs. The crew is losing their minds. Kara lets out a breath—then yells, voice hoarse, overwhelmed. She won.

She actually won.

Checkered flag. Victory lane. Her name in the books.

Kara can’t feel her hands. She’s gripping the wheel too tight, chest heaving, pulse hammering. She won. Again. Two in a row.

Two, since Lena became her mechanic.

That thought lodges itself somewhere deep in her chest, sticks as she yanks the wheel and slams the throttle.

The car whips sideways, smoke pouring from the rear tires, billowing into the night air. The Ivy Town crowd loses their minds. She lets the burnout drag just a little too long—because she’s not ready to let go of this moment.

Not yet. Not of this.

Finally, she lets off the gas, lets the car roll to a stop in the infield, where the crew is already bolting over the wall. Her team is running toward her. All of them.

She barely has time to register it before she’s tearing off her helmet, climbing out the window—And then—She’s engulfed.

James nearly tackles her. A bone-crushing hug, arms wrapping around her shoulders, lifting her off her feet for half a second. “Two in a row, kid!” he shouts, laughing.

Kara barely catches her breath before Sam grabs her next, pulling her in with a shake. “Jesus, Danvers, you’re on fire.”

Kelly is next, grinning ear to ear. “I can’t believe this. You’re unstoppable.”

Nia is bouncing on her toes, practically vibrating. “You were incredible!”

Cat, of course, is the only one not barreling toward her like an overexcited golden retriever. She surveys the chaos with a slow, approving nod, arms folded.

“Well,” she says, tone as dry as ever. “At least you’re finally making this season interesting.” Kara is laughing, shaking, shouting—But then—She sees Lena.

She’s not running. Not grinning, not shouting, not throwing herself into the fray like the rest of the crew.

She’s standing slightly apart. Watching. Expression unreadable. Composed. But her arms are folded a little too tightly.

Kara sees it now—the way Lena is holding herself, how there’s something caught just behind the mask, something that doesn’t quite belong to the rest of this moment.

A reporter’s voice cuts through, clear and firm, cutting through the noise. “Danvers, second win in a row. Not bad.” She’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that comes with a job well done. “You’ve been on fire lately. What’s different?”

Kara blinks, surprised by how quickly the words flow from her mouth. She doesn’t have to think—the answer comes naturally.

“Lena.” The words slip out before she can stop them. She doesn’t even try to correct herself. There’s no need. They’re both there, together, and she knows everyone’s going to figure it out sooner or later. “We’ve been making the car better every week, but she’s helped me trust the car, trust myself, more than I ever have. She’s the reason I’m here right now.”

There’s a beat of silence that hangs in the air, then a few scattered chuckles from the crew and media.

Lena stays back, hands tucked into her pockets, still watching. She’s composed, cool, not saying anything, but there’s something in her eyes. It’s soft.

Kara doesn’t even realize how much she’s been staring until someone else asks her another question.

“You mentioned trusting yourself. How has the transition to working with Lena changed your mindset on the track?”

Kara opens her mouth to answer but pauses. It’s a hard question, because she’s still working through it herself. But she smiles, choosing her words carefully.

“Well, last year, I didn’t feel like I had anyone in my corner. I was doing it all myself in the Xfinity Series, and that was tough. But now…” She looks toward Lena for a second, then back at the reporter. “I feel like I can trust the car, trust the strategy. With Lena in the picture, I’m not just trying to win—” She grins, feeling a little more confident. “I’m actually competing for something more.”

Cat raises an eyebrow at that answer, but there’s a small, approving smile on her face.

But then Lena’s quiet presence becomes more apparent in the midst of all the chaos, her gaze following Kara with an intensity that catches Kara off guard. Her eyes flicker toward Lena, but she quickly looks away—shaking the feeling off.

Kara barely has time to breathe before the crew is on her again. Winn nearly tackles her. “Two in a row, rookie! You’re insane!”

James high-fives her, then pulls her into another quick hug. “That was incredible. Just unreal.”

Sam steps forward, the grin never leaving her face. “You’re on fire. Keep it up, Kara.”

Nia joins in with a loud cheer, throwing her arms around Kara in an embrace. “I swear, I’m watching you make history.”

And Kara’s laughing, soaking it all in. But then, her eyes drift once again to Lena. Standing there. A few feet away. Just… watching. It’s a small moment, but it feels like it could stretch into infinity. Lena’s presence is calm, a contrast to the chaos around them. She doesn’t rush to join the team, doesn’t force herself into the moment. She’s just watching Kara.

And Kara can’t help it—she moves. She walks through the crowd, not even acknowledging the questions being asked by other reporters, not paying attention to the noise. She’s going to Lena.

Lena doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t pull Kara in, she doesn’t grab her.

But when Kara gets close enough, she reaches out first. Her arms encircle Lena, and for the first time, it’s not just a hug—it’s a real moment between them.

Lena stiffens. For a split second, there’s a freeze, hesitation, like this is something that Lena Luthor does, but then—it melts.

And Kara feels it.

She feels Lena’s arms moving around her, feels the soft press of Lena’s body against hers, feels how tentative, but steady, Lena’s hold is.

Kara lets the moment stretch on. The cameras flash, the team is still watching, but all she cares about is Lena’s warmth, her closeness, and the quiet understanding that passes between them now.

When they finally pull away, Lena looks at her, eyes steady and unreadable. But there’s something there. Something undeniably soft.

Kara grins, trying to make light of it, trying to shake off the weight of what just happened. “You’re making a habit of this, Luthor.”

Lena tilts her head, and for a split second, Kara catches the faintest of smiles. “Winning?”

Kara laughs, her chest light and free for the first time all day. “Yeah.”

Lena’s smirk returns, but this time, there’s a deeper sense of meaning behind it, something unspoken between them. “Good.”

Victory Lane stretches on, but the team surrounds them again, congratulating Kara, clapping her on the back, sharing their joy and excitement.

But in the back of Kara’s mind, it’s still just Lena. Kara has a brief moment of clarity, her heart still racing, realizing that this win—it wasn’t just for her. It was for Lena, too.

But there is always more media.

And the official media area is chaos.

Reporters are everywhere—flashing cameras, questions being thrown at her from every direction. The world doesn’t stop spinning for Kara; it’s as if the race never ended, and now she’s in a whole new kind of race. The one where every word matters. The one where her sponsors, her team, and the public are all watching.

She’s used to this by now. But today feels different.

Everything feels different after crossing that line first for the second time in a row, with Lena right there, in the background, staying just out of reach.

Kara’s already answering questions—her usual media-friendly answers about racing, strategy, and feeling great—but something in the back of her mind keeps pulling her back to Lena.

She tries to focus, answering questions like she always does. But the presence of Lena stays with her, lingering.

One reporter asks her about the growing rumors of tension between her and Leslie Willis (Livewire), the media’s favorite drama of the season. Kara catches the edge of the reporter’s gaze and knows they’re trying to bait her.

“What do you think of the way Livewire has been racing lately?” The reporter asks.

Kara pauses.

It’s the first time today that something has unsettled her. She knows exactly what this is about, the aftermath of the incident last weekend at Fawcett, when Leslie hit her after the race—punched her, in fact, in front of the cameras. The public had been wild with speculation since, and now this question comes, an attempt to draw more drama from it.

But Kara’s better than this.

“I don’t know what’s going on with her right now,” Kara says, keeping her voice steady, her face unreadable. “But I’m just focused on the track. It’s my job to race, not to get caught up in whatever’s happening outside of it.”

The reporter gives her a skeptical look, but they don’t push it.

The next question is about Lena, of all things. And it catches Kara completely off guard because she thought she was done with Lena questions for the night.

“Your mechanic, Lena Luthor, has been getting a lot of attention lately. Her background with LuthorCorp has a history, but it seems like you’ve made it work. What’s your relationship like with her?”

Kara blinks, unsure if she’s hearing correctly. The question hangs in the air for a long moment, and she feels herself stiffen, the weight of Lena’s name making her throat dry. She’s not prepared for this. Not now. Not after what happened today— this is different from the last reporters— this one is digging.

But she knows what she has to say. She’s been trained for this. The moment flashes back to earlier—the hug in Victory Lane, the moment she truly felt Lena’s warmth for the first time.

She swallows hard, her gaze flickering over to where Lena’s standing off to the side, watching the interview with a level of calm only she can master. She’s composed, arms folded across her chest. But there’s a subtle tilt to her head, something different in her stance that Kara can’t put her finger on.

“Lena has been incredible.” Kara’s voice is steady as she speaks, but she feels something in her chest tighten. “She’s brilliant, focused. She’s been making sure the car is perfect for me, and I trust her. Simple as that. The rest of it? That’s noise. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re making progress, and I’m getting the best car I’ve had in a long time.”

Kara doesn’t quite look at Lena when she says it, but it doesn’t matter. Lena’s gaze is locked on her. Kara knows it without needing to check.

The next reporter doesn’t let up, asking about Lena’s past, about how LuthorCorp’s legacy might impact her standing in the NASCAR world.

Kara clenches her jaw for a moment, but she doesn’t show it. The media always wants to drag up the old things, the things that people like to use against Lena, especially when they don’t understand her.

She stands a little straighter, her smile tight but firm. “Lena’s done a lot of things her way. She left LuthorCorp for a reason. She’s not her family. She’s her own person, and I respect that.”

The reporter doesn’t have a follow-up. And for a split second, Kara feels relief that the line of questioning has finally switched to something else.

But the whole time, Lena’s still standing there, just watching. Watching her.

After the interviews, Kara’s heart is still racing—not just from the race, but from all of it. The cameras, the questions, the pressure to always say the right thing. It’s all starting to hit her. But then, there’s a brief moment of calm when she spots Lena again.

Lena’s moving toward her now, slowly, with purpose. Kara’s breath catches, and for a moment, she wonders if she’s about to say something—something that’ll change everything.

She doesn’t know what she expects from Lena, but when she stops just a few feet away, Kara can see the softness in her expression, that same unspoken understanding from earlier.

Lena simply looks at her for a moment, then her lips twitch into a small, barely-there smile. “You did great out there.”

Kara’s chest tightens. There’s something in the way Lena’s eyes hold her, the way her voice sounds so sure.

“Thank you,” Kara replies, her voice barely above a whisper.

Then, before either of them can say anything else, the team gathers around them, pulling Kara into another round of congratulations. But this time, there’s a different weight in the air, something heavier and more personal.

And as Kara absorbs the praise and the cheers from her team, Lena lingers at the edge of the circle. She’s still watching, not intruding, just… there.

And for some reason, Kara can’t get the thought out of her head—that she wants more than just this, more than just a fleeting moment with Lena.

She doesn’t know what it means yet, but she knows that somehow, things are shifting.

The press is gone. The celebration continues in full swing, but there’s still something that stays between them. Something that Kara isn’t ready to admit, not yet.

But for now, in Victory Lane, she knows one thing for sure—

Kara’s going to keep  winning, but it’s for more than just herself. It’s for Lena too.

——

The Victory Lane celebrations are still fresh in Kara’s mind, the adrenaline still buzzing in her veins as she heads toward the team bus after the interviews. She’s tired, but in that strange, satisfied way—a physical exhaustion that’s tempered by the weight of the win, the recognition.

But even through the exhaustion, her mind keeps drifting back to Lena.

After the post-race media blitz, Kara can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted. The words she’d said earlier, the way Lena had looked at her—soft, unwavering. She didn’t expect to be thinking about it this much, but here she is, replaying every interaction. Lena’s smirk, the hug in Victory Lane, the way she was always just there.

As the team gathers at the bus, Kara still feels a little out of sorts, but she’s not alone. She’s surrounded by the usual camaraderie, the laughter, the loud voices. But even in the midst of it, something haunts her mind.

And then the question comes—one Kara knows all too well, especially after their recent  Waffle House dinner with the team.

Cat is already grinning, holding up her phone. “So for dinner—”

The rest of the team responds in unison, half-joking, half-resigned, “We know, no Waffle House.”

They already met their “twice in a decade” quota.

But Cat, of course, doesn’t miss a beat. “Actually, yes, Waffle House.” Her grin widens. “We’ll have more carbs to burn off tomorrow, and there’s something wonderfully American about it.”

Winn chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Another night, huh?”

Kelly raises an eyebrow, glancing at James. “Not that I mind, but that’s like a second home to us now.”

“Second?” Sam adds. “It’s like our third home.”

Kara laughs, the tension easing for just a moment. But as they head out, her eyes still find Lena in the crowd, standing off to the side with that familiar, unreadable expression.

The diner isn’t far, so the team opts to not take the bus— mostly due to Kara’s complaints about sitting in a hot metal machine for hours.

The walk to Waffle House feels different, though.

The streets are quieter at 4 a.m., the city still slowly winding down from the excitement of the race. But Kara can’t help but feel like the night is stretched out before them. Like the universe is in some kind of slow-motion moment, and she’s not sure what happens next.

She doesn’t mind, though. She lets herself linger in this moment.

The Waffle House is always loud, the clattering of plates, the hum of low conversation, and the faint buzz of the kitchen’s grill in the background. Kara sinks into the booth, her muscles still tight from the adrenaline of the race, but the win is enough to keep her floating, a quiet hum of excitement that lingers in her chest.

But despite the chatter around her, there’s only one thing on her mind—the space between her and Lena.

Last night, when they were here, it had been awkward, strange, like they were testing the waters further with their continued footsie games under tables. But tonight? Tonight, there’s comfort in the quiet, a steady pull that neither of them seems willing to question.

The team is talking, arguing over who had the worst pit stop, who was the fastest on the track, but Kara isn’t really listening. She’s too aware of the subtle shift in the way her and Lena’s bodies are aligned, of the way Lena’s foot finds hers under the table once again, this time with purpose.

The connection is natural, like it’s always been this way, like it’s not the third time they’ve found themselves here, and certainly not the first time their feet have brushed.

When Lena slides into the booth across from her, there’s a deliberate ease to her movements. She’s as composed as ever, her posture sharp and calm, but there’s a softness in her eyes, the kind of softness that makes Kara’s heart stutter for just a moment.

“This feels like déjà vu, doesn’t it?” Lena’s voice is low, casual, as if the words are floating out naturally. There’s no challenge in her tone, no teasing—just a quiet observation.

Kara meets her gaze, the weight of the question settling between them. It feels too real, too intimate.

“Yeah, maybe a little.” Kara shrugs, hoping to brush it off, but the truth is, the night feels different. There’s something about the way Lena’s looking at her that’s harder to ignore this time—like Lena’s mask has slipped just a little more, and Kara can finally see her, not the Luthor, not the mechanic, but the person.

The rest of the team is focused on their orders, but Kara can’t stop noticing the way Lena’s eyes linger on her, like she’s waiting for something, like she’s giving Kara permission to see her, even if she’s not saying it out loud.

“I’m starting to understand the magic of Waffle House.” Lena’s lips curve into the faintest smile, the kind that doesn’t come from amusement but from something a little deeper.

Kara feels a flutter in her chest, a soft nervousness she can’t explain. “Yeah, well, you know, it’s the grease. It sticks with you.”

Lena smirks, and there it is again—the flicker of genuine warmth, just for a second, but it makes Kara’s breath catch. Lena doesn’t mask this one. It’s real.

“I’m sure it’s the grease.” Lena says, her tone light but her eyes steady on Kara.

For a second, the noise of the room fades away. Kara feels the weight of the moment, the soft hum of the booth beneath her, the faint buzz of the kitchen’s fryer in the background, and the sharp clarity of Lena’s gaze.

Before she can think twice, her foot presses against Lena’s again—almost involuntarily this time. The contact feels less like an accident and more like something that belongs. And this time, it doesn’t pull away. Neither of them does.

Kara watches Lena closely, trying to read her expression, but Lena’s gaze is steady, unwavering. She’s not pulling back either.

Kara swallows, her heart racing slightly faster, and she can’t seem to shake the thought—how did it get this easy?

And then Lena, as if reading her mind, says something that makes Kara’s chest tighten. “It’s comfortable, don’t you think?”

The words hit Kara harder than she expected. Not because of what Lena said, but because of how she said it—like it’s not just about Waffle House, not just about this moment. Lena’s eyes are still on hers, and Kara can feel the layers of unspoken meaning building between them.

It’s a quiet thing, a soft thing, but it’s undeniable.

“Yeah, it is.” Kara’s voice is barely above a whisper, and for the first time, she’s not sure if she’s speaking to Lena, to herself, or to the both of them.

Lena’s eyes flicker just for a second, softening even further. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t press. The moment lingers, and Kara can feel the tension wrap around her like a weighted blanket.

They continue talking, but the usual lightheartedness of dinner doesn’t quite return. There’s a quiet understanding between them now—something muted but palpable, like the ground beneath their feet has shifted without either of them realizing.

Kara doesn’t know what it means. She doesn’t know why the footsie feels so different this time. It’s more than just a game, more than just a silly connection between them. There’s something real here. She feels it in her bones. She felt in her bones the night before— nagging and incessant.

When the food arrives, she’s barely hungry, but she picks at her plate anyway, glancing back at Lena every now and then.

But Lena doesn’t look away. She holds her gaze, comfortable in the silence between them, as if they’ve always sat like this, feet brushing beneath the table, the connection unspoken but understood.

Kara catches herself staring again, but she doesn’t look away.

When Lena speaks again, her voice is softer. “You’re not a fan of small talk, are you?”

Kara shakes her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Not really. Never been good at it.”

Lena’s eyes flicker, the smallest glint of something else in them, but it disappears before Kara can figure out what it was.

For a moment, it feels like the world outside of their booth has fallen away.

⸻

The clatter of dishes, the hum of the kitchen, the sound of people eating around them—all of it fades into the background as Kara and Lena continue their quiet conversation. The energy between them is subtle, but it’s undeniably present.

Lena leans back in her seat, resting her elbows on the table, her fingers loosely interlaced. Her eyes flicker to Kara, an unreadable expression on her face. Kara’s not sure what she’s looking for, but she knows she’s not imagining the way Lena’s gaze never quite leaves her. It’s not the teasing intensity she’s used to—it’s something softer, almost vulnerable.

“So, is it all about the racing for you?” Lena asks, the words casual, but there’s a hint of something underneath them.

Kara blinks, momentarily thrown off by the question. She’s used to talking about racing, about the thrill of the track, the rush of winning, but this feels different. Lena isn’t just asking about her driving. She’s asking about what it means, about why it matters— but she’s digging for something more than just it feels like flying.

“I guess it’s about the freedom, mostly.” Kara’s voice is quieter than she means it to be. “It’s like… I get to leave everything behind. All the noise, all the expectations. It’s just me and the car, and that’s it.”

Lena nods, a soft understanding in her eyes. Kara sees it—the quiet empathy there, the way Len  truly gets it. Kara’s never had to explain that feeling to anyone, but somehow, Lena’s was first person to understand without needing to ask for more details.

“I get that,” Lena murmurs, her voice gentle. “The focus, the clarity. Everything else falls away.”

It’s the same conversation from last night, but somehow so different.

For a moment, they both sit in silence, the hum of the diner filling the space between them. The footsie game under the table continues—Kara’s foot gently pressed against Lena’s, Lena’s warmth radiating through her. There’s no pressure, no urgency, just the comfort of knowing they’re both here, together, in this small moment.

Kara looks up at Lena, her stomach fluttering at the intensity she sees in Lena’s eyes. “I never really thought I’d find someone who got it.”

Lena’s smile is small, but it’s warm, genuine in a way that Kara wasn’t expecting. “I’m not so difficult to understand, Kara.”

Kara raises an eyebrow, the smile creeping onto her own lips despite herself. “You? You’re one of the most difficult people I know.”

Lena’s lips twitch into a grin, and for a moment, she seems to let down some of that cool, guarded exterior. Kara can almost feel it, the way Lena is slipping just enough for Kara to see—the real her, the parts of her that don’t hide behind the Luthor name.

“Fair enough,” Lena concedes, leaning forward just a little. “But I understand racing. I’ve always liked the challenge, the precision of it.”

Kara nods, her fingers absently tapping on her cup. “I get it. It’s about control. The car, the track… you.”

Lena watches her closely, her gaze steady. “Exactly. Control and freedom. They’re intertwined, like they belong together.”

The conversation lulls for a moment, and Kara doesn’t rush to fill the space. Instead, she takes a deep breath and lets herself breathe in the stillness of this strange, quiet moment between them.

But Lena’s voice brings her back. “You still haven’t told me what you do for fun, Kara.” There’s something playful in her tone, but it doesn’t feel like a challenge. It feels like an invitation.

Kara blinks, surprised by the question. “What? Fun?” She laughs lightly. “I don’t really have time for fun. I mean… there’s the racing, the car prep, the interviews…” She shrugs, realizing how ridiculous it sounds when she says it out loud.

Lena raises an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. You must have some kind of hobby, something that makes you not think about racing for a minute.”

Kara hesitates for a moment, trying to think of something that isn’t tied to her racing career. But then it comes to her, as easy as breathing. “I like painting. I’ve always loved capturing moments, you know? The way light hits a person’s face, or a place when it’s just the right time of day— transferring it to a medium.

Lena’s gaze softens as she listens, and Kara feels the weight of it, the way Lena’s focused on her words.

“That’s… a good hobby.” Lena’s voice is almost contemplative. “You should make more time for it.”

Kara smiles a little, feeling something inside her chest tighten. “Maybe. I’ve always kind of kept it to myself. It’s just… one of those things.”

Lena tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “You know, there’s something beautiful about wanting to keep things for yourself. Not everything needs to be shared.”

Kara feels a strange warmth wash over her, and for a second, she wonders if Lena’s talking about more than just painting. The weight of the words hangs in the air, something unspoken between them, a deeper level of understanding.

“You’re right,” Kara says softly, meeting Lena’s eyes once more. “Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll keep some things just for me.”

Lena’s smile grows, just a little, but it’s enough. It’s real. And it’s for Kara.

For a brief moment, everything else fades away—the noise of the diner, the chatter of the team, the pressure of the race ahead. It’s just them, in this small, quiet space.

Lena clears her throat, breaking the moment. “So. Any more surprises from you, Danvers? Or are we done for the night?”

Kara laughs, a little more easily now, and she doesn’t look away. “I think I’m done for the night. For now.”

Lena gives her a knowing smirk, but there’s something softer behind it now—something Kara can’t quite explain, but it’s there, nestled deep beneath the surface.

The footsie under the table continues, but this time, it’s not just an accidental touch. It’s something that feels right. Comfortable.

Kara isn’t sure how this is all going to play out, but she knows one thing for sure. Nothing is the the same anymore.

The food is almost forgotten now, the plates picked at and half-heartedly pushed around. Kara barely notices the chatter around her, the hum of the diner, or the clinking of silverware against plates. Her attention is firmly fixed on Lena—and it’s not the kind of focus she’s used to. This is something entirely different, a kind of intensity that’s unfamiliar, even to her.

Lena looks different after the race. She’s always composed, but tonight? There’s something untamed about her—like she’s just come out of a storm. The messy hair, the smudged streaks of oil and dirt on her cheek, the faint glisten of sweat still on her brow—it’s human, raw. And there’s an irresistible pull in the way Kara notices it.

Kara catches Cat’s eye across the table. The moment their gazes meet, Kara knows that Cat’s already aware of everything that’s shifting between her and Lena. That knowing smile. It’s maddening. How does she always know? How has she seen it before Kara has even admitted it to herself?

Kara’s mind starts to wander again, like it always does when Lena’s near. Her eyes drop to the way Lena’s fingers curl around the edge of her coffee cup, the way her fingers are stained slightly from working on the car, but still perfectly graceful. How she occasionally brushes a stray strand of hair from her face, only to have it fall back into place, framing her sharp jawline, the curve of her cheekbone.

But it’s not just that. It’s everything. The way Lena’s eyes shift in the dim light—green and alive, but with something softer tonight, something almost fragile hiding behind that usual calm mask. The tiredness in her eyes, the subtle weight of the night’s events still hanging in the air. The way she doesn’t try to cover it up, doesn’t pretend she’s unaffected.

Kara’s gaze flickers to Lena’s lips for a moment. There’s no smile there, no mockery, no sharpness. Just her lips pressed together, like she’s listening, like she’s genuinely present. The corners of her mouth twitch, but it’s not forced. It’s…real.

And Kara can’t pull her eyes away. Her heart is pounding now, the realization of everything clicking into place, like all the pieces of a puzzle she didn’t even know she was trying to solve suddenly snap together.

It hits her like a freight train.

Kara’s lungs stop working, her breath catches as she suddenly feels the full weight of what she’s been denying for days. She’s been so caught up in the noise, the distractions, the rush of race day, the endless pit stops and laps around the track, that she never allowed herself to acknowledge what was happening inside her.

She’s falling in love with Lena.

The words are absurd, a paradox. A NASCAR driver doesn’t fall in love with her mechanic. She doesn’t fall in love at all, not in this world—everything is fast, everything is driven by adrenaline, by competition. Racing is about winning, about the speed, not the pause. She knows that. She’s lived that way her whole life.

And yet, here she is, sitting across from Lena in a dimly lit Waffle House at 4 AM in Ivy Town, Virginia, and all of the sudden, she realizes that she wants this. Her chest aches as she recognizes that maybe, just maybe, this is something more than just the thrill of the race or the spark of competition.

But racing, her world—it’s not about slowing down. Everything is at full speed, every moment, every turn of the wheel. Nothing is half-speed in NASCAR. So what does that mean for her? What does this mean for them?

Her thoughts come crashing in like a wreck she didn’t see coming, and Kara feels the weight of everything—her past, the stakes of the race, the adrenaline still pumping through her veins—and the unexpected feeling that’s been building between her and Lena. It all hits at once, and it feels like the world is spinning, too fast to keep up with.

Kara’s hands are gripping the edge of her cup, trying to steady herself, but her heart is racing. The realization is almost too much to take. But there it is—out in the open, unspoken but loud enough that she can’t ignore it.

Kara barely notices when she leans forward, just a little. It’s almost like she’s drawn in by an invisible force, her chest tightening with the weight of the moment. She catches Lena’s gaze, and for a moment, it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of them.

She opens her mouth, but the words won’t come. Instead, she can’t help but think: How did we get here?

Lena’s eyes flicker to Kara’s lips again, and Kara knows. She knows. It’s not an accident. This time, it’s intentional, like there’s something real between them. Something tangible, something they can’t just ignore.

Kara clears her throat, hoping to brush it off, but it feels too real, too heavy. The silence between them is no longer awkward—it’s comfortable. It feels grounding, like she’s standing on solid ground for the first time in a long while.

“Lena.” Kara breathes the name like it’s the only thing she knows how to say.

Lena tilts her head, a small smile curving her lips. No mask. No wall between them.

And Kara knows—without a doubt—that the world she’s been living in has just shifted. But what does that mean now? What comes next?

Lena leans forward, her voice low but steady. “You okay, Kara?”

The question is simple, but the weight behind it is impossible to ignore.

Kara’s eyes meet Lena’s, and she sees it—the same vulnerability, the same softness she’s been trying to hide in herself.

She doesn’t know how to answer. But for once, she doesn’t have to. Kara stays. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t run. And for the first time, it feels like she’s right where she’s supposed to be.

But Kara’s mind is a blur, still spinning from the chaos of the race, the speed, the narrow miss, the way the tires gripped the track just right for the win. But it’s not just the race she’s stuck on. It’s Lena.

How did this happen?

It’s only been a week and one day. That’s it. Just over a week since Lena Luthor first became a fixture in her life. And yet, here they are, sitting across from each other in a quiet booth at Waffle House. Their conversation has slowed, the weight of the night pressing against them both, but Kara can’t shake the feeling that something has changed between them. It doesn’t make sense—none of it does. How is it possible, how is it real, that she’s sitting here, looking at Lena, and all she can think about is how much she wants to hold on to this moment?

Her fingers twitch around her coffee cup, and for the hundredth time, she’s drawn to the way Lena’s hand rests against the table, perfectly still, not fidgeting, not tapping her fingers like Kara always does when she’s trying to control her nerves. Lena is unshakable.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way Lena’s eyes catch the light in the dimly lit diner, how they seem to almost glow when she’s looking at Kara, like she sees right through her. The way her lips curl slightly, even when she’s quiet, like she’s aware of something Kara hasn’t figured out yet.

It’s almost like every moment they’ve had together in the last week is flashing through Kara’s mind at once—each one imprinted into her brain as if it was some kind of sign.

The first dinner at the fancy restaurant, when Kara heard Lena laugh for the first time. Not because she was forced into it or because it was part of some game, but because something caught her off guard and she couldn’t hold it in. That laugh. It was the first time Kara realized there was more to Lena than just the Luthor name. And it was the first night they played footsie under the table—Kara hadn’t even realized what was happening at first.

Then there was the night at Waffle House after her first win, when Kara felt Lena’s presence across the room, despite the fact they weren’t sitting at the same table. Lena had noticed everything—every single detail. That was the first time Kara had seen her look at her like she was paying attention, like she was actually there, not just acting like she cared.

And then, there was the steakhouse, the hot tub, that run-in in the hotel hallway, the collision at practice, the collision before the race, her steady gaze during driver introductions and now—now—here they are, at Waffle House again. A place that’s become almost a symbol for everything that’s happened between them in such a short amount of time.

Kara wants to scream at herself. How is this happening? She has so much history, so much buried beneath the surface. Her family’s secrets—Alura, Zor-El, Krypton, Alaska, all the weight of everything that’s been placed on her shoulders since she was a child. How can she possibly give any of that up now?

But the thing is—it feels right.

She feels it in the pit of her stomach, in the way Lena’s eyes never leave hers, in the way Lena’s foot casually presses against Kara’s under the table, just enough to remind Kara that she’s still there, still holding her attention. Every time Lena touches her, it centers her—like she’s anchored in something that’s not just fast cars and competition. It’s something different. Something…personal.

Kara blinks hard, trying to shake herself out of the storm of her thoughts. She wants to say something, but the words won’t come. How can she even articulate what she’s feeling? What is she supposed to say?

The world around her quiets for a moment as she watches Lena. Lena, who has become this constant presence in her life in such a short time. The way Lena’s stillness contrasts with Kara’s endless motion, the way her deliberate movements always seem to have a purpose. Kara feels herself getting lost in those moments, like she’s caught in a whirlwind she doesn’t know how to control but doesn’t want to stop.

Her foot shifts, but this time, it’s her turn to initiate. She feels it, the slow, subconscious pull of her leg, and before she can stop herself, her foot wraps around the back of Lena’s ankle, pulling it just slightly closer.

Kara freezes. She doesn’t even know why she did it. Why she’s doing it again just like last night— but It feels right, and yet it’s terrifying. She’s starting to get used to this—to the unspoken closeness between them. She doesn’t know when or how it happened, but it’s there. It’s real.

Kara’s breath hitches as she realizes what she’s done. But Lena doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch. In fact, Kara feels Lena’s leg shift closer, and suddenly, it’s real, and it’s terrifying in a way that it wasn’t before. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, with the way her heart starts to race, the way her head feels so full of all the things she’s been trying to ignore.

“I…” Kara starts, but the words die in her throat. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. What can she say?

Lena watches her, her expression unreadable, yet there’s a softness in her eyes that makes Kara feel like she might fall apart if she looks too long.

“Yeah,” Kara breathes out, breaking the silence. “I’m starting to get used to this.”

Lena’s lips twitch in the faintest of smiles, but it’s not teasing. There’s no mask, no armor. It’s just Lena, and for once, Kara can see all of her—without any walls.

Kara’s pulse is pounding, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t move. She stays exactly where she is. For once, she doesn’t feel the need to rush. She doesn’t need to figure it out, to analyze everything.

For once, she just lets herself feel it.

And in the silence that follows, something inside Kara clicks. It’s like she’s finally breathing the right air, and everything that’s been building inside her comes to a head. She wants to stay here, in this moment. With Lena.

The quiet stretches on, each passing second making it harder for Kara to think straight, but in a way, it’s a relief. Because she doesn’t have to think right now.

Lena shifts, subtly, just enough to catch Kara’s gaze. She doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. It’s as though she knows.

And for the first time in days, Kara doesn’t feel like she’s racing to catch up with her own thoughts. For the first time, she just lets herself stay in this moment with Lena.

——

The cool night air feels like a wash of relief after the noise of the day. Kara steps through the hotel lobby doors, the familiar hum of the elevators and the muffled chatter of the front desk staff filling the space. She takes a deep breath, letting it settle in her lungs before she lets out a soft exhale.

It’s quieter here, in the hotel, than it was at dinner. After the chaos of the race, the media, the small moments with Lena—everything that felt so loud in its own way—she finds herself in the middle of the calm, and it’s almost disorienting.

She didn’t think she’d be this shaken by a race win. Yeah, the adrenaline is still lingering in her veins, but what lingers more is Lena.

Kara doesn’t even know how to explain it. How she went from being entirely focused on the track, to this. Every time Lena’s eyes flickered to hers during dinner, every time their legs brushed beneath the table, she could feel something shifting. The way Lena’s foot had pressed against hers again under the table—so deliberate, so careful—it hadn’t felt like a game. Not like the first time it happened nearly a week ago. And yet, Kara still wasn’t sure what was happening.

Kara’s chest tightens as she walks down the hallway toward the elevator. She hasn’t felt this way before. About anyone.

She doesn’t know if she’s ready to admit it yet, but she’s almost certain she’s starting to fall for Lena.

And that realization? It doesn’t make any sense. It hasn’t even been two week. One week and a day, and here she is, walking back to her hotel room, replaying every moment, analyzing every detail in her head. She runs her hand through her hair and scrubs her face, trying to shake the feeling. She shouldn’t be feeling this way.

When had everything shifted?

Dinner at the steakhouse, maybe? No, it was before that. The moment Lena showed up at the hotel room, sitting there across from her like she was already in on something that Kara was just starting to realize.

There was a pull, something in the way they gravitated toward one another—unspoken, but undeniable. Every conversation felt like a slow unraveling, each time more intense than the last.

And it was in the small moments—the way Lena laughed at dinner when Winn spilled his drink, the quiet way she’d shared something personal about her past, the way she seemed to know exactly how to push Kara’s buttons and calm her all at the same time.

Kara takes another deep breath as she reaches the elevator. The way Lena held her gaze tonight—it felt different this time. It’s like Lena wasn’t pretending to be someone else for the first time since they’d met.

Kara runs her fingers through her hair again, pushing a wave of frustration through her chest. She feels almost embarrassed by it.

“I’ve been through way worse than this,” she mutters under her breath, mostly to herself. “Why is this… this different?”

The elevator dings softly, and Kara steps inside, punching the button for her floor. It’s too late for this. She’s too tired. Yet her mind refuses to stop.

The doors slide shut, and the ride up is brief, but in it, Kara’s mind doesn’t quiet. She thinks about how tonight felt—the adrenaline, the chaos, but underneath it all, the moments with Lena. Their shared moments, their constant, unspoken understanding.

And that thing? That thing Kara can’t ignore? The way Lena makes her feel.

Kara steps out of the elevator, her thoughts swirling like a storm. The adrenaline of the race still pulses through her veins, but there’s something else that’s gnawing at her—a pull she can’t quite explain. She’s been trying to sort through everything all night: the race, the win, and especially the things that are happening with Lena.

The hotel feels too quiet. Too small for the rush of feelings she can’t seem to contain.

She doesn’t know when the thought hits her, but she finds herself slowing as she walks down the hall toward her door. She passes Lena’s room, and for just a moment, she stops. Her fingers brush against the edge of the hallway, eyes drawn to the door. Lena’s door.

It feels like the weight of the night presses in, and before she knows it, Kara’s hand is reaching for the Ivy Town victory sticker that’s still tucked into her pocket. The same sticker that was given to her after the race. The same one she received as part of the celebration of her win.

But this isn’t just her win. This is Lena’s too.

Kara doesn’t even remember when she tucked the sticker into her pocket—it was so automatic, just something to keep as a reminder of the moment. But now, standing here in front of Lena’s door, it feels like it means so much more. A gesture that’s simple but real.

She glances around the hallway, the faint buzz of activity still lingering behind closed doors, and with a quick glance over her shoulder, Kara slides the sticker under Lena’s door. The sound of it gently scraping against the wood of the door seems louder than it should be, but she doesn’t move from the spot.

Her chest tightens, but not in a bad way. In fact, it feels like the right thing to do, even though she doesn’t know why. It’s just a sticker. But somehow, it’s more than that. It’s something between them that she can’t quite put into words.

As she stands there, staring at the door, the feeling creeps in again. That thing that’s been pulling at her since dinner, since the moments with Lena. The realization that she’s not just a race car driver in this moment. She’s something more.

She’s not entirely sure what this all means yet, but she knows it’s different. Lena’s different.

For a long moment, Kara stays rooted in place, the rush of the night still hanging around her like a fog. But then, with one final glance at the door, she pulls herself away.

She reaches for her room key, unlocking the door and stepping inside. The familiar hum of the quiet hotel room greets her, but it feels colder now. Almost too empty.

Kara can’t shake the thought of Lena, the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid.

Kara walks into her hotel room, the door clicking shut behind her. The energy from the race is still buzzing through her veins, her heart still pounding from the final laps, but there’s something else she can’t shake. She drops her bag by the door, her feet dragging as she makes her way inside.

Alex is sprawled on her bed, a half-empty snack bag next to her, scrolling through her phone. She’s talking a mile a minute, still high from the race and her own tactical moves during the event.

“Oh my god, Kara, you should’ve seen it! You were killing it out there! Leslie tried everything to get to you, and I absolutely blocked her every time. I kept her from getting any chance at you—you were unstoppable today! And then, of course, she got caught in that wreck, ended up back in the pack. I swear, watching her get pushed out of the way was the highlight of my night!”

Kara just hums in response, too lost in her thoughts to fully engage. She flops onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, I saw. You did good,” she replies, her tone distant.

Alex immediately notices the shift. She puts her phone down, sitting up, eyes narrowing with concern. “What’s going on? You look like you just saw a ghost. You won, Kara. Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

Kara sighs heavily, rubbing her face. “It’s just… I don’t know, Alex. It’s this whole thing with Lena. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Lena? Luthor?” She says the name without any bite, her voice softer. Then, with more understanding. “What is it?”

Kara nods, her eyes drifting to the floor. “I know it’s complicated, but… it’s not about that. It’s not about her being a Luthor, Alex. I know she’s nothing like her family. But… I don’t know, I can’t keep pushing it down. She’s… she’s a part of all this now. And I can’t stop feeling something for her.”

Alex’s expression softens, and she scoots closer, leaning forward. “Kara, you’re not alone in this. I know what you’ve been through, and I know what you’re feeling. But I also see how much you’ve changed since you started working with her. You’re not just focused on the race anymore. And you trust her. That’s the thing.”

Kara bites her lip, looking over at Alex. “I do trust her. I trust Lena. It’s just—everything is happening so fast. I’m not used to this, Alex. I’ve always kept my emotions buried, and now… I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling.”

Alex smiles softly, her voice taking on a gentler tone. “Look, I told you before. Lena is a person. She’s not her family. And yeah, I get that it’s messy, but you can’t control who you feel things for. And if you trust her—then trust that, Kara. Let it be messy. You don’t have to have it all figured out right away.”

Kara exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. “It feels… like everything is changing so fast, and I’m just trying to keep up. I don’t know what’s real, and what’s just… this stupid, racing adrenaline. And I don’t know any of this means. I don’t know if it’s just… the race, or if it’s something more.”

Alex leans back, giving Kara a knowing look. “It’s not stupid, Kara. And trust me, I can see it. I can see how much she cares. How much you care. You don’t have to say it out loud to me. I know. You’re not the only one who sees it.”

Kara looks down at her hands, her chest tight. “I just feel like I’m losing control of everything. And that’s not supposed to happen, not in this world. I’ve always been in control of this, of me. But I don’t know how to… control this. It’s all over the place.”

Alex smiles again, though there’s a softness in her gaze. “Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s time you let go of that control. Just a little bit. You’ve been holding onto it for so long, Kara. Maybe you don’t need to control everything anymore.”

Kara turns her head to look at Alex, the weight of her sister’s words sinking in. There’s truth to it. She’s been holding onto this tight grip on herself for so long, convinced that if she let go too much, everything would unravel. But maybe that’s what she needs. To let go. To feel something more.

“You think I can just… let go… completely?” Kara asks, her voice small, unsure.

Alex nods. “I think you can. And I think Lena’s worth it. And you’re worth it, too.”

Kara’s mind drifts back to Lena—how she’d felt the tension shift between them all day. How, in every moment they shared, Kara couldn’t ignore the pull, the quiet connection that seemed to grow stronger with every glance, every small exchange. The way Lena’s presence had come to feel like a grounding force, something that felt like it could center her.

“I don’t know, Alex. I really don’t. But I don’t want to run from it anymore,” Kara admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alex nods again, giving her a playful nudge. “Good. Now, you better not let her get away. You’ve got some serious competition out there. But if she’s got her eye on you too… well, I think it’s time you figured it out.”

Kara chuckles softly, though it’s nervous, and she looks away for a moment, her mind racing. “Right. But it’s just… I’ve never felt like this before. And I don’t know how to—”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t overthink it,” Alex cuts in with a grin. “Just take it one step at a time, okay? And for the love of god, stop running from your feelings. It’s just going to make it harder.”

Kara exhales, a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I’ll try.”

Alex laughs, tossing the snack bag aside and flopping back onto her bed. “Good. Now, get some rest, ‘cause tomorrow’s gonna be another hell of a day. I’ll keep an eye on you… and on her.”

Kara smiles at the teasing tone, the familiar rhythm of her sister’s banter helping to calm her nerves a little. But her thoughts are still with Lena, lingering on the race, the conversations, and how much everything has shifted in just one week.

She’s already halfway to her bed when she hears Alex mumble, “Oh, and Kara? I saw the way you looked at her earlier today before the race. Just saying.”

Kara freezes, her face flushing again. But this time, she doesn’t feel the need to hide it. She just smiles a little, nodding as she pulls the covers up and settles in for the night. Tomorrow, she’ll face whatever comes next. But for tonight? For tonight, she’s going to let herself breathe.