Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One

Celebrity Status

Mariana’s Trench

https://youtu.be/wSRUDnw9uoc?si=kdTIiG2MJACsViTm

When the mirrors and the lights

And the smoke clear I'd never guess

How we ever coulda got here

You can say what you say

When the lights go down

So shake, shake, shake,

And shut your mouth

I'm tryin' I'm tryin' I'm tryin'

Chapter Text

1

Skin & Sin

The Pit swallowed Kara whole the moment she crossed the threshold. A wall of sound slammed through her, bypassing her ears entirely, vibrating through bone and tissue to settle beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat.

"Jesus," she muttered, the word lost in the din before it could even fully form.

The heat assaulted her next—a gelatinous wall of humidity that coated her skin on contact. It tasted of spilled beer, sweat, and something vaguely chemical that clung to the back of her throat. Her cotton blouse, crisp when she'd left her apartment twenty minutes ago, now adhered between her shoulder blades like a second skin. She fought the urge to peel the fabric away, knowing the gesture would be as futile as trying to stay dry in a monsoon.

Kara blinked rapidly, squinting through the manufactured dusk. This darkness wasn't an aesthetic choice; it was calculated—strategic. The Pit had secrets to keep. Her eyes gradually adjusted, revealing scuffs on the walls where bodies had collided, stains on the floor like abstract art installations, too many questionable surfaces best left unexamined. Red neon transformed each patron into something slightly sinister, their features obscured just enough to render everyone a stranger—not that they weren't already. This wasn't the kind of place Kara Danvers usually found herself in.

Her fingers twitched toward her glasses, finding comfort in the familiar nervous habit. She pushed them higher on her nose, using the gesture to scan the room without being obvious. The crowd was dense, bodies pressed together in what looked less like dancing and more like beautiful drowning. How was she supposed to find Nia in this?

The bass dropped again, this time with enough force that Kara felt it reverberate through her molars. If this constituted the opening act, what awaited with the main performance? Something about the raw energy tugged at her, drawing her deeper into the thrumming darkness despite the warning bells clanging in her brain.

Bodies pressed against bodies in the cramped space, a living organism with its own heartbeat. Her blonde hair, pulled up in a ponytail the way she usually wore it when working, clung to her neck in damp tendrils. She absently tucked a loose strand behind her ear, feeling the moisture at her hairline. Even in this dim light, the golden highlights caught what little illumination there was, creating a halo effect that had caused more than one person to glance her way.

Kara towered over most of the crowd—five-foot-eight in her flat shoes—but even with her height advantage, she struggled to see over the sea of heads bobbing to the music. Her blue eyes, bright even in the murk, narrowed as she scanned for Nia. The glasses slid down her nose again, and she pushed them back with her index finger.

"This is like being trapped inside a sweaty teenager's armpit," Alex hissed, stumbling sideways as a man with a half-empty pint glass jostled past her. Her sister's leather jacket gleamed under the sparse lighting, her short auburn hair looking almost burgundy in the red glow. "Why are we here again?"

"Because it's going to be a great story," Kara replied, raising her voice to be heard. She didn't add the real reason—that Alex's apartment had started to smell like moldy takeout containers and unwashed gym socks. "And because you've been hibernating since your breakup with Maggie."

Someone let out a piercing whistle that ricocheted off the ceiling, the sound slicing through the bass like a knife. Kara winced, her eardrums vibrating at a frequency that made her teeth ache. The crowd surged in response, a ripple of movement that threatened to separate her from Alex.

"Don't let go," Kara shouted, tightening her grip on her sister's wrist until she felt the delicate bones shift beneath her fingers. Alex's pulse jumped against her thumb—steady but quick, like a trapped bird.

Kara ducked beneath a forest of upraised arms, the underside of a stranger's bicep brushing against her hair. The contact made her skin crawl, but she pushed the sensation aside, focusing instead on the narrow path she could see forming ahead. Her athletic frame, toned from years of morning runs, allowed her to navigate the crush with more grace than some others may have managed. Still, bodies pressed in from all sides, sticky with sweat and vibrating with the music. Someone's elbow caught her ribs, sending a sharp jab of pain through her side.

She gasped, the sound lost in the noise. Her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.

"Sorry!" the owner of the elbow yelled, their face a blur.

"It's fine," Kara replied automatically, though she knew they couldn't hear her.

The smell intensified as they moved deeper into the crowd—a potent cocktail of at least five different colognes and perfumes, none of them complementary. Kara breathed through her mouth, tasting the chemical sweetness on her tongue instead.

She wasn't sure which was worse.

"Excuse me, sorry, just trying to—thanks," Kara murmured, her politeness automatic even as she bulldozed forward. Her shoulder collided with someone's back, and she felt the damp cotton of their shirt against her skin. She recoiled instinctively but kept moving, using her height to spot a tiny opening at the bar.

"There," she said, pointing with her free hand. Alex couldn't possibly hear her over the music, but her sister nodded anyway, following Kara's gesture with narrowed eyes.

The floor beneath them was tacky with spilled drinks, each step requiring a deliberate lift of her foot to break the subtle suction. Kara's shoes—practical flats that had seemed sensible for a night out—now felt like a mistake. The soles were thin enough that she could feel every bottle cap and sticky patch through them.

"This better be worth it," Alex grumbled, her mouth close enough to Kara's ear that the words cut through the noise.

Kara didn't answer. Her target was clear despite the chaos—that small gap at the bar where they might, if they were lucky, be able to order drinks and survey the room without being constantly jostled. She pulled Alex forward with renewed determination, ignoring the sweat now trickling down her spine and the way her glasses kept sliding down her nose.

Three more steps and they'd be there. 

Behind her, Alex's complaints continued like a snarky soundtrack, barely audible over the synth thrum rattling the walls. Kara caught fragments—"public health violation" and "sticky floor syndrome"—that made her smile despite the discomfort of navigating the packed room.

Two.

"I'm pretty sure this place hasn't seen a health inspector since the Bush administration," Alex shouted, her mouth practically against Kara's ear. "The first one."

One.

Kara tugged Alex toward a sliver of open space at the bar, their progress slowed by the human obstacle course of swaying bodies. Each step required negotiation—a gentle nudge here, a whispered "excuse me" there—until finally they reached the sticky countertop.

"Water first," Kara mouthed to Alex, who nodded. Hydration first, then alcohol. A lesson learned after too many mornings spent with her head against cool bathroom tiles.

The bartender moved like liquid through the chaos, his hands never still, a constant blur of motion as he mixed, poured, and exchanged cash. Kara found herself watching the fluid efficiency of his movements with something like professional appreciation. There was a story there—in the way his muscles flexed beneath tanned skin as he shook a cocktail, in how he navigated the cramped space behind the bar with practiced precision.

He was attractive, she couldn't deny that. Sharp cheekbones that caught shadows in the dim light, forearms defined by the repetitive labor of his craft, dark hair pulled into a man bun that somehow worked on him when it would look ridiculous on most men. A thin sheen of sweat made his skin glow under the neon, highlighting the curve of his throat as he tipped his head back to laugh at something a patron said.

When he finally turned toward them, Kara's breath caught slightly. His eyes were a warm amber that transformed the red neon into something almost hypnotic. For a fleeting second, something stirred in her chest—not quite desire, but a reminder of its existence. A quiet acknowledgment that it had been months since Mike had walked out of her apartment and her life, taking with him not just his possessions but the comfortable routine of having someone to come home to.

Then the bartender opened his mouth.

"What can I get you?" he asked, voice dripping with a carefully cultivated disinterest. His eyes slid over Kara's face without really seeing her, already looking past to the next customer. His t-shirt, worn thin enough to reveal the contours of his chest, featured a band logo so deliberately obscure that Kara was certain they had dissolved before releasing a single album. A tattoo peeked from beneath his sleeve—something in Chinese that probably translated to "soup of the day" or "cool story bro" rather than the profound statement he clearly thought it was.

The attraction fizzled instantly, like carbonation gone flat.

Kara had dated enough men like him after college—men who treated their musical taste like a personality trait, who judged her for enjoying anything that had ever charted on Billboard, who wore their apathy like armor. She'd outgrown that particular type years ago, though her body apparently needed the occasional reminder.

"Two waters," she said, raising her voice to be heard over a particularly aggressive bass drop. "For now."

He raised an eyebrow, the gesture somehow both condescending and bored, before turning to grab plastic cups. He filled them from a tap behind the bar, sliding them across the sticky surface with practiced indifference.

"Were you just checking him out?" Alex's voice carried a hint of hope. She'd been trying to nudge Kara back into dating since the Mike disaster four months ago.

"Momentarily," Kara admitted, leaning against the bar and wincing as something tacky caught at her elbow. "Then he radiated 'I'll make you listen to my vinyl collection while explaining why you've never heard real music' energy, and the moment passed."

Alex snorted, accepting her water cup with a grimace at its flimsy plastic. "Fair. Though at this point, I'd take someone with terrible taste in music over another night watching you organize your sock drawer by color."

"That was one time," Kara protested, lifting her cup to her lips. The condensation felt heavenly against her palm, a tiny oasis of cool in the sweltering heat. "And it was very satisfying."

She took a long drink, the water lukewarm but still a relief against her parched throat. The plastic cup had that faintly chemical taste that reminded her of college parties, but she was too thirsty to care. Kara scanned the crowd again, standing on tiptoes despite her height advantage, searching for any sign of Nia. The dance floor had grown even more packed, a writhing mass of bodies moving in something approximating rhythm.

"Do you see her?" Kara asked, still balancing on the balls of her feet.

"Not yet," Alex replied, squinting through the haze. She drained half her water in one go, then used the back of her hand to wipe a bead of sweat from her temple. "But if we lose each other, meet at the exit. I am not spending one minute longer than necessary in this petri dish."

The music shifted, a subtle change in tempo that sent a fresh wave of energy through the crowd. Bodies pressed closer to the stage in anticipation, and Kara felt herself being jostled as someone squeezed past to claim her spot at the bar. Her water sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the cup.

"Careful," she muttered, using her body to shield her drink from the newcomer.

"Sorry," came the reply, a voice low enough to cut through the bass without shouting.

Kara turned, a reflexive apology forming on her lips, but the words died when she saw no one looking in her direction. The stranger had already melted back into the crowd, leaving only the lingering impression of a shoulder against hers and the ripple in her water to prove they'd been there at all.

She sighed and checked her watch, the illuminated face glowing faintly in the dim light. The band was running late—at least twenty minutes by Kara's count. The stage remained mostly empty except for a half-assembled drum kit that looked like it had survived multiple wars. The cymbals were dented, the kick drum's black paint chipped away to reveal layers of color beneath, like geological strata of previous owners.

"Remind me again why we're subjecting ourselves to this?" Alex had to lean close, her words competing with the bass frequencies crawling up the walls and into their bones. A strand of hair stuck to her cheek, and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear.

Kara took another sip of her water, the plastic cup now slippery in her grasp. She angled her body toward Alex, creating a small pocket of relative privacy in the chaos.

"Because Nia swore this band is going to blow up, and I want to be able to say I saw them when they were still playing dive bars." She adjusted her glasses again, the frames sliding down her sweat-slicked nose. "Plus, she told me something about the frontwoman that I couldn't ignore."

"What?" Alex's interest perked up, her eyes narrowing with sudden curiosity. She leaned in closer, the faint scent of her shampoo momentarily cutting through the bar's miasma.

"Apparently," Kara lowered her voice, forcing Alex to lean even closer, "she has the National City skyline tattooed somewhere... interesting." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Nia wasn't specific about the location, but she used the word 'scandalous' and then giggled for a full minute."

Alex's eyes widened slightly. "Okay, that's... intriguing. Though I'm not sure if I'm more curious about the tattoo or what kind of journalist Nia is to be chasing down rumors about musicians' body art."

"The kind who knows how to get someone's attention," Kara admitted with a small smile. She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. "Also, you needed to get out. You've been in a state of complete atrophy lately. You're basically a potato at this point. I have photographic evidence."

Alex snorted, the sound reluctant but genuine. "Potatoes don't have to risk tinnitus every Thursday just so their sisters can get a byline."

"Potatoes don't get to complain about being potatoes," Kara countered, adjusting her glasses again. The heat in the room had fogged the lenses slightly, adding another layer of blur to the already dim space. She wiped them ineffectually with the hem of her blouse, succeeding only in smearing the condensation into abstract patterns.

"You know what potatoes do get?" Alex asked, crushing her now-empty plastic cup in her fist. "Vodka. Which is what I need if we're going to survive this night." She glanced toward the bartender, who was mixing something fluorescent for another patron. "What do you think—should we upgrade from water now?"

Kara hesitated, the lukewarm water sloshing against the sides of her plastic cup as someone bumped into her from behind. The idea of alcohol was tempting—a buffer against the discomfort of the packed room and the interminable wait for the band. She glanced at Alex, whose expectant expression made it clear which way her sister was leaning.

"One drink," Kara conceded, raising a finger for emphasis. "I still need to be coherent enough to take notes."

Before Alex could flag down the bartender, another shift rippled through the crowd—not quite a parting, but a subtle reorganization, like iron filings responding to a magnet. Kara felt it in the way bodies tensed and shifted around her, creating negative space where before there had been none.

A woman cut through the packed floor with the confidence of someone who'd never questioned her right to be anywhere. Kara's gaze caught on her immediately. The woman wore a burgundy blazer that looked absurdly out of place amid the sea of band t-shirts and ripped denim, yet somehow made everyone else look underdressed. The fabric hugged her frame, accentuating the confident set of her shoulders. Her dark hair was pulled back in a knot that managed to look both effortlessly elegant and slightly disheveled, as though she'd been running her fingers through it moments before.

Her eyes—sharp, assessing, and startlingly intense—scanned the bar with until they landed on Kara. The directness of her gaze made Kara straighten instinctively, her spine lengthening as though she were back in Cat Grant's office, awaiting judgment. The woman changed course, heading straight toward them with purpose that parted the remaining bodies between them.

"You're wearing glasses in a dark club," the woman observed as she reached them, her voice pitched to carry over the music without shouting. There was something almost musical in her cadence, a rhythm that complemented rather than competed with the throbbing bass. "Either you're extremely nearsighted or you're the journalist from CatCo."

The statement caught Kara off guard. She blinked, suddenly self-conscious of the frames perched on her nose. "I'm both, actually," she replied, resisting the urge to touch her glasses again. "Though the glasses are mostly functional, not a journalistic affectation."

The woman's lips curved into a smile that transformed her face, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones and lighting her eyes with genuine warmth. She extended a hand toward Kara, her nails short and practical but impeccably manicured.

"Samantha Arias," she said, her handshake firm and confident. "Sam to most people. I manage GlassHearts."

Kara matched the pressure of the handshake instinctively, the way Cat had taught her during her first week at CatCo. “Never let them feel you yielding before they do,” Cat had instructed, demonstrating on a terrified intern. “It sets the tone for everything that follows.”

"Kara Danvers," she replied, though Sam clearly already knew who she was. "This is my sister, Alex."

Alex nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes narrowed slightly in assessment—the same look she gave to suspicious lab results or questionable takeout food.

"Ms. Nal mentioned you might be here tonight," Sam continued, releasing Kara's hand. "She's been quite... persistent about getting press coverage."

A man with a mohawk that added at least eight inches to his height squeezed past, momentarily pressing Kara closer to Sam. The scent of sandalwood and something crisp—maybe cotton?—cut through the bar's miasma. It was subtle but distinctive, like the woman herself.

"That's one word for it," Kara said, smiling despite herself. "Nia tends toward enthusiasm in general."

"Fourteen texts today alone," Sam replied with a wry twist of her lips. "Speaking of which—" she glanced around the packed room, dark eyes scanning the crowd, "—where is your enthusiastic colleague?"

Kara frowned, standing on tiptoes to scan the crowd again. "She was supposed to meet us here. Maybe she got caught up at work."

"Well, she spoke highly of you," Sam said, turning her full attention back to Kara. Her gaze was appraising but not uncomfortable—more like she was taking inventory than making judgments. "Said you're the only journalist at CatCo who might actually get what we're trying to do with GlassHearts."

"And what exactly are you trying to do?" Alex interjected, stepping slightly closer to Kara in a movement so subtle that only someone who knew her well would recognize the protective gesture.

Something in Sam's expression softened, the professional veneer giving way to genuine passion. "Make music that matters," she said, then let out a short laugh. "God, that sounds pretentious when I say it out loud. But it's true. We're not interested in being the flavor of the month. These aren't trust fund kids playing at being rock stars."

The bass dropped again, punctuating her statement with a vibration that Kara felt through the soles of her feet. She took another sip of water, using the moment to study Sam more carefully. There was something magnetic about her—a contained energy that suggested she was accustomed to being the most capable person in any room.

Sam caught the bartender's attention with nothing more than a slight tilt of her chin—a superpower in any crowded bar. "Three whiskeys, neat," she called out, sliding a credit card across the sticky surface. She turned back to Kara and Alex, one eyebrow raised slightly in question.

"You don't have to—" Kara began, instinctively uncomfortable with accepting drinks from someone she was meant to be interviewing.

"I absolutely do," Sam interrupted smoothly. "Besides, I have an ulterior motive. I need a journalist who can see past the surface."

The bartender placed three tumblers on the bar, the amber liquid catching the red neon light like liquid fire. Sam distributed them, her fingers never quite touching Kara's as she handed over the glass.

"To new connections," Sam said, raising her drink slightly.

Kara mirrored the gesture, the whiskey burning pleasantly as she took a small sip. The alcohol warmed a path down her throat, settling in her empty stomach with a gentle heat. "What surface am I supposed to be seeing past?"

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly, evaluating. She took another sip of whiskey, seemingly weighing her words. "Our lead singer is Lena Luthor."

Alex choked mid-sip, coughing as the whiskey burned down the wrong pipe. "Wait—Luthor as in THE Luthors?" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Luthor Children's Hospital? Luthor Foundation? That whole empire?"

"The very same," Sam confirmed, her expression carefully neutral, though Kara caught a flicker of something protective in her eyes.

Alex let out a short, sharp laugh. "And here I thought you said these weren't trust fund kids."

"I didn't know they had a daughter," Kara interrupted, redirecting Alex’s comment.

"Most people don't," Sam replied, her posture shifting subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting. The protective edge in her voice grew more pronounced as she glanced between Alex and Kara. "And the Luthors prefer it that way. Lionel and Lillian spent years ensuring their daughter remained a footnote, if mentioned at all."

She swirled the whiskey in her glass, the amber liquid catching the neon in hypnotic spirals. Kara watched the movement, transfixed.

"While Lex was being groomed as the golden child, paraded through charity galas and board meetings, Lena was shipped off to boarding schools in Europe. Out of sight, out of mind." Something hardened in Sam's eyes. "The society pages don't forget people exist—they're deliberately directed elsewhere. The Luthors have always been selective about which parts of their legacy receive attention."

Sam took another sip, her throat working as she swallowed. When she lowered the glass, a tightness lingered around her mouth.

"While her brother was strutting around Manhattan in custom suits, collecting headlines and accolades, Lena was at Juilliard, practicing until her fingers bled." She met Kara's gaze directly. "Literally bled. I've seen it."

The intensity in Sam's expression made Kara's breath catch. She could almost picture it—pale fingers moving across strings, leaving crimson smears in their wake, refusing to stop despite the pain.

"The Luthors build empires," Sam continued, leaning closer so her words wouldn't be swallowed by the surrounding noise. "Lena is building something else entirely."

Kara leaned forward, reporter instincts perking up at the unexpected revelation. "Juilliard? Not MIT or Caltech or Stanford?" The Luthors were known for their scientific and business acumen, not artistic pursuits.

"God no," Sam laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "Though she probably could have been. The woman speaks four languages and taught herself differential equations for fun during a particularly boring summer at the Luthor estate." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But music was always her escape. Started with classical piano at four. Violin by eight. By twelve, she was playing Rachmaninov concertos that made grown men weep."

The alcohol loosened something in Kara's chest, her curiosity overriding her usual caution. "So how does someone go from Rachmaninov to..." She gestured toward the stage where a technician was adjusting microphone stands, the movement causing her whiskey to slosh dangerously close to the rim of her glass.

"To dive bar alt rock?" Sam's mouth quirked up at the corner, something almost conspiratorial in her expression. "That's the story everyone wants, isn't it? The Luthor heiress slumming it with a guitar instead of helping to run Daddy's empire." She took another swig of whiskey, her throat working as she swallowed. "But it's not slumming when it's salvation."

Kara felt herself being pressed closer to Sam as people surged toward the stage.

Sam continued, her voice dropping to ensure only Kara and Alex could hear. "Lillian had Lena’s whole life mapped out—soloist debut at 14, international competitions by 16. Headlining with the Vienna Philharmonic before most kids even graduate high school, Carnegie Hall before she could legally drink." There was something in Sam's tone that suggested this wasn't just professional knowledge but something more personal. "Lillian Luthor doesn't do anything small. Lena discovered Hayley Williams and Florence Welch in boarding school, and that was it." Her smile turned fond, almost fierce. "It was actually me who introduced her to all that," Sam said, her voice softening with nostalgia. "We were roommates at boarding school in Switzerland. I was this scholarship kid from the wrong side of the tracks surrounded by trust fund babies with private jets." She took another sip of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the neon light. "Lena was different. Quiet. Always had her nose in a book or sheet music."

Kara leaned closer, intrigued by this unexpected connection. "You were friends before the band?"

"More than friends," Sam said with a small, private smile. "We were each other's lifeline. I smuggled in my iPod loaded with Paramore and Florence + the Machine. She'd listen through my headphones while practicing classical pieces so Lillian wouldn't suspect anything during their weekly video calls."

Sam's eyes took on a faraway look, seeing something beyond the crowded bar. "You should have seen her face the first time she heard 'Decode’. It was like watching someone discover color after living in black and white."

The crowd shifted again, pressing Kara closer to Sam again. Their shoulders touched, and Kara caught another hint of that sandalwood scent.

"I still remember the night everything changed," Sam continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Three AM, both of us huddled under her comforter with a contraband bottle of schnapps, sharing earbuds. Florence's 'Cosmic Love' came on, and Lena just... stopped breathing for a moment." Sam's fingers tightened around her glass. "When she looked at me, there were tears in her eyes. She said, 'I want to make people feel like this’."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "And Lillian Luthor was okay with her daughter abandoning the whole classical thing?"

Sam's laugh was sharp and without humor. "God, no. You should have seen her face when Lena came home for Christmas with half her head shaved and a guitar instead of sheet music." She drained her whiskey, setting the empty glass. "Lillian threatened to cut her off completely. Said she was throwing away years of training to become 'common entertainment’."

"What happened?" Kara asked, captivated by the story unfolding.

"Lena looked her mother dead in the eye and said, ‘Then I guess you can watch from the sidelines like everyone else’." Sam's smile turned fierce with pride. "She walked out of the Luthor mansion that night with nothing but her guitar and the clothes on her back. Showed up at my apartment at three in the morning.

"She slept on my couch for six months," Sam continued, her voice dropping as she leaned closer. "Worked three jobs while writing songs at night." She traced the rim of her empty glass with her fingertip. "Though Lionel stepped in eventually."

"Her father?" Kara asked, surprised by this detail.

Sam nodded, her expression complex. "Lionel had his faults—many of them—but he never let Lillian go through with disowning Lena completely." She signaled to the bartender for another round. "I don't know what was said behind closed doors, but Lena received a sizable trust fund shortly after."

"Did she take it?" Alex asked, eyes narrowed with interest.

Sam's laugh was short and genuine. "She used it to buy our first touring van and decent equipment. Said if she was going to use Luthor money, it would be on her terms." She accepted the fresh whiskey from the bartender with a nod of thanks. "That's Lena for you—stubborn as hell, but practical when it counts."

Sam glanced toward the stage, something shifting in her expression.

"You should see her perform," Sam said, turning back to Kara. "Everything I've told you? It's nothing compared to watching her on that stage."

Before Kara could ask another question, the crowd erupted into cheers as the house lights dimmed. Sam straightened, her expression shifting from nostalgic to professional in an instant.

"That's my cue," she said, finishing her whiskey in one shot. "Enjoy the show, Ms. Danvers. If you're still interested afterward, I can introduce you to the band." She leaned closer, her breath warm against Kara's ear. "Fair warning—Lena hates interviews. But something tells me you might be different."

With that, Sam slipped away.

Kara watched her disappear toward the backstage area, mind racing with questions.

"Well," Alex said, eyebrows raised as she leaned against the bar. "That was unexpected."

Kara nodded, still processing the information. A Luthor hiding in plain sight, reinventing herself through music. It was the kind of story that could make a career—if told properly.

The overhead speakers sputtered, the electronic dance music that had been pummeling the crowd cutting out mid-beat. The sudden absence created a vacuum of sound that made Kara's ears ring in protest. The crowd sensed the shift—conversations halted mid-sentence, bodies stilled their swaying, heads turned toward the stage in unison like a flock of birds responding to an invisible signal. A single spotlight illuminated the stage, revealing a drum kit and three shadowy figures. The crowd surged forward like a wave, bodies pressing tightly together.

"Come on," she said to Alex, grabbing her sister's hand. "I need to see this."

She pushed forward, using her height to navigate through the press of bodies a second time, whiskey still clutched in her free hand. The alcohol had settled into a pleasant warmth in her veins, making the discomfort of the crowded space more bearable. Her reporter's notebook dug into her back pocket, a reminder of why she was here—but for the first time in months, Kara felt a spark of something beyond professional interest.

A single note sliced through the dark like a blade—a violin, but not the kind meant for concert halls or gala orchestras. The sound was raw, feral—something being born and breaking in the same breath. It scraped against Kara's skin, screeching and defiant, the edge of it catching her right behind the ribs. The sound didn't belong in a grimy dive bar; it inhabited the space, vibrating through her bones until she felt it more than heard it.

"What the hell is that?" Alex whispered, her face ghost-lit by the cold blue glow from the stage.

Before Kara could answer, the note fractured—splitting, folding back on itself through what had to be a loop pedal. Layers built upon layers, dissonant and alive. The sound swelled until it stopped feeling like music and started feeling like something with a heartbeat, something that might reach out and touch her.

The spotlight wavered, then swung across the stage like a searching eye. For a heartbeat, it caught on the edge of the drum kit, the shimmer of a cymbal, the gleam of a guitar's tuning peg—before locking onto a single figure standing left of center stage.

Lena Luthor.

The spotlight carved her from the darkness—shoulders squared, jaw set, every line of her body precise and deliberate. The black electric violin rested against her collarbone like an extension of her spine, something alive and dangerous in her hands. Her bow arm cut through the air in clean, surgical arcs, each stroke sharp enough to draw blood if aimed differently.

Her hair, dark and straight, was pulled into a high ponytail that faded from black into teal at the ends. The color flashed whenever she moved, a flicker of rebellion against the perfection that defined everything else about her. Silver glinted from the small constellation of piercings that climbed her right ear, catching the light like stray stars. A thin metallic choker circled her throat, rising and falling with each breath as she played. Her suit—sleek, perfectly cut, the sharpest black Kara had ever seen—moved with her like it had been tailored for this exact moment. Below it, teal Chucks peeked out, their scuffed canvas the single human imperfection in an otherwise impossible portrait.

Something tugged at Kara's chest. She blinked, trying to clear the fog that had settled over her thoughts. It was just the music. It had to be the music.

Slender fingers raced across the strings—measured, relentless, almost mechanical in their execution, until suddenly they weren't. The melody fractured, wild and human, slipping its leash. Notes flared and collided, bending into something raw that didn't sound practiced so much as released.

Kara couldn't breathe. There was no showmanship, no wasted motion—only that impossible balance between control and chaos. Sweat beaded along her hairline, her skin suddenly too warm in the packed room.

"Holy shit," she whispered, unsure if it was about the music or the woman making it.

The crowd had gone utterly still, a collective breath held as the violin's wail filled every corner of the bar. Kara felt the press of strangers against her back, her shoulders, but nobody moved. Nobody dared.

Then the drums hit—not an entry so much as an assault. The first strike cracked through the air like thunder, the second rolled after it in a heartbeat rhythm that made the floor quake beneath Kara's feet. It wasn't polite percussion; it was primal, demanding.

A bass joined next, low and resonant, the kind of vibration that settled in her sternum and refused to leave. The rhythm locked with the drums, grounding the chaos of the violin in something dark and steady. It shouldn't have worked—grit tangled with grace—but it did. The sound built, every new layer feeding the next until the room felt alive with it.

From stage right, a tall figure stepped into the light. Warm bronze skin, sequined tank flashing gold with each movement. A guitar hung from his shoulder, and when his fingers met the strings, the sound cut through everything else like a knife through silk.

He played like Lena did—like it cost him something. But where she was a storm bound tight at the center, he was motion itself, reckless and uncontained. His body swayed with each chord, hips moving to a rhythm that seemed to live inside him.

"That's Jimmy Olsen," someone near Kara murmured, reverent. "Used to play with The Guardians before they sold out."

Jimmy reached the mic just as Lena's eyes opened. The lights turned them an impossible blue-green—clear, cold, alive. They locked on Jimmy across the stage like a wire drawn taut between them.

"I learned to pray with a mouth full of blood," he rasped, voice all smoke and gravel.

Lena's bow dropped to her side, the loop carrying on in her wake. She leaned toward her own mic, voice low and haunting, the kind of sound that sank beneath the skin. It rose with the lyrics, crystalline and aching.

"Taught grace was something you survive..."

Their voices wound together—his rough, hers razor-bright—forming harmonies that made the air itself tremble. When the violin returned between verses, her fingers blurred across the strings, impossibly fast.

The crowd surged, drawn by gravity itself. Bodies pressed against Kara from every side, the heat of strangers suddenly intimate. Someone's elbow dug into her ribs. She barely noticed.

Alex's hand closed around her arm, anchoring her. "I didn't expect—" Alex started, but the music devoured the words.

The song built toward something inevitable. Onstage, Jimmy and Lena moved closer, microphones nearly touching. Their eyes locked, trading lines like secrets. The air between them vibrated—intimate, volatile—the kind of connection that made strangers hold their breath.

"Every sin they gave," Jimmy growled.

"I wore as skin," Lena breathed, voice soft but carrying through the room like she was whispering directly into Kara's ear.

Kara's pulse tripped. Watching them felt intrusive—like stumbling into something she wasn't meant to see. Heat crawled up her neck that had nothing to do with the packed room.

"Skin and sin—that's all I am, a war wrapped in a human hand."

The crowd roared it back, a hundred voices becoming one. Lena's eyes widened—surprise cracking her composure—before she threw herself into the bridge, bow flying in a blur that looked more like survival than art.

Her body curved around the violin, violent and tender all at once. The melody she dragged from the strings wasn't pretty—it was truth. Sweat caught the blue light along her throat like a line of fire. Somewhere in the chaos, she shrugged out of her jacket, letting it fall behind her, revealing the rolled sleeves and pale line of one wristbone glinting with silver.

Kara's mouth went dry. She couldn't look away. Didn't want to.

Jimmy's next verse softened, almost reverent. "You move like thunder, sharp and sweet."

Lena's response came low, voice roughened from the strain. "Then listen close."

It wasn't just a line; it was a dare.

Jimmy laughed under his breath, answering with a slide of guitar that growled like static between them. He moved toward her, his body fluid and sure, closing the distance until they were sharing breath. For a heartbeat, they were so close that Kara thought—

But then Lena spun away, a half-smile playing at her lips as she launched into the next verse. Jimmy followed, his guitar chasing her violin across the stage. It was a dance, Kara realized. A performance within the performance.

Kara's throat tightened. It wasn't that she was staring—it was that she couldn't not. The way Lena leaned toward the mic, the quick flash of tongue wetting her lip before she sang again—it short-circuited something logical in Kara's brain.

The violin and guitar circled each other, clashing and merging in perfect dissonance.

Alex's grip tightened on Kara's wrist. "This is insane!" she shouted. "How are they not already famous?"

Kara couldn't answer. Her pulse hammered in her throat, her thoughts scattering like birds. She'd come for a byline and found herself holding her breath like everyone else.

The final chorus hit like an explosion—both voices fraying, raw, desperate. Guitar and violin screamed together, neither yielding, both burning. The crowd shouted every word, not as an audience but as witnesses.

Then—silence.

Lena stood center stage, chest heaving, bow slack in her hand. Sweat gleamed along the white shirt clinging to her body. The sharp lines of her suit were gone; sleeves rolled, collar open, throat bare. She looked undone—and utterly alive.

But the set wasn't over.

The drummer's sticks clicked four times, sharp and impatient. The next song detonated without warning—no build, no mercy, just impact. The air was dense now, a mix of sweat, heat, and the tang of metal from the stage lights. Kara’s skin prickled with it, her shirt sticking to her spine. Onstage, Lena traded violin for guitar, slinging it across her shoulder like armor. Her fingers struck the strings with feral precision. If the violin had been control, this was surrender—raw, unfiltered, teeth bared. Her movements grew sharper, her breath coming in visible bursts between lines.

"Holy shit," Alex yelled into Kara's ear. "She's actually good. Like, really good."

Kara couldn't speak. Lena moved as if the music owned her—sharp angles, sudden stillness, the flicker of teal hair breaking through the haze. The white shirt clung translucent against her, sweat turning it nearly sheer under the lights. She prowled the stage, every step deliberate yet somehow spontaneous, her body never still for more than a heartbeat before launching into another motion.

Jimmy matched her energy, their bodies in constant orbit. When they came together at center stage, sharing a microphone, the tension between them was electric. His hand brushed her waist as they sang, her head tilting back to meet his eyes. It was magnetic, sexual, impossible to look away from.

Kara felt something twist in her stomach. Journalistic objectivity seemed like a distant concept. This wasn't just a story anymore.

The crowd pushed forward, collapsing every space between strangers. Kara was carried with them, Alex's hand the only tether to reality. Someone's shoulder pressed against hers, damp with sweat. She barely noticed, her attention fixed entirely on the stage.

Three songs blurred together, then four. Time unraveled in the heat and noise. The air grew thick, hot, electric. Jimmy and Lena orbited each other, a perfect gravity. When their mics met, it wasn't just music—it was contact, the space between their mouths thinner than breath.

By the time the next song slowed, Kara felt drunk on sound and heat. Her hair clung to her neck, her glasses sliding down her sweat-slicked nose. She pushed them up automatically, blinking to clear her vision as Lena stepped forward alone, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smile sharp enough to cut.

"This one's for anyone who's ever been told they're too much," she said, voice husky from exertion. "Too loud. Too angry. Too honest."

The crowd leaned in, hungry. For a heartbeat, Kara swore those impossible eyes found her through the dark, and it hit her like static electricity across her skin.

"They'll try to make you smaller," Lena said. "Don't let them."

She began to play, the melody soft at first, then rising into defiance. Her voice carried a rawness that scraped something open inside Kara, something she hadn't known was there.

The bassist—a tall blur with electric-blue hair—stepped in beside her, grounding the sound. The crowd swayed, bodies moving as one pulse. Kara found herself moving with them, her body responding to the music without conscious thought.

Five songs became six, then seven. Kara's throat was hoarse from shouting lyrics she didn't remember learning. Sweat ran down her spine, and her ponytail had long since fallen loose. She'd lost Alex somewhere in the crush of bodies, but the music filled the space, too much to fight against.

The final song began quiet—something classical buried under distortion. Lena's electric violin carried a ghost of a melody Kara almost recognized before the drums shattered it.

Then chaos.

The band pushed to the edge, playing like they meant to break the world open. Lena's head snapped back, teal streaks catching the light like flame. She was wild now—untamed, radiant, her whole body moving with the sound like she might burn out with it. Jimmy matched her, their bodies in constant motion, feeding off each other's energy. When they came together at the front of the stage, it was collision more than choreography.

The crescendo built and built, teetering on the brink without ever falling. And then, with one last violent sweep of the bow—silence. Her arm trembled faintly as she lowered the bow—muscle memory fighting exhaustion. The audience might not have seen it, but Kara did. The faint shake made Lena feel suddenly, impossibly human.

Three beats. No one moved.

Then the room exploded.

Lena stood at the center, chest rising fast, sweat glinting along her collarbones, shirt plastered to her skin. She looked wrecked. And untouchable.

"We're GlassHearts," she said into the mic, voice rough but steady. "Remember that name. You're going to be hearing it a lot."

The crowd roared its approval. Kara found herself screaming with them, her voice lost in the wall of sound. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't just a band; it was a revelation.

Lena's eyes swept the crowd one last time, and for a fraction of a second, Kara could have sworn they lingered on her. Something electric passed between them—a current, a question—before Lena turned away, following Jimmy off stage.

Kara stood frozen, breathless, as the house lights came up. The spell broke around her as people began to move, voices rising in excited chatter. She blinked, feeling like she was waking from a dream.

"Kara!" Alex materialized beside her, face flushed with excitement. "Did you see that? That was—"

"Yeah," Kara managed, her voice hoarse. "I saw."

She pressed her fingers to her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath them. Whatever she'd just witnessed, whatever had just happened to her—it wasn't just about the music.

And that terrified her.

"You need to interview her," Alex continued, eyes bright with an enthusiasm Kara hadn't seen since before the Maggie breakup. "Like, yesterday. That was—"

"Transcendent," Kara finished, finding her voice at last. The word felt inadequate, but it was the closest she could come to describing what she'd witnessed. "I need to find Sam."

She scanned the crowd, searching for the manager's distinctive burgundy blazer among the sea of bodies. The stage door would be somewhere to the left, probably guarded by security to keep overeager fans from rushing backstage.

"Come on," she said, grabbing Alex's hand. "We need to get back there before they leave."

As they pushed through the thinning crowd, Kara's mind raced with questions she wanted to ask. Not the standard puff piece questions about influences and future plans, but something deeper—something that might explain how Lena Luthor had transformed from classical prodigy to whatever force of nature Kara had just witnessed on that stage.

More than that, she wanted to understand the flash of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in those final moments—the brief window where the fierce persona had slipped, revealing something raw and unguarded beneath.

The stage door was indeed guarded, a mountain of a man with arms crossed over his chest and an expression that discouraged approach. Kara hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What if Sam had forgotten about the interview? What if it had just been a ploy to get CatCo coverage?

Before she could second-guess herself further, the door swung open. Samantha Arias emerged, still in that perfectly tailored blazer despite the oppressive heat of the club. Her eyes found Kara immediately, a smile spreading across her face.

"There you are," she called, gesturing Kara forward. "Come on back. The band’s waiting."

Chapter Text

2

Between Feedback & Fluorescent

The transition from crowd to corridor hit like whiplash. The club's pulsing organism gave way to fluorescent-lit stillness, the bass now just a distant heartbeat through cinderblock walls. Kara's ears rang, her glasses slid on her damp nose, and goosebumps prickled along her cooling skin.

"God, I can actually hear myself think back here," Alex muttered beside her.

Kara didn't respond.

Three steps ahead, Samantha Arias cut through the hallway, clipboard tucked under one arm, phone pressed against her ear. Her burgundy blazer remained impossibly pristine, as though the sweaty chaos of the club floor couldn't touch her. Kara watched a few escaped strands of dark hair curl against Sam's neck, the only evidence she was made of flesh rather than steel.

"No, I don't care what he told you," she snapped into the phone, each word sharp enough to slice paper. "We need the van now, not 'in the morning’."

The authority in her voice made Kara instinctively straighten her posture, though Sam wasn't even looking her way. Something about the woman commanded respect without demanding it—the kind of presence Kara had always envied in others but could never quite master herself.

"Just make it happen, Donovan." Sam's heels clicked against the concrete floor, the rhythm steady and uncompromising. "I'm not explaining to Lena why we're sleeping in the green room again."

The mention of Lena's name sent an unexpected flutter through Kara's chest, a sensation she immediately tried to dismiss as professional interest. She checked that her notepad was accessible, her recorder, her pen. The prospect of interviewing Lena Luthor—still electric from performing—made her pulse quicken.

"You okay?" Alex whispered. "You look like you're about to throw up."

"I'm fine." Kara adjusted her glasses.

Sam snapped her phone shut and approached a door marked "Band Only" in aggressive black Sharpie, complete with a faded skull and crossbones beneath.

Kara's mouth went dry.

Behind that door was Lena Luthor—whose voice had just commanded hundreds, whose fingers had coaxed impossible sounds from both her guitar and an electric violin.

Sam turned, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the exhaustion underneath. "Welcome to the five-star accommodations," she said dryly, pushing the door open with her hip. "Mind the floor. Could be water, could be something worse. I've stopped asking questions."

The green room looked like a tornado had swept through a thrift store. Mismatched couches and chairs with stuffing escaping from tears formed a loose semicircle. In the center, an old door balanced on milk crates served as a coffee table, covered with empty water bottles, scattered guitar picks, and a bowl of fruit that looked mummified. The smell of stale beer layered over cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener failing to mask the unmistakably human scent of sweat, perfume, and lingering adrenaline and Kara’s nose wrinkled involuntarily.

"The journalists are here,” Sam announced.

"Sam found you!" Jimmy Olsen lay sprawled across a faded velvet loveseat, his long legs dangling over one armrest. Up close, he was even more striking than he'd appeared on stage—tall and broad-shouldered with warm brown skin that seemed to glow even under the unflattering fluorescent lights.  He sat up in one fluid motion, his smile transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely welcoming. It wasn't the practiced media smile Kara had seen in countless publicity photos, but something more authentic—reaching his eyes and creating little crinkles at their corners.

Kara felt herself instinctively smiling back, her nervousness momentarily forgotten.

He extended a hand that dwarfed hers when she took it., his handshake firm but not overpowering, professional without being distant. "The journalist and her bodyguard, right?"

His eyes flicked to Alex with good-natured amusement, then back to Kara. The intelligence in his gaze surprised her—there was nothing vacant or performative about the way he looked at her, just genuine interest and a hint of curiosity. His voice was deeper in person than it had sounded when he'd been on stage, with a resonance that filled the small room.

"Sister," Alex corrected, stepping forward with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow that Kara recognized from too many frat parties. It broke the spell, and Kara finally released Jimmy's hand.

Kara's gaze swept the room, cataloging details even as her pulse still hammered from Jimmy's unexpected charisma. 

"Let me introduce you to the rest of these degenerates," Jimmy went on, placing a warm hand on Kara's shoulder and guiding her deeper into the room. "It's either that or Sam does it, and she makes us sound like we're on trial."

Sam rolled her eyes but didn't protest.

"First up, our resident caveman," Jimmy announced, gesturing to the corner where a man sat cross-legged on the floor methodically wrapping athletic tape around his knuckles with the kind of concentration reserved for defusing bombs. His wild dark curls seemed to defy not just gravity but any concept of order, springing in all directions like they had minds of their own. A metronome tattoo stretched along his forearm, the pendulum frozen mid-swing in permanent ink against his brown skin. His fingers moved with surprising delicacy for someone who had just spent ninety minutes beating drums into submission.  "Theodore 'I've-been-banned-from-every-Marriott-in-America' Blackwood."

"Don't believe anything Jimmy tells you," the drummer said without looking up from his taping. "Especially about Seattle."

"What happened in Seattle?" Kara asked before she could stop herself.

Theodore's eyes found hers then, dark and mischievous. The corners of his mouth lifted into a grin. He offered a lazy salute with his half-taped hand, the adhesive dangling.

"The charges were dropped," he said in way of an answer, his voice carrying a hint of gravel that hadn't been evident in his backing vocals. "And the fish survived." He winked, leaving Kara with more questions than she'd started with.

Alex snorted beside her. "I like this one," she muttered under her breath.

"The fish did not survive," Jimmy stage-whispered. "We had a funeral and everything. Theo cried."

"I was mourning the security deposit," Theo shot back, resuming his taping ritual.

Jimmy laughed and steered Kara toward the far wall, where a blue-haired man hunched over his phone, his posture a perfect C-curve that would make any chiropractor wince. His thumbs flew across the screen, his focus absolute. Geometric tattoos covered his hands like circuit boards, black lines disappearing beneath the sleeves of his mesh shirt, reappearing at his collar to climb the side of his neck. Up close, Kara could see the shirt wasn't just mesh but an intricate pattern of interlocking symbols that looked vaguely mathematical.

"This is Evan Morrison," Jimmy said, ruffling the blue hair and earning a scowl. "Social media guru and the only reason we haven't all died of scurvy. Seriously, he once chased me down the street with a bell pepper."

Now that Evan was actually looking at her, Kara noticed details the stage lighting had obscured. His blue hair fell in artful layers around his face, framing high cheekbones that caught the harsh fluorescents. A slight cleft in his chin gave his face character, while his eyes shifted between gray and blue depending on how he tilted his head. The small silver ring in his lower lip caught the light when he pressed his lips together, evaluating her.

There was something almost delicate about his features despite the edgy aesthetic—a boyish charm that contradicted the geometric tattoos mapping constellations across his skin. He wasn't conventionally handsome like Jimmy, whose presence filled the room like sunlight. Evan was more like moonlight—cooler, more mysterious, but no less magnetic. The intensity that had radiated from him on stage—the way his entire body had become an extension of the music—lingered even in stillness.

"I, um—" She adjusted her glasses, painfully aware she was staring. "Hi."

Evan's serious expression cracked, a smile spreading across his face that transformed him from intimidating to approachable in an instant. He extended a hand covered in those intricate tattoos, his grip surprisingly warm.

"The journalist who's brave enough to enter our den of iniquity," he said, his voice softer than she'd expected. "I hope you brought hand sanitizer."

"I did, actually." Kara patted her messenger bag, feeling the small bottle nestled between her recorder and extra pens. "Force of habit. My sister works in a lab."

Evan's eyebrows shot up, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. "A prepared woman. I like that." He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously though, you might want to use it before touching anything in here. I've seen Theo lick that couch on a dare."

Kara laughed, the sound surprising her with its authenticity. The tension in her shoulders loosened a fraction. Something about Evan's straightforward manner made the intimidating green room feel less alien.

"Your bass was incredible," she offered, finding her professional voice again. "The way you layered those lines during the second act—" She made a gesture with her hands that was meant to convey complexity but probably looked more like she was juggling invisible oranges.

"You actually noticed that?" Evan tilted his head, reassessing her with newfound interest. "Most journalists just want to know if Jimmy and Lena are sleeping together."

Heat crept up Kara's neck. "I-I'm more interested in the music than the gossip," she stammered. "Though I have to admit—" The words tumbled out before her brain could catch up with her mouth, "—I was completely blown away by the violin solo during 'Glasshouses’."

Evan's eyebrows lifted. "When Lena made that face like she's either experiencing transcendence or severe indigestion?"

"No. Not—I was going to say when she harmonized with you," Kara said, feeling her cheeks warm. "The way you all play off each other is... I've never seen anything like it."

Something shifted in Evan's expression—a flicker of seriousness beneath the easy charm.

"That's because there's nobody like Lena," he said, his voice softening with what sounded suspiciously like admiration.

His eyes drifted toward the closed door at the far end of the room, and Kara found herself following his gaze, half-expecting it to swing open. 

The door, however, remained stubbornly shut.

"Speaking of our fearless leader..." Evan checked his watch, the geometric tattoos on his wrist shifting like a living puzzle as he moved. "She's probably still changing. Post-show ritual. Says she can't think straight until she's out of her stage clothes."

Kara nodded, trying not to picture exactly what that meant. Her mind betrayed her anyway, flashing images of Lena peeling off the fitted black suit she'd worn onstage, the one that had clung to every curve as she'd commanded the violin.

"She's particular about her routines," Jimmy added, dropping back onto the loveseat and stretching his long legs. "You don't mess with L's process unless you want to see her eye do that twitchy thing."

"I've seen the twitchy eye," Theo called from his corner. "It's terrifying. Like watching a bomb timer count down."

Evan's phone buzzed in his hand. His lips curved into a smirk as he checked it, the blue light from the device casting shadows across his face.

"Checking the damage?" Jimmy asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Oh yeah," Evan replied, not looking up. "The comments are already flooding in. Listen to this one—" He cleared his throat dramatically. "'Lena Luthor in that suit should be classified as a lethal weapon’."

Kara felt heat creep up her neck again. 

She'd had the exact same thought when the spotlight had found Lena on stage.

"—but that's tame compared to this one," Evan continued, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "The top comment just says 'please step on my neck' with about fifty exclamation points."

Jimmy laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. "Only fifty? Her numbers are dropping."

"Oh, don't worry," Evan continued, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he scrolled through what Kara now realized must be the band's social media accounts. "There's plenty of marriage proposals. And—" he squinted at the screen "—at least three people offering to bear her children, which is anatomically ambitious."

Kara choked on nothing, covering it with a cough. 

Alex shot her a knowing look that Kara pointedly ignored.

"Let me see that," Jimmy reached for the phone, his long arm extending across the space between them, but Evan twisted away with surprising agility, protecting the device like a precious artifact.

"Nope." Evan held the phone above his head, just out of Jimmy's reach. "Last time I let you see the comments, you replied to seventeen people pretending to be Lena."

"I was providing a public service," Jimmy protested, settling back into the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

Theo's laugh boomed from his corner, deep and resonant. "The one where he told that guy Lena would marry him if he ate a whole jar of mayonnaise—"

"And he DID IT," Jimmy finished, slapping his knee with genuine delight. "Posted the whole video! Hashtag true love."

"The look on his face when he hit the halfway point," Theo added, abandoning his taping to mime gagging. "Pure regret."

"Worth it," Jimmy said with a solemn nod. "I sent him a signed photo. Man earned it."

Kara blinked rapidly, trying to process this information while maintaining some semblance of journalistic professionalism. These weren't the carefully curated sound bites she'd expected from a rising indie band—this was the unfiltered chaos of friends who happened to make music together. It was both more intimidating and more fascinating than she'd prepared for.

"Do you, um—" She adjusted her glasses as she searched for the right question. "Do you always read the comments after shows?"

"Evan does," Jimmy said, gesturing toward the blue-haired bassist. "He tells us what the fans want, what they're responding to."

"What they want is usually more of Lena," Evan said, still scrolling. "Preferably in less clothing."

"Can you blame them?" Jimmy spread his hands. "The woman's a force of nature. You saw her out there."

Kara had indeed seen her. Had been unable to look away from her, if she was being honest with herself. The way Lena had commanded the stage, the almost primal connection she'd formed with her instruments and, by extension, with the audience—it had been mesmerizing.

"She's incredible," Kara said, the words coming out more breathlessly than she'd intended. She cleared her throat. "Musically, I mean. Her technique is—"

"Oh my god," Evan interrupted, staring at his phone. "Someone just offered their firstborn child for a private violin lesson."

"That's dark," Alex muttered.

"That's nothing," Jimmy said with a dismissive wave. "Last month someone offered their actual kidney. Had medical records and everything."

"Did you take it?" Alex asked, sounding genuinely curious if a little appalled.

"Sam said no," Theo supplied. "Something about 'legal liability' and 'basic human decency’."

"Sam ruins all our fun," Jimmy said with a theatrical pout.

"I heard that," Sam called from her corner without looking up from her cellphone.

"You were meant to," Jimmy shot back with a grin.

Kara opened her mouth to ask a follow-up question when the door at the far end of the room swung open. The conversation died instantly. Five heads turned toward the sound in perfect synchronicity, as if choreographed.

Kara's breath caught in her throat.

A cloud of steam escaped, carrying with it the scent of lavender soap. The smell hit her just as Lena Luthor stepped through the doorway, and Kara's lungs seemed to forget their primary function.

Gone was the white buttoned-up shirt from the stage. In its place, a worn black tank top clung to still-damp skin, revealing pale shoulders mapped with a constellation of freckles—like someone had taken a paintbrush of cinnamon and splattered it across marble.

"And that," Jimmy said with unmistakable affection, "is Lena."

Kara's heart stuttered mid-beat.

Lena's hair hung loose and wet around her face, freed from the tight ponytail she'd worn during the performance. It fell in dark waves past her shoulders, leaving damp patches on her tank top where the teal ends brushed against the fabric. Without the heavy stage makeup, her face looked younger, more vulnerable—high cheekbones no longer contoured into sharp edges.

A small towel hung around her neck, and she was using one end to rub at her ear, likely clearing away sweat or water. The movement pulled her tank top tighter across her chest, revealing the slight curve of—

Kara jerked her gaze upward, heat flooding her cheeks.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Lena said, her voice raspier than it had been on stage, like she'd left pieces of it scattered among the crowd. She tossed the towel onto a nearby chair and ran her fingers through her damp hair, pushing it back from her face. "I needed to cool down."

The double meaning of those words wasn't lost on Kara, who was suddenly very aware of her own rising body temperature.

"N-no problem at all," Kara managed, her voice emerging higher than intended. She cleared her throat. "The show was... incredible."

Lena's eyes met hers then——green like sea glass but impossibly deeper up close, with a vivid jade ring circling each pupil before softening outward into pale blue, like someone had distilled gemstones into liquid and poured them into her irises. Without the stage makeup, Kara could see the faint shadows beneath them, evidence of late nights and early mornings that the audience never witnessed.

"You must be Kara Danvers," Lena said, crossing the room with the same fluid grace she'd shown on stage, though now in bare feet rather than the Chucks she'd worn earlier. Her toenails were painted black to match her fingernails, the polish slightly chipped on her left big toe. The imperfection was strangely humanizing.

"Yes," Kara said, extending her hand automatically. "And this is my sister, Alex."

Lena's palm met hers, cool and slightly damp from the water she'd clearly splashed on her face. Her grip was firm but not aggressive, her fingers slender but strong—guitarist's hands, Kara thought, feeling the calluses that pressed against her own soft skin.

The skyline tattoo adorning Lena's inner left forearm drew her eye next—not a realistic cityscape but an artistic interpretation that flowed from wrist to elbow. Buildings rendered in minimalist lines rose and fell like a heartbeat monitor, colors bleeding from burnt orange to deep purple to midnight blue. Tiny windows glowed white against the darkness, a crescent moon suspended between two skyscrapers. Kara's gaze lingered on a small silhouette in the negative space between buildings—a tiny figure with arms outstretched, caught mid-flight like a superhero soaring through the night sky.

"Your tattoo," Kara said, her voice barely above a whisper as Lena's hand slipped from hers. The loss of contact left her fingertips tingling. "It's beautiful."

Lena glanced down at her arm as if surprised to find the artwork there. She traced the skyline with her index finger, following the undulating pattern of buildings. The movement was unconscious, intimate somehow—like watching someone touch a scar.

"Thank you," Lena said. A half-smile curved her lips, softening the sharp lines of her face. "Most people don't notice the details."

"The little superhero," Kara pointed, careful not to actually touch Lena's skin again. "That's an unexpected touch."

Something flickered across Lena's expression—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. Her eyes met Kara's with renewed interest, as if reassessing her.

"My brother used to say someone should watch over the city," Lena said, her voice dropping lower. The rasp in it scraped against Kara's nerves like a bow across violin strings. "I liked the idea of a guardian. Someone who flies above it all but still cares about what happens below."

The personal admission hung in the air between them, unexpected and raw. 

Kara sucked in a breath, suddenly aware she'd stumbled into territory more intimate than she'd intended with such a simple observation.

"I—" she began, but Alex cleared her throat pointedly beside her.

The sharp sound yanked Kara back to reality. 

Her sister's elbow nudged her ribs—a silent code they'd developed over years of social rescues. Alex's eyebrows had inched toward her hairline, her expression screaming: Professional. Journalist. Remember?

Heat crawled up Kara's neck as she realized she'd been staring at Lena's tattoo for several heartbeats too long, hovering in that intimate space where a casual observation had somehow morphed into... whatever this was.

"I, um—" Kara's hand flew to her glasses, adjusting them unnecessarily. "The interview. We should probably get started." She fumbled with her messenger bag, digging past crumpled receipts and an emergency granola bar. "I have some questions prepared—"

Her fingers closed around her digital recorder, but it slipped from her sweaty palm, clattering to the floor and spinning like a bottle in a teenage party game. It pointed directly at Lena's bare feet.

"Sorry," Kara muttered, dropping into a crouch. "So sorry."

As she reached for the recorder, she noticed a small tattoo on the inside of Lena's ankle—a tiny music note, no bigger than a dime, inked in what looked like faded blue. It seemed older than the skyline, more personal somehow. Not meant for public consumption.

Kara snatched up the recorder and straightened so quickly her glasses slid down her nose again.

"Take a breath," Alex murmured, low enough that only Kara could hear, as she took the messenger bag and held it as Kara pulled out a pen and notepad. "You're not defusing a bomb."

But that's exactly what it felt like—as if one wrong move might detonate something dangerous in her chest. Something that had no place in a first meeting, let alone a professional interview.

"Right," Kara said, louder than necessary. She clicked the recorder on with a trembling thumb, placing it on the coffee table as she took up a seat in one of the chairs where she could see each band member. "So, GlassHearts. The name. What inspired it?"

The question sounded wooden—straight from Journalism 101, nothing like the insightful queries she'd carefully crafted in her notepad. But her brain had short-circuited, leaving her with only the most basic functions.

Lena's eyes narrowed slightly, that earlier flicker of interest dimming. Her posture shifted, shoulders squaring as she settled onto the arm of the loveseat beside Jimmy.

"Depends who you ask," she replied, her voice cooling several degrees. The rasp remained, but the intimacy had vanished. "Jimmy thinks it sounds edgy. Theo likes that it's metal without being metal. Evan says it's SEO-friendly."

"A-and you?" Kara pressed, finding her footing again in the familiar rhythm of question and answer. "What does it mean to you?"

Something unreadable passed across Lena's face—a shadow so brief Kara might have imagined it.

"It's a reminder," Lena said after a pause that stretched just long enough to be noticeable. "That fragile things can still cut you."

The answer hung in the air, unexpectedly raw. Jimmy's hand moved to Lena's knee, a casual touch that seemed to anchor her. Kara's eyes tracked the movement before she could stop herself, noting the easy familiarity between them.

"That's... poetic," Kara managed, her voice steadier now. The professional part of her brain was finally kicking in, cataloging details, storing quotes. "Speaking of poetry, your lyrics often blend classical references with modern themes. Is that intentional, or—"

"She was raised by wolves disguised as academics," Jimmy interrupted with a grin, his thumb tracing small circles on Lena's knee. "Can't help herself."

"He's exaggerating," Lena said, but her lips curved into a half-smile. "Though my mother did make me memorize Yeats before I was allowed to watch cartoons."

"Explains a lot about your childhood trauma," Theo called from across the room, where he was now sprawled on the floor, head propped on a backpack.

"Bold of you to assume my childhood trauma needs explaining," Lena shot back, but there was no heat in it—just the easy banter of people who'd spent too many hours in cramped vans and backstage rooms.

Kara felt herself relaxing incrementally as the interview found its rhythm. She asked about their songwriting process, their influences, their most disastrous show—unanimously agreed to be Tucson, where the power had gone out mid-set and Theo had continued drumming in complete darkness for seven minutes before realizing everyone else had stopped.

With each question, Kara's professional mask settled more firmly in place. She nodded at the right moments, laughed at their stories, asked follow-up questions that demonstrated she'd done her research. Her recorder captured it all—the technical details of their sound, the band's origin story, their plans for an upcoming tour.

But beneath her composed exterior, Kara remained hyperaware of every movement Lena made—how she tucked her hair behind her ear when considering a question, how her fingers tapped silent rhythms against her thigh, how her gaze occasionally drifted to Kara's mouth when she spoke.

"One last question," Kara said, checking her notes. "Your stage presence is... electric." She winced internally at the cliché but pushed forward. "Especially the way you interact with the crowd. Is that something that comes naturally, or have you developed it over time?"

Lena's eyes met hers directly then, that sea-glass intensity returning. "Both," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Music has always been where I feel most... myself. But knowing how to share that feeling—that took practice."

"She means she used to hide behind her hair and stare at her shoes," Evan interjected, not looking up from his phone. "We have video evidence."

"Which will never see the light of day if you value your life," Lena warned, but her tone was light.

"The first time I saw her really connect with an audience," Jimmy said, his voice softening with what sounded like pride, "was this tiny club in Boston. Maybe thirty people there. She just... stepped to the edge of the stage and let go. It was like watching someone jump off a cliff only to discover they could fly."

The description sent a shiver down Kara's spine—so perfectly capturing what she'd witnessed tonight. That moment when Lena had locked eyes with the crowd, her entire being radiating a wild freedom that had made Kara's chest ache with a startling familiarity.

"That's exactly how it felt watching you tonight," Kara said, the words escaping before she could filter them. "Like you were flying."

Lena's expression shifted—surprise, then something softer, more vulnerable. For a heartbeat, the professional distance between them dissolved, and Kara felt that same peculiar connection from earlier—as if they were sharing something wordless and profound.

"That's..." Lena's voice dropped to that raspy whisper that seemed to vibrate directly against Kara's sternum. "Exactly what it feels like. Like I'm suspended between falling and flying." Her eyes locked with Kara's, the sea-glass intensity of them magnified by the fluorescent lights. "Maybe you should try it sometime. I bet you'd be a natural."

The invitation in her tone was unmistakable, her lips curving into a smile that seemed meant for Kara alone—intimate and challenging all at once.

"I—" Kara's mouth went dry.

Jimmy's elbow connected with Lena's ribs—a deliberate nudge that was just a fraction too forceful. The impact sent her sliding off the arm of the loveseat, the invisible thread between her and Kara snapping. Kara blinked, disoriented by the abrupt return to reality. Across from her, Lena's eyes widened as equilibrium abandoned her, one pale hand grasping at empty air while her body surrendered to physics.

"Shit—" she started.

Jimmy's fingers caught the belt loop at the back of her pants, so fast it suggested this wasn't the first time he'd caught her. At the same time, Kara lunged forward, her pen and notepad tumbling to the floor as she reached for Lena's arm. Her fingers closed around the cityscape tattoo.

The skin was warm beneath her palm, the contact sending a jolt through Kara's system—not quite electricity but something similarly disruptive, a sudden awareness of her own pulse and the fine hairs standing up along her arms. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the subtle texture change where ink met skin, could trace the outline of buildings with her thumb if she dared move it.

Lena froze, caught between them—Jimmy's grip on her belt loop and Kara's hand on her arm. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Kara could feel the delicate bones beneath her fingers, the subtle shift of tendons as Lena's hand flexed involuntarily. This close, she could see the individual beads of sweat at Lena's hairline, the way her pupils contracted slightly in the harsh light, the almost imperceptible scar bisecting her right eyebrow that she hadn’t noticed before.

"S-sorry," Kara said, releasing Lena's arm as if burned. She crouched to retrieve her fallen pen and notepad, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact. Her face felt warm, a flush creeping up her neck that she hoped wasn't visible. "Journalist reflexes. Not very useful unless someone's falling or dropping a good quote."

When she straightened, Lena had regained her balance, though she'd shifted to sit properly on the loveseat beside Jimmy rather than perching on the arm.

The slight distance felt intentional.

Lena's eyebrow arched as she settled back, that momentary vulnerability vanishing behind practiced poise. "Journalist reflexes," she echoed, her lips curving into something between amusement and appreciation. The smile sent a sudden flutter through Kara's chest. "More like some kind of Supergirl," she murmured, voice dropping to that whiskey-warm register.

Kara fumbled with her notepad, nearly dropping it again. "I'm hardly—I mean—" The comparison to some kind of superhero made her cheeks burn hotter. "Just good timing."

"And a good grip," Lena added, rubbing her forearm where Kara's fingers had been. "Most people would have let me fall on my ass."

"Most people aren't Kara," Alex chimed in.

"Sounds like you have a lot of hidden talents," Lena said, ignoring Alex, her voice velvet-rough. "I wonder what else you're hands are capable of."

The words hung between them like smoke, curling and insinuating. Kara's pen froze mid-note, her fingers suddenly clumsy. Had that been—? No, surely Lena was just being friendly. Professional. Except the way Lena's eyes lingered didn't feel professional at all.

"I'm... pretty good at Scrabble?" Kara offered weakly, immediately wanting to crawl under the nearest piece of furniture. Scrabble? Really?

Lena's lips curved into a slow smile—no longer the polished performer but something wilder, more dangerous. "I bet you are," she said, leaning forward just enough that a drop of water fell from her still-damp hair onto the exposed skin above her tank top. "All those... words at your disposal."

The drop slid lower, disappearing beneath black fabric. Kara tracked its movement before she could stop herself, then jerked her gaze back up to Lena's face. The knowing look in those sea-glass eyes made her stomach flip in a way that felt alarmingly pleasant.

"Words are... m-my job," Kara managed, adjusting her glasses for the thousandth time. Her face felt hot, too hot, like she'd stepped too close to stage lights.

"And you do it so well," Lena murmured, her eyes never leaving Kara's. "The way you... articulate."

From the corner, Theo let out a snort that quickly morphed into an unconvincing cough when Lena shot him a look.

"Jesus Christ," Alex muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Kara to hear.

The comment snapped Kara back to herself. They weren't alone. They were in a cramped green room surrounded by band members, her sister, and Sam, who was watching the exchange with raised eyebrows and something that looked disturbingly like amusement.

"I—" Kara's tongue felt too large for her mouth. Her body was sending her signals she couldn't interpret—a flutter low in her abdomen, a tingling awareness that seemed centered on wherever Lena's gaze landed. It was like her nerve endings had suddenly rewired themselves to respond to this one person in the room.

"You're blushing again," Lena observed, tilting her head slightly. The movement exposed the pale column of her throat, a constellation of freckles disappearing beneath her tank top. "Do I make you nervous, Ms. Danvers?"

The formal address somehow made the question more intimate, not less. Kara's fingers tightened around her pen to keep it from slipping from her suddenly sweaty grip.

"I just—" Kara swallowed, the sound audible in her own ears. "Professional curiosity. For the article."

"Professional," Lena repeated, the word rolling off her tongue like she was tasting it. "Is that what this is?"

Beside her, Jimmy cleared his throat. "L," he said, a warning note in his voice that Lena completely ignored.

"What would you call it?" Kara asked before she could stop herself, the question escaping like it had a will of its own.

Lena's eyes darkened, the jade ring around her pupils expanding. "I'd call it—"

"Alright, enough foreplay," Sam interrupted, stepping between them with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Kara choked on air, the word knocking the breath from her lungs. "The band needs to pack up, and I'm sure Ms. Danvers has enough for her article." She turned to Kara, professional mask firmly in place. "Unless you have any final questions?" Kara blinked, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt return to business. Her brain scrambled to shift gears, to find something journalistic to ask rather than the dozen inappropriate questions suddenly crowding her mind.

"One last question," she managed, conscious of the way Evan was watching them with undisguised interest, his phone momentarily forgotten. "What do you want people to feel when they hear your music?"

"Everything," Lena said without hesitation, the playfulness vanishing from her expression. In its place was something raw. "I want them to feel everything at once—like they're being torn apart and put back together in the same moment. I want them to remember what it was like before they learned to numb themselves to survive."

The sudden sincerity blindsided Kara. 

It was like watching someone remove a mask, revealing something so genuine it hurt to witness.

"Before they learned to numb themselves," Kara repeated softly, the words barely audible. She wet her lips, noticing how Lena's gaze tracked the movement. "That's exactly how it felt out there tonight."

Lena leaned forward again, this time close enough that Kara could smell the lavender soap on her skin mingling with something deeper, muskier—the lingering scent of exertion that hadn't quite washed away. "Is that what you felt?" she asked, her voice pitched so low it was almost a whisper. "Out there in the crowd?"

Kara nodded, unable to look away.

"And now?" Lena's question carried weight beyond the simple words. "What are you feeling now, Kara?"

The use of her first name sent a shiver down Kara's spine. She opened her mouth to respond, not entirely sure what would come out, when Sam clapped her hands sharply.

"And that's a wrap," Sam announced, her tone brooking no argument. "Lena, the van will be here in twenty. Everyone needs to be packed and ready."

Lena held Kara's gaze for one more heartbeat before rising from the couch. As she stood, her fingers brushed against Kara's knee—a touch so light it might have been accidental if not for the way Lena's eyes found hers again, carrying a promise that made Kara's heart stutter in her chest.

"Thank you for the interview, Ms. Danvers," Lena said, professional once more but with an undercurrent that belied the formality. "I look forward to seeing your… article."

The way she lingered on that last word—article—made it sound like something entirely different. Like she was referring to something far more intimate than printed text on a page. The word hung between them, charged with the same electricity that had crackled when Kara's hand had closed around her arm.

"I hope I do you justice," Kara replied, immediately regretting her word choice as heat bloomed across her cheeks. "With my words, I mean. The article. The words in the article."

Lena's lips curved upward, that dangerous smile returning. "I have complete faith in your... vocabulary." Her eyes dropped briefly to Kara's mouth before returning to meet her gaze. "You seem to know exactly how to use your words to maximum effect."

Kara swallowed hard. Every syllable from Lena's lips felt weighted with double meaning, each pause an invitation to read between lines that were already blurring.

"I try to be... precise," Kara managed, adjusting her glasses with trembling fingers. "Finding the right words is important."

"Precision," Lena echoed, the word almost a purr as she leaned slightly closer. "I appreciate a woman who knows how to be... exact." Her eyes held Kara's, unblinking and intense. "Especially when she's describing something that moves her."

Alex cleared her throat loudly, the sound like a bucket of cold water. "We should probably get going," she announced, her voice pitched just a touch too high. "Work tomorrow."

"Right," Kara said, blinking as if emerging from a trance. "Deadline. Words. Article."

Lena's smile widened, knowing and predatory. "Such articulation," she murmured, voice pitched for Kara's ears alone. "I can't wait to see what else that mouth of yours can do."

Kara's pen slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor for the second time. This time, they both reached for it simultaneously. Their fingers brushed against the cool metal, and Kara felt that same jolt—like touching a live wire, but pleasant instead of painful. Lena's eyes met hers from inches away, close enough that Kara could see the tiny gold flecks scattered through the green, like stars in an impossible sky.

"I think," Lena whispered, her breath warm against Kara's cheek, "we're going to have a lot to talk about."

The pen remained forgotten on the floor between them as Alex's fingers closed around Kara's elbow with the practiced grip of a sister who'd pulled her from countless awkward situations.

"We need to go," Alex muttered, her voice tight. "Now."

"Right," Kara managed, her brain still short-circuiting from Lena's words. Had she really just said—? The implication hung in the air like perfume, impossible to ignore.

Alex tugged her backward, one step and then another. 

Kara's feet moved automatically while her mind remained fixed on Lena's face, on those impossible eyes and the way her lips had shaped words that felt like touches.

"It was nice meeting all of you," Alex called over her shoulder, already maneuvering Kara toward the exit with the efficiency of a security guard escorting a dazed fan.

The door loomed closer. Kara's body moved on autopilot while her mind replayed Lena's whisper on endless loop: I think we're going to have a lot to talk about.

She twisted at the last moment, some magnetic pull forcing her to look back. Across the cramped green room, Lena hadn't moved. She stood exactly where Kara had left her, those sea-glass eyes tracking her retreat. The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile that sent a current racing down Kara's spine, hot and electric.

Lena's fingers lifted in a small wave—not the dismissive gesture of someone saying goodbye, but the subtle beckoning of someone who knew they'd meet again. The promise in that simple movement made Kara's breath catch.

"Earth to Kara," Alex hissed, yanking her through the doorway with enough force to make Kara stumble. "Stop looking at her like that before I need to hose you down."

The door clicked shut behind them with a definitive thunk, severing Kara's visual connection to Lena. But the afterimage remained burned into her retinas—Lena standing in that dingy green room like a goddess among mortals, her eyes promising things Kara couldn't even name.

"I-I wasn't looking at her like anything," Kara muttered, adjusting her glasses again with still trembling fingers. The hallway seemed too bright after the dim green room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like her own scattered thoughts.

Alex snorted. "Right. And I'm secretly Cat Grant's illegitimate daughter." She steered Kara down the corridor, one hand firmly planted between her shoulder blades. "You were practically drooling."

"I was being professional," Kara protested, though her voice lacked conviction. Her heart still hammered against her ribs, an insistent rhythm that had nothing to do with the narrow escape from social awkwardness and everything to do with sea-glass eyes and that whispered promise: I think we're going to have a lot to talk about.

"Professional?" Alex's eyebrows shot up as they rounded the corner. "Is that what the kids are calling eye-fucking these days?"

"Alex!" Heat blazed across Kara's cheeks, spreading down her neck like wildfire. "That's not—I wasn't—"

"Oh please. I've seen less intense chemistry in actual chemistry labs." Alex punched the exit door's metal bar with more force than necessary, sending it crashing open. "I thought you were going to spontaneously combust when she touched your knee."

The night air hit Kara like a slap to the face, cool and damp against her flushed skin. The alleyway behind The Pit smelled of garbage and spilled beer, but she gulped it down gratefully, desperate to clear her head of lavender soap and whatever that intoxicating scent beneath it had been—something uniquely Lena that made Kara's stomach flip in ways she couldn't rationalize.

"It was just... professional interest," Kara insisted, the lie tasting metallic on her tongue. "She's fascinating. As a subject. For the article."

"Uh-huh." Alex's voice dripped with skepticism as they emerged onto the main street. "And I suppose your professional interest is why you forgot your pen on the floor? The one you've been carrying since graduation?"

Kara's hand flew to her bag, patting it frantically. "My—oh god, my lucky pen!" Panic momentarily overrode the Lena-induced fog in her brain. "I have to go back—"

"Absolutely not." Alex caught her arm before she could turn. "I am not letting you go back in there. That woman will eat you alive."

The phrasing sent an entirely inappropriate shiver down Kara's spine. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, but her voice emerged strangled. "She was just being... friendly."

"Friendly?" Alex released a bark of laughter that startled a passing couple. "Kara, she was looking at you like you were the last slice of pizza after an all-night bender. That wasn't friendly. That was hungry."

Kara's stomach did that strange flip again. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm really not." Alex guided her toward the corner where taxis occasionally cruised past the venue. "Look, I get it. She's hot in that scary-hot way, like she might murder you but you'd thank her for it."

"Alex!" Kara squeaked, her voice rising an octave.

"What? I have eyes." Alex raised a hand to flag down an approaching cab. "But seriously, be careful. Musicians are complicated, especially the talented ones. And that one?" She whistled low. "That one's got 'complicated' tattooed all over her very attractive arms."

The mention of Lena's tattoos sent Kara's mind spiraling back to the cityscape on her forearm, the tiny superhero soaring between buildings. The memory of how warm Lena's skin had felt beneath her fingertips made her shiver despite the mild night.

"It's not like that," Kara insisted as the taxi pulled to the curb. "I was just... caught off guard. By her intensity. As an artist."

Alex pulled open the cab door with a dramatic eye roll. "As an artist. Right." She gestured for Kara to get in. "Keep telling yourself that, but maybe take a cold shower when you get home. You look like you need it."

Kara slid across the cracked vinyl seat, her face burning. "You're being ridiculous," she mumbled, but the protest was weak at best.

The cab smelled of artificial pine and stale cigarettes, the driver's radio tuned to a late-night talk show discussing immigration policies. Kara stared out the window as they pulled away from The Pit, watching the neon sign grow smaller in the distance.

"All I'm saying," Alex continued, lowering her voice as she settled beside Kara, "is that I saw how you looked at her. And I saw how she looked at you. That wasn't just professional curiosity on either side."

"I barely know her," Kara whispered, her breath fogging the window. "She's just... she's a musician I'm writing about. That's all."

But even as she said the words, her mind replayed the moment Lena had leaned close, her breath warm against Kara's cheek: I can't wait to see what else that mouth of yours can do.

The memory sent a pulse of heat through her body that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something she wasn't ready to name.

"Whatever you say," Alex said, her tone softening as she squeezed Kara's knee. "Just... be careful, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt."

Kara turned from the window, meeting her sister's concerned gaze. "You're worrying about nothing," she said, her fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on the condensation-streaked glass. "It was just... her thing, you know? Being provocative. Sam mentioned she's usually cold with press. She was probably just messing with me."

"If you say so." Alex's expression shifted to something less teasing, more thoughtful. "But just so you know, I wouldn't blame you. That woman is... something else."

Something else. The phrase echoed in Kara's mind as the cab turned onto her street twenty minutes later, the familiar storefronts sliding past in a blur of closed security gates and dim lights. It didn't begin to capture what she'd witnessed tonight—the fierce intensity of Lena's performance, the vulnerability that had occasionally slipped through the cracks in her armor, the way her entire face had transformed when she'd truly smiled.

The cab slowed to a stop outside her building. As Alex leaned forward to pay the driver, Kara stared up at the familiar brick facade. Instead of seeing the chipped cornerstone and flickering entryway light, her vision filled with Lena—eyes intense, lips slightly parted as she'd whispered her confession about her music.

"Everything," she'd said, voice dropping to something raw and honest. "I want them to feel everything at once."

Kara closed her eyes, but the image of Lena remained, tattooed against the darkness of her eyelids like the jagged skyline etched into Lena's skin—a secret map to somewhere Kara suddenly, desperately wanted to go, despite all her denials to the contrary.

Chapter Text

3

Morning Light & Blank Emails

Morning light sliced through the blinds of the CatCo office like a guillotine, cutting across Kara's desk in precise lines. She squinted at her laptop screen, the cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a blank email. The dregs of her third coffee sat cold beside her keyboard, a sad island of caffeine that had long since lost its power to combat the heaviness behind her eyes.

The email address stared back at her: [email protected]. So simple, just a collection of characters that would connect her directly to Lena. Well, to Sam. Who would connect her to Lena.

Kara's fingers hovered over the keys, paralyzed by indecision. How did one professionally request more time with a subject when the real motivation wasn't entirely professional? She'd tried drafting the email four times already, each attempt deleted before completion.

Draft one had been too formal: "I am writing to request a follow-up interview with Ms. Luthor regarding additional aspects of her musical background."

Draft two swung too casual: "Hey Sam! Loved meeting you guys last night. Had a few more questions pop up while working on my article."

Draft three was too transparent: "I was hoping to speak with Lena again about her classical training and how it influences her current style."

And draft four had veered into territory so embarrassing Kara had stabbed the delete key with enough force to make her neighboring colleague glance over with concern.

She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, the grit beneath her lids like microscopic sandpaper. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed at a frequency that drilled into her temples, a pale cousin to the thunderous sound that had filled The Pit just hours ago.

"Just write the damn email," she muttered to herself, replacing her glasses with a determined push. "It's not nuclear physics."

Her fingers began to move:

Dear Ms. Arias,

Thank you for facilitating the interview with GlassHearts last night at The Pit. The band's performance was exceptional, and our conversation afterward provided valuable insight for my upcoming feature in CatCo Magazine.

Kara paused, chewing her lower lip. Professional so far. Detached. Appropriate.

While reviewing my notes this morning, I realized there are several areas I'd like to explore further, particularly regarding Ms. Luthor's transition from classical training to her current musical expression. Additionally, I believe our readers would benefit from more background on the band's unique approach to distribution and fan engagement.

She stopped typing again, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

Was that too transparent?

Too obviously an excuse?

She glanced at her actual notes, which contained precisely three follow-up questions, none of which justified another meeting.

Then the memory of Lena's eyes finding hers across the green room surfaced unbidden. The way time had seemed to stop, just for a heartbeat, creating a private universe. The slight tremor in Lena's hands that Kara couldn't quite attribute to post-performance adrenaline. The vulnerability that had flickered across her face when she'd spoken about wanting people to feel everything.

Kara's cheeks warmed. This wasn't professional. This wasn't what journalists did. This wasn't—

She shook her head and straightened her shoulders. No. This was exactly what good journalists did. They followed up. They dug deeper. They didn't settle for surface-level answers when there was clearly more to the story.

Her fingers found the keyboard again.

Cat Grant's voice echoed in her mind: "Readers don't want sanitized press releases, Kiera. They want the blood and guts of a story. The humanity. If you're not making them feel something, you're just wasting ink."

Kara continued typing:

I'm particularly interested in exploring the contrast between GlassHearts' public persona and the creative process behind your music. Ms. Luthor mentioned briefly how her classical background informs the band's complex arrangements, and I believe this angle could form the centerpiece of a more in-depth feature that would resonate strongly with our readership.

Additionally, Cat Grant has expressed interest in potentially expanding this piece into a multi-part series on emerging artists who are changing the traditional music industry model. GlassHearts' approach to independent distribution and direct fan engagement makes you ideal subjects for this exploration.

A twinge of guilt pinched at her conscience. She hadn't actually spoken to Cat about a series, but it wasn't entirely dishonest either. Cat was always looking for fresh angles on cultural phenomena, and GlassHearts' meteoric rise certainly qualified.

Kara's stomach knotted. Was she manipulating the situation? Using her position to manufacture a reason to see Lena again? The cursor blinked, each flash a silent accusation.

No. She wasn't making anything up. There really was more to explore here – the fascinating contradiction of Lena Luthor herself. A classically trained pianist from old money who now fronted an indie rock band. A woman whose public image projected confidence and sensuality but whose eyes held something deeper, something raw and unguarded that had slipped through just for a moment.

That was a legitimate story. That was journalism.

I'm available at your convenience for this follow-up, though sooner would be preferable as we're approaching our publication deadline. A more extensive conversation would allow me to add the depth this feature deserves.

She hit save, then leaned back in her chair, glasses slipping slightly down her nose. The email felt professional enough to pass muster with Sam, but transparent enough that Lena might see through to what Kara was really asking for: more time, more conversation, more... something she couldn't quite name.

Her finger hovered over the send button, a familiar paralysis returning. What if Sam said no? What if Lena didn't want to see her again? What if—

"Earth to Kara! Hello?"

Nia's voice shattered her spiral, bright and effervescent as champagne bubbles. Kara blinked, reality reasserting itself in the form of her friend perching on the edge of her desk, a cardboard tray of pastries balanced on her knee. The scent of butter and chocolate wafted upward, momentarily overpowering the stale coffee and printer toner that formed CatCo's ambient perfume.

"I come bearing apology carbs," Nia announced, selecting a chocolate croissant and placing it directly on top of Kara's keyboard. Flakes of pastry scattered across the keys like dandruff. "I'm so sorry about last night. I got caught in that pile-up on Wilcox, and by the time I made it to the bar, it was so packed I couldn't find you anywhere. I texted, but—"

"It's fine," Kara assured her, rescuing the pastry before chocolate could melt into the circuitry. She took a bite, butter exploding across her tongue, momentarily drowning the taste of sleeplessness and looming deadlines. "Alex came with me."

Nia's eyebrows shot toward her hairline, disappearing beneath her bangs. "Alex? At a dive bar? On a weeknight?" She let out a low whistle that reminded Kara of the feedback before Lena had stepped on stage. "Was there bloodshed? Property damage? A strongly worded letter to management about fire code violations?"

"Surprisingly, no." Kara licked a smear of chocolate from her thumb, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitter coffee aftertaste coating her tongue. "She actually had a good time. I think. In her own Alex way."

Nia leaned closer, close enough that Kara could smell her citrus shampoo and the faint traces of last night's perfume still clinging to her collar. "And the band? Were they as intense as I promised?" Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, pupils dilating slightly. "Did you get to talk to the mysterious frontwoman with the tattoo?"

The croissant suddenly felt like clay in Kara's mouth. She swallowed hard. Behind Nia, the early morning bustle of CatCo was just beginning—assistants hurrying with coffee orders, the copy team arguing over Oxford commas, someone's phone ringing with the theme from "Jaws”.

"They were..." Kara searched for a word that wouldn't reveal the way her skin had prickled when Lena's gaze had found hers across the crowded green room, how her stomach had dropped when that violin note had soared impossibly high, vibrating through her chest like it had found something to resonate with. "Memorable."

"Memorable?" Nia repeated, her nose wrinkling in disbelief. She plucked a bear claw from her tray and tore off a piece, cinnamon sugar dusting her fingertips like fine glitter. "That's like describing a hurricane as 'breezy'. Come on, details! Did you get backstage? Did you see the tattoo? Is it really shaped like the National City skyline?" She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a theatrical whisper, glancing around the office as if sharing state secrets. "And more importantly—where exactly is it located?"

Kara laughed despite herself, brushing pastry flakes from her keyboard. Each tiny crumb seemed magnetically drawn to the spaces between her keys, where they would lurk until they either disintegrated or caused the spacebar to stick at the most inconvenient moment possible.

"Yes to backstage," she admitted, lowering her voice as Lonny from Sports walked by, his coffee mug emblazoned with "I'd Rather Be Golfing" tilting dangerously close to her desk. "And yes, I saw the tattoo. It's right there on her left forearm."

"Her forearm?" Nia's excitement deflated visibly, like a balloon meeting a pushpin. "That's so... visible. And boring." She slumped back, abandoning her conspiratorial posture. "The internet rumors made it sound like it was somewhere scandalous."

Kara hid her smile behind another bite of croissant. "Not exactly the scandal you were hoping for. But it's striking—sunset colors pulsing like an EKG line, tiny lit windows dotting the buildings, this perfect little crescent moon nestled between towers. There's even a caped figure soaring through the skyline." She brushed pastry flakes from her fingers, remembering how it had felt to have those buildings under her thumb, the warmth of Lena's skin beneath her touch.

"Huh." Nia narrowed her eyes, studying Kara's face with the intensity of someone connecting invisible dots. "You noticed a lot of details for someone who was just conducting a professional interview."

Kara felt heat creep up her neck. She busied herself with brushing more invisible crumbs from her desk, focusing on a particularly stubborn flake that had lodged itself in the seam where her keyboard met the wood. "I'm a journalist. Details are my job."

"Uh-huh." Nia tore off another piece of bear claw, popping it into her mouth. "And did your journalistic observation skills happen to notice anything else? Like, I don't know, if she's as intense in person as she is on stage?"

"She's..." Kara paused, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her croissant. The memory of Lena in that green room flooded back—how she'd leaned forward when speaking, the way her eyes had locked onto Kara's with laser-like focus, as if Kara were the only person in the room. The rasp in her voice when she'd said I can't wait to see what else that mouth of yours can do. The way that single sentence had sent electricity dancing along every single one of Kara’s nerve endings.

"She's not what you'd expect," Kara finally said. "Not quiet exactly, but... she’s intentional. Like every word she uses is carefully chosen." She remembered how Lena had tilted her head slightly when considering a question, the brief flash of vulnerability when discussing her classical training. "She's brilliant—not just musically, but the way she thinks about everything. The industry, her audience, the whole experience."

Kara took another bite of croissant to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "And there's this intensity to her, even when she's just sitting there. Like she's constantly processing everything at a different level than everyone else."

"And?" Nia prompted, leaning closer with a knowing smirk that made Kara's stomach flip nervously.

"And what?"

"And was she flirty? The internet says she's a notorious flirt."

Heat crawled up Kara's neck again, spreading across her cheeks like wildfire. She remembered Lena's eyes dropping to her lips mid-conversation, the way she'd leaned just a fraction too close when explaining something, how her fingers had lingered when touching Kara's knee as she rose from her seat.

"She was... friendly," Kara managed, adjusting her glasses with suddenly clumsy fingers. "Professional but charming. You know, the way someone who's used to being interviewed would be."

Nia's eyebrows once again climbing beneath her bangs. "Charming, huh?"

"In a completely normal, interview-appropriate way," Kara added hastily, turning back to her computer screen where the unsent email still waited, cursor blinking accusingly at her. "Nothing special."

The lie felt sticky on her tongue, like the chocolate residue from the croissant. Because there had been something special—something in the way Lena had looked at her that made Kara's skin feel too tight, something magnetic that had pulled at her from across the room. Something that had made her forget, for brief moments, that she was there to do a job.

"Oh my god," Nia gasped loudly, leaning forward so suddenly she almost toppled off the desk. Her eyes widened with delight. "You like her."

"What? No!" Kara's protest came too quickly, too loudly. Winn glanced over from his desk directly across from hers, his eyebrows shooting up with immediate interest. She lowered her voice to a hiss. "I interviewed her. For work. That's it."

"Your face is the color of Ms. Grant's emergency lipstick right now." Nia's eyes danced with delight. "The one she keeps in the safe for breaking news disasters."

"It's hot in here," Kara muttered, tugging at her collar. The air conditioning in the CatCo building was famously aggressive—employees kept sweaters at their desks year-round to combat the arctic temperatures Cat preferred—but suddenly the office felt stifling, as if someone had cranked the thermostat up twenty degrees when she wasn't looking.

"It's sixty-eight degrees, exactly," Nia countered, pointing at the digital thermostat on the wall. "The same temperature it's been since Cat decided warm air makes people lazy in 2015." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Come on. You can tell me. Was there a vibe? A moment? A lingering glance across a crowded green room?"

"What are we talking about?" Winn's chair rolled over, the wheels squeaking slightly as he joined their huddle. His plaid button-up was perfectly pressed, his hair neatly combed into the same style he'd worn since college. "Is this about the interview?" His eyes darted between them, lingering on Kara's flushed face with poorly concealed concern.

"Kara was just telling me about her backstage adventure with GlassHearts," Nia said, her smile widening. "Specifically, her close encounter with Lena Luthor."

"Close encounter?" Winn's voice rose slightly. "Like, how close are we talking?"

The cursor on Kara's screen continued to blink at the end of her unsent email, each flash seeming to punctuate their questions. She thought of Lena's eyes finding hers, that moment of connection that had felt like recognition of something neither of them had named. The way her heart had stuttered when Lena's fingers had brushed against her knee.

"There was no... encounter," she insisted, adjusting her glasses again. "Just a standard interview with a subject who happened to be more articulate than expected."

"Mmhmm." Nia's skepticism was palpable. She glanced at Kara's computer screen, where the email to Samantha Arias remained in draft form. "And that's why you're writing a novel to her manager at—" she checked her watch, "—8:17 in the morning?"

"It's not a novel," Kara protested, instinctively angling her screen away. "It's a professional follow-up request. For more information. For the article."

"Let me see," Winn said, rolling his chair closer until their knees bumped. He tilted his head, trying to read her screen. "Is that—are you really sending a follow-up email already? Didn't you just interview her last night?"

"I have questions," Kara said defensively, shifting her monitor further away from his prying eyes. "Journalistic questions. That I forgot to ask."

"Right." Nia nodded solemnly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. "Information. For the article. Not because you want to see her again and stare at her forearm tattoo while she talks about music theory."

"I don't—" Kara began, but was interrupted by the shrill ring of Nia's desk phone. They all glanced over at it, the red light blinking insistently like a tiny alarm.

"Saved by the bell," Nia said, sliding off Kara's desk. She pointed a cinnamon-dusted finger at the email on Kara's screen. "This conversation isn't over. And for what it's worth? I think you should send it. The worst they can say is no."

As Nia hurried back to her desk, Winn remained, his chair still uncomfortably close to Kara's. He fidgeted with the pen in his hand, clicking it repeatedly in the nervous habit he'd had since college.

"So," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Lena Luthor, huh?"

"What about her?" Kara asked, immediately defensive again.

"Nothing, just—" Winn shrugged, his shoulders tense. "I didn't know you were into... you know." He made a vague gesture with his hands that could have meant anything from women to musicians to people with tattoos.

"I'm not into anyone," Kara insisted, her voice coming out sharper than intended. She softened it, aware of Winn's hurt expression. "I just... the interview went well. Better than expected. She was surprisingly open."

"Open," Winn repeated, nodding too quickly. "That's... good. For the article."

"Exactly." Kara turned back to her computer, hoping he'd take the hint. "For the article."

Winn didn't move. He continued clicking his pen, the sound growing more irritating with each repetition. "You know, if you need someone to bounce ideas off of for the piece, I'm always here. I've been following their music since before they came to National City. I could offer some perspective."

Kara glanced at him, noting the hopeful expression in his eyes. Something twisted in her stomach—guilt, maybe, though she wasn't sure why she should feel guilty. "Thanks, Winn. I might take you up on that."

He brightened immediately. "Great! Maybe over dinner? We could go to that new Thai place on Fifth. The one with the string lights on the patio."

The invitation hung in the air between them, weighted with something Kara wasn't ready to acknowledge. She turned back to her screen, focusing on the email she still hadn't sent. "Maybe. Let me get through this draft first."

"Right, of course." Winn's chair wheels squeaked as he rolled back slightly, giving her space. "Just let me know. Whenever."

As Winn rolled back to his desk, Kara released a breath. Her shoulders dropped from their defensive hunch near her ears. The office sounds around her—ringing phones, clacking keyboards, the hiss of the espresso machine in the break room—faded to white noise as she stared at her draft email.

The words she'd labored over for nearly an hour stared back:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Follow-up Interview Request - GlassHearts

Dear Ms. Arias,

Thank you again for facilitating the interview with GlassHearts last night. I wanted to express my appreciation for the band's time and candor.

In reviewing my notes, I realized there are a few technical aspects of Ms. Luthor's approach to composition that I'd like to explore further for the article. Would it be possible to arrange a brief follow-up conversation? I'm particularly interested in the classical influences evident in her arrangements and how they're integrated with the band's more contemporary sound.

I'm happy to work around the band's schedule and could conduct this portion via phone if that's more convenient.

Thank you for your consideration.

Best regards,
Kara Danvers
CatCo Magazine

Her cursor hovered over the send button. She scanned the text once more, searching for any hint of her real motivation. Was there anything in these carefully chosen words that betrayed the flutter in her stomach when she remembered Lena's smile? Any trace of how her skin had tingled when their fingers brushed? Any suggestion that what she really wanted wasn't information about classical music influences, but another chance to experience that inexplicable magnetic pull?

The email looked innocent enough. Professional. Direct. Appropriate.

A complete lie.

Kara adjusted her glasses again. The truth was, she couldn't stop thinking about Lena's eyes—how they'd changed from guarded to curious to something warmer as their conversation had deepened. How they'd seemed to see right through her professional veneer to something underneath that Kara herself couldn't name.

"Just send it already," she whispered to herself, and clicked before her brain could generate another reason not to.

The soft whoosh sound of the sent email was oddly final. Done. No taking it back now.

"There," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Professional. Direct. No hidden agenda."

"Except for the part where you want to see if Lena's eyes are really that color in daylight," Nia said, materializing beside her desk again with the stealth of someone who'd spent years avoiding Cat Grant's notice.

Kara opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. What was the point? Nia could read her like yesterday's headlines.

"They're actually more like sea glass," she admitted quietly, tracing an invisible pattern on her desk with her fingertip. "Green around the center, but with this blue ring around the edge. And they change depending on the light."

Nia's smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You are so screwed."

Before Kara could defend herself, her computer chimed. A new email notification slid onto her screen, the sender's name making her stomach drop: S. Arias.

"That was fast," Nia breathed, leaning over Kara's shoulder close enough that her hair brushed Kara's cheek, smelling of citrus and coffee.

Kara's fingers trembled slightly as she clicked to open the message.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Follow-up Interview Request - GlassHearts

Kara,

Phone calls are inefficient. Lena will be at Noonan's at 2 PM today. She has a 45-minute window before her next commitment. She says to bring your questions and, quote, "a better understanding of Rachmaninoff than you displayed last night”.

I have no idea what that means, but it made her smile, which is rare before noon.

- Sam

P.S. She mentioned you left your pen behind. Her exact words were "Tell Danvers I'll return her pen when she shows up”. Fair warning: she checks her watch every thirty seconds when she's kept waiting, and she's been known to walk out on interviews that start with weather observations.

Kara read the message twice, her pulse quickening with each word. Today. In just four hours. Just her and Lena, no band, no Alex, no crowded green room with its dim lighting and chaotic energy. Just them, in the familiar comfort of Noonan's, with its worn leather booths and oversized mugs of coffee.

"Well," Nia said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. "Looks like you're getting your follow-up." She squeezed Kara's shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "And for what it's worth, I think there's a reason Sam didn't suggest a phone call."

"What do you mean?" Kara asked, though a part of her already knew.

Nia stood, gathering her pastry tray. "I mean Lena Luthor doesn't strike me as someone who makes time for journalists at Noonan's unless she's interested in more than just correcting your understanding of Rachmaninoff." She winked. "Whatever that is."

As Nia walked away, Kara stared at the email, her emotions cycling between excitement and terror like a carousel on overdrive. Four hours. She had four hours to prepare questions, research Rachmaninoff, change her outfit, fix her hair, and figure out how to act like a professional journalist when all she could think about was the way Lena's voice had softened when she'd talked about music being messy and temporary, "like everything that matters”.

The memory of those words sent a shiver down her spine. Lena had been looking directly at her when she'd said them, her eyes intense enough to make Kara forget the recorder running between them.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type her acceptance to Sam. But doubt crept in, wrapping cold fingers around her confidence.

What if Nia was wrong?

What if this was just efficient scheduling on Sam's part?

What if Lena only wanted to correct whatever misconceptions Kara had about her music?

The cursor blinked, patient and undemanding.

What if, what if, what if.

Kara took a deep breath, filling her lungs until they ached slightly. She held it for three counts, then released it slowly through her nose, a calming technique Alex had taught her years ago.

Then she began to type:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Follow-up Interview Request - GlassHearts

Sam,

I'll be at Noonan's at 2 PM. Looking forward to clearing up any misunderstandings about Rachmaninoff (and everything else).

Thank you,
Kara Danvers
CatCo Magazine

She hit send before her overthinking could paralyze her again. The message disappeared into the digital ether, leaving her staring at an empty screen that somehow felt like a commitment. Four hours. Four hours to prepare for a meeting that was either purely professional or something else entirely.

Kara swiveled in her chair, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined CatCo's eastern wall. Morning sunlight streamed through the glass, turning dust motes into tiny constellations that drifted through the air currents. Beyond the windows, National City sprawled in concrete and steel, its skyscrapers reaching toward a cloudless blue sky.

The skyline. The tattoo. The questions she should have asked.

With sudden determination, Kara turned back to her computer and opened a new browser window. If she was going to face Lena Luthor again, she needed to be prepared. Really prepared this time, not caught off-guard by sea-glass eyes and a voice that seemed to bypass her ears and vibrate directly against her sternum.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard: "Rachmaninoff composer biography”.

The search results populated her screen—images of a severe-looking man with a high forehead and intense eyes, pages about his Piano Concerto No. 2, articles analyzing his influence on modern music. Kara clicked the first link, diving headfirst into the world of Russian Romanticism and complex chord progressions. Kara scrolled through an article about Rachmaninoff's "Prelude in C-sharp Minor”, trying to absorb the technical language about its "dramatic sequences of fortissimo chords”. The words blurred together as her mind drifted back to Lena's hands on her guitar last night—how her fingers had moved with such confidence. She scrolled through paragraphs about his early life, his depression, his eventual success. The technical terms made her head swim—diminished sevenths, chromatic progressions, modulations. Kara adjusted her glasses, leaning closer to the screen as if proximity might help the information penetrate her brain.

Kara clicked on a YouTube link for Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C-sharp Minor. The opening chords thundered through her earbuds, dark and ominous.

Something clicked in her brain. The thundering chords, the dark undercurrent—it mirrored what she'd witnessed on stage last night when Lena's fingers had suddenly slowed, when the frantic pace had given way to something that made the audience lean forward, breaths held. The same power. The same promise of something about to break open.

She switched from Rachmaninoff to GlassHearts' official YouTube channel, clicking on their most recent live performance. The camera panned across the stage, settling on Lena as she adjusted her microphone, her dark hair falling in waves around her face. She wore a simple black tank top, her tattoo visible on her forearm, the colors vibrant even through the screen.

Kara leaned closer, studying the way Lena commanded the stage. There was a controlled power to her movements, a precision that spoke of years of training. Classical training. It was there in the way she held herself, in the intentional placement of her fingers on the guitar strings, in the mathematical precision of her timing.

The Rachmaninoff influence wasn't just in the music—it was in Lena herself.

Kara grabbed her notebook, scribbling down observations. This wasn't just about correcting her ignorance about a Russian composer. This was about understanding Lena Luthor on a deeper level. About seeing the threads that connected her classical past to her rock star present.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Nia:

Tell me you're not planning to wear that sad blue cardigan. The one with evidence of your last three coffee mishaps preserved for posterity.

Kara glanced down at her outfit—a blue button-up tucked into high-waisted slacks, topped with, yes, the cardigan with the faint coffee stain near the bottom button. She'd forgotten about that.

It's just a follow-up interview, she texted back. Not a date.

Nia's response was immediate:

Sure, Jan. Meet me in the bathroom in 10. I have an emergency outfit in my locker.

Before Kara could protest, another text came through:

And spare me the protest speech. Ms. Grant would fire you on sight if she saw those coffee stains representing CatCo in public.

Kara sighed, closing the YouTube video. The image of Lena froze on her screen—head thrown back, eyes closed, lost in the music she was creating. Something twisted in Kara's chest, a feeling she couldn't quite name.

She glanced at the clock again.

Three hours and fifteen minutes.

With a determined exhale, she opened a new document and began typing out questions. Real questions this time, not just excuses to see Lena again. Questions about the classical structure underlying GlassHearts' seemingly chaotic sound. About the tension between tradition and innovation. About what it meant to take something as rigid as classical composition and transform it into something raw and immediate.

Questions that might help her understand not just Lena's music, but Lena herself.

And if her pulse quickened at the thought of sitting across from those sea-glass eyes again, if her skin warmed remembering the brush of Lena's fingers against hers as they'd exchanged the recorder, well—that was just professional interest. Journalistic curiosity. Nothing more.

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she swallowed it down and kept typing, the clock on her screen counting down the minutes until she'd have to face not just Lena Luthor, but the truth she was still trying to deny.

Chapter Text

4

Off the Record

Noonan's hummed with the gentle cacophony of midday commerce—the hiss of espresso machines, the clatter of ceramic against wood, the murmur of a dozen conversations layered like sediment. Kara arrived twenty minutes early, a strategic decision that now felt like a tactical error as she hovered awkwardly near the entrance, scanning the café for an appropriately casual yet professional spot to wait.

The place was busier than she'd expected for nearly two on a weekday. Every table near the windows was occupied—a pair of college students with textbooks spread between their lattes, a woman in a charcoal pantsuit conducting what sounded like a job interview, a bearded man typing furiously on a laptop plastered with stickers declaring his political affiliations and musical preferences.

Kara fidgeted with the sleeve of the borrowed burgundy blouse that Nia had practically forced on her that morning. "Trust me, it's your emergency interview outfit now," Nia had declared, plucking Kara's sensible cardigan from her hands and replacing it with something that had actual sequins along the collar. The fabric clung to her shoulders in a way her own clothes never did—fitted rather than functional. The black skinny jeans were at least dark enough to pass for professional, though tighter than anything in Kara's own wardrobe. She felt like she was wearing someone else's personality.

Her fingers drifted up to her loose hair, still slightly damp at the ends from her rushed shower. Another of Nia's executive decisions. "You always hide behind that ponytail," she'd said, confiscating Kara's hair tie with the same authority Cat Grant used to demand layouts. The weight of her blonde waves against her neck felt foreign, exposed somehow. Kara resisted the urge to gather it all back and twist it into submission.

She adjusted her glasses, pushing them up with her knuckle the way she always did when nervous, a gesture so automatic she barely registered doing it. Her stomach performed a small somersault as she glanced at her watch—seventeen minutes early. Seventeen minutes to convince herself she belonged in an outfit that screamed confidence she didn't feel.

"Just a table for one?" The barista's voice sliced through Kara's spiral of thoughts, startling her back to the present moment.

"Um, two actually." Kara's tongue felt thick, uncooperative. "I'm meeting someone." The words hung awkwardly in the air—neither professional enough for an interview nor casual enough for... whatever else this might be. Heat crept up her neck. "But I'm early, so..."

The barista—Mel, according to her name tag—smiled with the easy warmth of someone who'd witnessed a thousand first dates and business meetings. Her eyes flicked to the back of the café.

"That two-top just opened up." She nodded toward a corner partially sheltered by a decorative wooden partition. "It's quieter back there." The corners of her eyes crinkled with something that might have been knowing. "Better for conversation."

"Perfect," Kara exhaled, her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "Thank you."

She navigated through the maze of tables, hyperaware of her borrowed blouse catching the light as she moved. Her messenger bag thumped rhythmically against her hip with each step, the weight of her notebook and recorder inside suddenly feeling like unnecessary armor. The corner table was indeed perfect—set back from the main traffic flow but with clear sightlines to both the entrance and the street beyond the windows.

Kara slid into the chair facing the door, then froze. The realization hit her mid-motion—should Lena have this seat? Was there some unspoken power dynamic at play? Would Lena prefer to see who was coming and going? Her hands hovered over the table surface, ready to switch positions.

Before she could move, Mel appeared with a small chalkboard sign reading "Reserved" and placed it at the edge of the table.

"So no one steals your spot," she explained, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Can I get you something while you wait?"

Kara's mind raced through a decision tree of beverage etiquette. Order now and risk being halfway through when Lena arrived? Wait and sit empty-handed like some kind of interview statue? Would Lena judge her choice of drink? Was there a wrong answer?

"Just water for now," she decided, the compromise settling her momentarily. Neither too casual nor too formal. Noncommittal. Safe.

As Mel walked away, Kara pulled out her notebook and placed it on the wooden tabletop, aligning its edges with the table. The blue lines of the paper formed a grid of preparation—though she hardly needed the notes. After four hours of research, Rachmaninoff's life story had embedded itself in her brain with the same tenacity as Lena's smile.

The water arrived in a mason jar adorned with a lemon slice that bobbed cheerfully against the ice. Kara wrapped her fingers around the cool glass, condensation beading against her skin.

A quick glance at her watch: 1:52.

Eight minutes.

No, seven now.

Six and a half.

She pulled out her phone, thumb scrolling mechanically through emails she'd already read twice. A text from Alex appeared at the top of her screen:

Good luck with your 'professional follow-up’. Try not to stare at her mouth the whole time.

Heat bloomed across Kara's cheeks, the flush crawling up to her hairline. She hadn't been staring at Lena's mouth. Had she? The memory of Lena's lips forming around words during their first meeting flickered through her mind—the precise way they curved when she pronounced certain vowels, how the bottom one caught briefly between her teeth when she was considering a response. Objectively speaking, it was a nice mouth. Photogenic. Expressive. The kind that shaped words with care, as if language itself were a physical art form.

She typed back:

It IS a follow-up interview. For work. That's all.

Alex's response was immediate:

And I'm secretly a ballet dancer.

Before Kara could defend Lena—or herself—the bell above Noonan's door chimed and her head snapped up with Pavlovian immediacy. Not Lena—just a teenager in a National City University sweatshirt, headphones clamped over his ears like protective gear.

1:55.

Kara took another sip of water, the cold liquid doing nothing to ease the desert that had formed in her throat. Her mind wandered back to her research—Rachmaninoff had enormous hands, capable of spanning twelve piano keys at once. His compositions were notoriously difficult because of this physical anomaly, requiring stretches most pianists couldn't manage without modification. Had Lena struggled with that as a child? Those hands Kara had watched fly across guitar strings and violin necks didn't seem particularly large. Delicate, yes. Precise, absolutely. But not unusually—

The door chimed again.

This time, it was her.

Lena Luthor stood in the doorway, sunlight streaming in behind her like a spotlight. She wore black jeans that hugged her curves, ankle boots with a modest heel, and a deep green blouse that made her eyes look impossibly bright even from across the room. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, revealing the sharp line of her jaw and the elegant curve of her neck.

Several heads turned as she scanned the coffee shop, her presence commanding attention without effort. When her eyes found Kara's, a small smile curved her lips—not the practiced stage smile, but something smaller, more genuine.

Kara's heart stuttered in her chest.

Not a date, she reminded herself firmly. Work. Professional.

She raised her hand in an awkward half-wave that she immediately regretted. But Lena's smile widened as she made her way through the tables, navigating the space with the same grace she'd shown on stage.

"Kara Danvers," Lena said as she reached the table, her voice carrying that same hint of smoke and honey that had haunted Kara's thoughts since their first meeting. "Punctual. I appreciate that."

"I try to be respectful of people's time," Kara replied, aiming for casual professionalism but hearing the slight tremor in her own voice. "Especially when they're doing me a favor."

Lena adjusted her bag twice before slid into the seat opposite her, the movement fluid and graceful, but careful. She reached into her small leather handbag and produced something that caught the light—Kara's pen. Not just any pen, but the weighted metal one with rose gold accents that Alex had given her at graduation. The one she'd fumbled and dropped beneath the table during their first interview, too flustered by Lena's proximity to properly retrieve it.

"As promised," Lena said, extending it across the wooden surface between them. The pen rolled slightly against her fingertips, the metal warm from being carried close to her body.

Kara's fingers brushed against Lena's as she accepted it, a whisper of contact that sent an electric current up her arm. "Thank you."

Up close, Kara could see the faint shadows beneath Lena's eyes, expertly concealed but visible to someone looking closely. Had she not slept well after the performance? Or was this just the normal exhaustion of someone living the demanding life of a rising musician?

"So, is this a favor?" Lena asked, her words bringing them back to what Kara had said only a moment ago. Her head tilted slightly as she studied Kara. "Or is it mutually beneficial? You get your story, I get..." She paused, something flickering in her eyes that Kara couldn't quite read. "Exposure, I suppose. Though that makes me sound like a Victorian lady showing an ankle."

Kara laughed, the sound escaping before she could contain it. "I think you show a bit more than an ankle on stage."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. Too familiar. Too flirtatious. Too unprofessional.

But Lena didn't seem offended. If anything, her smile deepened, a dimple appearing in her left cheek that Kara hadn't noticed before. "Are you calling me scandalous, Ms. Danvers? Because compared to some of my contemporaries, I'm practically a nun."

"No, I didn't mean—" Kara began, flustered.

"Relax," Lena said, her voice softening. "I'm teasing you." She glanced at the notebook open on the table between them. "I see you came prepared this time. Ready to dazzle me with your newfound knowledge of Rachmaninoff?"

Mel appeared at their table, setting down a fresh mug. “What can I get you?”

"Black coffee, please," Lena replied, not taking her eyes off Kara. "And whatever pastry you recommend. I missed lunch."

"Our lemon bars are fresh," Mel offered. "Made this morning."

"Perfect." Lena nodded, still watching Kara with that intense focus that made it hard to remember they were in a public place. "Thank you."

As Mel walked away, Lena leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table. "So, Kara Danvers of CatCo Magazine. What burning questions kept you up last night? What mysteries of GlassHearts demand immediate... satisfaction?"

The way she lingered on that last word made Kara's mouth go dry. There was an invitation in Lena's eyes—the same flirtatious warmth that had left Kara both flustered and exhilarated during their first interview, a silent permission to step away from the rigid formality of journalist and subject.

"I-I've been wondering if you're always this forward," Kara heard herself say, surprising both of them. "Or if I'm getting special treatment."

Lena's eyebrows shot up, but her smile widened, revealing that dimple again. "And here I thought you were going to ask about chord progressions." She took a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving Kara's over the rim. "To answer your question—I'm selective with my forwardness. Very. Selective."

The implication hung between them, warm and dangerous.

Kara adjusted her glasses, buying herself a moment to recover. The borrowed blouse suddenly felt too tight across her collarbone, too warm against her skin. "I've been thinking about what Ms. Arias mentioned about your classical training," she pivoted, trying to steer them back toward safer waters. "About how it informs your current style."

"And?" Lena prompted, one eyebrow arching elegantly. Her fingers had stopped their circling of the mug, now resting still against the ceramic as she waited.

"And I think I understand it better now," Kara said, gaining confidence as she spoke. Her nervousness receded as she moved into the territory of her research, of concrete facts and observations. "Listening to Rachmaninoff this morning, I could hear echoes of his work in your music. The way you build tension, the unexpected shifts in tempo and mood. It's like you've taken his classical structure and... deconstructed it."

Something shifted in Lena's expression—the flirtatious mask slipping to reveal surprise, followed by what looked like genuine pleasure. The change was subtle but unmistakable—a softening around her eyes, a slight parting of her lips.

"Most journalists don't bother to do that kind of homework," she said, her voice softer now, the playful edge replaced by something more authentic. "They ask about the tattoo, or the rumors about me and Jimmy, or what it's like being a woman in the industry. Surface questions."

"I'm not interested in the surface," Kara said, the words coming from somewhere honest and unguarded. She set her pen down, giving Lena her full attention. "I want to understand the architecture beneath it. The scaffolding that holds everything together."

Lena studied her for a long moment, those sea-glass eyes searching Kara's face as if looking for something specific. Her gaze was so intense that Kara felt the urge to look away, but couldn't. Whatever Lena found seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded slightly, a decision made.

"Rachmaninoff understood something fundamental about music that most people miss," she said, leaning closer, close enough that Kara caught the faint scent of her perfume—something with notes of amber and vanilla. "It's not just about the notes you play. It's about the spaces between them. The anticipation." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The release."

Her fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the table between them, elegant and precise. Kara found herself watching those fingers, remembering how they had moved across guitar strings the night before with such control and passion.

"When I was studying piano, my teacher would say that Rachmaninoff didn't just compose music—he composed emotional landscapes. Places for the listener to get lost in." Lena's eyes seemed to brighten as she spoke, the green deepening with her enthusiasm.

Mel returned with Lena's coffee and a lemon bar dusted with powdered sugar. Lena thanked her without looking away from Kara, as if their conversation was too important to interrupt even for basic courtesies.

"Is that what you're trying to do with GlassHearts?" Kara asked, her pen once again hovering above her notebook, though she hadn't written a single word. The recorder was running, but she knew she'd want to transcribe this herself later, to relive the conversation. "Create emotional landscapes?"

Lena took sip of her coffee, her lips leaving a faint imprint on the white ceramic mug. A tiny crescent of red lipstick marked where her mouth had been. "I'm trying to create spaces where people can feel things honestly," she said after a moment, all trace of her earlier flirtation gone, replaced by a passionate intensity that was somehow even more magnetic. "Music is one of the few places where we're allowed to experience emotions without judgment. Where we can be messy and raw and unfiltered."

"Like last night," Kara said, remembering how the crowd had swayed and surged with the music, faces transformed by whatever private emotions Lena's voice had unlocked. "When you performed 'Glass Houses', it was like everyone in that room was feeling something different but connected."

Lena's eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by Kara's observation. "Yes," she said quietly. "Exactly like that."

She broke off a corner of the lemon bar but didn't eat it, instead rolling it between her fingers as she continued. Powdered sugar dusted her fingertips, white against her pale skin. "Classical music taught me structure. Discipline. How to build something complex from simple components." Her eyes met Kara's again, direct and unflinching. "But my own music taught me how to break those structures when they became prisons. How to use chaos as its own kind of architecture."

The passion in her voice made something tighten in Kara's chest—a recognition of what it meant to care that deeply about creating something meaningful. She wrote quickly in her notebook, trying to capture not just Lena's words but the intensity behind them.

"Is that why your music feels so... immediate?" Kara asked, the pen moving almost without conscious thought. "Because you're building and destroying at the same time?"

Lena's smile was slow and genuine, transforming her face from merely beautiful to something that made Kara's breath catch. Her mask had completely fallen away now, revealing someone earnest and engaged, someone who cared deeply about being understood.

"You really did listen, didn't you?" she asked, sounding almost surprised. "Not just to what I said, but to the music itself."

"Of course I did," Kara replied, confused that this would be surprising. "That's my job."

"No," Lena shook her head slightly, a strand of dark hair escaping her ponytail to fall against her cheek. "Your job is to write an article that will get clicks and shares. Most journalists I've met do the minimum research required to sound knowledgeable enough not to embarrass themselves."

She finally took a bite of the lemon bar, a small crumb of powdered sugar clinging to her lower lip. Without thinking, Kara reached across the table, her thumb brushing the corner of Lena's mouth to remove it.

Time stopped.

Lena went perfectly still, her eyes widening slightly at the contact. The café noise receded to a distant hum as Kara's brain caught up with her body's impulsive action a second too late, horror washing through her at the inappropriate gesture.

"I-I'm so sorry," she stammered, pulling her hand. The pad of her thumb tingled where it had touched Lena's skin. "That was—I don't know why I—"

"It's fine," Lena said, her voice a shade lower than before. She touched the spot where Kara's thumb had been, a gesture that seemed unconscious. "Thank you."

An awkward silence fell between them, thick with something Kara couldn't—or wouldn't—name. The air felt charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. She scrambled for a way back to professional territory, flipping through her notebook as if looking for a specific question, though the pages blurred before her eyes.

"So," she said, her voice too bright, too forced. "Ms. Arias mentioned last night that your mother was the one who insisted on classical training. Was that a point of rebellion for you, moving toward more modern music, or was it a natural evolution?"

Lena's eyes lingered on Kara's face for a beat too long before dropping to the notebook. When she spoke again, the professional distance had returned to her voice, but something else lingered beneath it—a warmth that hadn't been there earlier.

"Lillian," she began, then paused, her finger tracing an invisible pattern on the wooden table. The way Lena emphasized the name struck Kara immediately—not "my mother" but "Lillian”, as if establishing distance through formality. "Lillian Luthor has very specific ideas about what constitutes proper musical education. And proper everything else, for that matter."

The corners of Lena's mouth tightened, a subtle tension that didn't match her otherwise controlled expression. Kara's mind flashed to the Luthor family photos she'd found during her research—images that had appeared in society pages and business journals over the years. Lionel Luthor, with his imposing frame and silver-streaked dark hair, always positioned at the center, his hand resting possessively on Lillian's shoulder. Lillian herself, statuesque and severe, her posture perfect, her smile never quite reaching her ice-blue eyes. Then there was Lex, brilliant and intense, with a sharpness to his features that mirrored his mother's, his gaze challenging the camera as if daring it to capture his true nature.

And then there was Lena—always slightly apart from the others, even when standing right beside them. Her dark hair and green eyes a stark contrast to their lighter coloring. Her smile in those photos seemed genuine but guarded, as if she'd learned early to measure how much of herself to reveal. In every image, she looked like a puzzle piece from another set—beautiful and polished, but somehow not quite fitting into the precise edges of the Luthor family portrait.

Kara had read enough about the Luthors to know the basics—Lionel's ruthless business tactics, Lillian's cold perfectionism, Lex's brilliant but troubled path. But those facts didn't explain the shadow that crossed Lena's face at the mere mention of her mother's name, or the careful way she held herself now, as if bracing against an old pain.

"She used to stand behind me during practice," Lena continued, her finger still moving across the table's surface, tracing what Kara now realized might be piano fingerings. "A ruler in hand. Not to hit my knuckles—Lillian's methods were more... psychological than physical." She took another sip of her coffee, her knuckles whitening slightly around the mug. "Every missed note, every imperfect phrase meant another hour of practice. Another evening without dinner."

Lena's gaze drifted toward the window, focusing on something beyond the glass. "Rock wasn't rebellion, exactly. It was... liberation. The first time I played in Jimmy’s garage band, it was like discovering I could breathe underwater. This whole new world opened up where imperfection wasn't just tolerated, it was celebrated."

Kara wrote that down, struck by the vivid imagery. The way Lena described music—as something that could either imprison or free her—made Kara's chest tighten with a strange mix of empathy and fascination.

"And your family?" she asked, gentling her voice. "How did they respond to this... liberation?"

Something dark flickered across Lena's face, there and gone so quickly Kara might have imagined it. A shadow passing behind those expressive eyes, a momentary crack in her composure.

"Lex understood, in his way." The way she said her brother's name carried a complicated weight—fondness tangled with something heavier. "Lex has always had his own relationship with rebellion, though his methods are..." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. Her fingers stilled on the table. "Less constructive than forming a band."

"And Lillian?" Kara asked, deliberately echoing Lena's use of the first name.

Lena's eyes snapped back to Kara's, a flash of surprise—and perhaps appreciation—at the choice of words. The connection between them hummed with something unspoken, an acknowledgment that Kara had noticed the distinction.

"Lillian," Lena said, her voice taking on an edge that hadn't been there before, "believes I'm going through an extended phase of poor judgment. She's waiting for me to, quote, 'get this nonsense out of my system and return to respectable society'." She made air quotes around the phrase, her expression caught between amusement and something harder, more brittle.

The last traces of the flirtatious mask had completely fallen away now, revealing someone with old wounds carefully bandaged but never quite healed. Kara felt a sudden, fierce protectiveness toward this version of Lena—the one who spoke of family with careful neutrality that couldn't quite hide the hurt beneath.

"What would 'respectable society' look like for you?" Kara asked, genuinely curious. "If you weren't doing this?"

Lena's laugh was short and without humor. "A corner office at Luthor Corp. Charity galas where I'd be trotted out as the dutiful daughter. The occasional concert at the symphony to show I haven't completely abandoned my training." She shook her head slightly, a strand of dark hair coming loose from her ponytail to brush against her cheek. "A life mapped out before I even reached kindergarten, with no room for deviation."

She broke off another piece of the lemon bar, this time lifting it to her lips but not eating it, just holding it there as she spoke. "When Lionel brought me home, Lillian already had my entire life planned out. Which boarding schools I'd attend, which instruments I'd master, which suitable young men from appropriate families I'd eventually consider marrying." Her voice had taken on a hollow quality, as if she were reciting something memorized long ago. "The fact that I had no interest in suitable young men was just one more disappointment in a long list."

The bitterness in her voice was palpable, and Kara found herself wanting to reach across the table again—not to brush away crumbs this time, but to offer some kind of comfort. She resisted the impulse, keeping her hands firmly on her notebook even as her heart raced with the implications of what Lena had just revealed.

"When Lionel brought you home?" Kara echoed softly, the phrase catching in her mind like a hook on fabric. Not born into the family, then. Brought in. It explained the physical differences she'd noticed in those family photos—Lena's softer features among the sharp Luthor angles, those sea-glass eyes unlike anyone else's in the portraits.

Lena's eyes widened slightly, her pupils contracting as if suddenly exposed to bright light. Her hand darted across the table with startling speed, manicured fingers pressing down on the recorder between them. The small click as she switched it off seemed unnaturally loud.

"That-that's off the record," she said, her voice stripped of all its earlier warmth and playfulness. The transformation was jarring—like watching someone slam a door and bolt it from the inside. Her finger remained on the recorder, pressing down as if she could physically contain what had already escaped.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't realize—" Kara began, but Lena shook her head once, the motion sharp and definitive.

"It's not your fault," she said, her voice lowered to barely above a whisper. She glanced around the café, suddenly hyperaware of their surroundings in a way she hadn't been moments before, rubbing at the inside of her wrist, as if smoothing down static. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

The tension radiating from her was a thick, choking thing, settling in the air between them like smoke. Her shoulders had gone rigid, her spine straightening as if bracing for impact. But beneath the defensive posture, Kara caught something else—a flicker of vulnerability in those eyes, a shadow of something that looked almost like fear.

"We can move on," Kara offered gently, closing her notebook to emphasize the point. "I have plenty of other questions about your music."

Lena's gaze dropped to Kara's closed notebook, then lifted back to her face. She seemed to be weighing something internally, her teeth catching briefly on her lower lip.

"No," she said finally, her fingers slowly releasing the recorder. "No, it's..." She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort. "It's not that I don't want to tell you. It's that I don't discuss it publicly. Ever."

The emphasis on that last word carried a weight of history—of questions deflected, topics changed, boundaries firmly maintained. But there was something else in her expression now, a tentative consideration that hadn't been there before.

"My adoption isn't a secret, exactly," Lena continued, her voice still low enough that Kara had to lean slightly forward to hear her clearly. The movement brought them closer, creating a small bubble of intimacy in the busy café. "But it's also not something the Luthor PR machine likes to highlight. Especially now that I've become the family disappointment."

She attempted a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Bad enough to have a rebel in the family. Worse when that rebel isn't even 'real' Luthor blood."

The bitterness in her voice made Kara's chest tighten.

"I won't include it," she promised, her voice matching Lena's in volume but carrying absolute certainty. "Not without your permission."

Lena studied her face for a long moment, as if searching for signs of insincerity. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because some of the tension drained from her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said simply. Her fingers traced the edge of the recorder, not pressing the button again but hovering near it. "I was four when Lionel brought me home. My biological mother had just died, and he..." She paused, seeming to choose her words with extreme care. "He felt responsible for me."

The implication hung in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable. Kara felt her journalist's instincts prickling with questions, but she pushed them down. This wasn't an interview anymore—at least not this part. This was something else, something fragile and personal that required a different kind of attention.

"That must have been difficult," she said instead, offering understanding without pressing for details. "For everyone involved."

Lena's eyes met hers again, a flash of surprise crossing her features—as if she'd expected a different response, perhaps more probing questions or assumptions.

"Yes," she agreed quietly. "It was." Her finger tapped once against the recorder, a nervous gesture rather than an intentional movement. "Lillian had not been... consulted... about this particular family addition. She made that abundantly clear from the beginning."

Kara's heart clenched at the image that formed in her mind—a small, dark-haired child with sea-glass eyes, brought into a home where she wasn't wanted, at least not by the woman expected to mother her.

"Children are remarkably adaptable," Lena continued, her voice taking on a distant quality, as if she were speaking about someone else entirely. "They learn quickly what's expected of them. Which behaviors earn approval, which result in... disappointment." She picked up her coffee mug, cradling it between her palms as if drawing warmth from it. "I learned that perfect piano recitals and straight A's might not earn love, exactly, but they could at least minimize active disapproval."

The casual way she described what must have been a childhood of constant emotional negotiation made something protective and fierce rise in Kara's chest.

"That's not fair," she said before she could stop herself. "To put a child in that position."

Lena looked up, surprise evident in her expression. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, as if Kara's simple statement of support had somehow caught her off guard.

"No," she agreed after a pause. "It wasn't." Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. "But fairness isn't exactly a Luthor family value."

She set her coffee mug down and reached for the recorder again, this time pressing the button to resume recording. The small red light blinked back to life between them.

"Let's get back to the music, shall we?" Lena said, her voice shifting back toward her public persona, though not completely. Something had changed in the way she looked at Kara—a new awareness, a tentative trust. "Ask me about the album we're working on. That's what your readers want to know, not ancient family history."

But her eyes told a different story—one of someone who had just shared something meaningful and was watching carefully to see how it would be received. Someone who had, perhaps, revealed more than she'd intended and was now gauging whether that had been a mistake.

Kara nodded, picking up her pen again, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened between them. A door had been cracked open, revealing glimpses of the real Lena Luthor behind the carefully constructed public image. And despite all her professional training, despite all the warnings in her head about maintaining journalistic distance, Kara found herself desperately wanting to see more.

"Tell me about the new sound you're developing," she said, forcing herself back into reporter mode even as her mind lingered on the vulnerability she'd just witnessed. "Sam mentioned you're incorporating more electronic elements this time around?"

Lena's posture relaxed slightly at the shift in topic, but her eyes remained watchful, assessing. The mask was sliding back into place, but not completely—as if she'd decided to leave a small window open between them.

"We are," she confirmed, leaning forward slightly. "But with an interesting twist. We're using analog synthesizers from the 1970s, not digital production. There's a warmth to analog that you can't replicate digitally." Her fingers began to tap a rhythm on the table again, her passion for the subject visibly rekindling. "The imperfections in the sound create this beautiful texture that feels both nostalgic and completely new."

As Lena continued speaking, her enthusiasm building with each sentence, Kara found herself captivated not just by the words but by the transformation taking place before her. This was yet another version of Lena Luthor—neither the flirtatious performer nor the guarded adopted daughter, but an artist genuinely excited about her craft.

And Kara realized, with a clarity that both thrilled and terrified her, that she wanted to know every version of Lena that existed—each layer, each facet, each carefully guarded corner of her complex personality.

Which was exactly the kind of thinking that could compromise a journalist's objectivity.

She forced her attention back to her notebook, focusing on recording Lena's words about vintage synthesizers and analog recording techniques, trying to ignore the way her heart jumped whenever Lena's eyes met hers across the table.

Professional, she reminded herself firmly. This is work.

But even as she wrote, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that whatever was happening between them had already crossed some invisible line—and there might be no going back.

Chapter Text

5

Crossing Boundaries

Lena stared at the message on her phone for the fourth time in ten minutes, her index finger hovering over the screen. The warmth of the device against her skin contrasted with the cold knot forming in her stomach.

Just wanted to say thank you again for the interview. The article should be out next week. I'll send you a link when it's published. -Kara

She traced the letters of Kara's name, the pad of her finger leaving a smudge on the glass. The sterile message bore no resemblance to the woman who had sat across from her at Noonan's. There, Kara had leaned in close, golden hair falling forward, eyes bright with interest that went beyond mere journalism. Lena still felt the flutter in her chest when Kara had laughed, her head tilting back slightly, exposing the graceful curve of her throat. The memory of Kara tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear sent a shiver through Lena's fingertips, igniting a longing she couldn’t quite shake. Each question had felt like an invitation rather than an interrogation, Kara’s voice dancing between professional curiosity and something far more intimate. In that moment, Lena had wanted nothing more than to reach across the table, to brush her fingers against Kara’s skin, to close the distance between them. She had even entertained the thought of kissing her, a notion that had flickered through her mind before, in the green room at The Pit, but now seemed almost inevitable. When their gazes locked, Kara’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and an electric current surged between them, leaving Lena breathless and yearning for more. Most surprising was how Kara's expression had softened when Lena mentioned her upbringing—the sharp "That's not fair" uttered with such genuine indignation that Lena had nearly reached for her hand.

"Fuck." The single syllable escaped her lips, harsh and profane, yet so quiet it dissolved into the penthouse's stillness like a drop of ink in water.

She tossed the phone onto the couch, not with the dramatic flair of a teenager but with the precise indifference she'd cultivated under Lillian's watchful eye. The device bounced against the leather with a dull thud before settling face-down. Out of sight.

But the words remained etched in her mind.

She dragged her fingers through her hair, scalp tingling as she caught on tiny knots that yanked just enough to anchor her thoughts. When she pulled the elastic band free, it snapped against her fingers—a sharp sting she almost welcomed. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in waves, still somehow smelling of that ridiculously overpriced Parisian shampoo. Lavender. Bergamot. A whisper of chamomile. Day and a half since she'd showered, and still the scent lingered, this small indulgence she permitted herself while everything else in her life threatened to unravel.

The grand piano stood sentinel in the corner, its polished surface reflecting moonlight. Her gaze lingered on the sheets of staff paper strewn across it—evidence of last night's 2 AM desperation when Kara's laugh kept replaying in her mind. Those eight bars contained something honest she couldn't put into words. Melody lines that rose and fell like questions she couldn't ask, chord progressions that resolved the tension her words never could.

Three days, seventeen hours, and approximately twenty-two minutes since their meeting at Noonan's.

The numbers marched through her brain unbidden, a metronome counting beats she couldn't silence. Lena shivered, remembering Kara's thumb against her bottom lip, ostensibly to remove powdered sugar from the lemon bar she'd been eating. The touch had burned like ice, freezing Lena's thoughts while her skin caught fire. Before she could stop herself, she was telling Kara about Lillian's architectural precision in constructing her childhood, about Lionel bringing her home like a souvenir of his guilt. "That's my girl," he would say, patting her head with that distant gaze she'd only understand years later. Sometimes his hand would linger on her hair—"Just like your mother's"—tucking it behind her ear with something like reverence. She remembered finding the photograph: her biological mother in a sundress, laughing, hair catching light the same way Lena's did in certain angles. Watching Kara's face for judgment, Lena had nearly mentioned the stuffed rabbit that still carried phantom traces of her mother's perfume nineteen years after they'd taken her away.

She'd handed over information worth millions in NDAs, spilling her guts to a reporter she'd just met. Kara had simply tilted her head, adjusted those ridiculous glasses, and suddenly Lena couldn't stop talking. Something in those eyes had unlocked her—not just the startling blue of them, but the way they focused, like Lena was the only person in the crowded café. When Kara leaned forward, notepad forgotten, and whispered "I understand," Lena had believed her. For those forty minutes, she'd forgotten to be a Luthor. She'd just been Lena, raw and unfiltered, her carefully maintained walls crumbling under the gentle persistence of Kara's attention.

And now this.

A text message as impersonal as a form letter, all professional courtesy with no trace of the woman who'd leaned in close enough for Lena to count her eyelashes.

"Fuck."

She padded across the Brazilian cherry hardwood toward her kitchen, each plank whispering beneath her bare feet. The space—defined by its crisp angles and polished surfaces—resembled a meticulously staged scene from a magazine spread, more suited for the glossy pages of Architectural Digest than the intimate chaos of a lived-in home. Moonlight sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows like silver blades, transforming the Calacatta marble island and brushed stainless steel appliances into a stark monochrome still life. When she pulled open the Sub-Zero refrigerator door, it released a gentle hiss. The cold LED light spilled out, harsh and unforgiving against her face, catching the purple-gray half-moons beneath her eyes—Chanel makeup removed hours ago with micellar water, bone-deep exhaustion left bare since she'd stumbled home from the studio at 8:47 PM.

The half-empty Dom Pérignon gleamed under the refrigerator light, a remnant of Sam's impromptu celebration earlier last week. It stood guard over a plastic takeout container where Thursday’s Pad Thai noodles had fused into a gelatinous brick, the once-vibrant orange sauce now dulled to the color of rust, flecks of dried cilantro clinging desperately to the edges. Beside it sat a lonely Granny Smith apple, its waxy green skin beginning to pucker and wrinkle around the stem, a single bruise spreading like a shadow across its curved surface.

The champagne bottle's neck felt like ice between her fingers as she gripped it, the chill seeping into her skin. She bumped the refrigerator closed with her hip, plunging the kitchen back into darkness except for the city lights bleeding through the windows—midnight blue smudged with silver pinpricks.

She pressed the bottle to her lips and tilted it back. The first sip fizzed sharply across her tongue before mellowing into something almost soothing as it slid down her throat. Somewhere in her mind, she could hear Lillian's voice dripping with disdain:

“A Luthor never drinks straight from the bottle, Lena. Are you an animal?”

She tilted the bottle back and swallowed hard, champagne foaming against her teeth. The bubbles burned her sinuses, pricking tears at the corners of her eyes. Perfect. Pain was preferable to emptiness.

"Drinking alone, Lee?" The phantom voice had Lex's cadence, that particular way he'd draw out her nickname when he found her vulnerable. "Father would be so proud."

"Shut up," she whispered to no one. The kitchen absorbed her words, returning only silence. She brought the bottle to her lips again, but the sweetness had soured, coating her tongue like artificial honey.

"You know where this road leads." The imagined voice gentled, almost tender in its cruelty. "First comes the bottle, then the pills—"

"I said shut up." Her grip constricted around the bottle's neck, knuckles whitening. She could practically see Lex leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that half-smile from the night he'd found her stumbling through the garden at seventeen, mascara streaking her cheeks and tequila on her breath.

What would Miss Ponytail and Cardigans say if she could see the great Lena Luthor now? The thought slithered through her mind, vicious and unbidden. Three sips of warm champagne and one text message had shattered the carefully crafted façade she'd presented at Noonan's.

Lena closed her eyes, letting the refrigerator's chill seep through her thin shirt. The cold metal against her spine was the only thing keeping her upright as her mind spun accusations. She took another swig. This wasn't alcoholism. This wasn't Lionel's genetic legacy manifesting. This wasn't—

Lillian's voice slithered through her mind: You have his weakness. His sentimentality. His inability to maintain control.

The bottle quivered between her fingers. Another sip burned down her throat—no longer for pleasure but for spite. Each mouthful felt like winning some small, pyrrhic victory against the ghosts in her head, even as she proved them right with every swallow.

Her phone chirped. The sound shot through her body like an electrical current, freezing her mid-breath. Before she could think, she was already moving across the room, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim, her heartbeat a wild, unsustainable flutter beneath her ribs.

Blue light washed over her face as she grabbed the device. Her eyes scanned the notification, silently repeating: Not her. Not her. Not her. The disappointment expanded beneath her breastbone anyway, hollowing her out from within as she read the message:

You awake? Downstairs. Buzz me up.

Jimmy.

Her body deflated, one tension replaced by another. The intercom button felt like ice against her skin. "Come up," she said, voice hollow in the empty apartment.

While she waited, she tracked his ascent by counting heartbeats—sixty-seven of them, each one a tiny betrayal of the composure she pretended to maintain.

Lena braced herself against the doorframe, Dom Pérignon swinging loosely between her fingers as the elevator display ticked upward. When the doors parted with a soft chime, Jimmy stood waiting—guitar case slung across his back, paper bag cradled in one hand. His gaze locked with hers before traveling down to the bottle, lingering on her bare feet against cold marble, then settling on the rumpled MIT sweatshirt she hadn't bothered changing for forty-eight hours. He said nothing, just stepped forward wearing that expression she knew too well—the one that silently calculated the precise depth of her current spiral.

"Rough one?" he asked, moving past her without pausing for permission. His sandalwood cologne drifted in his wake, mingling with the earthy musk of instrument strings and amp residue.

"Can't sleep," Lena answered, the lie flowing from her lips too easily. The door closed behind her with a click that echoed with uncomfortable finality in the silence. "The bag?"

"Clase Azul." He placed his guitar case down reverently before lifting the paper sack like a peace offering. "Plus limes. Figured anyone still vertical at this hour on a Tuesday might appreciate some pharmaceutical-grade assistance."

Lena lifted the champagne bottle in a mock toast. "Brilliant detective work as always, Olsen."

Jimmy's eyes flickered to the bottle, then back to her face. "Drinking straight from the bottle? Must be either the best day of your life or the absolute worst."

"Just a Tuesday," she murmured, turning away. In the kitchen, she pressed her palms against the cold marble, champagne abandoned. "Nothing worth analyzing."

"So this has nothing to do with a certain reporter in glasses?" Jimmy unloaded his midnight provisions onto the counter—the blue ceramic tequila bottle catching moonlight, limes tumbling from their paper sack with a soft rustling sound, pink salt in its ridiculous container that even Lena had to admit was overkill.

Her head jerked up, betraying her. "Reporter?"

Jimmy's laugh rumbled through the kitchen, deep and resonant. "That reporter, from The Pit. The cute blonde from CatCo. The one you practically tackled Sam to get her to agree to that ‘follow up’ last Friday."

Lena's skin betrayed her before she could form a response. First her chest, then her neck, finally her face—all of it burning as if she'd stepped too close to an amp during soundcheck. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, loud enough that she wondered if Jimmy could hear it too.

"That's—I was—I don't know what you're talking about," she finally managed, each word falling between them with the dull thud of an obvious lie.

Jimmy's lips quirked as he pulled a knife from her block. "Right." The blade hit the cutting board with rhythmic thuds as he quartered the limes. Each slice released a mist of juice that hung in the air between them, its sharp tang cutting through the champagne's lingering sweetness. "I must have hallucinated you nearly tackling Sam when that email came through then."

"It was a professional opportunity," Lena said, arms folded tight across her chest, the fabric's comforting embrace against her skin acting like armor she would never openly acknowledge she craved. "For the band. For all of us. You remember the concept of 'the band’, don't you?"

Jimmy's "mmhmm" floated between them as he reached up for the shot glasses, his movements fluid and familiar in her space. Glass clinked against glass. "You forget I was there when you and Andrea happened. I watched you two orbit each other for months until you finally collided. Same look then as now. Same denial too." He unscrewed the tequila with one practiced twist. "Same way you insisted Veronica was 'just networking' until I found you both in the supply closet at Sam's birthday."

Lena opened her mouth to deliver a cutting retort, then closed it again. Something sharp and honest lodged beneath her sternum, refusing to be swallowed back down.

Jimmy had been there for all of it—had witnessed the Andrea catastrophe unfold in real-time. He'd been the one to find Lena semiconscious on her bathroom floor, prescription bottles scattered around her like fallen soldiers, when Andrea had declared her "too much work" and walked out that first time.

Part of Lena still wondered if Andrea had been right.

He'd also been there after the disastrous three-month affair with Veronica Sinclair, who'd left a trail of cocaine and broken promises across Lena's life. Even now, Lena couldn't decide if she missed Veronica's destructive passion or was grateful for her absence. The same confusion lingered about the cellist whose sweatshirt still smelled faintly of rosewood and rosin, and the bartender whose seventeen calls Lena had both resented and secretly counted, disappointed when they finally stopped.

And Andrea, again—God, Andrea—with those reconciliations that pinned Lena against hotel walls, her body liquid heat wherever Andrea's fingers traced. Andrea's teeth scraping the tender hollow beneath her ear, tongue following to soothe the sting while Lena arched helplessly into her touch. Andrea would materialize when the wound had scabbed over, tearing Lena open again with those manicured nails dragging down her spine, across her hipbones, leaving red welts Lena secretly photographed later in bathroom mirrors. The taste of Andrea's perfume on her tongue, salt-slick skin against her mouth, whiskey-flavored kisses that left Lena drunk and desperate for more even as she hated herself for begging. Those apologies always tasted like copper and salvation as Andrea whispered them against her throat, each syllable a needle threading through Lena's resolve until she was sewn back into the same exquisite torture she'd spent months trying to escape. Sam had once created a flow chart titled "The Andrea Cycle" that Lena had laughed at publicly while privately folding it into her wallet, pulling it out some nights to trace the loop with her finger, wondering why the certainty of that pattern felt so much like home.

Lena sighed, surrendering as Jimmy filled two shot glasses. The amber liquid glinted under the kitchen lights like tiny pools of fire. "Alright, I don't hate talking to her."

"Don't hate talking to her," Jimmy echoed, sliding a glass across the marble with one finger, his mouth quirking upward. "That's quite the ringing endorsement."

Lena captured the glass between her fingers, inhaling the tequila's woody smoke. "She asks questions no one else thinks to ask," she murmured, rotating the glass slowly, watching the liquid climb the sides. "She looked at me and saw... me. Not Lionel Luthor's daughter or Lex Luthor's sister or the front woman for GlassHearts.. Just... Lena."

The admission felt too vulnerable, like a nerve exposed to open air. Lena tightened her grip on the shot glass, the smooth surface warming beneath her fingers. The memory of Kara's face washed over her again—those eyes narrowing with genuine indignation when Lena had mentioned Lillian's coldness, the way Kara's jaw had set in a hard line when she'd said, "That's not fair”. Kara's eyes had held something Lena rarely encountered—not the usual pity, but a protective fury that made her breath catch. It left Lena suspended between contradictory impulses: one moment wanting to text Kara at this ungodly hour, the next contemplating how to delete her contact information permanently.

"And that scares the hell out of you," Jimmy said, not a question but a statement of fact. He picked up a lime wedge, the juice glistening on his fingers.

"Fuck you, Olsen," Lena muttered, but there was no real bite to it. She raised her glass, hesitated with it halfway to her lips, then knocked back the shot. The burn traced a path from her throat to her stomach—part punishment, part pleasure. The tequila was expensive enough that it went down smooth, but the fire it left in its wake reminded her of all the reasons she shouldn't be drinking after midnight while thinking about blue eyes behind glasses. She set the glass down with a decisive clink against the marble, already regretting the empty glass and craving another. "And also, yes."

Jimmy's laugh was soft and knowing as he took his own shot. He didn't wince—he never did—just reached for the bottle to pour another round.

"It's not..." Lena began, then stopped, searching for words that wouldn't make her sound pathetic. "It's not just that she sees me. It's that I want her to. And that's..." She gestured vaguely with her hand, as if trying to pluck the right word from the air.

Jimmy slid the refilled shot glass toward her, his mouth quirking into that half-smile she both loved and hated. The tequila caught the light as it settled.

"So the untouchable Lena Luthor is freaking out because someone actually saw beneath the armor?" He planted his elbows on the counter, leaning in. "Should I alert the media? Oh wait—the media is exactly what you're running from."

Lena tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the shot glass. "When exactly did you become such an insufferable know-it-all?"

"Probably around the third time I found you passed out in your bathroom," Jimmy replied, his voice softening despite the harsh truth in his words. He traced the rim of his shot glass with one calloused finger. "Or maybe it was that night in Seattle when you disappeared for six hours and I found you in that hotel stairwell. Or possibly when Andrea sent those roses last year and you threw your phone into the pool." He leaned forward, moonlight catching the angles of his face. "Pick your poison, L. I've been keeping track of your self-destruction longer than either of us care to admit."

The truth of his words made Lena flinch, but she steered them away from that particular minefield, unwilling to excavate the ruins Jimmy had already sifted through too many times. "She texted me," Lena admitted, picking up the second shot. "Nothing special. Just professional follow-up. But I keep looking at it like it's some kind of code I need to decipher."

She knocked back the tequila before Jimmy could respond, welcoming the burn that temporarily overwhelmed the humiliation crawling up her spine. She set the glass down with more force than necessary, the sharp clink against marble cutting through the silence.

"Did you answer?"

Lena's silence was answer enough.

Jimmy sighed, leaning his hip against the counter. "L, you know I love you, but you're doing that thing again."

"What thing?" She knew exactly what thing.

"That thing where you meet someone who actually sees past all your carefully constructed bullshit, and instead of embracing it, you retreat into your fortress of solitude to drink expensive alcohol and compose melancholy piano pieces at two in the morning."

Lena flinched. "Those piano pieces have paid for your ridiculous collection of vintage guitars, I'll have you know."

"Deflection noted." Jimmy's voice softened. "Look, I was there for the entire Andrea disaster. All seventeen rounds of it. And Veronica. And that cellist whose sweatshirt you still wear when you think no one's looking."

"I don't—"

"You do. And it's fine. My point is..." He set his glass down, his expression turning serious. "My point is, not everyone is going to hurt you the way they did. Not everyone sees your vulnerability as something to exploit."

Lena's throat tightened, a pressure building behind her eyes that she refused to acknowledge. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't," Jimmy agreed. He paused, his gaze probing her features, searching for something she might be hiding. "I watched you with her, L. You know what I saw? The girl who used to sneak out to open mics with me, before all the cameras and contracts. The one who'd laugh without checking who might be watching." He leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "And the way you kept touching your hair whenever she smiled at you? Classic Lena tell. Haven't seen that move since before the Andrea days."

Lena's eyes burned. She stared hard at the shot glass between her fingers, watching how the amber liquid shimmered under the kitchen's soft glow, refusing to let Jimmy see her face crumble.

"Reporters have a way of getting close when they want Luthor secrets," she said, voice barely audible above the hum of the refrigerator. "Family history."

Jimmy tilted his head, studying her face. "Fair enough. But when you look at her—really look at her—does that feel like what's happening here?"

Lena closed her eyes briefly. Since that first smile across the tiny table at Noonan's, something had been unraveling inside her—not the familiar alarms that kept her safe, but a treacherous warmth spreading through her chest. The sensation had a name she refused to acknowledge, a four-letter word more dangerous to a Luthor than any poison. "Are you asking me to trust my instincts, James? The same instincts currently suggesting I drain this tequila and send her a 2 AM confession that I'll regret until my dying day?"

Jimmy reached for the tequila, his fingers closing around the neck of the bottle. "Then maybe we should remove the chemical encouragement before your drunk text ruins a potentially good thing."

Lena's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. "Don't you dare."

"Lena—"

"I'm not going to text her," Lena insisted, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'm just... processing."

Jimmy studied her face for a long moment before releasing the bottle. "Processing," he repeated skeptically.

"Yes." Lena picked up her shot glass again, swirling the clear liquid. "Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually enjoy being a disaster. I'm simply... weighing my options."

"And what options would those be?"

Lena knocked back the second shot, the burn less pronounced this time. "Option one: I ignore the text, pretend the interview never happened, and focus on the album." She reached for a lime wedge, the tartness exploding across her tongue as she bit into it. "Option two: I respond professionally, maintain appropriate boundaries, and see if she wants to..."

"Fuck?" Jimmy supplied helpfully.

Lena glared at him. "I was going to say 'get to know each other better’."

"Ah, yes, the euphemism my grandmother would use." Jimmy's smile was infuriatingly knowing. "And option three?"

Lena set the lime rind down on the counter, suddenly fascinated by the pulpy remains. "There is no option three."

"Bullshit." Jimmy's voice was gentle but firm. "Option three is you admit that this reporter got under your skin in a way that terrifies you, and you let yourself feel something real for once instead of analyzing it to death."

The words hit too close to home, striking that tender place beneath her ribs where truth and denial waged their constant war. Lena's fingers curled against the cool marble, seeking something solid to ground her even as part of her yearned to float away on the tide of possibility Jimmy's suggestion had unleashed.

"The last time I felt something 'real’," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that could cut glass, "I ended up with a stomach pump and a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold."

Jimmy's expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something more somber. "That wasn't because you felt something real, L. That was because Andrea Rojas is a manipulative narcissist who deliberately pushed every one of your buttons until you broke."

Lena looked away, unable to hold his gaze. The city lights beyond her windows blurred slightly, a kaleidoscope of colors that reminded her of stage lights—beautiful from a distance, blinding up close.

"What if I'm the problem?" The question emerged softer than she intended, almost a whisper. Her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against the counter, then abruptly stilled. "What if I'm just... fundamentally broken? Incapable of normal human connection?" She swallowed hard, hating the part of herself that hoped Jimmy would contradict her, and hating equally the part that needed him to.

Jimmy moved closer, the warmth of his shoulder pressing against hers. "Funny, I could have sworn our friendship started the night you decorated my shoes with your dinner in Centennial Park."

The memory pulled Lena's lips into a half-smile despite herself. "That's not what I was talking about and you know it."

"I do." He nudged her shoulder with his own. "And it's bullshit. You're not broken, Lena. You're just scared. There's a difference."

Lena's fingers hovered over the tequila bottle, trembling between retreat and advance. She traced the ceramic ridges, then pulled back as if burned, then reached again. The bottle promised oblivion—Kara Danvers reduced to syllables without meaning, rejection rendered powerless—but also threatened to erase the electric current she'd felt every time their eyes had met.

"What if I text her back," Lena said, her voice catching on the words, "and she's just being professional?" She pressed her palm flat against the counter. "But what if she's not, and I'm too much of a coward to find out? God, I can't even decide if I'm more afraid she'll want me or that she won't."

Jimmy's eyes softened. "Either way, you get an answer." He swept his hand toward the half-empty tequila bottle, her disheveled appearance, the scattered evidence of her unraveling. "And isn't that better than..." His gesture encompassed everything she'd become in the past few hours.

Lena exhaled slowly, the air leaving her lungs in an unsteady stream. She gripped the edge of the counter, steadying herself against the sudden urge to both laugh and scream. The tequila had softened her edges but sharpened her contradictions—wanting Kara close while calculating the safest distance to maintain.

"When did you get so wise, Jimmy Olsen?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly between syllables. She hated the weakness in it, yet craved the relief of finally being seen. Her fingers drummed against the marble, torn between reaching for another shot and pushing the bottle away entirely.

"Around the time you started needing someone to call you on your bullshit," Jimmy replied, his smile illuminating his face in a way that made the kitchen seem less sterile, less empty. The warmth in his eyes reached across the space between them, touching something raw and tender inside her. "So, what's it going to be? Option one, two, or the scary option three?"

Before she could answer, her phone chimed from the living room—three distinct notes that made her stomach drop. Not the standard alert, but the special tone she'd programmed for only a handful of people in her life.

Her arm locked in place, the shot glass hovering halfway to her mouth. Light glinted through the tequila, which quivered in time with her suddenly unsteady hand. Something fluttered in her chest, then pounded hard enough that she could feel her pulse in her eardrums.

One heartbeat. Five. Ten.

Twenty seconds crawled by.

"Aren't you going to check that?" Jimmy's voice seemed to come from somewhere far away.

"No," Lena said automatically. "Yes." She pushed herself half-off the stool, then immediately sank back down, the leather creaking beneath her. "I don't know."

Something electric shot through her veins—that familiar lightning-strike feeling she'd tried drowning in bottles and numbing with pills. The urge to run toward her phone collided with an equally powerful impulse to hurl the device from her seventy-second-floor balcony without ever looking at the screen.

"Just go," Jimmy said, the corner of his mouth lifting in that way that said he knew her better than she knew herself. "I won't even laugh when you trip over the coffee table."

"I'm not going to—" The words died in her mouth, tasting of pride and self-deception. "Whatever."

She crossed to the living room, testing each footfall as if the floor might give way. The cool hardwood anchored her while her thoughts scattered like startled birds. Jimmy's chuckle followed, warm and knowing.

Her phone waited on the leather couch where she'd abandoned it, screen-down like a card she was afraid to turn over. When she flipped it, the harsh blue light caught the angles of her face, turning her into something carved rather than born.

Not Kara.

The screen lit up with "Jess Huang" and the first line of a message that turned her insides to stone:

Ms. Luthor, reminder that the Children's Hospital Gala is this coming Friday. Your mother expects…

The message cut off after the ellipses. Her shoulders dropped as the surge that had carried her across the room collapsed. Her thumb wavered over the screen, suddenly too large for her hand.

12:43 AM.

Of course Jess never slept. The woman scheduled her life around the Luthor empire with the same religious devotion Lena's mother expected of her daughter.

"Not who you were hoping for?" Jimmy's voice floated from the kitchen, wrapped in careful nonchalance that only highlighted the disappointment.

"Just Jess." Lena dismissed the notification with a swipe. "Reminding me about the Children's Hospital Gala." She trudged back to the kitchen, gravity suddenly tripled. The marble countertop pressed cold against her forearms as she slumped against it.

Jimmy slid another shot her way. "Ah, the annual Luthor reputation-washing ceremony? Where photographers capture Saint Lillian bestowing her grace upon the peasantry?"

Lena knocked back the tequila. It barely registered anymore—her body processing the alcohol with the same mechanical efficiency it handled everything unwanted: emotions, desires... hope. "Precisely. Dry salmon, warm champagne, and cold stares from National City's finest." She set down the empty glass. "Attendance mandatory, enjoyment forbidden."

Jimmy settled his weight against the counter's edge, his gaze lingering on her face in that way that always made her feel transparent. She could sense him reading the micro-expressions she couldn't control—the slight tension at the corner of her mouth, the flutter of her eyelids—with the practiced familiarity of someone who had held her hair back during the worst nights and applauded during the best days. "You know," he said, rolling his empty shot glass between his palms, "you could invite her."

Lena arched an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Jimmy's eyes glinted with knowing mischief. "Your reporter," he said, drawing out each word. "These galas always need media coverage. You could request her specifically—professional reason to see her again, no strings attached."

For a moment, Lena allowed herself to imagine Kara standing amid the gala's glittering crowd, somehow both part of it and apart from it—blonde hair catching crystal chandelier light, somehow magnetic yet invisible to the socialites around her. In her fantasy, Kara would stand with one hip slightly cocked, her notepad balanced in her palm, blue eyes lifting from the page at precisely the moment Lena glanced her way. That familiar furrow would appear between her brows, the one that transformed her face into a question Lena desperately wanted to answer.

Lena stared at the empty shot glass, turning it slowly between her fingers. "The optics would be..." she trailed off, searching for the right word, "...problematic."

"I'm not suggesting you walk the red carpet with her," Jimmy added, though the slight quirk of his eyebrow betrayed him. "Just have CatCo cover the event. They always do, don't they?"

The tequila had dulled the edges of her anxiety but sharpened something else—a recklessness she usually kept buried beneath layers of discipline. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip.

"CatCo's society coverage is..." she measured each word carefully, "...adequate."

Jimmy leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "So request their adequate reporter." His voice softened to that tone he used when they were stuck on a bridge in a song—gentle but insistent. "Professional courtesy, that's all."

"James," she whispered, eyes darting around the empty penthouse as if the walls themselves might report back to her mother. "You're not thinking this through."

His eyebrows knitted together. "How so?"

The shot glass grew slippery in her grip. "In the Luthor household, dating isn't about connection—it's about strategy. Alliances." The words tasted metallic on her tongue. "Lillian maintains an invisible roster of candidates who meet her criteria: net worth, family connections, social standing, and—" her voice caught, "—chromosomal arrangement."

"Hold up." Jimmy's own glass hit the marble. "Lillian doesn't know you're—"

"Oh, she's aware," Lena's laugh came out brittle as thin ice. "It sits in her file of my transgressions, right between refusing the offer in Vienna and the phoenix I had inked on my shoulder blade after graduation. She’s just waiting for me to exhaust my rebellion before I fulfill my genetic obligation to marry strategically and produce heirs with acceptable DNA."

Her words lingered between them like the last note of a song played in an empty concert hall. Lena's chest tightened, the familiar pressure building behind her sternum as if someone had cranked the tuning pegs on her ribs a half-turn too far.

Jimmy's eyes narrowed, the warm brown darkening as realization dawned. "So all those tabloid rumors about us—"

"Work in my favor," Lena admitted, tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger. "The board sees stability. The investors see heteronormative marketability." Her voice dropped, the words scraping against her throat like sandpaper. "And Lillian..." She exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly. "Lillian stops sending me profiles of eligible bachelors with the right connections."

"Jesus, L."

The disappointment in his voice left her breathless. Not anger—something worse. The look of someone realizing they've been used, even if for self-preservation. Her stomach clenched.

"It's fine," Lena said, the words automatic as breathing. She'd said them so many times they'd lost all meaning—a verbal tic more than a statement of fact. "Just the way things are."

"No." Jimmy shook his head slowly, his jaw tightening. "That's not 'the way things are'. That's emotional extortion."

Lena's laugh came out hollow, bouncing off the marble countertops and returning to her ears as something unrecognizable. "Chapter one of the Luthor family handbook." She poured another shot, the bottle clinking against the glass, liquid sloshing over the rim and onto her fingers. She didn't wipe it away. "If I walk into that gala with Kara Danvers on my arm, Lillian won't just disapprove. She'll eliminate the problem."

Jimmy's expression shifted from disappointment to something fiercer—the protective anger she'd seen directed at others but never at her. "And me? I'm just a convenient shield? A prop in the Luthor family theater?"

The truth of it burned worse than the tequila. Lena's gaze dropped to the counter, unable to meet his eyes. "I didn't..." She swallowed hard. "It wasn't like that in the beginning."

"When did it become like that?" His words came out soft as a whisper but stretched tight as piano wire.

Lena's lungs constricted. She couldn't stop the memory from rising to the surface—Lillian's voice slicing through the phone line like a scalpel. "Well, well. At least this one has connections worth mentioning. You might not be a complete disappointment after all."

"After the Billboard Awards," she admitted, the words barely audible. "When you put your arm around me for the photos. Lillian called the next day." Her fingers curled into her palm, nails biting into flesh. "She was... pleased."

"And you didn't think to mention this to me?" Jimmy pushed away from the counter, creating physical distance that mirrored the emotional chasm opening between them. "Three years, Lena. Three years of me playing along with the 'are they, aren't they' game because I thought it was about the band's mystique. About keeping the focus on the music."

"It was," Lena insisted, heat rising to her face. "It is. But it's also..." Her voice caught, the admission sticking in her throat like a fishbone.

"Convenient," Jimmy finished for her. He rubbed a hand over his smooth scalp, a gesture she'd seen a thousand times when he was trying to process something difficult. "Christ, L. Do you have any idea how many relationships I've sabotaged because people thought we were a thing?"

Guilt crashed through her like a wave, momentarily sobering. "I never asked you to—"

"You never had to ask!" His voice rose, then immediately dropped as he caught himself. "You'd get that look—that trapped-animal look—whenever someone would ask about us, and I'd step in. Make a joke, play it ambiguous." He exhaled sharply. "I thought I was protecting you from unwanted attention. From people prying into your private life."

The truth slammed into her chest like a misplaced chord during a silent measure. She'd relied on him—counted on him—to maintain the illusion without ever acknowledging what it cost him. Her throat tightened, eyes burning with tears she refused to shed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words inadequate. "I didn't think—"

"That's bullshit and you know it." Jimmy's voice was low but intense. "You think through everything, Lena. Every angle, every possibility. It's what makes you brilliant and terrifying in equal measure."

He was right.

She'd calculated the benefits of their perceived relationship—weighed them against the costs—and decided the trade-off was worth it. But she'd never factored in what it meant for Jimmy to be complicit in her deception.

"You're right," she admitted, the confession leaving her feeling exposed. "I used you. Not maliciously, but..." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I took advantage of your friendship."

Jimmy's expression softened slightly, the anger giving way to something more complex—disappointment layered with understanding. "Why didn't you just tell me? Did you think I wouldn't help if I knew the truth?"

The question pierced through her defenses. Would he have helped? Would anyone choose to be a shield against Lillian Luthor's machinations if they knew what they were signing up for?

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I didn't want to put you in that position."

"So instead you put me in this one." Jimmy gestured between them. "Where I find out three years in that I've been an unwitting pawn in the Luthor family chess game."

Lena flinched at the word "pawn”. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Jimmy crossed his arms. "What would you call it?"

The tequila simultaneously numbed her shame and magnified it until she couldn't tell which was worse—the lies she'd told or the truth she was finally facing. She pressed her palms flat against the cool marble, fingers splayed, caught between pushing away from this conversation and anchoring herself to it as the room tilted beneath her like a stage that wouldn't stop rotating.

"Self-preservation," she said finally. "Cowardice, maybe." Her voice cracked on the last word.

Jimmy's silence stretched between them, heavy with three years of unspoken truths. He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed his palm across his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge but carried something worse—a mixture of hurt and resignation that made her chest ache.

"I would have helped you, L. If you'd asked. If you'd trusted me enough to tell me the truth."

Trust. The currency she hoarded like a miser, doling out small denominations only when absolutely necessary. She'd trusted Jimmy with her life—had literally placed it in his hands during her darkest moments—but not with this.

"I do trust you," she whispered.

"No," Jimmy said, his voice gentle now. "You trust me to be there when you fall apart. You trust me to pick up the pieces. But you don't trust me with the truth. Not the ugly parts."

Shame bloomed hot across her chest, spreading upward until her face burned with it. He was right. She compartmentalized her trust the same way she compartmentalized everything else—keeping the messiest, most vulnerable parts locked away where no one could see them.

"I'm sorry," she said again, knowing the words were insufficient but unable to find better ones.

Jimmy sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I know you are. And I get why you did it." He reached for the tequila bottle, pouring them each another shot. "But no more, Lena. No more using me as a shield without telling me what I'm protecting you from."

The shot glass slid across the marble toward her, a peace offering of sorts.

Lena picked it up, the glass cool against her fingertips.

"No more," she agreed, raising the glass in a silent toast.

They drank in unison, the tequila burning a path down her throat that matched the shame still smoldering in her chest. When she set the glass down, Jimmy was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher.

"So," he said, the word hanging between them like a question mark. "About this reporter."

Lena's pulse quickened, the sudden change in subject catching her off guard. "What about her?"

"If you're serious about her—or even just curious—you need to be prepared for the fallout." Jimmy leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "Not just from Lillian, but from the press, the fans, everyone who's bought into the idea of us as a package deal."

The reality of it settled over her like a weight. She'd been so focused on her mother's reaction that she hadn't fully considered the broader implications. The band's image, carefully cultivated over years. The fans who projected their own fantasies onto her and Jimmy's ambiguous relationship. The tabloids that would have a field day with any hint of her sexuality becoming public knowledge.

"I'm not serious about her," Lena protested. "I barely know her."

"But you want to know her," Jimmy countered. "And that terrifies you more than facing down Lillian at Sunday dinner."

Lena opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

"It doesn't matter what I want," she said finally, staring into her empty shot glass. "Some things aren't worth the collateral damage."

Jimmy's expression softened. "And some things are." He reached across the counter, his hand covering hers in a gesture of solidarity that made her throat tighten. "You deserve to be happy, L. Not just successful or admired or whatever other metric Lillian has programmed into you. Actually happy."

The words hit a raw nerve. Happy. She knew what it looked like—had glimpsed it in green room celebrations after perfect shows, felt its shadow during rare moments when music flowed through her without effort. But those were temporary states, not a sustainable condition. Part of her yearned toward the possibility Jimmy dangled before her; another part recoiled from it, certain that reaching for more would only confirm what she'd always suspected: that happiness, like her mother's approval, existed just beyond her grasp—visible but never attainable.

"What if I don't know how?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, small and broken in the quiet of her kitchen.

Jimmy's hand squeezed hers gently. "Then maybe it's time to learn."

Lena's chest tightened, a pressure building behind her eyes that threatened to spill over.

"And if I mess it up?" she whispered, the fear naked in her voice. "If I drag her into my chaos and she regrets it? If Lillian—"

"Then you'll deal with it," Jimmy interrupted, his voice steady and certain. "And you won't be dealing with it alone."

The promise in those words—the unwavering support despite everything she'd just confessed—made something crack inside her. A hairline fracture in the armor she'd spent a lifetime constructing.

"I don't deserve you," she murmured, blinking rapidly to dispel the moisture gathering in her eyes.

"Probably not," Jimmy agreed with a small smile that took the sting out of the words. "But you're stuck with me anyway."

The tension between them eased, not entirely gone but transformed into something more manageable. Jimmy released her hand, reaching for the tequila bottle again.

"So," he said, refilling their glasses. "About this gala. Are you going to invite her, or should I start preparing for another evening of watching you charm geriatric billionaires while secretly texting me about how much you hate everyone in the room?"

Lena's laugh came out shaky but genuine. "When you put it like that, how could I possibly deny you the joy of my running commentary?"

"Exactly." Jimmy pushed her refilled shot glass toward her. "Besides, I think it's high time I properly got to know this reporter who has you downing tequila at one in the morning and composing heartbreak ballads that'll probably win us a Grammy."

The glass made a soft scraping sound against the marble as Lena pulled it closer. "It's not like you haven't met her," she said, memories of that night at The Pit flashing through her mind—Kara's nervous smile as she sat, notebook clutched to her chest like armor, the way her eyes had widened when Lena had addressed her directly.

"For what, all of fifteen minutes backstage?" Jimmy snorted. "While you were busy being charming and mysterious, and I was trying to keep Theo from telling her about that time you fell off stage in Pittsburgh."

Heat crept up Lena's neck. "I didn't fall. The platform was unstable."

"Mmhmm." Jimmy's smile turned knowing. "My point is, I saw enough to be intrigued, but not enough to know if she's worth..." he gestured vaguely at the tequila bottle, at her disheveled appearance, at the general state of late-night emotional chaos surrounding them, "...all this."

Lena's fingers tightened around the shot glass. "There's nothing to know."

"A reporter who has you checking your phone every thirty seconds and drinking straight from bottles." Jimmy's voice softened. "Look, if she's important enough to have you this twisted up, she's important enough for me to vet properly."

"Vet?" Lena's eyebrows shot up. "She's not a potential security breach, Jimmy."

"No, but she could be a potential heartbreak." His expression turned serious. "After Andrea—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she intended. 

Jimmy held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes remained concerned. "All I'm saying is that if you invite her to this gala, I want to be there. Not just as your fake maybe-boyfriend for the cameras, but as your friend who has your back."

Something warm unfurled in Lena's chest, pushing against the cold knot of anxiety that had taken up residence there. The idea of Jimmy and Kara in the same room again sent contradictory signals racing through her nervous system—alarm bells mingling with an unexpected flutter of anticipation.

"She probably wouldn't even want to come," Lena muttered. "It's a stuffy charity event full of National City's elite patting themselves on the back for writing tax-deductible checks."

"You won't know unless you ask her." Jimmy reached for his phone, checking the time. "And considering it's now almost one-thirty in the morning, maybe that's a question for tomorrow."

Lena's stomach clenched at the thought of actually extending the invitation—of seeing Kara's name light up her screen, of hearing that warm, slightly nervous laugh that had followed her home from Noonan's. The possibility felt both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a stage looking down at thousands of upturned faces.

"I wouldn't even know how to ask," she admitted. "Hey, want to come watch me pretend to tolerate my mother for three hours while wearing uncomfortable shoes? Sounds fun, right?"

Jimmy's laugh resonated through the kitchen. "Maybe lead with 'free champagne and caviar' instead." He studied her face for a moment, his expression softening. "Or you could just be honest. Tell her you'd like to see her again, and this happens to be where you'll be Friday night."

The simplicity of his suggestion made her chest tight. Just be honest. As if honesty were something simple, something she could slip into like a comfortable sweater rather than a foreign language she'd never quite mastered.

"And if she says no?" The question emerged smaller than she intended, vulnerable in a way that made her want to snatch it back.

"Like I said, at least you'll know." Jimmy's voice was gentle. "And knowing is better than this midnight tequila séance, trying to divine her intentions from a text message."

Lena's throat constricted around words she couldn't quite form—acknowledgment that he was right, fear that she wasn't ready for whatever answer Kara might give, gratitude for his steady presence through all her self-induced chaos.

"I'll think about it," she said finally, which they both knew was as close to agreement as she could manage tonight.

Jimmy nodded, accepting the compromise. "Good." He reached for the tequila bottle, but instead of pouring another shot, he secured the cap with a decisive twist. "And now, I think we should get you some water and put this bottle away before you decide texting her at 2 AM is a brilliant idea."

"I wouldn't—" Lena began, then caught the knowing look in his eyes. "Fine. Water. Then bed."

As Jimmy moved toward the sink, Lena's gaze drifted back toward the living room where her phone lay. The thought of Kara at the gala—notebook in hand, those blue eyes taking in everything, that small crease forming between her eyebrows when she concentrated—sent an unexpected thrill through her system that had nothing to do with tequila and everything to do with possibility.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to be honest.

Not just with Kara, but with herself.

Chapter Text

GLASSHEARTS: BREAKING BOUNDARIES AND BUILDING BRIDGES

By Kara Danvers

The first time you hear Lena Luthor's voice, something shifts inside you—a tectonic movement so subtle you might miss it if you're not paying attention. But by the time she reaches the chorus of "Glasshouses," GlassHearts' breakthrough single, the ground has opened beneath your feet, and you're falling into something both terrifying and exhilarating.

This is the magic that has catapulted the National City-based quartet from local dive bars to sold-out venues in just under eighteen months. Their sound—a hypnotic blend of classical complexity and raw indie energy—defies easy categorization, which is exactly how the band prefers it.

"Labels are shortcuts for people who don't want to do the work of actually listening," says lead vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Lena Luthor, stirring her black coffee in a corner booth at Noonan's. "We're interested in creating experiences, not fitting into someone else's idea of what our music should be."

That stubborn resistance to categorization extends to every aspect of GlassHearts, from their genre-bending compositions to their electrifying stage presence. During their recent performance at The Pit, the band moved seamlessly between moments of haunting vulnerability and explosive energy, taking the audience on an emotional journey that left many visibly moved.

"Music is one of the few places where we're allowed to experience emotions without judgment," Luthor explains, leaning forward with an intensity that makes you forget you're talking to someone whose face has graced music blogs and Instagram feeds with increasing frequency. "Where we can be messy and raw and unfiltered."

This philosophy forms the backbone of GlassHearts' approach, creating spaces where authenticity trumps perfection and emotional resonance matters more than technical showmanship—though they deliver plenty of the latter as well.

The band's unusual lineup contributes to their distinctive sound. Alongside Luthor's vocals, guitar, and violin, Jimmy's guitar work provides the perfect counterpoint to his shared lead vocals with Lena, their voices intertwining in a way that feels like an intimate dialogue. The dynamic between them mirrors the electric back-and-forth of a spirited conversation, much like Manchester based band Hot Milk, where each lyric is a response, a playful push and pull that draws the audience into their world. As they trade verses, their harmonies soar, creating a vibrant tapestry of sound that captures the essence of both vulnerability and strength, inviting listeners to feel as if they are eavesdropping on a deeply personal exchange. Theodore ‘Theo’ Blackwood's innovative drumming creates rhythmic foundations that seem to breathe and evolve throughout each song, while Evan Morrison's bass lines weave through the compositions like dark ribbons, binding everything together.

"We each bring something different to the table," says Olsen, whose easy charisma balances Luthor's more intense presence both on and off stage. "Theo's got this jazz background that gives everything groove. Evan thinks in patterns and structures that none of us would come up with. And Lena—" he pauses, glancing at Luthor with unmistakable admiration, "Lena hears music in everything. She'll be washing dishes and suddenly grab her phone to record the rhythm of water hitting different surfaces."

This acute sensitivity to sound has deep roots in Luthor's classical training. A piano prodigy who studied Rachmaninoff before most children master nursery rhymes, she brings a sophisticated understanding of composition to GlassHearts' seemingly effortless melodies.

"Classical music taught me structure and discipline," she says, absently tracing patterns on the wooden table that might be piano fingerings. "But my own music taught me how to break those structures when they became prisons. How to use chaos as its own kind of architecture."

It's this tension between structure and freedom, between classical precision and rock abandon, that gives GlassHearts its distinctive edge. Their upcoming album, tentatively titled "Analog Hearts in a Digital Age," promises to push these boundaries even further, incorporating vintage synthesizers and analog recording techniques to create what Luthor describes as "something both nostalgic and completely new."

"We're not interested in perfect digital production where every note is quantized and auto-tuned," she explains, a hint of disdain creeping into her voice. "We want the warmth of analog, the beautiful imperfections that make music feel human."

This embrace of imperfection extends to their live performances, where the band deliberately leaves room for spontaneity and improvisation. During their set at The Pit, a broken guitar string became an opportunity for an unexpected violin solo that had the crowd holding their collective breath.

"Those moments of potential disaster are where the magic happens," Luthor says with a small smile that transforms her face from merely beautiful to luminous. "When you're right on the edge between control and chaos—that's where you find something real."

For a band on the verge of mainstream recognition, GlassHearts maintains a refreshing lack of calculation. While their manager, the formidable Samantha Arias, handles the business side with laser-focused efficiency, the band members themselves seem genuinely unconcerned with industry politics or commercial expectations.

"Success for us isn't about numbers," Morrison explains, his blue hair falling into his eyes as he leans back in his chair. "It's about creating something that matters to people. Something that helps them feel less alone in whatever they're going through."

This emotional authenticity resonates with their growing fanbase, who flood social media with deeply personal stories about what GlassHearts' music means to them. Many describe listening to songs like "Fault Lines" or "Transparent" as cathartic experiences that gave voice to feelings they couldn't articulate themselves.

When asked about this profound impact, Luthor becomes uncharacteristically quiet, her sea-glass eyes focusing on something distant. "That's all I've ever wanted," she finally says, her voice softer than before. "To create spaces where people can feel things honestly. To remind them what it was like before they learned to numb themselves to survive."

It's a revealing statement from someone whose public persona often reads as controlled and somewhat aloof. But spend any time with Lena Luthor, and you quickly realize that beneath her composed exterior lies someone who feels things with extraordinary intensity—and has found in music a way to translate those feelings into something universal.

As our interview winds down, I ask what she hopes people will take away from GlassHearts' music years from now. Luthor considers the question carefully, turning her coffee mug between her palms.

"I hope they remember how it felt to be completely present in a moment," she says finally. "Not analyzing or judging or comparing, just experiencing something with their whole being." A small smile curves her lips. "And maybe, if we've done our job right, they'll remember what it feels like to be broken open and put back together in the same moment."

Based on the transformative experience of seeing GlassHearts perform—and the haunting melodies that have refused to leave my head for days afterward—I'd say they're already succeeding.

GlassHearts' new single "Analog Heart" drops next month, with a full album to follow in the fall. If you have the chance to see them live before they inevitably move to larger venues, don't hesitate. Just be prepared to feel everything.

Chapter Text

7

The Invitation

Six days, twelve hours, and forty-five minutes.

That's exactly how long it had been since Kara last sat across from Lena Luthor at Noonan's, since she last felt the sticky cherry-wood table under her elbow, her notebook open but her attention fixed, unwillingly yet immovably, on the woman across from her. Not that she was counting. Because that would be weird—borderline obsessive, even for a junior reporter who's supposed to be chasing stories, not the ghosts of almost-smiles and reluctant laughter.

Except she was counting.

And not just counting, but cataloging every detail in a way that made her stomach twist with a realization she wasn't quite ready to name. The increments—down to the second, if she were being honest—had become their own kind of clockwork, ticking in the background as though her body had rewired itself to Lena's frequency. The calendar app on her phone was a graveyard of reminders she didn't need, each one a fresh little funeral for the professional detachment she kept insisting she still had.

At 7:13 this morning, a notification had appeared: "Follow up with L. Luthor?" Kara stared at it for fifteen minutes before deleting it, then re-entered the reminder for 7:18 tomorrow, as if shifting the time could shift the compulsion. Her finger had hovered over the screen, trembling slightly as she typed the letter L and watched the predictive text offer "Luthor" before she'd even finished. The ease with which technology recognized her pattern felt like an accusation.

She'd circled the block outside CatCo twice before finally entering the building, legs propelled by muscle memory while her mind played and replayed the memory of Lena's voice. Each syllable taking on new weight with every pass, as if the original sound had layers she was only now beginning to hear. The low, smoky quality when Lena had leaned closer across the table. The way she'd laughed—actually laughed—at Kara's fumbling attempt at a joke.

She couldn’t remember ever reacting to anyone quite like this. Not to Sean from accounting, whose biceps the entire office swooned over. Not to Adam Foster, Cat Grant's son, whom she'd dated briefly and with a detached sort of curiosity that she'd mistaken for butterflies. Not even to Mike from the mailroom, whose persistent charm had somehow worn her down after three attempts—though she still couldn't decide if she'd said yes out of genuine interest or mere exhaustion. Their relationship had stretched nearly a year, oscillating between moments she treasured and ones that left her wondering if she was settling. Some nights she'd stare at him sleeping beside her, simultaneously grateful for his presence and suffocated by it. When he left four months ago—abruptly, with barely an explanation—she'd cycled between relief and devastation so rapidly it made her dizzy. But even at their most intimate, Mike's touch had never made her skin tingle like the mere thought of Lena Luthor did now. Mike had been a well-worn sweater—Lena was lightning striking twice in the same place, leaving Kara's skin electric long after the sky cleared.

Kara pressed her palm against her thigh as the elevator glided upward, her fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the navy slacks she'd ironed twice this morning. The movement was involuntary, a Morse code of nerves that betrayed her practiced nonchalance. When she closed her eyes she could still see it: the way Lena's fingers—callused at the tips from strings of various instruments, but otherwise elegant—had brushed against hers during the handoff of the crumpled scrap of paper torn from her own notebook.

The jolt of electricity still lingered in her memory, a vivid reminder of the moment their fingers had brushed. She could almost feel the tiny tremor that raced through her wrist, sending a shiver up her arm and igniting something. Since that day, she had replayed the encounter countless times, each recollection peeling back layers, searching for hidden meanings or signals she might have overlooked. Every morning, she would find herself lost in thought, dissecting the nuances of that fleeting connection, as if it held the key to understanding the whirlwind of emotions that followed.

Oh, she thought, the realization settling like sediment as she met her own wide-eyed gaze in the elevator's polished surface. Oh no.

Because this wasn't professional curiosity.

This wasn't even friendly interest.

This was something that made her chest tight and her palms damp.

This was something that made her wonder what Lena's hair smelled like and whether her lipstick would taste like cherries or wine or something else entirely.

She wondered if Lena had replayed those moments, too.

If women who looked like that—who carried themselves with that kind of confidence, who commanded rooms with a single raised eyebrow—ever lay awake replaying moments with awkward reporters who wore cardigans and sensible shoes.

The scrap of notebook paper lived in her wallet now, tucked behind her CatCo ID like a secret she was keeping even from herself. Kara could feel its presence through the canvas of her messenger bag—a rectangular phantom, paper-thin but somehow massive in its gravitational pull. She'd memorized the sequence of digits within hours of receiving them, had even whispered them under her breath while waiting for her oatmeal to finish in the microwave this morning. 6-1-9-5-5-7-9-8-2-1*. Ten numbers that somehow contained all the potential energy of a collapsing star.

But seeing them in Lena's handwriting was different from merely knowing them. The way the 7 slanted slightly forward, as if leaning into the future. The barely perceptible hesitation in the final digit, where the pen had paused before completing its arc, ink pooling in a microscopic dot at the base of the 1.

Had Lena second-guessed herself in that moment?

Wondered if this was just professional courtesy or something she actually wanted?

"Earth to Kara," Nia's voice broke through her reverie, the words tinged with amusement. "You've been staring at the floor numbers like they're written in hieroglyphics."

Kara's vision snapped back into focus, the fluorescent elevator lights suddenly harsh against her retinas. Nia's concerned face swam into view on her left while Winn hovered anxiously on her right, white-knuckling his laptop bag against his chest as if preparing for impact, his gaze ping-ponging between them.

"Sorry," Kara mumbled, adjusting her glasses. "Just... thinking about the article."

"The GlassHearts piece?" Winn perked up, his voice rising half an octave. "The one you'd been obsessively editing for the past week? The one you made me read three different versions of yesterday before turning it in?"

"I wasn't obsessing," Kara protested, feeling heat creep up her neck. "I was being thorough."

Nia snorted. "You spell-checked it four times. I watched you."

The elevator climbed, each floor marked by a soft thunk that seemed to echo inside Kara's chest. She caught her reflection in the brushed metal walls—a stranger wearing her clothes. Blonde hair escaped her ponytail in rebellious wisps. Her glasses sat crooked. The navy slacks and pink button-up that had carried her through countless dates with Mike and Adam, with every man who'd ever held her hand, now felt like a costume that no longer fit. She tugged at her collar with unsteady fingers, the ghost of Lena's gaze still burning against her skin from that first night, at The Pit. The woman staring back wasn't the reporter who'd built her career on objective distance. This woman's thoughts drifted to red lipstick instead of five o'clock shadows, to soft curves instead of hard angles.

Nia's eyes caught Kara's in the elevator's polished surface. "You look fine," she said softly, misreading Kara's scrutiny as vanity rather than existential crisis. "Though if you keep staring at your reflection like that, I'm going to start thinking you've been body-snatched."

Kara quickly looked away, certain her thoughts about Lena must be visible on her face like neon signage.

Winn laughed nervously. "That would explain the weird energy. Are you actually Kara or some pod-person version who's forgotten how to act human?"

"Just thinking about follow-up angles," she managed, voice distant. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Could they tell? Was it obvious?

"For the article that's already gone to print?" Nia's eyebrow arched. "The one I watched you refresh seventeen times yesterday?"

Heat crawled up Kara's neck. She folded her arms across her chest as if she could physically shield her thoughts from their scrutiny. "It wasn't seventeen times."

"Twenty-three," Winn corrected, fidgeting with his laptop strap. "I was counting."

Kara adjusted her glasses, certain the gesture screamed guilty. "Just checking for typos."

"And I'm sure it has nothing to do with a certain green-eyed musician," Nia said, her knowing tone making Kara's stomach drop.

"How did you—" Kara's head snapped toward her friend.

"You've been staring at that phone like it contains nuclear launch codes," Nia said. "Your face gives everything away, Kara. Always has."

The elevator chimed softly as they reached their floor, the doors sliding open to reveal the bustling CatCo bullpen. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the space with a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the cool, recessed lighting overhead. Kara smoothed her slacks, double checking her blouse was properly buttoned. Three different reporters huddled around Siobhan’s desk, their voices dropping conspiratorially as Kara and her friends passed. The air thrummed with the sounds of ringing phones and snippets of conversations, punctuated by the whir of coffee machines working tirelessly in the background. Cat's heels clicked somewhere nearby—the sound that usually sent everyone scurrying to look productive now barely registered against the thundering in Kara's chest.

Everyone at CatCo knew exactly what they'd get from Kara Danvers: meticulous fact-checking, clean copy, zero drama.

But suddenly here she was, standing in the epicenter of her obsessively managed universe, and feeling like the only person on earth whose threads had come undone in broad daylight.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kara muttered, clutching her bag tighter against her side as they stepped into the office.

"Look," Nia said, catching Kara's elbow and pulling her aside as Winn headed toward his desk, casting a curious glance back at them. "Whatever's happening with you and Lena Luthor—"

"Nothing's happening," Kara interrupted, the words bursting from her like water from a broken pipe—too forceful, too sudden. An intern three desks away jerked his head up at the sound. Kara hunched her shoulders and leaned closer to Nia, her next words barely audible even in the small space between them. "Nothing is happening. She's just... she's a source. That’s all."

Nia cocked her head. "Right. Just a source. That's why you came back from that coffee shop looking like someone had short-circuited your brain. You literally walked face-first into the same door. Twice."

Kara winced at the memory. "I was distracted."

"Yeah, by thoughts of Lena Luthor's—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Kara hissed, glancing around nervously. "Please, Nia."

Nia studied her for a moment, her expression softening. "You know it would be okay, right? If you were... interested in her. That way."

Kara's lungs seized, her breath catching as if she'd walked into an invisible wall. The careful fortress she'd built around her feelings—brick by mental brick—seemed to crumble under Nia's words, leaving her standing in the debris of her own denial. Having someone else voice what she'd refused to name felt like being caught naked in public—nowhere to hide, no explanation that wouldn't sound like a lie even to her own ears.

Kara's mouth opened and closed twice before any sound emerged. "That's not—this isn't—" Her fingers twisted together as if trying to physically knot her thoughts into coherence. "My dating history is exclusively male. One hundred percent."

Winn drifted back over, no longer carrying his computer bag, a coffee mug cradled between his hands like a crystal ball. "Exclusively male dating pool? Please don't tell me Mike's texting you again. That relationship circumnavigated from bad to worse and back to—"

"We're not discussing my love life," Kara interrupted, her eyes darting to Nia with silent desperation. "Just brainstorming a piece I might write."

"On... men you've dated?" Winn's forehead creased.

Nia leaned against the nearest desk. "On stepping outside comfort zones," she clarified, her voice casual but her eyes watchful. "Exploring new territory."

Winn's smile tightened at the corners, his eyes not quite matching the upward curve of his lips. "Well, as your friend who cares about your professional reputation," he said, voice a touch too casual, "I'd say stick with what you know. No need to... expand into potentially complicated territory."

Kara's stomach knotted. The careful dance they'd perfected over years—his lingering gazes, her strategic obliviousness, the way he always saved her the last potsticker despite claiming to love them—suddenly felt transparent in the recessed office lighting. They'd built their friendship on the unspoken agreement never to acknowledge the current running beneath it. Now, watching him fidget with his coffee mug's handle, his knuckles white with tension, Kara felt the weight of her own hypocrisy pressing against her chest.

"I should get to my desk," Kara said, desperate to escape this conversation before it veered any further into territory she wasn't prepared to navigate. "Snapper's going to want those edits on the city council piece by noon."

As she turned to leave, Nia caught her hand, squeezing it gently. "Hey. For what it's worth? That article? It was really good, Kara. You made her sound... real. Like someone worth knowing."

Something twisted in Kara's chest—hope, fear, longing, she couldn't tell which. All she knew was that the piece of paper in her wallet suddenly felt heavier than ever, and the day stretched before her like an obstacle course she wasn't sure she had the energy to run.

"Thanks," she managed, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll see you guys at lunch?"

As Kara walked away from Nia and Winn, she heard Winn mutter something that landed like a stone in her stomach.

"She's going to get her heart broken," he said, voice low but not quite low enough.

Nia's response drifted after her: "Or maybe she'll finally figure out what she wants."

The words clung to her back like cobwebs as she rounded the corner toward her desk, mentally rehearsing more convincing defenses of her purely professional interest in Lena Luthor. She'd cite journalistic curiosity. Career advancement. The natural follow-up angles that any good reporter would pursue. She'd—

Kara stopped dead in her tracks.

Someone was sitting at her desk.

Not just someone.

The latest issue of CatCo Magazine obscured the intruder's face, held open to the exact pages where Kara's article appeared—the glossy centerfold spread with its bold headline “GLASSHEARTS: BREAKING BOUNDARIES AND BUILDING BRIDGES” catching the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Long, elegant fingers adorned with an assortment of silver rings gripped the paper's edges, nails painted obsidian black, gleaming like wet ink except for the middle finger of the right hand where the polish had chipped away, revealing a perfect crescent of pale, alabaster skin beneath.

A pair of limited-edition Chuck Taylor Hightops rested atop Kara's meticulously color-coded stack of research notes, ankles crossed with casual, disregard for the papers beneath them. The shoes were unmistakable—custom teal canvas to match the electric blue-green tips of their owner's raven hair, scuffed at the toes, and covered in what looked like handwritten lyrics from The Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go" scrawled in metallic silver marker along the canvas. One foot bounced against the other in that restless, impatient rhythm Kara had noticed that night at The Pit, when Lena had perched on the arm of the threadbare velvet loveseat beside Jimmy, her fingers drumming the same cadence against her own thigh.

Kara's heart slammed against her ribs, then seemed to drop into her stomach before ricocheting back up to lodge in her throat, each beat a thunderous percussion that drowned out the office noise. A flush of heat blazed up her neck like wildfire, turning her pale skin crimson as it climbed past her collarbone, scorching her cheeks and reaching her hairline. The soft cotton of her button-down—previously unremarkable—now scraped against her hypersensitive skin like sandpaper, every thread suddenly, acutely perceptible.

She became hyper-aware of her own breathing—too shallow, too quick, like a hummingbird trapped in her chest. The lights overhead seemed to brighten to an unbearable intensity while the sounds of the office—ringing phones, keyboard clicks, the hiss of the espresso machine—receded to a distant hum, replaced by the thunderous rush of blood in her ears. Six days, twelve hours, and forty-seven minutes since she'd last seen Lena, and now here she was, occupying Kara's space as if she belonged there, one leg crossed over the other with casual confidence that made Kara's knees feel like melting candle wax.

The squeak of leather oxfords announced Winn's arrival behind her. His breath hitched audibly.

"Holy sh—" he started, voice breaking like a teenage boy’s.

A dull thump followed by Winn's exhale told Kara that Nia had just elbowed him. "Would you look at that," Nia said, loud enough to reach the desk. "Looks like your text message problem just solved itself."

Slowly, the magazine tilted downward, and there she was—the woman whose features had been interrupting Kara's sleep for a week.

Lena Luthor's eyes met hers—green as absinthe, in the direct light, and twice as intoxicating. A single dark eyebrow arched upward, the gesture somehow both question and challenge as her gaze flicking from Winn to Nia and back to Kara. Her lips, painted the deep burgundy of spilled wine, curved into a half-smile that sent heat crawling up Kara's spine. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, the teal tips catching the light.

Kara's fingers twitched with the forbidden impulse to reach out and touch it, to discover if it felt as silken as she imagined.

The oversized band t-shirt Lena wore slipped off one shoulder, revealing a constellation of freckles scattered across her pale skin that made Kara's mouth go dry. A tattoo she somehow hadn't noticed before peeked from behind Lena's ear, trailing down the side of her neck in an indecipherable script that Kara's fingers itched to translate through touch rather than sight. She struggled to tear her eyes from that strip of bare skin where shoulder met neck—the hollow there catching shadow.

"Kara Danvers." Lena's voice wrapped around her name like velvet-covered steel, snapping Kara back to reality with the force of a rubber band pulled too tight and suddenly released. Had Lena caught her staring at the hollow of her throat? Lena's burgundy lips formed a knowing smile that stopped short of her eyes, which instead took in Kara with such surgical examination that Kara felt her thoughts might as well have been projected on the wall behind her in 72-point font. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

The accusation caught Kara off guard.

Her lips parted, but the connection between brain and vocal cords had severed completely. She swallowed hard, heat crawling up her neck as she felt Nia and Winn hovering behind her, silent witnesses to her transformation into a stammering mess.

"I—I wasn't," Kara managed, her voice cracking slightly on the second word. "Avoiding you, I mean. Why would I be avoiding you? That would be... weird. And unprofessional. And I'm very professional. As you know. From our professional interactions." She clamped her mouth shut, horrified at the word vomit that had just spilled out.

One perfect eyebrow lifted slowly upward, the rest of Lena's face remaining still as stone—like a chess player who'd just watched an opponent make a particularly transparent move. Her feet dropped from the desk in a single fluid motion, Chuck Taylors hitting the carpet without a sound. The magazine fell shut between her fingers with a whisper of glossy pages colliding.

"Professional," Lena repeated, the word rolling off her tongue like she was tasting something exotic and slightly distasteful. Her lips remained curled at the corners, not quite a smile but something more dangerous. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The crawling up Kara's neck settled in her cheeks at Lena's words.

Oh God. She knows. She absolutely knows.

Kara's mouth opened, but the carefully constructed sentences she'd rehearsed—all seventy-two variations of them, constructed since Noonan’s—evaporated like morning dew. Her tongue felt thick and uncooperative, her vocal cords paralyzed by the sudden certainty that Lena had somehow read every inappropriate thought she'd ever had.

Lena's eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the panic that must be written across Kara's face in flashing neon. The silence stretched between them, elastic and suffocating, until Lena finally broke it.

"You know, for someone who writes so eloquently," she said, tapping a black-polished nail against the magazine in her hand, "you are remarkably tongue-tied in person." She leaned forward slightly, the movement causing her oversized band t-shirt to slip further down her shoulder, revealing the delicate ridge of her collarbone. "I find that paradox... intriguing."

"You're sitting at my desk," Kara finally managed, her voice coming out higher than she intended. She immediately regretted the banality of the observation. Of all the things she could have said after Lena Luthor—rock star, billionaire, subject of her currently most persistent daydreams—had just called her intriguing, and her brain produced the conversational equivalent of pointing at the sky and announcing it was blue.

Lena's eyebrow arched upward again, the corner of her mouth twitching as she pressed her lips together, fighting what might have been genuine amusement. "Excellent observational skills," she drawled, her voice dropping to that lower register that had haunted Kara's dreams for six days, twelve hours, and forty-nine minutes. "The hallmark of any good journalist."

Winn's barely suppressed laughter crashed over Kara, making her shrink into herself. Her shoulders curled forward as her face flooded with heat. She felt the blood pulsing in her cheeks, so hot and sudden that she glanced down, half-expecting to see steam rising from her skin or condensation forming on her glasses.

"What I meant was—you're the last person I thought I'd find waiting at my desk this morning. Or-any morning."

Something flickered across Lena's face—a brief crack in her composure, there and gone so quickly Kara might have imagined it. She tapped the magazine against her palm, the soft slap of glossy paper against skin oddly startling.

"Clearly," Lena said, her tone softer now, less teasing. "I thought after writing this—" she held up the magazine, "—you might have expected some response."

Kara felt as though someone had replaced her insides with a vacuum, leaving nothing but a hollow, sinking sensation where her confidence had been a week ago. "I sent a digital copy to Ms. Arias before it went to print," she said, finally retrieving a fraction of the polished reporter tone that had been buried beneath layers of mortification. "When I didn't hear back, I assumed..."

"That I hated it?" Lena supplied, tilting her head slightly to one side. A single raven strand escaped her severe ponytail, falling in a perfect S-curve that traced the sharp edge of her jawline before coming to rest against the pale column of her throat. The contrast was striking—dark against light, soft against hard—drawing Kara's gaze like a magnet finding true north. "Or that I loved it?"

"Either," Kara admitted, the word escaping on an exhale. "Both. I don't know."

The admission tumbled out more honestly than Kara had wanted to be. She felt naked suddenly, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her clothing and everything to do with the way Lena was looking at her. Those sea-glass eyes seemed to peel away the professional veneer like old wallpaper, revealing every confused feeling and inappropriate thought Kara had tried to plaster over since their first meeting.

The sharp edges of Lena's expression softened like ice melting at the first touch of spring. "You could have texted," she said simply.

Kara's phone felt suddenly heavier in her pocket, the ghost of that pathetic "Thank you for your time" text she'd sent three days ago burning against her thigh. Her fingers twitched with the memory of typing, deleting, and retyping a dozen more meaningful messages that never made it past her drafts folder.

"I was going to," she admitted, the confession tumbling out unbidden. "I just couldn't figure out what to say."

"'Hello' is generally considered a safe opening in most social circles," Lena suggested, one corner of her mouth lifting as she pushed herself up from the chair. She rounded the desk, each step bringing her closer into Kara's orbit.

The words tumbled out before Kara could stop them. "Are you here alone?" Her voice pitched higher on the last word, the question hanging between them like a misplaced note. She felt her cheeks flush as she realized how it sounded—not the casual deflection she'd intended, but something far more personal.

Lena's eyebrow performed that perfect arch again, higher this time, transforming her face into a mask of elegant skepticism that wouldn't look out of place during an interrogation. "Obviously," she said, perching on the edge of the desk. She crossed her arms, causing the worn band t-shirt to pull taut across her chest. "Why? Did you think I'd bring backup for this conversation?" The corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Or were you hoping to see Jimmy?"

The way Lena said "Jimmy" made Kara's stomach twist into a sailor's knot. Her voice had lingered on the name just a half-second too long, stretching it like taffy, sweet with implication. Kara swallowed hard. Every question she'd carefully avoided asking during their interviews must have been written across her face in bold, neon letters, blinking like the "vacancy" sign at a roadside motel.

The sound of Winn clearing his throat cut through the tension like a lifeline. Kara's shoulders dropped a half-inch as he fumbled for words.

"I should probably..." His thumb jabbed over his shoulder, then he spun so quickly he clipped a trash can with his shin. The container teetered, threatening to spill, before settling back into place. Kara silently thanked him for the momentary diversion from Lena's piercing gaze.

Nia, bless her, stepped forward with the easy self-assurance that had gotten Kara through countless awkward moments.

"Nia Nal," she said, hand outstretched, voice clear as a bell. "The friend who forced Kara into going to your show last week."

Kara exhaled slowly, grateful for the chance to collect herself as Lena's attention shifted.

"Ah, the mysterious no-show," Lena said, taking Nia's hand. "Sam gave quite the colorful description of you."

Nia's eyes widened. "Traffic was apocalyptic that night—like, biblical plague levels. Major pileup on the Wilcox." She shrugged, her casual tone betrayed by the slight bounce on her toes. "Sam described me? Wow." Her gaze slid to Kara, lips quirking upward. "Can I just mention how Kara wouldn't stop talking about your set for days? Especially that thing with your voice in 'Glasshouses'—" she traced a dramatic arc in the air with her finger, "—when you hit the bridge."

The brief sanctuary Nia's intervention had offered crumbled around Kara as her friend continued speaking. Her face went from warm to nuclear. "Nia has a meeting," she cut in, voice pitched higher than intended. She shot Nia a look that could have melted steel, her eyes widening in silent, desperate plea. "Right, Nia?"

Nia's eyes widened with feigned confusion. "Meeting?" Her gaze flicked to Kara's death glare, and understanding dawned instantly. "Right! That crucial… meeting I absolutely cannot miss." She deposited the coffee carrier on Kara's desk with the delicacy of someone handling nitroglycerin. "These are for you. Duty calls."

As she retreated, Nia's thumbs flew in an exaggerated pantomime of texting while her lips formed the words "TEXT ME EVERYTHING”, her eyebrows bouncing with each syllable as she walked backwards, nearly colliding with the water cooler. The performance might as well have been broadcast over the office PA system for how subtle it wasn't.

And then they were alone—or as alone as two people could be in the middle of a bustling newsroom. The office commotion faded to white noise. Kara shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hyper-aware of the coffee stain blooming across her shirt like a Rorschach test. Lena's eyes—those impossible sea-glass eyes—tracked the movement, lingered on the stain, then drifted upward. Her lips quirked slightly, not quite a smile. What did she see? The eager reporter? A typical fangirl who had gushed about her music? A woman desperately longing to blend into the world of someone like Lena Luthor? Whatever Lena was searching for in her face, Kara feared she would find it—all the midnight thoughts, the replayed conversations, the dangerous curiosity that had nothing to do with journalistic integrity.

Lena reached forward, plucking the forgotten pen from behind Kara's ear. "Your byline photo doesn't do you justice," she murmured, close enough now that Kara caught the faint scent of expensive perfume. Kara froze, unable to breathe as Lena's fingertips grazed the sensitive skin near her temple. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second too long. "Though I must say," Lena added, twirling the pen between her fingers, "this whole absent-minded reporter thing is very Clark Kent of you."

Kara's fingers drifted to the spot behind her ear where the pen had rested. "I completely forgot it was there," she admitted, unable to look away as Lena twirled the ballpoint with nimble fingers, each rotation sending an inexplicable current down Kara's spine. She tore her eyes away to stare at the stack of papers on her desk, heat crawling up her neck. Her gaze landed on a memo about downtown rezoning—the most boring possible lifeline. "Been drowning in zoning regulations since dawn,” she blurted. “The kind of mind-numbing paperwork that makes you fantasize about quitting journalism to become—I don't know—one of those people who professionally cuddles other people's cats."

A laugh burst from Lena's throat—a startled, genuine sound that seemed to surprise her as much as Kara. "Well," she said, leaning forward just enough to make Kara's breath catch, "if you're in the market for feline companionship, I happen to have a cat that could use some... professional attention." The way she lingered on the word "professional" transformed it into something else entirely. Before Kara could stammer out a response to the loaded innuendo, Lena mercifully changed course. "Is that why you haven't texted?" she asked, her voice returning to that velvet-wrapped steel that vibrated through Kara's chest and settled somewhere beneath her ribs. "Too busy with riveting municipal regulations?"

Lena's words were teasing, but her voice hitched on the last syllable—a nearly imperceptible break that Kara might have missed if she hadn't spent hours replaying their previous conversations in her head. Beneath the casual inquiry lay something raw and unguarded. Kara's chest tightened as realization dawned: Lena Luthor, who commanded stages with the sound of her voice, had been checking her phone for a message. Waiting. For her. The thought flickered to life inside Kara, warm and dangerous as a lit match hovering over kindling.

Kara's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "No," she admitted, steadier now. "I typed out seventeen different messages. Then deleted every single one." Her fingers found her glasses, nudging them higher. "There was the 'just Hi' with the smiley face. No, wait—the thumbs up. No, both?" She shook her head. "Then I wrote this whole thing analyzing the minor-to-major shift in 'Glasshouses' that would've made my college music professor cringe. I kept second-guessing which... me... you might prefer to hear from."

"Seventeen?" Her lips curved upward at the corners, eyes warming like sunlight through stained glass, a private expression that seemed to say she'd been hoping for this exact admission. "Most people give up after three."

Kara's shoulders hunched slightly. "I wrote seventeen versions and sent exactly none of them." She adjusted her glasses again, buying time. "I kept wondering if you gave me your number because I was writing that article, or if you..." The words evaporated on her tongue, leaving behind only the ghost of what she couldn't bring herself to ask.

Lena moved closer, just half a step, but enough that Kara caught her scent again—hints of bergamot and jasmine. Three freckles dotted Lena's cheekbone, barely visible beneath foundation. "I should clarify something," she murmured, her voice so quiet Kara felt it more than heard it. "When I want to talk to a journalist professionally, my publicist makes those calls. When I give someone my personal number—the one you've been drafting messages to but not sending—that's entirely different."

Kara's heart hammered against her ribs. "So you meant—"

"Exactly what you think."

Kara's skin flushed hot beneath her collar, the heat climbing toward her jawline as Lena's eyes dropped to her mouth. The office chaos—a stapler clattering against a desk, a phone's three-ring surrender to voicemail—faded to nothing. The newsroom dissolved until only Lena remained in focus. Those impossible eyes like sea glass tumbled smooth, lips curved just enough to suggest possibility, the invisible thread of electricity stretching taut between them.

Lena Luthor hadn't given her that number for an interview or a quote.

She'd wanted Kara to call her.

Just Kara.

Lena's lips quirked upward at the corner—a half-moon curve that created the faintest dimple in her left cheek. For a fleeting moment, her gaze dropped to the floor, long black lashes fanning against her cheeks. Her index finger absently tucked that wayward strand of raven hair behind her ear, the silver cuff bracelet at her wrist catching the light. It was a gesture so uncharacteristically hesitant, so unlike the commanding presence Kara had witnessed before, that she nearly missed it. When those sea-glass eyes lifted again—green fading into a blue like the shallow waters of some tropical shore—they held a vulnerability that softened the sharp angles of her face, transforming her from untouchable rock star to something achingly human.

"I..." Kara swallowed. "That's—I mean, I should have—"

"Breathe, Kara," Lena whispered. She leaned her weight back against the desk, putting those crucial few inches between them that allowed oxygen to finally reach Kara's brain again. "I didn't come here to watch you have a panic attack."

Kara's mind finally rebooted, oxygen returning to her brain cells one by one. Her mouth opened before any coherent thought had fully formed. "Why did you come?" The question hung there, embarrassingly direct after such a charged moment.

"To thank you," Lena answered, tapping the magazine against her thigh, her rhythm slightly off-beat. "For this. For seeing me—" she faltered, eyes darting away briefly before returning to Kara's face, "—seeing us—the way you did."

Kara shrugged, her cheeks warming. "I just wrote down what I experienced. Anyone could’ve done it." Her fingers worried the corner of a manila folder until it creased into a knife-edge. She glanced up through her lashes. "You, though—when you sing, I watched two hundred people forget to exhale until you give them permission."

A flush of pink crept up Lena's neck, staining her pale cheeks with color that even her carefully applied makeup couldn't hide. She ducked her head slightly, one hand rising to brush imaginary hair from her face. "Most journalists," she said, her voice pitched just a touch higher than before, "focus on the Luthor angle. The black sheep daughter rebelling against her corporate dynasty. Or they fixate on the relationship speculation."

The words "relationship speculation" hit Kara like a bucket of ice water. "Between you and Jimmy," she blurted, her voice suddenly tight. Her stomach twisted into a knot as her mind conjured up unwanted images like a cruel slideshow—Jimmy's thumb brushing away a crimson smear from Lena's lower lip, his palm settling at the nape of her neck, the two of them disappearing into shadow behind amplifiers and cables, the crowd's roar drowning out whatever whispered words passed between them. She'd spent all week trying not to think about it, and now here she was, practically demanding confirmation of the very thing that would extinguish the fragile hope flickering to life between them.

The look Lena gave her made Kara feel utterly transparent, as if those sea-glass eyes were skimming through her thoughts like pages in a book, lingering on the passages Kara most wanted to keep private. "Yes. That particular fiction seems to fascinate people."

Kara's voice cracked on the single word. "Fiction?" Her teeth caught her bottom lip, trying to trap the naked hope that threatened to spill out.

"Jimmy and I have a... long and complicated history," Lena explained, leaning in slightly and dropping her voice to just above a whisper, her fingers tightening around the magazine. Her eyes darted briefly to the bustling newsroom beyond Kara's desk. "But we're not together. Not the way people think."

Kara's pulse skipped three beats in succession, a feeling like missing the last step on a staircase, while heat crawled up her neck to settle like a weight across her shoulders. She'd just constructing an entire narrative about these two people without bothering to ask, just like every other reporter Lena probably dealt with. "I shouldn't have assumed," she said, the words feeling inadequate against the weight of her presumption.

"Everyone assumes," Lena said with a small shrug that didn't quite disguise the tension in her shoulders. "And sometimes it's... convenient... to let them run their own narratives."

Kara's mind raced to decode what lay beneath Lena's careful phrasing, each possibility more dizzying than the last.

Lena's eyes widened slightly, her lips forming a small 'oh' as she slipped her hand into the back pocket of her jeans. "There's something else," she said, her voice softening with the sudden recollection. She produced a small envelope, cream-colored and substantial, Kara's name flowing across the front in elegant script. "Tomorrow night. The Luthor Children's Hospital gala." Her eyes flicked upward, a flash of exasperation crossing her face. "You know the type—black tie, champagne that costs more than a month’s rent, rich people talking about pediatric medicine between business deals." The corner of her nose twitched with subtle disdain before she leaned in, her voice dropping to something barely audible again, stripped of its usual armor. "They're expecting the prodigal daughter to make an appearance. I thought perhaps you'd consider attending with me."

Kara's fingers traced the edge of the envelope, its cream-colored paper suddenly heavy. "You want me there as a reporter?" she asked, her voice catching slightly on the last word.

Lena held her gaze, something shifting in those eyes. "I could invite you as press," she said, each word measured, hanging in the narrow space. Her voice dropped half an octave. "But I'd rather not."

"Then what would I be?" Kara asked, the words tumbling out before she could catch them, her heartbeat suddenly so loud in her ears she wondered if Lena could hear it too. The floor beneath her seemed to drop away, leaving her suspended in freefall.

Lena's lips curved upward, the smile reaching her eyes this time. She leaned in slightly, close enough that Kara caught the faint scent of her perfume again.

Lena's lips curved around the words, "You'd be my date, Ms. Danvers,” the final syllable barely audible as Kara's heartbeat surged louder.

The room tilted slightly.

Kara's fingers went numb, curling around the envelope as she stood rooted to the spot. The sunlight streaming through the windows blurred at the edges of her vision, and she realized she'd forgotten to breathe.

In the space between heartbeats, something flickered across Lena's face—another downward glance, a hairline crack in the perfect porcelain of her composure. Then it vanished, replaced by unwavering certainty as those impossible green-blue eyes captured hers again, the connection between them almost audibly crackling in the narrow space that separated their bodies.

Kara's throat closed up as her mind scrambled to find any words at all. "I'd—" she finally managed, her voice emerging steadier than the sudden aviary of hummingbirds that had taken up residence beneath her ribs, "—really like that. The date part specifically. Not that I don't want to be a reporter there too. Or maybe I do? Both? Neither? God, listen to me, I'm just—" She pressed her lips together, cheeks burning. "—talking and talking and not stopping."

Lena's laugh was soft but real, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I think I followed all of that." She pushed herself away from the desk, standing close enough that Kara could see the different shades of green in her irises, the dark ring of blue around the outside. "It's nice, actually. Most people I meet rehearse every word before they speak to me. You just... say whatever you're thinking."

Kara's fingers fumbled with her glasses, pushing them up her nose even though they hadn't slipped. "Bold of you to assume I think first," she blurted, then immediately felt heat rush to her face. She tried again, “I just... is that okay? That my brain-to-mouth filter is apparently broken around you?"

"I find it refreshing," Lena said simply.

The space between them had shrunk to nothing more than a whisper, close enough that Kara could count Lena's eyelashes if she tried.

"The gala starts at eight," Lena continued, retreating just enough to let reality seep back into the space between them. "I'll send a car for you. Unless you'd prefer to meet there?"

Kara's words tumbled out in a rush. "A car? Yes—I mean, that works." She pictured Alex peering through the blinds, jaw dropping as a vehicle worth more than their annual rent combined idled at the curb of her building with its peeling paint and forever-broken buzzer. Her stomach performed an elaborate gymnastics routine—equal parts Olympic gold and spectacular failure. "The Luthor Children's Hospital gala," she added, testing the weight of those words on her tongue. "I've only ever seen pictures."

Lena's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. "Lucky you. The room will be packed with people who donate just enough to get their names on a plaque but not enough to actually help anyone. They'll pretend to care about sick children for exactly as long as the photographers are present. But that champagne is decent." She leaned closer, her voice warming. "And for once, I may actually have a reason to look forward to it. Something about the promise of your company makes even the most tedious obligations feel like they might hold a spark of possibility."

Kara's skin tingled with electric warmth that spread from her neck down her spine, settling like honey in her stomach. Lena's words—that casual admission that Kara's company might transform a tedious obligation into something shimmering with possibility—hung in the air between them, delicate and dangerous as spun glass.

Then Lena reached forward without warning, cool fingertips brushing against Kara's neck to straighten her collar. Kara's breath caught, her chest constricting as if someone had tightened an invisible band around her ribs—the same breathless sensation that had ambushed her repeatedly since finding Lena sitting at her desk. The touch sent electricity racing across Kara's skin, each point of contact like tiny sparks igniting beneath the surface. Time slowed, the air between them growing thick and syrupy as Lena's manicured nails grazed the sensitive hollow of her throat. The sudden proximity—close enough to see the nearly invisible freckle at the corner of her left eye—made Kara's half-formed response evaporate, leaving her mouth slightly parted, wordless.

"It was tucked under itself," she explained, her voice low enough that Kara had to lean in to catch it. "It was bothering me."

Kara couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Those fingertips—cool and precise—lingered at the edge of her collarbone a heartbeat too long. The touch left invisible marks, heat spreading beneath her skin like ink through water.

"I—" Kara managed, the single syllable barely escaping her throat.

Lena stepped back, re-creating the space between them that felt both necessary and disappointing. "I should go. Some of us have rehearsal instead of exciting zoning regulations to read." The teasing lilt in her voice made Kara's heart stutter, but there was something softer in Lena's expression now—a gentle satisfaction rather than the calculated playfulness from before. "Wear something that makes you feel powerful tomorrow night. The Luthors can smell fear."

Her skin still tingled where Lena's fingers had brushed her collar. "Is that what you do?" she asked, mind still fixed on that fleeting touch. "Wear armor to family functions?"

Lena's eyes darkened, the green momentarily eclipsed by something haunted. "Every single time.”

Before Kara could form a response, Lena reached down for her messenger bag. The leather was cracked at the corners, softened by years of handling. As she swung the bag onto her shoulder, her oversized shirt lifted just enough to expose a sliver of skin above her hip. Kara caught the edge of another tattoo there—dark lines against alabaster—and her mouth went dry. For a suspended moment, she couldn't look away, imagination filling in what remained hidden. Was it flowing script? Geometric patterns? Something that continued down beneath the fabric where no one was meant to see? Kara wrenched her gaze upward, pulse thundering in her ears as she forced her attention back to Lena's face.

"Tomorrow at eight, then." She tilted her head, eyes lingering on Kara's face. "And if you find yourself with nothing to do tonight, my phone will be on. Even just a 'hello' with whatever emojis feel right to you. I'm curious what your selection might reveal."

With that, she turned and walked away, the confidence in her stride belied only by the slight hesitation before she pushed through the glass doors of the office. Kara watched her go, the envelope clutched in suddenly sweaty palms, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

Kara sank into her chair, legs suddenly unreliable. Her skin still burned where Lena's fingers had touched her collar. She pressed her own hand to the spot, as if to trap the sensation before it faded. From across the room, she caught Nia's wide-eyed stare and Winn's barely concealed shock.

Had they witnessed everything?

The thought sent a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her back to reality. With trembling fingers, she pulled it out, half-expecting to see Lena's name.

Instead, it was Alex.

Lunch?🍕

Kara stared at the screen, her sister's simple text suddenly impossibly complex. She needed air. Space. Time to process the whirlwind that had just torn through her carefully ordered life and rearranged everything. She glanced down at the envelope in her hand, running her thumb over the elegant script of her name, the paper texture under her fingertips like a promise she wasn't sure she was ready to keep.

Chapter Text

8

Tangled Thoughts Over Lunch

Kara traced her fingertip along the edge of the heavy cream envelope, the embossed Luthor logo catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. 

"So," Nia said, once again materializing beside Kara's desk in a blur of floral perfume and jangling bracelets, her dark eyes wide and expectant beneath her perfectly arched brows. "Are we going to talk about what just happened, or are you going to keep staring at that envelope like it's from outer space?"

Kara jumped, nearly dropping her phone a second time in as many minutes. The device clattered against her keyboard. "Nothing happened," she said automatically, her voice cracking on the second word, the denial so transparent that heat crawled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks.

Nia dropped into the chair opposite Kara's desk, the pleather squeaking beneath her as she crossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, hands clasped in front of her like a conspirator about to share a juicy secret.

"Nothing happened," Nia repeated, her voice flat as week-old soda. Her eyebrow arched upward—a poor imitation of Lena's elegant skepticism that lacked the woman's practiced stoicism. "That's why you're the color of a fire engine and clutching that cream envelope like it contains the last oxygen on Earth, your knuckles turning white around the embossed gold lettering."

Kara's fingers loosened their death grip on the invitation. "She invited me to a gala," she said, her voice pitched higher than normal. "For the Luthor Children's Hospital. Tomorrow night."

Nia's chair creaked again as she leaned further forward, tipping precariously on the edge of her seat. "As press?" she asked, eyebrows climbing higher.

"Not as press," Kara managed, her voice catching on the last word. "She specifically said she wants me there as her date."

Nia's jaw dropped, her eyes growing round as quarters. "Wait—her actual date? Not a professional thing, but a champagne-clinking, arm-touching, maybe-she-kisses-you-at-the-end-of-the-night situation?"

Kara's cheeks burned hotter. "She didn't mention kissing," she mumbled, her gaze dropping to her desk. She couldn't meet Nia's eyes as unbidden thoughts of Lena's deep burgundy lips flickered through her mind—the precise way they'd shaped each syllable of "Kara”, the slight parting between them revealing the moist pink of her inner lip. Heat bloomed across Kara's skin, her collar suddenly too tight as something molten pooled low in her abdomen. Her fingers tingled with the phantom sensation of what Lena's jawline might feel like beneath them. "But she was very clear it wasn't a professional invitation”, she added, her voice catching, throat dry.

"And you said yes." It wasn't a question.

Kara nodded, the motion jerky. "I said yes."

"Holy shit." Nia leaned back, a grin spreading across her face. "You're going on an actual date with Lena freaking Luthor," she whispered, her voice rising with each word until it cracked on "Luthor”. Her fingers gripped the edge of Kara's desk. "The same woman whose album you played on repeat for three straight days. The one whose Rolling Stone cover is still tucked in your desk drawer." Her gaze dropped to Kara's button-up, and her face transformed from excitement to horror in an instant. "What in God's name are you planning to wear?"

Kara's stomach dropped.

In her mind's eye, she pictured her cramped studio apartment—the raised alcove with its makeshift closet where her pastel button-downs hung like wallflowers at a dance, too shy to make an impression. Her cardigans, folded into neat beige and gray rectangles, whispered sensible things about weather patterns and office thermostats. In the darkest corner hung the funeral dress, its black fabric still holding the memory of hushed condolences and wilting lilies. Nothing in that sad little collection could possibly stand up to Lena Luthor's world. Anxiety twisted in her stomach as she scanned the array in her mind, searching for something that would convey both confidence and casual elegance. For a moment, she imagined herself in that funeral dress beside Lena, whose clothes probably came with their own security detail and insurance policies.

"I have no idea," she admitted, panic rising in her chest. "I don't own anything that would work for this."

"Well," Nia said, pushing herself up from the chair with newfound purpose, "you're lucky I have excellent taste and zero afternoon appointments. Text your sister back and tell her we're having lunch at Noonan's. Then we're going shopping."

Kara's thumbs moved automatically, typing a quick reply to Alex.

Noonan's at 1? Bringing Nia. Need fashion help. Will explain.

Alex's response came almost immediately:

Fashion help? Now I'm intrigued. 🤨 See you at 1.

***

"Let me get this straight," Alex said, her coffee mug hit the table with a sharp clack, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Lena Luthor showed up at your desk this morning, completely out of the blue, to personally hand-deliver an invitation to a black-tie gala as…" She paused, mouth hanging slightly open, then shook her head once as if to reset her brain. "...as her date?"

They sat in their usual booth at Noonan's, the vinyl seats cracked just enough to catch at Alex’s jeans whenever she shifted. The remains of their sandwiches—Kara's club with extra bacon already demolished down to the last crumb, Alex's BLT with half the tomato extracted and pushed to the edge of her plate, Nia's avocado wrap still half-intact while she typed frantically on her phone—sat forgotten beside three coffee mugs ringed with various shades of lipstick smudges. Kara nodded, fidgeting with her napkin, methodically tearing tiny pieces from the edge and arranging them in a neat line like miniature soldiers standing at attention along the table's scratched wooden border. Nia's thumbs paused over her screen. She glanced up, locked eyes with Alex, one corner of her mouth quirking upward in silent conspiracy. For once, she kept whatever thought had sparked that expression to herself.

Alex's eyes slid briefly to Nia's conspiratorial smirk before returning to Kara, her voice carefully neutral. "And you said?"

Kara's "Yes" emerged as a tiny squeak, barely audible over the clinking of nearby coffee cups, her voice pinched so high she might as well have been a mouse caught under Alex's steady gaze.

Alex's eyes narrowed slightly. "The same Lena Luthor you've been obsessing over for a week? The one whose interview made you forget to eat—which, for the record, I didn't think was physically possible for you? You've only met that woman twice before this morning. Twice, Kara."

A flush crept from Kara's collar to her hairline. "It's called thorough research," she mumbled, fingers fidgeting with her napkin's frayed edge.

Her sister’s eyebrow arched as she leaned across the table. "You memorized her entire discography, birth date, and the name of her childhood dog." Her voice softened, dropping to just above a whisper. "Look, I just want to make sure you've thought this through. Yesterday she was someone you were writing about. Today she's asking you out?"

"Was," Kara emphasized. "The article's done. Published. Over."

"And now you're dating her?"

Kara's fingers twisted the napkin into a tight spiral. "It's just a gala," she said, her voice betraying a breathlessness that undermined her attempt at nonchalance. "And anyway, she’s..." Her sentence trailed off as she stared at the ceiling, mouth opening and closing like she was trying to catch the right words floating just beyond her reach.

"She's a woman," Alex said quietly.

The words hung in the air above the table like a question neither of them had ever thought to ask before. Kara's fingers stilled on the napkin, her heart hammering against her ribs. The truth Alex had just named had been a truth that had been floating at the edges of Kara's consciousness for days now, ever since she'd caught herself staring at the curve of Lena's neck that afternoon they’d met here for the follow-up. This morning's whirlwind had only temporarily drowned out yesterday's shower epiphany—the realization that had stolen her sleep and followed her into the elevator today. She couldn't escape the truth anymore: something about Lena—those eyes that held her captive, that voice that echoed in her mind hours later—affected her in ways that left every interaction with every man she'd ever known feeling pale and incomplete by comparison.

"I know she's a woman," Kara said finally, lifting her gaze to meet her sister's. "And no, I haven't—I mean, before this—" She exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping. "I can't explain it, Alex. When she asked me, 'yes' was already forming before I could even think about it."

Alex reached across the table, covering Kara's hand with her own. "Hey," she said, her voice softening to the same tone Kara had used with her two years ago in her apartment, surrounded by empty beer bottles and Maggie's unanswered texts. "You were there for me. Of course I'm here for you." She squeezed Kara's fingers gently. "Just... be careful. The Luthors have their own gravitational field. Lex's trial was front page for months, and Lillian—" Alex's mouth tightened. "Well, you've read the profiles. Fame is one thing. That family is another entirely."

"I know." Kara turned her hand over, returning the squeeze. "But I think I need to see where this goes."

Alex nodded, her expression softening into something between amusement and acceptance. "Well then, let's make sure you're dressed to impress a woman who probably has her own personal stylist on speed dial."

Nia, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, clapped her hands together. "That's my cue. I've already mapped out three stores within walking distance that won't make your bank account cry itself to sleep."

Kara's chest expanded with a warm rush that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds—gratitude washing over her in waves. Alex's eyes held that familiar protective gleam, but beneath it lay something new: trust, offered without reservation despite the worry lines creasing her forehead. Across the table, Nia practically vibrated with excitement, phone already forgotten, fingers drumming against her coffee mug as if planning their shopping route. The tight coil of anxiety that had been lodged beneath Kara's ribs since morning unwound itself one spiral at a time, her breathing coming easier now. For the first time since Lena's fingers had brushed against hers with that invitation, Kara could imagine herself walking into that ballroom, head high, the click of her heels steady against marble floors that had never known her footsteps before.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steadier than she'd expected. "Both of you."

Alex's smile widened. "What are sisters for if not emergency gala preparations?"

Nia leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "And what are friends for if not documenting your gay awakening via formal wear?"

***

Nia's nose wrinkled as she took in the pale blue tulle explosion surrounding Kara. "That dress screams 'the mice are coming to help me get ready for the ball’. Next."

Kara turned in front of the three-way mirror, watching the layers of pale blue tulle swish around her ankles like seafoam caught in a listless tide. The bodice pinched awkwardly beneath her arms, leaving angry red marks against her skin, while the fabric's anemic shade transformed her normally sun-kissed complexion into something sickly and wan. "It's not that bad," she protested half-heartedly, tilting her head as her reflection stared back at her from three unflattering angles, each confirming what she already knew—she looked like a washed-out, overgrown flower girl at someone else's wedding.

"It's exactly that bad," Alex said. "Try the black one next."

Kara slipped back behind the velvet curtain, the brass rings scraping against the rod as she yanked it closed. She stepped out of the blue monstrosity, tulle catching on her watch and clinging to her skin with static electricity. This was the third store they'd visited in the past two hours, and her optimism was dissolving like sugar in rain. The first boutique had price tags that made her credit card whimper from inside her wallet; the second featured mannequins wearing what appeared to be repurposed shower curtains and dental floss. This place, with its warm lighting and reasonable selection, had seemed promising until she'd paraded out in five consecutive fashion disasters that aged her in opposing directions.

She reached for the black dress Alex had suggested, the fabric cool and slippery between her fingers like liquid silk. Unlike the previous gowns with their aggressive ruffles and desperate sequins, this one was sleek and simple—a column of midnight that hung on the hanger with quiet confidence, its only embellishment a subtle seam that would trace the curve of her spine.

As she slipped it over her head, the material whispered against her skin like a secret, settling into place with surprising weight, heavy as a promise. She turned to face the mirror and froze. The woman staring back wasn't the awkward reporter who had blinked owlishly at herself in the elevator's polished doors that morning. This reflection belonged to someone else entirely—someone who commanded attention without asking for it.

The dress clung to curves she hadn't realized she possessed, the high neckline elegant rather than prudish. A slit up the left side revealed a flash of leg with each step, while the back dipped low enough to expose the delicate curve of her spine. It was simple but devastating—the kind of dress that didn't need embellishment because the person wearing it was statement enough.

The curtain rings rattled. "Kara?" Nia's voice floated over the top of the changing room. "If you don't come out soon, I'm sending a search party. I'm a little worried that last dress might have eaten you alive."

Kara stepped out from behind the curtain, suddenly self-conscious. "What do you think?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The chatter died instantly. Alex froze with her coffee cup halfway to her lips, while Nia's sentence evaporated into a sharp intake of breath. For three heartbeats, they simply stared—not at Kara Danvers, awkward reporter who tripped over conference room chairs, but at someone they'd never quite seen before.

"Holy shit," Nia breathed finally. "That's it. That's the one."

Alex nodded slowly, her eyes suspiciously bright. "You look incredible, Kara."

"It's not too much?" Kara turned, catching her reflection in the three-way mirror. The dress moved with her like liquid shadow.

"It's exactly enough," Nia assured her. "Lena Luthor is going to swallow her tongue when she sees you in this."

The image Nia's words conjured sent heat flooding to Kara's cheeks and down her throat, pooling low in her belly. She smoothed her hands down the front of the dress, the silk cool against her suddenly warm palms. In her mind, Lena's sea-glass eyes darkened as they traveled slowly from Kara's face down the length of her body, lingering where the fabric clung to her curves. Kara's breath caught imagining Lena's lips parting, the tip of her tongue touching briefly to her lower lip before she leaned in close enough that Kara could feel the warmth of her breath against her bare shoulder.

"We'll take it," Alex told the hovering sales associate, who beamed in response.

As Kara changed back into her regular clothes—the soft, navy slacks and pale pink button-up that suddenly seemed so ordinary—she caught herself smiling at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed pink, eyes bright behind her glasses in a way they hadn't been in months. She folded the black dress over her arm with reverent fingers, the silk cool against her skin. For the first time since Lena had pressed that cream-colored invitation card into her hand, the flutter in her stomach felt less like dread and more like anticipation. She was going to walk into a room filled with crystal chandeliers and string quartets. With Lena Luthor—whose mesmerizing eyes and red lips had haunted her dreams for a week.

As her date.

***

"You need shoes," Nia announced as they left the store, the dress safely encased in a garment bag draped over Alex's arm. "And probably something to do with your hair. And makeup. And—"

"One thing at a time," Alex interrupted, noticing Kara's widening eyes. "We've got the dress. That's the hard part done."

Kara nodded gratefully, adjusting her glasses with the pads of her thumb and forefinger, feeling the familiar pressure against the bridge of her nose. "I have those strappy black heels from Alex's birthday dinner that should work. And I can figure out the rest tomorrow." She checked her watch, the leather band damp against her wrist, surprised to find it was already after four. They'd been shopping for hours, and her feet ached with each step, the balls of her feet tender from standing in too many ill-fitting sample shoes.

"Are you going to text her?" Nia asked suddenly.

Her stomach twisted into the same knot of uncertainty she'd felt while staring at her blank phone screen that morning, thumb hovering over Lena's contact information. "I should, right? To confirm about tomorrow?"

"Definitely," Nia agreed. "But keep it casual. No novels."

Alex snorted. "Since when are you the expert on texting etiquette?"

"Since I've actually maintained a dating profile that didn't collect digital cobwebs," she said with a playful smirk. "Unlike certain Danvers sisters whose idea of romance is a Netflix marathon with their cat."

Kara barely heard them bickering, her focus narrowing to the glowing rectangle in her palm, the blank message field a mocking void of possibility. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly as sweat collected in the crease of her palm. What could she possibly say that wouldn't sound either too eager or too disinterested? Her mind raced through options, each potential message materializing and dissolving like bubbles in champagne, effervescent and gone before she could capture the right tone.

Hi, it's Kara. Looking forward to tomorrow night.

Too generic.

Thank you for the invitation. I'm excited about the gala.

Too formal.

Got a dress. Hope you like black.

Too suggestive?

She released a frustrated noise somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, causing both Alex and Nia to look up with raised eyebrows.

"What's wrong?" Alex asked.

"I can't figure out what to say," Kara admitted, frustration coloring her voice. "Everything sounds either too casual or too intense or too... something."

Nia snatched the phone from Kara's grasp. "Here, let me." Before Kara could even form a protest, Nia's thumbs danced across the screen, each tap decisive and purposeful. She returned the device with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just defused a bomb. "Done. You can thank me later."

Kara's stomach dropped as she glanced down at her screen. The message had already been sent, the little "Delivered" notification mocking her beneath the blue bubble:

Found a dress that might pass the Luthor test. See you tomorrow? -Kara

"You didn't," she gasped.

"I did," Nia confirmed, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "It's friendly, slightly flirty, and gets the job done. You're welcome."

Before Kara could decide whether to be grateful or mortified, her phone buzzed with a response:

I have no doubt you'll be the most captivating person in the room, Kara Danvers. The car will pick you up at 7:30. Send me your address? -L

Kara stared at the message, reading and rereading the words "most captivating person in the room" until they blurred together on the screen. Her heart fluttered against her ribs, that humming bird back, then plummeted to her stomach before surging back up to lodge somewhere in her throat. A tingling warmth spread from her chest to her fingertips, leaving them almost numb where they gripped the phone's edges. The bustle of the shopping district around her faded to white noise as Lena's words echoed in her mind, each syllable carrying the weight of that low, velvet voice she couldn't seem to forget.

"Well?" Alex prompted. "What did she say?"

Kara's throat felt too tight for words. She simply held out the phone, screen tilted toward them. Nia's eyes widened, followed by a low, appreciative whistle.

"Captivating," she repeated, nudging Kara with her elbow. "I told you the dress was perfect."

Alex's eyebrows drew together, her mouth a careful line that didn't quite hide the gentle worry in her eyes. "She certainly has a way with words."

Kara nodded, thumbs flying across the screen with her address. The moment she pressed send, her stomach clenched. The thought of walking into that ballroom beside Lena Luthor—whose world of champagne flutes and designer gowns existed galaxies away from her apartment's worn couch and takeout containers—made her pulse skitter. Whatever was happening between them had already scattered her neat, predictable routines like puzzle pieces across the floor.

Was she setting herself up for humiliation?

Would Lena's world swallow her whole?

The questions tangled inside her chest, pulling her in opposite directions with each heartbeat. Yes—no—maybe. She bit her lower lip, tasting the waxy residue of her lipstick. Whatever this was between them—attraction, curiosity, something deeper she wasn't ready to name—terrified her as much as it thrilled her. But something in her wouldn't let her back away now, even as her stomach swooped with the vertigo of stepping into empty air, unable to see the bottom.

Chapter Text

9

Intrusive Thoughts

https://youtu.be/5V6P1DV6OGI?si=bvWb6SSc0nN_L3-B

Billowing clouds of steam followed Lena from the shower like an ethereal train, curling around her calves as she wrapped herself in the waiting towel, its Egyptian cotton fibers a small luxury against her flushed skin. Despite the nearly scalding temperature she'd chosen—hot enough to leave crimson blooms across her shoulders and back—the shower had failed to rinse away the electric feeling that had skittered beneath her skin since Kara's name had illuminated her phone screen hours earlier. They'd barely exchanged a handful of words—mere digital whispers, hardly enough to satisfy the sudden hunger for connection—yet she found the corners of her mouth lifting involuntarily every time she recalled it, her reflection in the fogged mirror catching glimpses of a woman she barely recognized: one who looked dangerously close to hopeful.

Found a dress that might pass the Luthor test. See you tomorrow? -Kara

She'd responded with "I have no doubt you'll be the most captivating person in the room, Kara Danvers. The car will pick you up at 7:30. Send me your address? -L" and then stared at her own words on the screen, surprised by their boldness. Her thumb had moved almost of its own accord, typing something far more revealing than her usual careful messages. Something about Kara created a paradoxical desire to simultaneously exceed and deconstruct her own parameters—it made her want to be both more and less than herself—made her fingers tremble slightly with a delicious nervousness she hadn't felt since her first solo performance at Julliard. She set the phone down on the imported Carrara marble counter top, cool and smooth beneath her fingertips, the veins of gray running through white like frozen lightning.

Water droplets traced crooked paths down the pale terrain of her spine, collecting momentarily in the dimples at her lower back before she cinched the plush Egyptian cotton towel tighter around her lithe frame. Her bare feet left damp, fleeting imprints on the cool, blue-veined marble floor as she padded from her penthouse bathroom. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled beneath her—a constellation of red, white, and amber pinpricks piercing the velvet indigo night, their glow softening the severe angles of her bedroom's minimalist furniture and casting honeyed shadows across the crisp white linens of her untouched king bed. For once, Lillian's razor-sharp voice didn't hiss about water spots marring expensive marble, and Lex's cutting remarks about wasted potential remained mercifully locked away in the darkest corners of her memory. Even her own familiar self-doubt—that persistent, gnawing companion—had fallen uncharacteristically silent. The apartment felt different tonight—the air itself seemed to hold its breath, molecules suspended in anticipation rather than the usual hollow emptiness that echoed her footsteps.

Something had shifted, as if the universe had tilted ever so slightly on its axis toward tomorrow's incandescent possibilities.

The nightstand vibrated with an incoming message.

Lena's heart quickened as she reached for the phone, a constellation of droplets from her wet hair falling onto the screen, each one distorting the name into tiny kaleidoscopes of light. Another message from Kara. She swiped to unlock with a thumb that left a damp half-moon on the glass, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach that felt like champagne bubbles rising through her chest and catching in her throat.

Just wanted to thank you for the invitation 😊 I'm really looking forward to tomorrow night ✨ I promise not to embarrass you in front of all your fancy friends 😅❤️

A second message appeared immediately after:

Sorry about the heart. My finger slipped. Not that I don't mean it! Just... you know what I mean. Hopefully.

And then a third:

Actually, I do mean it. There. I said it. See you tomorrow!

Lena stared at the messages, reading them over twice, three times, her pale fingertip hovering over each emoji as if it might dissolve at her touch. The corners of her mouth lifted higher with each pass, until her reflection in the darkened window caught her off guard—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with an emotion she rarely allowed herself. The earnestness in Kara's words—that uniquely Kara way of stumbling headlong into sincerity, like someone tripping over their own feet but somehow landing in a perfect pirouette—made something tighten in Lena's chest, a sweet ache that bloomed beneath her sternum and radiated outward, warm and insistent and terrifying in its foreignness. It felt dangerously close to longing, that particular hunger she'd spent years learning to ignore.

She perched on the edge of her king-sized bed, the Egyptian cotton towel clinging damply to her curves, and traced her manicured finger over Kara's name on the screen. The little crimson heart emoji sat there at the end of Kara's words, somehow both childishly innocent and breathtakingly bold all at once. No one sent Lena Luthor heart emojis. Everyone in her life maintained a careful distance—socialites with their practiced smiles, executives checking watches during her performances, even the dealers who received her folded bills in exchange for chemical courage. They all treated her like a Luthor first, a person second. Andrea had come closest to seeing beneath the armor, but even she had kept one foot firmly planted in self-preservation, never fully surrendering to the current that now pulled between Lena and this reporter with her accidental heart emojis and earnest apologies. The water cooling on her alabaster skin raised delicate goosebumps along her arms and shoulders, but she barely noticed the chill, too preoccupied with the peculiar warmth blooming beneath her sternum, spreading outward like brandy on an empty stomach.

"What are you doing to me, Kara Danvers?" she whispered to the empty room.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, composing and deleting three different responses before she finally settled on:

The heart is noted and appreciated. I'm looking forward to it too. Sleep well, Kara.

She hesitated, then added: ❤️ -L

Her thumb released from the screen and her insides simultaneously soared and plummeted—a rollercoaster lurching off its tracks. She stared at the red heart she'd sent, her pulse racing with exhilaration even as her throat constricted with panic. That single crimson pixel-confession might unlock rooms she'd kept sealed since Andrea, rooms she both desperately wanted to reenter and feared might collapse around her the moment she crossed their thresholds.

Her phone vibrated again almost immediately.

Oh! A heart back! That's... wow. ❤️ I was worried I'd freaked you out.

Lena's fingers moved before her brain could catch up:

Not freaked out. Just unused to this kind of... openness. It's refreshing.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then reappeared:

Can I be honest? I've been staring at my closet for an hour trying to figure out what "passing the Luthor test" even means. Is there an actual test? Should I be studying?

A laugh escaped Lena's lips, echoing off the marble and glass surfaces of her otherwise silent penthouse.

The test is purely theoretical. Though Lillian would certainly administer one if she could. Just be yourself, Kara. That's more than enough.

The typing bubble bounced for several seconds:

Easy for you to say. You probably look like a goddess even in sweatpants. Not that I've thought about you in sweatpants. Or without them. I MEAN. I should stop typing now.

Heat bloomed across Lena's chest and up her neck, leaving a trail of fresh goosebumps in its wake. She bit her lower lip, her thumb hovering over the screen as her pulse quickened beneath the damp skin of her throat.

Bold, Ms. Danvers. For the record, I don't own sweatpants. But I appreciate the sentiment.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared twice before:

I'm mortified. Pretend I never said that? Also, no sweatpants?? That's a travesty we'll need to address someday.

Someday. The word lingered on Lena's screen, shimmering like a mirage on the horizon of a desert she'd crossed alone for too long. "Someday"–seven small white letters against black, yet they conjured a future she'd never allowed herself to imagine: lazy Sunday mornings with tangled sheets and bare limbs and coffee mugs balanced on nightstands, secret touches beneath white tablecloths, standing close under a single umbrella as rain drummed overhead, wearing each other's clothes until the scents mingled into something shared, and the breathless moment in crowded terminals when eyes finally meet across the distance.

The warm fantasy evaporated as Lillian's voice materialized in her mind, each syllable precise as a surgical incision. "A reporter, Lena? How disappointingly predictable." The air seemed to cool around her, carrying that unmistakable note of Chanel No. 5 that had always heralded her mother's imminent disapproval. Lillian's phantom sigh followed—that particular exhalation Lena had catalogued since childhood as containing exactly three parts resignation, two parts contempt. "Those quaint domestic dreams are luxuries reserved for people without our name. Without our responsibilities. Without your particular talent for letting down everyone foolish enough to expect better from you."

Lena's fingers froze above her phone. She could almost hear the soft click of Lillian's tongue against the roof of her mouth—that sound that always preceded a lecture. One response typed, then erased. Another attempt, deleted again. She inhaled slowly, filling her lungs completely, and finally let her fingers move across the screen:

Someday sounds nice. But first, tomorrow. Get some sleep, Kara. Sweet dreams. ❤️

Goodnight, Lena. Can't wait to see you. ❤️✨

Lena placed the phone on her nightstand—a sleek slab of black marble that matched the monochromatic luxury of her penthouse—and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, fighting back the sting of unfamiliar tears that threatened to smudge her still-damp lashes. Something expanded inside her ribcage—a crimson balloon of hope threatening to lift her off the ground, even as a leaden anchor of dread pulled her down toward the plush white carpet beneath her bare feet. Her lips curved upward in a smile that felt borrowed from someone else's life, someone with uncalloused hands who deserved this kind of crystalline happiness. Part of her wanted to fast-forward through the night's remaining hours to see Kara again; another part wanted to cancel everything and run until her lungs burned with the effort.

Rising to her feet, she caught the whisper that always found her in vulnerable moments, slithering through the cracks in her armor like toxic smoke. Really, Lee? It carried the mocking undertone of Lex, the cruel clarity of her own 3 a.m. doubts. This ends one way. It always does. She'll discover who you truly are.

She drifted back toward the bathroom, each footfall whispering against expensive hardwood while doubt trailed behind her like the hem of an invisible robe. Her bare feet pressed against the cool hardwood, each step anchoring her to reality while her thoughts threatened to carry her away. Water dripped from her hair, leaving fleeting marks that disappeared in seconds. She paused at the medicine cabinet, its pristine white door and gleaming handle promising the comfort of routine. Behind it waited her collection of amber vials, each one a different shade of chemical calm. The Xanax especially called to her—just half a pill would be enough to dull the knife-edge of hope, enough to let her enjoy this unexpected happiness without waiting for it to shatter in her hands.

She pulled open the cabinet door, the hinges silent and well-oiled. Her fingers trailed across the neat row of amber bottles, each label precisely aligned, each cap tightened to the exact same tension. Not addiction—preparation. Not dependency—insurance. The distinction mattered. This wasn't weakness; it was strategy. The same way some musicians had their pre-show rituals or lucky picks, she had her chemical armor, her pharmaceutical shield against the world's sharp edges.

Her fingertips lingered on the Xanax bottle, feeling its familiar contours. One little pill could make the voices recede, could soften the jagged thoughts that had begun circling like vultures. Not because she needed it, but because she deserved a moment's peace. A chance to enjoy this unexpected flutter of connection without her family's ghosts breathing down her neck.

She'll run, just like everyone else. Or worse—you'll ruin her. That's what Luthors do, isn't it? We break beautiful things.

Kara Danvers was beautiful—not just physically, though God knew that was true enough. She was beautiful in a way that felt almost alien to Lena, beautiful in her unguarded enthusiasm, her transparent emotions, her complete lack of calculation. Kara was sunlight breaking through clouds after weeks of rain, while Lena was the shadow that followed, always a step behind, always tainted with darkness. Kara was everything Lena had been taught to dismiss as weakness—earnest, open, trusting. Everything Andrea wasn't.

Andrea, with her sharp edges that matched Lena's own. Andrea, who understood the game, who played by the same ruthless rules. Andrea, whose touch had been as calculated as her betrayal. Kara was nothing like her, which made her both irresistible and terrifying.

The warmth that had filled her chest moments before congealed into something heavier, darker—a cold stone of dread settling just beneath her sternum. She forced her hand away from the cabinet, her fingertips tingling with phantom relief as they curled into a fist at her side. She wrapped her arms around herself instead, palms pressed against the goosebumps rising on her biceps as water continued to drip from her hair, each droplet tracing an icy path down her spine. The sensation no longer felt refreshing but cold and invasive against her skin, like tiny accusatory fingers reminding her of all she stood to lose.

Hearts are just another thing to be broken. And you've never been gentle with fragile things.

Her hand returned to the cabinet, resolute now. She wasn't weak; she was practical. This wasn't about numbing herself; it was about preservation. About protecting Kara from the inevitable implosion. About buying herself time to build stronger walls, higher defenses. The orange bottle felt cool against her palm as she twisted the cap with practiced ease, the childproof mechanism long since memorized by her fingers.

One small white pill rested in her palm, innocuous as a breath mint, powerful as a promise. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to keep the demons at bay until morning. Just enough to let her pretend, for one more night, that she could be the person Kara seemed to see when she looked at her. Not a fix—a pause button. A temporary reprieve from the voice that whispered she'd contaminate everything she touched.

The pill was halfway to her lips when her phone buzzed again, the screen illuminating with Kara's name. Her hand froze, the Xanax hovering like a communion wafer before her parted lips, as she glanced at the new message:

Sorry to text again, but I just wanted to say... I think you're pretty amazing, Lena Luthor. In case nobody told you that today. ✨

The pill trembled between her fingers as something cracked inside her chest—not breaking but opening, like a door long rusted shut suddenly yielding to persistent pressure. The sensation was almost painful in its unfamiliarity, this feeling of being seen without being studied, admired without being assessed.

Kara Danvers was dangerous—more dangerous than any chemical Lena had ever used to blur her edges. More dangerous than Andrea's calculated seduction or Lillian's surgical cruelty. Dangerous because she made Lena want to believe in impossible things. Made her want to be worthy of that little red heart emoji. Made her wonder what it might be like to let someone touch the broken places without trying to fix them or exploit them—just to acknowledge they existed and still choose to stay.

The pill felt suddenly heavier in her hand, as if gravity had intensified around this small white tablet. Just half, she told herself. Just enough to make it through the night without drowning in possibility. Just enough to keep from hoping too much. Just enough...

Chapter Text

10

Smoke & Mirrors

The National City Plaza Hotel loomed against the evening sky, its seventy-three stories of glass and steel façade transformed into a glittering beacon by strategic azure and gold lighting that pulsed subtly with the city's heartbeat. Kara stood on the rain-slicked sidewalk across the street, her reflection wavering in the puddles, fractured by ripples from passing taxis that splashed dirty water onto the curb just inches from her new shoes. The black dress—a $2,200 Marchesa she'd never admit was discounted to $780—clung to her body like a second skin, the modest neckline balancing the daring slit that climbed her left thigh, offering glimpses of skin with each subtle shift of her weight as she stood on increasingly uncomfortable feet. Just as she'd seen in the boutique's three-way mirror under unforgiving florescents, the dress moved with her like liquid shadow, the fabric whispering against her skin with each nervous breath, making her feel both powerful and terrifyingly exposed.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the small silver clutch Alex had lent her—"Something borrowed”, her sister had said with a wink as she'd pressed the vintage Judith Leiber into Kara's hands before the car arrived. The metal was cool against her sweaty palms, its rhinestone clasp catching the streetlight in prismatic flashes. Inside was her phone, screen already smudged with anxious checking; a tube of MAC Russian Red lipstick Nia had pressed into her hand with absolute conviction—"It's giving 'I came for the interview but stayed for the afterparty,' no cap"; and her laminated CatCo press pass, its edges worn soft from daily handling, now tucked into the innermost satin pocket—though Lena had made it clear in that velvet voice of hers that Kara wasn't here as a journalist tonight.

That thought transformed the single hummingbird in her chest into an entire flock, their tiny wings beating frantically against her ribcage, their needle-like beaks probing at her lungs until each breath came shallow and quick. The word "date" replayed in her mind—Lena's voice wrapping around it like silk when she'd extended the invitation—colliding with Alex's cautious reminder over wine last night: "You've met her twice, Kara, both times for work”. Her sister's eyes had been gentle but firm. "Don’t get so caught up that you forget who you are”. Now, standing here in her carefully chosen dress—the most expensive thing she'd ever owned—with her press pass burning against her hip through satin lining, professional ethics and personal desire waged war beneath her skin. The article was published. Her job was done. So why did this still feel like crossing a line she shouldn't?

The driver Lena had sent—a stoic woman named Mercy with a razor-sharp bob and bloodless lips who'd barely spoken three words during the entire twenty-minute ride—had dropped her at the corner with a curt nod and instructions to "wait for Ms. Luthor at the main entrance”. That had been seven minutes ago according to the glowing numbers on her phone, each second stretching into eternity as Kara's courage threatened to dissolve like sugar in rain, granules of determination washing away with each passing luxury car.

A steady stream of National City's elite flowed through the hotel's revolving doors, the glass panels catching and fracturing the golden light from within. Women draped in designer gowns—Valentino reds that burned like embers, midnight-blue Diors that shimmered with embedded crystals, and cream-colored Chanels dripping with pearls—air-kissed each other's cheeks, careful not to smudge their meticulously applied makeup. Men in Tom Ford and Armani tuxedos, tailored to disguise the evidence of too many business lunches while accentuating shoulders broadened only by strategic padding, checked platinum watches and adjusted diamond cufflinks with practiced nonchalance. The occasional lightning-burst of camera flashes illuminated frozen smiles, the society photographers' lenses capturing who stood beside whom, which jewelry houses had won tonight's silent competition, and most crucially, whose name would appear largest on the donor wall of the Luthor Children's Hospital.

Kara took a deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs with the scent of rain-washed concrete and distant perfume. She could still turn around. Go home. Text Lena with some excuse about sudden illness or a work emergency. The heels Alex had helped her select—sleek black Louboutins with paper-thin straps that coiled like delicate serpents around her ankles—pinched her toes with each micro-adjustment, already raising angry crimson welts that would certainly bloom into blisters by morning. She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, a small gasp escaping her lips as the metal clasp dug into the tender spot just above her Achilles tendon.

But then she remembered how Lena had looked at her, standing close enough that Kara could count each individual eyelash, close enough to catch the subtle notes of her perfume beneath the newsroom's perpetual scent of coffee and toner. The recessed lighting had caught the sharp angle of her jawline as she'd leaned in, that intoxicating mixture of challenge and vulnerability swimming in her sea-glass eyes. "You'd be my date, Ms. Danvers,” she had said, her voice soft but steady as a metronome, her burgundy lips barely moving, like she was offering Kara something as precious and fragile as a hummingbird's heartbeat.

The problem was, Kara couldn't tell which version of herself Lena had actually invited—the probing journalist who'd challenged her in their interviews? The stammering woman who'd blushed at their accidental touch? Or someone else entirely, someone Kara wasn't sure she could be? Her heels pinched with each step, tiny daggers of regret. She touched one of the curls Nia had insisted on, feeling it spring back against her bare shoulder, then immediately wished she hadn't disturbed it. When Lena's text had appeared that afternoon—"Looking forward to seeing you tonight"—her pulse had jumped so violently she'd nearly dropped her phone in the sink, torn between the urge to cancel everything and the desperate need to arrive early.

A sleek black Bentley Continental pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel, its 6.0-liter W12 engine purring with quiet power that somehow managed to cut through the cacophony of honking taxis and murmuring crowds. The chauffeur—white-gloved, ramrod-straight—opened the rear passenger door with practiced precision, and Kara's breath caught in her throat like a butterfly in a net.

Lena slid out of the car like a vision from another world, unfolding from the leather seat with feline grace. Her raven hair was swept into an elegant French twist, the teal-dipped ends tucked and pinned with what looked like antique jade, creating a striking ribbon of color that wound through the coils. A few calculated tendrils drifted free to frame her alabaster cheeks, their tips blazing teal against her skin. She wore a deep-emerald Givenchy gown in silk charmeuse, the fabric clinging to every curve of her torso before flaring into a gentle mermaid hem at her ankles, where four-inch Louboutins peeked with each step. When she leaned forward to murmur something to the driver, Kara saw the daring V-cut at the back—almost the entire length of Lena’s spine exposed down to the dimples above her lower back. Just beneath the edge of silk, the tail of a sweeping black script peeked out—the word “purity” etched in ink, the hotel’s uplighting catching it like a private joke.

Kara’s mouth went desert-dry, her tongue rasping against the roof of her mouth. The hummingbird flock in her chest multiplied tenfold, their collective wings a frantic blur that vibrated through her sternum and into her throat—surely the Dior-clad couple nearby could hear the aviary she'd become. Crimson heat blossomed across her chest in blotches like a Rorschach test, climbed her neck like ivy on old brick, and settled in her cheeks as if scorched by the sun. Lena rose to her full height, transforming before Kara's eyes. The designer heels added inches to her stature, and something else—a regal bearing that couldn't be bought. Her chin tilted upward, catching light along the sharp edge of her jaw. The emerald silk draped across shoulders that now seemed carved from marble rather than flesh. Here stood the Luthor heiress after all, despite the dive bar stages and amplifier feedback that had defined her recent years.

The contradiction fascinated Kara—how that elegant posture could belong to the same woman who'd drummed tabletops with calloused fingertips during their follow-up interview, the same skin that bore midnight ink against its alabaster canvas.

Lena's eyes swept the crowd with the cool detachment of someone trained to spot weakness before pleasantry. Then those eyes found hers across the sea of designer labels and air kisses. The world around Kara blurred into watercolor smudges. Lena's crimson lips softened into a smile meant only for her, as if they shared a secret language no one else could translate. She raised a single hand in a delicate wave; the emerald ring on her finger caught the light and cast green fractals across the pavement between them like a bridge of stars. Kara pressed her palm to her sternum, feeling her heart stutter beneath black satin. Time suspended in amber. Her mind filled with half-formed prayers—the perfect angle of Lena's neck, the length of her lashes, the impossible knowledge of how Lena's waist would feel beneath her palms—the way her hands would fit perfectly against those silk-draped curves, a certainty so complete it startled her, as though her body remembered something her mind knew had never happened…

Kara's feet moved of their own accord, carrying her across the rain-slicked asphalt. A yellow taxi honked sharply as she crossed against the light, its headlights slicing across her black dress, the fabric swallowing the harsh yellow beam like a starless night sky. The sound barely registered through the fog of her focus. All she could see was Lena's silhouette, backlit by the hotel's golden sconces, all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears like distant ocean waves, all she could feel was the hammering of her heart against her ribs—a caged aviary of humming birds throwing themselves against delicate bone—and the cool September air raising goosebumps along her exposed shoulders and spine.

As she drew closer, weaving between parked town cars with diplomatic plates, she caught the scent of Lena's perfume—something expensive and subtle, notes of midnight jasmine and something darker underneath, like amber or sandalwood infused with vanilla. It coiled around her senses like smoke, making Kara want to lean closer, to press her nose to the hollow of Lena's throat where the scent would be strongest, where her pulse would flutter visibly beneath that alabaster skin.

"You came," Lena said, her voice lower than usual, almost intimate despite the bustling crowd around them. Her eyes traveled down the length of Kara's body, lingering on the way the black dress clung to her curves, the slit that revealed a flash of leg. Something darkened in her gaze, her pupils dilating slightly. "And you look... absolutely stunning."

Heat bloomed across Kara's cheeks at the compliment. "So do you," she managed, her voice catching in her throat. "That color is—" She gestured helplessly toward Lena's dress, suddenly aware of how her fingers trembled. The emerald silk shimmered under the hotel lights, making Lena's eyes appear almost supernaturally green, like something from another world entirely.

One corner of Lena's crimson mouth lifted in a half-smile that sent Kara's pulse skittering. "That was the idea." She stepped closer, close enough that the heat from her body seemed to radiate between them in invisible waves. The subtle scent of her perfume intensified—jasmine and amber wrapping around Kara's senses like a velvet blindfold. "I'm glad the car found you without any trouble."

"Yes, your driver was very... efficient." Kara adjusted her glasses. "Though I think she might have been disappointed I didn't have more luggage. She looked at my clutch like it personally offended her."

Lena laughed, the sound rich and warm. "That's just Mercy's face. She looks at everyone that way, even me." She glanced toward the hotel entrance, where photographers were beginning to take notice of her presence. "Ready to head inside? I should warn you—there will be cameras."

Kara's stomach tightened. "Cameras? As in...plural?"

"It's a charity event," Lena explained, her voice gentle. "The society pages love to document who attends these things. Is that going to be a problem?" There was genuine concern in her eyes, a softness that Kara hadn't seen before. "We can go in through the service entrance if you'd prefer to avoid them."

The offer touched something in Kara's chest. Lena Luthor, who had probably never used a service entrance in her life, was willing to sneak in the back way just to make her comfortable. "No," she said, squaring her shoulders beneath the smooth black satin. "I can handle a few photographs. It's just... I'm not used to being on this side of the camera."

"Well," Lena said, offering her arm in a gesture that was both chivalrous and practical, "let me give you your first lesson in walking the gauntlet. Chin up, smile like you know something they don't, and never, ever answer direct questions."

Kara slipped her hand into the crook of Lena's elbow, the skin there warm and soft beneath her fingertips. A subtle current seemed to pass between them at the contact, raising goosebumps along Kara's arm despite the mild evening. "What if they ask who I am?"

Lena's eyes met hers, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "That," she said, her voice dropping to a murmur that sent shivers down Kara's spine, "is entirely up to you."

With Lena's arm linked firmly with hers, Kara allowed herself to be guided toward the hotel entrance. The distance seemed to shrink with each step, the revolving doors spinning in slow motion as photographers turned their lenses toward them. 

"Ms. Luthor! Over here!"

"Lena! This way!"

"Who's your date tonight?"

The voices crashed against her like ocean waves, individual words lost in the roar as camera flashes exploded like miniature supernovas, leaving constellations of white spots swimming across Kara's vision. She blinked rapidly behind her glasses, fighting the disorienting sensation. Beneath her trembling fingertips, Lena's arm tensed—a subtle flex of muscle that transmitted reassurance more effectively than words could have. The silk of Lena's dress whispered against Kara's as they moved in unison. Remembering Lena's earlier advice, Kara tilted her chin upward, feeling the cool night air against her throat, and sculpted her lips into what she desperately hoped resembled a knowing smile rather than the panicked grimace threatening to take over her features.

"Just a few more steps," Lena murmured close to her ear, her breath warm against Kara's skin. "You're doing beautifully."

Kara's cheeks burned at the praise, but she kept her chin high, letting the rhythm of their footsteps ground her—left, right, left, right—their heels striking the pavement in perfect unison, as though they'd been walking this path together for years. With each breath, she drew in notes of jasmine and amber, Lena's scent creating an invisible sanctuary amidst the shouting photographers and flashing lights, a secret world where only they existed.

As they reached the revolving door, Lena's hand slid to the small of Kara's back, her fingertips pressing just firmly enough to leave five distinct points of heat that bloomed through the thin black fabric like stars. The pressure guided Kara forward. "After you," Lena murmured, her crimson lips barely moving, eyes locked on Kara's with such unwavering intensity that the rest of the world simply fell away. Another camera flash caught them in profile, immortalizing the moment in stark white light that glinted off Lena's diamond earrings and cast half her face in dramatic shadow.

The hotel lobby enveloped them in blessed dimness after the harsh glare outside, like stepping into a cathedral at dusk. Tiered crystal chandeliers—each one larger than Kara's entire living room—cast honeyed light that caught in the facets of diamonds adorning necks and wrists. The Italian marble floors gleamed so perfectly Kara could see the upside-down reflections of evening gowns sweeping across them, blurred smears of emerald, sapphire, and ruby. The ceiling vaulted three stories above, where a celestial mural stretched across the dome—Orion's belt and Cassiopeia's throne picked out in gold leaf and tiny embedded crystals that winked like actual stars. In the eastern corner, a string quartet in tailcoats drew horsehair bows across instruments worth more than Kara's annual salary, coaxing out Vivaldi's "Spring" that somehow cut through the susurration of old money voices and the delicate clink of champagne flutes.

Once inside, Kara exhaled, feeling her body unwind like a spring that had been compressed too tightly for too long. "That wasn't so terrible."

"You're a natural," Lena said, her hand still resting at the small of Kara's back as she guided her deeper into the lobby. "Most people either freeze completely or start answering questions they shouldn't."

"I was too busy trying not to trip in these shoes," Kara admitted, glancing down at the delicate straps cutting into her ankles. "Alex insisted they were perfect, but I think they might be instruments of torture disguised as footwear."

Lena's laugh was low and rich. "Beauty is pain, or so my mother always says. Though personally, I've found ways around that particular philosophy." She leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "These heels have hidden gel inserts. I could dance all night if necessary."

"Now you tell me," Kara groaned, but she was smiling, the knot of anxiety in her stomach loosening with each passing moment in Lena's presence.

They made their way toward the grand staircase—a sweeping marble crescent that ascended in a gentle curve, its balustrade carved with delicate ivy patterns that caught the amber light. Each step was edged in burnished gold, creating the illusion that they were climbing toward heaven itself. At the mezzanine level, the ballroom entrance yawned open like a gilded mouth, flanked by staff whose uniforms—starched white shirts and tailored black jackets—seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. Lena nodded to several people as they passed, her smile never reaching her eyes, lips curved in practiced politeness as she mouthed silent greetings across the room, her fingers maintaining their gentle pressure against Kara's back, guiding her forward without pause.

"L! There you are."

Jimmy Olson materialized at the base of the staircase, his six-foot-two frame cutting a striking silhouette against the cream marble. His tuxedo—midnight black with satin lapels that caught the light when he moved—hugged his broad shoulders before tapering precisely at his narrow waist. A crimson pocket square provided the only splash of color against the monochrome perfection. His usual casual confidence had transformed into something more intentional, each step measured as he approached, though his smile—white teeth flashing beneath eyes crinkled at the corners—remained the same: warm and genuine in a room where most expressions seemed manufactured.

"Kara Danvers," he said, his voice carrying that same melodic quality it had in the green room at The Pit. "Lena didn't mention you'd be joining us tonight."

Something flickered across Lena's face—irritation, perhaps, or something more complex. The hand at Kara's back tensed slightly, fingers pressing more firmly against the silk. "I don't run my guest list by committee, James," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of steel.

Jimmy raised his hands in mock surrender, his smile never faltering. "No committee required. Just surprised to see our favorite journalist in such formal surroundings." He winked at Kara. "The Pit feels like a more fitting stage for you," he teased, a playful glint in his eye, knowing full well that Kara never truly belonged there.

"I contain multitudes," Kara replied, surprising herself with the literary reference that slipped out so naturally. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, the earlier camera flashes and shouted questions fading to background noise as Jimmy's familiar smile and the steady warmth of Lena's body beside her anchored her to the present moment.

Lena laughed, the sound genuine and slightly surprised. "Walt Whitman at a charity gala? Now I'm genuinely glad I invited you." Her eyes lingered on Kara's face, drifting down to her lips before slowly climbing back up, leaving a trail of heat beneath Kara's skin. When their gazes locked again, Lena's pupils were still dilated, turning her sea-glass eyes dark at their centers, like deep water calling Kara to drown willingly. She turned to Jimmy, her smile softening into the easy familiarity that only years of late-night rehearsals and shared stages could build. "We should head in. Mother will be timing our entrance to the second."

Jimmy's smile dimmed slightly at the mention of Lillian. "Wouldn't want to disappoint her," he said, the words carrying a weight that suggested a shared history Kara wasn't privy to.

As they ascended the staircase, Kara felt the cool marble banister beneath her palm, a welcome contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate from every point of contact with Lena. Her heart hammered against her ribs with each step, partly from the physical exertion in the too-tight shoes, but mostly from the awareness that in moments, she would be entering a world she'd only ever observed from the outside—with Lena Luthor as her guide.

At the top of the stairs, Lena paused, turning to face Kara fully. "Ready?" she asked, her voice soft enough that only Kara could hear.

In that moment, with Lena's sea-glass eyes fixed on hers—ringed by kohl that made the color almost luminous against her pale skin—the rest of the world dissolved. The sharp pain where her left heel had rubbed a raw spot against her ankle bone, the prickly heat of anxiety that had crawled up her neck when flashbulbs popped outside, the flutter of questions about what exactly this night meant between them—all of it receded like waves pulling back from shore, leaving nothing but smooth, wet sand and the promise of returning tides.

"Ready," Kara answered, surprising herself with the steadiness in her voice.

Lena's smile transformed her face—the tightness around her eyes softened, the careful composure of her crimson lips yielded to something genuine that revealed the slight dimple in her left cheek. The change rippled through her entire being like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, warming the cool marble air between them. She offered her arm once more, the constellation tattooed into the pale skin of her inner wrist exposed by the shifting sleeve of her emerald gown. As Kara took it, their fingers brushed—Lena's cool and smooth against Kara's slightly trembling ones—in a touch that lingered two heartbeats longer than necessary, a silent communication neither was ready to voice aloud.

Jimmy stepped to Lena's free side and offered his arm with a flourish that seemed half-serious, half-teasing. "Shall we face the dragon in her den?"

Lena rolled her eyes but took his arm with her free hand, her fingers resting lightly on his sleeve. "Don't let her hear you call her that. She'll have you blacklisted from every venue in the city by morning."

As they turned toward the entrance, Lena glanced back at Kara, something vulnerable flickering across her features for just a heartbeat—a momentary crack in her polished veneer that vanished so quickly Kara might have imagined it. The weight of Lena's gaze settled on her like a physical touch, both questioning and reassuring at once.

Kara straightened her shoulders beneath the smooth black fabric, drawing strength from the solid warmth of Lena's arm linked with hers. The marble floor gleamed beneath their synchronized steps as they moved forward together, the sound of their heels creating a six-beat rhythm that somehow cut through the ambient noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversation.

The ballroom doors parted before them like the gates to some mythical realm, framed by massive doors inlaid with gold filigree that caught the light in hypnotic patterns, each swirl terminating in tiny rosettes no larger than Kara's fingernail. Beyond the threshold lay a world Kara had only glimpsed through the lens of her reporter's notebook—a world that Lena navigated as easily as Kara moved through the bullpen at CatCo, where coffee rings stained her desk and Snapper's red pen corrections littered her drafts.

Kara's breath caught in her throat as she stepped into a world crafted entirely of light and opulence, where even the air felt expensive, heavy with the scent of money and power. The ceiling soared impossibly high above them, painted with Renaissance-inspired clouds where cherubs with plump, rosy cheeks peeked from behind gilded swirls, their faces illuminated by hidden lighting that made them appear to move with ghostly animation, their eyes following her accusingly. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, each of the thousand prisms catching and fracturing the light into rainbow patterns that danced across marble floors polished to mirror-like perfection, so clear Kara could see the distorted reflection of her borrowed shoes.

The room itself was vast—at least three times the size of CatCo's entire editorial floor—with arched windows that stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall, now reflecting the glittering interior back upon itself as night pressed against the glass like a curious child. White orchids and blue hydrangeas spilled from towering crystal vases positioned strategically throughout the space, their delicate scent mingling with perfumes worth more than Kara's monthly rent in her cramped studio with the leaking bathroom faucet and temperamental radiator that clanged through winter nights.

"Close your mouth," Lena whispered, her lips barely moving as she leaned close enough that Kara could feel the warmth of her breath against the shell of her ear. "They'll know you're not one of them."

Kara snapped her jaw shut, heat rushing to her cheeks. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me," Lena replied, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed reserved for her alone. "Most of these people are too self-absorbed to notice anything beyond their own reflections."

Jimmy chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "What Lena means to say is that genuine appreciation is refreshing in a room full of people who pretend they've seen it all." He paused, giving Kara a mischievous smile. "Though I'd still recommend picking your jaw up off that very expensive marble before someone trips over it."

Kara laughed, the sound slightly breathless as she tried to take everything in at once. Women draped in liquid silks and architectural taffetas that seemed to defy gravity floated between clusters of men in identical midnight tuxedos, their diamonds and sapphires throwing prismatic constellations across the walls with every tilt of a wrist or nod of a head. The string quartet in the corner, four severe-looking women in matching burgundy dresses, their bows moving in hypnotic synchronicity, played something classical that Kara vaguely recognized—perhaps Bach or Mozart, the notes cascading like water over smooth stones, her limited knowledge failing her amid the champagne bubbles tickling her nose and the perfume-laden air thick enough to taste.

"Lena."

The voice cut through the ambient noise like a scalpel through silk—precise, cold, and somehow both soft and piercing. Kara felt Lena's arm tighten beneath her hand momentarily, the smooth muscle tensing to marble hardness under the emerald fabric. Lena's posture transformed in an instant. Her shoulders squared, chin lifting exactly three degrees higher, jaw clenching just enough to create a shadowed hollow beneath her cheekbone. The playful glint vanished from her sea-glass eyes, replaced by a glacial alertness. Gone was the woman who'd leaned close to whisper conspiratorially in Kara's ear; in her place stood Lena Luthor, heiress and reluctant socialite, her spine straightening as if pulled by invisible strings, each vertebra aligning with perfect, practiced discipline.

Lillian Luthor materialized before them like an apparition conjured from the marble itself, her presence commanding attention without seeming to seek it. Tall and regal in a black column dress that managed to be both severe and elegant, its fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it, she wore her age like another piece of expensive jewelry—something to be displayed rather than hidden. Her silver-streaked hair, the color of polished sterling, was swept into an impeccable chignon so tight it seemed to pull at her temples, creating an almost feline tilt to her ice-blue eyes. Not a single strand dared escape its sculpted perfection, held in place by what must have been industrial-strength hairspray and sheer force of will. Diamond studs winked from her earlobes—deceptively simple until one noticed their flawless clarity and substantial size, each catching the light with cold fire that matched the calculating gleam in her gaze as it swept over them like a searchlight.

"Mother," Lena replied, her voice modulated to a perfect pitch of filial respect that didn't quite mask the tension beneath. "You look lovely this evening."

"Seven minutes late," Lillian observed, her gaze flicking to the diamond watch encircling her slender wrist. Her smile was technically perfect—lips curved at precisely the right angle, teeth exposed in the exact proportion considered socially acceptable—yet it contained all the warmth of a January morning in National City. "The Morgan Foundation representatives arrived ten minutes ago. They've been asking for you."

"Traffic," Lena replied simply, though they all knew the lie for what it was.

Lillian's gaze shifted to Jimmy, warming by perhaps half a degree. "James. I see you've managed to wear a proper tuxedo tonight. How refreshing."

"Mrs. Luthor," Jimmy inclined his head with practiced deference. "I save my leather pants exclusively for dive bars these days."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across Lillian's features before disappearing beneath the smooth mask of polite interest. "How prudent." Her attention turned to Kara, her gaze sharpening with assessment. "And this is...?"

"Kara Danvers," Lena said, her hand returning to the small of Kara's back in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive in equal measure. "She wrote the CatCo piece on GlassHearts."

"Ah." Lillian extended a hand adorned with a single platinum band set with an emerald that matched Lena's eyes with unsettling precision. "The journalist who found my daughter's... musical diversions... so fascinating."

Kara took the offered hand, surprised by the strength in Lillian's grip despite her delicate appearance. The woman's skin was cool and dry, her fingers applying just enough pressure to establish dominance without appearing impolite. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Luthor."

"Is it?" Lillian's eyebrow arched in a gesture so similar to Lena's that Kara felt a jolt of recognition. "How curious. Most journalists find me rather... intimidating."

"Mother," Lena's voice carried a warning note.

Lillian released Kara's hand, her smile never faltering. "I'm merely making conversation, darling. After all, it's not every day you bring a member of the press to a private function." Her gaze traveled between them, noting the proximity of their bodies, the way Lena's hand remained at the small of Kara's back. "Though I gather Ms. Danvers is here in a... personal capacity tonight?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that made Kara's cheeks burn. Before either could respond, Jimmy cleared his throat.

"I believe I see the Morgans by the east bar," he said smoothly. "Should I bring them over for introductions?"

"That won't be necessary," Lillian replied, her attention shifting away from Kara with dismissive ease. "Lena will join them shortly. After she's made the appropriate rounds." She turned back to her daughter, her voice dropping to a pitch meant only for their small circle. "The Sinclairs are here. Andrea has been asking after you."

Something flickered across Lena's face—a microexpression so brief Kara almost missed it. "I'll be sure to say hello."

"See that you do," Lillian replied. "Her father increased his donation by thirty percent this year." She glanced at Kara once more, her gaze calculating. "Ms. Danvers, I do hope you enjoy the evening. The open bar is quite exceptional, though perhaps avoid the canapés if you're watching your figure."

With that parting shot, delivered with such precise civility that Kara couldn't quite be certain it was an insult, Lillian glided away, the crowd parting before her like subjects before a queen.

"Well," Jimmy said into the silence she left behind, "that was relatively painless. No one's bleeding, at least not visibly."

Lena exhaled slowly, some of the rigidity leaving her posture. "She's on her best behavior tonight. Too many potential donors watching."

"That was her best behavior?" Kara asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.

"Oh, absolutely," Jimmy confirmed with a grim smile. "She didn't once mention Lena's 'wasted potential' or compare her unfavorably to Lex. I'd call that a win."

Lena's laugh held no humor. "The night is young, James." She turned to Kara, her expression softening. "I'm sorry about that. Mother has a particular talent for making people feel simultaneously welcome and utterly out of place."

"She's certainly... formidable," Kara said diplomatically.

Jimmy snorted. "That's one word for it."

A waiter materialized beside them, offering a tray of champagne flutes with practiced deference. Lena selected two, handing one to Kara with a slight tilt of her head.

"To surviving the first encounter," she said, raising her glass in a small toast.

Kara clinked her flute against Lena's, the crystal producing a clear, perfect note that seemed to hang in the air between them. "Is that the goal for tonight? Survival?"

"For these events? Always." Lena took a sip, her crimson lipstick leaving a perfect crescent on the rim of her glass. "Though having you here changes the equation somewhat."

Before Kara could ask what that meant, a voice called Lena's name—warm and rich with familiarity, edged with something that made Kara's spine stiffen instinctively.

"Lee! There you are!"

A woman approached, her midnight-blue gown shimmering with constellations of hand-sewn crystal beading that caught the light with every calculated step. She was stunning in a way that made Kara's throat go dry—flawless olive skin that glowed as if lit from within, dark espresso hair cascading over one bare shoulder in perfect waves that somehow defied both gravity and humidity. Her eyes, so dark they appeared obsidian in the ballroom's amber lighting, held the practiced warmth of someone who knew precisely how beautiful she was. Her smile was dazzling, impossibly white teeth flashing against carmine lips painted to match her manicure as she moved toward them with the fluid grace of a jaguar—predatory, purposeful, and absolutely certain of her right to claim whatever territory she desired.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," she said, her accent adding a musical quality to the words. She leaned in, brushing her lips against Lena's cheek in a greeting that lingered just a fraction too long to be casual. "You're impossible to find in this crowd."

"Andrea," Lena said, her voice carefully neutral in a way that suggested the opposite. "I didn't realize you'd be in National City."

"Daddy's a major donor," Andrea replied with a casual shrug that somehow managed to be elegant. "And I couldn't miss the chance to see you in your element." Her gaze shifted to Kara, curiosity evident in the slight tilt of her head. "And who is this?"

"Kara Danvers," Lena said, her hand finding the small of Kara's back again. "Kara, this is Andrea Rojas. We attended boarding school together."

"Among other things," Andrea added with a smile that carried layers of meaning Kara couldn't begin to decipher. She extended a hand adorned with a bracelet that probably cost more than Kara's annual salary. "Charmed. Are you a friend of Lena's?"

The question lingered, heavy with unspoken meaning. Kara clasped Andrea's outstretched fingers—cool, smooth, tipped with flawless burgundy polish that matched her lips. A cloud of jasmine and sandalwood enveloped them momentarily, the kind of scent that whispered of private jets and exclusive boutiques.

"Yes," she said simply, unwilling to qualify the relationship further when she herself wasn't certain of its parameters.

Andrea's eyebrow arched in that same gesture Kara had now seen from both Lena and Lillian, making her wonder if it was genetic or learned. "How mysterious," she said, her gaze traveling between them with undisguised interest. "Lena doesn't usually bring friends to these events. Or anywhere, really."

There was something in her tone—a familiarity that suggested intimate knowledge—that made Kara's stomach twist into a complicated knot. Was it jealousy? No, that would be ridiculous. She barely knew Lena. Simple curiosity, perhaps. Or discomfort at being an outsider to their shared history. Yet the heat rising to her cheeks told a different story, one Kara wasn't ready to read.

Jimmy stepped forward, his presence a welcome buffer. "Andy," he said, his voice carrying none of the warmth he usually projected. "Still breaking hearts across Europe?"

Andrea laughed, the sound practiced to perfection. "James. Still playing backup to Lena's genius?"

"Someone has to keep the rhythm while she's showing off," he replied with an easy smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not all of us can coast on our family names."

Andrea's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "How droll. You haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you," Jimmy replied, his tone making it clear this wasn't a compliment.

Lena cleared her throat, her fingers pressing slightly more firmly against Kara's back. "Andrea, Kara wrote that piece on GlassHearts for CatCo. The one I mentioned."

"Ah," Andrea's attention returned to Kara, her gaze sharpening with renewed interest. "The band. Of course." She tilted her head, studying Kara with the clinical detachment of someone assessing a potential purchase. "And what did you make of Lena's little rebellion, Ms. Danvers? Impressed by her slumming it in dive bars when she could be playing Carnegie Hall?"

The question was delivered with such perfect civility that it took Kara a moment to register the condescension beneath it. She felt Lena tense beside her, the hand at her back pressing slightly more firmly.

"I wouldn't call it slumming," Kara replied, keeping her voice even despite the surge of defensiveness she felt on Lena's behalf. "And I wouldn't call it rebellion either. GlassHearts is creating something authentic in an industry drowning in manufactured sound. The fact that Lena chooses to play where she does speaks to artistic integrity, not rebellion."

Andrea's eyes widened slightly, surprise evident in the subtle parting of her lips. She hadn't expected Kara to challenge her, that much was clear. After a moment, she laughed—a practiced sound that managed to be both musical and dismissive.

"My, my," she said, her gaze returning to Lena. "You've found yourself a defender, Lee. How novel."

Lena's expression remained carefully neutral, but Kara felt the subtle shift in her posture—a straightening of her spine, a slight lift of her chin. "Kara sees things clearly," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that hadn't been present when she'd greeted Andrea. "It's refreshing."

Something passed between the two women, a silent communication born of shared history that excluded Kara entirely. Andrea's smile tightened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of genuine emotion breaking through her polished exterior.

"Well," she said after a moment, her composure restored. "I should make the rounds. Daddy will be looking for me." She leaned forward, brushing her lips against Lena's cheek again. "We should catch up properly while I'm in town. For old times' sake."

With that, she glided away, the crowd parting for her much as it had for Lillian. Kara watched her go, aware of a tension in her chest that hadn't been there before.

"And that," Jimmy said, breaking the silence, "is why I always bring a flask to these things." He patted his jacket pocket with a rueful smile. "Want some real alcohol to wash down that encounter?"

Lena shook her head, her gaze still following Andrea's retreating figure. "I have to play later. I need to keep my hands steady."

"Probably for the best," Jimmy agreed. He turned to Kara with a conspiratorial wink. "Don't let the sharks intimidate you. They can smell fear."

"Is everyone here like that?" Kara asked, her voice lower than she'd intended.

"Like what?" Lena's attention returned to her, those sea-glass eyes searching Kara's face.

"So..." Kara hesitated, searching for the right word. "Calculated. Like every conversation is a chess match."

Lena's laugh was soft but genuine. "Welcome to my world, Ms. Danvers. Where pleasantries are weapons and compliments conceal razor blades." She glanced around the glittering ballroom, taking in the clusters of wealthy donors with their practiced smiles and strategic conversations. "This is what I grew up with. Every interaction a transaction, every relationship an alliance."

The admission settled heavily in Kara's chest, a reminder of the chasm between their worlds. She recalled her own childhood—warm evenings where her family sprawled across their worn living room rug, Alex's competitive streak making everyone laugh as Eliza pretended not to notice when J'onn bent the rules to let the girls win. She remembered falling asleep against her sister's shoulder during the third Lord of the Rings movie, waking to find popcorn in her hair and her family still there, still whole. Even their worst fights had resolution—voices raised but never withheld, tears shed but always followed by reconciliation. The contrast between those warm memories and Lena's cold reality swirled in her mind, leaving her feeling disoriented.

"Not all relationships have to be strategic," she said softly, meeting Lena's gaze directly.

For a moment, Lena's sea-glass eyes softened at the edges, a hairline crack appearing in her perfect composure. Then a shadow fell across them as a man materialized at her elbow, his tuxedo crisp enough to cut paper and his smile blindingly artificial.

"Ms. Luthor," he said, extending his hand. "Thomas Morgan. Your mother mentioned you'd be performing Rachmaninoff tonight. My wife is beside herself with excitement."

Lena's expression shifted, the vulnerability vanishing beneath a social mask so perfect it made Kara's heart ache. "Mr. Morgan. How lovely to see you again. I believe the last time was at the Metropolitan Opera?"

As Lena slipped into the practiced dance of social niceties, Kara felt Jimmy's presence at her elbow.

"She's good at this, isn't she?" he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "You'd never know she'd rather be anywhere else."

Kara watched as Lena laughed at something Morgan said, the sound musical but lacking the genuine warmth she'd heard earlier. "How do you stand it? These people, this world?"

Jimmy's smile turned wry. "Who says I stand it? I'm here for her." He nodded toward Lena, his expression softening. "She needs someone in her corner who remembers who she really is beneath all..." he gestured vaguely at the opulent surroundings, "...this."

Before Kara could respond, Morgan turned toward her, his gaze curious. "And who might this be?" he asked, his attention sliding over Kara in a way that made her skin crawl.

"This is Kara Danvers," Lena said, her hand finding Kara's elbow. "She's with me tonight."

The simple declaration carried a weight that made Kara's pulse quicken. Morgan's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze traveling between them with new interest.

"How delightful," he said, though his tone suggested he found it anything but. "Will you be joining us at the Luthor table, Ms. Danvers?"

Kara glanced at Lena, suddenly uncertain. They hadn't discussed seating arrangements or any other logistical details of the evening. "I—"

"Of course she will," Lena interjected smoothly. "Kara will be sitting beside me."

Morgan's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Splendid. I look forward to getting better acquainted during dinner." He turned back to Lena, his expression shifting to one of calculated interest. "Now, about your performance—my wife was wondering if you might consider including Debussy? She's particularly fond of 'Clair de Lune’."

As Lena navigated the request with diplomacy, Kara felt the weight of eyes upon her from across the room. Glancing over, she caught Lillian Luthor watching their interaction, her gaze sharp as a scalpel as it moved from Lena's hand on Kara's elbow to Kara's face. The intensity of that stare made Kara's skin prickle with unease, as if Lillian could see through her carefully chosen dress to the impostor beneath—the reporter from a middle-class family who had no business in this world of old money and older grudges.

Beside Lillian stood Andrea, her dark eyes similarly fixed on their small group, her perfect lips curved in a smile that contained no warmth. As their gazes met, Andrea raised her champagne flute in a mock toast, her expression making it clear that she considered Kara's presence beside Lena a temporary amusement at best.

The message couldn't have been clearer if it had been spelled out in those diamonds dripping from the chandeliers above:

You don't belong here.

You don't belong with her.

Kara lifted her chin slightly, refusing to be intimidated despite the flutter of anxiety in her chest. She might not have been born to this world of wealth and privilege, but Lena had invited her into it—had chosen her to stand beside her tonight. That had to mean something.

Didn't it?

Chapter Text

11

Gilded Cage

"—and of course, my wife has been following your career since Julliard," Mr. Morgan continued, his voice grating against Lena's nerves like a bow drawn incorrectly across violin strings.

Lena maintained her practiced smile, the one that revealed precisely three millimeters of teeth—enough to suggest warmth without appearing overly familiar. Her facial muscles had memorized this expression decades ago under Lillian's exacting tutelage. She'd spent countless childhood hours before mirrors perfecting it while her mother stood behind her, tapping a silver letter opener against her palm with each failure.

"Your wife has excellent taste," Lena replied, the words flowing automatically while her mind calculated the optimal moment to extract herself from this conversation. Morgan stood too close, the scent of his cologne—something expensive and overpowering that couldn't quite mask the whiskey on his breath—invading her personal space with the same entitled presumption as his gaze, which kept dropping to the neckline of her dress.

"Perhaps after your performance, you might join us for a nightcap? I have a suite upstairs with an exceptional view of the harbor." His fingers brushed against her arm, lingering a half-second too long to be accidental.

Lena's skin crawled beneath his touch, but her expression remained unchanged. Nineteen years of Lillian's social training had taught her to weaponize politeness. "I'm afraid I have prior commitments this evening," she said, angling her body slightly toward Kara without being obvious enough to cause offense. "But I'm sure your wife would enjoy the view."

Morgan's smile tightened at the mention of his wife. "She's developing one of her migraines. Probably won't make it past the first course."

"How unfortunate," Lena murmured, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

As Morgan launched into another transparent attempt at flirtation, Lena allowed her gaze to drift toward Kara, who stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with Jimmy. The sight of her caused a physical reaction Lena couldn't quite suppress—a subtle catch in her breathing, a warmth spreading beneath her sternum like aged whiskey on a bitter winter night, melting the frozen knot that had formed there during less than two hours of performative socializing. Her fingertips tingled with the memory of Kara's skin from when they'd briefly touched during introductions, and the muscles in her cheeks ached to form a genuine smile rather than the practiced one she'd been maintaining all evening.

The ballroom's amber lighting caught in Kara's blonde curls, turning them into a halo of spun gold that framed her face with almost ethereal perfection. Every strand seemed to capture and refract the light differently—honey-gold at the roots, platinum at the tips, with hints of caramel where shadows gathered. Her black dress—which Lena now recognized as Marchesa, Fall collection from two seasons ago, with its distinctive hand-embroidered beadwork along the seams—moved with her body like liquid shadow, clinging momentarily before releasing with each subtle shift of her weight. The modest bateau neckline revealed just the elegant hollow of her collarbones, a refreshing contrast to the calculated exposure of flesh that characterized most women in the room with their plunging V-cuts and strategic cutouts. When Kara gestured, emphasizing whatever point she was making to Jimmy, the thigh-high slit in her dress revealed a flash of toned muscle, golden skin kissed by California sunshine that made Lena's mouth go desert-dry. Her wire-rimmed glasses caught the light, momentarily transforming into twin mirrors that obscured her eyes, but Lena had already memorized their color—a blue so clear and honest, like tropical waters under midday sun, that it made her chest ache with something dangerously, terrifyingly close to longing.

There was something about Kara Danvers that didn't belong in this world of strategic alliances and calculated appearances—something genuine that made the rest of the room seem like elaborate theater in comparison. While others wore expressions as meticulously designed as their couture, Kara's face moved with unfiltered emotion, each micro-expression rippling across her features like sunlight on clear water. Her smile wasn't the practiced half-moon of teeth that Lena had perfected at thirteen; it was asymmetrical, slightly crooked on the left side, crinkling the corners of her eyes into delicate fans. When she laughed—a bright, unrestrained sound that cut through the controlled murmurs of the ballroom—her head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat without calculation or fear. And when she looked at Lena, those impossibly blue eyes didn't perform the usual assessment of net worth and social capital; they lingered with curious warmth on the places Lena thought she'd hidden best—the tensed corner of her jaw, the slight tremor in her fingers against the champagne flute, the carefully maintained distance she kept from everyone else—seeing past the carefully constructed façade to something underneath that Lena herself had nearly forgotten existed.

It terrified her. And exhilarated her.

"—don't you agree, Ms. Luthor?"

Morgan's voice dragged her attention back to him.

She had no idea what he'd been saying.

"I find these matters are rarely so simple," she replied, the non-answer flowing smoothly from years of practice at half-listening during tedious conversations.

He laughed as though she'd said something genuinely amusing. "Always the diplomat. Your mother trained you well."

The comparison to Lillian scraped against something raw inside her. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Morgan, I should check on my guest." She gestured toward Kara with a practiced elegance that brooked no argument.

Morgan's disappointment flickered across his face before being replaced with a bland smile. "Of course. I look forward to your performance."

Lena nodded and turned away, relief washing through her like cool water. She noticed Kara's posture shift, her gaze fixed on something across the room. Following that line of sight, Lena's stomach tightened as she spotted her mother and Andrea standing with Andrea's father and a man Lena recognized as Andrea's husband—the four of them arranged like chess pieces near one of the marble columns. Something dark twisted in Lena's chest at the sight of Andrea's hand resting on her husband's forearm, her diamond wedding band catching the light as she laughed at something he said while her eyes remained fixed on Lena.

Lillian's expression was one Lena knew intimately—lips pressed into a bloodless line, the corners lifted precisely three millimeters in a simulacrum of pleasantness that never reached her eyes. Those eyes—ice-blue hardened by decades of calculated cruelty—moved between Lena and Kara with the chilling accuracy of a surgeon's scalpel. They lingered on Kara's hand, hovering just centimeters from the small of Lena's back, on the slight incline of Lena's body toward the blonde, on the faint flush coloring Lena's normally porcelain cheeks. Each observation cataloged and filed away like evidence for a future prosecution. Lena could practically hear the calculations running behind that glacial stare—how many donors might withdraw their support, which board members would need reassurance, what headlines might appear in tomorrow's society pages. The familiar weight of Lillian's disapproval settled across Lena's shoulders like a mink stole lined with lead. Her mother had once spent an entire summer orchestrating Lena's "friendship" with the son of a Saudi oil magnate, only to discover Lena in the pool house with his sister. The resulting conversation had left invisible scars that still ached when touched.

Bringing Kara tonight was a deliberate provocation, a gauntlet thrown at Lillian's Louboutin-clad feet. They both knew it.

Andrea's gaze carried a different heat entirely—like coals banked beneath ash, waiting to ignite. Her dark eyes, rimmed with kohl that made the whites seem impossibly bright, fixed on Lena with the possessive intensity that might have made Lena's heart race just a week ago. Before Kara had entered her life. Andrea's smile—that perfectly calculated curve of carmine lips against olive skin—held the confidence of someone who believed she could reclaim what she considered hers at any moment. Her earlier words echoed in Lena's mind, delivered in that velvet-wrapped voice with its hint of Barcelona: "We should catch up properly..." The subtext had been clear as crystal—Andrea's penthouse suite at the Archer, with its panoramic windows and silk sheets, a bottle of that ridiculously expensive 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild she favored, and the inevitable slide into familiar patterns of tangled limbs and whispered promises that always left Lena feeling hollow afterward, staring at the ceiling while Andrea slept soundly beside her.

There had been a time when Lena wouldn't have hesitated. When the comfort of familiar toxicity seemed preferable to the risk of something genuine. When Andrea's particular brand of possession—demanding and consuming, fingers pressing bruises into Lena's hips and teeth marking her collarbone like a predator claiming territory, leaving Lena trembling in silk sheets that reeked of expensive perfume and chemical euphoria—had felt like the closest approximation of love she could hope for in a world where Luthors weren't meant to be loved, only feared or used.

But now, with Kara standing beside her in that perfect black dress that hugged her athletic frame like a second skin, her honest eyes reflecting the crystal chandeliers overhead and genuine smile turning the corners of her mouth upward in a way that made Lena's chest constrict with unfamiliar hope, Andrea's invitation felt like iron shackles threatening to drag her back into murky, cocaine-dusted depths she'd clawed her way out of with bloodied fingernails and tear-stained pillowcases.

Lena caught understanding dawn in Kara's expression—those blue eyes widening slightly, the tiny furrow appearing between her brows—as she registered the twin stares from across the marble-floored ballroom. But where Lena saw Lillian's calculated disapproval, cold as a scalpel's edge, and Andrea's possessive desire, hot and sticky as spilled wine, Kara could only perceive the surface—two beautiful, powerful women looking at her with judgment. She couldn't possibly understand the years of history contained in those gazes, the silent threats and promises they held, each glance weighted with memories of whispered cruelties and lipstick-stained betrayals.

A surge of protectiveness rose in Lena's chest, unexpected in its intensity, like a wave crashing against her ribcage. She stepped closer to Kara, pivoting smoothly to position herself between those twin stares and the blonde. Her hand found the small of Kara's back, fingertips pressing gently against the silk of the dress where it dipped slightly before flaring over Kara’s hips as she guided them both into a quarter-turn that blocked Lillian and Andrea from view. Through the thin fabric, she felt the warmth of her skin, the solid presence of muscle beneath—real and grounding in a room full of ghosts and masks.

"Everything all right?" she asked, her voice low and intimate despite the crowded room.

Before Kara could respond, the string quartet's final note hung suspended in the air, then dissolved into silence. Conversations dimmed as heads turned toward the small stage. A moment later, a microphone crackled to life with that distinctive electronic whine that always made Lena's teeth grate, and her mother's voice—cool, precise, and calculated to project both authority and benevolence—filled every corner of the ballroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lillian began, her tone commanding immediate attention. "I want to thank you all for your generous support of the Luthor Children's Hospital..."

Lena's stomach knotted into a fist-sized ball at the familiar cadence of her mother's public speaking voice—honeyed amber on the surface but with that razor-wire steel underneath that had always made Lena's spine snap to attention like a marionette on invisible strings. The crystal chandeliers seemed to dim as Lillian's voice filled the space. Lena couldn't bear to listen to the speech she'd heard variations of hundreds of times before, each syllable as meticulously crafted as the architectural lines of her evening wear, a garment that somehow conveyed both ruthless authority and refined taste, its stark lines emphasizing the rigid posture Lillian had drilled into her children since infancy. Not tonight. Not with Kara beside her, those earnest blue eyes witnessing this masterclass in Luthor family theater—a performance of philanthropic values that Lena knew was as hollow as the champagne flutes clutched in manicured hands throughout the ballroom.

She reached for Kara's hand, surprised at how glacial her own fingers felt against Kara's sun-warmed palm. "Come with me," she said quietly, pitching her voice just below the threshold that would attract attention from the nearest cluster of Silicon Valley investors hanging on Lillian's every word.

Without waiting for Kara to respond—afraid, perhaps, that she might refuse—Lena led her toward the French doors at the far end of the ballroom, their brass handles gleaming like escape hatches in the low light. Jimmy could handle the social piranha tank on his own for a while. He was charming enough to survive a few minutes without her running interference, seeing as he ran it often enough for her. She navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, her emerald silk dress slipping between tuxedos and evening gowns like water through stones, nodding politely to those who caught her eye but never slowing enough to be drawn into conversation. The weight of Kara's hand in hers felt like an anchor, something solid and real to hold onto as she drifted through the sea of faces she recognized but rarely cared to engage with—faces powdered and painted into masks as carefully crafted as her own.

They slipped through the French doors unnoticed, the handles cool beneath Lena's fingertips. The heavy mahogany panels closed with a soft thud that sealed off the ballroom's suffocating opulence. Immediately, the cacophony of tinkling crystal, forced laughter, and Lillian's knife-edged voice faded to a distant hum, replaced by the gentle whisper of a midnight breeze that carried the scent of jasmine from the gardens twenty floors below.

The marble terrace stretched before them, blessedly empty, its stone gleaming pale blue under the three-quarter moon. Lena's lungs expanded against the unyielding emerald silk, each molecule of night air a small rebellion against the dress's constraints. The air tasted of rain and salt from the distant bay—clean and electric after the cloying miasma of Chanel No. 5, Macallan 25, and that particular scent of old money that permeated these gatherings like invisible smoke. She moved toward the intricately carved balustrade, her stilettos clicking softly against stone worn smooth by generations of Luthors escaping their own parties, reluctantly releasing Kara's warm fingers from her own trembling ones.

National City sprawled before them like a living circuit board, amber streetlights and neon signs creating constellations that pulsed with the heartbeat of two million lives unfolding twenty floors below. Lena placed her half-empty champagne flute on the flat surface of the balustrade, watching as condensation beaded and slid down the crystal in glistening rivulets that caught the city's glow like the tears she had trained herself never to shed in public since she was seven years old.

She gripped the balustrade, her knuckles whitening against the stone. "I couldn't breathe in there anymore," she said, her voice barely audible above the city's distant hum. The words escaped before she could polish them into something more dignified, more Luthor. She kept her gaze fixed on the skyline, unwilling to turn and find disappointment shadowing Kara's face.

The words felt inadequate, like trying to explain a symphony with stick-figure drawings. How could mere sentences convey that every minute in that ballroom required her to wear a mask so heavy it left permanent indentations on her soul? That the Lena Luthor who attended these galas—with her practiced laugh that never reached her eyes and her repertoire of anecdotes polished to a high gleam—was a carefully constructed fiction she both despised and depended upon like a drug?

She sensed rather than saw Kara approach, the soft rustle of silk against marble and the subtle shift in the night air announcing her presence. Kara moved with the deliberate gentleness of someone approaching a wounded animal, each footstep placed with such consideration that Lena felt something twist painfully beneath her ribs, like piano wire pulled too tight.

"You don’t have to explain," Kara said, coming to stand beside her, close enough that the warmth of her bare shoulder radiated against Lena's skin without quite touching. "It's a lot to take in."

Lena turned to look at her then, watching how the city lights caught in Kara's hair like threads of gold against honey, illuminating the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder. Each time their eyes met, Kara seemed impossibly more beautiful than Lena remembered—the gentle slope of her cheekbones, the soft fullness of her lower lip, the earnest blue of her eyes that somehow deepened in the half-light. It defied logic, this incremental perfection. The genuine warmth radiating from Kara made something behind Lena's carefully maintained walls crack and shift.

"Which part?" she asked, a bitter edge creeping into her voice despite her efforts to contain it. "My mother's barely concealed disapproval or the general atmosphere of wealth and privilege that permeates these events like a noxious gas?"

The words left her mouth like broken glass.

She winced, watching Kara's face for signs of hurt. These weren't Kara's burdens to bear—they were ghosts that had haunted Lena's shoulders long before Kara had mistakenly stumbled into her world.

"All of it," Kara admitted, seemingly unperturbed by Lena's tone. "Though I was mostly referring to the expectation that you'll perform Rachmaninoff on command, like some kind of classical music jukebox."

The unexpected response startled a laugh from Lena, not for the first time that night, the sound bubbling up unplanned and genuine. The sensation lifted something heavy from her chest, as if each spontaneous moment with Kara dissolved another layer of the armor she'd worn for so long she'd forgotten its weight.

"That's precisely what I am at these events," she said, feeling something in her expression soften. "The Luthor family's trained seal, performing tricks for donor dollars."

She spoke the words without self-pity—her voice flat and matter-of-fact, as if reciting the weather forecast rather than revealing the gilded cage of her existence. The truth had calcified inside her years ago, hardened like amber around a trapped insect. Yet saying it aloud to Kara made the reality of it settle more heavily across her shoulders, a familiar weight suddenly made visible. Lena watched as Kara placed her champagne flute beside Lena's on the stone balustrade, crystal against marble, the condensation from both glasses forming a tiny constellation between them. Their hands rested mere inches apart, close enough that Lena could feel the warmth radiating from Kara's skin like sunlight through stained glass. She curled her manicured fingers against her palm, resisting the magnetic pull to bridge that small, impossible distance.

Kara tilted her head, studying Lena's profile against the city lights. "So GlassHearts isn't just about making music that matters to you," she said softly, not quite a question. "It's about not being a trained seal." Her eyes held the memory of Lena's previous answer—about artistic expression and creative control—but now they searched for the deeper truth beneath it.

Her words cut through Lena's carefully constructed defenses like a hot knife through butter. She turned her gaze back to the glittering cityscape, the distant pinpricks of light blurring slightly as her eyes unfocused. The cool night air kissed her flushed cheeks while she weighed each potential word on the delicate scale of trust versus self-preservation.

"Partly," she admitted finally, the syllable escaping on a cloud of condensation that dissipated into the evening air. "Though it's more complicated than simple rebellion."

She fell quiet, her fingers—tipped a black cherry so deep they appeared obsidian until they caught the light—tracing arabesques against marble. The stone held the day's lingering warmth beneath her fingertips, contrasting with the chill that had settled between her shoulder blades.

"When I play classical music, I'm interpreting someone else's creation. My fingers follow pathways carved by Bach and Chopin, pressing ivory keys in sequences dictated by notes on yellowed manuscript paper, performing pieces that have been polished to perfection by generations of musicians with straighter spines and cleaner bloodlines than mine."

Lena turned to face Kara fully, something delicate and long-dormant unfurling beneath her breastbone as she met those attentive sapphire eyes, bright even in the half-light. The gentle crease between Kara's brows deepened as she listened, her lips slightly parted as if poised to catch each word Lena offered.

"But when I play with GlassHearts, my fingers bleed new melodies into existence. Something raw and untamed that belongs to no one but me. The metronome shatters and the rules crumble to dust because I'm writing them in real time, with sweat and calluses and the electricity that flows between my body and the instrument."

The admission vibrated in the space between them like a plucked bass string, low and resonant, sending invisible ripples through the night air. These weren't thoughts she'd ever vocalized—not to Jimmy, whose understanding came in silent nods and protective stances, his broad shoulders always angled slightly toward her on stage; not to Sam, who had seen Lena at her lowest and still showed up the next morning with coffee and no questions, a sisterhood forged in silent understanding rather than shared DNA; not to her mother, whose arctic disapproval would freeze these tender confessions mid-air, crystallizing them into brittle fragments; certainly not to Andrea, whose intimate knowledge of Lena's body—every sensitive hollow and responsive curve—had somehow never translated to knowing the jagged, uncharted landscape of her soul.

Kara's lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "That sounds like freedom."

"It is," Lena confirmed, her gaze locked on the tiny gold flecks in Kara's irises that seemed to dance in the half-light. "The only real freedom I've ever known."

The confession lingered in the air, more revealing than Lena had intended. Her heartbeat quickened against her ribs as if trying to escape. She had just handed Kara a skeleton key to rooms in herself that collected dust behind velvet ropes. Yet the panic that should have flooded her veins remained strangely dormant, replaced by something that felt dangerously, deliciously like trust.

They stood in weighted silence, the muffled crystal-tinkling laughter from the gala filtering through the heavy oak doors behind them. Lena's senses heightened to Kara's proximity—the delicate curve where her collarbone disappeared beneath silk, the subtle scent of vanilla and something crisp like fresh laundry dried in summer sunshine. Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach across those few electric inches, to discover if Kara's skin held the warmth it promised in the amber glow of the city lights below.

"Thank you for inviting me tonight," Kara said finally, her voice breaking the spell that had stretched taut between them. Her eyes softened at the corners as she glanced toward the ballroom. "Even though it's clearly not your favorite environment."

Lena felt her mouth curve into a small smile—not the practiced one she used for photographs and interviews with its precise angles and calculated warmth, but something crooked and uneven that tugged at the corner of her crimson-painted lips. "Especially because it's not my favorite environment," she corrected, her voice dropping to a velvet-soft murmur that barely carried over the distant sounds of the world around them. "Having you here makes it... bearable."

The confession hung in the night air between them like delicate crystal. Lena Luthor, with her steel spine and glacier-cold composure, did not lean on others during galas where champagne flowed like water and diamonds glittered under chandeliers. She endured these events with perfect posture and empty smiles, performing social graces with the same technical precision she applied to Chopin. Yet here on this moonlit balcony, her shoulders had softened beneath the emerald silk of her gown, the perpetual tension in her jaw finally easing.

Lena's fingers uncurled from her palm, hovering in the space between them. Kara's gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there, and something electric crystallized in Lena's mind: she was going to kiss this woman.

More startling still was the realization that Kara was leaning forward too, her lips parting slightly, eyes darkening beneath heavy lids.

"Lena," Kara whispered, her voice pitched low enough that Lena had to sway closer to catch it. The sound of her own name in that honeyed tone sent a visible shiver cascading down her bare spine.

Before Kara could continue, the French doors crashed open, shattering their bubble with a flood of harsh light and cacophonous chatter. Jimmy stood haloed in the golden doorway, his bow tie slightly askew. The moment collapsed like a house of cards. Lena's lungs seized mid-breath, the almost-kiss evaporating like morning dew. Her fingertips, still tingling with the phantom sensation of what might have been, curled into her palm. Jimmy's eyes widened slightly, registering what he'd walked into, his apologetic wince deepening the lines around his mouth.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, voice pitched low as his gaze darted between them. The knowing sympathy in his eyes made Lena's cheeks burn. "But Lillian's prowling the ballroom looking for you, L. It's time for your performance."

Lena's spine snapped straight, the warmth draining from her face like water down a sink. The ghost of the almost-kiss still tingled beneath her skin—a phantom sensation of something that never quite happened. Her shoulders squared as she assembled her public persona piece by precise piece: jaw tightened, eyes cooled to jade, mouth reset into its camera-ready curve. The transition took less than a heartbeat.

"Of course it is," she said, frost crystallizing around each syllable. "Heaven forbid the donors wait an extra five minutes for their entertainment."

The bitterness in her voice surprised her. She glanced at Jimmy, who had the decency to look away, then back to Kara, whose lips were still slightly parted, cheeks flushed pink beneath the moonlight. Something twisted painfully in Lena's chest—desire and duty warring beneath her ribs. Five more seconds and she would have known how Kara tasted. Five more seconds that Jimmy's entrance had stolen forever.

"Will you watch?" The words tumbled out before she could filter them, her voice lower, less certain. "From backstage, I mean. The view is better, and you won't have to endure small talk with National City's elite while I play." Her heart hammered against her sternum, waiting for Kara's answer as if it were oxygen.

It was so much more than a practical suggestion.

It was an offering—Lena's pulse quickened as she imagined Kara in her private domain, where discarded sheet music and half-empty water bottles betrayed her humanity. The backstage area, with its worn velvet curtains and scuffed floors, was the only place her shoulders could drop, where she could press trembling fingers to her temples without photographers capturing the moment of weakness. Was she inviting Kara too close? She’d already seen more than most—had somehow slipped past defenses that had withstood far more determined intrusions.

"I'd like that," Kara said simply, her smile reaching eyes that seemed to see straight through Lena's carefully constructed armor.

Lena nodded, the sharp movement masking how her throat had gone tight. She reached for Kara's hand, hating how her own fingers trembled slightly before finding their target.

What if her playing disappointed tonight?

What if Kara saw through the technical perfection to the hollowness beneath—the performance without passion that Lillian had cultivated?

"Come on, then," she said, forcing steel into her voice. "Let's give them what they paid for."

As they followed Jimmy back into the ballroom, Lena's skin prickled under the weight of hundreds of eyes. Diamond-crusted lorgnettes tilted in their direction. Champagne glasses paused mid-sip. The pearled matrons of National City's elite tracked their progress with reptilian focus, their gazes lingering on where Lena's fingers remained intertwined with Kara's.

Lena's palm grew damp. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Lillian's whispered in her ear: A Luthor never displays weakness publicly. Attachment is weakness. Her grip loosened fractionally. One smooth extraction and she could salvage this—explain away their closeness as professional courtesy, nothing more. The muscle memory of self-preservation twitched in her fingers.

But Kara's hand was warm, solid, real. The small callus on her middle finger—a writer's mark—pressed against Lena's knuckle. She tightened her grip instead, chin lifting as she noticed Maxwell Lord's eyebrows shoot toward his hairline.

The rebellion tasted sweet, metallic, dangerous.

They navigated the glittering labyrinth, Lena mechanically acknowledging the "darlings" and air-kisses thrown her way. Each step toward the stage compressed her lungs further. The side door marked "Staff Only" offered momentary reprieve from prying eyes, but as the shadowed wings enveloped them, a different anxiety surged. Her fingers began their phantom dance against Kara's palm, tracing the opening arpeggios of Rachmaninoff's Prelude—a tell she'd never been able to conquer.

You'll disappoint her, the voice hissed as the stage lights dimmed. She'll see through you. Technical proficiency without soul—Lillian's perfect musical automaton. The spotlight carved a perfect circle on the gleaming Steinway. Lena's heartbeat accelerated to prestissimo as her mother materialized at center stage, her black gown seeming to consume the light itself, leaving only her pale face floating like a disembodied command in the darkness.

Lillian's voice sliced through the murmuring crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced with that familiar dispassion that required no microphone. "It is my great pleasure to introduce a special performance by my daughter, Lena Luthor."

Lena's lungs constricted. She squeezed Kara's hand—once, hard—before letting go, fingertips already tingling with the phantom sensation of wrong notes not yet played. The ballroom tilted slightly, its crystal chandeliers refracting light that suddenly seemed too harsh, too exposing.

She stepped into the spotlight's merciless circle, her smile calcifying as hundreds of eyes bored into her.

Was that Morgan Edge smirking in the third row?

Had the Vandermeer sisters just exchanged knowing glances?

The polite applause sounded hollow, almost mocking.

They know, that voice whispered inside her. They can see you're a fraud.

Her emerald gown—tailored to the millimeter—now felt like a vise around her ribs, each breath becoming shallower than the last. The twenty steps to the Steinway stretched like miles, her ankles threatening to buckle beneath her as whispers seemed to follow: Lillian's disappointment... technical but soulless... not a real Luthor…

At the piano, she perched on the edge of the bench, her posture military-straight as sweat beaded at her hairline. Her hands hovered above the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly as the silence stretched dangerously long. The audience's collective inhale pressed against her like a physical weight.

She risked one glance toward the wings where Kara stood. Through the encroaching tunnel vision, she caught a flash of blue eyes, steady and clear. For a heartbeat, the whispers receded. Something wild and rebellious flared in her chest—an urge to abandon Rachmaninoff entirely, to play instead the raw, unpolished pieces she composed alone at 3 AM. To show Kara—and everyone—who she really was.

The impulse died as quickly as it had sparked.

Lillian's shadow stretched across the keys, a reminder of consequences.

Lena's fingers descended toward the ivory, her heart hammering so violently she was certain the front row could see her pulse jumping at her throat.

Chapter Text

12

Prelude to Desire

https://youtu.be/yJpJ8REjvqo?si=KyaavuQ5bWru_yDe

Lena's slender fingers hovered an extra heartbeat above the gleaming ivory keys, her nails—lacquered in a hue so darkly crimson they seemed black as night until a stray beam caught their glossy surface—caught the light like ten tiny jewels suspended in mid-air. The ornate ballroom held its collective breath—three hundred guests frozen in anticipation. Overhead, the tiered crystal chandeliers trembled almost imperceptibly, their thousands of facets splintering light into miniature rainbows that danced across the hand-painted ceiling frescos. The faint scent of lemon-polished mahogany and freshly waxed parquet floors mingled with Chanel No. 5 and the soft rustle of silken gowns worth more than most mortals' monthly salaries. Then Lena struck the first chord.

Kara's breath caught in her throat.

The note did not merely reach her ears; it rolled beneath her feet in a low roar, shivering through the glossy floorboards and climbing her spine until it nestled behind her ribs. The sound was a physical force, both tender and relentless, a deep C-minor chord that vibrated through her body like distant thunder. Lena's hands commanded the piano with unexpected strength, each knuckle rising like a pale island from a sea of ivory and ebony. Kara couldn't look away. Those delicate wrists belied the power flowing through them—each note birthed into the gilded air beneath the chandeliers, lingering just long enough to be mourned before the next wave of sound crashed forward.

The opening strains of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2—stripped to its essence for solo piano—unfurled into the air. That single, somber C minor chord hung suspended like dark velvet, then cascading arpeggios rippled outward, Lena's two hands somehow conjuring what forty musicians normally created. Kara had memorized every passionate phrase during late nights with headphones, but hearing one woman distill its power made her mouth go dry. Without an orchestra's swell, each note stood naked and vulnerable, crystalline yet somehow liquid. Lena's left hand provided the phantom cellos, her right the absent violins, as the audience leaned forward, necks craning and breath held, as if being slowly reeled inward on invisible threads of melody.

From her vantage in the shadowed wings, Kara couldn't look away from Lena's profile under the warm amber glow. The footlights transformed her—jaw like Carrara marble chiseled by Bernini himself, neck a graceful alabaster curve where blue-tinged tendons shifted beneath skin so pale it seemed translucent as rice paper held against flame. Kara pressed a trembling hand to her sternum, feeling her heartbeat hammer against her palm like a trapped sparrow. The midnight-black grand piano's obsidian surface caught Lena's reflection in perfect negative, doubling the effect of her presence into a haunting chiaroscuro portrait.

With each thunderous bar, the poised socialite mask Lena had worn all evening—that practiced half-smile and calculating gaze—fractured like porcelain dropped onto marble. Here was the fierce, unguarded woman Kara had glimpsed beneath the buzzing neon lights at The Pit, but somehow more raw, more elemental. During a passage where notes cascaded like a waterfall over jagged stones, Lena's thick sable lashes fluttered closed, casting feathery shadows across knife-edge cheekbones. When they reopened, her sea-glass eyes had transformed—a ring of cobalt blue surging from the edges like high tide claiming shore, pupils dilated into bottomless wells.

Kara's skin prickled with goosebumps that raced across her forearms like wildfire through summer grass. She remembered the balcony—Lena's jasmine perfume mingled with night-blooming gardenia, those crimson lips so close she could count the delicate creases in them, the electric current in the air that made the fine hairs on her nape stand at attention. Now, as the melody arced heavenward like a flock of starlings taking flight, Lena tilted her head back with a barely audible gasp that made Kara's mouth go desert dry. The pulse at Lena's throat fluttered visibly beneath paper-thin skin, hypnotic as a hummingbird's wings. Kara gripped the midnight-blue velvet curtain beside her, its plush nap warm beneath her fingertips, steadying herself against music that seemed to reach inside her chest with ghostly fingers and rearrange something vital, something previously unmapped.

Lena's chest rose and fell with every measure, her lungs expanding beneath the emerald silk bodice that caught the light in rippling waves. Her fingertips coaxed melodies from thin air, pressing into ivory with such precision that each note seemed to materialize fully formed above the grand piano's obsidian surface. The music felt born from her marrow, not the keyboard before her. Kara watched those hands glide over the concave ridges, calluses on the fingertips catching the amber stage lights. A dangerous question bloomed in her mind before she could stop it—what would those precise, knowing fingers feel like tracing the sensitive hollow beneath her throat?  A shiver raced up her spine at the thought. What if those sea-glass eyes, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of jade remained, held her in that fierce stare? What if breath, scented faintly with mint and expensive coffee, brushed the hollow of her throat?

She swallowed, suddenly aflame, her heart hammering in her ears like timpani.

Lena's body swayed with each phrase, the movement so slight someone in the audience might not notice. But Kara—God, Kara couldn't tear her eyes away—noticed everything. How had she never realized music could be so physical? Lena's shoulders rose with the ascending passages and relaxed with the descending ones, her entire being becoming an extension of the instrument before her. Even the elegant twist that had contained her hair began to loosen, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face, catching the light as they fell. Under the spotlight, what had seemed simply black became a deep midnight blue shifting to something almost oceanic at the tips where it faded into teal. Kara's fingers trembled with the urge to touch those strands, to discover if they felt as silken as they appeared. A solitary bead of sweat, pristine as a cultured pearl, formed beneath Lena's temple where a blue vein pulsed visibly before tracing a slender path along her high cheekbone and pausing at the sharp angle of her jaw, suspended like a stolen star about to fall into the shadowed hollow of her throat. Kara held her breath, mesmerized, as though witnessing something sacred.

Each chord felt like iron bars tightening around her ribs. The unguarded anguish of it sounded almost too intimate—like glimpsing fresh scars through a cracked door.

She remembered the yellowed pages of the biography she'd devoured at 3 AM—Rachmaninoff hunched over blank sheets for three years, his fingers paralyzed by despair until hypnosis coaxed music back into his hands. The concerto before her now, his phoenix rising from those ashes. No wonder Lena chose it—music forged in collapse, desperation transmuted into triumph. A jolt of vertigo tipped the gilt-edged hall sideways, crystal chandeliers swimming in her vision as Kara realized beneath the poised heiress with her Louboutin heels and the eyeliner-streaked rocker with her whiskey-rough voice lived a third self: one who pressed those hairline fractures into each resonant tone, her alabaster fingertips unveiling the rough grain beneath the polished veneer, like tree rings recording seasons of drought.

As the first movement swelled, a bead of sweat traced Lena’s collarbone, catching the stage light before vanishing into emerald silk. Chords tumbled like water over stones—each note a ragged gasp after near-drowning—sending a flush of heat from Kara’s chest to her fingertips. Awe surged through her, mingled with a pang of sadness she couldn’t silence. When tears blurred the spotlights into starbursts, she couldn’t tell whether she wept for the music’s fierce beauty or for the longing to explore every secret chamber of Lena Luthor—the socialite, the rocker, and those hidden shadows behind her clear, unflinching eyes.

A single raven lock, its tip dipped teal, slipped free and brushed her cheek. Kara’s fingers twitched, an electric urge to tuck that strand behind Lena’s ear igniting her skin. In that electric moment, she knew this was no mere professional admiration or passing attraction—the music had broken something open inside her. And as the melody climbed toward another peak, Kara felt herself fracture too, with no safe shore to return to once the tide receded.

A shoulder brushed against hers, startling her back to reality. Jimmy stood beside her, his eyes fixed on the stage.

"She's never played it like this before," he whispered. Jimmy's angular profile caught the amber spillover from the stage lights, revealing a tightness at the corners of his eyes that contradicted the wonder in his voice. Gold flecks in his dark irises reflected the light like tiny warning signals. "Not even during rehearsals."

The second movement began, slower and meditative, like water settling after a storm. Each crystalline note hung suspended in the air like dew on a spider’s web, glimmering between beams of light. The notes continued to cascade around them, crystallizing in the air. Kara blinked, her heart still pounding in rhythm with the music.

"W-what do you mean?" Kara managed, her gaze magnetized to Lena, whose music had somehow pried open her ribcage without permission.

Jimmy's thick brow furrowed as Lena's fingers hovered like hummingbirds before descending into a particularly delicate passage. "These society recitals, she usually plays them like she's translating a foreign language—technically perfect but..." His calloused fingertips drummed silently against his thigh. "Distant. Protected."

Kara turned back to the stage, studying Lena with new eyes, aware of Jimmy's tension radiating beside her.

There was nothing distant about her now. Her fingers pressed into the ivory keys with such force that her knuckles blanched white against the backdrop of emerald silk at her wrists. Each note seemed to pull something visceral from her, an emotional exchange that left visible traces on her face—tiny muscle twitches at the corner of her wine-dark mouth, a pulse fluttering like a trapped moth beneath the pale skin of her throat. Her brows knitted together during the minor chords, creating a small crease that deepened with each crescendo, only to smooth away during those rare, breathless moments of musical reprieve.

"And now?" Kara prompted, needing to know if what she was seeing was real or just her own wishful projection.

"Tonight she's playing with the armor off," Jimmy said simply. His voice carried a note of surprise, maybe even worry, like the first rumble of thunder before a summer storm. "It's like watching someone having a conversation they never intended anyone else to hear, whispering secrets into the dark."

The observation sent an electric shiver down Kara's spine, each vertebra tingling as though traced by an icy fingertip. Was that what she was witnessing? Lena having a private conversation through Rachmaninoff's notes? And if so, who was she speaking to in this language of minor chords and trembling crescendos?

A traitorous voice in Kara's mind whispered, warm and honeyed: What if it's for you? The thought arrived with such certainty it startled her—like remembering something she'd always known. Her name in those notes, her face in those crescendos. 

She brushed aside the notion.

Lena Luthor, hailed as both a scrupulous classical prodigy and the snarling force behind indie rock outfit GlassHearts, wouldn't dream of playing Rachmaninoff for a reporter she barely knew. Such self-indulgent fantasies were exactly what Kara Danvers usually rolled her eyes at in strangers.

And yet…

From the dim crease of the wings, Lena's gaze found hers. Frost-green irises reflected the amber glow of the footlights. The instant their eyes met, Kara felt a shiver race through her, like an unspoken chord resonating in her chest.

"Is this normal?" Kara whispered to Jimmy. "For her to be so… unguarded when she plays?"

Jimmy shifted his attention from Lena back to Kara. His voice dropped to a whisper that barely carried over the music. "When she's with the band, she bleeds all over the stage. But these society performances? Pure technique, zero vulnerability. Like she's playing in a hazmat suit." His eyes narrowed as he watched Lena's fingers dance across the keys with reckless abandon. "I've never seen her risk this much in front of her mother before."

The implication settled between them, weighty and unspoken, like a third presence in the shadowed wings. Something changed. Something irreversible, etched into the air like frost on glass.

Onstage, the polished ebony grand piano gleamed under the chandelier's, each facet of light fracturing into miniature rainbows across its lacquered surface. Lena's bone-white fingers hovered momentarily above the ivory keys, trembling with barely contained energy before descending into the third movement with a violent surge. The cascade of arpeggios unfurled like a tempest, each note perfectly articulated yet wild, swelling into a fierce, heart-pounding torrent of sound that vibrated through the floorboards beneath Kara's feet. At that seismic shift, Lena's rigid posture melted, her shoulders rolling back as if shrugging off invisible shackles that had bound her since childhood. Another rebellious tendril of raven hair escaped her elegant French twist, tracing a silken curve down the marble column of her neck, drawing Kara's gaze to the delicate hollow at Lena's throat where her pulse fluttered like a caged hummingbird, and to the slight tremor of muscle as she swallowed between fervent phrases, her breath coming in shallow gasps that matched the music's desperate rhythm.

Jimmy's lips barely moved. "There'll be consequences."

"What do you mean?" Kara felt her heartbeat quicken against her ribs.

His eyes flicked toward the audience. In the third row, Lillian Luthor sat motionless amid a sea of swaying bodies, her spine rigid, her face a blank canvas while tears glistened on the cheeks of those around her. Jimmy's mouth tightened at one corner. "The Luthor brand isn't about connection. It's about flawless execution without the mess of... feeling." His chin tilted toward the stage where Lena swayed, eyes closed, surrendered to the music. "This isn't just playing. It's confession. And Luthors don't confess to anything."

A hot surge of indignation flared through Kara. "But it's breathtaking," she blurted. "The most extraordinary thing I've ever heard."

Jimmy's gaze softened with something like pity. "These society gatherings aren't about beauty," he said, voice hushed. "They're about control." He returned his eyes to Lillian. "And tonight, Lena rewrote the rules."

A cold knot of realization settled in Kara's gut, twisting like frost-bitten fingers around her insides. She'd been so consumed by Lena's raw confession through music that she'd never paused to consider the aftermath.

What price would Lena pay for baring her soul in a world that equated vulnerability with weakness?

Kara’s breath hitched as Lena launched into the most daunting passage of the piece—those frantic runs cascading like molten glass, each note skidding into the next with impossible speed. Lena’s face shifted in that moment, a surge of defiance flickering in her eyes. Her chin rose, sharp jaw outlined by the warm glow of the stage lights; her brows drew together in fierce focus, and the corner of her scarlet mouth quivered as if she were daring the music itself to keep up. Lena saying “I’ll play your rules, but I’ll own this stage”. It wasn’t merely technical mastery; it was quiet rebellion given wings.

“I’d better scout the exit,” Jimmy murmured, voice barely carrying over the final thunder of sound, “in case we need to slip away.” He paused, one foot already turning toward the wings. Then softer, almost pleading: “Stay with her afterward. Don’t let her face them alone. I'll be back.”

That single request sent a spike of concern straight to Kara’s core. What had he seen that made him so wary?  If Jimmy thought they might need to bolt—why? Kara’s mind spun with possibilities, each darker than the last.

Before Kara could ask, he slipped behind the heavy velvet drapes, leaving her stranded between her own pounding heart and the lone figure now bowing center stage. Lena’s ivory skin gleamed under the amber lights, a soft rose blooming across her cheekbones and tracing the elegant column of her throat. Kara’s breath caught as she took in the smudged eyeliner at the corners of Lena’s eyes, the stray raven curls that had escaped their pins to frame her face. In that moment Kara felt equal parts awe and alarm—Lena looked incandescent, as if she might burn brighter still, or collapse under her own brilliance.

The audience’s applause swelled into a tidal roar—three hundred manicured hands pounding out an anthem of approval—and Kara watched Lena’s crimson lips curve into a genuine smile. Not the perfect, camera-ready mask, but one that revealed that tiny dimple in her left cheek and made her eyes crinkle behind smudged mascara. Kara felt warmth unfurl in her chest, but beneath the glow was a stab of concern: how vulnerable Lena seemed, standing there inches from exhaustion yet radiating a fierce, fragile beauty.

Moments later Lena was at Kara’s side, so close that Kara could feel the heat radiating off her, could smell the mingled scent of jasmine and sandalwood, laced with the faint tang of sweat. A single raven strand clung damp against Lena’s temple.

“Well?” Lena whispered, her voice rough with exertion, a tremor skimming across Kara’s skin. In her eyes Kara saw a flicker of naked vulnerability, so unlike the confident star she’d witnessed all evening. “What did you think?”

Kara’s throat tightened around the words she wanted to say. How could she capture the way each note had resonated deep in her chest, filling hollow spaces she didn’t know existed? The nearness of Lena—her flush, her fast heartbeat rolling at the base of her throat—sent a molten knot of emotion twisting low in Kara’s belly. She ached to reach out, to steady Lena’s trembling form, but fear held her back.

Finally, Kara found her voice. “You’re trembling.” She stared at Lena’s slender fingers, quivering like aspen leaves in an autumn breeze.

Lena glanced down at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. The tremor was unmistakable now, rippling through her fingers like aftershocks.

"It happens," she said dismissively, though that distinctive rasp in her voice betrayed her—each syllable catching slightly in her throat. A thin sheen of perspiration still glistened along her hairline, catching the spill of stage lights that reached them in the wings, transforming ordinary sweat into a constellation of diamond-bright droplets against her skin.

Something protective surged through Kara's chest. Before she could think better of it, her hands moved toward Lena's. Her fingertips hovered just centimeters away, close enough to feel the heat radiating between them. She wanted to steady those hands, to absorb their trembling into her own steady palms, to offer whatever strength she had.

Lena's eyes flickered down, catching the hesitation. Something shifted in her expression—a flash of decision—and she tilted her hand just enough to bridge the final millimeters. The contact was feather-light, her trembling fingertips grazing Kara's palm with such delicacy it might have been imagined, yet the warmth bloomed instantly across Kara's skin.

Jimmy re-appeared without warning, his footfalls making no sound on the gleaming hardwood. The moment fractured. Kara's hand jerked back to her side, the warmth of contact with Lena's fingertips vanishing like morning dew. Jimmy's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes—dark and watchful—traveled from Lena to Kara and back again, settling briefly on the empty air between their hands where something unspoken had nearly taken form.

"They're waiting for you," he said to Lena, inclining his head toward where Lillian stood at the edge of the stage. Her perfect smile remained fixed in place beneath diamond earrings that caught the light like tiny daggers, though Kara caught the slight tightening around her eyes as she surveyed her daughter's disheveled appearance—the loosened hair falling in soft waves around her flushed face, the faint smudge of mascara, the visible rise and fall of her chest still not fully steadied. A cluster of men in identical tuxedos hovered nearby, their hands fidgeting with platinum cufflinks, checkbooks practically visible in their expressions. "The Morgan Foundation guy wants to shake your hand before he writes the check."

Lena's eyes flicked to Jimmy's, a flash of irritation crossing her features. "Your timing remains impeccable as always, Olsen," she murmured, just loud enough for the three of them to hear. "We really should work on that."

The transformation that followed was immediate and painful to witness. Like watching a flower close at the first hint of frost, Lena's openness disappeared, replaced by the poised mask of the Luthor heiress. Her spine straightened beneath the emerald silk, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. The vulnerability that had made her seem so achingly human moments before vanished beneath layers of practiced composure, her trembling fingers curling into steady fists at her sides. Her jaw tightened, the tendons in her neck becoming visible beneath her pale skin. "Heaven forbid philanthropy exist without photo opportunities."

When she turned back to Kara, her expression softened. The mask slipped, and for just a heartbeat, the pianist who had trembled after pouring her soul into Rachmaninoff returned, raw and unguarded.

"Will you wait?" The practiced polish vanished from her voice, replaced by something raw. "This won't take long, and then we can..." She trailed off, crimson lips parting around unspoken possibilities.

“I'll be here," Kara promised, her voice steadier than she felt. The electricity between them—this raw, unnamed thing—had revealed something beneath Lena's performance that Kara couldn't walk away from. Not yet.

Lena nodded once, sending a loose tendril of raven hair sliding across her collarbone. The gesture stood at odds with the lingering question in her eyes. Jimmy stepped forward, positioning himself slightly behind her right shoulder, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back—not guiding, merely present, like a sentinel. As they moved toward the spotlight where Lillian and the donors waited, his fingers barely pressed against the emerald silk, maintaining a professional distance even in contact. With each measured step, Lena transformed into the Luthor daughter they expected to see—her spine lengthening beneath Jimmy's watchful hand, her smile crystallizing into something brilliant but cold.

A voice like warm honey poured into Kara's ear, close enough that warm breath tickled the sensitive skin there. "She's exquisite, isn't she?"

Kara turned to find Andrea Rojas standing too near, midnight-blue silk clinging to every curve before pooling at her feet. The gown’s plunging neckline framed a solitary diamond pendant nestled in the shadow between her breasts. Her dark hair fell in glossy waves over one bare shoulder, and her lips—painted the exact shade of a fresh bruise—parted slightly as her gaze devoured Lena across the room.

“When she plays like that,” Andrea whispered, her voice husky as she leaned closer, pupils dilated in their dark irises, “it’s like watching someone set themselves on fire just to light the way for everyone else.” She traced the outline of her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “I’ve always loved watching her burn.”

A possessive edge in Andrea’s voice made Kara’s skin prickle. The expensive perfume—rich amber and warm sandalwood—wrapped around them like invisible tendrils, forging an unwanted intimacy in the already close backstage air. The scent clung to the back of Kara’s throat, each inhalation feeling intrusive.

“You’ve known her a long time,” Kara said, stepping back until her shoulder blades pressed against the cool velvet of the stage curtain.

Andrea closed that small gap, her gown whispering against the polished floor. “We were inseparable.” Her nails—painted the color of dried blood—brushed Kara’s arm, lingering like a spider testing its web. “Roommates. Best friends.” Her crimson smile flashed white against olive skin, predatory and pleased. “Eventually… mine.”

A cold knot of something—jealousy, fear—coiled beneath Kara’s ribs. She forced her features into a mask of journalistic neutrality, though she had a feeling Andrea could see right through it.

“She was quite different back then,” Andrea continued, her obsidian gaze drifting back to Lena. “Softer. More…” She paused, tongue flicking out to moisten her lower lip again. “Pliable.”

That one word coiled around Kara’s spine. Goosebumps erupted along her forearms.

“Pliable?” she echoed, each syllable sharp as broken glass.

Andrea's gaze dissected her, measuring each reaction. “Don’t get me wrong—Lena’s always been brilliant. And beautiful. But she used to care what people thought. What I thought.” Her manicured finger traced a silver-blue constellation tattoo on her inner wrist—five delicate stars connected by whisper-thin lines. “Cassiopeia,” she murmured, distant. “We chose it together. A brilliant woman who dared to challenge the gods.” She tapped the central star. “Lena always said this was her—the brightest point, bound to her chair for eternity, always on display.”

Kara’s throat closed at the memory of seeing that same constellation on Lena’s pale skin during their interview. The idea of Lena, luminous and uncompromising, willingly marked as something trapped… it twisted painfully inside her.

Andrea’s fingertip stayed on her own tattoo. “Does she still have hers?” she asked, voice deceptively casual as she watched Lena. “I’ve wondered if she tried to remove it after… last time.” Her lips curved into a scythe of a smile.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kara lied, brittle.

Andrea's eyes narrowed as she studied Kara's face. "So she hasn't taken you to bed yet. Fascinating, considering how she drinks you in—like you're the last drop of water and she's been wandering the Sahara for days."

Kara's cheeks burned hot as the memory of the terrace flooded back—Lena's face just inches from hers, the space between them electric before Jimmy had appeared. Her heartbeat hammered against her collar. "I—" The denial died on her lips, caught between honesty and something protective curling around this fragile, unnamed thing with Lena. She swallowed hard. "Ms. Luthor and I maintain a strictly professional relationship."

Andrea's laugh slipped between them like silk over bare skin. "How fascinating." Her eyes narrowed. "The way she looked at you just now—I know that expression intimately." Her tongue darted across her lower lip a second time, leaving it glistening in the low light. "She used to save that particular hunger exclusively for me."

Kara felt her skin strip away, secrets exposed. Heat crawled up her neck as she tugged at the neckline of her own dress, damp against her collarbone. The French twist at her nape sagged, loose tendrils curling in the humid backstage air. She shifted her weight, the borrowed heels biting into her Achilles tendons.

Andrea leaned in, her perfume enveloping them like a silk noose. "You know," she whispered, "I only tell you this because someone should protect you." Her blood-red nail circled her glass rim, wedding diamond catching light with each rotation. "Lena collects people like rare instruments—plays them beautifully until they're out of tune with her needs." Her eyes, warm as mulled wine, fixed on Kara with practiced tenderness. "She'll make you feel chosen—like you alone understand the real woman beneath the armor." Her fingers brushed Kara's again, lingering possessively. "I've watched her perfect this seduction for years. The vulnerable artist routine." Her wedding ring clinked against the crystal. "My husband fell for it too."

“You don’t know her,” Kara ventured, each word trembling between stubborn hope and growing dread.

Andrea’s lips curved into a soothing smile that barely concealed sharp malice. “Oh, darling, I know her better than you ever will. I was the one holding her hand the first time that tattoo needle touched her arm. Have you admired that skyline she branded on herself yet?” She lifted her glass and let her diamond bracelet tinkle against crystal. Leaning in, she whispered, “We even filched Macallan 25 from her brother’s personal stash—stolen right under his nose. The very next morning she was supposed to play the Children’s Hospital benefit, but after six hours, Lillian coldly called her ‘adequate’.”

Andrea traced an imaginary horizon along her own arm with a polished fingernail. “The artist had track marks and reeked of nicotine. Lena was half-wasted when she picked National City’s skyline. ‘This fucking city owns me—might as well make it official’. Then she puked in their bathroom.” A tinkling laugh, fragile as cracking glass, slipped from her lips. “Next day, blood seeped beneath her bandage while she played Vivaldi. Lillian saw it at dinner, threatened to cut her off forever. Lionel, of course, swooped in to save his precious little girl.”

Kara’s stomach turned.

This portrait of Lena—reckless, broken—clashed with the image she’d formed since meeting her. Yet Andrea’s words carried a ring of truth. The simmering defiance, that shadow when Lillian’s name passed her lips.

“Why are you telling me this?” Kara asked.

Andrea's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You have this... freshness about you, Ms. Danvers. Like morning dew that hasn't met the sun." She leaned closer, perfume intensifying. "There was a time when I knew every inch of her—every freckle, every scar." Her crimson nail picked at nothing on her sleeve. "The night before her Vienna audition, I found her hyperventilating on the bathroom floor of our suite." A dismissive flick of her wrist. "Pre-performance jitters, naturally." Her voice dropped to a velvet murmur. "I simply offered a solution—a pristine line of powder on cold marble. For her career, you understand." The diamond at her throat caught the light as she tilted her head. "I was her savior that night. Touching, isn't it?"

The air in Kara's lungs had crystallized, sharp and cold. Cocaine. The word echoed in her mind as images from the past weeks rearranged themselves into a terrible new picture. Lena's fingers drumming against her thigh during their first interview. The way her heel had tap-tap-tapped beneath the café table while her fingers had followed impossible progressions on the tabletop. How she'd folded her sleeve into those perfect little triangles, traced her coffee mug's rim over and over like she was searching for a weak point.

Andrea's lips curved into a smile that reminded Kara of a scalpel—precise, sterile, designed to cut. "Ah. She didn't share that part." Her sigh carried the tenderness of someone discussing a beloved child's mistake. "We were so young. Just children, really. Seventeen and already drowning in expectations that would suffocate most adults." Andrea's gaze drifted back to Lena, lingering on her profile as she charmed the donors across the room. Her diamond ring caught the light as she gestured vaguely. "But look what it gave her—standing ovations, magazine covers, her family's fleeting approval." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "Amazing what a little chemical courage can accomplish when you're so desperate to be perfect."

“You're lying," Kara said, but the words lacked conviction.

Andrea's smile vanished.

"Lying?" She grabbed Kara's wrist, diamond ring digging into soft flesh. "You think I need to fabricate stories about Lena Luthor? I was there when she first crushed pills into powder. I held back her hair when she vomited blood." Her voice dropped to a razor's edge. "Look at her hands next time she plays—count the seconds before they start to shake. Watch how she disappears to the bathroom every forty minutes like clockwork."

Kara's gaze drifted across the room, finding Lena automatically—like a compass needle swinging north. She stood between Jimmy and Lillian, laughing at something a donor said while her mother's hand rested like a vise on her arm. Lena's fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against her champagne flute. Kara wanted to look away, to reject Andrea's insinuations, but now she couldn't unsee the slight tremor in Lena's hand, the too-bright smile that didn't reach her eyes. Had she been willfully blind this whole time? Or was Andrea poisoning something with half-truths?

"Ask her about Vienna," Andrea pressed. "About what's in her violin case besides sheet music."

Vienna. If Lena had been seventeen, as Andrea said, then Vienna would have been an audition for a soloist position. Wouldn’t it?

Their eyes met across the crowded room and the genuine smile—the one Lena had been directing at Kara all evening—collapsed when she spotted Andrea beside her. Her eyes widened in recognition, a flash of betrayal darkening them as they moved from Andrea's satisfied smirk to Kara's nauseated expression. Lena took half a step forward, lips parting as if to call out, before an elderly man in a tuxedo clamped his bejeweled hand around her elbow, yanking her attention away with the entitled confidence of someone whose name adorned a hospital wing.

"I should go," Kara said abruptly, stomach acid climbing her throat as Alex's warning echoed in her ears. Musicians are... complicated, Kara. And dating a Luthor? That's a lot to take on.

Andrea's smile widened, a flash of triumph quickly masked by practiced concern. "So soon?" Her diamond bracelet caught the light as she gestured toward the stage, the movement deliberately graceful. "Lena will be so disappointed."

"I'm don't—I'm not feeling well," Kara lied, already backing away, lungs constricting as if the air itself had thickened. She swallowed hard. "Please tell her I had to leave. It was lovely meeting you."

"Of course," Andrea agreed, voice dripping with manufactured sympathy while her eyes gleamed. "I'll be sure to let her know we had a lovely chat." She reached out, catching Kara’s wrist again. "One last thing, Ms. Danvers."

Kara stilled.

The diamond on Andrea's finger bit into Kara's wrist like a tiny shard of ice as her lips curled into something not quite a smile. "Lena doesn't belong in your world. She was born into mine." Her free hand swept across the glittering crowd with her champagne flute. "No matter what dive bars she plays in, she'll always come back to this. To me."

She released Kara's wrist and tilted her head, eyes softening while something predatory lurked beneath. "Take care of yourself, Ms. Danvers," she murmured, reaching to straighten Kara's collar with maternal tenderness that didn't match the satisfaction radiating from her posture. "And remember, when she breaks your heart, it won't be personal. It's just what Luthors do."

Chapter Text

13

Messed Up Masterpiece

Neoni - Messed Up Masterpiece (Official Music Video)

Lena's practiced smile cracked, then shattered completely when she spotted Andrea across the room—body angled toward Kara with that familiar vulturine tilt of her head, the one that had preceded a thousand catastrophes. Kara's face had drained of color, her eyes wide with something between horror and disbelief while Andrea's crimson lips curved upward like a wound reopening. Lena's chest constricted, lungs refusing to expand as her mind raced through the possibilities of what poison Andrea might be dripping into Kara's ear. Should she rush over? Stay put and maintain composure? Her fingertips tingled with that familiar electric numbness that always preceded the shaking.

"Darling, Mr. Hadley asked you a question," Lillian's voice sliced through her panic, fingers digging into her elbow until Lena felt the bruise forming beneath emerald silk.

"I'm so sorry," Lena said automatically, her attention fixed on Kara backing away from Andrea. "Jimmy, would you explain our foundation's music therapy program to Mr. Hadley? I need to—"

"Of course," Jimmy smoothly interjected, shifting closer as if they were truly the couple everyone believed them to be. His eyes followed her gaze, understanding flickering across his features. "Take your time."

Lena slipped from Lillian's grip with practiced ease, weaving through the crowd with desperate efficiency. The tremor in her hands intensified as she navigated the social minefield, flexing her fingers against the vibrations that had started the moment her final note had faded from the air. By the time she reached the spot where Kara had stood, only Andrea remained, twirling a champagne flute between manicured fingers.

"Your reporter wasn't feeling well," Andrea said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. "She asked me to tell you goodbye."

"What did you say to her?" Lena demanded, her voice low and dangerous. Around them, the glittering crowd continued their champagne-fueled conversations, oblivious to the storm brewing in their midst.

Andrea's eyebrows arched with practiced innocence. "Say? We merely had a friendly conversation." She took a delicate sip from her flute, diamond ring catching the light. "I simply filled in some... historical gaps in her understanding of you."

"Historical gaps," Lena repeated, the words like acid on her tongue. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat sending a fresh wave of nausea through her body. "What exactly does that mean, Andrea?"

"Oh, nothing specific." Andrea waved her hand dismissively, the movement graceful and calculated. "Just reminiscing about our youth. Vienna came up. The audition."

Vienna. The word slithered through Lena's consciousness like a frozen serpent, paralyzing her from within. Her face remained a porcelain mask while behind her eyes, memories crystallized with terrible clarity—fine white powder arranged in precise lines across veined Carrara marble, the bathroom's gilt fixtures gleaming under chandelier light. She could still feel the cold stone against her feverish cheek, taste copper where she'd bitten through her lip, smell Andrea's perfume mingling with the acrid chemical burn as Andrea's crimson-tipped fingers steadied her trembling hands, voice honey-sweet yet venomous: "Just this once, Lee. Just to get through the Tchaikovsky. Nobody conquers Vienna sober."

"You had no right," Lena hissed, stepping closer until only inches separated them. The scent of Andrea's perfume—sandalwood and amber, unchanged after all these years—filled her nostrils, warm and familiar against her will. Her body remembered before her mind could object. Andrea's fingers tracing her collarbone in darkened hotel rooms, the weight of her body pressing Lena against silk sheets, the taste of expensive champagne on her tongue. Lena's anger twisted with something more primal, more dangerous—a heat that had always made rational thought impossible around this woman.

Andrea's smile turned to ice. "You don't get to decide what's off-limits, Lee. Those memories belong to me as much as they belong to you."

Trembling, Lena flipped open her clutch and pulled out her phone, her thumbs poised over the screen like lifelines. She tapped out a single question. Where are you? The words glowed back at her, demanding an answer she couldn't postpone. She forced herself not to meet Andrea's gaze, though she could feel it burning against her skin like a brand—that familiar proprietary heat that had always preceded Andrea's most possessive moments.

Andrea's crimson lips brushed the shell of Lena's ear, her sandalwood perfume invading Lena's senses like a toxin. "What's the matter? Afraid I've shared our little Vienna secret?"

Lena jerked back, the crystal chandelier's thousand prisms fracturing light across her vision like shattered glass. Across the ballroom's polished marble expanse—a football field of wealth and judgment—her mother's hawk-like stare pierced through the crowd. Lillian's vintage Baccarat flute hovered, suspended between manicured fingers and bloodless lips painted the exact shade of dried roses. Those eyes—steel-gray and unforgiving as February rain—narrowed to calculating slits beneath perfectly arched brows that hadn't moved naturally in decades. Twenty feet away, Jimmy froze mid-gesture, his conversation with the silver-haired senator abandoned, his warm brown eyes clouding with the particular brand of concern he reserved exclusively for her most spectacular public disasters.

Lena only scanned the sea of black ties and sequined gowns for that honey-gold hair, that midnight black dress that had made her breath catch earlier. The crowd pressed in, a wall of expensive cologne and judgment, their diamond cufflinks and pearl necklaces glinting like predatory eyes. Her phone screen remained dark, a black void of unanswered hope.

Andrea's manicured fingertip traced the blue veins visible beneath the pale skin of Lena's wrist. "Lee, please. She's not one of us."

"Don't touch me," Lena hissed, too loudly. Heads turned like synchronized marionettes. A camera flash popped somewhere to her left, the burst of light momentarily blinding. Heat crawled up her neck like a thousand tiny insects as Lillian began cutting through the crowd toward them, her black gown slicing through the guests like a shark through dark water.

"I need to find her," Lena muttered, already calculating the shortest path to the exit, mapping the twenty-three steps to freedom. She pushed past a cluster of board members with their bourbon-scented breath, ignoring their startled expressions, her four-inch Louboutins striking purposefully against Italian marble as she made for the towering mahogany double doors. Behind her, she heard Andrea's performative sigh, theatrical in its volume, felt Jimmy intercepting her mother with practiced charm, his baritone laugh cutting through the string quartet's Vivaldi.

The heavy mahogany doors swung shut behind her with a velvet thud that reverberated through her bones, offering momentary sanctuary from the glittering piranha tank she'd just escaped. She pivoted on her heels, checking left down the corridor where crystal sconces cast honeyed light across cream damask wallpaper, then right where shadows pooled beneath a sweeping marble staircase. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she searched desperately for any flash of black fabric or golden hair. The doors reopened with a whisper of displaced air that chilled the perspiration beading along her spine. In the gilt-edged Louis XIV mirror hanging opposite, she caught Andrea's reflection. She kept moving, the tap-tap-tap of her heels echoing her racing heartbeat as the familiar copper tang of panic flooded her mouth.

Andrea's voice slithered through the high-ceilinged hall, wrapping around marble columns and clinging to crystal chandeliers. "She left, Lee. Just like everyone does."

Lena reached the top of the grand staircase, her emerald gown whispering against the polished marble as she gripped the ornate banister with white-knuckled fingers. The crystal chandelier above cast fractured diamonds of light across her pale skin as she scanned the corridor, lungs burning. She was about to call Kara's name when her phone buzzed against her palm like a trapped insect. She fumbled it open with trembling hands.

Not feeling well. Had to go. –Kara

Pain shot through Lena's chest, sharp and cold as an icicle between her ribs. Her reflection in a gilded mirror showed a woman coming undone—mascara threatening to bleed, chest rising too rapidly beneath silk. She typed back with shaking thumbs, autocorrect fighting her every keystroke: Let me come to you. Where are you?

She hit send and watched the grand chandelier splinter light across the marble floor. Three dots appeared, then vanished. Her pulse thundered.

Alex is picking me up. I'll be fine. Enjoy the rest of the gala. –Kara

The polite dismissal scorched through Lena's chest like liquid nitrogen, freezing her from the inside out with its clinical finality. Her thumb trembled above the gleaming screen, hovering between defiance and surrender as she searched for words that might pry open the hermetically sealed goodbye.

A cool hand closed on her upper arm. Andrea’s concern was a smooth veneer. “You’re making a scene, Lee. Do you want that?”

Lena's trembling thumbs found the letters one by one: Please, Kara, I need to explain. She hit send before Andrea's hand could tighten further, the message disappearing with a soft electronic whoosh.

With a violent twist, she tore her arm from Andrea's grasp. The movement rippled through the corridor. Champagne flutes froze midair. Whispered conversations died. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto them, hungry for scandal. Lena drew herself up to her full height, spine straightening beneath emerald silk.

She turned to face Andrea, ice crystallizing in her voice. "What exactly did you say to her?"

Andrea smiled, slow and satisfied. “The truth?” She leaned close, her perfume like a warning. “That you’re brilliant but broken. That you’ve been self-medicating your anxiety since you were a teenager.” Her fingertips brushed Lena’s arm, just long enough for her to feel the burn. “And when the spotlight overwhelms you, you vanish into little white lines and amber bottles.”

“You make it sound like—”

"Like addiction?" Andrea's perfectly shaped eyebrow arched as she leaned closer. "What would you call it, Lee? Those trembling fingers after every show? Those twenty-minute disappearances into bathroom stalls? Those lost weekends when the pressure builds up?" Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel, each question another twist of the knife.

"Those weren't your secrets to share," Lena managed, each syllable fighting past the tightness in her throat. "I deserved the chance to tell her myself. On my own terms."

"On your own terms?" Andrea echoed, her voice dripping with mockery as she moved closer still. "Would you have ever found the perfect moment to reveal those little secrets? Or would you have kept hiding behind that carefully curated mask until she discovered it herself?"

Lena pushed past her, shoulder colliding with Andrea's with enough force to make the other woman stumble back on her stilettos. The corridor stretched out like a gauntlet, each step on the polished marble echoing her thundering heartbeat. She reached the elevator bank, its brass doors reflecting her flushed face and wild eyes, and jabbed the call button with a trembling finger. The small circle illuminated beneath her touch, its amber glow a mocking promise of escape. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, fingernails digging half-moons into the silk of her own sleeves as she willed the ancient mechanism to hurry.

Andrea's voice slithered down the corridor after her. "Always fleeing when things get difficult, aren't you, Lee? It's almost comforting how predictable you are."

The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical sigh, revealing a mirrored sanctuary of polished brass and mahogany paneling. Lena stepped inside, the emerald silk of her gown whispering against her calves as she pressed the lobby button with a deliberately steady finger, her crimson nail a stark contrast against the illuminated circle. As the doors began their slow glide closed, Andrea's manicured hand shot out between them, her diamond wedding ring catching the light as her slender fingers splayed against the metal.

Andrea's voice softened into something almost maternal, though her eyes remained sharp as obsidian beneath perfectly arched brows. "I'm only thinking of Kara, Lee. She seems sweet. Innocent. The kind of girl with those earnest blue eyes who'd blame herself when you inevitably self-destruct."

Lena's jaw clenched. "She's not as fragile as you think," she said, the words escaping before she could stop them. Her own admission hung in the air—that there would indeed be something for Kara to blame herself for.

"Oh, but it's not about her fragility," Andrea sighed, tilting her head with practiced sympathy. "Someone needs to protect her from what loving you really means. The desperate midnight texts. The vanishing acts. The way you'll push her away the moment she gets too close—just like you've done with everyone else." Her voice softened to a velvet whisper. "Just like you did with me."

Lena's face remained a perfect mask as she watched Andrea's manicured hand. "Remove your hand from the door," she said, her voice so controlled it was nearly mechanical.

Andrea's hand withdrew. The doors began to close, then stuttered to a halt as she slipped sideways through the narrowing gap, the silk of her dress catching for a heartbeat before coming free. The elevator lurched as the doors sealed them in together. Andrea's perfume filled the small space as she leaned against the polished brass wall, arms crossed, lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. "You know what your problem is, Lena?" Her voice bounced off the mirrored walls. "You think you can have it both ways."

Something snapped.

The careful composure Lena had been trying so desperately to maintain shattered like crystal against marble.

"And you?" she demanded, her voice rising with each word. "You want to have your cake and eat it too, Andrea, and everybody knows it. You wear Maxwell Lord's ring but that diamond on your finger doesn't stop you from slipping between my sheets whenever your in town. You ghost me for months, then materialize like some vulture circling the moment my life starts falling apart, expecting VIP access to watch me crumble. And now you're sabotaging the first real thing I've found because you can't bear that someone finally sees past my name and the tabloid headlines—sees me as I actually am, not as your carefully crafted cautionary tale!"

A crimson flush crept up Andrea's neck, her composure cracking at the edges. "You think I care who warms your bed these days?"

"I think you care that you don't," Lena snapped. "You can't stand that I finally broke free from you."

Andrea's laugh shattered the air between them. Lena's body betrayed her with a shiver that had nothing to do with the elevator's chill.

"Broke free?" Andrea stepped closer, the midnight-blue silk of her Valentino gown whispering against Lena's emerald Givenchy. "Oh, Lena." The two syllables dripped from Andrea's tongue like honey laced with arsenic.

Andrea's signature Clive Christian perfume filled Lena's next breath. Her treacherous heart stuttered, muscle memory responding to the scent before her mind could intervene. Lena's back pressed against the cool brass wall of the elevator, her spine rigid as Andrea invaded her space, close enough that Lena could count each individual eyelash. The mirrored walls multiplied the scene into infinity—a thousand Lenas with flushed cheeks and dilated pupils, bodies caught between pushing away and pulling closer, cornered by a thousand Andreas with knowing smiles.

Andrea leaned closer, her voice dropping to a silken murmur that vibrated against Lena's skin. "I wonder if you still swallow those little white lifesavers before every Luthor family dinner?"

The words slid between Lena's ribs like a platinum stiletto, ice-cold and sharp. Her throat constricted to a pinhole, the ghost-taste of chalky Xanax dissolving on her tongue—bitter chemical notes barely masked by the velvety tannins of $400-a-bottle Château Margaux. She swallowed hard against the memory, feeling the phantom warmth that once transformed Lillian's verbal lacerations into dull thuds against numbed flesh, like arrows striking a target wrapped in cotton batting.

Andrea closed the remaining distance between them, her body now a whisper away from Lena's. Each rapid, shallow breath Lena took drew in that expensive blend that had once meant comfort before it meant betrayal. Andrea's hand rose, one perfectly manicured nail hovering just above Lena's skin, tracing an invisible path from the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat up to where her pulse hammered beneath the sharp line of her jaw.

Heat crawled up Lena's neck, blooming crimson beneath her skin as the brass walls contracted around them. Andrea still managed to loom over her, Lena's four-inch heels barely closing the gap between them. When she pressed closer, Lena found herself tilting her chin upward, her gaze catching on the sharp line of Andrea's jaw. The curve of Andrea's hip brushed against her own, igniting a spark Lena desperately tried to smother with memories of Kara's gentle touch. But Andrea's height advantage was a physical manifestation of her power, and Lena's anger was dissolving into something more dangerous.

"And when you wake up shaking at 3 a.m.—" Andrea's breath, warm and laced with champagne, caressed the sensitive shell of Lena's ear, her lithe body now flush against Lena's, pinning her to the elevator wall. Her fingertips, cool and impossibly soft, the lacquered nail scraping delicately along Lena's jawline, leaving a trail of fire that burned, igniting embers she'd foolishly thought extinguished. "Who will hold you then? This journalist of yours with her clearance rack dress and Midwestern smile?"

The question coiled around Lena's throat like a velvet garrote, tightening with each thundering heartbeat. Behind her closed eyelids flashed Kara—earnest cornflower-blue eyes behind metal frames, trembling hands with bitten nails, lips parted in wonder backstage under the glow of emergency exit signs. Kara, who looked at her like she was a Rembrandt instead of a crime scene.

Andrea's toned thigh slipped between Lena's, parting the heavy silk of her gown, her lips now close enough that each word painted warm breath across Lena's mouth. Her eyes—dark as espresso with flecks of amber—softened into something more dangerous than desire—a perfect facsimile of love. "I stayed when no one else would," she whispered. "I've seen the real you, Lee."

The nickname—Lee—struck like a physical blow to the solar plexus, intimate and familiar as a fingerprint. Only Andrea called her that anymore, a relic from those early days when they'd been inseparable, sharing cigarettes on the balcony of Andrea's father's Milanese apartment. Before Vienna. Before everything shattered.

"The desperate, needy little thing beneath all that armor." Andrea's voice dropped lower still, a husky contralto that vibrated through Lena's bones, her breath warm and moist against the sensitive hollow beneath Lena's ear as she leaned in, her $50,000 diamond earring brushing Lena's cheek. "Does she know yet? That loving you is like trying to fill a bottomless well with a teaspoon?"

Something cracked inside Lena's chest—a hairline fracture. The elevator walls blurred, smearing into watercolor pools of brass and mirror as Andrea's words lodged in that hollow space behind her ribs where doubt lived, festering like an infection beneath pristine bandages. A part of her wanted to spit in Andrea's perfect face—that flawless olive complexion with its $600 La Mer-enhanced glow—to laugh at the absurdity of taking moral lessons from someone who'd left her unconscious in a Milan hotel bathtub, surrounded by empty prescription bottles and room service champagne. Yet another part—the part she hated most, the part that still wore the scars of Lillian's disapproval like invisible brands—still craved Andrea's validation with the desperate thirst of a desert wanderer, still wondered if she was right. Was Lena just a black hole disguised as a woman, consuming everything offered—love, loyalty, patience—until nothing remained but the cold, glittering debris of another failed connection?

The memory of Kara's face when she'd spotted she and Andrea in the ballroom surfaced—confusion giving way to horror, then to something that looked terrifyingly like pity. Had Andrea told her about the pills that steadied Lena's trembling hands before each show? Or about those gleaming white lines that transformed her from Lillian Luthor's disappointing daughter into someone fearless, someone worthy? Part of her wanted Kara to know everything—to see the monster beneath the makeup—while another part would rather die than watch Kara's sunshine smile fade to ash.

"You don't know me anymore," Lena managed, but her voice betrayed her.

Andrea's smile was a knife. "Don't I?" Her thumb, cool and impossibly smooth, traced the plump curve of Lena's lower lip with deliberate languor, pressing just hard enough to leave a faint crescent-shaped smudge in her Dior Rouge 999 lipstick. The pad of her thumb lingered a half-second too long, her dark eyes tracking the small imperfection she'd created. "Tell me something, Lee. Did you tell her about us yet?"

The question hung suspended in the three inches of perfumed air between them, dense and suffocating as smoke, weighted with seven years of tangled bedsheets and whispered promises that had calcified into jagged artifacts.

"There's nothing to tell," Lena said, forcing steel into her voice. "What we had died a long time ago."

"Did it?" Andrea whispered, her mouth hovering millimeters from Lena's, close enough that their breaths mingled in the space between them. Her thumb traced a slow path along Lena's jawline, the touch feather-light yet scorching. "Because your pulse says otherwise."

Andrea's fingertips slid down to rest against the thrumming artery in Lena's neck, where her treacherous heart betrayed her with every rapid-fire beat. "Remember Paris?" Andrea murmured. "The coat closet at the Philharmonic? You were wearing that black Dior dress with nothing underneath."

Heat flooded Lena's cheeks as the memory surfaced unbidden—the rough scratch of cashmere and angora wool coats against her bare back, leaving angry red trails across her alabaster skin. Andrea's manicured hand had clamped over her mouth, fingertips pressing hard enough to bruise, the taste of salt and expensive hand cream seeping between Lena's parted lips while crystal glasses clinked and Vivaldi strings soared just beyond the mahogany door. The risk of discovery had been intoxicating—the possibility of the French ambassador or Vienna's premier conductor turning the brass handle at any moment—nearly as potent as the Dom Pérignon they'd downed in greedy, rebellious gulps before slipping away from the reception, Andrea's fingers already working at the hidden zipper of Lena's dress.

"Stop," Lena managed, but the word emerged breathless, unconvincing.

"Or that little alcove backstage in Prague?" Andrea continued, her thigh pressing more insistently between Lena's legs, the silk of both their dresses creating a whisper of friction that sent electric currents up Lena's spine. "Your fingers were still trembling when you pulled me behind that velvet curtain."

Lena's eyes fluttered closed as her body remembered before her mind could protest—the adrenaline high of a standing ovation still coursing through her veins like liquid fire. She could feel the phantom sensation of Andrea's crimson Chanel lipstick smeared across her collarbone, waxy and warm against her flushed skin. The memory was so vivid she could hear the distant sounds of the orchestra packing up—violin cases snapping shut, the metallic whisper of music stands being folded, hushed conversations in Czech—while Andrea's fingers worked her against the rough brocade curtain, coaxing desperate sounds from deep in Lena's throat that she'd never made for anyone else, not even in her most vulnerable moments.

"You nearly came undone when that stagehand walked past," Andrea whispered, her teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath Lena's ear that had always been her undoing. "You always did get off on the danger, didn't you, Lee?"

Lena's breath hitched, a strangled half-gasp that caught in her throat, her traitorous body arching involuntarily into Andrea's touch even as her mind screamed in frantic protest. The elevator walls—brushed brass and beveled mirrors from another era—seemed to contract further, shrinking to the dimensions of a confessional booth. The mirrored panels multiplied their reflection into infinite versions of their entangled forms.

"And Barcelona," Andrea continued, her voice dropping to that husky register that had always liquefied Lena's resolve. "In the bathroom of that tapas restaurant. Your fingers tangled in my hair while the waitstaff knocked, asking if everything was alright."

Lena's hands trembled at her sides, fingernails carving perfect half-moon crescents into the tender flesh of her palms as she fought against the rising tide of sensation threatening to drown her. The memory was visceral—the sweet, tannic bite of sangria lingering on Andrea's tongue, the shocking cold of Barcelona's antique porcelain sink pressing against her bare thighs, the rough lace of her pushed-aside underwear biting into her skin as Andrea knelt before her on the black and white hexagon tiles. She could still feel the desperate press of her own hand against her mouth, teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her thumb to trap the sounds that threatened to escape, while beyond the thin wooden door, the clatter of plates and murmur of Spanish conversations continued, oblivious.

"I wonder," Andrea breathed, her lips so close to Lena's that they brushed together with each syllable, the contact sending sparks cascading down Lena's spine, "does your precious reporter make you feel the way I did? Does she know how to make you come apart with just her tongue? Does she know you like to be held down, told exactly what to do?"

Lena's breath caught in her throat, her chest constricting as Andrea's words penetrated the fog of unwanted desire. Kara's face flashed behind her closed eyelids—earnest blue eyes inches from her own on the terrace earlier that night, the moment suspended between them like a held breath, Kara's gaze dropping to her lips before Jimmy's voice shattered the possibility. The memory of what hadn't happened yet somehow felt more real than Andrea's actual touch against her skin.

"Does she know," Andrea whispered, her hand sliding up Lena's ribs to cup her breast through the silk of her gown, "that you begged me to fuck you in your mother's study during that Christmas gala? Right on Lillian's antique desk while two hundred guests sipped champagne downstairs?"

The memory crashed through Lena's last defenses like a wrecking ball—the taste of rebellion as sharp and sweet as the thirty-year Macallan they'd stolen from Lionel's rosewood cabinet, amber liquid burning a path down her throat like liquid courage. The thrill of defiance as Andrea bent her over the cold mahogany surface where Lillian wrote her scathing criticisms in precise cursive with that Mont Blanc fountain pen. Lena's palms had pressed against the leather blotter, fingernails digging into the supple oxblood surface as Andrea's silk blouse brushed against her exposed back. The way Andrea had whispered filthy praise against the shell of her ear, her hot cinnamon-scented breath making Lena shiver as she called her beautiful, perfect, brilliant—all the words Lillian had never said—while her manicured fingers, adorned with that distinctive oval ruby ring, worked between Lena's trembling thighs, leaving smudged evidence of their transgression on the inside of her ivory lace.

The pad of Andrea's thumb made a deliberate circle over the silk covering Lena's breast, and a traitorous sound escaped from somewhere deep in Lena's throat. "Your body still remembers me," Andrea murmured, satisfaction dripping from each word. "Even if you pretend otherwise."

The elevator lurched suddenly as it reached the lobby floor, the mechanical jolt sending a tremor through Lena's body. Her eyes snapped open, reality crashing back—but not like ice water. More like stepping from air conditioning into humid summer heat, her senses still swimming in Andrea's perfume, her skin electric where those fingertips had traced.

Andrea's knowing smile swam into focus, triumph glittering in her dark eyes as her hand fell away from Lena's breast. The absence of pressure left a phantom sensation that made Lena's chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths.

"You haven't changed at all, Lee," Andrea said softly as the doors began to slide open with a muted hydraulic sigh. "Still fighting what you really want."

The lobby stretched before them, marble and gilt gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Somewhere in this building, Kara was either waiting for an explanation or already gone—both possibilities equally terrifying. Lena's gaze swept across the polished expanse, searching for honey-gold waves and that sleek black column dress, but found only strangers in evening wear, their faces blurring into an indistinguishable mass.

Her feet refused to move. The threshold between elevator and lobby stretched into an impossible chasm while Andrea's words echoed in her skull: Still fighting what you really want.

"I need to find Kara," Lena whispered, but the words emerged without conviction.

Andrea's eyebrow arched in recognition. Her lips curved into that particular smile—the one that had preceded a thousand terrible decisions across seven years and three continents. "Do you?" she asked, her voice a silken caress. "Or do you need to finish what we started?"

The doors began to close again, their slow mechanical glide giving Lena ample time to step through, to escape, to choose differently. Her mind screamed at her limbs to move, to push past Andrea and find Kara. But her body remained frozen, pinned by something more powerful than desire—the gravitational pull of someone who knew exactly where each fault line ran.

Andrea reached past her, manicured finger pressing the button for the penthouse floor. The crimson nail against brushed brass was hypnotic, the simple action laden with inevitability. The doors sealed them in together with a soft pneumatic hiss that sounded like surrender.

"I shouldn't—" Lena began, the words dying in her throat as Andrea stepped closer again, eliminating the space Lena hadn't realized she'd been desperately trying to maintain.

"You always say that," Andrea murmured, her fingertips tracing the delicate curve of Lena's collarbone, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Right before you do exactly what you shouldn't."

Chapter Text

14

Glass Slipper

Kara staggered through the glitter-dark backstage labyrinth, her heel catching on a frayed carpet edge as she nearly crashed into a tray-bearing waiter. He shot her a venomous glance, lips curling as his champagne flutes wobbled like a house of cards—one false move and crystal would shatter all over the marble floor. She mumbled an apology that died on her tongue amid the heady swirl of perfume-thick air, each breath pressing against her lungs like wet velvet. Andrea’s words clung to her, sticky as cobwebs, impossible to shake free… There was a time when I knew every inch of her.

The silver clutch Nia had extolled now felt like a ball and chain in her hand, its metal cold and unyielding. She craved open space—an escape hatch from the suffocating revelations swirling in her mind. Anywhere but here, where every inhalation reeked of sandalwood and half-spoken betrayals. She launched herself down a service corridor, walls glowing sterile white under buzzing fluorescent tubes that droned like angry wasps. Her borrowed heels tapped a frantic tattoo on the polished tile, each echo reminding her she was a clearance-rack journalist playing princess amid Valentino and Dior.

At the corridor’s end, a neon-green EXIT sign glowed like a lone beacon in a storm. She threw open the door and descended into a narrow stairwell tasting of industrial bleach and stale cigarettes. The concrete walls pressed cool and unforgiving against her bare shoulders as she leaned back, closing her eyes to will her heart to slow. But Andrea’s voice slithered into her skull again: “I only tell you this because someone should protect you.” Her lungs seized at the memory of those wine-dark eyes, of Andrea’s perfume so heavy it almost choked her. Lena collects people like rare instruments, Andrea had whispered, the diamond ring catching the light as her fingertip brushed Kara’s arm. She’ll make you feel chosen. The jingle of Andrea’s wedding band on crystal still rang in Kara’s ears.

“Stop,” Kara gasped to the empty stairwell, pressing trembling fingers into her temples as though willing the thoughts to vanish. She pictured Lena's smile at The Pit—the way it had reached her eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that couldn't be faked. The brush of fingertips at Noonan's that had sent electricity through her arm. The way Lena had leaned in on the terrace, her lips parting slightly, their faces close enough that Kara had felt warm breath against her mouth before she'd tilted her chin that final inch. Had every smile, every touch been calculated—a perfect performance like Andrea claimed? Had she been nothing more than another prize for Lena Luthor’s shelf?

Below her, a door slammed open and laughter rippled up the shaft—hotel staff on break, their voices bouncing off concrete like pebbles in a drum. Kara forced herself upright, smoothing the black silk that clung to her thighs. The dress that had made her feel like Cinderella hours ago now felt like a costume she couldn't shed fast enough. She would not be the crumpled girl collapsing in a stairwell, mascara-streaked and pathetic.

But her resolve fractured when she realized the exit door's red warning sign promised a wailing alarm—drawing attention she couldn't bear. Going back meant risking Lena, meant possibly turning a corner to find those sea-glass eyes searching her face for answers she couldn't give. She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat, straightened her spine until it ached, and reentered the gleaming service corridor. Each step beneath the too-bright fluorescents felt like Russian roulette. The corridor opened to a hushed side lobby where crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light over leather armchairs. She scanned for raven hair, for that unmistakable silhouette, before darting across the plush burgundy carpet toward the revolving door, her borrowed heels sinking with each desperate step.

Outside, the night air wrapped around her like cold velvet, damp with rain. Streetlights shimmered in puddles at her feet. Between valets ushering sleek black cars around the hotel’s main entrance and her point of no return, she hesitated. Then she turned the other way, clutching her silver purse as if it were a lifeline rather than a shackle, and drew her phone from its depths. Three deep, ragged breaths later, she tapped Alex’s name. It rang once, twice—

"Hey, how's the fancy party? Rubbing elbows with the elite?" Alex's voice was warm and teasing. "Please tell me you've stolen a tiny sandwich for me."

The familiar sound of her sister's voice broke something loose in Kara's chest. "Can you come get me?" she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

Alex's tone shifted immediately. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I just—" Kara swallowed hard, fighting the tightness in her throat. "I need to leave. Now."

"I'm already grabbing my keys. Where are you?"

Kara glanced around, getting her bearings. "Side entrance of the Plaza Hotel. The one on Seventh."

"Ten minutes," Alex promised. "Less if I hit all the lights."

"Thank you," Kara whispered.

"Do you want me to stay on the phone?"

Kara considered it, then shook her head even though Alex couldn't see her. "No, it's okay. Just... hurry."

She ended the call and leaned against the building's stone façade, rough-hewn granite cold and unyielding against her shoulder blades. The light drizzle had intensified to a steady patter, transforming Seventh Avenue into a shimmering mirror that fractured the red-yellow blur of passing taxis into kaleidoscopic smears. Fat droplets collected on her bare arms, trembling there before rolling down in crooked rivulets that left goosebumps in their wake. Each bead caught the amber glow of the wrought-iron street lamps, transforming into liquid amber against her pale skin. The sight triggered an unbidden memory of Lena's inner wrist exposed as she'd pushed back her sleeve to check the time—that delicate constellation inked in midnight blue. Cassiopeia's five stars connected by the thinnest lines, identical to the one Andrea bore on the same wrist. The vain queen who'd boasted her beauty surpassed the divine and earned eternal punishment.

Andrea's voice had slipped between Kara's ribs like a blade when she'd explained the tattoo's meaning: "Lena always said this was her—the brightest point, bound to her chair for eternity, always on display." The memory of Andrea's knowing smile as she'd traced her own identical tattoo made Kara's skin crawl. Yet something in that constellation of stars called to her too—the same something that had recognized itself in Lena's eyes across a crowded room.

Beautiful and untouchable, yes, but also achingly, terrifyingly familiar.

Her phone vibrated against her palm, screen illuminating with a harsh blue glow that cut through the rain-softened night.

Where are you? -L

The three words burned into her retinas. Kara's thumb hovered over the keyboard, then retreated. Then hovered again. Her stomach twisted into knots that seemed to pull in opposite directions—part of her wanting to run back inside, find Lena, demand explanations; another part wanting to hurl the phone into the nearest storm drain. Before she could decide, the screen brightened again.

Andrea said you left. Are you okay? -L

The concern in those seven words made her throat constrict. Was it genuine worry or calculated manipulation? The memory of Lena's face after the final notes of Rachmaninoff—eyes searching Kara's, lips slightly parted—flickered across her mind. That rawness had felt so genuine. But then, so had Andrea's warning.

A yellow cab crawled alongside the curb, windshield wipers beating a frantic rhythm. The driver raised his eyebrows at her through rain-streaked glass. She shook her head, and he pulled away with a splash that soaked the hem of her dress.

Not feeling well. Had to go.

Her thumb hit send before she could reconsider, then immediately she wished she could pull the message back. Too cold. Too dishonest. But what was the alternative? Confrontation in the rain outside a charity gala?

Let me come to you. Where are you? -L

Kara's chest tightened like a vise clamping around her lungs. Part of her—a larger part than she wanted to admit—ached to tell Lena exactly where she stood beneath the hotel's granite overhang, raindrops sliding down her bare shoulders. She imagined Lena rushing through the revolving doors, emerald silk evening gown darkening with rain, raven hair plastered to her alabaster neck, those sea-glass eyes wide and earnest with explanations that would dissolve Kara's doubts like sugar in hot coffee. But the image of Andrea's ruby-painted lips curving into that knowing smile, the visible tremor in Lena's porcelain hands backstage, the slight sniff and sudden bathroom excuse at Noonan's when their knees had accidentally touched beneath the table—these details formed a constellation of warning stars she couldn't ignore, no matter how desperately she wanted to.

Alex is picking me up. I'll be fine. Enjoy the rest of the gala.

The message sent with a soft whoosh. She immediately started typing again—something softer, something that left the door open—then deleted it character by character. Then typed again. Deleted again. What right did she have to demand Lena's darkest secrets? What obligation did she have to listen to them? Their connection—whatever it was—had been built on two interviews and half a gala. Not nearly enough to justify this churning in her gut, this feeling of betrayal from someone who owed her nothing.

And yet…

There had been moments—on the terrace with city lights winking below them like fallen stars, in the shadowed wings as Lena's fingers danced across ivory keys, at Noonan's where steam from their mugs had mingled between them—when Kara had felt something genuine pass between them. A recognition that hummed in her bones. A possibility that tasted like honey and salt on her tongue. Something electric that made her heart stutter against her ribs and raised gooseflesh along her arms even now, remembering.

Was that all an illusion? Just another mirage in the pattern Andrea had described with such clinical detachment, her fingernail tapping against her champagne flute for emphasis?

Her phone vibrated again, screen illuminating her rain-streaked palm with harsh blue light.

Please, Kara. I want to explain. -L

Explain what? Kara wondered, thumb hovering over the keyboard. That Andrea's whispered warnings were jealous fabrications? That they weren't? That the trembling hands she'd noticed—pale fingers fluttering like moth wings whenever Lena reached for her water glass—and that restless, midnight energy had nothing to do with white powder or amber prescription bottles?

A familiar car turned the corner, headlights carving twin tunnels through the silver curtain of rain. Alex pulled up to the curb, the Subaru's engine purring as she leaned across the center console to push open the passenger door, her concerned face half-illuminated by the dashboard's soft glow.

“Get in before you freeze,” Alex called.

Kara slid in, the leather cool against her damp skin. The smell of coffee and that stubborn vanilla air freshener—Alex’s well-kept secret—wrapped around her like a hug.

“So spill,” Alex said, pulling away from the curb. She flicked on the wipers and checked Kara in the mirror. “What's the story with you standing in the rain outside a fancy party looking like someone just killed your puppy?. Did Lena Luthor turn out to be a secret Republican or something?"

The attempt at humor fell flat, landing between them like a sodden napkin. Kara stared out the window at the passing streetlights, each one blurring into a streak of gold through the rain-spattered glass. Her reflection ghosted against the darkness—hollow-eyed, lips pressed into a thin line, the elegant updo she'd spent forty minutes perfecting now drooping against her neck like wilted flowers. She traced a raindrop's path with her fingertip, feeling the cold glass leach warmth from her skin.

Alex's voice dropped to that gentle tone she reserved for wounded animals and her little sister in distress. "Talk to me, Kara."

"I don't know," Kara admitted, the words barely audible over the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers. "I thought... I don't know what I thought."

Alex accelerated through a yellow light, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. Her jaw tightened as she glanced sideways at Kara, eyes narrowed with the same protective intensity she'd had since they were kids. "What did she do to you? Was it something she said?"

Kara let her forehead rest against the cool window, watching the city lights blur through raindrops. "It wasn't Lena. It was something her ex said to me. Andrea Rojas."

Alex's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Wait—Lena Luthor and Andrea Rojas were together? Like, romantically?" Her fingers froze mid-tap against the steering wheel, mouth slightly open. "The Andrea Rojas who runs Obsidian Tech?" She let out a low whistle, momentarily distracted by this celebrity gossip bombshell before her eyes narrowed again, refocusing. "So what exactly did this ex say that had you standing in the rain looking like that?"

Kara closed her eyes, seeing Andrea's knowing smile, the satisfaction in her dark gaze as she'd watched her words land. "She implied that Lena has..." she hesitated, suddenly aware of Alex's hands tightening on the steering wheel, of her sister's history working with the DEA task force. The accusation felt like a betrayal, speaking it aloud. "...personal issues," she finished lamely.

Alex's eyebrows pulled together. "Personal issues? You mean drugs?" Her voice sharpened as she leaned slightly toward Kara, hands tightening on the wheel.

Kara blinked. "How—" The question died on her lips. Alex's warning from the other night echoed in her mind: "Musicians are complicated, Kara." She'd brushed it off then as typical big-sister hovering. Now those words clung to her like her rain-soaked dress. She swallowed hard. "Cocaine, apparently. And... other substances. Andrea didn’t exactly give me a detailed inventory."

Alex was quiet for a long moment, her profile illuminated in flashes by passing streetlights that painted her face in alternating gold and shadow. Rain drummed against the roof in a gentle patter that mingled with the metronomic swish-thunk of the wipers and the soft, persistent hum of the heater pushing warm air through the vents. She chewed at her bottom lip—a habit from childhood that only emerged when she was weighing her words carefully. When she finally turned fully toward her sister at a red light, her eyes held something complicated—concern layered with something harder. "And you believe her? Or do you want to believe her?""

Kara traced a raindrop with her fingertip, watching it absorb smaller droplets as it slid down the glass. "I don't want to believe her," she admitted finally. "But there were signs. The bathroom breaks that lasted too long. The way her hands trembled when she reached for her water glass. How she'd shift from laser focus during our interview to this electric, almost manic energy when we were alone. You saw her that night at The Pit—the way she couldn't stay still."

"Musicians live on nerves and Red Bull,” Alex said. “Doesn't mean she's on something harder."

"I know, but..." She sighed, her breath fogging the glass. "Andrea knew things, Alex. She described how she'd handed Lena that first line before her Vienna audition—like it was some twisted act of charity. The way she told it, you'd think she deserved a medal for her generosity. Kinda felt too specific to make up on the spot."

Alex's jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. For a moment, Kara braced for the protective big-sister lecture she'd expected. Instead, Alex exhaled slowly. "You know what this sounds like to me?" She glanced sideways, rain-spattered streetlights illuminating the determined set of her face. "Someone who saw you with Lena and decided to torpedo whatever's happening between you two." Her voice softened unexpectedly. "Even people with complicated pasts deserve the benefit of a conversation, Kara. Especially when jealous exes are involved."

The suggestion lodged in Kara's chest like a splinter - tempting to believe yet painful to touch. Part of her wanted to dismiss Andrea's words as jealous sabotage, to trust the electricity she'd felt with Lena. But another voice whispered that this explanation was too convenient, too easy. What if Andrea, despite her obvious malice, was telling the truth? What if Kara was willfully blind to what was right in front of her, choosing the story she wanted over reality?

Kara's fingers stilled against the glass. "I hear you, but..." She swallowed hard. "What if there's truth to it? What if behind all that brilliance, Lena's drowning in something she can't control? And what if I'm just—" her voice caught, "—just another distraction she'll discard when she's done?"

Alex's eyes softened in the half-light of passing streetlamps. "And what if you're not just another distraction?" She navigated a turn, the car swaying gently beneath them. "For what it's worth, I've seen you with plenty of people. Even Mike, who you dated for what—eight months?—and swore was 'the one' until he wasn't. But I've never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at Lena that night at The Pit. Not even close."

Kara felt her face flush hot, the warmth spreading from her collar to her hairline. "I wasn't looking at her like anything."

Alex snorted, her eyebrows arching in that big-sister way that had annoyed Kara since childhood. "Please. You were staring at her like some scientist who just discovered element number 119. All..." She widened her eyes comically and dropped her jaw, then broke into a grin. "Honestly, it was equal parts adorable and gag-worthy."

Kara sank lower in her seat, heat crawling up her neck. "I was not."

Her sister’s eyes crinkled with mischief. "You absolutely were. And based on that article you wrote—" she raised her voice to a breathy pitch, "'The first time you hear Lena Luthor's voice, something shifts inside you’." She clutched dramatically at her chest. "What was it that shifted exactly? Your heart? Your underwear? Because that wasn't journalism, Kara—that was a love letter."

"Oh my god, stop," Kara groaned, sinking deeper into her seat and covering her face with both hands. "I was trying to capture the audience experience. It was... artistic license."

Alex turned onto Kara's street, slowing as she approached the building. Her voice softened. "Look, I get it. But don't let some jealous ex ruin whatever's happening between you two." She shot Kara a sideways glance, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "Unless you'd rather just pine over her in your articles and never know the truth?"

The car rolled to a stop in front of Kara's apartment building, the engine humming at a low vibration she could feel through the damp soles of her feet. Outside, the rain had softened to a misty drizzle that transformed the streetlights into hazy golden orbs, each surrounded by a nimbus of refracted light. Water droplets gathered on the windshield, trembling with each breath of wind before racing down the glass in erratic rivulets. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap against the roof created a cocoon of white noise that amplified the heaviness of Kara’s unspoken thoughts.

Kara's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "What if there isn’t anything happening between us though? What if I imagined it all? The looks, the touches—what if I built this whole connection in my head while she was just being... nice?" Her fingers twisted together in her lap. "God, I sound like a teenager with a crush."

Alex reached across the console, squeezing Kara's hand. "Hey, crushes aren't just for teenagers. And if there's nothing there—if you imagined it all—then you'll know. But at least you'll know because you asked her directly, not because some jealous ex at a party poisoned the well."

Kara exhaled, feeling something loosen in her chest. "That's... actually really good advice. When did you get so wise?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "Excuse you, I've been dispensing pearls of wisdom since you were in braces." The teasing in her voice faded, replaced by that soft concern Kara had known all her life. "Hey, my night's wide open. Pizza, trash TV, and a total moratorium on all Luthor-related conversations? Just say the word."

The offer was tempting—warm cheese stretching between pizza slices, the mindless comfort of reality TV drowning out her thoughts, Alex's shoulder to lean against when it all became too much. The thought of being alone with the hurricane in her mind made Kara's stomach clench like she'd swallowed ice water too quickly. The chaos of questions about Lena swirled relentlessly: Was Andrea telling the truth? Had she imagined their connection? Alex had already abandoned her Friday night plans though, appearing at the gala's entrance within minutes of Kara's SOS text; she couldn't possibly ask for more.

"I'm okay," she said, summoning a smile that felt only slightly forced. "I just need to process... everything."

"If you're sure." Alex didn't look convinced. "Call me if you change your mind. I can be back here in twenty minutes with pizza and that disgusting ice cream you like."

"Rocky Road is not disgusting," Kara protested, the familiar argument a welcome distraction. "It's a classic for a reason."

"Marshmallows do not belong in ice cream. It's an abomination."

Kara laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuineness. "Thank you," she said, leaning across to hug her sister awkwardly over the console. "For coming to get me. For listening."

"Always," Alex replied, returning the hug fiercely. "Now go get some sleep. Things will look clearer in the morning."

Kara nodded, gathering her beaded clutch and pushing open the car door with a soft creak of hinges. The rain had slowed to a fine mist that clung to her skin like gossamer, leaving tiny droplets that caught the amber glow of streetlights as she hurried across the cracked concrete to the building's weathered entrance. She turned to wave at Alex, whose headlights illuminated the worry lines still etched around her eyes as she waited until Kara was safely inside before pulling away from the curb, tires hissing against wet asphalt.

The lobby was deserted, the night doorman—Mr. Jeffries with his salt-and-pepper mustache—dozing in his worn leather chair behind the security desk, his chest rising and falling beneath his rumpled uniform. Kara slipped past him to the elevator, its brass button cool against her fingertip as she pressed for the fourth floor. As the doors closed with a metallic scrape, she caught her reflection in the polished surface—honey-blonde hair falling from its careful arrangement, mascara slightly smudged at the corners of her eyes like bruises, the black dress now a shade darker where rain had soaked through the delicate fabric, clinging to her collarbones.

She looked like someone who had fled a fairy tale before midnight, leaving behind a glass slipper and unanswered questions, the magic dissolved into ordinary heartache.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that echoed in the empty hallway like a forgotten song. Kara moved down the corridor, her bare feet silent against the threadbare carpet with its faded burgundy swirls, fumbling in her beaded clutch for keys that jangled like tiny silver bells in the midnight quiet. Inside, the darkness was absolute—a velvet curtain drawn across her life—until she flipped the switch, flooding the small living room with warm amber light that spilled across her IKEA furniture like honey drizzled over fresh toast.

Everything was exactly as she'd left it hours ago. The apartment came alive in layers of soft amber light—first catching the honeyed wood floors with their constellation of shallow scratches from years of dropped keys and dragged furniture, then illuminating the scatter of mismatched IKEA pieces. Directly ahead, the open-concept living space stretched outward: a small kitchen to the right, its white cabinets chipped at the corners and pale quartz counters. The faint smell of that morning's hazelnut coffee mingled with printer ink and the lavender fabric softener her mother always sent in care packages. Beyond that, the dining table—a yard sale find with uneven legs stabilized by a folded receipt—sat under a hanging lamp with a slightly crooked shade, cluttered with dog-eared magazines whose glossy covers were barely visible beneath an explosion of neon-pink sticky notes, each covered in Kara's looping handwriting. Her silver MacBook, adorned with stickers from local bands and coffee shops, waited beside a half-empty mug where hazelnut coffee had long since gone cold, leaving a perfect ring of caramel-brown that had permanently stained the pine wood beneath it, joining dozens of identical circles that mapped her late-night writing sessions like tree rings.

The dress Nia had rejected—a cornflower blue A-line with a modest neckline that wouldn't turn heads—was still draped over her threadbare reading chair, the plastic hanger hooked over the fraying arm like a question mark. A cork bulletin board with peeling edges hung above her cluttered desk, displaying a collage of sun-bleached photos—Alex grinning with a half-empty bottle of Modelo Especial, Winn pulling a face while Nia planted a kiss on her boyfriend Querl's cheek, his party hat sliding off his slicked-back hair as he stared at the camera with that characteristic confused half-smile at the last Catco holiday party, a dog-eared snapshot of her parents on the Midvale pier—alongside laminated press passes with her awkward ID photos from events she'd covered. The scent of microwaved popcorn still lingered from last night's solo movie marathon. Home. Safe. Uncomplicated.

It was all so painfully ordinary.

So unmistakably Kara.

Nothing like the marble-floored world she'd just fled, where people with perfect teeth discussed million-dollar donations over $200 champagne and canapés she couldn't pronounce.

She kicked off her heels, feeling the instant relief as her arches unclenched and her toes spread against the worn hardwood floors, cool and familiar beneath her soles. The dress followed, unzipped with fumbling fingers, its damp fabric heavy as she peeled it away from her rain-chilled skin. It pooled at her feet in a crumpled heap of silk and regret. She left it there, a deflated version of the woman she'd pretended to be, and padded to the bathroom in nothing but her panties, goosebumps rising on her exposed skin.

The harsh fluorescent bathroom light flickered twice before settling into a steady, unforgiving glare that transformed the mirror into an interrogation room. It highlighted every imperfection—the mascara smudges like bruised half-moons beneath her eyes, the slight redness around her nose where she'd dabbed away tears in the car, the indentation across her ribcage where the dress's boning had dug into soft flesh. Kara leaned closer, palms pressed against the cool porcelain of the sink, studying her reflection as if it might offer answers to the questions swirling in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a gutter.

Who was she in those sea-glass eyes? A journalist who'd written a flattering article with too many adjectives, or worse—a pathetic groupie starstruck by talent and wealth, collecting moments like souvenirs? No. Maybe she was the one using Lena—mining her life for career advancement while pretending it was something else, each question a tiny pickaxe chipping away at Lena's walls. The memory of Lena's slender fingers—pale as moonlight on water, elegant as calligraphy, with delicate blue veins mapping rivers beneath translucent skin—made her stomach flip and twist like laundry in a washing machine, equal parts desire and shame churning together.

And Lena—God, what was Lena to her? The subject of an article who'd become something dangerous, a beautiful grenade with the pin halfway out? A woman who made her question everything she thought she knew about herself, like someone had rearranged all her furniture in the dark? Someone who played Rachmaninoff with such raw intensity that the piano seemed to bleed under her touch, her body arching into each crescendo as if electricity flowed through her, leaving Kara breathless and confused, unable to tell if she wanted to be her or be with her? And then those moments afterward when Lena looked at Kara with eyes suddenly soft as moss—a tenderness that felt impossibly sincere but might be the most calculated performance of all, the final act in a play Kara hadn't realized she'd bought tickets to?

Kara turned away from the mirror, unwilling to face the confusion in her own eyes. She cranked the shower knob with trembling fingers, wincing as the pipes groaned behind the cracked subway tile. Steam billowed upward in thick, cottony clouds, fogging the mirror and beading on the peeling ceiling paint. She slid her glasses off, folding them carefully beside the sink, then scrubbed at her face with a makeup wipe that smelled like artificial cucumber. Her reflection blurred into a flesh-colored smudge as black streaks came away on the cloth, leaving her skin raw and pink.

She peeled off her panties, letting them drop to the tile. Under the scalding spray, water pelted her shoulders like tiny meteorites. It plastered her honey-blonde hair to her skull like wet tissue paper and carved jagged rivulets down the knobs of her spine, washing away the evening's remnants—the cloying sweetness of Chanel No. 5 that had hung in the marble-floored ballroom like invisible fog, the phantom pressure of Lena's fingers against the silk covering her lower back, the exact cadence of Andrea's knife-edged words that had sliced through her champagne haze at precisely 10:47 PM. Each memory swirled clockwise down the rust-stained drain in spirals of soapy water, leaving behind a sticky residue of confusion that clung to her skin like cobwebs, resistant to even her most expensive Trader Joe's lavender body wash with its purple plastic pump that always clogged.

She'd never been attracted to a woman before.

At least, she'd never acknowledged the flutter in her stomach when Vicki Donahue leaned close during high school lab, or how she'd stared a beat too long at the curve of Cat's calves in those impossible heels. The realization should have knocked her sideways, should have rewritten her entire history. But somehow, standing in her shower as rain tapped a syncopated rhythm against the foggy bathroom window, it felt like the least complicated part of the evening.

She was attracted to Lena Luthor. That much was undeniable. The way her pulse quickened when Lena looked at her—like a hummingbird trapped beneath her sternum, wings beating so frantically they blurred into a single desperate vibration—how her skin prickled with goosebumps when Lena's fingers brushed hers, leaving a liquid heat that pooled low in her belly and radiated outward in concentric waves. The flutter when Lena's mouth curved into that almost-smile—crimson lips parting just enough to reveal the edge of perfect teeth, white as fresh porcelain against that blood-red lipstick, the right corner lifting a fraction higher than the left in a perpetual hint of mischief—made Kara's own lips part involuntarily into a smile of her own.

But attraction wasn't the issue. The issue was whether what she was attracted to was real or just another performance. Was it the Lena hunched over ivory keys, lost in some private ecstasy? Or the one who commanded the dive bar stage like she owned the building? Perhaps it was the Lena who whispered confessions about her place on the Luthor family tree in the back of coffee shops, or the ice sculpture standing beside Lillian Luthor tonight, charming donors. Maybe the real Lena was the one whose words traced promises along Kara's spine with that mischievous smile. Or was Andrea right about the woman with earthquake hands who couldn't look anyone in the eye, whose gaze mapped escape routes to powder rooms and secluded hallways between every sip of champagne? Which version was authentic and which was just another face Lena wore depending on who was watching, like those Russian nesting dolls, each painted with a different expression but hollow inside.

Kara cranked the squeaky faucet handle until the last drops of water sputtered out. She reached for her threadbare navy towel—the one with the frayed edge and bleach spot shaped like Florida—and wrapped it tightly around her torso. The bathroom linoleum felt gritty beneath her bare feet as she padded to her bedroom, leaving damp footprints that evaporated almost instantly in the apartment's dry heat. She peeled off the damp towel and pulled on her faded NCU t-shirt, the cotton worn thin from a hundred washes, and a pair of sleep shorts with a stretched-out waistband. She sat on the edge of her unmade bed, cold droplets falling from her hair onto the patchwork quilt her grandmother had sewn from scraps of her childhood dresses.

Her phone lay on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water and three bobby pins. The black screen reflected her own blurry face like a tiny dark mirror. Kara stared at it, half-expecting—hoping?—it would illuminate with Lena's name. Some explanation that would make sense of Andrea's whispered insinuations between sips of champagne. Something to untangle the persistent knot of confusion that had settled beneath her ribs, right next to her lowest left rib, the one that had healed slightly crooked after she fell from a tree at eleven.

But the screen remained stubbornly black, reflecting nothing but the yellow glow of her bedside lamp.

She reached for it, then pulled her hand back, letting it fall onto the faded quilt where her fingertips traced the zigzag stitching.

The questions forming in her mind felt like uninvited guests crowding a too-small elevator, pressing against the doors of her consciousness with increasing urgency—intimate, invasive questions that had no business existing after only a week of knowing someone. They multiplied in the darkness behind her eyelids, each one more presumptuous than the last, expanding like bread dough left too long to rise.

Do you use cocaine before performances?

Was Andrea telling the truth about Vienna?

Are your hands always shaking, or only when you're coming down?

Most of all, about whether she, Kara Danvers from Midvale with her Target cardigans and drugstore lipstick, was just another temporary distraction in Lena Luthor's glittering, complicated life.

Kara flopped backward onto her bed, the ancient springs protesting with a metallic groan. She flung one arm across her eyes, pressing until phosphenes bloomed against her closed lids. The ceiling fan wobbled in its rotation three feet above her, its aged motor emitting a gentle whoosh-click-whoosh that barely masked the rain's erratic percussion against her windowpane. Sleep seemed as distant as the moon while her mind projected the evening's highlights in vivid, torturous detail—Lena emerging from the gleaming black town car, emerald silk clinging to her curves before cascading to the pavement, the curve of her spine forming a perfect valley down her exposed back; Lillian's glacier-cold eyes performing their surgical assessment; Andrea's crimson lips curving into that knowing half-smile that revealed nothing while implying everything; Lena's alabaster fingers trembling against the piano keys, her knuckles bleached white, nails painted the exact shade of dried blood.

Had any of it been real?

Eventually, exhaustion won out over her churning thoughts. Kara drifted into fitful sleep, her body sinking into the worn mattress like a stone through murky water. Behind her closed eyelids, she dreamed of jade-green eyes rimmed with smudged kohl, watching her with an intensity that burned. Pale fingers with chipped crimson nail polish trembled as they reached for her across a chasm that widened with each breath, the ground between them crumbling into darkness, revealing nothing but empty air and the echo of Andrea's laughter rising from somewhere far below.

***

Keira! My office!"

Cat Grant's voice sliced through the Monday morning bustle of the CatCo bullpen like a perfectly aimed arrow, its sharp timbre rising above the percussion of typing fingers and murmured phone conversations. Kara's head snapped up from her computer screen where she'd been pretending to work on her city council piece while actually staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, the cursor blinking accusingly at the end of an unfinished sentence.

"Now," Cat added, stiletto heels already pivoting on the polished floor as she turned back into her glass-walled domain, the morning sunlight catching on her gold bracelet. She didn't bother to check if Kara was following.

She never did.

Compliance was assumed.

Kara scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking over her chipped CatCo mug of lukewarm coffee that had left a perfect ring on last week's assignment sheet. She'd been dreading this moment since she'd dragged herself into the office, dark circles the color of faded bruises barely concealed beneath her glasses, hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail that was already coming loose at her temples. The weekend had passed in a blur of ignored texts that made her phone screen light up at 3 AM and half-written responses that never made it past her drafts folder, deleted with frustrated taps in the darkness of her bedroom.

Winn swiveled in his ergonomic chair, the faux leather squeaking as he leaned back. "Someone's in trouble," he sing-songed, his fingers never pausing on his keyboard, eyes fixed on lines of code on the screen.

"Shut up," Kara hissed, tugging at the hem of her powder-blue cardigan where it had bunched around her waist. She snatched her spiral-bound notepad with its coffee-stained cover, uncapped pen clipped to the metal spiral. "I haven't done anything."

"Exactly," Nia murmured as Kara passed her desk, which was adorned with a tiny potted succulent and three empty Red Bull cans. "That's probably the problem."

Kara shot Nia a confused look—eyebrows pinched, mouth slightly open—but didn't have time to ask for clarification before stepping into Cat's office, the glass door swinging shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss that felt like a courtroom gavel. The temperature dropped five degrees instantly.

Cat Grant sat enthroned behind her immaculate white desk, rectangular glasses perched on the sharp precipice of her nose, manicured fingernails tapping against glossy layouts spread before her like tarot cards predicting National City’s fate. Morning light sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting Cat's profile in golden relief while leaving her expression in shadow. She didn't look up as Kara entered, letting the silence stretch like an over-wound rubber band until Kara's right foot began to tap against the polished concrete floor, her knuckles whitening around her notepad.

"Ms. Grant, you wanted to see—"

"Where's my article?" Cat interrupted, still not looking up.

Kara blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"My article," Cat repeated, finally raising her gaze. Her eyes—the color of expensive whiskey backlit by sunlight—fixed on Kara with that penetrating stare that had reduced media moguls and politicians alike to stammering messes. Her perfectly manicured right eyebrow arched upward like a question mark. "The one about the Luthor Children's Hospital gala. The piece any journalist with a pulse would have filed after attending as the personal guest of Lena Luthor herself. I watched you all evening in that black dress—the one that made your skin glow while you fidgeted like you were wearing a hair shirt instead of designer silk."

The bottom dropped out of Kara's stomach. Her mouth opened and closed twice before words emerged. "You were—I—I hadn’t thought—" Her fingers tightened around her notepad until the spiral binding left indentations in her palm.

Cat removed her glasses, letting them dangle from her fingers like a weapon she might deploy at any moment. "That's your problem, Kiera. You never think beyond the moment." She tapped the arm of her glasses against the edge of her desk. "You were at the gala Friday night, wearing designer silk that costs more than your monthly salary. I saw you there myself."

Kara's voice cracked like a teenage boy's. "You were there?" She pushed her glasses up her nose, leaving a smudge on the lens.

"I donate to children's hospitals, Kiera." Cat examined her manicure, flicking an invisible speck from her thumbnail. "It's good PR and a tax write-off." Her eyes flicked up, sharp as a scalpel. "More interesting is how I saw you clinging to the Luthor girl's every word like she was reciting the secrets of the universe instead of making small talk about canapés."

Heat crept up Kara's neck as she felt Cat's gaze dissect her. "I—I wasn't covering the event," she managed, fingers twisting the corner of her notepad. "Lena invited me personally." The word "date" hovered unspoken between them, trapped behind her clenched teeth.

"Personally," Cat repeated, the word hanging in the air between them like bait. She tapped one manicured fingernail against her desk. "And you weren't covering the event because...?" When Kara didn't immediately answer, Cat leaned forward, elbows on her desk. "Let me help you. Lena Luthor doesn't invite journalists from mid-tier publications to galas as her 'friends’. She has reluctant family obligations and the occasional artistic collaborator. What she doesn't have is friends."

Kara's spine stiffened. "That's not true. I've seen her with her band. She has friends." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her voice rising slightly before trailing off as she realized she'd just confirmed Cat's suspicions about her personal connection to Lena.

Cat's eyebrow arched higher. "Friends? Is that what we're calling them?" She rose from her chair with the fluid grace of a panther, the morning light catching her silhouette as she rounded her desk. "Your article managed the impressive feat of being professionally competent while broadcasting your personal fascination to anyone with basic reading comprehension." Her heels clicked a deliberate rhythm against the floor as she approached. "And now this 'friend' has invited you to an event where the press list is more carefully vetted than the Met Gala's."

She stopped directly in front of Kara, close enough that Kara could smell her exclusive perfume. "And you're telling me you didn't think to leverage this unprecedented access into an article that would make every other publication in the city green with envy?"

Put that way, it did sound professionally negligent.

Kara adjusted her glasses again. "I didn't want to take advantage of her invitation," she said finally, the truth slipping out before she could filter it into something more professionally acceptable.

Something flickered across Cat's face—surprise, perhaps, or a reluctant respect. It disappeared so quickly Kara might have imagined it.

"Noble," Cat said, the word not quite a compliment. "Naive, but noble." She turned back toward her desk, picking up a tablet and swiping through screens with practiced efficiency. "Unfortunately for your ethical dilemma, I've already promised the board an exclusive on Lena Luthor. The real Lena Luthor, not just the reluctant socialite or rebellious musician angles everyone else has beaten to death."

Kara's stomach clenched. "Ms. Grant, I don't think—"

"That's obvious," Cat cut her off, turning the tablet so Kara could see the screen. It displayed what appeared to be early layout mockups for a feature article, with placeholder text and a headline that made Kara's blood run cold: "LENA LUTHOR: THE WOMAN BEHIND THE NAME."

"This isn't open for discussion," Cat continued, setting the tablet down with a decisive click. "Your GlassHearts piece generated more traffic than anything else in the entertainment section this quarter. The board wants a follow-up, and I want it to be something no one else has."

She fixed Kara with that laser-focused stare again. "A personal profile. Not just the musician, not just the Luthor heiress, but the woman. What makes her tick. Why she's rejected her family's path. What drives someone with every privilege imaginable to play in dive bars instead of concert halls." A small, knowing smile curved Cat's lips. "And you, Kiera, are uniquely positioned to deliver exactly that."

The implications settled like lead in Kara's stomach. Cat wanted her to use whatever connection she had with Lena—whatever fragile, undefined thing had been growing between them before Andrea shot it down—as journalistic fodder. The thought made her vaguely nauseous.

"I doubt she'd agree to that kind of profile," Kara said carefully, trying to find a professional objection that wouldn't reveal too much about her personal feelings. "Lena is very private about—"

Cat interrupted, returning to her chair with a dismissive wave. "She invited you to a gala as her..." she paused, making air quotes with her manicured fingers, "‘personal guest’.” The way she lingered over those two words made Kara's pulse quicken. "She gave you unprecedented access to her band. She clearly wants something from you, Kiera. I'm simply suggesting you want something in return."

The characterization made Kara flinch. "It's not like that."

Cat's eyes narrowed, that journalistic instinct that had made her a media legend zeroing in on Kara's discomfort like a heat-seeking missile. "Isn't it? Then what is it like, exactly?"

The question hung in the air between them, dangerous in its simplicity. Kara felt trapped, caught between professional obligation and personal loyalty. Between the truth she wasn't ready to articulate even to herself and the lies she couldn't bring herself to tell.

"It's complicated," she said finally, the understatement of the century.

Cat studied her for a long moment, head tilted slightly as if reassessing a puzzle whose pieces had suddenly rearranged themselves. "I see," she said, her tone shifting to something Kara couldn't quite identify. "Well, that's certainly... interesting."

She picked up her glasses again, sliding them on. "The article runs in two weeks. I expect a draft on my desk by next Friday." Her attention returned to the layouts in front of her, a clear dismissal. "That should give you plenty of time to navigate the... complications."

"Ms. Grant, I really don't think—"

"Two weeks, Kiera." Cat didn't look up. "And make it worth my while. I want something real. Something honest. Not another puff piece about her musical genius or her fashion choices or whatever else those society rags focus on." She glanced up, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. "If she's letting you see the real Lena Luthor, I want my readers to see her too."

Kara's lungs seemed to shrink, each breath shallower than the last. Her feet rooted to the carpet as Cat's words echoed in her ears. The path forward split before her—career advancement on one side, the fragile trust in Lena's eyes on the other—with no middle ground to stand on.

"Well?" Cat prompted when Kara remained silent. "Was there something else?"

"No, Ms. Grant," Kara said automatically, years of conditioning kicking in despite her internal conflict. "I'll... figure it out."

"See that you do." Cat's attention was already back on her layouts. "Close the door on your way out."

Kara turned to leave, her fingers trembling against the cover of her notebook, sweat beading at her hairline despite the arctic chill of Cat's office. Her mind raced through impossible scenarios, each one collapsing like a house of cards. The article loomed before her like a minefield—every potential angle a betrayal of the fragile trust Kara had seemed to gain with Lena in such a short period of time. Her career, the apartment she could barely afford, her health insurance—all balanced on the edge of Cat Grant's expectations. Beneath the recessed lights, a more unsettling question took root: behind those sea-glass eyes, did the real Lena Luthor exist at all? Or had Andrea's knowing smirk contained the truth—that Kara was just another audience member, watching exactly the performance Lena had choreographed for her?

"Oh, and Kara?"

The soft "Kara" stopped her at the threshold, her real name so unfamiliar in Cat's mouth that for a moment she wasn't sure who her boss was addressing.

She turned back, finding Cat watching her with an expression that might almost have been sympathy on anyone else's face.

"Whatever is... complicated between you and Lena Luthor?" Cat's voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "Be careful. The Luthors have a way of burning everything they touch. Even the things they care about."

The warning settled like shards of ice in Kara's veins, freezing her lungs mid-breath. Before she could stammer a response, Cat's attention returned to her work, manicured fingers tapping decisively against glossy layouts, the moment of unusual candor evaporating like morning dew under harsh sunlight.

Kara stepped back into the sun-lit bullpen, closing the glass door behind her with a soft click that echoed with finality in her ears. Her phone vibrated against her thigh—another text, most likely from Lena. She could almost see the carefully composed message waiting on her lock screen, black text against blue bubbles, another attempt at explanation or connection that Kara had been too raw, too confused, too hurt to answer.

Now she had two weeks to navigate an impossible choice: her hard-won career with its steady paycheck and health insurance, or the electric, terrifying thing blooming between her and Lena Luthor. Two weeks to decipher if the woman with sea-glass eyes and midnight hair who made her heart stutter was genuine or just another masterfully crafted facade hiding the true Luthor beneath.

Two weeks to discover if Cat Grant—who had built an empire on being right—was correct about the Luthors burning everything they touched to ash, even the precious things they might actually care about.

Chapter Text

9

Counterfeit Morning

Lena woke to the cold press of Calacatta gold Italian marble against her cheek, each microscopic crystal in the stone's veining digging into her skin like tiny needles. Someone had replaced her brain with wet cement mixed with broken glass—a throbbing, shifting mass that sloshed against her skull with each heartbeat. Every pulse sent a sledgehammer blow from her temples down her spine, rattling her molars. Her mouth tasted like she'd been gargling battery acid, cigarette butts, and the dregs of last night's top-shelf tequila—which, considering the kaleidoscopic fragments of memory flashing behind her eyelids, wasn't entirely impossible.

The bathroom floor. Again. Classy, Luthor.

She attempted to pry open one mascara-crusted eye. Morning light sliced through the half-closed Venetian blinds like a laser beam, each dust mote in its path illuminated and dancing, the beam striking her dilated pupil with the surgical precision of a sniper. Her stomach lurched violently, twisting in on itself like a fist clenching and unclenching around nothing but bile, regret, and what might have been the remnants of those pretentious little canapés from the VIP section. She slammed her eyelid shut, feeling dried makeup crack across her skin.

"Shit," she mumbled into the tile. Her voice sounded like it had been dragged behind a tour bus for fifty miles across sun-baked asphalt—raspy and broken and barely recognizable as human, each syllable scraping like sandpaper against her vocal cords. The word vibrated against the cool marble, sending tiny shockwaves through her cheekbone that amplified the jackhammer pounding in her skull, each pulse a supernova behind her eyelids.

She was still wearing last night's clothes—black designer jeans with artfully distressed knees, now sporting what appeared to be a constellation of tequila splatters down one leg. The fabric had dried stiff and tacky against her thigh, clinging to her skin like a desperate lover, a tacit reminder of decisions she couldn't quite remember making. Her once-pristine black tank top reeked of stale cigarette smoke, spilled drinks, and the particular sour-sweet tang of night sweat, the cotton fibers saturated with fragments of memories she couldn't fully reconstruct. One sock—designer cashmere blend—no shoes. The bare foot was alabaster pale and corpse-cold, its vulnerable nakedness somehow more pathetic than the rest of her current state, toenails painted a chipped blood red.

The bathroom smelled like expensive hand soap—something with notes of sandalwood and bergamot that cost forty dollars a bottle and came in packaging so minimalist it bordered on pretentious—industrial-strength marble cleaner that couldn't quite mask the faint, lingering acidic scent of whatever premium liquor she had apparently projectile-vomited sometime before passing out. The penthouse's clinical perfection, with its gleaming chrome fixtures catching the morning light like surgical instruments, made the whole scene feel like some twisted performance art installation: "Rock Star, Horizontal. Mixed Media on Italian Tile, 2025. Not for Sale”.

Mother would be so proud.

She heard the bathroom door open, the precision-engineered hinges gliding soundlessly across the plush Berber carpet, followed by a familiar sigh that contained volumes of judgment—the kind that started soft but crescendoed at the end, a symphony of disappointment in a single exhale.

"Morning, sunshine." Sam's voice was crisp as fresh celery and far too loud in the cathedral-like acoustics of the marble bathroom, each syllable a tiny ice pick driving into Lena's eardrums. Without opening her eyes, Lena could picture her perfectly—arms crossed over her chest in a charcoal Armani blazer, weight shifted to one hip in tailored slacks, Louboutin heels clicking against the tile, expression hovering somewhere between maternal concern and corporate exasperation. Her chestnut hair would already be perfect—not a strand out of place—because Samantha Arias probably emerged from the womb with an immaculate blowout and a leather-bound day planner.

Lena responded with something between a groan and a death rattle, the sound scraping up her throat like sandpaper over splintered wood, vibrating through her chest cavity and echoing off the cold marble beneath her cheek.

"Lena." Sam's voice moved closer. The pointed toe of a burgundy leather ankle boot—last season's Balenciaga—nudged against Lena's lowest rib, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to telegraph Sam's rapidly evaporating patience. "The band has that WXRK radio interview at two. It's currently—" a pause while she checked her platinum Cartier Tank watch, the soft click of metal against metal as she adjusted the French cuff of her crisp white blouse "—10:37, and you look like something that crawled out of a storm drain during a toxic waste spill."

Lena managed to roll onto her back, which was a catastrophic miscalculation. The ceiling spun lazily above her, a nauseating carousel of recessed halogen lighting and hand-carved Italian crown molding. Each tiny crystal in the Swarovski light fixture seemed to multiply and divide in her vision, creating constellations of light that pulsed and throbbed, threatening to detach from their moorings and rain down on her like miniature daggers of pure brightness.

"Cancel it," she croaked, her vocal cords scraping together like rusty machinery. The words tasted sour in her mouth, coated with the residue of last night's bad decisions—the bitter chemical aftertaste of premium tequila, the lingering ghost of menthol cigarettes, and something else, something sweet and coppery that might have been blood from where she'd bitten her tongue.

"Absolutely not." Sam's face appeared above her, a perfect oval framed by immaculate chestnut hair, blocking the worst of the light like a blessed eclipse with designer earrings. Her expression was exactly as Lena predicted, with perhaps a touch more murder than usual—the kind of controlled fury that made her left eyebrow twitch almost imperceptibly. Her eyes narrowed to coffee-colored slits, nostrils flaring slightly with each measured breath that carried notes of mint mouthwash and expensive espresso. "We've rescheduled twice already. If we cancel again, they'll give the slot to that insufferable boy band—the one with the matching platinum highlights and ripped skinny jeans—that keeps covering your songs."

Lena threw her arm over her eyes. The crook of her elbow smelled like cigarettes—Marlboro Lights, not her usual brand—and someone else's perfume—Andrea's, definitely. The scent triggered a flash of memory like a polaroid developing. Andrea laughing in the amber light of the VIP section, head thrown back, throat exposed like pale marble, diamond earrings catching the light as Lena whispered something filthy and familiar in her ear. Something that made Andrea's pupils dilate until the honey was just a thin ring, her crimson lips parting slightly, the tip of her tongue touching her upper teeth. Something that made Lena feel powerful and pathetic in equal measure, like a queen on a cardboard throne.

"Let them have it. They can't hit the bridge in 'Glasshouse' anyway—they crack on the high F every time." She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice, the petty satisfaction spreading through her chest like warm honey, knowing that despite everything—despite the hangovers that felt like death warmed over, the missed interviews that cost thousands in PR cleanup, and the perpetual disappointment she saw flickering behind Lillian's surgical-enhanced eyes—she was still better. Still exceptional. Even her failures were executed with a precision that others couldn't match, like porcelain shattering into perfect shards.

"That's not the point." Sam's voice had that dangerous calm that meant Lena was about to experience consequences, the verbal equivalent of a parent counting to three while removing their belt. Her words fell like ice cubes into a crystal tumbler. "The point is that you're the one who wanted to celebrate Andrea's birthday 'properly' last night—with three bottles of Clase Azul and dancing on tables at Lux until 4 AM—despite knowing you had commitments today that thousands of fans and a major radio station are counting on."

Fragments of the previous night flashed through Lena's mind like a broken film reel: tequila shots lined up on the obsidian bar top, amber liquid catching the pulsing blue lights, the viscous burn coating her esophagus like liquid fire. James's calloused fingers digging into the silk of her blouse as he tried to coax her down from the mahogany bar top where her scuffed teal Chucks left rubber streaks on century-old wood. Andrea's crimson lips parting to reveal perfect veneers, crow's feet deepening around kohl-rimmed eyes as Lena slurred the story about stealing the headmistress's prized Persian cat and hiding it in the bell tower for three days. The weight of Andrea's head on her shoulder in the ride back to her hotel, sandalwood and amber mingling with the stale cigarette smoke that clung to her midnight-black hair, hot breath tickling Lena's collarbone as she'd whispered, "I've missed this version of you”.

This version. The one with dilated pupils and a razor-sharp tongue that cut deeper after midnight. The one who burned through people and substances with equal abandon until dawn found her hollow-eyed and trembling. The one who made Andrea's recreational cocaine habit seem quaint by comparison. The one who would swallow fire, walk on glass, or carve herself hollow just to see that flicker of admiration in someone else's eyes.

Lena's mouth formed the words "Worth it," but they emerged as a hollow croak, her voice betraying what her pride wouldn't admit. She swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat as her liver staged what felt like an armed rebellion, each wave of nausea radiating from her core with such force that her fingertips tingled and her toes curled against the cold marble.

"We'll see if you still think so in about three seconds."

Lena removed her arm from her eyes just in time to see Sam's expression shift from exasperation to grim determination. The muscles in her jaw tightened like steel cables beneath her porcelain skin, a tiny blue vein pulsing at her temple like Morse code signaling imminent danger. Before Lena could process what was happening, Sam's manicured hands seized her under the armpits—French-tipped fingers digging into soft flesh with the surprising strength of someone who did Pilates five mornings a week—and was dragging her—wrinkled tank top, last night's skinny jeans, and all—toward the Italian marble shower stall. Lena's bare left foot slipped against the hand-laid herringbone tile, the other still wearing one sock, finding no purchase on the polished surface.

"Sam, don't you fucking dare—"

The hiss of the rainfall shower turning on drowned out her protest, water rushing through copper pipes with a violence that matched Sam's glacier-cold expression. Arctic water hit Lena like a physical assault from a thousand tiny needles, soaking through her silk-blend clothes instantly, the expensive fabric becoming a second skin. The shock stole her breath like a punch to the solar plexus, her half-formed curse dying in her raw throat as water streamed down her mascara-stained face, under her rumpled collar, into her bloodshot eyes. Goosebumps erupted across every inch of exposed alabaster skin, tiny mountains rising in protest against the assault. Her pulse hammered against her skull like a bass drum, and for a moment, the tequila-induced hangover and the Norwegian-spring-cold water created a perfect storm of agony that whited out everything else, even the memory of Andrea's lips against her neck.

The shock of the water tore a primal sound from Lena's throat. "Jesus fucking Christ!" she gasped, her lungs constricting as if gripped by an icy fist. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

Sam stood just outside the shower stall, arms crossed over her cream silk blouse, her posture somehow both rigid with authority and soft with concern. The tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth didn't reach her eyes, which held the particular worry reserved for someone you've pulled back from ledges before. "Desperate times." Her voice was firm but tinged with the gentleness one uses with wounded animals. She reached in to adjust the temperature dial—not enough for comfort, just enough to prevent medical consequences. The water splashed her sleeve, darkening the fabric she'd likely spent half a month's salary on. She didn't even glance at it. "There. Now you're with us again."

Lena pushed sodden hair from her eyes, her fingers trembling slightly. Water cascaded from her chin in steady drips, each one marking seconds of clarity she hadn't asked for. "I hate you right now," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"No, you don't." Sam's eyes softened as she grabbed a towel—the ridiculously expensive ones Lena insisted on—and placed it within reach on the closed toilet lid. The thick Egyptian cotton looked absurdly civilized next to Lena's drowned-rat state. "You love me enough to keep me around despite moments like this. And I love you enough to risk getting fired every time I have to play bad cop."

The simple truth of it hung between them, heavier than the steam now rising from the shower spray. Sam was the only person who consistently saw through the armor Lena had spent a lifetime crafting—and loved her anyway. In moments of clarity, Lena recognized this as the gift it was. In moments like this, soaking wet and forced into sobriety, it felt like the cruelest invasion. Their friendship had survived because Sam knew exactly how far she could push, and Lena, despite her protests, needed someone who would.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, rockstar.” Sam’s said as she glanced at her watch—its silver face gleaming like a wink from the sun slicing through the window. “You’ve got exactly one hour to morph from drowned rat to functioning human. Coffee’s percolating.” She pivoted toward the door, hand lingering on the frame. “Oh, and fair warning—your bathroom floor is better than mine. Next time you down your weight in tequila, you sleep in your own puke.”

The door snapped shut with a click so crisp it felt like judgment incarnate, the sound bouncing off the glossy white tiles in a tiny, reverberating echo.

Lena let the spray wash over her for another minute, each droplet hammering away at her fogged thoughts and seeping through soaked denim and cotton until goosebumps rippled across her skin in fresh waves. The cold water was a jolt, clearing some of the hangover haze—though the headache throbbed on, a relentless drumbeat pulsing behind her temples. She tasted the water as it escaped her lips. Chlorine-laced and metallic, a reminder of city pipes winding beneath cracked sidewalks.

When she at last peeled off her clothes, the fabric clung to her as though afraid to let go. Her black tank top clung for a heartbeat before pulling free. The jeans were a battlefield—stubbornly fused to her legs until she wiggled, twisted, nearly toppling over twice, then kicked them off in a triumphant flop that took her single sock with it. They landed on the shower floor with a soggy slap, flattened and drenched.

The water ran in inky rivulets down the drain, smeared with last night’s eyeliner and liquid mascara. Tiny black whirlpools formed and dissolved, like miniature galaxies collapsing into oblivion. Dark streaks of makeup carved paths across her chest and belly, rivers mapping fatigue and regret over her pale skin. She cranked the temperature until steam billowed around her—thick as wool—clouding the stall in a warm haze that made each breath feel heavy and soft. Pressing her forehead to the cool tile, she closed her eyes against the pulse behind her eyes, letting the contrast of scalding water and frigid porcelain anchor her to the here and now.

Silence pressed in, too loud in the absence of Sam’s teasing voice. In its place, her own thoughts surged—ruthless, insistent. What the fuck are you doing, Luthor? This isn’t high school. You’re twenty-three, not seventeen. Professional musicians don’t spend mornings peeling themselves off bathroom floors. The voice was eerily her brother’s, clipped, condescending, razor-sharp.

She reached for the shampoo bottle—a squat, frosted glass vessel stamped with an unmarked gold cap—and squeezed. A pearl of thick, herbal-scented gel oozed into her palm and slipped between her fingers, its rich aroma of lavender and mint suddenly nauseating in her raw state. She worked it through her hair in swift, mechanical motions, focusing on the foam’s tickle as it slid down her neck and shoulders, rather than the relentless chant of inadequacy looping in her mind. Bubbles traced slow arcs on her back, glittering momentarily in the steamy dimness before sliding toward the drain.

You're better than this, the voice continued, relentless as winter rain against a windowpane. Or at least, you're supposed to be. Luthors don't fall apart. Luthors don't show weakness. But she wasn't a real Luthor, was she? Just the living evidence of Lionel's infidelity, smuggled into the household through adoption papers and polite fictions. A constant reminder to Lillian that no matter how much Chanel polish you applied to something fundamentally flawed—to the daughter of some nameless woman who'd caught her husband's eye—the imperfections would always show through like veins beneath porcelain skin.

When she finally stepped out, the bathroom mirror was fogged over, offering a merciful reprieve from her own reflection. Water dripped from her body onto the plush Egyptian cotton mat, each drop a tiny reminder of her existence, creating dark navy constellations against the lighter fabric. She wrapped the towel around herself, the cashmere-soft fabric a comfort against her sensitized skin, goosebumps still raised like Braille across her shoulders. The brushed nickel hinges of the medicine cabinet made no sound when she opened it.

Her fingers found the familiar orange prescription bottle without having to look, muscle memory guiding her to the exact spot behind the Advil and expensive French face cream. The white pharmacy label had her name printed in stark Courier font and a yellow warning about operating heavy machinery, which always made her laugh—as if the most dangerous thing she operated wasn't herself. The plastic felt cool against her palm, the pills inside rattling with a sound like distant maracas, promising sweet chemical relief from the jackhammer behind her eyes.

She shook out two, hesitated, then added a third. The small white hexagonal tablets sat in her palm like tiny promises, their pharmaceutical imprint catching the light. She swallowed them dry, the chalky bitterness barely registering against the general awfulness already coating her tongue—a toxic cocktail of tequila residue, morning breath, and disappointment. They scraped down her throat like miniature pumice stones, leaving a trail of medicinal bitterness in their wake that spread across the back of her tongue like spilled ink.

Next to the Xanax was a smaller amber bottle, unlabeled and half-full. This one she considered for a longer moment, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the plastic warm against her skin as she weighed consequences against necessity. The radio interview loomed like a guillotine, and in her current state—brain sloshing like dirty dishwater inside her skull—she'd be lucky to form coherent sentences, let alone be the charming, articulate musician the station expected. Her fingers closed around the bottle with a decisive click, the decision made before she'd consciously acknowledged it.

Two small white pills, different from the first—chalky, unscored, with a faint chemical smell that tickled her nostrils. These she crushed between the back of a silver-plated comb and the veined Carrara marble countertop, the powder fine and crystalline, sparkling under the bathroom's lights like crushed diamonds. She arranged it into a neat line with the edge of her American Express Black card, muscle memory guiding her movements with practiced ease. The rolled-up hundred-dollar bill was still in her discarded jeans, soaking wet and useless, Benjamin Franklin's face bloated and disintegrating. She grabbed a crisp new one from the stack she kept in the medicine cabinet for exactly this purpose, the paper crackling as she rolled it into a tight cylinder.

The powder burned like liquid nitrogen as it entered her system, a familiar fire that seared through her sinuses and dripped down the back of her throat with a chemical bitterness that made her eyes water. Within seconds, her heartbeat quickened to a gallop, each pulse sending electric clarity through the fog in her brain. She straightened, watching her reflection emerge through the dissipating steam on the mirror like a ghost materializing. Pale skin the color of skimmed milk, dark half-moons beneath eyes that were somehow both too bright and too empty—pupils contracted to pinpoints despite the dim light. Hair plastered to her skull in inky tendrils, dripping water onto her shoulders in rivulets that traced the sharp edges of her collarbones.

"Pathetic," she told her reflection, the word sharp and precise despite her raw throat, consonants cutting the air like tiny knives.

Her reflection didn't argue, just stared back with those empty, knowing eyes.

She wiped away the residue with her finger, rubbed it against her gums. The numbness spread, a physical manifestation of the emotional anesthetic she'd been chasing since... since when? Since the gala? Since before that? Since the first time Lillian had looked at her six-year-old self and said, "A Luthor doesn't cry, Lena" after she'd fallen and scraped her knee?

The gala. Six days ago now. The memory hit her with unexpected force, images flooding back with painful clarity. Kara in that simple black dress. The way her eyes look like pieces of the sky behind those silly glasses of hers. The way she'd watched Lena from the wings as she played, as if she could see straight through to whatever broken, messy thing lived beneath Lena's carefully constructed exterior. The trembling in her hands afterward as she'd bared parts of herself she never showed anyone—the way her fingers had shaken, betraying how naked she'd felt under Kara's gaze, a vulnerability more terrifying than any stage fright she'd ever known.

And then Kara had left. Without explanation. Without goodbye. Just a handful of texts:

Not feeling well. Had to go.

Alex is picking me up.

I'll be fine.

Enjoy the rest of the gala.

Lena had spent the entire weekend in a spiral of texts and voicemails. Thirty-eight hours of pathetic digital groveling before she'd finally deleted the thread Monday morning, blocking Kara's number with shaking fingers. That afternoon, Andrea had appeared at her door. "Lee, you look like hell. Let me take you out tonight. For old times' sake. Just you and me and a bottle of something expensive."

One night had bled into three. Andrea's birthday celebration had morphed into a near-week bender—the band, Obsidian Tech's entire marketing department, nameless faces in VIP sections across the city. Nights of music too loud to allow for thinking. Days recovering just enough to do it all again. Which had been the point, hadn't it? Not thinking. Not feeling. Not wondering why the one person who'd seemed to see her—really see her—had walked away.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral. "Lena?" Sam's voice, slightly muffled through the wood. "Coffee's ready, and your phone's been blowing up for the past ten minutes."

"Coming," Lena called back, the word emerging stronger than she'd expected. The pills were working already, chemical clarity pushing back the hangover fog. She wrapped the towel more securely around herself, tucking the corner between her breasts, water still beading along her collarbone. When she opened the door, the cooler air from the hallway raised more goosebumps along her bare shoulders.

Sam stood there, steam rising from a matte black mug in one hand, Lena's phone in the other. Her crisp white button-down and pencil skirt made Lena feel even more exposed in just her towel. Sam's expression was carefully neutral, but the slight tightness around her eyes betrayed her concern. "You look marginally more human," she observed, handing over both items. "Though that's a low bar, considering."

The coffee was black and strong enough to strip paint, exactly how Lena needed it. She took a long sip, the heat and bitterness a welcome counterpoint to the chemical taste lingering in her mouth. "Thanks," she muttered, the word inadequate but sincere.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You've got seven missed calls from Jimmy, three from Theo, and about twenty texts from various numbers I don't recognize." Her eyebrow arched slightly. "Oh, and I got an email from Kara Danvers this morning."

Lena nearly choked on her coffee, the liquid scorching a jagged path down her throat and splashing onto the pristine white towel. "What?" The word came out as a strangled whisper, her knuckles blanching as they gripped the mug's handle.

"Kara Danvers," Sam repeated, her dark eyes narrowing beneath perfectly arched brows, cataloging every micro-expression that flashed across Lena's face. "The blonde journalist from CatCo with those ridiculous glasses. The one you invited to the gala and then spent the next forty-eight hours alternately texting until 3 AM and complaining about over mimosas."

"I know who she is," Lena snapped, the words sharp as broken glass. She set down the coffee mug with a decisive click against the veined marble countertop, leaving a ring of dark liquid that spread like a tiny oil spill. "What did she say?"

Sam's expression shifted, the crisp lines of her professional mask softening at the edges like watercolor bleeding into paper. "Just that she needs to talk to you. About an article Cat Grant is making her write." She hesitated, her manicured fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her phone case, which was so unlike Sam's usual metronome precision that Lena felt a new knot form in her stomach, dense and cold as a ball of ice, unrelated to the hangover or the chemicals now racing through her system like tiny lightning bolts. "And that she's sorry about the other night."

The words hung heavy as storm clouds, charged with implications Lena wasn't ready to examine under the harsh bathroom lights that emphasized every shadow beneath her eyes. An article. Of course. That's what journalists did, wasn't it? They got close, they gathered information with those earnest smiles and attentive nods, they wrote articles that dissected you for public consumption. Why had she expected anything different from Kara Danvers with her sunshine smile and ocean-blue eyes?

Sam leaned forward, the crisp collar of her white shirt catching the bathroom's harsh light. "Lena," she said, her voice dropping an octave, honeyed with concern. "What happened at the gala? One minute you were playing Rachmaninoff like your life depended on it—fingers flying across those ivory keys, eyes closed, that little crease between your eyebrows deeper than I've ever seen it, your body swaying in ways that made me wonder if you were even aware that you were in a crowded room—and the next minute Kara vanished and you were... different."

Different. Such a diplomatic word from Sam's perfectly glossed lips. A polite euphemism for the vodka-soaked, mascara-streaked wreck Lena had become. After mechanically completing half her obligations—pressing cold hands into warm ones, stretching her mouth into a rictus smile for flash photography—Lena had slipped away to search for Kara. Instead, Andrea materialized at the elevator, blocking her path. "I'm only thinking of Kara." Andrea had murmured, her voice sliding like silk against Lena's ear as the elevator doors closed them in together. "I stayed when no one else would," she whispered. "Does she know yet? That loving you is like trying to fill a bottomless well with a teaspoon?" Upstairs in Andrea's suite, Lena had methodically emptied every miniature bottle from the minibar, lining them up like tiny soldiers on the marble bathroom counter before toppling them one by one. Andrea had watched from the doorway, that familiar smile playing at her lips, waiting until Lena's fingers fumbled with the last empty bottle before stepping forward to brush the hair from Lena's neck, lips already finding that sensitive spot below her ear that made resistance feel like trying to swim against a riptide.

"Nothing happened," Lena said, the lie gliding out with the frictionless ease of a well-oiled machine. She tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear, droplets spattering against the porcelain sink. "She wasn't feeling well. She left. End of story."

Sam's eyebrow arched into a perfect question mark, her lips pressing into a thin line that carved delicate wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. The look said everything without a single word. But Sam merely shifted her weight, designer boots clicking once against the tile floor. She knew the precise moment to advance and when to retreat in these conversations—could read Lena's defenses like sheet music, anticipating each note before it was played. It made her invaluable professionally and dangerous personally, a fact Lena acknowledged only in the darkest corners of her mind, never aloud where the admission might take root and bloom into something terrifyingly like dependence.

Fine," Sam said, the word clipped but not unkind, her crimson lips barely moving. "But whatever didn't happen, you might want to address it before this article becomes an issue. Cat Grant doesn't publish fluff pieces, and if she's specifically assigned Kara to write about you..." She let the implication hang unfinished in the steam-thick air between them.

Lena knew what she meant.

Cat Grant had a reputation for exposés that cut straight to the bone, revealing truths that her subjects often preferred to keep hidden. The thought of being dissected in the glossy pages of CatCo Magazine—by Kara, of all people—made something cold and heavy settle in Lena's stomach, like swallowing a handful of ice cubes whole.

"I'll handle it," she said, the words emerging with a confidence she didn't feel. The amphetamine was fully in her system now, buzzing along her nerve endings like electricity through copper wire, creating a sense of invulnerability that she knew was artificial but clung to anyway. "What time is the interview?"

"Two o'clock," Sam replied, accepting the change of subject with professional grace, her manicured fingers tapping once against the doorframe. "The station wants to focus on the upcoming tour and the showcase in L.A., but they'll probably ask about the Luthor Foundation too, since the gala was all over social media." She paused, studying Lena with that penetrating gaze, dark eyes narrowing beneath perfectly arched brows, that always made her feel like Sam could see straight through to the pills dissolving in her bloodstream. "Can you handle that? Talking about the gala?"

The question carried layers of meaning, concern wrapped in professional inquiry. Sam was the only person besides Andrea who knew about Vienna, about the habits Lena had developed to manage the crushing pressure of being a Luthor in the public eye. She never explicitly mentioned it—never confronted Lena directly about the white powder or the pills—but her awareness hung between them, an unspoken understanding, delicate as a spider's web.

"I can handle anything," Lena replied, the stimulant lending her voice a confidence that felt almost genuine, her words crisp as fresh banknotes. "That's what Luthors do, isn't it? We handle things."

Sam's expression softened, the professional mask slipping to reveal the friend beneath, tiny lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. "You don't have to handle everything alone, you know."

The simple statement cracked something in her chest that she immediately sealed shut again, like slamming a door against a winter draft. "Don't go soft on me, Arias," she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn't feel, her knuckles white around the coffee mug. "You're my manager, not my therapist."

“God forbid," Sam muttered, but there was no heat in it. She glanced at her watch again, the gold band catching the harsh bathroom light as she shifted into business mode, shoulders squaring beneath her tailored blazer. "One hour until we need to leave. Think you can manage to look presentable by then?"

"Please," Lena scoffed, the bravado feeling almost real now. "I could walk into that interview right now and charm the microphone off its stand."

Sam's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched skeptically, creating a single elegant curve against her olive skin. "Wearing nothing but a damp towel that's already slipping?"

"Especially wearing a towel." The joke felt good, normal, a return to their usual dynamic that pushed back against the raw vulnerability of moments before. Lena adjusted the Egyptian cotton where it gaped at her collarbone, leaving droplets on the marble floor. "Think of the publicity. 'Luthor Bares All: Metaphorically and Literally’."

"I'd rather not," Sam replied dryly, her crimson lips barely moving. She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "You should call her back, you know. Kara. Whatever's going on there... it seemed important. To both of you."

The observation landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward through Lena's carefully maintained composure, cracking the porcelain veneer she'd spent all morning reconstructing. Before she could formulate a response, Sam was gone, the heavy door closing with a soft pneumatic hiss behind her.

Lena stared at her phone, the email Sam had forwarded glowing accusingly on the screen. The letters swam slightly as her pupils struggled to focus on Kara's name in the sender field. The timestamp showed it had arrived twenty minutes ago.

From: Kara Danvers <[email protected]>
To: Samantha Arias <[email protected]>
Subject: Request to speak with Lena about the CatCo article

Ms. Arias,

I've been trying to reach Lena since Monday morning but haven't heard back. I understand if she doesn't want to speak with me after how I left things at the gala.

Cat Grant has assigned me to write a more personal profile on Ms. Luthor for next month's issue. Could you please ask if she'd be willing to meet? I'd like to apologize properly and discuss the direction of the article.

Thank you for your help,
Kara Danvers

Sent from my iPhone

I've been trying to reach Lena since Monday…

Lena stared at those words, her thumb hovering over the screen where they glowed accusingly. Monday. The exact day she'd blocked Kara's number, deleted her texts, and instructed her doorman to say she wasn't home if a blonde reporter came calling. The exact moment she'd decided to excise Kara Danvers from her life like a surgeon removing a tumor. Yet here was evidence that Kara had persisted anyway, finding another path to reach her. The realization sent a crack spiderwebbing through her carefully constructed wall of indifference. Kara wanted to apologize. Regret implied caring. And caring was dangerous—for both of them.

Lena set the phone down without responding and reached for the coffee instead. The mug was cool now, the liquid inside as bitter and dark as her thoughts. She drained it anyway, feeling the tepid sludge coat her tongue and slide down her throat, needing the caffeine to complement the amphetamine already humming beneath her skin like a live wire.

The bathroom's marble countertop felt frigid against her palms as she leaned forward. Steam still clung to the edges of the mirror, framing her reflection in a ghostly halo. She had a radio interview to prepare for. A tour to promote. A showcase in L.A. that could finally give GlassHearts the recognition they deserved. She didn't have time for complicated emotions or journalists with blue eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky who saw too much.

Besides, she'd learned long ago that when people got too close, when they saw the real Lena beneath the carefully constructed layers, they inevitably left. Andrea had taught her that lesson thoroughly, repeatedly, until it was etched into her bones like the seven-star constellation tattooed on her inner wrist—a permanent reminder of impermanence.

Better to keep Kara Danvers at arm's length.

Professional.

Distant.

Safe.

She reached for her phone again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The stimulant made her heart race, thoughts skipping ahead faster than she could process them. Her fingers trembled slightly as she navigated to her blocked contacts list and stared at Kara's name for three long breaths before tapping "unblock”. What could she possibly say now? Sorry I let you see something real? Sorry I'm exactly the mess Andrea probably warned you about?

In the end, she typed the safest response she could manage:

I'll be at The Pit tonight. 9 PM. We can talk about the article. -L

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then immediately regretted the impulse. The Pit, with its low lighting and sticky floors, was her territory, her sanctuary. Bringing Kara there—again—felt like inviting chaos into the one space where Lena felt truly in control.

But it was done now. The message sent, the invitation extended. She set down the phone and turned fully to the mirror, wiping away the last of the condensation with her palm. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes too bright, pupils constricted to pinpoints despite the dim lighting. The woman in the mirror looked confident, focused, ready to face the day.

It was a good mask. One of her best. Almost good enough to make her believe it herself.

Almost.

Chapter Text

16

Trust Fall

The neon sign for The Pit buzzed and flickered like a dying firefly, casting a blood-red glow that turned the cracked sidewalk into a crimson river. Cigarette butts collected in the crevices like tiny, forgotten corpses. Kara stood beneath it, frozen in indecision, her blonde hair catching copper highlights in the garish light, her fingers twisting the strap of her leather messenger bag until the edge bit into her palm.

To her left, an unlit cigarette vending machine was half-embedded in a wall of graffiti'd cinderblock, like a fossilized relic from her father's era. The names and curses inscribed on it were a kind of community bulletin, and she traced them with her eyes, picking out the softer curves of girl names amid the harsh-edged invective. Kara tried to ground herself in the tactile: the nubby ache of the concrete under her heels, the bite of the night air through her cardigan, the sour tang of nerves gathering at the back of her throat. 

Two men lumbered past her, arms slung over each other's shoulders, their laughter rough and satisfied, the easy confidence of people who expected the world to part for them. They didn't even glance her way. She tried to shrink a little more, as if by minimizing her surface area she could reduce her visibility, or maybe her vulnerability. But the neon made her inescapable, painting her in a lurid, accusatory light.

Inside, the bass thrummed with the certainty and stupidity of a heartbeat. Every few seconds, the door would yawn open, spilling a burst of sound and stale beer vapor, and Kara would tense as if at a gunshot. She didn't belong here; you could see it in the way her navy flats, scuffed but clean, hovered politely at the threshold, refusing to commit. Her whole body vibrated with the refrain: go in, go in, just go in—and yet she couldn’t bring herself to cross that membrane between the sidewalk and what waited inside.

"You can do this," she whispered to herself, adjusting her glasses for the fifth time in as many minutes, the metal slick against the bridge of her nose. Her palms were damp enough that she had to wipe them against the rough denim of her jeans before reaching for the tarnished brass door handle.

Nia had offered to come—insisted, actually. "You're walking into the lion's den alone," she'd argued while perched on the edge of Kara's desk that afternoon, her slender fingers wrapped around a chipped CatCo mug, the faded pink lipstick stain on its rim matching her manicure perfectly. "At least take backup."

Winn had chimed in too from behind his dual monitors, the blue glow illuminating his face as he'd swiveled his chair toward her. "I volunteer as your emotional support nerd," he'd said. Kara had declined them both with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Even Alex, whose name had flashed on her phone three times in the past hour with increasingly creative threats—the last one involving Lena, a stapler, and anatomically improbable suggestions—had been politely but firmly told to stay away.

This was between her and Lena.

Whatever this was.

The door opened with a protesting groan like arthritic knuckles cracking. Without the press of sweaty bodies and the thundering music that had vibrated through her molars last time, The Pit revealed itself as what it truly was—just a dive bar with floors sticky enough to pull at her shoes with each step, leaving behind a soft, nauseating rip-rip-rip sound. The lighting hung so dim it turned everyone into sepia-toned ghosts of themselves, all sharp angles and hollow shadows where cheekbones should be, nothing like the electric, pulsing cathedral she'd experienced during GlassHearts' performance.

Kara hesitated in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the amber-tinged darkness that smelled of decades of spilled beer and cigarettes ground into the floorboards. The crowd was sparse tonight—a few regulars hunched over the scarred mahogany bar like gargoyles, their spines curved into permanent question marks, fingers wrapped around glasses with fingerprints layered like geological strata. A couple played darts in the corner beneath a flickering EXIT sign that bathed them in intermittent crimson, their laughter too loud for the empty space. At a back table, college students with identical undercuts celebrated something with shots of alarming neon colors that glowed under the black lights, turning their teeth an otherworldly purple when they smiled. No stage setup tonight. No equipment cases stacked like Tetris blocks against the wall. No anticipatory buzz crackling through the room like static electricity.

And then she saw her.

Lena stood beneath a low-hanging lamp, and Kara's breath caught in her throat. The forty-watt bulb cast a pale halo across the emerald-green felt of the pool table, transforming Lena into something otherworldly. Blue-white chalk dust clung to her fingertips—the left index and thumb especially—as she eyed down fifteen perfectly arranged balls, her brow furrowed in concentration, right eyebrow slightly lower than the left. Kara couldn't tear her eyes away. The bar's amber glow pooled around Lena like honey, accentuating the deliberate rips in her black denim that exposed slivers of pale skin. Her faded Ramones tee draped loosely over one shoulder, the stretched collar revealing the sharp curve of her collarbone and the shadow-filled hollow beneath it. Loose strands of dark hair fell around her face, the bottom four inches dipped in electric teal, and Kara found herself mesmerized by how they caught the light like veins of copper in obsidian.

She might have been the unflappable heiress in Louboutins who'd rendered silver-haired donors speechless with a single arched eyebrow, their checkbooks already half-open before she'd finished speaking. She might have been the rock-star fiddler who'd set The Pit's stage ablaze with her bow, sweat-slicked hair whipping across her face as she'd crouched low, drawing sounds from her instrument that made the crowd's collective pulse quicken. In that single frame—pale fingers dusted with blue chalk, hand poised on the lacquered cue, hip angled just so against the felt edge, eyes narrowed with the same laser focus—she was both and neither, and Kara felt her heart stutter against her ribs like a bird trapped in a chimney.

Jimmy leaned in, the sleeves of his flannel rolled to expose forearms mapped with veins, pool cue balanced between calloused fingers. "Ten bucks says you scratch on the eight," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent Lena's laughter—genuine, unfiltered—rippling through air thick with decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the ceiling tiles. The sound bounced off the weathered pine floorboards, past speakers with torn fabric covers and exposed wiring. At a nearby high-top stained with overlapping rings from sweating glasses, Theo's long fingers tapped out a syncopated rhythm against the lacquered wood, his silver rings catching the amber light as they danced over knife-carved initials and phone numbers worn smooth by countless elbows. Evan slouched against the wall, his face bathed in the blue glow of his phone screen, eyes half-lidded as he delivered bone-dry commentary whenever the balls collided with that distinctive hollow clack that echoed like distant gunfire.

They were just friends unwinding—no red carpets, no industry gossip, no Cat Grant editorials looming over their heads.

Lena bent again, spine arching in a fluid crescent as she lined up her shot, raven hair cascading over one shoulder. Her knuckles whitened around the polished maple cue. A red-striped ball broke free with a sharp crack that reverberated against Kara's ribs. Two spheres—one solid purple, one striped yellow—vanished into corner pockets with soft, triumphant thuds that seemed to echo Kara's quickening pulse. Lena straightened, caught Jimmy's eye, and rubbed her thumb across her fingertips in the universal gesture for money.

Jimmy groaned, head falling back dramatically.

"Every damn time," he muttered as Theo snorted.

"Maybe stop betting against her?" Evan chimed in, dodging Jimmy's half-hearted swat.

Lena's eyebrow quirked upward as she mouthed "Pay up”. before circling the table for her next move, crimson lips curved into a taunting smile.

On the edge of the table, a crystal tumbler beaded with condensation held three fingers of amber whiskey over melting ice, a single lime wedge floating like a verdant island of possibility amid the golden depths.

Kara's flats peeled from the sticky floor with each hesitant half-step, the sound like tape ripping. She watched Lena lean in for another shot, all easy confidence and casual grace among her bandmates, while Kara stood frozen in the shadows, a pastel-cardigan interloper at the edge of their circle of amber light. Her mouth went desert-dry. Every rehearsed greeting evaporated as Lena's laughter rippled across the room.

As if by instinct Lena looked up, her sea-glass eyes catching Kara's across the sticky expanse of floorboards. The jukebox's wailing guitar solo faded to a distant underwater echo; the college kids' neon shots stopped mid-clink; the dart players froze with arms half-raised. For three hammering heartbeats, their gazes locked—recognition, surprise, and something molten flashing across Lena's face. Then, like a theater curtain falling, her expression transformed: eyebrows settling from their startled arch, the soft parting of her lips tightening into a controlled line, shoulders squaring beneath her worn Ramones shirt. She set her chalk-dusted fingers on the felt edge and leaned her custom cue against the table, spine straightening as if someone had yanked an invisible string from her crown to her tailbone. The vulnerability that had flickered across her features—brief as lightning—vanished behind the polished veneer.

And just like that, the moment shattered—the jukebox surged back to full volume, ice clinked in glasses, and a dart thudded into cork across the room.

"Kara Danvers," she said, her voice carrying that slight rasp that sent shivers down Kara's spine despite everything. "Right on time."

Jimmy's eyes darted between them, his thick eyebrows knitting together above watchful brown eyes that narrowed slightly at the corners. He set down his polished maple cue, the worn leather tip making a soft tap against the green felt. A silent conversation passed between him and Theo in the form of a barely perceptible nod that crinkled the collar of his flannel shirt. Evan caught on last, mid-sip of his IPA, foam still clinging to his upper lip. Within seconds, the three men drifted toward the bar's tarnished brass rail like autumn leaves caught in the same October breeze, their departure casual in its synchronized choreography—shoulders relaxed, hands in pockets, boots scuffing against sticky floorboards, but their backward glances betraying everything.

Kara's flats peeled from the floor with each tentative step. The sticky linoleum released her soles with reluctant. Her fingers worried at the fraying cuff of her thrift-store cardigan—robin's egg blue with pearl buttons that caught the dim light. Against Lena's artfully distressed black jeans and vintage Ramones shirt, slashed at the collar to reveal a silver chain nestled in the hollow of her throat, Kara felt like a kindergarten teacher who'd wandered into the wrong bar.

"Hi," she said when she finally reached the pool table, the word embarrassingly inadequate. "Thanks for meeting me."

Lena's eyebrow arched in that way that had fascinated Kara from their first meeting—a perfect comma of skepticism above sea-glass eyes that gave nothing away. "Well, you said we needed to talk." She reached for her drink, taking a sip that left a faint imprint of her lipstick on the glass. "About an article, I believe?"

There was an edge to her voice—not quite hostility, but a distance that hadn't been there at the gala. Each syllable fell between them like individual ice cubes dropping into an empty glass, crisp and cold. The warmth that had flowed so easily in the dimly lit backstage hallway had crystallized into something brittle, a frost-covered window Kara couldn't see through. She could almost visualize it—a transparent barrier rising from the sticky floor, constructed of every unanswered text and sleepless night since she'd fled the hotel.

"Yes," Kara confirmed. "Ms. Grant wants me to write a profile… on you. Personally." She swallowed, forcing herself to maintain eye contact despite the urge to look away. "I wanted to talk to you about it before I agreed to anything."

"How considerate," Lena said, the words carrying a bite that made Kara flinch. She set down her glass, the ice cubes clinking against each other like tiny wind chimes. "And here I thought journalists typically ambushed their subjects with personal exposés. A courtesy warning is certainly a novel approach."

The sarcasm stung, but Kara couldn't blame her.

Not after she'd disappeared from the gala without explanation.

"I don't want to write it," Kara admitted, the truth spilling out before she could package it more professionally. "Not if you don't want me to. But Cat's made it clear that this isn't optional for me. It's the article or my job."

Something flickered across Lena's face—a micro-expression that vanished before it fully formed, like lightning behind distant clouds. She studied Kara for a long moment, gaze traveling from the purple half-moons beneath bloodshot eyes to the white-knuckled grip on the leather messenger bag strap, where Kara's bitten-down nails dug crescents into the fabric. Her attention lingered on how Kara's shoulders curved inward, how her right foot angled toward the exit, body betraying a readiness to flee this sticky-floored dive bar where the air tasted of hops and regret.

Lena's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. She huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh—if laughs could be bitter and resigned all at once. "Your job or my privacy," she summarized, her voice losing some of its edge. "Quite the dilemma." She gestured to the high-top table where Theo had been sitting. "Shall we?"

Kara nodded, following Lena to the table and sliding onto one of the high-backed stools. The vinyl seat clung to the backs of her thighs, tacky with spilled beer and decades of accumulated grime, its burgundy surface cracked into a spiderweb pattern that caught at her jeans. Up close, beneath the bar's amber pendant lights, she could see that Lena's eyes glittered with an unnatural brightness, jade irises dominating her eyes, pupils constricted despite the dim lighting. A frenetic energy radiated from her slender frame—manicured fingernails drumming against the table's scarred surface in a staccato rhythm that defied the mournful Springsteen ballad wheezing from ancient speakers, while her left foot bounced in double-time against the brass rung of her stool, causing the silver chains on her ankle boots to jingle softly with each nervous tap.

"So," Lena said, leaning forward on her elbows. The position brought her face closer to Kara's. Her lips curled into a razor-thin smile. "What's on Cat Grant's little checklist for me? My childhood trauma rated on a scale of one to orphaned-Batman? Perhaps a fun listicle of Luthor family skeletons? Or—" she leaned closer, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "—the exclusive tell-all about why I told the Vienna Philharmonic to shove their first-chair offer where the sun doesn't shine?"

The last question hit Kara like a punch to the gut. Vienna. The word hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken history. Kara's mind flooded with Andrea's whispered confidences. Vienna, where something catastrophic had fractured Lena's promising classical career—sending her fleeing back to the states with shaking hands and a violin case plastered with punk stickers, the prestigious Philharmonic offer crumpled somewhere behind her like autumn leaves in her wake.

"I don't know," Kara admitted, her voice smaller than she intended. "She just wants... the real you. Not the public image. Not the Luthor heiress or the punk violinist. Just... you."

Lena's laugh was sharp and humorless, a sound that seemed to cut through the ambient noise of the bar. "The real me," she repeated, the words dripping with skepticism. "And what makes Cat Grant think you know anything about the real me, Ms. Danvers?"

The question stung. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. "I—" She adjusted her glasses, buying seconds. What did she know about the real Lena Luthor? Fragments collided in her mind: those sea-glass eyes finding her in the wings, pupils wide with something that had made her ribs feel too small for her lungs; fingers that could coax heartbreak from violin strings trembling around a coffee mug. Then Andrea's whispered confidences: I was there when she first crushed pills into powder. I held back her hair when she vomited blood. The truth stuck in her throat—she knew contradictions, not a person.

Kara's fingers twisted together on the tabletop. "I know fragments," she finally managed. "Glimpses. But the whole picture? No. But I want to see beyond those fragments. If you'll let me."

Lena's expression shifted, the perfect arch of her left eyebrow softening as her lips parted slightly. Her sea-glass eyes flickered through a symphony of emotions—pupils dilating in momentary shock, lips pressing thin with suspicion, then a brief, brilliant softening that vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her face carefully composed once more. She reached for her drink with long, pale fingers, the silver rings on her index and ring fingers catching the bar's amber light as she took a longer sip this time.

"Why did you leave?" she asked when she set the glass down. Her voice dropped lower, almost wounded. "The gala. You were there, in the wings, and you told me you'd wait." Her fingers tightened around the glass. "And then you were just... gone."

Kara's lungs emptied in a rush.

"Why did you leave?"

The question hung between them, impossible to dodge. She'd walked in with a mental script—professional pleasantries about the band's tour schedule, careful negotiation of interview boundaries—but those words evaporated as Lena's composure visibly tightened like armor being fastened. One dark eyebrow arched while her gaze fixed somewhere near Kara's left shoulder. Her fingers wrapped around her whiskey glass, knuckles whitening slightly as she traced the rim with her thumb, waiting.

Of course Lena wouldn't waste time on small talk.

"I—" Kara began, then stopped, uncertain how to explain without revealing the conversation with Andrea. Without admitting that she'd let a stranger's words drive her away from whatever connection had been forming between them. "I got overwhelmed," she said finally, settling on a partial truth. "The way you played... it was so raw, so honest. And then afterward, when you asked what I thought—it felt like you were trying to say something through the music, and it scared me."

Lena's eyes narrowed slightly, studying Kara's face with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "Scared you how?"

Kara's throat tightened. "I didn't just hear your music that night—I felt it inside me like it was my own voice finally finding the right words." Her fingers curled against her sternum, pressing hard enough to feel her pulse hammering beneath her cardigan. "When you played that crescendo in the third movement, my chest actually ached. Like you'd reached across the room and touched something I didn't even know was there." She swallowed, surprised by her own honesty. "So yes, I ran. Because who does that to a stranger? Who makes them feel seen without even trying?"

The confession hung between them like a fragile glass ornament, more revealing than Kara had intended. She watched as Lena's expression softened. The carefully constructed mask slipped just enough to reveal a glimpse of the woman who had stood in the wings after her performance, hands trembling, eyes bright, lips parted on words she couldn't quite voice.

Lena's fingers stilled on her glass. "So when you felt that connection—when my music touched something inside you—you ran," she said, her voice softening to match Kara's confession. "Because it was too real."

Kara nodded, relief washing through her at being understood, though she carefully sidestepped the other reason. "And then I ignored your texts because I didn't know how to explain what I felt without sounding..." She adjusted her glasses, eyes darting briefly to the exit. "I mean, who gets that affected by someone playing the piano? Like I was reading too much into something that probably meant nothing to you beyond—"

"No, it—" Lena interrupted, then faltered, her mouth opening and closing twice before words finally emerged. "It wasn't nothing." Her voice dropped to a half-whisper as her fingers twisted nervously around her glass. She glanced toward the bar, then back at Kara, a war of expressions crossing her face. "That night..." She swallowed, a muscle in her jaw tightening. "I've never played like that before. Not for an audience." She leaned closer, then pulled back slightly, as if catching herself. Kara watched Lena's throat work through another swallow before she finally whispered, each word seeming to cost her something precious. "I played it for you."

The admission stole Kara's breath like a sudden plunge into cold water. She stared at Lena, searching those sea-glass eyes for any flicker of artifice, any micro-expression that might betray calculation behind the words. Her gaze traced the slight tremble in Lena's lower lip, the way her knuckles had whitened around her glass, the almost imperceptible flush creeping up her pale neck. But all Kara found was that same unguarded vulnerability she'd glimpsed at the gala—raw, honest, terrifying in its directness—like watching someone remove their own armor, piece by piece, in the middle of a battlefield.

"Why?" she asked, the word barely audible over the jukebox's transition to a new song.

Lena's fingers stilled. "Because you—" she started, then stopped, her mouth working silently for a moment. "It's not—" Another false start. She exhaled sharply through her nose, eyes fixed on some invisible point between them. "When you looked at me," she finally managed, voice uncharacteristically small, "it wasn't at... all this." She gestured vaguely at herself, a quick, embarrassed motion. "Just... me." Her eyes flicked up to meet Kara's, then immediately down to her glass, watching condensation trail down the side. "Do you have any idea how that feels?"

Kara's mind replayed Andrea's warning like a scratched record—how Lena would find people who peered past the jagged edges of the Luthor name, who glimpsed the woman beneath, only to slam the door when they reached for her. The pattern was there in the tremor of Lena's fingers against the whiskey glass, in the way her sea-glass eyes darted toward the bar every few minutes. Was this the beginning of that same dance? Or was there something in the slight forward tilt of Lena's body, in the unguarded catch in her voice when she'd said "I played it for you," that suggested this time might follow a different melody?

"I want to see you," Kara said, pushing past Andrea’s voice in her head to reach across the table. Her fingers hovered just above Lena's, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "The real you. Not for the article—though I still need to figure that out—but for me. Because whatever this is..." She gestured vaguely with her free hand, the same way Lena had a moment ago, mirroring her uncertainty. "It feels important."

Lena looked at Kara's hand, so close to hers, then up at her face. Something shifted in her expression—a decision being made, a risk being calculated. The sharp line between her eyebrows softened, and her sea-glass eyes darkened like the ocean before a storm. Her fingers, pale against the worn mahogany of the table, twitched once, twice, before she turned her palm upward—an invitation as vulnerable as it was intentional.

"It's not pretty," Lena warned, her voice soft but steady. "The real me, I mean." Her fingers trembled slightly, a fine tremor that Kara might have missed if she hadn't been watching so closely. "I'm not the person you wrote about in that first article." Her mouth twisted with something like self-disgust, the corner of her lip curling as though tasting something bitter. "I make terrible decisions sometimes," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of something recent and raw.

"So do I," Kara said, lowering her hand to meet Lena's. The contact sent a jolt through her system, a current that traveled from her fingertips straight to her core. "I ran away from the gala because Andrea cornered me," she admitted, watching Lena's face harden into something practiced and neutral at the mention. "She told me about Vienna. About how you'd push me away eventually. And instead of asking you if any of it was true, I just... ran." Her thumb brushed across Lena's knuckles. "That was a pretty terrible decision."

"Vienna," Lena repeated, the word falling from her lips like a stone. She swallowed hard, her thumb unconsciously tracing circles on Kara's palm. "So you do know."

Kara hesitated, her thumb pausing its movement across Lena's knuckles. "I know what she told me. That you have a pattern. That you let people see the real you, then push them away when they get too close. That Vienna was... difficult."

Lena's expression remained carefully neutral, her face a porcelain mask with only the slightest tightening around the corners of her eyes betraying the emotions beneath. The fingers intertwined with Kara's stiffened, their warmth receding like a tide pulling away from shore—still physically present but emotionally withdrawing behind invisible barriers. "I see," she said, her voice dropping half an octave, each syllable measured and clipped like expensive crystal being set down too carefully on marble. "And you believed her." The last word carried the faintest tremor, a hairline crack in her perfect composure.

"I didn't know what to believe," Kara admitted. "That's the other reason I left. I needed space to think, to process. To figure out if what I thought was happening between us was real or just... I don't know, projection? Wishful thinking?"

"And now?" Lena asked, her gaze intense despite the careful neutrality of her tone. "What do you believe now?"

Kara looked at their joined hands—her sun-kissed fingers against Lena's alabaster skin, the contrast stark under the bar's amber light. The constellation tattoo on Lena's inner wrist forming Cassiopeia's distinctive W, its ink slightly raised against her blue veins. A fine tremor pulsed through Lena's slender fingers, betraying the carefully constructed calm of her face. Above their hands, Lena's sea-glass eyes held a feverish brightness that reminded Kara of stars before a storm—brilliant but unstable, the restless energy beneath her composed exterior like electricity seeking ground.

"I believe," she said slowly, choosing her words with care, "that whatever Andrea told me is only part of the story. Your story." She looked up, meeting Lena's gaze directly. "And I'd like to hear the rest from you. Not for the article. Just… for me."

Something in Lena's expression finally thawed—the furrow between her brows disappeared and those sea-glass eyes caught the amber light like sun breaking through winter clouds. Her eyes darted to the bar. Jimmy was propped against the counter in forced casualness, his attention only half on the basketball game flickering above. Beside him, Theo and Evan bent their heads together over whiskey glasses, their gazes sliding toward their table every few seconds. Lena's focus returned to Kara, and as she shifted in her seat, a lock of midnight hair swept across her face. She captured it, securing it behind her ear in a gesture that seemed both practiced and unconscious.

"Not here," she said, her voice dropping lower. "Too many ears, too many eyes." She withdrew her hand from Kara's, the loss of contact leaving a cold spot on Kara's palm. "Do you trust me enough to go somewhere more private?"

Kara felt the weight of Lena's question settle in the space between them, hovering in the amber light like something alive and dangerous. Trust. The syllable itself felt heavy on Kara's tongue as she considered it. After everything, did Kara trust Lena enough to follow her into unknown territory? To hear a story that might confirm her worst fears or reveal something even more complicated, something that would stain her journalist's notepad with ink too personal to ever publish?

"Yes," Kara said, the word emerging with a certainty that surprised even herself. "I trust you."

The corners of Lena's mouth lifted slightly—something quiet and genuine. "Then let's go somewhere we can talk." She eased herself from the stool, one fluid movement that belied the tension Kara had observed in her shoulders. She reached behind her for the worn leather jacket draped over her chair. "Give me a second to let the guys know."

Kara watched as Lena crossed to the bar, her boots clicking against the sticky floor in a rhythm that seemed to match the bass line thrumming through the speakers.

Jimmy, Theo, and Evan huddled around their drinks, feigning interest in the basketball game flickering on the ancient tube TV with its coat hanger antenna and rainbow-static edges. Lena leaned in close to Jimmy, her raven hair falling forward to brush his shoulder, her fingers resting on the worn fabric of his jacket sleeve. His expression shifted—eyebrows drawing together, then relaxing, mouth tightening before settling into a resigned half-smile as he nodded. Theo, with his perpetually tousled hair and constellation of freckles, muttered something that made Lena roll her eyes, though Kara caught the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, revealing the dimple in her left cheek that only appeared in genuine moments.

The band's dynamic fascinated her—the easy physical contact, the shorthand communication built from late nights and shared stages, the way they seemed to orbit around Lena like planets around a sun, protective and dependent in equal measure. It was nothing like the rigid formality Kara had witnessed between Lena and Lillian at the gala, where mother and daughter stood three calculated feet apart, shoulders squared, chins lifted, every syllable exchanged between them sharp enough to draw blood.

Lena returned, shrugging into her worn leather jacket with silver studs along the collar. "Ready?" she asked, her voice carrying that slight rasp that vibrated through Kara's chest and sent an involuntary shiver crawling up her vertebrae like ivy on a trellis.

"Where are we going?" Kara asked, gathering her messenger bag and following Lena toward the exit.

"My place," Lena replied, pushing through the door into the cool night air. "If we're going to have this conversation, I'd rather do it somewhere without an audience."

Her place. Lena Luthor's home. The words hung in the night air between them, charged with possibility. Kara's heart performed a complicated gymnastics routine in her chest—a triple axel of anticipation followed by a backflip of anxiety. This wasn't just about the article anymore; this was Lena unlocking a sanctuary that Kara suspected had walls ten feet thick and guard dogs at every entrance.

A sleek black Bentley that Kara hadn’t noticed when she’d first arrived idled at the curb, its obsidian paint job reflecting the neon signs from across the street in warped crimson and blue streaks. The engine hummed, like a cello being played by someone who'd spent decades mastering the instrument. The driver's window lowered with a whisper as they approached, revealing a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a close-cropped beard. His eyes, sharp and assessing beneath heavy brows, softened slightly as he nodded respectfully at Lena.

"Ms. Luthor," he said, his voice carrying the faint traces of an accent Kara couldn't quite place. "Home?"

"Yes, Frank. Thank you." Lena opened the rear door, gesturing for Kara to enter first. "This is Kara Danvers. She'll be joining me."

Frank's eyes flickered to Kara, assessing her in a single glance before his professional mask returned. "Of course, Ms. Luthor."

The interior of the car enveloped Kara in warmth—buttery cognac leather cushioned her body as she slid across seats so plush they seemed to exhale beneath her weight. The air carried notes of vanilla. Lena followed, her leather jacket creaking against the upholstery as she closed the door with a soft thud that sealed them in a vacuum of hushed opulence. The smoked-glass partition between front and back was already raised, its obsidian surface reflecting their silhouettes in ghostly outline, creating a cocoon of privacy that felt as intimate as a confession and as isolating as a cell.

The car pulled away from the curb, gliding into traffic with the hydraulic smoothness of a yacht cutting through midnight-blue harbor water. Street lights slid across Lena's alabaster face in hypnotic patterns, illuminating her profile in staccato flashes—the knife-sharp angle of her jaw tensed against some invisible pressure, the elegant swan-like curve where her neck disappeared into the collar of her leather jacket, the single deep furrow carved between her perfectly arched brows that betrayed either intense concentration or the first tremors of an approaching storm.

"Is it far?" Kara asked, her fingers fidgeting with her seat belt. "Your place, I mean."

"About fifteen minutes," Lena replied, glancing at her watch. "Downtown. Near the waterfront."

Of course. The waterfront district with its gleaming glass spires that caught the last rays of sunset, where penthouses commanded seven-figure price tags and doormen wore charcoal uniforms with brass buttons that probably cost more than Kara's rent-controlled apartment. She shouldn't have been surprised—Lena was a Luthor, after all, regardless of how hard she tried to distance herself from that legacy with ripped jeans and dive bar performances.

They fell into silence, the only sound the velvet purr of the engine and the metronome-precise click of the turn signal. Kara was acutely aware of Lena beside her—the faint scent of her perfume, the way her fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the black denim covering her thigh, the slight bounce of her boot against the plush carpet of the car floor. Was it anxiety? Cocaine? Something else entirely?

"You can ask, you know," Lena said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her eyes remained fixed on the passing cityscape outside her window. "About what Andrea told you. You don't have to tiptoe around it."

Kara swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I'd rather hear your version first," she admitted, choosing her words carefully. "Without my assumptions getting in the way."

Lena turned to look at her then, really look at her, those sea-glass eyes searching Kara's face. Her gaze traveled from Kara's eyes to her lips, then back again, lingering at the crease between her eyebrows, as if trying to decode the electrical impulses firing behind Kara's expression.

"Fair enough," she said, her voice softer than before. "Though I warn you, my version isn't any prettier than Andrea's. Just... more complete."

The car turned onto Ocean Avenue, where the bay materialized beyond the windows—an obsidian mirror stretching to the horizon, punctuated by the amber pinpricks of cargo ships and fishing vessels, while the jagged silhouette of National City's skyline trembled in liquid reflection. They glided past Cartier and Prada and Gucci, past Le Bernardin with its crisp white tablecloths visible through spotless glass, past Michelin-starred restaurants where single appetizers cost more than Kara's weekly grocery budget. The mannequins in store windows wore expressions as haughty as their couture, seemingly judging Kara's H&M cardigan, her scuffed Target flats, and the $3.99 Cherry ChapStick she'd hastily applied in the cab before arriving at The Pit.

The Bentley finally eased to a stop before a seventy-story monolith of midnight-blue glass that knifed upward into the starless sky. Illuminated from within, each floor glowed with cool blue light that made the structure appear almost liquid. The building's base featured interlocking L-shapes in burnished titanium—the Luthor logo cleverly disguised as architectural support beams, invisible to the casual observer but unmistakable to anyone familiar with the family's ubiquitous brand.

"The family owns the building," Lena explained, noticing Kara's gaze on the logo. "Another perk I haven't quite managed to reject. Though I've been looking at lofts in the arts district." She unbuckled her seatbelt as Frank came around to open her door. "Something less..."

"Luthor?" Kara suggested.

Lena's laugh was soft and surprisingly genuine. "Exactly."

They stepped out of the car onto the gleaming sidewalk, the night air cool against Kara's flushed cheeks. A salt-tinged breeze from the nearby bay ruffled her hair as Frank nodded respectfully—a slight bow of his head that spoke volumes about Lena's position. The Bentley pulled away with a purr, its taillights bleeding red into the darkness, leaving them standing before the imposing glass entrance where a doorman in a midnight-blue uniform with polished brass buttons already held open a door so heavy it would have required Kara's full weight to move it.

"Good evening, Ms. Luthor," he greeted, his expression professionally neutral as his gaze flickered briefly to Kara.

"Evening, Thomas," Lena replied, her tone shifting subtly—more formal, more Luthor. "This is Kara Danvers. She's with me."

"Of course, Ms. Luthor." Thomas nodded at Kara, his expression giving nothing away. "Welcome, Ms. Danvers."

The lobby unfurled before them like a temple to wealth—Carrara marble floors polished to a mirror shine reflected the constellation of recessed lights overhead, while enormous arrangements of white orchids and calla lilies erupted from hammered bronze vases taller than Kara herself. A crescent-shaped security desk of black granite anchored the space, staffed by a woman whose charcoal Armani suit and military posture suggested she was more than capable of removing unwanted visitors.

Lena navigated the expanse with practiced indifference, her heels striking a staccato rhythm against the marble that echoed through the cavernous space. She led Kara toward a discreet alcove housing four elevators, their doors plated in brushed titanium. The fourth elevator stood slightly apart, its call button inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Lena pressed her palm to an adjacent scanner that bathed her skin in sapphire light. The doors parted with a whisper, revealing an interior paneled in Brazilian rosewood so richly figured it seemed to ripple like dark water.

"Penthouse access is restricted," Lena explained as they stepped inside. "Biometric security. Another Luthor paranoia I've actually come to appreciate."

The elevator doors closed with a soft whoosh, sealing them in a rosewood-paneled capsule that suddenly felt as intimate as a confessional booth. Lena's manicured finger pressed the mother-of-pearl button marked "P" without looking, her movements precise and automatic from years of repetition. The elevator began its ascent—seventy floors to climb—so silently smooth that Kara registered the movement only through the slight flutter in her stomach and the subtle pressure against the soles of her Target flats. That flutter, she knew, had less to do with physics and more to do with the woman standing twelve inches away, close enough that Kara could count individual eyelashes casting feathery shadows on Lena's cheekbones in the diffused lighting.

Lena's eyes met Kara's in the polished elevator doors. "You're nervous," she observed.

"I'm not—" Kara started, then caught herself as Lena's eyebrow arched skeptically. She exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly. "Okay, maybe a little. This is all very... intimidating."

"The building?" Lena asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

"Not just the building," Kara admitted, meeting Lena's gaze in their shared reflection. "You. This conversation we're about to have. Whatever truth you're going to tell me that might change how I see you."

Lena's mask slipped for just a heartbeat—eyebrows lifting, lips parting slightly—before the careful composure returned. "That’s what you’re afraid of?" Her voice lilted upward, softer at the edges. "That you’ll see me differently?"

Kara's eyes dropped to the elevator floor, then lifted again to meet Lena's reflection. "I'm afraid," she began softly, "that seeing the real you would be like staring at the sun. Too beautiful to look at directly, but impossible to look away from."

Lena's breath caught audibly, a small hitch that broke the elevator's silence. Her composure cracked like thin ice, revealing something raw underneath. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her eyes widened slightly, caught in the gravity of Kara's words. After a moment, she exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head. "And here I thought I was the one with stage presence," she said, her voice lower than before. "I didn't realize reporters came with pick-up lines that actually work."

Heat bloomed across Kara's cheeks, spreading down her neck in a flush she couldn't hide, her skin betraying what her stammering silence already confirmed.

The elevator chimed softly, announcing their arrival at the penthouse level. "Here we are.”

Chapter Text

17

Cassiopia

"Here we are.”

Kara followed Lena into a short hallway of polished limestone, their footsteps muffled by a charcoal runner. The corridor ended at a single door—not the expected grand entrance but something almost modest in its proportions, crafted from dark walnut with a titanium frame. More biometric security awaited them—this time a retinal scanner that cast Lena's face in cobalt light as she leaned forward, her long lashes briefly shadowing her cheekbones. The device emitted a soft beep of recognition, and the lock disengaged with a series of precise mechanical clicks that echoed like falling dominoes in the hushed hallway.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Lena said, pushing open the door with a hint of irony in her tone. "Try not to judge me too harshly for the décor. Most of it came with the place."

Kara stepped across the threshold and immediately froze, her breath catching in her throat. Beside her, Lena bent gracefully to unzip her ankle boots, revealing black silk socks beneath. She placed them precisely on a hidden rack, then straightened, suddenly two inches shorter. Kara hastily followed suit, fumbling with her worn flats. The penthouse unfurled before her like an ocean of space—at least three thousand square feet of Brazilian cherry hardwood floors, their deep burgundy surface gleaming with a high polish that caught the amber glow from recessed lighting. Her sock-covered feet sank slightly into the plush area rug as she followed Lena deeper inside. Twenty-foot floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire eastern and southern walls, meeting at a seamless corner of glass, offering a vertigo-inducing view of National City's glittering skyline. The Catco building's distinctive spire pierced the indigo night, while the bay beyond stretched like spilled ink, its obsidian surface fractured by golden ripples from the city lights.

The décor screamed old money restraint—an alabaster Italian leather sectional that could seat twelve anchored the living area, flanked by twin Noguchi tables in bleached maple. On the far wall hung what Kara recognized as an original Rothko, its bleeding rectangles of crimson and charcoal worth more than she'd ever dream of making in a single lifetime. A gleaming Steinway concert grand piano—not black but a deep oxblood red—commanded the northeast corner, its lid propped fully open like a predatory bird's wing. Scattered across its polished surface lay sheets of staff paper, some pristine, others covered in a spidery emerald-inked handwriting that looped and slashed across the bars—the same distinctive script from the torn scrap of paper Lena had pressed into her palm at Noonan's. The interior wall near a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms had been transformed into a museum-quality display of stringed instruments—custom-built illuminated mounts holding what must have been millions in rare guitars, including what Kara guessed was a pre-war Martin that alone could buy a house.

Behind glass cases, priceless instruments hung like trophies from around the world—an eighteenth-century Italian violin and Neapolitan mandolin with tiny brass plaques announcing their provenance, an ornate sitar with mother-of-pearl flowering across its neck, a kora with its twenty-one strings radiating from a calabash body, and a three-stringed shamisen that seemed to wait for hands that would never touch it. Each suspended in its own microclimate, in perfect, untouchable formation like exotic butterflies pinned behind glass.

But what made Kara's eye linger were the incongruous details that fractured the penthouse's museum-like perfection. A battered Gibson guitar case leaned against the Steinway, its surface a chaotic collage of peeling venue stickers—CBGB, The Troubadour, First Avenue—layered like geological strata. A scuffed leather motorcycle jacket with a frayed left cuff was flung carelessly over an Eames chair. A chipped MIT mug bearing the periodic table stood sentinel on the kitchen counter, dark lipstick marking its rim like a secret signature. Beside it, paperbacks with spines cracked from love—Asimov's galaxies, Woolf's rooms, Murakami's parallel worlds, Atwood's dystopias, Coelho's asylum where Veronika Decides to Die—formed a literary Tower of Pisa. Bach and Hendrix biographies claimed the piano bench. Plath's leather-bound confessions wedged a window open to the night air. Yellowed music theory texts from another century sprawled across the coffee table, while Russian novels thick as bricks stacked alongside quantum physics textbooks created furniture where design catalogs had intended none. These personal artifacts infiltrated the curated luxury like wildflowers reclaiming abandoned architecture.

"It's beautiful," Kara said, finding her voice at last. She turned to find Lena watching her. "I kinda see what you mean about the décor. The showroom pieces don't feel like you—but everything else does."

Lena's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across her features. "You noticed the wildflowers in my museum," she said, shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. Her fingers lingered on the leather, tracing a worn spot at the collar. “Most people just see the Rothko and the Steinway and assume I'm exactly what the Luthors paid for—a perfect showcase piece for their collection. Another acquisition with the right pedigree.”

"I'm not most people," Kara reminded her. She set her messenger bag on a nearby chair, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands, her body, her presence in this space that felt both intimate and alien.

"No," Lena agreed, something softening in her expression. "You're certainly not." She gestured toward the kitchen area, separated from the living room by a marble-topped island. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Wine? Something stronger?"

"Water would be great," Kara said, following Lena into the kitchen.

The appliances gleamed with the cold perfection of surgical instruments—brushed platinum refrigerator with digital temperature display, six-burner gas range that had clearly never seen a splatter of tomato sauce, espresso machine with more buttons than a spacecraft console. The countertops were veined Calacatta marble, its milky surface shot through with threads of gold that caught the recessed lighting. A crystal decanter of Macallan 25 sat uncapped on the counter, the amber liquid catching light like trapped fire, a heavy-bottomed tumbler beside it with a finger's worth remaining and a perfect half-moon of Lena's crimson lipstick on the rim.

Lena filled a glass with filtered water from the refrigerator door—the ice cubes perfectly square, not the crescents from Kara's bargain freezer trays—and handed it to her, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact sent electricity skittering across Kara's skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, a visceral reminder of the magnetic pull that had drawn them together since that first night at The Pit when Lena's voice had wrapped around her like smoke.

"So," Lena said, picking up her whiskey and taking a small sip. The ice had melted, diluting the liquor, but she didn't seem to mind. "Where should we start? Vienna? Andrea? The various substances I may or may not use to get through performances and family functions?" Her tone was light, almost casual, but Kara caught the tension beneath it.

"Wherever you want," Kara said, leaning against the counter. The marble was cool, grounding her in the moment. "I'm here to listen, not to judge."

Lena studied her for a long moment, those sea-glass eyes narrowing slightly at the corners, penetrating and unblinking like a predator assessing prey. Then Lena sighed—a sound that seemed to originate not from her lungs but from somewhere bone-deep, the soft exhale carrying the weight of secrets and the faint scent of aged Macallan across the small space between them.

"Let's sit," she suggested, gesturing toward the living room. "This might take a while."

Kara followed her to the sleek alabaster leather sofa positioned to capture the panoramic city view. As they sat, Kara measured the eighteen inches between them—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from Lena's body. The leather creaked beneath them, the sound almost obscene in the quiet apartment. Kara shifted, her worn jeans rough against the buttery surface that probably cost more than six months of her rent.

Lena set her crystal tumbler on the coffee table with a soft clink against the marble and leaned back, her posture deceptively relaxed despite the tension Kara could see in the rigid set of her shoulders, the slight furrow carved between her perfectly arched brows. A muscle in her jaw twitched once, twice. She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, gathering her thoughts, organizing whatever story she was about to tell like arranging notes on a staff.

"Vienna," she began finally, her voice soft as if emerging from some distant memory. Her eyes fixed on the city lights below, not really seeing them, pupils dilated and unfocused. For several long seconds she said nothing more, just traced a finger along the rim of her glass, lost somewhere Kara couldn't follow. When she continued, the words seemed to surprise even her. "Do you know what it's like to be a prodigy, Kara? To have your entire identity wrapped up in one skill before you're old enough to understand what that means?"

The questions hung between them, rhetorical yet somehow demanding an answer.

Kara shook her head slightly, her glasses catching the dim light from the city beyond the windows. Her fingers tightened around the water glass, condensation dampening her grip. She held her breath, unwilling to interrupt whatever Lena needed to say, watching as the other woman's profile cut a sharp silhouette against National City's glittering skyline. The ice cubes clinked softly as she set the untouched drink on her knee, leaving a dark ring on her jeans.

Lena's gaze remained fixed on the city lights, their glow reflecting in her sea-glass eyes like distant stars. "I was four when Lillian discovered I had perfect pitch," she continued, her voice barely audible above the soft hum of the apartment's climate control. "Four years old, sitting at breakfast when the gardener's radio played Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21. I hummed along perfectly, and Lillian's coffee cup froze halfway to her lips." Her slender fingers traced invisible patterns on the leather armrest. "Suddenly I wasn't just Lionel's bastard that she'd been forced to accept into her home—I was an investment. An opportunity." Her crimson mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile, the corner trembling slightly. "Do you know how many hours a four-year-old can practice piano before her fingertips crack and bleed? I do. Exactly six hours and twenty-three minutes."

Lena's gaze dropped to the whiskey still cradled between her palms, her reflection fragmenting across the amber surface. She tilted the glass slightly, watching city lights swim through the liquid like distant constellations, as if searching for answers in its depths.

"By twelve, I was playing pieces most adults couldn't master. Rachmaninoff's thundering crescendos that made my small hands ache, Liszt's frenzied arpeggios that stretched across octaves I could barely reach, Chopin's nocturnes that demanded a melancholy no sheltered child could truly comprehend." Another hollow laugh escaped her, the sound brittle as thin ice cracking beneath winter boots. Kara felt each note of that laughter like glass shards against her skin, sharp and dangerous. "But I could fake it. I'd watch my reflection in the polished ebony of the piano lid—eyes half-closed, head tilted just so, lips parted in false rapture. That was my real talent, you see. Faking emotions I hadn't yet lived enough to understand."

Kara set her water glass down on a marble coaster, the soft clink punctuating the silence between them. She shifted her weight on the leather sofa, closing an inch of the distance between them without seeming to move closer. Lena's raw honesty pulled at something in her chest. She wanted to bridge the remaining gap, to offer some physical comfort, but Lena's spine remained ramrod straight, her shoulders squared against invisible weight. When Lena finally looked up, her eyes caught the city lights—bright and hard, pupils still slightly dilated in a way that made Kara's stomach knot with concern.

Lena's gaze drifted back toward the windows, though her eyes focused on something far beyond the city skyline.

"Vienna," she said, the word hanging between them like a ghost. "The culmination of Lillian's grand design. Seventeen years old and playing with the Vienna Philharmonic. A record-breaker." She laughed again, a hollow sound that didn't reach her eyes. "Lillian had been plotting that moment since before I could hold a bow." Her grip on the crystal tumbler tightened until her knuckles blanched white against the glass. The slight trembling in her hands intensified to a visible shudder that traveled up her wrists, though she stared straight ahead as if refusing to acknowledge it. "I never wanted to go. Never wanted any of it. But saying no to Lillian isn't an option in the Luthor household."

Her throat tightened at the resignation in Lena's voice. "Did you ever try?" she asked softly, the question emerging before she could stop herself.

Lena's mouth twisted into something too bitter to be called a smile, the corners pulling downward as though weighted. "Once. I was fourteen. I told her I wanted to quit, to be normal." Her gaze drifted back to the city lights, a constellation of artificial stars blurring through the glass. "She locked my violin in a custom-built mahogany case with three separate locks, kept the keys on a chain around her neck for a month. Made me practice piano eight hours a day instead—scales until my fingertips split open and bled onto the ivory keys. She'd stand behind me with her hand on my shoulder, nails digging in whenever I made a mistake. Said if I wasn't grateful for my 'gift’, she'd make sure I learned to be. Her voice was so calm when she said it—that was always the most terrifying part."

Kara's hands clenched involuntarily in her lap, knuckles whitening against her worn jeans as a surge of protective anger blazed through her chest like wildfire. The image of a fourteen-year-old Lena, trapped and desperate, fingers bleeding onto ivory keys while Lillian's manicured nails dug crescents into her shoulder, made something fierce and tender unfurl behind her ribs, spreading warmth to her fingertips.
Lena took a small sip of the watered-down whiskey before continuing. "The night before the Vienna audition, I was so anxious I couldn't breathe. Literally couldn't get air into my lungs—just these shallow, useless gasps that made black spots dance at the edges of my vision. Andy found me hyperventilating in the hotel bathroom, crumpled against the marble tile."

The crystal tumbler met the coffee table with a delicate tap that echoed through the stillness of the room. Her fingers released the glass, betraying the slight quiver that she couldn't quite control.

Lena's eyes stayed fixed on a point somewhere beyond the window. "She pulled out this tiny glass vial from her clutch," she said, her voice flat as if reciting a script she'd memorized but never wanted to perform. "'This will help’, she told me. 'Just a little. Just enough to get you through tomorrow’." Lena's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath her skin. She swallowed hard before continuing. "I was just sitting there on the bathroom floor, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. And there was Andy, kneeling in her designer dress, offering me what looked like salvation.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "One moment I'm drowning, the next... I could breathe fire. My fingers moved before my brain could doubt them. The audience disappeared. It was just me and Rachmaninoff having a conversation no one else could hear."

Kara watched a shadow pass over Lena's face, her expression darkening like a thunderstorm rolling across summer fields. The muscles around her eyes tightened, jaw clenching just enough to create a small dimple in her right cheek. As she shifted in her seat, the teal tips of her hair—electric against the natural raven black—caught the scattered constellation of city lights behind her. For a moment, the colored ends seemed to glow with their own internal luminescence, creating a halo effect against the alabaster pallor of her skin, which in the half-light looked almost translucent.

"The after party was all crystal flutes and polite laughter, critics falling over themselves while Lillian wore that shark-smile I'd seen maybe three times in my life." Lena's words came out flat, drained of color. "Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was. How special. Meanwhile I felt like someone had scooped out my insides with a melon baller and left nothing but an echo chamber."

She collapsed forward, catching herself on her knees, as if the weight of memory had physically pushed her down. The movement erased the careful distance between them. Kara found herself counting the constellation of freckles that dusted Lena's nose—makeup couldn't quite hide them this close—and noticing how the scar through her right eyebrow caught the light when she spoke.

"After the performance, Lillian trapped me against a pillar at the reception, champagne flute in hand, smile fixed in place. 'You've humiliated me tonight’, she whispered, while nodding at passing dignitaries. 'That self-indulgent display was beneath our name’." Lena's laugh came out like broken glass. "The Vienna Philharmonic had just risen to their feet for me, and all my mother saw was that I'd played with my heart instead of hers."

Kara's stomach twisted with indignation. "That's—" she began, then stopped herself, unsure if Lena wanted her commentary or just needed her to listen.

"Fucked up?" Lena supplied, her mouth curving into that almost-smile that never quite reached her eyes. "Welcome to the Luthor family dynamic. Excellence isn't enough. It has to be the right kind of excellence."

Lena's voice dropped to a velvet-edged whisper, each syllable carved with surgical precision despite the tremor lurking beneath. "So I did what any rational seventeen-year-old would do." Her eyes flashed emerald fire in the half-light. "I told her to go fuck herself. In front of the Vienna Philharmonic's board of directors—all seven men in their identical black suits—three music critics from major European papers with their notepads still open, and the Austrian Minister of Culture who nearly choked on his champagne."

Despite the gravity of the conversation, Kara felt a bubble of inappropriate laughter fizz up her throat like carbonation. She pressed her lips together, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward before she could school her expression. Lena caught it immediately, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising in response.

"You can laugh," Lena said, something softening in her face. "It was objectively hilarious, watching all those stuffy old men try to pretend they hadn't heard a teenage girl tell Lillian Luthor to go fuck herself in four different languages."

"Four?" Kara couldn't help asking.

"I'm nothing if not thorough," Lena replied, that almost-smile warming into something more genuine for just a moment before fading. "Of course, the aftermath was less amusing."

She ran a hand through her hair, the motion agitated, dislodging a few strands from her ponytail. They fell across her face, dark against pale skin. "Lillian dragged me out by my arm—I had bruises for weeks. The car ride back to the hotel was silent. Ice cold. When we got there, she told me I had disgraced the Luthor name for the last time, that I was being sent to a stricter boarding school, that my summer plans were canceled."

Kara's heart hammered against her ribs, her journalist's instinct to remain objective warring with the overwhelming urge to reach for Lena's hand, to offer some tangible comfort against these painful memories.

Lena's breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as the memory took hold. "I waited until she went to her room, then raided the minibar. Vodka, gin, those tiny bottles of whatever else I could find. I wasn't thinking clearly—the coke was wearing off, and I just wanted to stop feeling… everything. Stop being a Luthor, stop being a prodigy, stop being anything at all."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, the sound so raw that Kara felt it like a physical pain in her own chest. "I don't remember much after that. Apparently, I called Sam. She found me on the bathroom floor, unresponsive. Alcohol poisoning. She called an ambulance instead of Lillian."

Kara couldn't stop herself this time. She reached across the space between them, her hand settling lightly on Lena's forearm. The skin was cool beneath her palm, goosebumps rising at the contact. "I'm so sorry that happened to you," she said softly.

Lena looked down at Kara's hand on her arm, something complicated passing behind her eyes—surprise, wariness, a flicker of what might have been gratitude. She didn't pull away.

"I woke up in the hospital with Lillian standing over me, looking not concerned but furious. Furious that I'd embarrassed her again. That I'd been weak." Her mouth twisted. "She had the hospital keep it quiet. Paid off whoever needed paying. The official story was food poisoning."

She finally looked directly at Kara, her gaze unflinching despite what she was sharing. "That's what Andrea told you about, right? But I'm guessing she left out a few of those key details."

The slight tremor in her hands was more pronounced now, impossible to hide. Kara noticed how she kept flexing her fingers, stretching them wide then curling them into loose fists, as if fighting against some invisible resistance.

"She didn't mention the hospital," Kara admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just the cocaine. And she implied it was... ongoing."

Something flashed in Lena's eyes—hurt, anger, resignation—before she carefully masked it. "Of course she did," she murmured, more to herself than to Kara. Then, louder: "I'm not... I don't..." She stopped, frustration flashing across her face. She reached for her glass again, lifting it to her lips before remembering it was empty. The motion seemed automatic, habitual. "It wasn't just that one time. In Vienna. But it's not what Andrea probably implied either."

She ran her hand through her hair again, dislodging more strands from her ponytail. One fell across her face, and she brushed it away with an impatient gesture. Kara found herself tracking the movement, mesmerized by the contrast of dark hair against pale skin.

"When we got back to Metropolis, I refused to play. Locked myself in my room for weeks." The memory seemed to physically pain her, her shoulders tensing as if bracing against a blow. "Lillian threatened, cajoled, even tried bribing me. Nothing worked."

Kara's thumb moved in small circles against Lena's forearm, a gesture so unconscious she didn't realize she was doing it until she felt Lena relax slightly beneath her touch.

"We went to see Jimmy," Lena continued, her voice warming slightly at the memory. "He was playing at this tiny venue downtown—this absolute hole-in-the-wall place even worse than The Pit. Sam had created a diversion with the security guard while Andrea waited in her car around the corner, engine running. I'd gotten quite good at the actual climbing-out-the-window part by then."

Her gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, pupils dilating slightly as if adjusting to different lighting. "Jimmy stood there bathed in this cheap yellow spotlight, sweat dripping down his face, playing like nobody was watching even though everyone was. No sheet music, no conductor, no mother in the wings timing his vibrato. Just callused fingers on steel strings and a voice that cracked on the high notes in a way that felt more honest than any perfect pitch I'd ever hit."

Kara could picture it—a seventeen-year-old Lena with smudged eyeliner and rebellion in her veins, standing in the back of that dingy club with its sticky floors and air thick with cigarette smoke, watching Jimmy's calloused fingers coax raw emotion from worn guitar strings. The image made her chest ache with a tenderness that surprised her, like pressing on a bruise she didn't know she had.

Lena's pale fingers traced an invisible pattern on the butter-soft leather couch between them, her nail polish catching the low light as she moved within millimeters of where Kara's hand still rested on her arm. "The next day, I picked up my Stradivarius for the first time in months. The wood was cold against my chin. But I didn't play Rachmaninoff or Liszt or any of the composers that had been forced down my throat since I was old enough to hold a bow. I played whatever came to me—jagged and imperfect and alive. My music, not theirs."

For just a moment, the mask fell away completely. Lena's smile reached her eyes, crinkling the corners and softening the sharp angles of her face. Kara's lungs forgot how to work. Here she was—the real Lena, the one who existed beneath the Luthor name and the tabloid speculation, as bright and unexpected as a shooting star.

"Lillian was horrified when GlassHearts formed. Called it a 'phase'—still does, actually. A 'rebellion’, a 'disgrace to my training’." Her eyes drifted to the cityscape beyond the windows, to the same skyline tattooed on her forearm. "But it saved me. The band, the music... it gave me something that was mine."

She fell silent for a moment, and Kara could almost see the internal debate playing out behind those sea-glass eyes. When Lena spoke again, her voice was carefully measured.

"The thing is..." She paused, choosing her words. "Sometimes I need help managing... everything. The pressure doesn't just disappear because I've found an outlet." Her fingers resumed their restless movement against her thigh. "On stage with GlassHearts, I'm fine—the music carries me through. But galas? Family functions? Interviews where I have to be the perfect Luthor daughter while also representing the band?"

The hairs on the back of Kara's neck stood up—her sixth sense flashing warning signals. Cat Grant would salivate over this kind of confession, would expect it highlighted in bold in the article, not caring how the exposure might shatter the careful boundaries Lena had built around her private struggles.

She gently withdrew her hand from Lena's arm, needing the physical distance to maintain her professional ethics. "Lena, you don't have to tell me this," she said softly. "Not if it's something you wouldn't want in the article."

Lena's gaze snapped to Kara's face, surprise evident in the slight widening of her eyes. "Is that what you're thinking about right now? The article?"

"No," Kara admitted, heat rising to her cheeks. "I'm thinking about you. About protecting you from whatever Cat Grant wants me to write."

Something shifted in Lena's expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight parting of lips that suggested surprise or relief or both. "That's... not what I expected," she said quietly.

"What did you expect?"

Lena's mouth twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a smile. "People usually react with either moral outrage or morbid fascination. Like they've caught a glimpse behind the curtain and found exactly what they expected." She traced the rim of her empty glass with her index finger. "Say 'cocaine' and suddenly you're either Amy Winehouse or Kate Moss, depending on who's judging."

"I told you before—I'm not here to judge," Kara said, meeting her gaze steadily.

"So you did." The tension in Lena's shoulders eased slightly. "And I think I’m starting to believe you." She inhaled deeply, her fingers now drumming a silent rhythm against her thigh. "The truth is less sensational. Xanax for when I need to survive Lillian's scrutiny without falling apart. Adderall for my ADHD, which helps me focus when I need to be Lena Luthor: Prodigal Daughter and Musical Innovator for hours on end. It's just medical—helps my brain work the way others' naturally do. Not exactly rock star behavior, just... necessary."

Kara's shoulders relaxed slightly, a small weight lifting she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. ADHD. That made sense—another piece of the complex puzzle that was Lena Luthor, one that hadn't appeared in any of her research or previous interviews. "Does it help?" she asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

The question seemed to catch Lena off guard. She blinked, those sea-glass eyes reflecting the city lights. "It helps me focus when everything's too loud in my head," she admitted. "I only got diagnosed last year. Turns out I wasn't just 'lazy' or 'not applying myself' like Lillian always said." Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the empty glass. "Do you know what it's like spending your whole childhood thinking you're broken? Practicing violin until your fingers bleed because maybe then you'll concentrate properly?" She exhaled shakily. "Lillian calls the diagnosis 'convenient timing' and 'an excuse’. Says I'm not the revolutionary artist people think I am. And maybe she's right. I'm just... trying to exist in two worlds that want completely different things from me."

Kara's stomach tightened as Lena's words hung between them. She glanced down at her hands, then back at Lena's face, where vulnerability had replaced the careful composure from earlier. The article deadline loomed in her mind, Cat Grant's voice echoing with demands for "the real Luthor”.

"I think," Kara said, adjusting her glasses, "that existing in two worlds doesn't make your art less revolutionary. It makes it more honest." Her voice grew steadier as she continued. "ADHD doesn't diminish what you create—it's part of how you see the world differently than Lillian ever could."

Lena's eyes narrowed, flicking between Kara's like a pendulum seeking deception. The sharp edges of her face seemed to soften when she found nothing but sincerity, her mask slipping to reveal something raw underneath.

"No one's ever..." Lena's voice trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging between them.

"I meant every word," Kara whispered, leaning close enough that she could count the scattered freckles beneath Lena's foundation. "And I promise, this article will show your truth without turning your private struggles into public spectacle."

Lena's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched upward, the skepticism returning to her sea-glass eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "How? Cat Grant isn't exactly known for her restraint when it comes to personal details. She'd print my blood type if she thought it would sell copies."

"Leave that to me," Kara said, squaring her shoulders and adjusting her glasses with a finger that trembled almost imperceptibly. The truth was, she had no idea how she'd satisfy Cat's demand for an intimate profile while protecting Lena's privacy. But in this moment, with Lena looking at her with that mixture of wariness and hope—like a wounded animal deciding whether to trust an outstretched hand—she knew she had to try. "I'm pretty good at finding the story beneath the story."

"The conversation beneath the noise," Lena murmured, her crimson-painted lips curving into a small smile as she echoed what Kara had said about her music. Her fingers resumed their restless tapping against the leather couch, silver rings catching the amber light from the floor lamp beside them.

"Exactly." Kara smiled, a warm flush spreading across her cheeks as Lena's gaze held hers, the tension in her shoulders easing like ice melting in spring. "The real truth isn't about substances or family drama or even the specific events that shaped you. It's about how you've transformed that into something meaningful—something that helps other people feel less alone in their own darkness."

Lena's expression shifted, something like wonder crossing her features. "Is that how I make you feel? Less alone?"

"Yes." The word escaped before Kara could think, simple and true. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "Since that first night at The Pit—it wasn't just your music. It’s the way you look at me, like you actually see me. Not reporter-me or Catco-me. Just... me. Nobody really does that."

Lena set her empty whiskey glass down with a soft clink. She shifted on the couch, drawing one knee up between them, closing the careful distance they'd maintained all evening. The amber light from the floor lamp caught in her eyes as they fixed on Kara's face, steady and searching.

"When I look at you," she said, her voice dropping low enough that Kara had to lean in to hear, "I don't see Catco or deadlines or interviews. I see someone radiant who doesn't realize how bright she shines. I see the thoughts you hide when you fidget with those glasses. I see the parts of yourself you've never trusted anyone else to witness."

She reached across the space between them, fingers adorned with three silver rings—one shaped like a crescent moon, another with a small emerald that caught the amber light, and a plain band on her thumb. Her hand hovered for a moment, before settling on Kara's. The touch was cool but not cold, those trembling fingers with their perfectly manicured teal nails steadying slightly as they curled around Kara's. The contact sent a current up Kara's arm, an electric sensation that traveled past her wrist, through her elbow, across her shoulder, finally settling somewhere beneath her ribs like a physical presence, a humming bird taking residence in her chest.

Kara's breath caught in her throat as she turned her hand to interlace their fingers, the silver rings adorning Lena's fingers pressing cool indentations into Kara's flushed skin. The metal warmed between them while Kara struggled to find words, any words, that could possibly answer what Lena had just confessed. Her mouth opened, then closed, like a fish gasping for water. Kara stared at their interlaced fingers—Lena's pale with perfect teal manicured nails against her own sun-kissed skin—before looking up. When their eyes met, sea-glass green against cornflower blue, she felt naked, stripped bare, as though Lena could read every secret she'd ever kept.

Those mercurial eyes, flecked with gold near the pupils, darkened as they dropped to Kara's lips, lingering on the small scar above her upper lip, then flicked back up. Heat bloomed across Kara's skin like watercolor on wet paper, prickling along her collarbone beneath her cream-colored blouse. Lena's chest rose with a deep breath that strained against her vintage t-shirt, her crimson lips parting slightly as she exhaled a whisper of cinnamon-scented breath.

"Kara," she whispered, the syllables vibrating between them like the last note of a cello. She shifted forward, the Italian leather couch creaking beneath her. Their knees pressed together, Lena's black designer jeans against Kara's blue jeans. Kara's pulse quickened at the contact, a staccato rhythm that seemed to echo in her fingertips where they remained entwined with Lena's.

Lena leaned in, close enough that the scent of her jasmine and amber perfume filled Kara's lungs, making her dizzy. Her free hand rose, hovering near Kara's face, the heat of her palm tangible even before contact, her silver rings catching the amber light from the floor lamp beside them.

"May I?" she asked, voice husky as smoke.

Kara nodded, her throat too tight for words.

When Lena's fingers finally touched her cheek, the gentleness of it made her eyelids flutter. Lena's thumb traced a slow path along her cheekbone, then down to the corner of her mouth, lingering there as if memorizing the shape.

"I've wanted to touch you like this," Lena admitted, her gaze following the path of her fingers as they explored Kara's face. "Since that first night." Her fingers continued their exploration, tracing the curve of Kara's jaw, the outline of her ear, before sliding into her hair with a gentleness that made Kara's breath catch. One of Lena's rings caught in a few strands, a gentle tug that sent shivers down her spine.

"And at Noonan's," she continued, her voice a low murmur that seemed to fill the space between them, "when you described Rachmaninoff as 'drowning in sound’. I knew then that you understood something most people don't."

"What?" Kara asked, her own voice unfamiliar to her ears—breathless, wanting.

Lena's gaze dropped to Kara's lips, lingering there with unmistakable intent. "That some emotions are too big for words," she said. "That sometimes we need other languages—music, touch—to express what matters most."

Her fingers were still tangled in Kara's hair, the cool metal of her rings—the crescent moon pressing against Kara's scalp, the emerald catching amber light—a silver counterpoint to the warmth of her skin. Their faces were close enough now that Kara could see the individual lashes framing those sea-glass eyes, how they curled at the tips, darker at the roots than their feathered ends, could count the constellation of tiny freckles scattered like cinnamon dust across the bridge of Lena's nose that expensive foundation usually concealed, could feel the warmth of her cinnamon-whiskey breath ghosting against her lips in shallow, uneven waves.

"And what matters most right now?" Kara asked, finding courage in Lena's touch, in the electricity flowing between them.

Lena's eyes met hers again, something vulnerable and fierce burning in their depths. "This," she said simply. "Whatever this is between us. Whatever truth exists in the space where words fail."

The air between them crackled like the moment before lightning strikes, heavy with perfume and whiskey breath and unspoken desire. Kara's heart hammered against her ribs so forcefully she wondered if Lena could see it through her cardigan, each wild beat matching the subtle tremor in Lena's fingers where they rested against her skin, warm points of contact that burned like tiny stars.

Lena leaned in until her lips brushed against Kara's as she spoke, each syllable a whisper of contact. "Tell me you want me to kiss you." The words formed against Kara's mouth, not quite a kiss but something more intimate—the physical shape of Lena's desire pressed against her skin. Kara's pulse thundered in her ears as she felt the warmth of Lena's breath mingle with her own, their foreheads touching, the space between them no longer measurable.

"I want you to kiss me," Kara breathed, the confession barely audible yet somehow filling the space between them entirely.

Lena's smile was soft, intimate, a glimpse of something unguarded beneath the carefully constructed exterior. Her hand slid from Kara's hair to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her lower lip in a touch so light it might have been imagined.

"Like this?" she asked, leaning in until their lips were just a breath apart.

Kara closed the final distance between them, bracing for intensity—but Lena's lips met hers with unexpected playfulness, a feather-light touch that retreated and returned, teasing. Lena's smile curved against Kara's mouth as she placed tiny, almost chaste kisses at the corners of her lips. This wasn't the commanding, whiskey-fueled passion Kara had anticipated from a woman who commanded rooms. Instead, Lena's kisses were butterfly-gentle, patient, even a little shy.

"You're surprised," Lena whispered against her mouth, the words themselves another kiss.

Before Kara could respond, Lena's hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of her skull. The gentleness remained, but something deeper awakened as Lena's other hand released Kara's to rise and cup the opposite side of her face. Kara found herself held in a tender cradle, her flushed cheeks caught between Lena's cool palms, those silver rings pressing delicate half-moons into her skin.

Kara's own hands found purchase on Lena's shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath her palms, the surprising strength in her slender frame. She slid one hand up to cup Lena's jaw, feeling the subtle movement as Lena's playfulness gradually melted into something more heated.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Whiskey Bar Encounters

Samantha Aria first spotted Andrea above the racks of whiskey bottles, her silhouette flickering in and out of focus as the crowd shifted. The Verona’s ceiling was strung with copper pendant lights, each one casting a mean little circle of interrogation down onto the bar. In this lighting, Andrea’s face was all edges and runway shadows, the kind of bone structure that demanded to be carved into marble and then told it still wasn’t good enough.

The first thing Sam noticed—before the mythic cheekbones, even—was Andrea’s hair. That impossible tangle of black, coiled in a twist so severe it looked engineered to draw blood from any hand foolish enough to try. Every strand was lacquered into submission, but a single lock had broken loose and curved along her temple, drawing the eye like a flaw in glass.

Sam smiled despite herself.

Andrea was always, always perfect, except for the parts she wanted people to notice.

The Verona’s bar was a riot of bodies, three deep in designer overcoats, every movement punctuated with the clink of glassware and the glint of gold watches. Sam clocked at least five seasonally inappropriate trench coats, more than a few tailored suits, and an entire spectrum of haircuts meant to signal power or art—or, in this neighborhood, both. The noise was almost tactile: someone cackling in a corner booth, a dropped bottle shattering in the kitchen, the anxious hum of small talk ramped up to full volume for the Thursday night crowd.

Sam’s own reflection hung ghostlike in the mirror behind the top shelf, caught between a bottle of Glenlivet and a jar of Amarena cherries. She adjusted her jacket, ran a thumb over her bottom lip to check for color, and tried to pretend she wasn’t nerving herself up to cross the room. She didn’t want to see Andrea tonight. She’d told herself she wouldn’t. And yet here she was, with a list of excuses already drafted for herself in case someone she respected called her out on it tomorrow.

Andrea sat at the far end of the bar, alone, which was either a warning sign or a declaration of war depending on her mood. Her hands were folded neatly around her gin and tonic, the glass fogged and the lime wedge already spent. Her phone, matte black and face-down, was placed at exactly parallel to her forearm, a studied little monument to nonchalance. The bartender, a waifish man with sleeve tattoos and the world’s deepest frown, hovered nearby as if waiting for Andrea to call on him like a deity accepting tribute.

Sam started forward, weaving through the crowd with practiced indifference. Her shoes made a faint, sticky sound every time she lifted them from the parquet floor, a testament to the number of twelve-dollar cocktails that had gone overboard this week alone. She skirted a knot of finance types debating something about petrochemicals, then a pair of women in identical pearl earrings who eyed her with competitive boredom as she passed. At one point a man in his fifties tried to intercept her with the world’s weakest joke—“Careful, the ice here bites back”—and she rewarded him with a scalpel-sharp grin before moving on.

She took the stool next to Andrea and felt the residual heat of whoever had just left so fast they’d forgotten their scarf. The bar smelled like citrus and sweat and the faint, ever-present ozone of shattered egos. Andrea didn’t turn to greet her, but Sam caught the flick of an eyebrow in the mirror. There was a moment, brief and razor-thin, where she wasn’t sure if Andrea would treat her like an old friend or a live grenade.

"Is it bring your own disaster to work day?" Andrea asked, voice low but clear. She didn't look at Sam directly, just stared into the mirror behind the bar, scanning the room for threats or witnesses. The ice in her drink shifted with a soft clink.

Sam signaled for a club soda, her throat suddenly dry. The bartender nodded from across the counter, his tattooed forearms flexing as he reached for a glass. She turned to Andrea, noting the way the other woman's fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the marble. "I think it’s time for you to go home, Andi."

Andrea laughed, not because it was funny but because she knew what Sam was doing. The sound was hollow, practiced. "Tell me, Sammy—who exactly appointed you her guardian? Last I checked, you were just the hired help." She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on the melting ice cubes. For a moment, Sam saw the kid behind the mask: little Andi Rojas, preternaturally good at math and even better at making teachers want to quit. She never stopped being a feral stray, just got better at hiding it behind corporate dress codes and $80 foundation.

Sam waited for the bartender to drop off her soda. The cold glass pressed against her palm, condensation already forming. When he was gone, she leaned in, catching another whiff of Andrea's expensive perfume. She traced a finger through the condensation on her glass, eyes never leaving Andrea's reflection in the mirror. "Let me be clear," she said, voice low enough that only Andrea could hear. "This is the last time. One more match, one more ember near her, and I'll make sure you never set foot in this city again." She kept her voice even, not because she wasn't pissed but because she'd learned the hard way that Andrea only listened to calm threats. Anything else, and she just dug in.

"You've been making that threat since London." The tut that followed was sharp against the background noise of clinking glasses. Andrea's eyebrow arched as she swirled the melting ice in her glass. "Besides, what is it you think I did this time?" The question hung between them, dripping with practiced innocence.

Sam knew this move. She’d seen Andrea do it to clients, rivals, even her own mother once, at a Christmas party so disastrous it was still referenced in family group chats. The trick was to let the other person believe, even for a second, that maybe they were paranoid, that maybe nothing bad had happened at all. If Sam fell for it—if she even blinked—Andrea would win, and the whole evening would be yet another entry in the ever-expanding list of things Sam let slide.

But Sam wasn’t the same girl who used to flinch at Andrea’s mind games, not anymore. There were years between them now—years and a thousand implicit threats, and more than one unreturned text that read simply, “Don’t”. So she held Andrea’s gaze in the bar mirror, watching the filigreed lights catch in those obsidian-dark eyes.

"I'm serious, Andi. You show up at her place again, you show up at her gigs—hell, even breathe too close to her, and I'll make sure you're on a flight back to Milan before you can get your sneakers laced." Sam's voice remained level, but her knuckles whitened around her glass. She could do it, too. She'd been picking up Lena's pieces for nearly a decade, had watched her best friend shatter into fragments so many times she could map the fault lines by heart—and every single break had Andrea's fingerprints all over it.

Andrea's lips curved into something too sharp to be a smile. "My, my. When did you grow such a spine, Sammy?" She leaned closer, her perfume—something expensive that probably cost more than Sam's rent—filling the narrow space between them. "Last I remember, you were so... accommodating."

The word hung between them like a slap.

Sam felt heat crawl up her neck, but she didn't flinch.

"Sometime after you slept with my husband," Sam replied, the words clean and precise as a surgical cut. She took a slow sip of her club soda, ice clicking against her teeth. "Turns out betrayal is quite the motivator."

Andrea's perfect composure slipped for just a second—a microscopic widening of the eyes, a slight pause in the rhythmic tapping of her fingernail against the bar. "That was business."

"It always is with you." Sam set her glass down with deliberate care. "Which is why I know exactly what you're doing with Lena. Same playbook, different victim."

Andrea's throat worked, the movement barely visible beneath the perfect line of her jaw. For a second, something like genuine pain flickered across her face.

"You think you're the only one who cares about her?" Andrea's voice was so low Sam had to strain to hear it over the bar noise. "You weren't there when her mother told her she was worthless. You weren't there when—"

"No," Sam interrupted, "I was just there for the aftermath. Every time. Holding her hair back while she threw up whatever cocktail of pills you introduced her to. Sitting in hospital waiting rooms at three in the morning. Listening to her cry herself to sleep because she thought she wasn't good enough for you." Each word felt like glass in her mouth, but Sam kept her voice steady. "So don't tell me about caring, Andi. Your version of it is poison."

Andrea's eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. She leaned in, close enough that Sam could smell the gin on her breath. "You always were jealous of what we had."

"What you had was a hostage situation." Sam didn't back away. "And I'm not the same person who used to look the other way while you destroyed everyone around you."

Andrea's laugh was soft and dangerous, a sound like silk being torn. "No? Then what exactly are you now, Samantha? Her bodyguard? Her conscience?" She tilted her head, studying Sam with the clinical precision of someone examining a specimen under glass. "Or is this about something else entirely? Something you're not admitting to yourself?"

Sam felt her jaw tighten, a muscle flickering beneath her skin. The club soda in her glass had gone flat, bubbles dying against the ice. Around them, the bar's noise seemed to recede, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

"This is about not letting you destroy my family anymore," Sam said, each word intentionally placed between them like stepping stones across dangerous water. "Lena is more than you. She deserves more than you."

Andrea's eyes widened fractionally, the only tell in her otherwise perfect composure. She leaned back, just an inch, but Sam registered the retreat like a victory.

"Your family?" Andrea's voice dripped acid. "That's rich, Samantha. Last I checked, you were just the friend who picks up the pieces. The one who waits by the phone. The one who—"

The bartender drifted by, eyeing their intense conversation with professional wariness. Andrea waved him off with a flick of her wrist, never breaking eye contact with Sam.

"You think you know her so well," Andrea said, her voice dropping to something intimate, almost confessional. "But you don't know what she was like before. What she wanted. What she begged me for."

Sam felt heat rise in her throat, anger making her skin prickle. "I know what she's like now. I know what she needs to heal. And it isn't you."

Andrea's perfect lips curved into something too sharp to be a smile. "And you think you're protecting her? The loyal friend? The shoulder to cry on?" She leaned in, close enough that Sam could smell the juniper on her breath. "Or are you just the gatekeeper now? Screening her visitors for that blonde reporter I met? The one who couldn't take her eyes off Lena at the gala?"

Sam's fingers tightened around her glass. The mention of Kara touched something, but she kept her face neutral. Andrea had always been good at finding weak points and digging in her nails.

"You're deflecting," Sam said, voice steady despite the anger churning in her gut. "This isn't about Kara. This is about you leaving Lena alone."

Andrea took another sip of her drink, ice clinking against her teeth. "Interesting. You didn't deny it." Her eyes glittered. "So there is something there. Does Lena know you've appointed yourself her relationship manager?"

Sam set her glass down with such care it made no sound against the bar top. She turned fully toward Andrea, their knees almost touching.

"Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once." Sam leaned in, close enough to see the tiny crack in Andrea's lipstick, the microscopic flaws in her foundation. "You are going to finish that drink, pay your tab, and walk out that door. You're not going to call her. You're not going to text her. You're not going to 'accidentally' run into her at industry events."

Andrea's smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind her eyes. "Or what?"

"Or I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what happened in Milan." Sam kept her voice low, but she might as well have shouted it from the way Andrea's face froze. "Every detail. Every name. Every dollar amount."

The color drained from Andrea's face so quickly Sam thought she might faint. The mention of Milan was a nuclear option—the kind of threat Sam had never thought she'd use, not even against Andrea. But this wasn't about old grudges or petty revenge. This was about Lena, about making sure she had a chance to heal.

"You wouldn't dare," Andrea whispered, but there was no conviction in it.

"Try me." Sam held her gaze, unflinching. "I've spent years cleaning up your messes, Andi. You think I don't have receipts?"

Andrea's fingers trembled slightly against her glass. For a moment, the mask slipped completely, and Sam saw raw fear in those dark eyes.

"You have no idea what you're playing with," Andrea said, but her voice had lost its edge.

"Neither do you." Sam straightened her spine, suddenly aware of how much taller she was than Andrea when they were both sitting. "The difference is, I'm not playing."

Andrea swallowed hard, her throat working beneath the perfect line of her collarbone. "You'd really do that? After everything we've been through?"

"In a heartbeat," Sam replied without hesitation. "For Lena? I'd burn this whole city down."

Something shifted in Andrea's expression—not surrender, exactly, but recognition. She'd miscalculated, underestimated just how far Sam was willing to go. The realization seemed to age her in real time, the perfect mask cracking around the edges.

"She'll hate you if you tell her," Andrea said, a last desperate jab.

Sam smiled, not unkindly. "Maybe. But she'll be alive to do it."

Andrea's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. She reached for her purse, a sleek black thing, and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

"This isn't over," she said, but the threat sounded hollow.

"It is, actually." Sam picked up her club soda, taking a sip. "This is the part where you leave and don't come back."

Andrea stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. For a moment, she looked like she might say something else—something cutting or pleading or true—but instead, she just nodded once, a gesture so slight it was barely there.

"Goodbye, Samantha."

Sam watched her weave through the crowd, that perfect posture never faltering, until the door swung shut behind her. Only then did she allow her hands to shake, adrenaline flooding her system now that the confrontation was over.

She signaled the bartender for something stronger than club soda. As he poured, she pulled out her phone and typed a quick message to Lena: All clear. Call me when you can.

Her finger hovered over the send button, a sudden doubt creeping in. Was she overstepping? Was Andrea right—was she appointing herself gatekeeper to Lena's life? The thought made her stomach twist.

But then she remembered Lena's face the last time Andrea had blown through town. The empty pill bottles. The hospital room. The way Lena's hands had trembled for days afterward, like her body was remembering something her mind wanted to forget.

Sam hit send, then added another message: Love you. No matter what.

The bartender slid a whiskey neat across the counter. Sam took it, feeling the burn spread through her chest as she swallowed. The Verona's copper lights seemed brighter now, less interrogative and more like beacons. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar—tired eyes, a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, hair coming loose from its careful arrangement.

She looked like someone who had just fought a war and wasn't entirely sure if she'd won.

Her phone buzzed against the bar top. A text from Lena: "Thank you. Always."

Sam exhaled slowly, feeling something unclench in her chest. Maybe it wasn't a victory, not yet. But it was a start.

The door to the Verona swung open again, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of traffic. Sam didn't turn to look, but she felt a presence behind her, someone pausing just at the edge of her peripheral vision. A familiar voice cut through the bar noise.

"Is this seat taken?"