Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kara set up the espresso machine and dusted off the counter, humming a tune in her mind as she did so. Every morning at the Moonbeam Café seemed to start off the same way. June’s café wasn’t exactly bustling—mostly locals dropping in for tea and muffins, or old friends of her great-aunt checking in.

She let out a soft sigh as she raised the blind on the door and turned the sign to ‘Open’. This was hers now, or at least, hers to keep afloat until June was out of hospital. You can do this, Kara.

It should have been a break, a chance to breathe after years of burning herself out on everything and nothing. But Redwood Bay was quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. Most days her biggest achievement seemed to be keeping the chairs arranged just so, or getting the pattern right on the flat white foam. Yesterday, she’d nailed the perfect fern. She’d been unreasonably proud of that.

Some days the silence pressed in so heavy the whole café felt empty, even with people in it.

She continued setting up at the counter until the bell chimed, the first customer of the day. She glanced up, half expecting Mildred or Walter, or another person checking up on how June was doing, fussing over Kara. But no, not today, this was a stranger. A stranger that made Kara pause and forget to breathe for just a second. Oh, Rao.

Tall. Brunette. Immaculately dressed in a way that looked effortless. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and poised as if she was walking down a catwalk. Her eyes flickered quickly around the small café although weighing it up in her mind and filing away the details.

A sudden crash broke the silence. Kara winced as the container she’d knocked from the counter clattered to the floor. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she scrambled to pick it up, returning it to the counter just as the lady reached it. Great job, Danvers.

“Uh - hi” stuttered Kara, pushing her glasses up her nose.

The lady raised an elegant eyebrow. Kara’s senses picked up the faintest shift in her expression — a micro-smile, almost hidden.

“Flat white”.

“Oh, of course, right away,” Kara replied as she began to make the coffee. Her hands moved on autopilot—grind, tamp, steam, pour—but her attention wasn’t on the machine. She didn’t have to look up to notice the woman’s stillness at the counter, the way her weight shifted slightly from one heel to the other, poised yet impatient. Even her heartbeat was steady, controlled, until the hiss of the steam wand startled it into one quick skip.

Kara glanced at the clock, 08:17 a.m., pretending she hadn’t noticed.

The woman didn’t fill the silence, just watched with a sharp, assessing gaze. Kara’s own heart hammered in her chest. Why is there a goddess in my café?

Then—for just a breath—something shifted. As Kara slid the coffee cup across the counter, their fingers nearly brushed. The woman’s eyes softened, fractionally. Her shoulders dipped as though Kara hadn’t been what she expected, but she approved.

“One flat white” announced Kara, her mouth curving into a smile.

Kara keyed the sale into the till and the woman tapped her card without hesitation, her movements as precise as everything else about her.

“Thanks,” Kara murmured, but the stranger only dipped her head, already carrying the coffee to a corner table.

As she left, Kara caught the faintest trace of her—citrus top notes and something floral beneath. Discreet, almost gone already, but impossible not to notice. She even smells perfect.

Kara let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

For the next ten minutes, she moved more than necessary – rearranging napkins, polishing surfaces that were already gleaming, sneaking glances at the woman, who drank her flat white with elegant detachment. No phone. No laptop. Just silence and coffee, as if this were the only place in the world she had to be.

Then, just as quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone. Cup empty, chair tucked in with quiet precision, the doorbell chiming her departure.

Kara stared at the empty corner. Maybe this place isn’t so boring after all.

The quiet pressed in again, louder than before.

She was still thinking about it as she went through the process of locking up the café, reaching for the twist rod for the window blinds.

Something moved in the shadows outside. Kara froze. A sleek black cat sat just below the glow of the lamppost, green eyes watching her.

“Hey, boy,” Kara murmured, pausing with the blind. As she turned to reach the door handle, the cat turned regally, and padded away into the shadows.

Huh. Kara tilted the blinds and closed up the café, heading upstairs to the little flat, thinking. For the first time in weeks, the place didn’t feel so empty after all.

Chapter Text

The bell jingled again at 08:17 a.m., on the dot.

Kara set aside the tatty paperback she’d found in a charity shop yesterday and lifted her gaze. Same sharp coat, same tied-back hair, same air of someone who had better places to be. Kara felt a smile tug at her lips. She came back.

Heels tapped as she walked to the counter, looking around just like yesterday but more assessing, not judging. Her fingers brushed the counter surface, light as a whisper. I should’ve dusted again this morning. Rao, what if she thinks it’s dirty? 

The touch lingered, too soft for criticism. It felt almost… like she wanted the contact. Like the café was safe enough to touch. That’s what caught Kara — the confidence, the subtle claim on a space she didn’t belong to.

“Flat white,” just as clipped as yesterday, though Kara thought she caught something softer in the voice.

Same order. Same polish. But not exactly the same. The tiniest fracture in the armour — a touch on the counter, a shift in her tone — and Kara felt herself lean toward it before she could stop. She swallowed a grin. Who knew a coffee order could make her day?

Kara acknowledged with a nod and set about making it. She could feel the lady analysing her again, but it’d shifted somehow. She managed not to make any mistakes this time, and slid the cup across the counter with what she hoped was a casual ease. She smiled as she rang it through the till, the beep of the contactless payment breaking the silence. The woman lifted the coffee, turned, and settled at the same corner table.

Routine. Except - 

There he is again. The cat stretched out on the pavement, peering into the cafe, narrowing his gaze just as Kara met his. He flicked his tail then rose, padding over to the window where Lena sat. What’s he doing?

The woman noticed. Her stern mask wavered for a second. Her lips curved, just enough, and her eyes softened. Kara blinked, realizing it wasn’t just about the cat — it was how she carried herself, even in small moments, that made her different from anyone else who walked through these doors.

Kara’s chest tightened. Whoever this woman is, that cat has just had more attention than I’ve had in two mornings.

She busied herself wiping a spotless counter, sneaking glances all the while. The woman never once looked back at her. Her focus on the cat, who was now pawing the window. Great. The cat wins. Of course the cat wins.

She stayed longer today, longer than someone with that much poise should linger in a half empty backstreet café. 

When she finally rose to leave, the cat got up too, walking towards the door as if to meet her. Kara caught the moment she bent slightly, hand brushing the cat lightly. The cat rubbed along her legs, and then was gone. Her expression, warm, suddenly shifted as if she was putting on a mask.

Kara stood frozen behind the counter, cloth in hand, watching both of them disappear. Her brows knitting together. I’m supposed to be running a café, but apparently today I’m a full-time observer of someone who doesn’t fit in here.

Two mornings in a row. Same time. Same drink. Maybe it wasn’t an accident after all.

By mid-morning, the bell jingled again, followed by a soft shuffle of shoes – she knew it was Mildred before the door even closed.

“Morning, Kara!” she chirped, setting her sights on the counter. “Just a scone for me, thanks. And a latte with a bit of your foam magic, if you’re feeling generous.”

“Sure, Mildred.” Kara smiled, getting a plate and placing the scone, with cream and jam on the side. She turned to the coffee machine, amused. “How’re you doing today?”

“Oh you know me, dear, every day is much the same as the last one. How are you managing here?”

“It’s quieter than I thought,” Kara admitted, “but it’s becoming more interesting.”

Mildred smiled, a knowing little smile, like she had a feeling this café was more than just a café.

Kara passed over the latte — with her best attempt at a love heart — and the scone. She rang it through, with a discount, and Mildred paid with change.

“Beautiful, sweetie. And these scones of yours, they’re amazing. You should do those muffins you used to make for our June. The smell of those would bring in more customers, maybe.”

Kara felt her cheeks warm. Eliza’s recipe. She could almost smell the blueberries already. Could be fun. Maybe tomorrow… for her?

She got out the recipe book and planned to make those muffins the next morning. Maybe Mildred was right, fresh baking brought in the customers.

The rest of the day slipped by in a blur of refills and wiping down tables, but her mind wasn’t on the café.

By the time she turned the sign to ‘Closed,’ the memory of that smile — not for her, for the cat — still wouldn’t leave her alone.

As she carried the trash out back, the cat was waiting.

Kara managed to bend down to clap it. No collar. Who owns you, little guy?

“You want some tuna, boy?”

“Meow”

Kara smiled, a soft laugh slipping out. She walked to the kitchen to put some tuna in one of the old bowls. The cat stayed outside, but ran towards her as she put down the bowl, gobbling up the tuna.

“You’re hungry, huh. I should give you a name if you’re going to stick around.” She watched him devour the food, tail twitching with satisfaction.

Espresso. 

Yeah, that fits. Strong, dark, unpredictable—and apparently, here to stay.

“Espresso?” she tested the water.

He made a sound as if he approved, and brushed against her.

“Do you know that lady who’s started coming in for coffee?” Talking to a cat, Rao.

The cat looked up. 

“She’s dark and mysterious too.”

And just like that, he turned and wandered off. Figures. Even the cat has better things to do than listen to me ramble.

Kara shook her head at herself, picking up the bowl to wash it, and returned back to the cafe. Two days, and this boring job had gotten quite interesting.

Espresso. Flat white. And her. Two mornings in a row — and already, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t feel so empty.

Chapter Text

The bell above the café door chimed, the sound already familiar in Lena’s morning routine. But something was different, there was an amazing smell permeating from the kitchen.

She walked to the counter, keeping her head high and her posture just as her mother had told her to do. The blonde was behind the counter again. She hadn’t expected her. She’d chosen the Moonbeam Café because the online reviews all mentioned June, some “free spirit” who undercharged her friends and brewed coffee by instinct. Lena had pictured an aging hippy with bangles on her wrist and incense in the corners…

Someone who didn’t read the newspapers or watch TV, and a place where Lena could just be Lena. Not “Lena Luthor”.

Instead –

She’d walked into bright blue eyes, messy hair tied back, and the brightest smile she’d ever seen. One that made even a cold Luthor heart jump.

“Flat white” she ordered, her eyes catching the sight of the blueberry muffins which were casting that delicious aroma. “And… a muffin.”

The blonde’s eyebrow raised, slightly.

“Sure” she said, that ray of sunshine smile breaking out. Lena let out a small one, but managed to reign it back in.

She glanced around the café as the barista prepared the order. Same as yesterday, but today she noticed that book again, the one the barista had been reading. She’d read it herself.

The blonde slid her coffee across the counter — mostly smooth, a hint of tremor in her fingers, catching the light just so. Even a small flaw couldn’t make her any less… compelling. She then put down the muffin, on a plate, with a napkin underneath.

Lena paid and carried them to her usual seat, beside the window. Empty as always. She tried not to look at the café, but at the same time, she observed as much as she could. It was a puzzle that had nagged at her. The décor was clearly lived in, but the girl wasn’t June.

Her answer came when a lady tottered in, scarf trailing, calling across the café:

“Kara, my sunshine! How’s our June? Still in that clinic, is she? Eating the jelly they call food?”

Lena let out a quiet breath through her nose, a laugh that didn’t quite form. Kara? Even her name suited her personality.

Kara had smiled, polite but a little tight around the edges. “She’s… comfortable. Thanks for asking, Ruth.”

So. Not the eccentric owner. A relative. And, if the lines in her face when the subject of June came up meant anything, a caretaker of sorts.

Lena felt something twist in her chest. She knew that kind of weight. Responsibility shoved into your arms whether you asked for it or not.

She unwrapped the muffin, picking a small bit off and tasting it. God, that’s good. Who can make a muffin that good, is this girl even human?

She lifted the napkin and unfolded it, her eyes catching on a loop of blue ink.

Happy Wednesday!

Kara had written her a note? Was this normal? Did everyone get one?

She glanced around the café, scanning other tables. No other napkins, no hidden messages.

Ridiculous. Childish, even.

And yet—impossible to ignore.

It chipped at the armour she tried so carefully to keep intact. She’d come to the L-Corp Redwood Bay satellite office for a little breathing space, a break from headlines and the weight of her surname. Here, she could be anonymous. Human. Just another woman ordering coffee.

Apparently, she’d been wrong.

She hesitated, then fished a pen from her bag — the Montblanc she carried into every meeting. Her own kind of armour. Beneath Kara’s looping script, she wrote in neat, restrained letters:

Noted – L

She paused over the signature. Just the initial. Safer. A shield.

Folding the napkin again, she set it down beside her cup.

Paper thin, impermanent — and somehow heavier than anything she’d signed in years.

While she was debating if she should tear it up right there and then, a motion caught her eye through the window. That cat again. She felt a smile tug at her lips.

She had wanted a break from the norm, and she’d got a girl and a cat. She hadn’t planned to notice the details of the café, or the hands that delivered her coffee so carefully, or the way a note could make her feel more warmth than any contract ever did.

She finished her muffin, taking the last bite slowly and spent a few more moments in the still of the cafe. The cat was watching her, steady and curious. As she stood, so did the cat, before padding off down the street.

She straightened her posture, arranged her chair, and allowed herself a quiet breath. This small exchange – ink on paper, made her feel something she’d not felt in a while: anticipation. Not for work, or obligations, but for the unknown, for tomorrow, for whatever this was.

She left the café, the faint aroma of coffee and muffins following her down the street. As the city hummed around her, she for once didn’t feel entirely alone.

Tomorrow, she’d be back.

Chapter Text

Kara cast her eyes over the last words of the book she’d been reading, before closing it and turning to the back to re-read the blurb—something she always did when finishing a story, as though it might be more meaningful now.

She’d been thinking recently about making small improvements to the cafe and wondered about starting a book exchange—there was a little shelf unused as you walked in the door, and she’d thought it’d be the perfect spot. Maybe this could be the first book.

Take one. Leave one. Or just borrow.

She smiled at the thought, then grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote the words carefully in bold block letters, colouring them in until they looked just right.

Pinning the note above the shelf, she set the book beneath it—a small beginning, but a beginning all the same.

She went upstairs to check her aunt’s shelves, just in case. Kara’s gaze wandered over the stacks that filled every corner—recipe books, novels, a lifetime of her great-aunt June’s collections. Running her fingers along the spines, she realised it didn’t feel right to take one. They’re hers, not mine.

Her focus turned to her own little shelf—the one she’d been stacking with books since taking over the café—Kara brushed her hand along the mismatched spines. Charity-shop finds, and a few new ones. Some were marked with strangers’ notes in the margins, others with her own. She chose a handful and carried them downstairs, arranging them on the shelf in neat, hopeful rows.

When she stepped back, she tilted her head. Would I take one?

Deciding it looked good enough, she returned to the counter, wiping it down again even though it didn’t need it. 

With nothing left to do, her thoughts slipped back to the woman who’d sat at the corner table not half an hour ago. L. Really? Her entire identity reduced to a single letter—and yet somehow, it was enough to keep Kara wondering.

She’d not known what to write on the napkin, and it just seemed so silly now. Happy Wednesday. She’d since thought it over for longer than she should have, and now the word made her think of a trailer she’d seen the other night—Wednesday Addams, sharp and poised, staring out of the screen like she could see straight through you.

The thought had made Kara laugh at the time. Now, glancing back at the empty corner table, the memory rose again. L carried the same aura, quiet and contained, like she didn’t care to explain herself to the world. But even Wednesday, beneath all that cold wit, had moments of care she couldn’t quite hide. Kara wondered if that was true for L, too—if the tiniest betrayals she’d caught were the cracks in armour, proof of something warmer underneath.

She pulled the napkin out of her apron pocket and smoothed her thumb over the neat writing. One word and just her initial. But the fact that she had written back was enough to make Kara feel less ridiculous about the whole thing.

And she’d bought a muffin. The only reason Kara had written the note in the first place, since she’d been giving her a napkin. Maybe she’ll buy another tomorrow. Kara shook herself. It’s nothing. Just a customer. Totally normal to write notes to a customer. Nothing weird at all. It’s not weird… right?

She folded the napkin and slipped it into her pocket—just as movement outside caught her eye. The cat again. Espresso. 

She walked to the door, and the cat approached.

“Hey boy, how’s your day going?”

Bending down to scratch him behind the ears, the cat headbutted her leg.

“Meow.”

“You just come here for food, don’t you?”

He looked up, those green eyes glinting with intelligence. Kara chuckled softly.

She went for some tuna and water, returning to the cat and setting the bowls down. Espresso immediately dug in, tail flicking with satisfaction. Good job I sell tuna sandwiches or I don’t know what I’d feed you.

She watched him for a moment and smiled. She liked his company in the evenings.

Back inside, Kara dusted the new shelf of books, rearranging them slightly. Her fingertips hovered over the spines. Will anyone pick these up? Add more? Would L? She’d seen her looking once before at the novel Kara had at the counter—something like interest behind her eyes.

Her gaze flicked to the corner table again. It’d been empty for hours, but even still, the air seemed to hold a trace of her, as if the shape of her presence lingered in the chair she’d left behind.

The tuna bowl was empty now, and Espresso sat in the doorway staring into the café. “You’re not allowed in here,” Kara told him, but the cat padded forward anyway—tentative paw after paw—until he was inside. He looked up in triumph, and Kara couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re going to get me into trouble one day, little guy. They could shut me down for you being in here.”

She let him roam as she washed the bowls, stacked the chairs, and looked around. There was warmth in the café now: the new shelf of books, the scent of muffins cooling, and the cat.

When Espresso padded back out into the night, he paused, glancing back at her through the glass before vanishing into the dark. Kara closed the door, flipped the sign to ‘Closed’, and gave the floor one last mop.

She took a deep breath. Tomorrow, the café would open again. The bell would chime. L might come back.

And what would she do then? Smile at the way she sipped her coffee? Write another note and call it normal? Kara didn’t know.

But she liked the not knowing. L was a puzzle she didn’t mind puzzling over.

Maybe she would write another note. Maybe she’d learn her whole name. Or maybe she’d just imagine.

Chapter Text

Kara tapped June’s old pen against her notepad, the café settling into its usual midmorning quiet after the morning rush. 

8:21. No sign of L yet - she was never late. I mean, it’s 4 minutes later than usual. Get a grip, Kara.

Her eyes drifted to the empty corner table, before she returned to her doodles. Those doodles shifted into words. Half-thoughts, little lines that weren’t quite sentences. She told herself she was just passing the time, but when she leaned back, the napkin looked suspiciously like a poem:

The girl who says only one thing,

Flat white, no smile, no small talk.

But I wonder what her voice would sound like,

If she ever spoke it, just for me.

Heat rose in her cheeks. She crumpled the napkin, tossed it toward the bin - missed.

Of course she missed.

She walked over to retrieve the paper when the bell over the door jingled, making her jump. 

Grabbing the crumpled poem, she glanced up and tried to look casual.

Lena stood there — sleek in black, eyes flicking briefly to the counter before sliding away. She moved with that effortless composure Kara could never quite imitate, like the air adjusted itself around her when she walked in.

She approached slowly, as if stepping into another world. Her hair was down today. She looked... different. Softer somehow, less deliberate. When she tucked a strand behind her ear, Kara caught herself watching the movement, the way the light caught at the curve of her jaw. It suited her, this unguarded version. Kara wondered if she’d worn it like that on purpose, and immediately told herself not to wonder.

“Morning, Kara,” Lena said softly. “A flat white, please.”

The voice hit her like sunlight spilling across a shadowed floor—unexpected, warm, and a little too much all at once. How does she know my name? Ah, she must have heard Ruth.

“Morning… L” 

Kara bit her lip. She didn’t mean it to sound weird, but it was all she had. 

The woman dipped her head, hiding something — shyness? Regret? Kara couldn’t tell. She returned behind the counter and put the crumbled piece of paper next to her notepad, then busied herself with the espresso machine, praying her hands didn’t shake. The air seemed thicker somehow, filled with all the things neither of them said.

As the machine hissed, L glanced toward the window. “Is that cat yours?” she asked quietly. 

Kara blinked, following her gaze. Espresso was outside again, tail flicking as he prowled along the sill. 

“‘Uh—no. He just hangs around. I think June, my great aunt, used to feed him sometimes. She’s sick now; had a stroke. I’m just keeping the café running for now.’” 

L nodded, eyes flicked toward the shelves, the worn wood, the faded posters. “I wondered,” she said simply. Kara noticed her eyes jump to the bookshelf with interest, then in a second it was gone. 

That was all. But the way she said it—like she’d been curious all this time but hadn’t let herself ask—made Kara’s stomach flip. She glanced at L and noticed her face soften - the faintest, fleeting smile curved her lips as Espresso pressed a paw against the glass toward her. It transformed her for a moment — the intimidating, perfectly composed woman suddenly open, human.

Kara’s chest tightened. She wanted to write that down too, to capture that version of L—but her hands were busy steaming milk.

When she finally slid the cup across, L took it without a word. But the tiniest pause, the way her fingers lingered on the saucer, felt like another sentence unspoken. 

L paid and carried the cup to her usual table — the one by the window, the one she always chose. She sat quietly, and Kara felt the strange pull of her stillness.

Every few minutes, Kara’s gaze drifted toward her. Espresso was near the glass, L watching him.

She’s here. Again. And just like that, the café isn’t empty anymore. 

Once, she looked up and their eyes met. Kara smiled — small, instinctive — before she could stop herself.

L didn’t smile back, not right away. Her expression flickered instead, thoughtful, almost distant, as if she were listening to something only she could hear. Maybe to the sound of that name — L — still echoing between them.

She looked down again, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. The sunlight caught in her hair, bringing out colours otherwise invisible. Kara tried to fix the image in her mind.

No muffin today. So no chance for a napkin note, but Kara didn’t mind. She had shown up again. And the way she’d said her name. Like it was something she wasn’t sure she should have. Soft. 

When L stood at last, she didn’t leave the cup behind. She carried it back to the counter, placed it gently beside the till.

“Thank you,” she said. Just two words, quiet and certain. Her voice lingered a second longer than it should have, like the last note of a song you don’t realise has ended.

Kara nodded, not trusting her voice to respond.

The bell above the door chimed softly as L left, and Kara found herself smiling again — though she wasn’t sure why.

When the morning stretched into afternoon, Kara paused to rearrange the bookshelf, smoothing spines and adjusting titles. A few new books had appeared on the shelf — a small victory. Kara smiled, running her fingers along the spines. Someone had actually used it. A worn paperback caught her eye: ‘The Circus Train’. She didn’t know who’d left it — a student, maybe — but the title alone made her oddly happy. The idea of stories passing quietly from hand to hand, even now, felt like proof the café was breathing again.

She lingered over the worn cover, imagining L reading it — fingers tracing the margins, absorbing every word, completely lost in another world. She thought about leaving a note in one of the books, something small, harmless… but the timing wasn’t right yet. 

By late afternoon, the café emptied again. Kara stacked chairs, wiped counters, and let her thoughts wander.

Her chest still raced at the memory. “Morning, Kara. A flat white, please.” Six words, but it was more conversation than all their weeks combined.

She glanced at the notepad, open again on the counter. The half-finished poem she’d scrawled that morning about L saying something more than “flat white” was now flattened and kept. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it — the timing, the way L had chosen today of all days to break her silence. It felt like the universe was nudging her, getting her to pay attention.

When the door chimed softly as the evening breeze stirred outside, Kara glanced up, half-expecting L to appear once more, though she knew that was unlikely. Still, she felt the pull — the quiet curiosity, the hope that tomorrow would bring something more. A note. A word. Maybe even her full name. 

Kara shook her head, smiling to herself. Patience, she told herself. The universe — or maybe just this café — has a way of revealing its surprises in time. 

She closed the notepad gently, and gave the café one last glance before turning off the lights. Tomorrow, she thought, L would come again. And tomorrow… perhaps Kara would finally hear the whole story. 

For now, the quiet held a promise, and Kara let herself linger in it a moment longer, imagining the next morning, imagining L, imagining what might unfold when she finally revealed the name behind the “L.”

The silence in the café no longer felt empty. It felt like it was waiting.