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Chapter Text

Kara pinched the bridge of her nose and stared past her mirrored reflection into a chasm her soul could not break free from. This world had given her a family; yet taking that chance to visit her home had held so much promise…and more risk than she thought possible. She had made a bad decision. Not necessarily a wrong one, but a decision that had far-reaching consequences. That’s the thing about momentum. It demands movement. The worst was halting all the momentum she had built with Cat.

She chose the false hope of Argo City. No one held it against her for wanting to leave, to find that place of belonging. Alex, Winn, J’onn…and Cat just wanted her to be happy. She promised to take them all with her in her heart, but she would never forget the feeling of regret as her mouth betrayed her, inviting Mon El to go with her – not her sister, not her own Kryptonian cousin, not the woman who had her heart, but him. Technically, it was for transmission purposes, so he could go find a way back to the future. At least that is what she told herself and what she told Cat, her mouth dry with the taste of burnt and bitter ashes. The long stretch of silence sat like lead in the pit of her stomach. “Be safe, Kara” was Cat’s response. Simple but final, loaded with more than even she knew.

The time she spent on Argo was more like a dream, real but lucid like. Hazy. Sluggish. It was more like a walk-through of childhood memories and nostalgic rather than her chance to make new memories of Krypton, it was no longer her home.

Weeks had slipped by since her return from Argo, and the world had been saved — again — yet she couldn’t bring herself to face them. A few brief messages, ensuring everyone was safe, exchanged between them had stretched into something too close to avoidance. Avoidance turned to shame, then to guilt. It seeped into all aspects of her life back on Earth. Her nightly patrols blurred together. Every article drafted at CatCo came out lifeless. She avoided plans with her friends. The brightness and positivity she was known for, that “Sunny Danvers” smile, had dimmed into something…brittle.

Her apartment was littered with evidence of stalled attempts: half-finished paintings of Argo City she wanted Carter to have, a bouquet that had wilted before she could summon the courage to deliver it, a pile of books she’d found for Cat about Kryptonian political systems she thought she might find fascinating. She couldn’t face them. Not when the memory of her choice — Mon-El — still rang in her ears like a betrayal.

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Alex finally snapped. The Wizard of Oz played in the background, and words that always made Kara cry…‘there’s no place like home’… seemed to fall flat. She had hoped the movie for their Friday night hang would bring Kara to face her emotions – leaving the piece of home she had longed for her whole life, and Alura, Kara’s Mother, was alive, though neither decided to become permanent fixtures in each other’s new lives – yet she sensed that trauma would need to be unpacked later. The more pressing issue was clearly Cat. Kara only ever turned this sullen, this quiet when it was about…her. Alex was surprised about how acerbic she had thought of the situation. Sure she was very wary of one Cat Grant, until she saw a glimpse of what Kara had always claimed to see in her. Part of her always knew and hated that Cat had this type of ability to hurt Kara – ‘though she really wasn’t the one the blame here’ she had to reminder herself.

“That’s it! You can’t keep sulking in here forever, Kara,” Alex said, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to cut steel. “It been like what, 6 or 7 weeks. You’re punishing yourself, sure, but you’re also punishing them. Cat. Carter. Do you think they don’t notice you avoiding them”

“Oh, I am well aware they must know I am avoiding them.” Kara all but yelled. “I hurt them.” Kara’s voice cracked. “I left them. And then I had the nerve to bring him with me, not my sister, not my cousin, not—” she swallowed hard “—not the woman who mattered most”. Alex took the statement for what it was, but it still hurt a little. “And now I’m still hurting them.” Kara finished, helplessness dripping with each word.

Alex softened, but only slightly. “Then stop hiding. You don’t earn trust back by wishing for it. You earn it by showing up. Even if they slam the door in your face.” Alex saw something shift in her sister’s demeanour, though she received no reply. She planted the seed, it was the most she could do, other than forcing her into her pickup and driving her to Cat and Carter’s doorstep herself. She had to stop herself from following through with the thought. She was trying to step back and let Kara be her own person.

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That night, Kara found herself standing on the granite steps of Cat’s Kalorama home, her hand stuffed into the pocket of her coat like an anxious teenager stopping her from pressing the doorbell. She almost turned back three times, but Keira’s familiar bark behind the door froze her in place.

The door opened to reveal Carter, taller now, shoulders filling out, the beginnings of his mother’s no-nonsense stare.

“Oh….Hi Kara.” His tone was neutral. Not exactly welcoming, but not hostile. Just… flat.

“Hey, Carter.” Seeing him in person brought her unexpected relief. “You’ve grown again” she continued, a smile brought by the thought. But seeing his hesitance, she faltered, “I brought—” She fumbled with the bakery box in her hands. “those cinnamon scrolls you like.”

Carter’s eyes flickered to the box, but he didn’t reach for it. “Mom’s busy.” He stepped aside reluctantly, and Keira took that as her cue to barrel into Kara’s legs, tail wagging so hard her whole body shook. Kara crouched instantly, grateful for the unconditional love, burying her face in warm fur, now halfway through the open door.

“Keira!” Carter half-scolded, but the pup ignored him, licking Kara’s cheek with exuberant joy.

“Kara.”

The voice froze her in place. She looked up to see Cat stopped midway to the doorway and the living room, immaculate in a cream blouse and pencil skirt, tablet in hand. Behind her, Olivia Marsdin sat on the couch, notes spread across the coffee table. Lois Lane perched in a chair, pen poised, already halfway through an interview transcript.

Not the reunion Kara had pictured.

“Ms. Grant.” She said reflexively, and rose slowly, Keira still nudging her hand. “I—I just wanted to stop by. To see you both. I know I don’t deserve—”

Cat cut her off with a raised hand, sharp but not unkind. “This isn’t a great time, Kara. As you can see, I’m in the middle of something.” Her eyes flicked toward Marsdin and Lois, then back, cool and unreadable.

Lois stood up and yelled loud enough to say “We can finish up here Kitty…” but was cut off by Cat “No.” came a stern warning with a hint of a plea if Cat’s intonation was to be dissected, “we really need this to be finalised and released by tomorrow” she finished more firm than she had started.

“Of course. I shouldn’t have just… shown up.” Kara’s throat tightened. She turned toward Carter, desperate for something more, anything. “I’ll, um, leave the scrolls in the kitchen. For later.”

Carter only nodded, already edging back toward the stairs.

The silence stretched. The only sound was Keira’s insistent tail thumping against the wall as she pressed herself closer to Kara. Cat finally spoke, voice measured.

“Thank you for the thought. We’ll… talk another time.” It was said pleasantly enough, not biting, but non-committal.

And just like that, Kara was standing on the porch again, the box of cinnamon scrolls she had brought from Carter’s favourite bakery in National City still in her hands, Keira whining softly from inside as the door clicked shut.

The night air bit at her cheeks, sharper than any enemy’s strike. She told herself she’d expected this — the cool dismissal, the distance. Alex was right. You don’t get momentum back by wishing. You have to fight for it, step by step.

But Rao, did it hurt to all but confirm she’d already lost them.

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The cinnamon scrolls sat untouched on Kara’s counter, their sweet scent turning her stomach every time she walked past them. She’d brought them home because Cat hadn’t wanted them. Because Carter hadn’t wanted them. Because maybe, in some twisted way, she wanted to punish herself with the reminder.

Her phone buzzed. Alex's face flashed at her. She didn’t answer immediately, just stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart pounding as though answering would mean confessing how thoroughly she’d failed.

“Hey,” she managed at last, voice thinner than she intended.

“Well?” Alex asked without preamble. The way she said it — blunt, but soft at the edges — made Kara want to both collapse and lash out.

“It was…” Kara swallowed. “Short. Cat was busy. Carter barely looked at me. Except Keira. She nearly knocked me over.”

A beat of silence before Alex replied, “Dogs know things we don’t. She remembers.”

“I don’t deserve her remembering.” Kara’s voice cracked. “Or them. Alex, I walked up those steps and I thought maybe — maybe some piece of what we had would still be there. But it’s gone. I could see it in Cat’s eyes. Cool. Detached. Like I was just another reporter showing up at her door.”

“Or,” Alex countered, “she’s just protecting herself. You hurt her. She’s not going to roll out a welcome mat after one doorstep visit, Kara. Trust isn’t a switch you flip. It’s a wall you rebuild. Brick by brick.”

Kara pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, the memory of Cat’s poised voice slicing through her. We’ll… talk another time.

Before she could reply, another voice joined the conversation.

“Kara?” Eliza began.

“Hi, Mom.” Her throat tightened instantly.

“Alex filled me in.” Eliza’s tone was calm, grounding, as though she were sitting across from Kara with tea and that steady look only a mother could give. “Sweetheart, you don’t get to decide whether you’re forgiven. You only decide whether you keep trying. Do you hear me?”

Kara nodded even though they couldn’t see it. “I hear you.”

“Good,” Eliza said gently. “Because you’ve always been stubborn. Use it. Show up again. And again. And when words fail you, let your actions speak.”

Kara laughed softly, humourless. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It isn’t,” Eliza replied simply. “But nothing worth it ever is.”

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Two days later, Kara found herself back in Kalorama, berating herself with every step she took toward the door. Why are you here again? They told you to leave. They didn’t want you here. You’re making it worse. Rao, Kara, you’re making it worse.

But her feet kept moving.

Cat answered the door this time, silk blouse replaced by a loose sweater, hair swept into a casual knot that somehow made her look softer than the last visit, but no less untouchable.

“Kara.” her acknowledgment was wrapped in hesitation.

“Hi,” Kara managed, fumbling a breath. “I…I know you’re busy, and I probably should have called, or texted, or—or sent a messenger bird, do they still do that?” Kara winced at herself, words tumbling faster than her brain could catch them.

“You really haven’t lost your knack for nervous babbling, Keira.” The nickname hit like a lifeline thrown across a chasm. Kara’s knees nearly gave out with the sheer relief of it. Though a renewed bout of tail thumping could be heard just next to Cat.

“What am I saying is…I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d stop by again…to say…hello?” She half expected the ‘are you asking or telling me’ spiel.

“Kalorama is hardly on anyone’s way,” Cat replied dryly, one eyebrow lifting. “But go on.”

Kara flushed. “Right. Well. I wanted to see how you both were doing. It’s been a while – which is entirely my fault... but how’s, um—” her eyes darted to the hall “—everything? I missed you.” She rushed out the last part before she lost her nerve.

For a moment, Cat simply looked at her, expression unreadable, until the corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but not dismissal either. “Everything,” Cat continued evenly, “is moving along as could be expected. I imagine the same could be said for you.”

Kara grimaced. “Yes. Well. I mean…the world’s not ending today, so that’s progress.”

Carter’s voice drifted from the dining room, interrupting her “Mom, I can’t figure out what to do for this stupid history showcase project. The rubric doesn’t even make sense.” His voice carried that blend of teenage indifference and sharpness that sounded so much like his mother.

Kara’s ears pricked instantly. Without thought, she stepped forward before she could stop herself. “History project – like a model replica?” she asked excitedly.

Carter appeared in the hall, tall and lanky, textbook under one arm, laptop balanced precariously on the other. He froze when he saw Kara. His face lit for half a second before shuttering back into something careful.

“Oh. Hey. It’s nothing,” he muttered, slowly turning back around.

But Kara, desperate for an opening, latched on. “Maybe I could help? I mean, I’m not saying I’m great at history, though I do know a lot about ancient civilisations.

“Mesopotamia” he replied before slowly turning around halfway, getting invested.

“I’m like obsessed with Mesopotamia. Did you know their word for st…”

Cat’s voice sliced in “Carter will figure it out. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet, rather than expecting others to swoop in and solve things. People are rarely dependable.”

The words hit Kara squarely in the chest, more brutal than a shout. She faltered, heat rushing up her neck.

“I didn’t mean…” she began, but Cat was already smoothing the moment over, tone light.

“Anyway, we were just about to head out” She reached for her coat on the rack, efficient, dismissive.

“Oh. Of course.” Kara stepped back, throat tight. “I won’t keep you.” She glanced at Carter, who avoided her eyes, then looked down at Keira. “Bye, girl.” Kara whispered.

“Thank you for stopping by,” Cat said, tone polite, final.

Kara nodded, retreating. Keira whined at the threshold, nails tapping against hardwood, before Carter nudged her gently back. Kara’s hand twitched with the urge to reach out, but she forced herself down the steps, shoulders stiff. The door closed gently behind her, not slammed — which somehow hurt more.

On the other side, Carter’s voice carried in the hallway. “Are we actually going somewhere? Or was that just an excuse?”

Cat’s answer floated through the wood like a blade wrapped in silk. “It’s Sunday. I thought we might catch a movie. That new Marvel thing. Maybe grab a burger after.”

Kara didn’t wait to hear his reply. The words rang in her ears as she walked down the steps. They felt like a dismissal, like being erased from a life she used to belong in. A life she’d walked away from. She stood on the sidewalk a moment longer than she should have, staring up at the house, the ache in her chest sharp and raw. But as she walked away, resolve hardened beneath the grief. She would not let Carter grow up believing everyone left. She would not let Cat’s cynicism become prophecy. She would make it right.

Somehow.

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Later, when the house was quiet and Carter had retreated upstairs, Cat sat with her untouched glass of Rioja wine and allowed herself to feel what she hadn’t let show at the door.

Oh sure, Cat had managed closed the door with deliberate grace, spine straight, but every muscle in her body was coiled tight. She refused to let Kara see her tremble. Because tremble she had. From the moment she opened the door and saw that face again — earnest, awkward, painfully hopeful. The face that haunted her more nights than she cared to admit.

She had practiced this moment in her head for weeks, ever since she heard the whisper that Supergirl was back. A thousand variations: cold fury, cool dismissal, calculated indifference. Never once had she imagined her hand would ache to reach out and touch.

When Kara left for Argo, Cat had told herself it was inevitable. People left. Husbands, lovers, colleagues. Even children grew up and out. But hearing Kara invite him to go with her — Mon-El — had carved something raw and jagged inside. Not just jealousy, though there was that. It was the certainty that Kara had chosen someone temporary, someone already halfway gone, over the family she’d built here. Over Cat. Over Carter.

She’d unravelled quietly, as Carter watched. He didn’t say much, but she saw him pull inward, shoulders hunching, his easy grin fading into something more guarded. He had overheard enough — Lois’s voice on the phone, or whispers in the press — to know there had been another man. And in his boyish, protective way, he’d taken it as a betrayal too.

Now Kara was back, tripping over words, bringing bakery peace offerings, eyes full of longing. Cat hated how much she wanted to let her in. Hated that her pulse still quickened at the sight of those blue eyes, that Carter’s face still lit up instinctively when she walked into a room. Hated the dangerous hope that had tried to claw its way past her cynicism the moment Kara babbled about Mesopotamia.

She looked down and saw her own hands shaking as she picked up her wine, telling herself she was fine. She wasn’t fine. So she kept the wall. For Carter’s sake. For her own.

But the look on Kara’s face as she left…

Cat pressed her fingers to her temple, willing the memory away. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold the line. When she finally closed her laptop that night, she caught herself staring at the half-written email sitting in her drafts folder. The one addressed to Kara Danvers.

Chapter Text

Kara didn’t sleep. She lay on her back listening to the city breathe and promised herself that resolve, like a muscle, would strengthen if she kept using it. When dawn finally bled into the edges of her blinds, she moved. She flew east before the sun had finished warming the Pacific—low and careful, anonymous in the cold blue. There were places where the wind still spoke Akkadian if you listened hard enough. Old riverbeds. Museum towns whose caretakers lived on the border of memory and duty. Market stalls where replicas were honest about what they were and still treated like holy artefacts.

She placed the trinkets she bought into an old CatCo cardboard archive box and hugged them to her chest. Miniature clay jars. Tiny double-spouted vases. A wedge-inscribed tablet replica with neat, deep cuneiform. A palm-sized Ziggurat of Ur, weathered to look like it had been pulled from sand. A small set of wooden stamps, the blunt ends carved with simple stencils—stars, reeds, fish, sun—so a child could press a pattern into wet clay and feel, in their bones, that civilisation had started with hands and mud and patience.

She set the box on Cat’s stoop, tucked just left of the door so it wouldn’t trip anyone. She wrote on the top in her neat, schoolteacher-like handwriting:

To Carter,

Here’s a little something for your Mesopotamia assignment.

Hope it gives you a hand.

No expectations, just thought it could be useful.

• K

She rang the bell to ensure Keira’s bark would bring someone, then disappeared into the winter glare before the door opened.

Her phone buzzed as she crossed National City airspace. Vasquez.

Vasquez: FYI - Wed 6:00pm in the Georgetown gym.

Kara:  wdym?

Vasquez: Alex filled me in on your shopping trip for the history project.

Vasquez: Don’t be mad.

Vasquez: The showcase is at Carter’s school, Wed 6pm in the gym. Parents + community are invited. Carter is in “Ancient Civilisations – Rivers” corner.

Kara stared at the screen, a grateful, terrified smile tugging at her mouth.

Kara: Ty 😊.

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The box was on the kitchen island when Cat came down from a call, Keira’s nose hovering over the edge with ominous interest. Carter stood beside it with the wary, reverent look of a kid trying to contain his interest.

“Where did—” Cat started.

“Doorstep,” Carter said, not looking at her. His voice had that low steadiness she both adored and feared; he was learning to guard himself. “It’s for… the thing.”

Cat reached for the note. Her thumb hesitated on the letter K. Just a K. Like the nicknames they tossed around when life felt simpler. She lifted the lid. Objects that were clearly replicas but crafted with care. The stencil stamps, especially, would be useful, a pang of nostalgia hit her remembering just how thoughtful her ex-assistant had always been, making life easier in many small but important ways. She saw Carter’s fingers twitch toward them and then retreat, as though wanting anything was dangerous.

“I suppose she’s trying,” Cat said, very quietly, before she could stop it.

Carter’s jaw pinched. “But she left.”

“I know.”

“She took him instead.”

“I know,” Cat repeated, the words ash in her mouth as a flashback of the goodbye rose floating through her mind:

Cat smiled through the shatter in her chest, fingers brushing Kara’s cheek as if memorising. “Go,” she whispered, voice steady though her heart cracked like glass. “Find what you need.” She kissed her temple softly, letting her go, though every instinct screamed to hold on forever. When she later learned it was Mon-El who went with her, the piercing sting of betrayal layered the ache of letting go.

“Just… do your project, honey.” She said, hoping that it would chase the memory away.

He pulled a miniature jar from the tissue paper and rolled it in his palm, expression softening in spite of himself. “We’re gonna need a baseboard. Foam. Clay and sand.” He glanced up, green eyes brightening with a spark she had missed like oxygen. “We could build canals.”

The hope in his voice both healed and hurt. Cat nodded. “We could.”

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Wednesday smelled like poster paint, gym wax, and too-sweet lemonade sweating in clear cups. Rows of tri-fold displays lined the basketball court, each island its own tiny world: Papyrus boats. Roman aqueducts. A Viking longhouse made from popsicle sticks and pure stubbornness. A healthy dose of parental help a given. The placed thrummed—a warm, buzzing hive of parents and teachers and kids high on being taken seriously for one night.

Kara slipped in near the back doors, hands jammed into the pockets of a thrifted peacoat, hair braided down over one shoulder like a human disguise. She stayed to the edges, letting her senses anchor her without overwhelming: Carter’s heartbeat, steady with a current of nerves; Cat’s heartbeat, controlled in that way it got when she was performing competence for a crowd; Keira’s absence (gym rules, no dogs) an odd, hollow weight.

Carter’s display sat under a hand-lettered banner: MESOPOTAMIA — BETWEEN TWO RIVERS. The baseboard had been painted a dusty tan colour, with swathes of deep blue cutting channels through it. The miniature ziggurat rose at the centre, flanked by air-dried clay-brick walls stamped with uneven rows of stencilled reeds and stars. The little jars stood in a market cluster. Someone had sprinkled fine sand so it caught the light. It was… good. It was careful. It was loved.

Kara saw Cat first. Crisp blue blouse under a dark blazer, hair down, reading the room with the trained ease of a woman who had built empires. She was not hovering, exactly, but her orbit bent toward Carter’s table no matter where she stood. Pride emanating outward in a non-aggressive way.

Kara kept to the opposite aisle, moving when others moved, listening as Carter presented. A father asked about irrigation; Carter lit up and pointed to the canal cuts. A teacher asked about writing; he touched the tablet replica, explaining cuneiform with the seriousness of a scholar. A small kid from another class asked if the ziggurat was a pyramid, and Carter smiled—finally, unguarded—and said, “Cousins. Not twins.”

He saw her on the third pass. He didn’t startle. His shoulders squared a fraction, and he looked past her, then back, as if testing whether his mother had seen her or she’d bolt. She didn’t. So she moved a half-step closer without crossing the invisible line.

“Hi,” she said, soft enough for only him to hear. “This is… incredible, Carter.”

He lifted his chin, deflecting with a shrug, but it didn’t quite land. “Thanks.” He tapped one of the stamped walls. “The stencils were…helpful.” The pause held a dozen unsaid things.

Kara swallowed her smile, taking any little win that she could. “I’m glad.”

Cat appeared out of the current of adults as if she’d been conjured by the gravitational pull of Kara’s voice. Her eyes flicked over Kara in one sweep - coat, braid, the way she held her hands like she was trying not to reach - and settled into cool professionalism.

“Ms Danvers,” she said. Not Kara. Not Keira. Ms Danvers. It shouldn’t have landed like a bruise, but it did. “Enjoying our foray into antiquity?”

“Very much,” Kara answered, and meant it. “Carter’s done beautifully” said with immense pride. “And the others as well” she rushed out, attempting to rein in her eagerness.

Cat’s mouth softened, despite herself. The slight uptick in those lips broke through like the sun between heavy clouds, and Kara felt it as warmth on her own skin.

They orbited the project together in a fragile, civil truce for the next 40 minutes. When the crowd thinned, Cat checked her watch—an old habit that meant switching gears more than rushing off.

“Fifteen minutes and we’re free,” she said to Carter. “There’s a Chatime close by, feel like bubble tea. You still like Lychee?”

Carter’s eyes flicked, quick, to Kara, then away. “Sound good, Mom”

“Would you like to join us?” Cat said, and if Kara hadn’t known her so well, she would have missed the minuscule hitch before us. “We’re not far.”

Kara’s heart stuttered. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m not in the habit of inviting people I’m unsure about,” Cat replied dryly. “That would make me reckless.”

“Right,” Kara said, the meaning not lost on her. “Wouldn’t want that.”

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The tea shop was loud in the easy way of after-school hangouts—k-pop murmuring overhead, blenders growling, the tap-tap of fat straws being punctured through plastic seals. Cat’s presence alone elevated the tiny table to some glamour Kara couldn’t name; even the bored barista seemed to stand straighter when she glanced over.

“I’ll order,” Cat said, already moving. “Lychee for Carter. Jasmine for me. Kara?”

“Uh—Taro milk tea? Half sugar?” She winced at how tentative it sounded, like she might spook the drink by asking for it.

“Half sugar. How reasonable.” Cat’s mouth curved, the ghost of mischief. “Back in a moment.”

The moment she was out of earshot, Carter dragged his straw wrapper into a tight coil and blurted, too fast, as if he’d held it back since the gym, “Is he gone?”

Kara blinked, caught off guard. “Who?”

“Don’t,” he said, and the word wasn’t cruel so much as exhausted. “You know who.”

She sat very still as it dawned on her. Of course, Carter would’ve found out. “Yes,” she said at last. “He’s gone.”

“For good?” The question scrapped itself raw as it came out, fourteen years old and already learning to ask for guarantees in a universe that didn’t give them.

Kara’s breath hitched. The truth had edges. She forced herself to pick it up anyway. “I can’t control another’s actions, Carter. But I can promise this: It was never him. And I’m not leaving you. Not ever again.”

His eyes flared, hope a dangerous thing trying to lift its head. “You left us, though.” Controlled anger seeped through.

“I did,” she said, and the words tasted like penance. “I told myself it was duty, and maybe part of it was, but it was nostalgia for a time and place long gone. I chose wrong. I hurt you, I hurt your mom. And then when I came back, I…” She looked down at her hands. “I hid. I knew I let those I loved the most down. I thought if I stayed away, I couldn’t make it worse…or did I?...make it worse?” the latter said in anguish but held a promise to abide by what was next said.

Carter’s jaw worked. He folded the straw wrapper, unfolded it, and folded it again. “If he comes back again,” he said, voice low, “will you choose him?”

There it was. The fault line. It ran right through her sternum. She didn’t look away. “No,” she said, steady and as firm as she could make it.

He stared at her for a long, bracing beat, as if testing the words in the air between them to see if they held. Something in his shoulders loosened, the slightest of nods—almost imperceptible, but enough for her to breathe.

Cat returned then, balancing three plastic-sealed cups. She set them down, passed the lychee to Carter and the taro to Kara, and sat. The moment folded itself closed, private and intact.

They drank. It was normal. It was absurd. Kara wanted to cry from the sheer, ordinary mercy of chewing tapioca in silence with the two people she had missed with an ache that felt like weather. But the constant hum of something very fragile remained, keeping her enthusiasm in check.

“Your presentation was polished, and you answered the questions well. I’m proud of you my beautiful boy” Cat said after a time. “And visually compelling. The baseboard was… well executed.”

Carter preened, just a little. “The clay stamps helped.” He shot Kara the quickest sideways glance. “Whoever… left them.”

Cat’s gaze cut to Kara, then softened almost imperceptibly. “Yes. Whoever left them.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Kara said, and kept her voice low so it wouldn’t spook the fragile peace. “I can disappear after this. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Cat said, too crisp to be accident. “You’re already here.” She pierced her own cup with clinical precision, lifted it without drinking, then set it down again. “Besides, Carter would be insufferable without an audience for his canal engineering.”

“Mom.” Carter complained but quickly smiled.

The thread held. They talked about nothing - foam density and sand adhesion and whether star stamps were scientifically accurate - while the important things continued to hum below the table like a current. When they stood to leave, Cat’s hand brushed Kara’s sleeve. Not an invitation. Not forgiveness. Just contact, light and deliberate, like the press of a seal onto soft clay.

Outside, the evening had slid into that lavender hour where windows go gold. They stood on the corner, the three of them, each not quite sure how to end it without breaking it.

“We should get home,” Cat said at last, and the plural made Kara’s chest ache in a new, strange way. “Carter has a math quiz tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.” he said, which meant he’d study the second the front door closed.

Kara nodded, stepping back. “Well, goodnight.” She looked at Carter. “Your project was on point.”

He ducked his head. “Yeah. Well.” Then, quieter: “Thanks for coming.”

It wasn’t absolution. It wasn’t even a truce. But it was a door not shut in her face, and in Kara’s world, that felt like the first true click of gears catching again.

They turned toward Kalorama, a town car waiting for them; she turned toward the train, because walking felt like the right kind of penance. Halfway down the block, she heard Carter’s voice his concern.

“Was all that ok, Mom?”

Cat’s contemplation carried on in the cooling air. “It was nice of her to come”, she said. “But! tonight is about you...how about we celebrate some more – take out? Your choice!”

“Deal! For some reason, I’m craving potstickers”

“Of course, you are” Cat’s eye roll could be felt from a block away.

Kara smiled into the wind and let it pull her forward. Momentum wasn’t a sprint. It was the pressure of a hand against your back, steady and patient, urging you to keep moving. She would keep moving. Brick by brick. Step by step.

And maybe, just maybe, one day the door would open and stay open, and she wouldn’t be standing on the threshold holding a box. She would be inside. She would be home.

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Cat had told herself she was prepared for anything the night of the showcase: donors’ smiles, faculty politics, Carter’s sudden case of “I-don’t-need-help-itis.” She was not prepared for Kara—braid, peacoat, hands constantly coming to fix her glasses—hovering at the back like a prayer that didn’t want to impose on the room it was about to bless. She stood there. Quiet, attentive, proud of a boy who wasn’t hers and absolutely was. Every time Carter’s voice wavered, Kara’s chin tipped up a degree, as if lending him her spine. Cat hated that she noticed. She hated more that she needed it. She mastered her smile into something press-secretary neutral and said, “Ms Danvers,” because formality felt like armour. Kara absorbed it like a penance and still managed, somehow, to glow.

On the corner where the evening light lacquered the windows, they did the small-talk dance. Cat could have said goodnight like a verdict. Instead, almost against her own will, she brushed Kara’s sleeve with her fingers—contact light enough to deny if anyone called it proof—and watched those blue eyes flare with something like faith. It was obscene, the way hope could feel like heat against the skin. Cat went home furious with herself for wanting to bottle it.

The next morning, the box still lay on the island bench. She had already seen it, yes, left on the stoop days earlier, but it changed texture in her memory after the showcase. Cat knew gifts. She knew grand gestures designed to dazzle. This wasn’t that. This was care. Crafted. Thoughtful. The kind that took time, not money. The kind that burrowed into the subconscious.

And then the gestures began to accumulate—not as a campaign, not the blitz Kara could have mounted if she wanted the world to notice, but as a series of efforts to self-correct. Alternative ways of showing up, all maddeningly gentle, all threaded with the same message: I am here, and I will keep being here.

1) The Monday run-in (Cat’s work world, not Kara’s):

It was raining sideways on the North Lawn when the press pool turned feral. A rumour—two verbs in the wrong tense—spread like mould. Cat stepped to the mics, jacket darkening at the shoulders, the question already sharpening. Kara emerged from the knot of reporters as if she’d been there by accident. No cape. No favour to cash. Just a recorder in one hand and a look that said I see what you’re trying to do here.

“Press Secretary Grant,” Kara called, voice even and strangely steadying, “can you clarify whether the directive is prospective or retrospective?”

Bless her for speaking the word Cat needed. A single answer, tight and surgical, collapsed the outrage balloon. When Cat passed her on the way back inside, Kara didn’t angle for more. She just murmured, “Thank you for holding the line.”

Cat didn’t break stride. “It’s my job.”

“Still,” Kara said, softer, rain pearling on her lashes, “you do it beautifully.”

Adolescent. Operatic. The twin currents that made Cat want to both slap the compliment away and pocket it like contraband.

2) The Tuesday text (boundaries, observed):

Kara: I’m making dinner for Alex and Eliza, creamy chicken soup. It’s the same I made you when you were sick with Pestilence. May I leave some on your stoop? Only if you’re comfortable.
Cat: Leave it. We’ll… manage.
Kara: Labelled. Low-sodium. If it’s not to your taste, pretend it never arrived.
Cat: Don’t tell the chef, but it was… acceptable.
Kara: I’ll tell her she met the Grant standard. That’s a Michelin star in our house.
Cat: Don’t get used to it, Keira.
Kara: Wouldn’t dream of it.

3) The Monday excuse:

It started on a Monday, Cat’s busiest day of the week. Meetings always stacked like dominoes, inbox aflame before sunrise. Kara was waiting at the end of the driveway, hands in her pockets, when Cat stepped out in her joggers, Keira’s leash looped around her wrist.

“Let me take her? It’s… honestly, for me. Walking helps me unwind after patrols.” Cat almost refused, but Keira, the chocolate Labrador, had already leaned hard into Kara’s legs, tail wagging like it was decided. So, Cat handed over the leash, muttering, “Don’t be late,” as if punctuality mattered to a dog.

After that, it became a pattern. Kara would knock once, take Keira for a long loop around the quieter blocks, and return with a towel-dried dog who smelled of wet earth and a coffee left on the stoop precisely hot.

4) The Wednesday night call (Cat’s voice, tired at the edges):

“Don’t hang up,” Cat said the moment Kara answered. “I only have twenty-eight seconds. Opinion on the cleanest way to explain the difference between a pause and a moratorium to people who enjoy bad-faith interpretations?”

Kara didn’t laugh. She inhaled like a swimmer hitting cold. “A pause is a comma; a moratorium is a period. A comma signals intention to resume. Give them a timebox and a reason: review, safety, consultation. Commas are merciful. Periods are punitive.”

There was silence. Then Cat: “Sometimes I forget you’re a reporter and not a linguist.”

“Words are little machines,” Kara said. “I like how you drive them.”

Another silence. Cat’s voice turned low, private. “Stay on the line while I walk to the podium.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kara said, and for once Cat let the sentence land where it wanted.

5) The Saturday games:

Kara kept her distance when distance mattered; she stood at the chain-link fence at Carter’s soccer match, hood up, straw between her teeth, and let Cat be the one to hand over the water, the towel, the praise. And still Carter played looser, happier, as if some part of him had been hoping for those pair of eyes—almost like what having a more present father would offer him. Cat felt a petty shock of resentment at how easy Kara made it look.

6) Sunday afternoon (Carter’s stakes, Cat’s rules):

On the dining table: a *cheap* 3D printer humming like a bee. Carter fought with a clogged nozzle; frustration threatened to curdle.

“Try a lower temp and slower feed,” Kara suggested, hovering like a skittish comet. “PLA gets a little sulky.”

Carter cut her a look. “You know this how?”

“I… have melted things,” Kara said, virtuous as a choirboy.

Cat arched a brow. “Understatement of the century.”

He adjusted the settings; the print resumed, layer by patient layer. “Okay. That helped,” he admitted. “Thanks.”

Kara grinned, sheepish, hands raised. “Happy to be the person who ruined fewer things this week.”

Cat felt it again—that illicit warmth. She tamped it down with a sip of coffee and the world’s least convincing eye-roll.

Meanwhile, the old gestures you could track with a pen kept happening - like the porch bulb that mysteriously worked. They called it friendship for Carter’s sake. For herself, she would pretend the word didn’t singe. Yet, Cat told herself she was the one insisting on the label, that it made what was happening containable. Friends could share bubble tea and project glue guns and dog walks and policy sources. Friends could exist in the same room without the room catching fire. She repeated that like a creed even as her body betrayed her. The slant of Kara’s handwriting on a Post-it could light a fuse in Cat’s stomach. The scrape of Kara’s laugh when Keira tried to carry an entire branch home could make Cat want to lean in and take the sound in her mouth. It was infuriating, the way desire could be a secret ache, throbbing louder the more she ignored it.

Carter, for his part, became the middle ground and the flint. He invited Kara to his robotics demo without warning Cat, then vanished at the crucial moment “to check wires,” leaving them shoulder-to-shoulder in a gym that smelled like solder and pride. He asked brutal questions with soft eyes and collected their answers like perimeters. He never said I’m building a map where she can find us, but Cat suspected that’s what he was doing.

And so when the three of them ended up at the kitchen table one Sunday afternoon—Carter sketching canals for extra credit, Cat editing a paragraph into a weapon, Kara rolling clay coils into miniature walls—the conversation ran on three tracks: playful bickering, ordinary logistics, and the steady, low hum of we are doing this.

“Not so much sand,” Kara said earnestly, pointing to the base. “They built with mudbrick mixed from river silt. If you use too much sand, the walls won’t hold. Silt compacts; sand slips.”

Carter smirked. “You are a nerd.”

“I’ll take it!,” Kara said, enjoying their banter.

Cat didn’t look up from her draft. “Both of you, stop flirting with sediment.”

Kara’s laugh skittered across Cat’s skin like a match strike. She kept her eyes on the page until the heat became manageable. Momentum, she realised, wasn’t speed. It was an insistence. It was the pressure of a hand at your back—steady, patient—urging you forward.

When the afternoon thinned and the house slipped toward evening, in her robe with Keira’s chin on her knee, Cat ate soup—admittedly excellent—and felt something uncoil between her ribs that wasn’t quite forgiveness and wasn’t quite surrender. Perhaps it was permission. To keep going. To keep letting Kara knock.

Chapter Text

The chapel glowed, warm with flowers and chatter. They arrived later than Kara would’ve liked and in an awkward huff. Kara had just found out that Alex had slept with Sara and was a little shocked, but mainly just glad Alex finally showed. Almost as soon as they arrived, it was her cue. Kara captured the microphone in both hands and started singing ‘Running home to you’. As she glances across the pews, she almost falters seeing Cat and Carter in attendance, sitting closer to the back on Iris's guest side. She managed to make it through the song, warmth spreading outward as everyone watched with nothing but love at seeing Iris walk the aisle with Joe, and the depth of reverence emanating from Barry. She sat down as the ceremony began, and for a fleeting moment, it was a sanctuary. Kara adjusted the hem of her dusty pink dress and forced herself to sit still, though her hands itched with restless energy.

Alex nudged her with an elbow. “You’ve been twitchy since we sat down. What’s wrong?”

Kara tried for a smile. “Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. It was Cat. Two pews behind her, sitting on the opposite side of the chapel in navy silk, the old-school Hollywood-inspired off-shoulder neckline with pleating and ruching at her chest to create a beautifully sculpted effect, hair pinned in sculpted waves. Carter sat beside her in a suit that made him look less like the boy Kara used to tuck into stories about constellations and more like the young man who rolled his eyes when she fumbled. He leaned close to whisper something. Cat inclined her head to listen, lips curving just faintly.

Kara’s breath caught.

“You’re staring,” Alex muttered. And Kara snapped herself back to face the front.

As if on cue, Cat’s voice, low and sharp, carried back just enough: “Of course she is. Superheroes never stop watching.”

Kara flinched as if she’d heard it straight in her ear.

The ceremony proceeded, love thick enough to make even Alex’s eyes sting. She almost managed to forget.

Until the windows blew in.

---------------------------------------------------

Smoke poured through the chapel in a blast like they were in a war zone with remnants of flowers and lace raining like ash. Shouts tore the air. Figures in black uniforms stormed the aisle, weapons raised. Earth-X soldiers.

Chaos erupted—chairs toppling, guests screaming. Barry, Kara, and Wally moved instantly, bodies moving at lightning speed to shield from the bullets that started to rain down. Kara launched forward, moving Cat and Carter who were crouched to the back. “Stay low”. She said as she jumped right back into the fray, bullets pinging harmlessly off her frame.

Cat clutched Carter tight, her eyes locked not on the chaos but on Kara—this woman who had already left them once, now standing immovable between them and annihilation.

The Earth-X doppelgängers emerged: Dark Arrow, Prometheus-X, and finally, Overgirl. Kara’s double sneered, cape snapping as she rose into the air. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

With no hesitation, the heroes expose their powers to save everyone. Kara still in her pink mid-length dress with sparkling diamantes and glasses on, is pressed into fight with a foe matching her abilities in every way. Barry and Wally use their speed to catch bullets and evacuate the guests. Without a second look for confirmation, Jax and Stein merge as Firestorm and engage the Nazis. Sara and Alex join forces in a different way from the previous night to take down a group of soldiers together before taking on Prometheus; Oliver unsheathed his portable bow and starts firing. Cisco suggests that Caitlin unleash Killer Frost on these Nazis, and she does, launching icicles at them whilst complaining about Caitlin's dress choice, while Mick covers her with his heat gun. 

Kara and Overgirl continue to struggle to get one over each other when Overgirl pushed Kara upward, the side and roof of the church exploding in shards of wood and plaster as she is taken into the sky. Cat and Carter could only watch from the wrecked chapel floor, necks craned back as the two Supergirls clashed above the city skyline.

Blows cracked like thunder. Heat vision lit the clouds in blue arcs. The unexpected powers send Kara pummelling onto the chapel floor with a thud. A sharp intake of breath escapes her lips, as an uncanny resemblance to Supergirl - only a strange mask and the wrong colour uniform - floats back into the church and tells Kara to stay down. It was then she saw Kara glance over to them and saw the set of her jaw tighten, that she knew this was not over. Faster than her eye could follow, Kara clapped her hands together, producing a powerful thunderclap. The sonic boom rippled across the chapel, sending soldiers sprawling, disorienting everyone, and shattering windows for blocks. Cat felt the vibration in her bones. Before Overgirl could recover, Kara grabs her and punches her hard in the stomach across the room, stunning her enough to prevent her from getting back up.

And still Cat watched, heart hammering, terrified not of Supergirl’s power but of Kara’s fragility—because to love Kara Danvers was to know that she would throw herself at death without hesitation – and fight with every ounce of energy she stored from the yellow sun.

As Kara moved forward to continue her attack, a man holding a bow and arrows, decidedly not Oliver, jumped to help the masked woman, commanding the remaining Nazis to retreat.

She hears Barry, Kara, and Oliver mutter in unison, “I hate Nazi’s”. Cat can’t help but scoff, immediately taking a breath and letting it out in relief that the immediate threat had passed. Kara must’ve noticed, because the next thing she knew was Kara, her dress now slightly tattered with dust and debris sticking to the layer of lace was crouched down in front of them.

“I’m taking you home.” Kara announced.

Cat felt her strong, bare arm reach under her own, pulling her and Carter up. She felt herself being pulled in closer to her hero’s chest, her face opposite Carter who looked at her wide-eyed. She saw Kara glance at Alex’s direction who had managed to capture one of the attackers with Sara, and then felt the tiniest shift of gravity, causing her hair to stand on end before the whoosh that followed. It felt only like seconds when Kara landed them discreetly and gently in their own backyard garden.

She heard Keira now barking at the sudden intrusion, then her wet nose near her calves. Cat found herself on the ground, legs and feet splayed to the side as she tried to keep herself up and then reached to fix her hair.

“Are you okay?” Kara asked them both, kneeling down next to them and started fussing with Carter’s face.

She sensed the alien was checking them both for any injuries. While both remained silent, still somewhat disoriented from the events that unfolded and being flown across states what felt less time than taking a breath. Kara must’ve taken this as a bad sign, as something akin to panic and remorse filled her next words.

“I should’ve taken you further away from the fight…but I wanted to keep you close so I could…” the rambling of what-if’s and justifications started pouring from the unmistakable superhero, despite the lack of her usual uniform.

It was only Cat’s movement to try and stand up (despite her legs still feeling like jelly) that stopped Kara as she stooped down to help her up.

“We’re okay” when Kara searched her eyes to see if she meant it or if it was a dismissal, she continued “We’re not porcelain, Kara. We’ve survived worse dinners in D.C.”

Before Kara could reply, Carter just said “She had powers like you” with alarm, his observation forcing her to refocus.

“You should go, Supergirl. They’ll need your help to deal with this…fresh fuckery” Cat states, knowing the stakes that are at play.

Hesitation.

“Go. We’ll… manage” she said more forcefully, stubborn pride hiding her uncertainty. ‘Would this be the last time we saw Kara. Would she come home safe?’

Kara takes a moment to reply. Her heart yearned to stay and keep them safe. “I’ll be back. I swear it.”

It said with such resolve, Cat dared not reply, and it seemed to have a calming effect on Carter. He closed his eyes, let out a breath, and nodded at the taller woman. Cat tugged Carter closer to her as they both felt and watched as Kara took off, here one millisecond, gone the next. Nothing but the disruption of clouds as evidence she was ever there.

----------------------------------------------------------

It was two days before she could make it back. Two days of fighting doppelgängers, Nazis, and shadows of herself that made even her skin crawl. Two days where every strike she threw, every time Overgirl’s fist connected, she thought of Cat’s eyes, fixed on her with that raw mixture of fear and fury.

When it was finally over—when the dust settled and the universes righted themselves—Kara didn’t go to S.T.A.R. Labs to celebrate their victory. She went to Kalorama.

The house looked serene against the dusk, porch light glowing steady, Keira’s bark carrying faintly through the door. Kara’s hands shook before she even knocked.

Carter opened it, hair mussed, a hoodie thrown over his T-shirt. He froze, eyes widening, followed by an involuntary smile as big and bright as Earth’s full moon. Electricity ran in her veins at the relief she felt at his reaction…but cut short as he called over his shoulder, “Mom!”

Cat appeared a moment later, composed as if she hadn’t been flown across states in the crook of Kara’s arm days earlier. She crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe, taking in Carter’s energy buzzing at the taller woman's return, and simply said, “You’re back.” A lilt of wonderment, relief and apprehension.

“I promised I would,” Kara said softly.

Keira wriggled between their legs, tail thumping, tongue already lapping at Kara’s hands. Kara crouched to rub her ears, grateful for the unconditional welcome. When she stood, she risked a smile at both of them.

“I, uh… wanted to check in with you and let you know the threat has been neutralised” Kara said as filler of the mix of emotions charging through the entryway of the home.

“I had no doubt your little league heroes would. You were basically a walking poster for an attractive, racially diverse cast of a CW show”. Cat quipped. “But why are you here and not out celebrating your triumph over the latest evil?”

Kara shifted awkwardly, pushing her glasses up her nose though she didn’t need them. “Well…actually, I wanted to ask if you and Carter would like to come to Thanksgiving. At my place. Alex will be there, Eliza, Maggie, Clark, Lois, J’onn, James…just our little group. It’d be nice to have you.”

It was said lightly, as if it were nothing more than another holiday invitation, but Cat heard the weight in every syllable. An invitation to Kara’s table. To her family. To her world.

For Kara, it was a door flung open. For Cat, it was a threshold she wasn’t sure she could cross.

Her pulse jumped. She doesn’t want redemption, Cat realised with a start. She wants return.

The silence stretched. Kara shifted again, nervous. “But if you have other plans—”

“What are you doing, Kara?” she asked pointedly, on the brink of accusation. It seemed to float right over Kara.

“Well, I decided to host it at my place and, I just thought it would be nice to….”

“That’s not what I’m asking Kara.” Cat’s voice cut in, sharp as glass. Her arms tightened across her chest. She made herself release a breath.

“What are you doing… showing up unannounced to Carter’s showcase…his games, and robotics tournament, taking Keira on walks before going to work…just what are you trying to do by being here?” Cat moved closer to her with each accusation, demanding to be answered.

Kara swallowed hard. The time had come – she knew it would. The words came out like a confession. “I wanted to show you how sorry I was. For leaving.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw with guilt. “I thought if I showed up—with actions not just words - it might mean something. That…that it would prove how much missed you.”

The dam inside Cat cracked. Her breath caught, sharp and angry, and the words rushed out before she could stop them.

“You don’t get to waltz in with gestures, Kara. You left me—you left us. Do you have any idea what that did to Carter? To me? You didn’t just leave…” Her voice broke, bitterness spilling over. “…you left with him.”

The last of Cat’s words hung in the air, jagged, sharp, charged: You left…with him.

Kara flinched, but didn’t step back. Instead, she moved closer, voice low, trembling but unflinching, as if she’d been waiting for this wound to be named out loud. “Cat, I know. And it’s the thing I regret most. I thought I was chasing belonging, like what things would’ve been like…if Krypton never died…but all I found was how empty it all felt without you. Without Carter. Without… this.”

Her throat tightened. “He was a mistake. A distraction I tried to dress up as duty. And when I looked around, I realised all of it was nothing compared to what I’d left behind.” Kara steadied herself.

“Argo wasn’t home.” She whispered, tinged with remnants of a dream long gone. “This is my home—because home is where the heart is. And you have my heart, Cat Grant. It has always been yours.” She confessed, grasping the older woman’s hands in hers.

Silence fell, heavy as stone.

Cat’s throat burned with words she hadn’t planned to say, words she wasn’t sure she wanted to release. But her body betrayed her—the tightness in her chest, the heat prickling at her skin where their hands met, the way Kara’s eyes, raw and pleading, made her want to both scream and fold in.

Her voice came out hoarse, cracked on the edges. “Will you just shut up and kiss me.”

Kara blinked, stunned, then whispered, “Only if you kiss me back.”

“I may never stop.”

“Please don’t.”

And then there was no air between them, no defences left to shield them. Just lips crashing, soft and desperate, salt and relief mingling in a kiss years overdue. Cat clutched Kara’s lapel as if daring her to vanish again. Kara cupped Cat’s cheek, thumb trembling against her skin as if reassuring herself this was real, not another dream.

Carter groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously? You’re doing this now?” But when he peeked through his fingers, the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

Keira barked once, tail wagging furiously, as if the dog had been waiting for this outcome longer than anyone.

………………………………………………………………..

Eliza pottered away in the kitchen, which smelled of rosemary and cinnamon, pies cooling on every flat surface. The dining room was a chaos of mismatched china and overlapping conversations, the hum of family at full tilt.

Lois was already teasing Clark about his carving technique. Maggie and Alex bickered over the stuffing with playful elbows. James tried to line everyone up for a photo, J’onn sighing as he allowed Vasquez to crown him with a pilgrim hat.

At the far end of the table, Carter sat sandwiched between Lois and Alex, basking in their attention as he explained his latest robotics project. Every so often, he threw Kara a look that was part pride, part challenge, daring her not to beam. She failed every time. Keira snored under the table, blissfully unaware of her banishment from the kitchen.

Cat sat beside Kara, posture perfect even in the domestic sprawl, a glass of wine poised elegantly in her hand. She looked around at the noise, the warmth, the utter absurdity of this ragtag collection—and felt something inside her loosen.

Kara leaned close, voice pitched just for her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Cat arched a brow. “Thank Carter. He insisted.”

“I know,” Kara said, smiling. “But it means the world anyway.”

Across the table, Alex caught Kara’s eye and wiggled her eyebrows knowingly. Kara flushed, ducking her head.

It struck Cat, then, with startling clarity: forgiveness wasn’t a single moment. It wasn’t a coupon to be redeemed or a switch to be flipped. It was momentum—built through repetition, carried forward by choice. Each gesture was a push against inertia. Tonight was one step. Tomorrow would be another.

She looked at Kara—blue eyes bright, smile nervous, heart open—and felt the ache of homesickness hum in her chest. Not longing for a place, but for this: the porch light left on, the table full, the family noisy and whole.

She sipped her wine, set the glass down, and allowed herself to trust.

For Kara, it was momentum too. Not speed, not spectacle, but the quiet insistence of motion. She couldn’t undo the moment she left, but she could keep showing up, proving with each act that she would never stall again. Each kindness was a push forward, each choice a way of saying I’m still here. Tonight was one step. Tomorrow would be another.

Their gazes held across the chaos of family and food. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Momentum carried them.