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Chapter Text

Part Two; Act I
Masterpiece Theatre

Marianas Trench "Masterpiece Theatre I" (Official Audio)

My masterpiece will fall apart

It was over before the start

If I burn out and slip away

But this is just a part I portray

And this is just a part I portray

You’re beautiful, can I hide in you awhile?

But this is just a part I portray

And this is just a part I portray

Chapter Text

1

The Physics of Falling

Lena had kissed countless people in her life—a statistical inevitability given her twenty-three years and boarding school upbringing. She’d catalogued them all: first kisses, last kisses, stage kisses, drunk kisses, kisses that meant nothing, kisses that meant everything, perfunctory social kisses at galas, desperate teenage fumbling in dormitory closets, calculated exchanges of power disguised as passion. Each one a data point on a graph in her mind that tracked her progression from awkward prodigy to someone who understood the mathematics of desire.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared her for the reality of Kara Danvers's lips against her own.

When Kara's hand slid up to cup her jaw, Lena's playfulness gradually melted into something more heated. The gentle pressure of Kara's fingers against her skin sent tiny sparks racing down her spine. She deepened the kiss, parting Kara's lips with her own, tasting the subtle sweetness of her mouth—a hint of berry chapstick, mixed with something uniquely Kara that made Lena's head swim.

This was never supposed to happen.

Not with a journalist. Not with someone who could unravel her with a single incisive question, whose articles could tear apart the silk cocoon of her carefully curated image. Not with someone who looked at her with impossibly blue eyes—oceans whose depths held buried secrets—that pierced every wall Lena Luthor had ever built.

But god…

"God," Lena murmured, breaking away just enough to catch her breath, their lips still close enough that she could feel the warmth of Kara's exhale. "I've wanted this since you walked into that green room."

Kara's eyes met hers, dazed, pupils dilated, her lips parted and kiss-swollen in the soft lighting. A flush had spread across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.

Lena wanted to follow it with her fingers, her mouth.

"Me too. I just didn't know how to—"

Lena pressed forward, capturing Kara's lips again, swallowing the rest of her sentence. This kiss was all searing heat and desperate want, the kind that made her fingertips tingle and her breath catch in her chest. Her lungs burned for oxygen, but she needed the taste of Kara's mouth more than her next breath.

Then came that sound—a soft, throaty catch in Kara's throat, barely audible yet unmistakable. It vibrated against Lena's lips like a secret confession, a delicate whimper that told her everything Kara couldn't put into words.

The last gossamer thread of her self-control unraveled completely. She leaned forward, giving in to the liquid fire coursing through her veins and the magnetic pull of Kara's body. Her knees found purchase in the supple leather as she settled across Kara's lap, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Straddling Kara's lap gave her a momentary feeling of power, her thighs tensed on either side of Kara's hips, the subtle rocking motion beneath her completely at her command—a familiar sensation that steadied her racing heart even as it sent heat pooling low in her belly.

From this vantage point, she could see Kara in exquisite detail—the way her blonde ponytail had come partially undone against the pristine white leather, wisps of gold escaping to frame her flushed face like a Renaissance painting; the delicate gold of her baby hairs, curling at Kara's temples, catching in the light like the rim of a sun-drenched cloud. Lena reached up and tugged the elastic from her own dark hair, letting it cascade around her shoulders in a curtain of black silk. The subtle widening of Kara's eyes made the small gesture worth it. In daylight, those eyes were a gentle, almost apologetic blue—a hue that suggested clear skies and clean slates. Now, close up, they were saturated and stormy, pupils blown so wide they seemed black at the center, rimmed by only the thinnest corona of cornflower blue. They flicked down, briefly, to Lena's mouth, then up again, and behind the thick lenses of her glasses they seemed to telegraph a thousand frantic equations at once: want, fear, hope, disbelief.

Lena wanted to drink in all of it. She wanted to gather the scattered fragments of Kara—her vulnerability, her desire, her careful restraint—and piece them together until the picture made sense. But first she wanted to feel Kara's hands on her body. Not as a theoretical possibility, but as an immediate, tangible present.

She reached down and took Kara by the hands—gently, as if handling something precious and impossibly breakable. Kara’s hands were warm, the skin of her palms were soft, and they trembled a little as Lena guided them upward. A casual observer might have mistaken the movement for choreography, but Lena could see the nervous tension in Kara’s jaw; she could feel the micro-hesitations in Kara’s fingertips, as if Kara was afraid of overstepping an invisible boundary. Lena pressed Kara’s hands to her own waist, flattening her fingers against the threadbare cotton of her favorite band t-shirt.

The touch was hesitant at first. Lena could sense Kara’s whole body vibrating with the effort it took to hold still, to not squeeze too hard or grab too much or do anything that might upset the delicate balance of consent and want. She found it devastatingly endearing, but also incredibly, almost excruciatingly, arousing. She rolled her hips—just slightly—to test the friction between their bodies, and the answering gasp from Kara was so honest, so unguarded, that it nearly undid Lena entirely.

She leaned in, her dark hair cascading down to create a secret cocoon where only their shared breaths and rising warmth existed. She pressed her mouth to Kara’s again, softly at first, then with a deliberate, escalating pressure. This time she let her lips linger, coaxing a response, and when Kara parted her mouth in surprise, Lena deepened the kiss, letting her tongue graze Kara’s lips before darting inside. The taste was intoxicating—the fruit-sweet chapstick, the faint bite of coffee, the salt of skin, and beneath it all something nervy and electric that was pure Kara.

Lena pulled back, just a fraction, and opened her eyes. 

Kara was staring at her with an expression of wild, unfiltered awe—like she’d just witnessed a miracle, or an explosion, or both at once. 

Lena’s heart thudded with pride.

She could get used to being someone’s miracle.

She settled her hands on either side of Kara’s face, cradling her jaw, running her thumbs along the delicate bones beneath her ears. The gesture was tender, but her intention was clear. She wanted Kara’s arms around her, wanted to feel them tighten and pull her closer. She wanted to be enveloped.

Lena could feel Kara’s hands hovering at the boundary of her waist, as if afraid that even the lightest pressure might shatter the spell they’d conjured. She wanted to ease away that trembling hesitation, to make it safe for Kara to reach for her. Leaning in so her lips brushed Kara’s ear, Lena whispered, “You can touch me.” Her voice was velvet, neither command nor plea, but something elemental that bypassed both their brains and went straight to the nerves.

Before Kara could respond, Lena dipped her head and caught Kara’s mouth in another kiss—this one slower, more intentional, as if time itself had melted into honey and pooled between them. Lena’s tongue traced the contour of Kara’s lower lip, savoring its softness and the subtle movements Kara made in response. A shiver, a sharp gasp, the smallest tilt of her chin that signaled a hunger barely held in check. The pink tip of Kara’s tongue flickered out, darting against Lena’s in a shy but unmistakable invitation.

Lena accepted it gladly, deepening the kiss, coaxing Kara’s lips to part so she could explore the sweet, vulnerable space inside. Every gentle movement, every small sound Kara made, was a feedback loop that amplified Lena’s own desire, sending it ricocheting through her body until she thought her skin might combust from the heat.

But Kara’s hands remained tentative—fingertips ghosting over the fabric of Lena’s shirt, never daring to tighten their grip. Lena wanted more; she wanted to be claimed, to be anchored by Kara’s touch. She broke the kiss and let her forehead rest against Kara’s, their breaths tangling in the scant inches of space between them.

"Is it okay if I—?" The unfinished question trembled in the air, raw and unresolved. Kara's thumb traced infinitesimal figure-eights over the sliver of bare skin where Lena's shirt had ridden up, a gesture so hesitant it was almost apologetic.

Lena froze, her breath caught in her throat.

Permission.

Kara was asking for permission.

Despite the fact that she was literally straddling Kara's lap, despite the heat of their kisses still burning on her lips, despite the way she had guided Kara's trembling hands to her own waist—Kara was still asking for permission. As if the boundaries between them needed constant, careful negotiation, even now.

The realization sent a shiver through her that rippled from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the feather-light touch at her hip. When was the last time someone had asked? When had anyone ever paused, hovering at the precipice of desire, their breath hot against her collarbone, to make sure she wanted to fall?

Andrea never had.

Andrea took—with elegant manicured fingers that assumed consent, leaving crescent-moon indentations on her thighs, with whispered demands disguised as endearments that ghosted across her ear, with touches that left Lena wondering if her own hesitation was just another personal failing to add to the collection she kept locked behind her ribs.

But here was Kara, her blue eyes wide behind smudged glasses with a fingerprint on the left lens, waiting. Just... waiting. Her pulse visibly thrumming at the hollow of her throat, a flush creeping up her neck like watercolor bleeding into paper. As if Lena's answer mattered more than the heat building between them. 

As if Lena herself mattered more than the moment.

"Yes," Lena whispered, her voice breaking on the single syllable. She cleared her throat, steadying herself. "Yes, please touch me."

Kara's hands finally claimed her waist, each fingertip a point of heat through the thin cotton. Lena's eyes fluttered closed at the sensation—firm enough to feel wanted, yet still holding back, as if Kara was measuring out exactly how much pressure wouldn't hurt her.

"You won't break me," Lena murmured, leaning in to brush her lips against the shell of Kara's ear. "I promise."

She felt more than heard Kara's sharp intake of breath, the subtle tensing of muscles beneath her—a ripple of anticipation that traveled from Kara's shoulders down to where their thighs pressed together.

Kara's hands slid upward, hesitantly at first, fingertips barely grazing the cotton as if mapping a delicate landscape, then with growing confidence as they traced the curve of Lena's ribs through her worn band t-shirt. The fabric bunched slightly under her touch, revealing another inch of pale skin at Lena's waist—a sliver of moonlight against shadow. Kara's fingertips traveled the ridges of Lena's ribs, each ridge and valley an undiscovered country, stopping just below the swell of her breasts where Lena's heartbeat thrummed like a caged bird against her sternum.

"I want—" Kara started, then swallowed hard. Her eyes darted between Lena's face and her own hands, as if seeking permission for each incremental movement. "I want to touch you everywhere, but I—"

Lena rocked forward slightly, pressing her hips down against Kara's lap. The pressure drew a soft, surprised sound from Kara's throat—half gasp, half whimper—and sent electricity racing up Lena's spine like lightning forking through a midnight sky. "Then do it," she breathed, the words barely audible over the thundering of her own pulse in her ears.

Kara's hands trembled as they inched higher, fingertips grazing the underside of Lena's breasts through her shirt. The cotton, worn thin from countless washes, felt like tissue paper between their skin. The touch was so light it was almost maddening—like being tickled with a feather when what she craved was the weight of an anchor. Lena arched her back slightly, pressing herself more firmly into Kara's hands, feeling the rough calluses on Kara's fingertips catch against the fabric.

"Like this?" Kara whispered, her palms finally cupping Lena's breasts. The warmth of her touch seeped through the thin cotton, her fingers curving perfectly around the soft weight.

"God, yes," Lena sighed, her head tipping back, dark hair cascading down her spine like spilled ink. Kara's thumbs brushed experimentally over her nipples, which hardened instantly beneath the gentle friction. The sensation sent a jolt straight down her spine, pooling like liquid heat between her legs, a molten ache that made her thighs tremble.

When she looked down again, Kara was watching her with parted lips, a mixture of awe and uncertainty that made Lena's chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with physical desire. There was something vulnerable in Kara's expression—something beyond simple nervousness—a raw, unguarded wonder that made her look both younger and older than her years.

"What is it?" Lena asked softly, placing her hands over Kara's to still them for a moment.

Kara bit her lip, a flush spreading across her cheeks that was different from the one brought on by their kisses. "I've never..." she started, then paused, her eyes darting away. "I mean, I've been with people before, but not—" She took a deep breath. "Not with a woman."

The confession hung in the air between them, fragile and raw.

"Oh," she said softly.

Oh… god. Kara's first time with a woman and she'd been grinding against her like some desperate teenager. Her stomach dropped as she instinctively shifted her weight backward, already lifting her weight off Kara's lap. "I'm sorry, I didn't—".

Kara's hands slipped from beneath Lena's grasp, abandoning the warmth of her breasts to wrap around her waist in a single fluid motion. The unexpected strength in those arms locked Lena in place as she tried to retreat. "Don't," Kara whispered, her eyes wide. "Please don't go."

"I should have asked first if you were comfortable with—" Lena's voice caught in her throat as she searched Kara's face, seeing only the unguarded blue of Kara's eyes, wide with a trust that made Lena's chest ache. "We can stop—"

"No," Kara said—firm, fierce, the syllable a stake in the sand. She cupped Lena's face with both hands, fingers trembling, but her blue eyes were unwavering. "I don't want to stop."

Something in Kara's tone—a raw, unvarnished honesty—made Lena's breath hitch in her throat like a sparrow caught mid-flight. The gentle pressure of Kara's hands against her cheeks anchored her, keeping her from drifting away on a tide of self-recrimination that threatened to pull her under.

"I'm nervous," Kara admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, her pupils dilated so wide they nearly eclipsed the blue of her irises. "But not because I don't want this. Because I want it so much it scares me."

Lena felt her heart stutter in her chest, a painful, wonderful ache spreading beneath her ribs. She covered Kara's hands with her own. "We can go as slow as you need."

"I don't want slow," Kara said, her eyes darkening. "I just want to be... good. For you."

Kara's raw confession knocked the air from Lena's lungs, leaving her chest hollow and aching. How many times had she thought the same thing with Andrea, measuring every touch, every sound against an impossible standard? How many times had she felt like a disappointment when she couldn't read minds, couldn't anticipate desires left unspoken?

Lena pressed her forehead to Kara's. "There's no instruction manual for this," she whispered. "No test to pass."

Her lips grazed Kara's—a touch so light it might have been imagined. "Just show me what you want."

Kara's exhale warmed the narrow space between them. "I want your mouth on mine." Her voice caught, color blooming beneath her skin. "And the way you were moving before..."

Something molten unfurled in Lena's chest as Kara's words sank in, a heat that spread outward from her sternum to her fingertips like brandy warming blood. She shifted her weight intentionally, rocking forward with a slow roll of her hips. The friction where their bodies met—denim against denim, the seam of her jeans pressing exactly right—sent currents of electricity racing up her spine, each vertebra lighting up in sequence before pooling low in her abdomen like liquid fire, a deep ache that pulsed in time with her quickening heartbeat.

"This?" Lena asked, her voice emerging rough-edged, almost unrecognizable to her own ears.

Kara's eyes fell shut, her head tilting back against the white leather. "Yes," she breathed, the single syllable catching in her throat. "Just like that."

The raw honesty in Kara's voice made Lena's pulse quicken. She leaned forward, reclaiming Kara's mouth, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and tugging gently. The sound that escaped Kara's throat—half-surprise, half-surrender—vibrated against Lena's lips like a plucked guitar string.

"And when you—" Kara's words dissolved into a soft gasp as Lena rolled her hips again, more insistently this time. "When you bite my lip like that."

Lena did it again, this time with slightly more pressure, savoring the way Kara's breath hitched in response. She could feel Kara's fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her jeans, thumbs pressing into her hip bones while the rest of her fingers curled around her waistband, cool fingertips slipping from the denim to graze the heated skin above it. The pressure was exquisite—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her, to remind her that this was real.

"What else?" Lena murmured against Kara's jaw, trailing kisses down to the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Tell me what you want."

Kara's grip tightened. "I like—" Kara swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I like your hair falling around us, like we're in our own world."

Lena smiled against Kara's skin, letting her dark tresses cascade forward, creating a silken curtain that separated them from everything else. In this private space, she could feel Kara's breath quicken, could see the way her pupils dilated further, nearly eclipsing the blue of her irises.

"And your perfume," Kara continued, her confidence growing with each confession. "When you lean close, it's like... jasmine and something darker. It makes me dizzy."

Lena felt a rush of warmth flood through her veins at the unexpected detail—at the realization that Kara had been cataloging these little things about her all along, storing them away like precious gems. She dipped her head to the hollow of Kara's throat, letting her lips brush against the fluttering pulse there, feeling the rapid staccato beat beneath skin.

"Like this?" she whispered, her breath warm and damp against Kara's flushed skin.

"God, yes," Kara sighed. One hand abandoned Lena's hip to tangle in her hair, fingers threading through the silken midnight strands with surprising gentleness, nails lightly scraping her scalp. "And when you look at me, right before you kiss me—like you're memorizing my face, like you're afraid I might disappear."

The raw vulnerability in Kara's admission made something twist in Lena's chest, a sweet ache that bloomed outward. She pulled back just enough to meet Kara's gaze, letting her see the naked want there, the way Lena's eyes traced every contour of her face—the crimson flush spreading across her cheekbones, the tiny amber freckle at the corner of her mouth that begged to be kissed, the way her pink lips parted in anticipation.

"I am," Lena admitted, her voice barely audible, a secret shared in the microscopic space between them. "Memorizing you."

Kara's other hand slid up Lena's back, fingertips tracing the curve of her spine through the worn cotton of her t-shirt with a reverence that made Lena's breath catch in her throat. "And when you make that sound—" Kara's voice grew bolder, her eyes darkening to midnight blue, pupils expanding like black holes. "That little catch in your breath when I touch you somewhere new."

As if to demonstrate, Kara's fingers found the sensitive hollow at the nape of Lena's neck, applying just enough pressure to send an electric shiver cascading down her spine. True to Kara's words, Lena's breath hitched audibly, her eyelids fluttering at the unexpected sensation.

"That sound," Kara whispered, a note of wonder in her voice, like someone witnessing a shooting star. "It makes me want to find every spot on your body that makes you do that."

The naked honesty in Kara's words, the way she was opening up about her desires—it was intoxicating, heady as aged whiskey. Lena felt herself melting further into Kara's touch, any remaining hesitation dissolving like brown sugar in hot tea, sweet and complete.

"Keep talking," Lena urged, her lips finding Kara's again for a brief, searing kiss. "Tell me more."

Kara's fingers tensed against Lena's back, her palm flattening to press Lena closer, while her other hand tightened in the silky hair at the nape of Lena's neck. "I've thought about this," she confessed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated against Lena's skin. "About you. Since that first interview."

"Have you?" Lena traced the shell of Kara's ear with her tongue, savoring the shiver that ran through Kara's body in response. "What exactly did you think about?"

Kara's breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "I thought about how your lipstick would look smudged." Her thumb brushed the corner of Lena's mouth, where crimson had surely blurred beyond its perfect lines. "Just like this."

The touch sent a jolt through Lena's body, electric and immediate, a current that traveled from the point of contact straight to her core, igniting every nerve ending along the way. She rolled her hips again, a slow roll like the first swell of a wave, savoring the way Kara's fingers responded—pressing crescents into her flesh, leaving temporary marks that would fade but linger as phantom sensations long after they parted.

"What else?" Lena whispered, her voice rough with want.

"I thought about your hands," Kara continued, gaining confidence with each word. "The way your fingers move when you talk about something you're passionate about. I wondered what they'd feel like—" She swallowed hard, a fresh flush creeping up her neck. "What they'd feel like on me. Inside me."

Lena's mouth went desert-dry. She brought her hand to Kara's face, the pad of her thumb tracing the plush curve of Kara's bottom lip—feeling the slight chap where Kara had nervously bitten it earlier, the warmth of her quickened breath, the almost imperceptible tremble that betrayed how much she wanted this too.

"I thought about your voice," Kara continued, her words coming faster now, tumbling out like she couldn't hold them back any longer. "Not just when you sing, but when you laugh—that real laugh you do sometimes when you forget to be Lena Luthor for a second. I wondered what sounds you'd make if I—"

"If you what?" Lena prompted, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"If I touched you the way I wanted to." Kara's hands slid from Lena's waist to her thighs, fingers splaying wide against the denim. "If I kissed you here—" Her gaze dropped to the hollow of Lena's throat. "And here—" Lower, to the deliberate slash in the cotton of her t-shirt, where pale skin and the silver pendant nestled in her cleavage caught the light with each breath.

Lena felt herself grow impossibly warmer, her skin flushing from chest to hairline as liquid heat coursed through her veins like wildfire, settling low in her abdomen with a throb that made her thighs clench involuntarily beneath the rough denim of her jeans. "Show me," she breathed, the words barely audible. "Show me what you've thought about."

Something shifted in Kara's expression—a flicker of determination replacing the uncertainty. Her hands moved to the hem of Lena's worn black t-shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin of her stomach. The unexpected contact left goosebumps in its wake, a trail of raised skin that mapped Kara's tentative exploration.

"May I?" she asked, her voice steadier now, husky with want, though her fingers still trembled slightly against the warm silk of Lena's skin, hovering at that threshold between fabric and flesh.

Lena nodded, lifting her arms in silent permission.

Kara tugged the shirt upward with trembling fingers, revealing inch by inch of alabaster skin—the taut plane of her stomach with its barely visible constellation of freckles, the delicate ridges of her ribs, the shadowed valley between her breasts encased in black lace. When the fabric finally cleared Lena's head, freeing a cascade of raven hair that fell in tousled waves across her bare shoulders, Kara let the shirt fall forgotten to the floor beside them.

The artificial chill from the air conditioning unit raised goosebumps across Lena's exposed skin, her nipples visibly hardening beneath the delicate lace, but it was Kara's gaze that made her truly shiver—hungry yet reverent, blue eyes darkened to midnight, lips parted in a silent gasp.

"I've imagined this," Kara whispered, her hands hovering just inches from Lena's skin, as if afraid to touch what she'd unveiled. "But reality is..."

"Is what?" Lena asked, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her state of undress.

"Better," Kara breathed, finally letting her hands settle on Lena's ribs, just below the black lace of her bra. "So much better..."

Lena felt her chest tighten at the raw sincerity in Kara's voice. She leaned forward, her dark hair falling in a curtain around them both, capturing Kara's mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and sweetness—tender as a whispered confession at first, then desperate as a drowning woman seeking air. Her tongue swept across Kara's lower lip, tracing its fullness, seeking entrance, trying to pour everything she couldn't articulate into the slick heat of their mouths meeting, the shared breath between them growing ragged and hot.

Kara's hands grew bolder, sliding up to cup the full weight of Lena's breasts through the delicate lace, her thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of dusky nipples visible through the sheer fabric. The friction sent electric sparks racing down Lena's spine, liquid heat pooling between her legs where the seam of her jeans pressed against her most sensitive spot, creating an exquisite pressure that made her thighs clench involuntarily around Kara's hips.

"I've thought about taking you to bed," Kara murmured against Lena's mouth. "About peeling off every layer until there's nothing between us. About learning every inch of you—what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble." Her fingers traced the edge of Lena's bra, slipping just beneath the lace. "About making you come apart under my hands, my mouth."

The words, spoken in Kara's earnest voice sent liquid heat coursing through Lena's veins. Her skin prickled with new goosebumps despite the warmth building between them. Each syllable felt like a physical touch, trailing down her spine, settling low in her abdomen where tension coiled tight as a spring. She shifted on Kara's lap, the seam of her jeans pressing against her center with exquisite friction that made her breath catch and her thighs quiver.

"I've thought about how you'd taste," Kara continued, her lips trailing down Lena's jaw to the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Here—" A gentle nip at Lena's earlobe. "And here—" A kiss pressed to the pulse point at her throat. "And lower."

Lena couldn't suppress the moan that escaped her at the implication—a sound that started deep in her chest and broke against her lips like a wave. Her hips rocked forward again instinctively, the rough seam of her jeans pressing against the throbbing heat between her legs. The denim felt too tight, too restrictive as her body sought pressure, friction, anything to relieve the mounting tension coiling tight in her abdomen.

"God, Kara," she gasped, her fingers finding the elastic band in Kara's hair. She tugged it free with one swift motion, watching blonde waves tumble loose across her shoulders before threading her fingers through them, pulling Kara's face back up to meet her gaze. "For someone who's never been with a woman before, you certainly know what to say to drive one wild."

A small, almost shy smile curved Kara's lips, a startling contrast to the heat in her eyes. "I'm a journalist," she said, her voice low and teasing. "I do my research."

The unexpected humor made Lena laugh—a rich, throaty sound that tumbled from her lips and cascaded between them like spilled wine. The vibration of it traveled through her bare skin, a shared tremor that somehow eased the electric tension without diffusing it, transforming raw desire into something warmer, something that settled in the narrow space between their bodies like a secret.

"Is that so?" Lena arched an eyebrow, her own smile turning wicked. "And what exactly did this... research... entail?"

Kara's blush deepened, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath her collar. "Books," she admitted. "Articles. And, um, some videos."

"Videos?" Lena echoed, her smile widening as she pictured Kara, glasses perched on her nose, studiously watching lesbian porn with the same concentration she might apply to a documentary.

"For educational purposes," Kara insisted, though her eyes danced with self-deprecating humor.

"Of course." Lena leaned in, her lips brushing Kara's ear. "And did you touch yourself, while conducting this research? Did you imagine it was me making you feel good?"

Kara's sharp intake of breath was answer enough. "Yes," she whispered, the single syllable raw with honesty. "I thought about your hands instead of mine. Your mouth. Your voice telling me what you wanted."

The confession sent a fresh wave of heat through Lena's body, starting at the base of her spine and radiating outward like wildfire consuming dry brush. Her skin prickled with electricity, nipples tightening painfully against the cool air. She became acutely aware of the slick dampness between her thighs, the way her black lace panties clung, and how each subtle shift against Kara's lap sent sparks of pleasure radiating through her pelvis. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs that she wondered if Kara could feel it—a trapped bird throwing itself desperately against its cage, matching the rapid pulse visibly fluttering at the hollow of her throat.

"And what did I want, in these fantasies of yours?" Lena asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as she rolled her hips again, more intentional this time.

Kara's hands slid to Lena's back, fingers finding the clasp of her bra with surprising dexterity. "You wanted me to touch you," she said, her voice gaining confidence as she unhooked the delicate fabric with a single flick of her fingers. "To taste you." The straps slid down Lena's arms, the lace falling away to reveal her completely. "To make you forget your own name."

The air in the room seemed to thicken as Kara's gaze traveled over Lena's exposed skin. For a moment, neither of them moved—Lena half-naked in Kara's lap, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath; Kara still fully clothed, her eyes wide and hungry behind smudged glasses, her lips parted in silent awe.

"You're so beautiful," Kara whispered. Her hands hovered inches from Lena's skin, still trembling. "Can I—"

"Yes," Lena breathed, not needing to hear the rest of the question. "Please."

Kara's hands settled on Lena's ribs, just below the curve of her breasts, her thumbs tracing small, tentative circles on the sensitive skin. The contrast of temperatures—Kara's palms warm and slightly calloused, Lena's skin cool and impossibly soft—created an electric current between them. Each touch sent visible shivers racing across Lena's flesh, a constellation of goosebumps rising in their wake despite the feverish heat building between their bodies. When Kara's thumbs finally brushed the creamy underside of her breasts, where the skin was even softer, Lena couldn't suppress the soft gasp that escaped her parted lips, the sound hanging in the air between them like a prayer.

"Like this?" Kara asked, her voice husky with want.

"Yes," Lena managed, her own voice barely recognizable to her ears. "Just like that."

Emboldened, Kara's hands moved higher, palms cupping the full weight of Lena's breasts. The contrast of Kara's sun-warmed fingers against Lena's cool alabaster skin sent electricity crackling between them. Lena's back arched instinctively, her spine curving like a bow, pressing herself more firmly into Kara's waiting hands. When Kara's thumbs brushed experimentally over her nipples—dusky pink peaks—Lena's breath caught sharply in her throat, the sound half-gasp, half-whimper.

"And this?" Kara's eyes flickered up to meet Lena's, seeking reassurance even as her confidence grew.

"God, yes," Lena breathed, her hips rocking forward of their own accord. The friction where their bodies met sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs, her jeans suddenly an unbearable barrier. "More."

Kara leaned forward, her lips finding the delicate curve where Lena's neck met her shoulder. She traced a path of feather-light kisses along the sharp ridge of Lena's collarbone, each press of her mouth lingering just long enough to leave a ghost of moisture that cooled in the apartment air. The contrast between Kara's hot mouth and the subsequent chill made Lena shiver uncontrollably. When Kara's lips traveled lower, hovering just above the creamy swell of Lena's breast where a faint blue vein was visible beneath translucent skin, she paused, her breath warming the goose-bumped flesh, making Lena's rosy nipple tighten further in anticipation.

"May I?" she asked, her eyes meeting Lena's with a mixture of desire and uncertainty that made Lena's chest ache in the most exquisite way.

"Please," Lena whispered, threading her fingers through Kara's golden hair, guiding her gently.

The first touch of Kara's mouth against her breast sent lightning crackling through Lena's nervous system, each synapse firing in rapid succession until her entire body hummed like a live wire. The wet velvet heat of Kara's tongue traced deliberate, torturous circles around her nipple, which had puckered to an almost painful hardness, before drawing it into the silken cavern of her mouth. The gentle suction that followed pulled not just at her flesh but seemed to create an electric current that connected directly to the molten core between her thighs. Lena's head fell back, hair cascading down her bare back as a moan—raw, unrestrained, almost animalistic—tore from her throat. Her fingers twisted in Kara's golden waves, nails scraping against her scalp as she held her there, anchoring herself against the overwhelming tide of sensation.

"Fuck, Kara," she gasped, her hips rolling against Kara's lap in a desperate search for pressure, for friction, for anything to ease the throbbing ache between her legs.

Kara's mouth moved to her other breast, tongue tracing the delicate blue veins beneath translucent skin before circling the rosy areola. Her teeth grazed the sensitive peak, the gentle scrape drawing a shuddering gasp from Lena's throat. Meanwhile, Kara's hands slid down to grip Lena's hips, fingers splayed wide across the curve where denim strained against flesh. The pressure of those fingertips—five points of heat on each side—dug into the fabric, guiding Lena's movements in a slow, more intentional rhythm that sent another molten wave of heat coursing through her veins, pooling low in her abdomen like liquid fire.

"Is this okay?" Kara murmured against her skin, looking up through her lashes.

"More than okay," Lena managed, her voice breaking on the words. "But I need—I want—"

Her hands fumbled with the delicate pearl buttons of Kara's powder blue cardigan, fingers trembling as each one slipped free, revealing the crisp white button-up beneath. The soft wool caught against her fingernails as she pushed it open, impatience mounting at all the layers between them. "Too many clothes," she breathed, desperate to feel Kara's skin against hers.

Kara pulled back just enough to let Lena work at each button of her crisp white oxford. Lena's fingers trembled slightly, her knuckles brushing against the warm skin beneath with each small victory. When the last button surrendered, Lena pushed the shirt from Kara's shoulders, letting it fall in a heap beside them on the leather couch. The sight of Kara's sun-kissed skin—skin she'd been aching to touch since their first interview—made Lena's mouth go dry. She traced the curve of Kara's collarbone, following it down to where her simple cotton bra began.

"You're gorgeous," Lena murmured, her hands sliding around to Kara's back, finding the clasp. "May I?"

Kara nodded, her eyes never leaving Lena's face as Lena unhooked the clasp and drew the straps down Kara's arms, dropping the bra to the floor. The sight of Kara beneath her—flushed and bare from the waist up, golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, blue eyes dark with desire—made Lena's breath catch in her throat.

"God," she whispered, her hands hovering just above Kara's skin, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of this moment. This was Kara—sweet, earnest Kara who looked at her like she hung the moon, who asked permission for every touch, who had fantasized about her but never pushed.

"Touch me," Kara breathed, taking Lena's hands and placing them on her breasts. "Please."

The warmth of Kara's skin beneath her palms sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through Lena's body. She leaned forward, capturing Kara's mouth in a kiss that was all heat and hunger, her tongue sliding against Kara's as her thumbs brushed over hardened nipples, drawing a soft moan from Kara's throat that vibrated against her lips.

Kara's hands found their way to the button of Lena's jeans, hovering there with fingertips just grazing the cool metal, a silent question in the infinitesimal space between skin and fastening. Lena broke the kiss just long enough to nod, her breath coming in short gasps. Kara's fingers worked the stubborn button free from denim worn soft at the edges, then slowly lowered the zipper tooth by tooth.

The sound of metal teeth parting seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room, a harsh mechanical counterpoint to their ragged breathing. When Kara's hand slipped beneath the denim, fingertips grazing the black scalloped lace of Lena's panties already damp with want, Lena couldn't suppress the violent shudder that ran through her body from sternum to knees.

"Is this okay?" Kara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Lena breathed, her hips tilting forward instinctively. "God, yes."

Kara's fingers traced the edge of her panties, dipping just beneath the elastic to brush against the sensitive skin of her lower abdomen. The touch was feather-light, almost maddening in its gentleness. Lena pressed forward instinctively, then froze, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face as memories of Andrea's accusations surfaced—was she really this easy, this desperate? But Kara's eyes held such reverence that Lena's doubt dissolved into need, her hips rocking forward despite herself.

"Please," she whispered, the word catching in her throat as Kara's fingers moved lower, hovering just above where she needed them most.

But Lena couldn't just receive—not when Kara was beneath her, flushed and beautiful, her skin warm and inviting. Her hands found the button of Kara's jeans, fumbling slightly in her eagerness, nails catching on the worn metal. The button finally slipped free with a satisfying pop, and she dragged the zipper down, the vibration humming against her fingertips. The denim parted to reveal a glimpse of pale blue cotton that matched Kara's discarded bra, a triangle of fabric already darkened at its center with unmistakable evidence of Kara's desire.

"I can't help myself," Lena murmured against Kara's lips, her fingers slipping beneath the denim to trace the waistband of Kara's underwear. "I need to touch you too."

Kara's breath hitched, her hips lifting slightly off the couch to press into Lena's touch. "Yes," she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "Please."

The position was awkward, both of them with hands trapped between their bodies, knuckles bumping against hipbones, wrists bent at impossible angles. Their jeans hung open like gaping mouths, the metal teeth of their zippers pressing tiny half-moons into tender inner thighs. The leather couch protested beneath them with every shift, releasing puffs of sandalwood-scented air from between the cushions. When Kara's middle finger finally slipped beneath the delicate scalloped edge to brush against slick heat, Lena's gasp tore through the room like lightning. Lena's own hand mirrored the movement, feeling the dampness that had soaked through the pale blue cotton, her fingertips registering both the coarse texture of the fabric and the silken warmth beneath it.

"Maybe," Kara started, her voice breaking as Lena's fingers pressed more firmly. "Maybe we should—" She took a shuddering breath, her free hand cupping Lena's cheek. "Would you like to move somewhere more comfortable than… um… the couch?"

Lena looked down at their tangled position—her jeans undone, Kara's hand disappearing beneath the denim; Kara's own jeans open at Lena's urging, both of them topless and flushed with desire. The sight sent another pulse of heat through her core.

"Bedroom?" Lena suggested, her voice rough with want, already imagining Kara spread out beneath her on clean sheets, nothing between them but skin and shared breath.

Kara nodded, her eyes dark with promise. "Bedroom."

Chapter Text

2

Afterglow

Kara woke to the feel of impossibly soft sheets against her bare skin, the kind of luxury that felt almost sinful—silky and cool where they draped across her hip, warm where her body had been nestled against them all night. Sunlight filtered through partially closed blinds, casting stripes of gold across the vast expanse of Lena's bed. The quiet was almost startling—no garbage trucks backing up with their insistent beeping, no neighbors arguing through paper-thin walls, no construction crews starting their day with jackhammers and shouted instructions.

Just silence, broken only by her own breathing and the distant, barely perceptible hum of the city seventy floors below.

She stretched, a languid movement that sent pleasant aches rippling through muscles she hadn't used quite like that in... well, longer than she cared to admit. Her body felt both heavy and buoyant, satisfied in a way that made her want to sink deeper into the mattress and never leave. The sheets smelled faintly of Lena's perfume—that intoxicating dark jasmine scent that had clung to her skin, her hair, her very breath as their bodies had tangled together beneath these same sheets.

Memories flickered behind her closed eyelids—Lena's fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to send electric currents down her spine, the cool press of silver rings against her heated skin leaving phantom circles along her collarbone. The way Lena had looked at her in the dim light of the bedroom, eyes dark with desire and something deeper, more vulnerable, her pupils so dilated they nearly eclipsed the green entirely, lashes casting feathery shadows across high cheekbones. The sounds she'd made when Kara touched her just right—first a sharp intake of breath, then a throaty whimper that crescendoed into something raw and unrestrained—those perfect crimson-stained lips parting on a gasp that Kara had swallowed with her own mouth, tasting expensive whiskey and surrender.

Kara's lips curved into a contented smile as she shifted, one arm stretching lazily across the mattress, fingers searching for the soft warmth of Lena's skin.

They found only cool, empty silk instead.

The realization tore through her pleasant haze like ice water down her spine, crystallizing her drowsy contentment into sharp, brittle awareness. Her eyes snapped open, confirming what her searching fingers had already discovered—she was alone in Lena's enormous bed, adrift in a sea of rumpled midnight-blue silk. The other side of the bed was a chaotic tangle of sheets, still bearing the wrinkles and folds of their night together, but not a single trace of Lena herself remained—no lingering warmth, no stray strand of dark hair on the pillow, not even the faintest impression where her body should have been, not even a lingering whisper of warmth suggesting she'd been gone for some time, long enough for all evidence of her to evaporate into the morning air.

Kara sat up, the silk sheets pooling in liquid folds around her waist. The morning air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps across her collarbones and along her arms. She shivered, unsure if it was the chill or the sudden hollow feeling that expanded beneath her ribs—a cavity where warmth had been just hours before, now echoing with absence.

"Lena?"

The sound of her voice—thin and uncertain—echoed and vanished in the high-ceilinged bedroom, swallowed by its pristine emptiness. The charcoal-gray walls shifted between warm and cool with the morning light, absorbing then reflecting its glow like a living thing. Floor-to-ceiling windows—half-covered by motorized titanium blinds cast prison-bar shadows across Brazilian cherry hardwood floors. The air itself felt expensive, filtered and temperature-controlled to the exact degree of comfort that only obscene wealth could maintain.

Her gaze caught on a nightstand that revealed more than Lena probably intended—a precarious stack books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages that spoke of obsessive re-reading: Patti Smith’s Just Kids, a tab-marked Janis Joplin biography, Plath’s The Bell Jar, and a rubber-banded Dickinson volume. Beside them, a single framed photograph captured a younger Lena perched cross-legged on a weathered picnic table, head thrown back mid-laugh, an acoustic guitar cradled in her lap, her slender fingers frozen mid-chord on the fretboard. Sam leaned into her from one side, an arm thrown across her shoulders, Jimmy flashed a peace sign from the other, while Andrea—half in shadow—watched Lena with unmistakable adoration.

But no sign of Lena herself—no steam escaping from beneath the bathroom door, no clink of a spoon against ceramic in the kitchen beyond, no soft padding of bare feet across hardwood floors. Just the hollow silence of a space where someone should be but isn't.

Kara's stomach twisted—acid rising, throat tightening—as she stared at the empty pillow beside her. She'd woken like this before. The disorienting moment between dream and reality when the mattress dipped only under her weight. Three times, to be exact. Once with Tommy after graduation. Once with that photographer whose name she'd already forgotten. And now with Lena Luthor—the worst possible person to add to this particular pattern. Not just because Lena was her subject, the woman she was supposed to be profiling objectively. Not just because Cat would eviscerate her professionally for crossing this line. But because unlike the others, Kara had actually felt something real last night—something that transformed waking up alone from mere morning-after awkwardness into a hollow ache beneath her ribs.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, toes sinking into a rug so plush it felt like stepping onto a cloud. Her glasses sat folded on the nightstand where Lena had placed them. Next to them lay a faded black t-shirt, meticulously folded—The Runaways logo barely visible through years of washing. A peace offering? A souvenir? Her cotton underwear lay crumpled near the foot of the bed, her jeans draped over what appeared to be an antique writing desk.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she whispered, the words hanging in the air between her professional ethics and the memory of Lena's mouth on her collarbone. Cat would fire her. Or worse, look at her with that particular brand of disappointment reserved for promising reporters who'd thrown away their credibility.

She reached for her glasses, fingers trembling slightly. The cool metal frames grounded her even as her mind split in two—one half cataloging her scattered clothing like a crime scene investigator, the other replaying Lena's whispered "stay" against her ear.

Had she meant it?

Or was Kara just another groupie with a press pass?

Alex's warnings echoed as she slipped on the underwear, the fabric cool against her heated skin.

"Musicians aren't exactly known for their stability..."

"Be careful with your heart..."

"Watch for red flags..."

Well, waking up alone after a night like that was certainly a red flag the size of a billboard, wasn't it?

Kara reached for the folded Runaways t-shirt, pulling it over her head. The worn cotton carried Lena's scent. Dark and intimate. She padded across the plush carpet toward her jeans, each step bringing her closer to the humiliation that surely awaited beyond the bedroom door. She'd have to walk through the penthouse—Lena's space—to retrieve her button-up shirt, cardigan, and bra from where they'd been hastily discarded across the living room furniture during their heated progression from tentative kisses to desperate touches on that expensive leather couch. Would Lena be there, sipping coffee with casual indifference, already regretting the night they'd shared? Or worse, had she left entirely, unable to face the morning-after conversation?

The memory of Lena removing her glasses with such care, setting them on the nightstand before pressing a tender kiss to the bridge of her nose—such a small, sweet gesture amid all their heated passion—made something sharp twist beneath her ribs—a sensation she refused to name, especially for a woman who'd been nothing more than a byline in her portfolio just twenty-four hours ago.

But even as she thought it, the lie caught in her throat.

Lena had never been just a story. From that first interview in that dingy green room, Kara had seen past the stage lights and carefully smudged eyeliner. Beyond the perfect alabaster curve of her neck against midnight-blue silk lay the woman who'd whispered "I've never felt like this with someone before" as the color of her eyes darkened like forest shadows, something raw and wanting behind her gaze, her fingertips tracing constellations across Kara's bare skin like she was mapping something precious and new.

Had that all been part of the performance?

All the things Andrea had said at the gala started circling her mind. The carefully placed glasses. The whispered confessions. The tender touches. All props and lines in a well-rehearsed show, with Kara just the latest audience member who'd fallen for the act.

Kara's eyes flicked to her watch—the only thing still clinging to her body from yesterday besides the memory of Lena's touch. The slim silver timepiece read 7:42 AM, the delicate hands positioned precisely against the silver face. Even if she sprinted home through morning traffic, her hair still tangled from Lena's fingers, she'd arrive at the gleaming CatCo building with sweat beading her forehead and yesterday's wrinkled clothes betraying her. Cat Grant, with her hawk-like gaze and perfectly pressed silk blouses, would zero in on Kara's dishevelment like a predator scenting blood. Those piercing eyes would narrow behind designer frames, her crimson lips pursing into a thin line of disapproval as she connected Kara's rumpled appearance to the Luthor profile due on her immaculate glass desk in a week.

The exposé.

The thought sat like lead in Kara's stomach, heavy and poisonous.

Her laptop waited at home, cursor blinking accusingly on a blank document where professional observations should be, not the lingering taste of salt on Lena's skin, the way her breath hitched and caught when Kara's lips found that tender spot below her ear, or how those pianist's fingers had trembled against Kara's inner thighs before curling inside her with such exquisite control that she'd had to bite down on the pillow to keep from crying out loud enough to wake the entire building.

She couldn't write it—not without her cheeks flaming hot enough to melt her keyboard and her trembling fingers betraying every unprofessional thought. Which meant standing before Cat Grant's throne-like chair, beneath the wall of mounted televisions broadcasting her empire in high-definition glory, confessing that she'd tangled herself in Lena Luthor's bed sheets instead of her story. That she'd traded her laminated press pass with its CatCo watermark for the salt-sweet taste of passion on her tongue. That she'd become exactly what Cat warned against in her biting staff meetings, her manicured finger jabbing the air for emphasis: a journalist who'd let her racing heart overrule her carefully crafted byline.

Kara ran a hand through her hair.

She needed to retrieve her shirt, cardigan, and bra from wherever they'd landed in the living room. Needed to leave before Lena returned—if she was even coming back. Needed to salvage whatever dignity remained after letting desire override every professional instinct she possessed.

The bedroom door stood half-open. Kara inched toward it, her legs heavy as concrete. She gripped the cold metal handle and inhaled deeply. Empty apartment or awkward goodbye—whatever waited beyond, she'd face it. She'd collect her scattered clothes and slip away. The professional disaster could wait.

The hinges made no sound as she eased the door wider. She peered out—no Lena. Just an empty corridor stretching toward the living room, where morning sunlight poured through massive windows. Dust particles floated in the golden beams like miniature planets.

When she reached the end of the hallway, the living room opened up before her—vast and beautiful in the morning light, somehow both more and less intimidating than it had been the night before.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, transforming the space entirely. The alabaster Italian leather sectional no longer looked coldly pristine. The Rothko on the far wall caught the morning light differently, its bleeding rectangles of crimson less ominous, more like the flush that had spread across Lena's chest when Kara's lips had traced her collarbone.

Kara's cardigan lay draped across one arm of the couch, her button-up shirt crumpled on the floor nearby. Her bra—plain cotton, embarrassingly practical against Lena's black lace—hung from the edge of one of the twin Noguchi tables, the strap dangling as if reaching for the polished hardwood floor. The trail of discarded clothing marked their journey like breadcrumbs, each item a timestamp of escalating desire.

She padded across the cool floor, the denim of her hastily pulled-on jeans brushing against her ankles while her bare toes curled against the chill of the hardwood. The oxblood Steinway stood silent in the corner, its surface now bathed in golden light that caught the edges of scattered staff paper.

A half-empty coffee mug sat on the piano bench. Steam still curled from its surface, disappearing into the air like a whispered secret.

Lena had been here.

Recently.

Kara's heart lurched painfully in her chest, a mixture of relief and renewed anxiety flooding her system. She wasn't alone in the penthouse after all. But where—

A flash of electric color against the backdrop of cerulean sky visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to the wraparound balcony.

Lena.

Cross-legged on a faded indigo yoga mat, she faced the living room with National City sprawled seventy floors beneath her, a kingdom of glass and steel that morning light had transformed into glittering pillars of gold and silver. She wore an oversized Black Sabbath t-shirt that hung off one alabaster shoulder. Her raven hair was twisted into a careless messy bun, that shock of teal against midnight catching the morning light like water each time she shifted. An acoustic guitar rested in her lap—not one of the pristine Martin or Taylor instruments displayed in temperature-controlled cases on the wall inside, but the same weathered Gibson she'd spotted in that framed photo on Lena's nightstand—though now its spruce top was barely visible beneath a collage of peeling band stickers and black pen drawings. Where the photo had shown pristine wood honeyed with age, the real instrument bore tiny inked stars cascading down its side, a crude heart with initials she couldn't make out, and the faded corner of what might have been a Ramones logo, edges worn smooth where fingers had brushed it a thousand times. Lena's long, pale fingers danced across the strings in a pattern Kara couldn't hear through the soundproof glass. A leather-bound notebook lay open beside her, cream pages fluttering slightly in the morning breeze like butterfly wings. A chewed-up Bic pen was tucked behind her ear—an unconscious echo of Kara's own nervous habit that made something twist in her chest with painful recognition.

As Kara watched, Lena paused her playing, one hand stilling the vibrating strings.

She hadn't left.

Hadn't run away from what had happened between them.

For a heartbeat, Kara just stood there, caught between disbelief and relief so sharp it almost hurt.

Lena reached up and plucked the chewed Bic from behind her ear, leaving a faint blue smudge against her temple. Leaning forward, she scrawled something in the notebook with quick, decisive strokes, then returned the pen to its perch. Her fingers found the frets again as her head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed, listening to whatever melody only she could hear.

The story Kara had been writing in her head—that she was just another name, another night, another notch in the bedpost—crumbled in the light spilling across the glass. Lena was just... creating. Making music in the golden morning light as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if Kara's heart wasn't threatening to pound straight through her ribcage at the sight.

She was right there, barefoot and alive and unguarded in a way Kara had yet to witness.

Kara stood there, uncertain.

Should she retreat to the bedroom, put her rumpled shirt and cardigan back on, and leave quietly?

Should she make her presence known?

Should she—

As if sensing she was being watched, Lena looked up from her guitar. Those sea-glass eyes found Kara immediately, irises flashing like cut gems against the backdrop of pale skin and city sky. For one heart-stopping moment, Kara braced herself for regret, for awkwardness, for the polite dismissal that would send her scrambling for her clothes and her dignity.

Instead, Lena's face transformed. A smile broke across her features like dawn breaking over the horizon, crinkling the corners of her eyes and revealing the slight dimple in her left cheek. The morning light caught the sharp edge of her jawline, softening it, gilding her skin with gold that matched the unguarded warmth radiating from her expression.

Kara's breath caught in her throat, trapped there by the sudden, staggering realization that she was seeing something precious and rare—Lena Luthor, unmasked.

Lena placed the guitar aside with a reverence usually reserved for relics, her fingers lingering on the neck as if coaxing one last resonant vibration from its lacquered wood. She let it rest on the indigo mat, propping it so the sunlight could glint off its battered pick guard. Then, without breaking eye contact, she extended her left arm, palm facing upward, fingers gently beckoning in a silent invitation.

The gesture was so simple, so vulnerable, it stilled Kara where she stood. The world outside blazed with morning, but all its brilliance dimmed beside the delicate curvature of Lena’s wrist, the small blue vein running beneath translucent skin. It was impossible to mistake the offering for what it was. Not a command, not a seduction, but a risk—Lena Luthor, baring herself to the possibility of rejection at an hour when it would have been so much easier to armor up and pretend none of it mattered.

Kara took a breath, lungs filling with the scent of good coffee and petrichor bleeding in from the dew-slicked balcony tiles. Every nerve seemed to hum as she crossed the living room, past the pale leather couch and the evidence of their mutual unraveling, drawn by a force more elemental than gravity. The glass door was already ajar, letting the morning breeze swirl through and raise goosebumps on her arms.

On the balcony, time seemed suspended. Lena’s eyes tracked Kara’s approach, every second registering, but her body stayed perfectly still except for the gentle unfurling of her hand, fingers stretching wider as if to cradle whatever weight Kara placed in them.

Kara paused just at the boundary where indoor warmth yielded to the chill of open air. For a split second, her professionalism—her battered, gasping professionalism—whispered she should say something clever, something to retake control of the narrative. But the words scattered like birds, useless in the face of Lena’s naked, unguarded longing.

She stepped forward, reached out, and let Lena's cool palm close around her own. Their fingers interlaced, and then Lena tugged—a gentle but unmistakable pull that guided Kara downward. Kara followed the momentum, settling onto Lena's lap, her bare knees pressing into the yoga mat on either side of Lena's thighs. The guitar lay forgotten beside them as Kara's weight settled where Lena's instrument had been moments before. A flush crept up Kara's neck at this complete reversal from the night before, when Lena had straddled her with such confidence.

Lena's lips curved into a half-smile, the kind that threatened to soften into something unguarded or dissolve altogether depending on what Kara did next. "Morning.”

The single word hung in the morning air between them, a fragile filament of sound that managed—despite everything that had transpired between them the night before—to have carried more weight than the simple word should have borne, like the first hesitant "hello" exchanged over candlelight. To Kara, the word felt impossibly small after the things they’d done to each other’s bodies and the confessions they’d coaxed from each other’s lips in the sleepless, electric hours before dawn.

Kara almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

"Morning," she echoed, and discovered there was a tremor embedded in her own voice, a nervous vibrato she thought she’d left behind with her adolescence. Her fingers, restless and unsure, found their way to the hem of Lena’s t-shirt where it pooled over the sharp angles of her hips. She twisted the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, a motion both possessive and apologetic. She kept her gaze trained on the hollow at the base of Lena’s throat, unwilling to risk direct contact with the luminous intensity of those sea-glass eyes again, not while she felt so completely exposed. Her teeth caught her lower lip. "Did you sleep?"

"Couldn't," Lena said, tapping her temple with a single finger. "After nights like—" The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but Kara caught it, the flicker of fear before Lena let herself continue. "After a night like last night, everything gets louder up here. Chord progressions, lyrics, melodies. They all start shouting over each other. You try to sleep and it’s just—” She made a vague, helpless gesture with her hand, as if shooing away a swarm of invisible insects. "Noise. No matter how many pillows you suffocate yourself with." She managed a grimace that was more gentle than bitter, lips quirking in self-mockery.

Kara blinked at her, unsure how to respond.

She’d read every interview Lena had ever given, devoured every deep-dive profile and every venomous tabloid take, but none of those words—none of those stories—had ever painted genius as a kind of curse. She’d always assumed Lena’s talent was effortless, a magic trick performed for the benefit of a reverent audience, a show that ended when the house lights went up. She’d never considered that brilliance might be its own relentless torment, that even when the world went to sleep, Lena’s mind would keep performing encores for the ghosts in her mind.

For a moment, they just sat there, the two of them on the balcony, Lena cross-legged on the mat and Kara in her lap, perched on the edge of the world. The city below was in full morning chaos, a symphony of honking horns and construction noise rising up to them like distant music, though at seventy floors up, they floated above it all in their private bubble of quiet. Morning light pooled around them like liquid gold, catching in the stray wisps of hair that had escaped Lena's messy bun, illuminating the tired shadows beneath her eyes.

Kara's hands stilled where they gripped the edge of Lena's t-shirt, and for a moment there was nothing in her mind but static. Her throat tightened. She'd woken and spent twenty minutes convincing herself that Lena had fled her own penthouse to avoid the morning-after conversation, that last night had been a mistake Lena was already regretting. Now here was Lena, not running away but running on empty, kept awake by her own mind.

"I thought you—" Kara began, but the sentence fractured and fell silent beneath the bright hush of morning. The rest of her confession jammed somewhere between her ribs and her tongue, too raw to risk releasing into the air. Instead, she watched as her own thumb traced slow, nervous spirals over the seam of Lena’s shirt. Every instinct from her years spent burying herself beneath layers of objectivity—in the newsroom, in interview rooms, in the brutal quiet after deadlines—begged her to retreat, to tuck her feelings into the neatest compartment she could find. But there was nowhere to retreat to. She could feel her own heart hammering, desperate and furious, as if it resented the notion of being held captive by her ribcage. All the usual tricks abandoned her: the deep breaths, the internal mantras, the mental bracketing of emotion for later review. Lena scrambled every circuit of Kara’s self-control with humiliating efficiency.

"Left?" Lena said quietly, supplying the word that Kara couldn’t voice. Her tone was tentative, but unwavering, as if she had long ago made peace with the heartbreak in it.

Kara wanted to nod, to apologize for her own insecurity, but the ache in her chest made it hard to draw breath. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Lena's, their breath mingling in the narrow space between them.

Lena closed the remaining distance between them, brushing her lips against Kara's with such delicate restraint it barely qualified as a kiss. Just the whisper of contact, testing, asking permission. When Kara didn't pull away, Lena kissed her again, her lips soft and unhurried against Kara's and Kara felt herself melting into it, her hands releasing the twisted fabric of Lena's shirt to slide up and cup her face instead.

Against her lips, Kara felt the subtle shift as Lena's mouth curved into a smile.

"What?" Kara whispered, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," Lena whispered, her smile deepening as she angled her face in for another kiss—this time to the edge of Kara's jaw, then lower, her lips grazing the delicate skin just beneath Kara's ear. Kara shivered at the sensation, a barely-audible gasp escaping her as Lena's breath, warm and faintly coffee-scented, tangled with the cool morning air. The intimacy of it—the feather-light kisses, the unhurried pace—was somehow more destabilizing than the previous night. Lena was looking at her with undisguised fondness. The certainty in her gaze undid something in Kara, left her raw and unprepared for the next words Lena uttered.

"I could get addicted to this," Lena murmured, lips moving against Kara's skin with each consonant. Her hand, which had been resting lightly on the small of Kara's back, pressed inward, fingers splaying across the fabric of the borrowed shirt as if to anchor Kara where she was. Lena's mouth found Kara's cheekbone and lingered, the kiss less a punctuation than an ellipsis, a promise of more to come.

Kara heard herself inhale sharply, and the involuntary sound made her more self-conscious. She was painfully aware of herself—her posture, her breathing, the state of her hair, the way her legs bracketed Lena's on the yoga mat. She could feel the significant differences between them. Lena’s effortless sensuality, the self-assurance in her every gesture, versus Kara’s own trembling uncertainty. The contrast was so stark it would have been laughable if it weren't so excruciating. Yet there was no trace of judgment in Lena’s manner, only that devastating, joyful intent.

Lena let her gaze dip lower, to the length of Kara's body and the shirt—Lena's shirt—the pale cotton hugging her frame in a way it never would on Lena's smaller shoulders. Lena reached up, thumb and forefinger pinching the hem of the sleeve. She gave it a gentle tug, as if confirming that, yes, it was real, and that Kara was truly here, wearing Lena's shirt with yesterday's jeans, ridiculous and unspeakably endearing.

"Especially with you wearing my clothes," Lena added, the words delivered with an amused reverence that made Kara’s face flame hotter.

It was such a simple thing to say, but it hit Kara like a meteor, as if Lena had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. No one had ever made her feel so visible, let alone desirable, for something so trivial and earnest. She wanted to say something clever in reply, to volley the comment back with wit or bravado, but her mind was blank. The only things she could focus on were the pressure of Lena’s hand at her back and the trail of heat left behind by those feather-light kisses.

Kara’s pulse thumped audibly in her ears. She squirmed a little, wanting to hide her face in Lena’s shoulder but afraid to move too abruptly, lest she break the spell. Lena seemed to sense her discomfort and only smiled wider, her eyes crinkling at the corners, in no hurry to rescue Kara from her own bashfulness.

The silence stretched, sweet and taut, until Lena finally relented and let her head drop forward so their foreheads touched again. She exhaled, soft and shaky, as if the effort of holding back all that affection had finally become too much.

"I should probably be getting back to my apartment," Kara said reluctantly, even as her body betrayed her by leaning closer to Lena's warmth. "I have to be at work in—" She glanced at her watch and winced.

"Stay for coffee at least?" Lena asked, her fingers still playing with the hair at the nape of Kara's neck. "I make a decent cup. One of my few domestic skills."

The invitation hung between them, weighted with possibilities. Coffee meant more time. More talking. More of whatever this was becoming. It meant delaying the inevitable moment when they'd have to address what had happened between them—a reporter and her subject crossing lines that should never be crossed.

But Lena was looking at her with those eyes, vulnerable and hopeful, and Kara found herself nodding before she could think better of it.

"Coffee would be nice," she said softly.

Lena's smile bloomed again, wider this time, that dimple reappearing in her left cheek. She leaned forward, pressing another kiss to Kara's lips, this one lingering longer, deepening just enough to send a pleasant warmth spreading through Kara's chest. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously close to happiness.

"Coffee it is," Lena whispered against Kara's mouth, making no move to let her go. "In a minute."

She kissed Kara again, slow and sweet, her smile growing against Kara's lips until they were barely kissing at all, just sharing breath and quiet laughter in the golden morning light. The city sprawled seventy floors below their yoga mat on Lena's balcony, a distant patchwork of glass and steel that couldn't touch them here.

A faint electronic beep sounded from inside the penthouse, followed by a series of soft mechanical clicks. The sounds barely registered through their haze of contentment until a familiar voice cut through the morning air. "L!" Sam called out, her tone carrying that particular blend of exasperation and affection that only years of friendship could produce. "You better be vertical or I swear I'm dragging your ass into another cold shower! I brought bagels and zero patience today!"

Chapter Text

3

Terms & Conditions

Kara jerked back so violently she nearly toppled off Lena's lap, the world tilting sideways in a blur of morning light and vertigo. Her foot knocked against the forgotten guitar, sending it sliding across the yoga mat with a hollow thump and a discordant twang of strings that seemed to vibrate through her chest. Panic surged through her veins like ice water, shocking her system into hyperawareness, every nerve ending suddenly alive and screaming.

"Oh god," she whispered, scrambling to her feet, the borrowed cotton shirt riding up as she moved. Her bare toes curled against the cool Carrara marble tiles of the balcony as she backed away from Lena, who remained cross-legged on the mat, watching her with that infuriating mixture of amusement and concern that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "That's—that's Sam, isn't it? Your manager?"

Lena nodded, rising in one fluid motion that reminded Kara of a dancer unfolding from a final pose, all practiced grace and controlled strength that made Kara acutely aware of how graceless her own panicked retreat must have looked. "She has a key for emergencies," Lena explained, reaching for Kara's hand, her slender fingers cool against Kara's feverish skin. "It's okay—"

But it wasn't okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

Kara's gaze darted frantically between Lena and the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the entire wall between the balcony and the living room. The morning sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating her clothes strewn across Lena's Italian leather sofa—her wrinkled button-down crumpled by the armrest, her powder blue cardigan inside-out on the floor, and worst of all, her plain cotton bra dangling precariously from the edge of Lena's end table. Through the transparent barrier, she watched Sam's silhouette moving purposefully through the penthouse, setting a paper bag on the kitchen island before making her way toward the living room.

Heat crawled up Kara's neck in blotchy patches.

Lena's fingers tightened around Kara's, her thumb brushing reassuringly across Kara's knuckles. "It's fine," she whispered, tugging Kara gently back toward herself. "Sam's bark is worse than her bite. Usually."

That wasn't remotely comforting. Kara tried to pull her hand away, desperate to hide or escape or possibly evaporate into thin air, but Lena held firm. The gentle pressure of her fingers was somehow both grounding and terrifying—a lifeline and an anchor dragging her toward inevitable humiliation.

"Lena?" Sam called out, her voice muffled by the glass as she rounded the couch. "Did you even sleep last night? I swear if you're laying on the bathroom floor again with another hangover, I've brought Advil and zero sympathy. You promised me you'd actually use that ridiculously expensive mattress sometime this—"

Sam's silhouette froze mid-stride, her shadow stretching long across the hardwood. Her lips parted slightly, jaw slackening as her gaze caught on the constellation of hastily shed garments—the oxford shirt with one sleeve inside out, the cardigan crumpled like discarded gift wrap, the modest bra hooked precariously on the corner of bleached maple. Her coffee tilted dangerously in her hand as her attention traveled upward, past the coffee table with its glasses still bearing lipstick prints and amber whiskey residue, to where they stood framed in the doorway like figures in a Renaissance painting.

Kara’s stomach clenched so violently she thought she might be sick.

The blood drained from her face, then rushed back with such force that her cheeks burned. She tried again to pull her hand from Lena’s grasp, but Lena’s fingers only tightened, her thumb continuing to brush reassuring little circles against Kara’s knuckles.

Sam's expression shifted through a rapid succession of emotions—surprise, confusion, understanding, and finally something more calculating. Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose incrementally, left before right, as her gaze traveled from the sleep-mussed waves framing Lena's face to their intertwined hands—Lena's pale fingers wrapped protectively around Kara's sun-freckled ones—to Kara wearing Lena's faded Runaways t-shirt, the vintage fabric worn thin enough to reveal the outline of collarbones beneath.

"Well," Sam said, clearing her throat. "This is… unexpected."

The understatement hung in the air between them like cigarette smoke in a closed room. Kara's toes curled against the cool marble tiles, her pulse thundering in her ears as heat crawled up her neck in blotchy patches. She stared at a hairline crack in the balcony floor, willing it to split wide open and swallow her whole—seventy floors above National City, plummeting past penthouse gardens and luxury condos, straight down to the unforgiving concrete below.

Sam carefully placed her to-go cup from Noonan's on the corner of the mahogany end table. Her arms started to cross, then uncrossed, then crossed again as she studied them. But what arrested Kara's attention wasn't Sam's reaction—it was the way Sam's gaze kept returning to Lena's face with something that cycled rapidly between annoyance, protective concern, and reluctant approval.

"I should—" Kara started, but her voice emerged as a strangled whisper. She cleared her throat. "I should probably go."

"Don't you dare," Lena murmured, close enough that her breath warmed Kara's ear. "Not unless you actually want to."

Before Kara could respond, Sam stepped through the already-open balcony doorway, her heeled boots clicking decisively against the threshold. Morning light caught the amber highlights in her hair as she positioned herself against the frame, arms crossed over her crisp blazer. Her expression remained carefully neutral, though one perfectly shaped eyebrow had risen almost imperceptibly.

"So," Sam said, her eyes flicking between them. "I brought bagels."

The banality of the statement in the face of such obvious tension made a hysterical laugh bubble up in Kara's throat—a high, tight sound that threatened to escape as a squeak or possibly a sob. She swallowed it down with an audible gulp, her free hand fidgeting with the hem of Lena's borrowed shirt, twisting the soft, threadbare cotton between her fingers until the frayed edge curled against her knuckles like a nervous creature seeking shelter.

"Morning, Sam," Lena said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement that made Kara want to sink through the floor. "Your timing is impeccable. Taking lessons from James, I presume?"

Sam's lips twitched. "I did text. Twice."

"My phone is—" Lena glanced back toward the living room. "Somewhere."

"Clearly you were occupied," Sam said dryly. Her gaze shifted to Kara, who felt herself shrinking under the scrutiny. "Kara Danvers, right? CatCo Magazine?"

Kara nodded, her throat constricting as if someone had tightened an invisible collar around her neck. The words "CatCo Magazine" seemed to hang in the air like a neon accusation, each letter pulsing with ethical implications. Her credentials being mentioned aloud made everything worse—a scarlet letter, a stark reminder of exactly how many professional boundaries she'd obliterated between last night's first hesitant kiss and this morning's tangled sheets.

"I remember you from The Pit," Sam continued, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp. "You asked good questions."

Kara's face burned hotter, the heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck in mottled crimson patches. She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other, hyperaware of how the borrowed t-shirt hung loosely over her jeans, the absence of her bra making her feel oddly more vulnerable. Every scattered garment in the living room seemed to glow with neon intensity—each one a damning exhibit in the case against her journalistic integrity. The cardigan puddled by the sofa might as well have been labeled "Exhibit A: Professional Ethics Abandoned”.

Sam's gaze lingered on their interlocked fingers for a beat too long before her stern expression softened around the edges. The tight line of her shoulders relaxed by a fraction of an inch, and the suspicious furrow between her brows smoothed slightly. When she spoke again, her voice had shed its razor-sharp edge, rounding at the corners like sea glass tumbled smooth.

"Look, I'm going to make coffee and set out those bagels," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. "Why don't you two... finish whatever conversation I interrupted, and then join me? We probably have some things to discuss."

The way she said "discuss"—letting the word hang in the air like a judge's gavel about to fall—sent a fresh wave of dread cascading from Kara's throat down to her stomach, where it pooled like ice water. Her mind raced through a parade of horrors: NDAs with their impenetrable legal jargon and threatening bold print; professional consequences that would follow her through every newsroom in National City; Cat Grant's inevitable disappointment, her glasses sliding down her nose as she delivered a scathing lecture on journalistic integrity. And looming over it all, the non-existent article due in less than a week, its cursor blinking accusingly on a document she'd now have to fill with lies of omission.

"Sam," Lena said, her voice carrying a warning note that made Sam raise her hands in surrender.

"Just coffee and bagels," Sam promised, backing away from the doorway. "For now."

She disappeared into the penthouse. The heavy door slid shut with a pneumatic hiss that sealed them back into their private world, seventy floors above the city. Kara's knees nearly buckled, her body suddenly boneless with relief as the morning breeze lifted strands of her unbrushed hair and cooled the burning flush on her neck.

"I am so sorry," Lena said, turning to face Kara fully. "Sam has the worst timing in the universe."

"It's fine," Kara lied, her voice thin and unconvincing even to her own ears. "It's your apartment. She's your manager. Of course she has access."

Lena studied her face, those sea-glass eyes searching for something Kara wasn't sure she wanted found. "You're freaking out."

It wasn't a question.

Kara exhaled shakily, running her free hand through her tangled hair.

"A little," she admitted. Then, with a hollow laugh: "A lot, actually."

Lena's thumb continued its gentle back-and-forth motion across Kara's knuckles. "Because of Sam, or because of... this?" She gestured between them with her free hand, the motion encompassing everything that had happened between them in the last twelve hours.

"Both?" Kara said, the word emerging as a question. "I mean, I just got caught straddling your lap by your manager while wearing your shirt after spending the night with you, and I'm supposed to be writing an objective profile on you for CatCo, and Cat Grant is going to absolutely murder me when she finds out, and—"

"Hey," Lena interrupted gently, squeezing Kara's hand. "Breathe."

Kara inhaled deeply, the morning air filling her lungs like cool water rushing into an empty vessel. It smelled of petrichor from last night's rain still clinging to the city below, of rich coffee wafting from the kitchen, and faintly of Lena's perfume—that distinctive blend of jasmine and something darker, more expensive, that had transferred from Lena's skin to the borrowed t-shirt now hanging from Kara's shoulders.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm not usually this much of a mess."

Something flickered across Lena's face—a shadow of uncertainty that made her look suddenly younger, more vulnerable. "Do you regret it?" she asked quietly. "Last night?"

Her question hovered in the air like a glass sculpture balanced on the railing—beautiful, fragile, and one wrong move from shattering seventy floors down. Kara thought of Cat Grant's inevitable disappointment—the way her glasses would slide to the tip of her nose as she delivered a blistering lecture. She imagined her press credentials being snipped in half with the same silver scissors Cat used to trim her orchids, her byline vanishing from the magazine's glossy pages, her desk cleared out by security while colleagues whispered behind cupped hands.

Then she thought of Lena's fingers tangled in her hair last night, nails gently scraping her scalp as they kissed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. She remembered Lena's whispered confessions in the dark—secrets offered like rare gems, glittering and precious in the blue glow of the city lights. Most of all, she remembered the way Lena had looked at her with such naked longing when they finally pulled apart—eyes wide and unguarded, pupils dilated with desire, lips parted in wonder—not as a journalist or a potential conquest, but as someone worth seeing down to her marrow.

"No," Kara said, surprised by the certainty in her own voice. "I don't regret it."

Relief washed over Lena's features, softening the sharp angles of her face. She stepped closer, her free hand coming up to cup Kara's cheek. "Good," she whispered. "Because neither do I."

The confession sent warmth blooming through Kara's chest, unfurling like a crimson peony beneath her ribs, its tendrils wrapping around her thundering heart. For a moment, they just stood there, the city a patchwork quilt of glinting windows and morning shadows, taxi cabs like yellow beetles crawling along gray veins of asphalt. Lena's breath, minty fresh, mingled with Kara's in the narrow space between their lips, where the air seemed to vibrate with possibility.

Then the balcony door slid open again, and Sam's voice, crisp as starched linen, shattered the moment.

"If you two are done with whatever heart-eyes situation is happening out here," she said, "the coffee's getting cold and we have some things to talk about."

Lena closed her eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. When she opened them again, there was a rueful smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice pitched low so only Kara could hear. It was the voice of someone who had been through five-alarm fires often enough.

"As I'll ever be," Kara managed, and tried to match Lena's steady composure as they re-entered the penthouse.

They crossed the living room and stepped into the kitchen. Sam stood watch over it all with the presence of a Victorian housekeeper—back straight, expression controlled, hands folded loosely around a matte-black Chemex. The pot steamed quietly on the island. On the counter beside it, a brown paper bag from Noonan’s slouched open, offering up a neat stack of bagels and a glimmer of foil-wrapped cream cheese.

"Good morning again," she said, her tone hovering in that neutral zone where “good” could mean anything at all.

"Sam," Lena said. She peeled herself gently away from Kara, but not before giving her hand one last, grounding squeeze. "Thanks for the bagels."

Kara's mouth went desert-dry, her tongue like sandpaper against the roof of her mouth. She tried to fill the crackling silence with a polite "Thank you”, but the words snagged in her throat and emerged as a mouse-like squeak. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, landing anywhere except on Sam's scrutinizing face: the sesame-studded bagels nestled in waxed paper, the obsidian-black coffee dripping through the Chemex's hourglass curves, the glittering National City skyline with its silver spires piercing the cerulean morning sky, the meticulously arranged bowl of blood oranges on the polished bleached maple dining table. The penthouse kitchen seemed to warp around her—simultaneously expanding into cavernous emptiness and constricting like a vise—as if the three of them were now sealed inside a delicate crystal snow globe that someone was about to violently shake.

Sam set down the Chemex with the care of a bomb technician, then reached into a sleek cabinet for three mugs—each one identical, matte gunmetal gray, unadorned except for a barely perceptible Luthor Industries logo etched into the bottom. She lined them up on the marble island, pouring the steaming coffee with the measured concentration of a scientist performing a volatile chemistry experiment. The rich, earthy aroma filled the air as she handed Lena a mug first, the ceramic briefly illuminating the pale skin of her fingers, then Kara, whose trembling hands nearly betrayed her, then finally took one for herself. Only after completing this ritualistic distribution did she look directly at Kara, her amber-flecked eyes sharp as a hawk's but not entirely unkind.

"So," Sam said, her voice softer than before but still edged. "How was your night?"

It was an impossible question, and Kara could see Lena fighting the urge to laugh at its absurdity. Instead, Lena angled her body so she was half-facing Kara, half-shielding her from Sam’s line of sight—a subtle gesture that made Kara’s heart twist in gratitude.

"Eventful," Lena replied. "But I'm guessing that's not what you’re actually asking about."

Sam took a measured sip of her coffee, then set the mug down with a click. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed—not in hostility, but as if bracing herself for impact. "Actually, it kind of is. But first, I want to hear it from Kara’s perspective. I deal with your drama every day."

Kara blinked, her mind suddenly blank as both women stared at her expectantly. The coffee mug trembled slightly in her hands, the ceramic warm against her palms—a stark contrast to the cold dread creeping up her spine. She reached up to adjust her glasses, pressing them further up the bridge of her nose. She cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the kitchen's pristine acoustics, buying precious seconds as her brain scrambled to formulate a response that wouldn't sound completely pathetic.

"Um. The night was..." Images flashed through her mind: Lena's fingertips dancing across her skin, connecting the freckles on her shoulder into private galaxies. The warmth of Lena's breath against her collarbone as she whispered guidance—"There, just like that"—her voice breaking into a soft gasp when Kara finally understood what to do with her trembling, uncertain hands. The rich, uninhibited sound of Lena's laughter filling the darkened room when Kara had nearly tumbled from the silk sheets, arm outstretched for her glasses. The intoxicating scent of Lena's perfume lingering on her own skin. Heat bloomed across her cheeks and crawled down her neck. "Great. Really great. Thank you for the bagels."

The words tumbled out in an awkward jumble, hanging in the air like mismatched ornaments on a Christmas tree. But to Kara's surprise, Sam's lips twitched, this time with something that looked suspiciously like actual warmth.

"All right," Sam said, her tone softening a fraction. "Glad we're all in agreement about the bagels."

Sam's eyes swept the room, once more cataloging each damning artifact from the night before. Kara’s powder blue cardigan crumpled by the sofa. The one Alex had given her for Christmas, now forever transformed into something illicit. Her simple cotton bra with the tiny frayed bow between the cups—why hadn't she worn something nicer, something without that childish decoration?—dangling from the maple end table like a flag of surrender. She tugged self-consciously at Lena's faded Runaways t-shirt, acutely aware of how it stretched across her shoulders. The borrowed clothing felt like a confession written across her body.

She shifted her weight, her toes curling against the cold kitchen tile, nowhere to hide. No shoes to run away in. No armor against whatever came next. The scalding coffee burned her tongue, but she welcomed the pain—something tangible to focus on besides the hurricane of shame and defiance battling inside her chest. Sam's eyes weren't angry, which somehow made it worse. They were calculating, assessing, layered with something Kara couldn't decipher but that made her instincts scream danger.

When Sam's mug settled onto the marble countertop with a soft click, Kara flinched. The silence expanded between them, forcing Kara's mind to race through a dozen opening lines—explanations, justifications, apologies—each dying before reaching her lips. She'd interviewed presidents and criminals with less anxiety than this moment, standing barefoot in her subject's kitchen, wearing her subject's clothes, still carrying the lingering scent of her subject's perfume mingled with the salt-sweet musk that clung to her skin.

Sam exhaled slowly, her gaze landing on the sleek phone resting on the counter. "Look," she said, then stopped. Her index finger traced an invisible pattern on the marble countertop as the seconds stretched between them. Finally, she lifted her eyes back to Kara's. "I know Jimmy jokes about me being the iron fist, or whatever, but I want to make something clear."

She uncrossed her arms and rested her hands on the counter, fingertips pressing into the cool marble, shoulders still rigid with the same tension that made her jaw flex slightly each time she paused between words. "I'm not here to grill you about how we got from 'please ask if she'd be willing to meet' so you could apologize and talk about a personal profile to..." She gestured vaguely at the discarded clothing, then added with a hint of dry humor, "Though I will say, Lena, this is a new record even for you."

Lena made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Sam—"

"No, let me finish," Sam said, raising one finger. Her expression softened further as she looked at Kara, who was desperately trying to make herself smaller without actually shrinking. "I'm not angry. Surprised? Yes. Concerned about the timing? Absolutely."

Kara's stomach twisted itself into elaborate nautical knots. "I understand," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is... complicated."

"Complicated," Sam repeated, as if testing the weight of the word on her tongue. "That's one way to put it." She reached for a bagel, tearing it methodically in half. "You're writing a personal profile on Lena for CatCo. A profile that's due when, exactly?"

Kara's throat tightened. "Eight days from now," she said, her voice barely audible over the soft hum of the refrigerator. "Cat wants it on her desk first thing next Friday."

Sam nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Kara's face. There was no judgment there, just careful assessment—the look of someone calculating risk factors and potential damage control scenarios. "And now you've spent the night with your subject."

"I—" Kara's voice cracked. She swallowed hard, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. The borrowed t-shirt suddenly felt too tight across her collarbones as she tugged at the hem. The kitchen's pristine white surfaces seemed to brighten to an almost painful intensity, her vision tunneled until all she could see was Sam's steady gaze. A knot of anxiety tightened beneath her ribs. The journalism ethics textbook from her master's program flashed in her mind—Chapter 8: Professional Boundaries. She'd highlighted that section in neon yellow, certain she'd never be foolish enough to blur those lines. Yet here she stood in borrowed clothes. Her fingertips tingled with pins and needles.

“I know how this looks,” Kara said, setting her mug down before her trembling hands could betray her further. “But I swear, I didn’t plan for this to happen. It wasn’t—I would never use my position to—”

“Breathe, Kara,” Sam interrupted, her voice gentler than before. “I’m not accusing you of anything nefarious.”

Lena stepped closer to Kara, their shoulders brushing. The contact sent a small electric current through Kara’s body, grounding her even as it heightened her awareness of everything—the coffee’s rich aroma, the morning light slanting through the windows, the steady rise and fall of Lena’s breathing beside her.

“Sam’s just being protective,” Lena explained, her voice carrying that hint of affectionate exasperation reserved for her manager. “It’s literally in her job description.”

“And I’m very good at my job,” Sam agreed, spreading cream cheese on her bagel. “Which is why we need to talk about how to handle this.” She gestured between Lena and Kara with her knife.

“Handle this,” Kara repeated, making herself flinch inwardly. As if what had happened between them were a PR problem to be managed rather than something real and fragile and still undefined.

Sam must have caught her reaction because her expression softened further. “I don’t mean it like that. But there are… considerations.” She set the knife down and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “The profile, for one. Your professional reputation, for another. And Lena’s privacy.”

“I would never compromise—” Kara started, but Sam raised her hand again.

“I know,” she said, surprising Kara. “I’ve read your work, Kara. You’re good. Really good. And fair. Which is exactly why I agreed to that first interview to begin with.”

The unexpected compliment momentarily robbed Kara of speech, her lips parting with no sound emerging. She glanced at Lena, who watched her with half-lidded eyes and a small, proud smile that lifted just the right corner of her mouth. The same mouth that had whispered against Kara’s neck hours earlier. Heat bloomed across Kara’s chest as her heart fluttered like a trapped bird beneath the thin cotton of her borrowed shirt.

“Thank you,” Kara managed.

Sam nodded, then continued. “But this—” she gestured again between them, “—changes the dynamic. You’re no longer just a journalist writing about Lena. You’re…” She trailed off, clearly searching for the right word.

“Involved,” Lena supplied, her fingers finding Kara’s under the counter and squeezing gently.

“Involved,” Sam repeated, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “So the question becomes: how do you write an objective profile about someone you’re involved with? And how do we navigate that?”

The question hung in the air, heavy as the antique crystal chandelier suspended above Lena’s dining table. Kara’s mind raced through possibilities, her heartbeat quickening with each new scenario. She could disclose the relationship—imagining the words in stark black print against CatCo’s glossy pages, exposing Lena’s private life to the same vultures who’d circled her family name for years. She could pretend nothing happened—but her body still hummed with the memory of Lena’s fingertips tracing constellations across her skin, a universe of sensation impossible to deny. She could ask Cat to reassign the piece—already picturing Cat’s arctic blue eyes narrowing to slits, her crimson lips forming the word “fired”.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally, the words tasting like defeat on her tongue.

“Well, I have some thoughts,” Sam said, pushing a bagel toward Kara. “But first, eat something. You look like you’re about to pass out, and I need you coherent for this conversation.”

Kara accepted the bagel gratefully, suddenly aware of the hollow ache in her stomach. The dense, chewy ring felt substantial in her hands, cream cheese oozing slightly from the edges. She hadn’t eaten since the half-empty cartons of potstickers and lo mein she’d had with Nia and Winn the day before.

“The way I see it,” Sam continued, her tone shifting into something more business-like but not unkind, “you have a few options. None of them perfect, but some better than others.”

Lena’s thumb traced small circles against Kara’s palm under the counter, the pad of her finger slightly calloused from years of stringed instruments. Each revolution sent tingles up Kara’s arm, the sensation both electric and soothing, like static electricity contained within a single point of contact. The gentle, hidden motion stood in stark contrast to the serious conversation happening—a secret rebellion conducted beneath the polished marble countertop while their futures were negotiated in the open air.

“I’m listening,” Kara said, taking a small bite of the bagel. The familiar taste of sesame seeds and cream cheese was oddly grounding, a mundane anchor in the midst of this surreal morning.

“Option one,” Sam said, holding up one finger, “you recuse yourself from the article. Tell Cat Grant that you’ve developed a personal relationship with the subject and can no longer maintain journalistic objectivity.”

Kara nearly choked on her bagel. “Cat would eviscerate me,” she whispered, imagining her glacial stare and razor-sharp tongue. “And then fire me.”

“Probably,” Sam agreed with a small shrug. “Option two: you write the article, but disclose your relationship in the piece itself. Transparency about potential bias.”

“That would put Lena’s private life on display,” Kara objected immediately, protective instinct flaring. “And it would turn the focus away from her music to her… to us.” She faltered on the last word, uncertain if there even was an “us” yet.

“Exactly,” Sam nodded, pleased by Kara’s quick understanding. “Which brings us to option three: you write the article as planned, focusing on Lena’s music and career, but you maintain professional boundaries until after publication.”

“Professional boundaries,” Lena repeated, her voice carrying a hint of challenge. “Meaning what, exactly?”

Sam met her gaze steadily. “Meaning no more sleepovers until after the article is published. No behavior that could compromise Kara’s objectivity or professional reputation.”

Kara felt the air leave her lungs, a sudden vacuum that made her chest cave. The thought of stepping back from Lena now, after everything that had passed between them, felt impossible. It was like trying to push toothpaste back into its tube or unscramble an egg—a fundamental reversal of nature. But the alternative twisted her stomach equally: sacrificing her professional integrity, the career she’d built so carefully over years of late nights and rejected drafts, of coffee-fueled rewrites and the slow, painstaking accumulation of Cat Grant’s grudging respect.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lena said, her fingers tightening around Kara’s. “What happened last night wasn’t just—”

“I hear you,” Sam interrupted, her voice softening. “But I am trying to protect both of you here.” She turned to Kara, unexpectedly gentle. “You have a reputation to maintain. And Lena has a tour starting tomorrow.”

“The tour,” Kara repeated, the word landing like a stone in her stomach. Three weeks of separation, regardless of what she decided about the article.

“Seattle tomorrow night,” Sam confirmed. “Then Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego. Back in three weeks.”

The timeline stretched before Kara like an endless highway through Nevada desert—twenty-one days of parched anticipation, each sunset a mile marker separating her from Lena. She swallowed hard, the motion catching halfway as though her body were physically rejecting the idea of distance, a stubborn lump forming in her throat that tasted of last night's whispered promises and this morning's cooling coffee.

"I don't want to wait three weeks to see you again," Lena said quietly, her words meant only for Kara despite Sam standing a handful of feet away.

Something warm unfurled in Kara's chest at the admission—a tender, fragile hope that spread through her ribcage like honey poured over warm bread, sweet and golden despite the thorny complications surrounding them. She turned to face Lena fully, her breath catching as she found herself caught in the gravity of those sea-glass eyes, luminous and shifting between blue and green in the morning light filtering through the kitchen windows, flecked with amber near the pupils like shore pebbles revealed at low tide.

"I don't want that either," she whispered back.

Sam cleared her throat, the sound breaking through their shared moment like a stone through ice. "There is... another option," she said slowly, as if the idea was forming as she spoke. "One that might solve several problems at once."

Both Lena and Kara turned to look at her, identical expressions of cautious hope on their faces.

"What if," Sam said, setting her mug down, "Kara came with us on the tour?"

Kara's breath caught in her throat.

"As a journalist," Sam continued, warming to the idea. "Exclusive behind-the-scenes coverage of GlassHearts' west coast tour. It would give you material for the profile, plus potential follow-up pieces. And it would give you two time to..." She gestured vaguely. "Figure things out. Away from prying eyes."

Kara's mind raced with the implications, images flashing like concert strobes—cramped tour bus bunks with thin curtains for privacy; Lena silhouetted against stage lights, sweat-dampened hair clinging to her skin; scribbling notes in dim backstage corridors while roadies rushed past with equipment; stealing kisses in anonymous hotel rooms with windows overlooking unfamiliar city skylines. Three weeks of watching Lena transform from the vulnerable woman beside her into the magnetic performer who commanded crowds—and nights afterward to discover who she became in between those selves.

"Cat would never approve it," Kara said, though her voice lacked conviction. "The expense alone—"

"I can take care of that," Lena interjected. At Kara's alarmed look, she quickly added, "Not personally. The band has a budget for press. We've been trying to get more coverage for months."

"It's true," Sam confirmed. "Jimmy's been pushing for a tour documentary crew, but we settled for a photographer. Adding a journalist would be a smart move, professionally speaking."

"I'd need to pitch it to Cat," she said slowly, her mind already composing the email. "And I'd need to pack, arrange for someone to water my plants, tell Alex—"

"Is that a yes?" Lena asked, her voice carrying a note of vulnerable hope that made Kara's heart constrict.

Kara's gaze darted between Lena's hopeful sea-glass eyes and Sam's pragmatic brown ones, her mind balancing possibilities like a jeweler weighing precious metals. On one side gleamed her career—the byline, the exclusive access, Cat's grudging approval—and on the other, the magnetic pull of Lena's presence, the promise of shared whispers in darkened tour bus bunks. For once in her life, the professional and personal weren't adversaries but allies, twin stars aligning in perfect conjunction. She felt the moment of decision like a physical sensation, a quiet click inside her chest as certainty settled into place.

"Yes," she said, the word emerging with unexpected certainty. "If Cat approves it, yes."

The smile that bloomed across Lena's face was worth every complication, every risk. The usual guarded calculation in her eyes melted away, replaced by a luminous warmth that crinkled the corners into delicate fans. Her lips curved upward with such genuine joy that the small dimple Kara couldn't stop noticing appeared on her cheek. This wasn't the practiced smile Lena offered to cameras or fans; this was a private sunrise meant only for Kara.

Sam watched them both, her expression shifting from managerial calculation back to something warmer, more human. "Well," she said, reaching for her phone, "I guess we'd better start making arrangements. The bus leaves first thing tomorrow morning."

"Bus?" Kara repeated, the practical reality of tour life suddenly asserting itself. "We're taking a bus?"

Sam's laugh was unexpectedly musical. "Welcome to the glamorous life of a touring musician, Kara. Hope you like small spaces and questionable bathroom facilities."

"The accommodations improve in the bigger cities," Lena added quickly, squeezing Kara's hand. "Hotels in San Francisco and LA."

"And separate bunks on the bus," Sam said pointedly, though her eyes sparkled with amusement rather than disapproval. "For the sake of everyone's sanity—and sleep."

The conversation shifted to logistics—Sam's manicured nails tapping against her phone screen as she outlined what Kara should pack—"Layers. Always layers. Venues are either freezing or sweltering"—while Lena twisted her silver rings nervously, occasionally brushing her fingers against Kara’s. Beneath the practical details, electricity hummed through Kara's veins, crackling like static before a storm.

"I'll email Cat Grant myself," Sam offered suddenly, looking up from her calendar. "I can suggest extending your deadline for the exposé—give you time to really capture the essence of the tour, the band, everything." Her eyes flickered meaningfully between them. "A deeper story deserves proper development." As Sam returned to her scheduling, Kara caught Lena watching her, lips parted slightly, eyes wide with a naked wonder that made Kara's chest constrict like a fist around something precious and fragile.

"Are you sure about this?" Lena whispered, her voice pitched low enough that only Kara could hear. "It's a lot to take on. The tour, the article, me..."

The question carried layers of meaning, years of Lena's carefully concealed insecurities rising to the surface. Kara recognized the fear behind it—the fear that she was too much, too complicated, too broken to be chosen. It was a fear Kara knew intimately, though she wore it differently.

Instead of answering immediately, Kara leaned forward and pressed her lips to Lena's—a brief, gentle kiss that carried the weight of promise. When she pulled back, Lena's eyes remained closed for a heartbeat, her dark lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

"I'm sure," Kara whispered back, the words a vow between them. "I want this. All of it."

Chapter Text

4

Damage Control

Lena stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, fingertips leaving ghostly prints on the glass. The morning sun caught on the neighboring buildings, transforming their facades into pillars of blinding light that made her squint despite the automatic tinting. Beyond the urban geometry, the bay stretched like hammered silver, whitecaps visible even from this height. A ferry crawled across the water's surface, leaving a thin wake that disappeared almost as quickly as it formed. She pressed her palm flat against the cool surface, as if she could somehow reach through all that empty space and pull Kara back to her.

"So," Sam's voice came from behind her, sharp as a guitar string plucked too hard. "Are we going to talk about what the hell just happened?"

Lena didn't turn around. "I assume you mean Kara."

"No, I mean the economic implications of cryptocurrency in developing nations. Of course I mean Kara, you absolute disaster," Sam replied, her sarcasm razor-edged but familiar. She gestured vaguely toward the hallway that led to Lena’s bedroom. "Ya know, the reporter who left her cardigan on your living room floor and her dignity who knows where. The one you've somehow persuaded to spend three weeks trapped on a tour bus with us."

Lena spun around from the window, eyes flashing. "You're the one who brought it up first," she countered, then caught herself, the defensiveness in her voice betraying more than she intended. Shoulders slumping, she turned back to face the sprawling cityscape, pressing her forehead against the seventy-story-high glass. The cool, flawless surface anchored her when everything else felt as unstable as a suspension bridge in high wind—especially with the phantom sensation of Kara's lips still burning against hers, that last breathless kiss before she'd slipped away with promises of tomorrow murmured hot against the sensitive hollow of Lena's ear.

"I don't know what you want me to say here, Sam," she said, her breath briefly clouding the immaculate glass before disappearing.

"How about starting with what you're thinking?" Sam's footsteps approached, the soft pad of her stockinged feet against the hardwood barely audible. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks like a spectacular case of self-sabotage, even for you."

Lena turned again, meeting Sam's concerned gaze. 

Her best friend stood with arms crossed, still in her tailored blazer, her posture radiating the protective tension Lena had come to rely on over the years. There was no judgment in Sam's eyes—only worry, layered with the kind of exasperated fondness that came from years of cleaning up messes exactly like this one.

"It's not like that," Lena said, then winced at how defensive she still sounded.

"Then what is it like?" Sam asked, her voice softening as she moved to the kitchen island and poured herself another cup of coffee. "Because I’m a little lost here, L. Four days ago, I confiscated your phone at 2 AM because you wouldn't stop texting Andrea. Yesterday, I held your hair back while you hugged the toilet and swore you'd never drink tequila again." She took a sip of coffee. "And now you've spent the night with the same reporter who made you bail in the middle of the Children's Hospital benefit? The gala you've attended religiously since high school? The one you dragged yourself to last year despite running a 102-degree fever?" Her mug hit the counter with a decisive thud. "I'm not judging. I'm just trying to keep up."

Lena ran a hand through her tangled hair, still bearing the evidence of last night's abandon—wayward strands that refused to lie flat, small knots where Kara's fingers had twisted and gripped. She could still feel the ghost of those touches—tentative at first, barely grazing her scalp, then growing bolder, tugging just hard enough to arch her neck backward. The phantom sensation traveled from her nape, raising gooseflesh across her shoulders that had nothing to do with the penthouse's precisely calibrated air conditioning.

"It wasn't planned," she said finally, crossing to the island and picking up her abandoned mug. The coffee had gone cold, but she took a sip anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste. Lena traced a finger along the edge of the counter as she continued. "We met at The Pit, as planned. I suggested she come back here so I could explain what happened in Vienna." Sam's eyes widened slightly. "Andrea told her about it… at the gala."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. In that moment, the chaotic puzzle pieces of that night rearranged themselves in her mind. Lena's abrupt disappearance from the gala shortly after her performance, the increasingly desperate messages lighting up her phone like emergency flares—first from the flustered event planner, then the foundation director, and finally the ice-cold texts from Lillian Luthor herself, each one more cutting than the last. Sam had forwarded every frantic message, but they'd all gone unread until Lena finally checked her phone the morning after, slipping out of Andrea's sheets with a hangover that pounded like a bass drum.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "And somehow explaining Vienna led to her clothes on your floor because...?"

"Because—" Lena started, then stopped, searching for words that wouldn't sound trite or desperate. How could she explain the electric jolt she'd felt when Kara had first walked into the green room that first night, all nervous energy and earnest blue eyes? How to describe the way she’d listened—really listened—as Lena talked about her music, her family, her fears? The way Kara's eyes had found something beneath the veneer—past the child prodigy headlines, the rising musician profiles, the whispers about her family's disgrace—and settled there, as if she'd discovered a secret worth keeping.

"Because she sees me," Lena said finally, the words inadequate but true. "Not the image, not the name. Me."

Sam's expression softened, the worried crease between her brows smoothing slightly. "So what you're saying is," she drawled, lips quirking upward, "you fell into bed with a journalist because she actually listened to you? God, that's like rock star cliché number three." She nudged Lena's shoulder with her own. "L," she added, her voice dropping the teasing edge, "Look, I get it. I do, I swear. But she's still writing that profile. She's still got a deadline and an editor expecting dirt on the youngest Luthor."

"I know that," Lena snapped, then immediately regretted her tone. She set her mug down with more force than necessary, the ceramic clinking against marble. "I’m sorry. I just—this feels different."

"Different how?" Sam asked. "Different from Andrea? From Veronica? From that bassist in London whose name I can never remember?"

"Morgan," Lena supplied automatically. "And yes, different from all of them."

Sam studied her for a long moment, her gaze searching. "You barely know her."

Lena's jaw tightened. "I know enough," she snapped. "She's not just another notch in my guitar strap. I know she has a sister she'd do anything for. She carries this ridiculous little rose-gold pen everywhere like it's a talisman. When she gets nervous, she pushes her glasses up even when they haven't slipped." Her voice rose with each detail, as if each one was ammunition in a battle Sam couldn't possibly understand. "So don't talk about her like she's just another Morgan or Veronica or—or Andrea. Because she isn’t. This is different. This feels different."

"Jesus, Lena," Sam said softly. "You're in deep already, aren't you?"

Lena didn't answer directly. Instead, she moved to the couch, carefully gathering Kara's discarded cardigan from where it had pooled on the polished wood floor. The soft blue fabric—the exact shade of a robin's egg—still carried her scent, something clean and slightly floral, like lavender-scented sheets left to dry in summer sunshine. She folded it with unnecessary care, her manicured fingertips lingering over each crease, tracing the delicate pearl buttons, smoothing away invisible wrinkles as if the garment were a fragile, living thing that required her protection.

She smoothed the cardigan one final time, not meeting Sam's eyes. "When you suggested she come along for the tour, it made perfect sense professionally. The exposure will be good for the band. For the album release."

"Bullshit," Sam replied, but there was no heat in the word. "You want her there because you can't stand the thought of not seeing her for three weeks."

Lena's hands stilled. "Is that so terrible?" she asked quietly, finally meeting Sam's gaze. "To want something for myself, for once?"

The question hung in the air between them, weighted with years of Lena putting everyone else first—everyone from her domineering mother to her manipulative ex, from the band mates who depended on her to the executives who saw her as a product to the audiences who thought they owned pieces of her soul. Sam had witnessed every sacrifice. The Vicodin, Xanax, and Adderall cocktails Lena choked down before performances, washing them down with lukewarm water in venue bathrooms, her reflection in the mirror growing gaunt as her body screamed for actual rest; the vodka bottles hidden in tour bus compartments; the 3 AM calls after Andrea had left her bed and her heart in shambles yet again. The cycle of self-destruction as predictable as it was devastating.

Sam sighed, her shoulders dropping as something shifted in her expression—from manager to the friend who'd held Lena's hand through rehab twice already. She crossed the room and sank onto the couch beside Lena, close enough that their shoulders touched, a familiar gesture from countless hotel rooms where she'd found Lena trying to become small enough to disappear.

"No," she said gently. "It's not terrible. It's human."

Lena leaned into the contact, allowing herself the small comfort of Sam's familiar presence. "Then why is it so terrifying?"

"Because you actually care about this one," Sam said simply. "And because the timing is complicated as hell."

They sat in silence for a moment, the penthouse quiet. Lena's fingers continued to trace the edge of Kara's cardigan, memorizing its texture—the impossibly soft wool with its subtle ribbing, the slightly frayed thread at one corner where it had caught on something, the faint impression of perfume that clung to the fibers like a whispered secret.

"What if this blows up in my face?" Lena asked finally, voicing the fear that had been lurking beneath her certainty since the moment Kara's lips first touched hers. "What if she writes something that—"

"That exposes the real you?" Sam finished for her. "Isn't that what you just said you wanted? Someone who sees you?"

Lena swallowed hard. "There's seeing me, and then there's showing me to the world. Those are different things."

Sam nodded, understanding immediately. "You're worried she'll write about Lex. About your father." She paused, lowering her voice though they were alone. "About your mother's 'accident'."

"Among other things," Lena admitted.

The shadows of her family hung over her like storm clouds, always threatening to break open and drench her in their darkness. Lex's scandal had nearly destroyed her career before it began—the brilliant tech mogul turned criminal, his embezzlement scheme uncovered just as Lena's first album was gaining traction. The press had been merciless, digging into every aspect of the Luthor family history, unearthing her father's affairs, her mother's suspicious "accident" that nobody quite believed was accidental, the adoption papers that had always marked Lena as somehow separate, different. And then there were the things even Sam didn't mention aloud—the rehab stints carefully hidden from the public, the pills Lena had swallowed to get through performances, the night in Vienna when they'd found her blue-lipped and unresponsive in a hotel bathtub, champagne bottles floating like buoys around her pale form. The "incident" after Lionel's funeral that the doctors had labeled a suicide attempt in hushed tones, though Lena had only wanted silence in her head, just for a little while, just enough to make the screaming thoughts stop.

"Have you talked to her about boundaries?" Sam asked, pulling Lena from her thoughts. "About what's off-limits for the article?"

"Not explicitly," Lena said, wincing at her own oversight. In the heat of things, in the intoxicating feeling of being truly seen, she'd forgotten the practical concerns that usually governed her interactions with the press. "We were... distracted."

Sam snorted. "I gathered that from the state of your living room." She paused, then added more seriously, "You need to have that conversation before the tour starts. Clear guidelines about what's personal and what's on the record."

"I know," Lena agreed, already dreading the potential awkwardness of that discussion. How did one transition from passionate night to professional boundaries without sounding cold or calculating?

"And you need to prepare yourself," Sam continued, her voice gentler now, "for the possibility that even with the best intentions, this could get messy. Journalists have jobs to do. Stories to tell."

"Kara wouldn't—" Lena started, then stopped herself. Wouldn't what? Wouldn't do her job? Wouldn't write the truth as she saw it? Wouldn't prioritize her career over a connection that was, in the cold light of day, less than twenty-four hours old?

"You don't know what she would or wouldn't do," Sam said, not unkindly. "That's my point. You're taking a risk here, L. A big one."

Lena nodded, acknowledging the truth in Sam's words. She was taking a risk—with her privacy, with her heart, with the carefully constructed image she'd built since emerging from Lex's shadow. But sitting there, Kara's cardigan in her hands, she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

"Some risks are worth taking," she said softly.

Sam studied her for a long moment, then reached over to squeeze her hand. "I hope you're right," she said. "For what it's worth, I like her. She seems... genuine."

"She is," Lena said, certainty coloring her voice. "That's what scares me the most."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Not the fact that she's writing an article that could make or break your career? Not the fact that she works for Cat Grant, who once called you 'the least interesting Luthor' in print?"

Lena winced at the memory. "Grant wasn't wrong at the time. I was just another dutiful daughter following the classical conservatory path my mother had mapped out since I was four—before I finally broke away and formed GlassHearts." She shook her head. "No, what scares me is that Kara is genuine. She's... good. In a way I'm not sure I deserve."

Sam's eyes flashed with a familiar frustration. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she said, "are we really doing the 'I don't deserve happiness' routine again? Because I swear to god, Lena, every time Andrea waltzes back into your life and relegates you to playing second fiddle, we have this exact conversation."

Despite herself, Lena laughed—a short, startled sound. "You don't understand, Sam. Luthors poison everything we touch. Why do you think the only person who ever comes back is Andi? Because she's already married to someone else. She can dip in and out of the toxic waste dump that is my life without drowning in it."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Sam said, her voice hardening as she leaned forward. "Andrea comes back because I haven't figured out how to get a restraining order that sticks. And don't you dare call yourself toxic—not after everything you've survived." She stood up, straightening her blazer with a sharp tug. "Now. The tour. With Kara. Are we really doing this?"

Lena nodded, a flutter of anticipation replacing the knot of anxiety in her stomach. "We're really doing this."

"Then I need to call James and let him and the guys know. And make arrangements. And you," Sam pointed at her with mock severity, "need to shower and start packing. We leave in less than twenty-four hours, and you still haven't decided on the setlist for Seattle."

Lena grimaced, the practical realities of the tour rushing back. "I was thinking of opening with 'Glass Houses' instead of 'Midnight Run’. It sets a different tone, more… vulnerable."

"See? This is what you should have been doing last night instead of—" Sam gestured vaguely toward the bedroom, then shook her head. "Never mind. We'll discuss the setlist over dinner. Seven o'clock, that new place on Fifth that James keeps raving about."

"I'll be there," Lena promised, already mentally sorting through her wardrobe, wondering what to pack for three weeks on the road with Kara. Would they share hotel rooms in the cities with overnight stays? Would Kara want that, or would she prefer professional distance while working?

"And Lena?" Sam paused at the door, her expression serious again. "Be careful. Not just with the article, but with yourself. I've seen what happens when you let someone in too quickly."

The warning hung in the air, weighted with the history of Lena's past relationships—each one a cautionary tale of trust misplaced, of vulnerability exploited. Andrea selling stories to the tabloids after their breakup. Veronica using their connection to boost her own fading career. Morgan disappearing the moment Lex's scandal broke, unwilling to be associated with the Luthor name.

"I will," Lena said, though even as the words left her mouth, she knew it might already be too late for caution. Something about Kara had slipped past her defenses with alarming ease, like a melody that lodges in the mind after a single hearing—impossible to forget, impossible to resist.

Sam nodded, not entirely convinced, and headed for the door. As it closed behind her, Lena remained on the couch, Kara's cardigan still clutched in her hands like a talisman. The penthouse felt suddenly empty.

She pulled out her phone, finger hovering over Kara's name in her contacts. Too soon to text? Too desperate to check if she'd made it to work safely? She set the phone down, then picked it up again, caught in an adolescent uncertainty that would have amused her if it weren't so disorienting.

Finally, she typed a simple message: Looking forward to tomorrow. Bring earplugs for the bus. James snores.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then stood and made her way to the bedroom. The sheets were still tangled from the night before.

What had she done?

What was she doing?

Chapter Text

5

Morning Rush

The elevator doors slid open, revealing CatCo's bullpen—a hurricane of activity under the blinding morning sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, making Kara's still-sensitive eyes water as it reflected off every glass surface and polished desk. She stepped out onto the polished marble floor, clutching her worn leather messenger bag to her side with white knuckles, while her other hand frantically combed through tangled blonde hair that still smelled faintly of Lena's perfume. The familiar cacophony assaulted her ears—phones trilling at different pitches, the staccato rhythm of thirty keyboards clacking simultaneously, the asthmatic wheeze of the ancient copy machine, Snapper's gravelly voice cutting through it all as he tore into some red-faced intern who looked on the verge of tears—but today each sound felt like needles against her eardrums after the silk-soft quiet of Lena's penthouse.

She'd barely made it three steps toward her desk, the soles of her flats squeaking against the floor, when Nia materialized before her like a particularly determined apparition, a steaming paper coffee cup extended in her manicured hand, the cardboard sleeve already darkening with absorbed heat.

"You're late," Nia announced, her eyes widening as they took in Kara's disheveled appearance. "You're never late. Like, ever. I was about to file a missing persons report."

Kara accepted the coffee with a grateful nod, using it to avoid meeting Nia's increasingly suspicious gaze. "Traffic was bad," she mumbled into the plastic lid before taking a scalding sip that burned her tongue. 

"Traffic," Nia repeated, drawing out the word until it lost all meaning. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Kara more carefully. "Traffic made you show up at—" she checked her watch dramatically, "—10:47 AM wearing yesterday's jeans and a band t-shirt I've never seen before?"

Kara's free hand flew self-consciously to the faded Runaways logo stretched across her chest, her fingertips tracing the cracked cherry-red lipstick print that formed the band's iconic emblem. The soft, threadbare cotton carried the lingering scent of Lena's apartment—sandalwood and expensive coffee. In her frantic rush to get to work after the whirlwind morning at Lena's penthouse, she'd completely forgotten she was still wearing the borrowed shirt, a vintage piece that hung slightly loose at her shoulders but pulled taut across her chest. Heat crawled up her neck in telltale patches of crimson as she shifted her weight from one foot to another.

"I overslept," she offered weakly.

"Uh-huh." Nia's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline as she crossed her arms. "And the shirt? Because unless you've been hiding a secret vintage band tee collection, that is definitely not yours. It's way too cool."

"Hey!" Kara protested reflexively, then immediately regretted drawing attention to the shirt.

Nia's eyes lit up with triumph. "So it's not yours! I knew it!" She grabbed Kara's arm and pulled her toward the relative privacy of the break room, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid of Kara's cup. "Spill. Now."

"There's nothing to—"

"Don't even try," Nia interrupted, kicking the break room door closed behind them with her heel. "You're wearing someone else's clothes, you have what is clearly a hickey peeking out from under that collar, and you're almost three hours late to work. You, Kara Danvers, who once came in with a 103-degree fever because you didn't want to miss a staff meeting."

Kara's hand flew to her neck, fingers pressing against the sensitive spot just below her collarbone that she'd failed to notice in her hasty examination of her reflection in Lena's elevator. "It's not a hickey," she lied, knowing even as the words left her mouth how unconvincing they sounded.

"Right," Nia drawled, leaning against the counter with an expectant expression. "And I'm not the best investigative journalist under thirty in this city. Come on, Kara. It's me."

Kara stared into her coffee cup. Heat crawled up her neck. She could feel Nia's eyes on her, patient but relentless, like a cat watching a cornered mouse. The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the refrigerator's hum and the muffled symphony of the newsroom beyond the break room’s door. Finally, she looked up through a curtain of tangled blonde hair, meeting her friend's wide, expectant gaze with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod that felt a lot like stepping off the edge of a cliff.

"It's so complicated," she finally managed, her voice barely audible over the ambient noises.

Nia’s expression softened instantly, the playful skepticism replaced with genuine concern. She closed the distance between them, her tone dropping to the register reserved for funerals and unplanned pregnancies. “Hey. Whatever it is, I’m here. You know that, right?” She reached out, barely grazing Kara’s arm—a feather-light touch, a lifeline.

Kara nodded, the motion jerky. She couldn’t look at Nia. Instead, she found herself staring at the microwave’s digital clock, willing the numbers to slow, to give her more time to assemble a version of the story she could actually speak aloud. The break room—cramped, institutional, the air perpetually tinged with burnt popcorn—suddenly felt confessional. Kara wondered if Nia could see the tremor in her hands, the unevenness in her breathing, the raw hunger still clinging to her after a night spent pressed against Lena’s skin. It had not been careful or planned or even halfway rational. It had been a surge, a wave that crashed over them both and left them stranded in the undertow, blinking up at the ceiling with the knowledge that something fundamental had changed.

Kara's thoughts spiraled, each one jostling for primacy—her career, the looming deadline for the exposé Cat wanted, what would happen now after spending the night with someone she knew so little about. She was so used to compartmentalizing, to drawing bright lines between the different pieces of her life, that she'd convinced herself it was possible to keep them all separate. Last night those walls had crumbled. Now, in the sharp light of morning, she wasn't sure if she wanted to rebuild them.

Nia waited, holding the moment open until Kara was ready to fill it.

Finally, Kara forced herself to look up, once more meeting her friend’s gaze through the veil of her disheveled bangs. There was no judgment in Nia’s eyes, only a steady warmth and curiosity, a readiness to hold whatever truth Kara placed in her hands. That, more than anything, threatened to undo her. The words caught in her throat, backed up behind a dam of instinctive secrecy.

She took a shaky breath. “If I tell you,” she whispered, “you can’t—”

“I won’t,” Nia promised. “Scout’s honor.” She mimed a two-fingered salute.

Kara almost laughed, but the sound stuck halfway and instead came out as a choked huff. “It’s not what you think,” she began, then amended: “Actually, it’s exactly what you think. But it’s also more than that. Or less. Or…” She trailed off, mortified by her own incoherence. "It just... happened."

"Holy shit," Nia breathed, grabbing the edge of the counter as if to steady herself. "Holy. Shit."

"I know," Kara groaned, setting her coffee down to press her palms against her eyes. "I know, okay? It's unprofessional and complicated and probably career suicide, but—"

"But you like her," Nia finished for her, her voice softening around the edges.

Kara lowered her hands. "Yeah," she admitted quietly. "I really do."

A slow smile spread across Nia's face, lighting her eyes with genuine warmth. "Well, damn, Danvers. When you finally decide to break the rules, you really go for it, don't you?"

The unexpected response startled a laugh out of Kara—a small, surprised sound that seemed to release some of the tension coiled in her shoulders. "I guess I do."

Nia's smile widened further. "So," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "how was it?"

Heat bloomed across Kara's cheeks. "Nia!"

"What? It's a legitimate question! You spent the night with Lena Luthor—certified rock goddess and Rolling Stone's 'Most Intriguing Woman in Music’. I need details." She paused, then added with a mischievous grin, "For journalistic purposes, of course."

"You're impossible," Kara muttered, but couldn't suppress the smile tugging at her lips. It felt strangely liberating to say it out loud, to share the dizzying reality with someone else.

"Maybe," Nia conceded, "but I'm also your friend. And as your friend, I need to know if you're okay with... all of this." Her gesture encompassed Kara's borrowed shirt, her late arrival, the implications hovering in the air between them.

The question landed with unexpected weight, forcing Kara to consider everything that had happened since she'd walked into Lena's penthouse yesterday evening. The interview that had evolved into something more intimate, the night that followed, the morning's revelations and decisions. The tour bus leaving tomorrow morning.

"I'm going on tour with her," Kara said, the words rushing out before she could reconsider. "With the band. For three weeks."

Nia's jaw dropped. "You're what?"

"Sam suggested it. As a way to get material for the profile and... figure things out. Away from prying eyes." Kara twisted her fingers together nervously. "I still need Cat's approval, but Sam's emailing her today."

"Cat's going to have kittens," Nia said, then immediately winced at her own unintentional pun. "Sorry. But seriously, Kara—three weeks on the road with GlassHearts? That's... that's huge."

"I know," Kara whispered, the reality of it settling over her like a physical weight. "It's crazy, right? I'd be leaving tomorrow. I haven't even packed or told Alex or—"

"Hey," Nia interrupted, reaching out to squeeze Kara's arm. "Breathe. One thing at a time."

Kara inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of office coffee and Nia's floral perfume grounding her. "You're right. One thing at a time."

"Starting with getting you some actual clothes that belong to you," Nia said, her eyes twinkling. "Because while the rock chick look is surprisingly good on you, Cat will definitely notice."

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Cat Grant's voice cut through the break room door.

"Kiera! My office, now!"

Kara's eyes met Nia's in mutual panic.

"Do you think she knows?" Kara whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Nia shook her head. "No way. Not yet. But—" she gestured at Kara's borrowed shirt, "—you might want to put on a cardigan before you go in there."

Kara looked down at herself in horror. "I don't have a cardigan."

"Oh," Nia said, her eyes widening. "Well, that's... unfortunate."

"Kiera!" Cat's voice rang out again, sharper this time.

Kara took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Wish me luck."

"Always," Nia said, giving her arm one last supportive squeeze. "And Kara? For what it's worth, I think you're braver than you realize."

The words followed Kara as she stepped out of the break room and into the bullpen, where Cat Grant stood in the doorway of her office, arms crossed and expression unreadable behind oversized Gucci sunglasses that gleamed like beetle shells. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught in her champagne-blonde bob, forming a halo effect that did nothing to soften the knife-edge of her intimidating presence.

Kara straightened her spine and walked forward across the open-plan office, each step on trembling legs carrying her toward a conversation that could change everything—or end it all. The scales could tip either way, and she had no idea which direction they'd fall.

Every eye in the bullpen tracked her progress across the floor—from Joel at the photo desk pretending to study contact sheets, to Siobhan openly smirking behind her computer monitor. The squeaking of her scuffed flats against the polished white marble seemed to amplify with each step, broadcasting her approach like an alarm system. Cat's sunglasses reflected Kara's disheveled appearance back at her in twin miniature ovals of shame as she drew closer, the borrowed band t-shirt hanging loose around her shoulders.

"Three hours late," Cat said, her voice pitched just loud enough for the nearest desks to hear, "and dressed like you've been dumpster diving behind a vintage record store. Should I be concerned that CatCo's standards have fallen so dramatically, or is this a special occasion?"

Kara's fingers instinctively tugged at the hem of the borrowed Runaways t-shirt. "I'm sorry, Ms. Grant. It won't—"

"Save it for someone who cares about your excuses." Cat pivoted on her Louboutins and strode into her office, the unspoken command to follow hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.

Kara trailed after her, each step a death march across Italian marble, painfully aware of the whispers that erupted like popcorn in her wake. Cat's office—a glass-walled fishbowl that offered the illusion of privacy while ensuring everyone could witness whatever execution was about to occur—felt ten degrees cooler than the bullpen, the air conditioning hissing from hidden vents like judgment itself. The familiar scent of Cat's signature Chanel No. 5 perfume mingled with the buttery leather of her cream-colored Eames chair and the sharp, astringent bite of the lemon-verbena cleaning products used on her immaculate glass desk, which reflected the morning light in blinding white daggers.

Cat removed her sunglasses with deliberate slowness, each temple arm unfolding with a soft click that echoed in Kara's ears like a countdown timer. She folded them with manicured fingers tipped in bloodred polish and placed them beside her silver MacBook Pro before looking up at Kara with eyes so intensely laser-focused they could have cut diamond. Those eyes narrowed to slits as they methodically cataloged every damning detail of Kara's appearance—the sex-tangled blonde hair, the faded black Runaways t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, the unmistakable purple-red mark peeking above the collar like a neon sign advertising her indiscretion.

"Close the door," Cat instructed, her voice deceptively calm.

Kara's stomach clenched as she turned to pull the glass door shut. The soft click of the latch felt like sealing her own fate.

"So," Cat said, leaning back in her chair, "I received a rather interesting email from Samantha Arias this morning."

Kara's pulse hammered in her throat. She tried to swallow but found her mouth suddenly desert-dry. "Oh?"

"Oh indeed." Cat's perfectly manicured fingers drummed once against her desk. "Apparently, GlassHearts is inviting you—specifically you—to join them on tour for the next three weeks. An 'unprecedented opportunity for access’, Ms. Arias called it." Cat's eyebrows arched. "Care to explain how my junior reporter, who has precisely zero experience covering the music industry, has suddenly become so indispensable to a rock group whose streaming numbers have doubled every month since their last album dropped?"

Heat bloomed across Kara's cheeks. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hyper-aware of the borrowed shirt against her skin. "I, um—the interview went well. Really well. And Ms. Arias thought—"

"Ms. Arias thought," Cat interrupted, "that extending your deadline by three weeks and sending you gallivanting across the country with a rock band would somehow result in a better profile of Lena Luthor." She tilted her head, studying Kara with the same intensity she might direct at a particularly puzzling crossword clue. "What I find curious is why. GlassHearts hasn't allowed a journalist to travel with them since their first album release a year ago."

Cat stood, circling her desk with the measured pace of a predator. "Do you know how rare it is for bands to allow journalists to tour with them these days, Kiera?"

"I—not really, no."

"Of course you don't." Cat sighed, perching on the edge of her desk. "In the golden age of rock journalism—before your time, obviously—reporters like Cameron Crowe and Lester Bangs would spend weeks, sometimes months, on the road with bands. They lived the lifestyle, witnessed the chaos, documented the creative process." Her lips curled into a nostalgic half-smile. "I did it myself, once upon a time. Three weeks with Guns N' Roses in '91. Nearly destroyed my liver and definitely destroyed a perfectly good pair of Manolos, but the cover story won me my first major award."

Cat's eyes refocused on Kara, sharpening. "That was a different era. Before social media allowed artists to control their own narratives. Before publicists became guard dogs instead of facilitators. Before media conglomerates slashed travel budgets to the bone." She pushed off from the desk, moving closer to Kara. "These days, you're lucky if you get fifteen minutes on Zoom and approval over the questions in advance."

Kara nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"So you can imagine my surprise," Cat continued, "when Samantha Arias—one of the most notoriously protective managers in the business—emails me directly to request that my inexperienced reporter join her multi-million-dollar touring operation." She stopped directly in front of Kara, close enough that Kara could see the individual flecks of gold in her irises. "What happened in that interview, Kiera?"

The question hung between them, dangerously direct. Kara's mind raced through possible answers, each one feeling more transparent than the last.

"There was... an unexpected rapport between Ms. Luthor and myself," she finally said, the words feeling woefully inadequate. "Professional rapport," she added hastily. "She opened up more than expected, and I think Ms. Arias saw an opportunity for a more in-depth profile."

"Rapport," Cat repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. Her gaze dropped momentarily to Kara's borrowed shirt, then back to her face. "And this ‘rapport’ has nothing to do with why you're three hours late, wearing clothes that clearly aren't yours, and sporting what appears to be a rather amateur attempt at a hickey on your neck?"

Kara's hand flew to her collar, her face burning. "Ms. Grant, I—"

"Save it." Cat held up one hand. "I don't actually care about your personal life, Kiera. What I care about is my magazine, its reputation, and whether you're about to compromise both."

She turned and walked to the window, gazing out at the National City skyline. "Do you know why music journalists don't tour with bands anymore? Beyond the budget concerns?"

"No," Kara admitted.

"Because objectivity becomes impossible," Cat said, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "You live in their world, eat their food, breathe their air. You see them at their best and their worst. You become invested. Attached." She turned back to face Kara. "And attachment is the death of good journalism."

Kara's chest tightened. "I can remain objective."

Cat's laugh was short and sharp. "Wearing her band t-shirt? I doubt that very much."

The accuracy of the observation struck Kara like a punch to the gut, her stomach dropping as if she'd missed a step on a staircase. Heat crawled up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson as she fumbled for words. Her mouth opened, lips parting with the beginning of some half-formed defense, but Cat's razor-sharp voice sliced through the air before she could marshal her thoughts.

"Here's what's going to happen," she said, returning to her desk chair. "You're going on this tour."

Kara blinked, momentarily stunned. "I—what?"

"You heard me." Cat settled into her chair, her spine straightening like a queen reclaiming her throne. "This kind of access is too valuable to pass up, regardless of how it was obtained. But," she held up one finger, "you will file daily updates. You will maintain professional boundaries. And most importantly," Cat's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, her manicured finger tapping the glossy CatCo logo on a nearby magazine, "when you step onto that tour bus, you're not Kara Danvers. You're CatCo. You're me."

She fixed Kara with a penetrating stare. "If I get even a whiff that this story is being compromised by... whatever is happening between you and Lena Luthor, I will pull you off the assignment faster than you can say 'one-hit wonder’. Am I clear?"

"Crystal clear," Kara managed, her heart racing with a confusing mixture of relief and terror.

"Good." Cat picked up her sunglasses, a clear dismissal. "Now go home, pack, and for God's sake, put on some clothes that actually belong to you. The last thing I need is some rag running a gossip piece about CatCo's dress code deteriorating under my watch."

Kara nodded, turning to leave, her mind already spinning with the implications of what had just happened.

"Oh, and Kiera?" Cat called after her.

Kara paused at the door, looking back. "Yes, Ms. Grant?"

Cat's expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of something almost like understanding. "The music industry eats naive young women for breakfast. Particularly those who think they've found something special with a rock star." She slid her sunglasses back on. "Don't become a cautionary tale."

The words settled over Kara like a cold shadow, dousing the afterglow that had lingered in her chest since watching morning light catch in Lena's hair as she’d scribbled in her notebook on the balcony. She nodded once more and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.

The bullpen seemed to hold its collective breath as Kara emerged from Cat's office, dozens of eyes tracking her movements like vultures assessing whether their prey was mortally wounded. She forced her shoulders back, chin lifted in a display of confidence she absolutely did not feel, while her stomach performed acrobatics that would impress Olympic judges. The light streaming in from the windows suddenly seemed too bright, the air too thin, the distance to her desk impossibly vast.

Nia was waiting at her workstation, knuckles white around a pen she'd clearly been clicking incessantly, her normally perfect posture replaced by an anxious hunch. Her eyes were wide with barely contained questions as Kara approached.

"Well?" Nia whispered urgently the moment Kara was within earshot, leaning so far forward she nearly toppled from her chair. "Are you fired? Demoted? Locked in a content dungeon for all eternity?"

Before Kara could answer, she spotted Winn approaching, tablet clutched to his chest. Her heart sank. Just yesterday he'd offered to wait outside The Pit as her "emotional support nerd" when she'd been pacing nervously about the interview.

"Hey!" Winn called, sliding into his usual spot in their shared corner. "So? Operation Rock Star Interview? Success or disaster? I texted you like three times this morning when you didn't show up for our coffee run." His eyes widened as he took in her appearance, gaze traveling from her tangled hair to the unfamiliar shirt. "Wait, is that—" 

"Winn, I'm so sorry about the texts." Kara's fingers found the hem of the borrowed shirt, tugging it down. "Everything happened so fast, and I completely forgot our coffee thing, and then this morning was—"

"A complete disaster," Nia finished for her, shooting Kara a look that clearly communicated pull yourself together. "Cat practically eviscerated her for being late. You should've seen it."

"Late? You?" Winn's eyebrows shot up. "But you're never late. You're pathologically punctual. You once made us leave a movie premiere twenty minutes early because you were worried about being late to work the next morning."

"That was one time," Kara protested weakly.

Winn's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her more carefully, his gaze catching on the collar of her shirt where she knew the mark from Lena's lips was visible. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and something in his expression shifted, becoming carefully neutral in a way that made Kara's stomach twist. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed. Winn noticed everything about her.

"So anyway," he said, his voice purposely casual as he looked down at his tablet, "I just wanted to check if you needed any tech support for your article. You know, help pulling audio from your recorder, cleaning up any background noise, that sort of thing."

"That's really nice of you, Winn," Kara said, guilt washing over her in a fresh wave. "But actually, I—"

"She's going on tour!" Nia blurted out, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror at her own indiscretion.

"You're what?" Winn's head snapped up, confusion written across his face.

Kara exhaled slowly. "I'm going on tour," she repeated, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the bullpen. "With GlassHearts. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Winn echoed, his tablet slipping slightly in his grasp before he tightened his fingers around it. "But... how? Why?"

"Holy shit," Nia whispered, shaking her head in disbelief even though she'd already heard this news.

"Yeah," Kara agreed, sinking into her chair and feeling the cheap upholstery creak beneath her weight. "Holy shit."

"I don't understand," Winn said, his brow furrowed. "You interviewed her, like, twice and now you're... what? Joining their entourage?"

There was something in his tone—a hint of hurt beneath the confusion—that made Kara wince. She couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on a coffee stain on her desk that resembled Illinois.

"It's for the profile," she tried to explain. "Three weeks on the road with the band. Cat approved it just now."

"Three weeks," Winn repeated flatly. "Wow. That's... that's a big opportunity."

"It's unprecedented access," Nia added helpfully. "Career-making stuff."

Winn nodded slowly, his fingers drumming an irregular rhythm against his tablet. "And this has nothing to do with why you're wearing what is clearly a vintage band shirt that's too small across the chest and too big in the shoulders?" His voice was light, but his eyes were searching, seeing too much.

Heat flared across Kara's cheeks. "I was running late," she mumbled. "Didn't have time to change."

"Right," Winn said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. "Makes total sense. Totally normal to show up to work in clothes that aren't yours after interviewing a rock star."

Nia shot him a warning look that he either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

"I'm happy for you," he continued, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Really. It's an amazing opportunity. I just..." He trailed off, then shook his head. "Never mind. I should get back to IT before Henry sends out a search party."

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Kara with an expression she couldn't quite decipher. "Be careful out there, okay? The music industry is..." He gestured vaguely. "It's not always what it seems."

The echo of Cat's warning made Kara's stomach clench. "I will," she promised.

Winn nodded once more, then walked away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he disappeared around the corner toward the IT department.

"Well, that was painfully awkward," Nia muttered once he was out of earshot. "Poor Winn."

"What do you mean?" Kara asked, though she already knew the answer.

Nia gave her a look that screamed ‘are you serious right now’. "He's been in love with you since forever, Kara. And you just basically announced you're running off with a rock star while wearing her clothes."

"I didn't announce—" Kara started to protest, then deflated. "Was it that obvious?"

"That it's her shirt? Yes. That something happened between you two? Also yes." Nia leaned closer. "That hickey might as well have a neon sign pointing to it saying 'Lena Luthor was here’."

Kara groaned, burying her face in her hands. Through the glass walls of Cat's office, she could see her boss already engrossed in work, the matter apparently settled in her mind. But Cat's final warning echoed in Kara's thoughts, mixing uneasily with memories of Lena's touch, her smile, the promises whispered in the pre-dawn darkness of her penthouse.

“Don't become a cautionary tale.”

Too late, Kara thought, her fingers absently tracing the band logo across her chest, the worn cotton soft against her fingertips. Her mind drifted to Winn's retreating form, the hurt he'd tried so hard to hide, and then to Lena—waiting in her penthouse, probably lounging in that threadbare band tee that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone.

The story had already begun, and Kara was no longer sure if she was writing it or living it—or if there was even a difference anymore.

"So," Nia said, breaking into her thoughts, "what exactly does one pack for three weeks on a rock tour?"

Chapter Text

Part Two; Act II
Masterpiece Theatre II

They keep mostly to themselves

Hush now they'll hurt you till your heart melts

They know you're lonely

And they will only break your heart

And this masterpiece will tear you apart

Chapter Text

6

Seattle Skyline

Seattle, WA

Kara leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the tour-bus window, the chill seeping through her skin like anesthetic. The low rumble of tires on wet asphalt buzzed up through her cheekbone until her whole head ached with a dull, persistent throb. Rain trailed down the pane in narrow rivulets—fat droplets racing each other before merging into trembling streams—evidence of a Pacific storm front that had been dogging their bus for miles along I-5's slick black ribbon. Through the twilight haze, the Seattle skyline emerged, the Space Needle piercing upward like a retro-futuristic spear, surrounded by glass monoliths whose sharp edges cut against the bruised-plum sky. Lights winked from the highest floors, golden and electric blue, stars brought down to earth, though the bus's steady rocking—a nauseating pendulum swing—blurred their edges like a watercolor left in the rain.

Beside her, Lena sat slumped in a charcoal grey MIT hoodie frayed at the cuffs, white earbuds disappearing beneath her dark hair, sealing her off from the cabin's drone—and from Kara. What had happened yesterday between them couldn’t be undone; the taste of whiskey and cherry lip balm still lingered. Kara's palm itched to brush a stray lock of hair that had fallen across Lena's cheek, but she pressed her fingertips together until the half-moons of her nails left crescent indentations in her skin, holding back the longing that hummed beneath her skin like a plucked string.

On her lap, an open notebook—its once-crisp pages now dog-eared and coffee-stained—bore only a handful of jagged time stamps from the journey's start. The blue ink had bled through where she'd pressed too hard: 

9:13 AM, departure; everyone hungover, Jack eating cold pizza that left grease circles on the soundboard; 

2:47 pm, near Eugene, fight over playlist when Theo threatened to throw Jimmy's phone out the emergency exit if he played "Sweet Caroline" one more time. 

After that, just a trailing scrawl of empty space, punctuated by doodles of tiny lightning bolts in the margins, each one flanked by the same stylized "S" shield she'd been drawing since middle school, the one Alex used to roll her eyes at whenever she caught Kara sketching it in the margins of her math homework—"Such a closet nerd”, she'd whisper, but with that half-smile that meant she found it endearing. Her hand trembled from too much gas-station coffee—the bitter, burnt kind that comes in styrofoam cups with lids that never quite snap on right—and too little food beyond a squashed granola bar she'd found at the bottom of her bag. Twenty hours in, her skull felt as opaque as the marine haze coiling above the Puget Sound, that peculiar Northwest fog that wasn't quite rain but left everything damp to the touch.

All around her, strangers orbited their mysterious tasks. Up front, a woman Kara had only been introduced to as Marisol–the tour manager–flipped through receipts and spreadsheets with headphones clamped tight over her ears. Sam hunched at her laptop, typing furiously and occasionally barking orders at anyone who wandered too close—at least Sam was familiar. In the back lounge, a bearded man whose name she thought might be Jack tapped away at his tablet, surrounded by papers covered in technical diagrams she couldn't begin to decipher. Nearby, a woman with a sleeve of tattoos studied a laminated document, her presence yet another surprise in this traveling circus Kara had somehow joined. Jimmy hunched over an unplugged guitar, fingers moving in silent practice, Evan lay face-down on the vinyl sofa, and Theo scrolled through drum tabs, blue light painting fatigue on his features.

Boarding the forty-five-foot behemoth with midnight-tinted windows and the GlassHearts logo emblazoned in shimmering silver across its obsidian flank had felt like stepping into another dimension—a rolling fortress of gleaming chrome fixtures and leather upholstery that smelled of pine air freshener. But after twenty hours of greasy truck-stop eggs congealing on paper plates that bent under their weight, bathroom breaks timed to the second by Sam's stopwatch, fluorescent-lit gas-station snack runs revealing Jimmy's borderline-religious devotion to neon sour worms that stained his tongue electric blue and Evan’s meticulously color-coded trail mix arranged by nutritional value in ziplock bags labeled with Sharpie, and impromptu jams where Lena's violin sang haunting melodies that echoed through the humming metal shell while raindrops tapped a syncopated rhythm against the roof, her initial wide-eyed awe had given way to something far more complex—a strange, road-worn comfort that felt dangerously like belonging.

Kara's gaze drifted over the bus interior: the front lounge's U-shaped leather couches, cracked at the seams and sticky with spilled energy drinks, clustered around a muted TV playing music videos no one watched; the kitchenette where banana peels curled like yellow question marks among empty coffee cups ringed with lipstick stains, bags of salt-and-vinegar chips folded into origami triangles, and hummus containers scraped clean with broken pretzel rods; the narrow hallway leading past the restroom—its door permanently ajar to prevent the lock from jamming—to the rear lounge now transformed into a nest of keyboards with missing keys, laptops trailing frayed charging cables, and guitar pedals connected by rainbow-colored wires like electronic intestines. Beyond that, twelve coffin-sized bunks stacked in rows of six, each separated by thin curtains. Lena's bunk sat directly opposite Kara's, a detail that had sent Kara's stomach into Olympic-level gymnastics when Sam had shown her the sleeping arrangements during this morning's chaotic boarding.

Kara's phone lit up with a buzz against her thigh. 

Alex:

Still breathing, or did the tour bus swallow you whole?

Her lips curved upward as she stared at the screen. What could possibly convey this rolling purgatory of strangers, sleeplessness, and the electric current that shot through her whenever Lena's arm brushed hers?

Alive. Barely. Seattle skyline in view. I'll call after hotel check-in.

With a tap, the message disappeared into the digital ether. She returned to her notebook, pen poised over emptiness, willing herself to extract something professional from the tangle of GlassHearts on the road: Day 1 (notes for Cat)
- Band dynamic = surprisingly open, genuine family vibe
- Jack = goofball w/ hidden depth, caught him reading Vonnegut in back lounge, pretended it was porn when Jimmy walked by, and did a twenty minute rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' before breakfast
- Jimmy = chaos incarnate but oddly reliable, carries emergency kit w/ everything from guitar strings to Dramamine, knows everyone's coffee order, gives off that big brother vibe
- Theo = class clown on surface, obsessively reorganized drum kit 3x before departure, keeps meticulous practice journal
- Evan = quiet peacemaker who defused 2 arguments today w/ well-timed jokes, notices everything (caught me watching Lena… don’t include this in your email to Cat), tries his best to make sure everyone is eating properly, even if, on occasion, he gets a piece of fruit lobbed at his head… Lena actually threw a banana at him this morning.
- Sam = miracle worker, simultaneously booked hotels, managed press calls, found Jack's lost wallet while lecturing about tour budgets
- Lena…

Her pen stalled again.

The journalist in her demanded objectivity, but her thoughts about Lena refused to separate themselves from the whiskey-warm memory of last night's kisses.

She settled for:

- Lena = center of gravity, everyone orbits her creative force.

It wasn't wrong, but it wasn't the whole truth either. It didn't capture the way Lena's fingers had drummed against her thigh during the drive, keeping time to some internal melody only she could hear. It didn't mention how she'd disappeared into the back lounge for hours, emerging with ink-stained fingertips and a distant look in her eyes that slowly focused when she noticed Kara watching. It certainly didn't acknowledge the way Kara's heart rate accelerated every time Lena moved through the narrow aisle, close enough that she often brushed against Kara by accident.

"Ten minutes to the hotel," Sam announced from the front, her voice cutting through Kara's thoughts. "Everyone find your shoes, gather your overnight bags, and remember—we have precisely eight hours before tomorrow's sound check. Anyone who's late gets left behind."

"You said that in Portland last year," Jack called out, "and then we waited an hour and a half for Jimmy."

"I had food poisoning!" Jimmy protested, looking up from his guitar tabs with indignation written across his face.

"You had a hangover," Theo corrected, not looking up from his phone.

"A detail no one needed to remember," Jimmy muttered, running a palm over his shaved head.

"Your technicolor yawn in the venue's prize rosebushes is immortalized on at least three fan blogs," Evan added from where he was coiling a cable near the back lounge. "The internet never forgets, Olsen."

The bus filled with the controlled chaos of arrival—bags being retrieved from overhead compartments, shoes located under seats, instruments carefully secured for overnight parking. Kara closed her notebook and tucked it into her messenger bag, suddenly hyperaware of movement beside her. Lena pulled her hood down and removed her headphones, the tinny leak of violin music cutting off as she stretched, her MIT sweatshirt riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin where her hip bone curved, a glimpse of the kelpie tattoo—its mane of Celtic knots disappearing beneath her waistband—that Kara had traced with her fingertips just the night before.

"Looking forward to solid ground?" Lena asked, finally breaking hours of silence. Her voice was pitched low, intimate despite the open space and everyone moving around them.

"God, yes," Kara admitted, her fingers nervously adjusting her glasses. "I think my internal organs have rearranged themselves."

Lena laughed, the sound soft and warm. "You get used to it. Eventually."

"That's what you said about the bathroom situation, and I'm still traumatized by Jack's twenty-minute rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' this morning."

"He does have impressive lung capacity," Lena agreed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Though his Queen impression leaves something to be desired."

"I heard that!" Jack called from somewhere near the front of the bus. "And I'll have you know my Freddie Mercury is legendary in three counties!"

"Yes, for causing livestock to flee in terror," Jimmy added, zipping his guitar into its case.

Lena rolled her eyes, but her expression remained fond. Her fingers brushed against the seat back just inches from Kara's shoulder as she steadied herself, and Kara found herself irrationally fixated on that small distance, on how easy it would be to close it.

"Anyway," Lena said, refocusing on Kara, "I was thinking—"

"Five minutes!" Sam interrupted, standing to address the group. "Hotel check-in details: we have the entire tenth floor. Room assignments are in the group chat. Kara, you're in 1015, connecting to my suite for easy access if you need anything for your article."

Kara nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show. Part of her—the unprofessional, definitely-not-CatCo-representative part—had been secretly hoping for some room assignment mix-up that would place her closer to Lena. The rational, career-focused side of her brain knew this arrangement made far more sense. Still, her stomach sank at the confirmation of their separate quarters.

"You were saying?" she prompted, looking back at Lena, whose face was now partially shadowed as they passed under a highway overpass, momentarily dimming the light through the windows.

Something flickered in Lena's eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or recalculation. "Nothing important," she said after a beat. "Just wondering if you'd gotten any good material for your article yet."

"Some," Kara said carefully. "Everyone's been surprisingly open."

"But not me?" Lena raised an eyebrow, challenge glinting in her eyes like sunlight on deep water.

Kara's eyes met Lena's, and her throat tightened. "You're..." The word she needed hovered just out of reach. Not guarded, exactly. They'd both been that way all day, careful not to brush hands when passing water bottles, avoiding the loaded glances that might give them away. "Complicated," she finally said, the word carrying the weight of this morning's agreement to keep things professional until after the article.

Lena's smile turned enigmatic. "I'll take that as a compliment, Ms. Danvers."

The formal address, delivered with just the right hint of teasing, transported Kara back to that first interview. Lena had leaned forward, one eyebrow arched as she studied Kara's face. A constellation of freckles had peeked from beneath her tank top's strap. "Do I make you nervous, Ms. Danvers?"

Now, as then, Kara's mouth went dry, her pulse hammering against her ribs as the bus slowed.

Before she could respond, the bus lurched as it turned into what appeared to be an underground parking structure, the sudden darkness outside the windows broken only by fluorescent ceiling lights flashing past at regular intervals. The harsh lighting cast strange, moving shadows across Lena's face, making her appear almost otherworldly for brief, staccato moments.

"Saved by the arrival," Lena murmured, steadying herself against the seat back, her fingers mere centimeters from Kara's shoulder. "To be continued."

She moved away to retrieve her bag from the overhead compartment, leaving Kara staring after her, pulse hammering in her throat. Kara couldn't help but track the graceful movement as Lena stretched upward, the MIT sweatshirt riding up just enough to reveal another sliver of pale skin, this time at her lower back.

"First time on a tour bus?" came a voice beside her. Kara turned to find Evan sliding into the seat Lena had vacated, his calm presence a stark contrast to the electrical charge Lena had left behind.

"Is it that obvious?" Kara asked, grateful for the distraction.

Evan smiled, the expression gentle. "You've got that thousand-yard stare all rookies get. Like your body's still moving even though the bus has stopped."

"That's... surprisingly accurate," Kara admitted, realizing she did feel a phantom sway despite the bus being stationary. "Does it get easier?"

"The bus? Yes. The rest of it?" He glanced meaningfully toward where Lena was now conferring with Sam near the front of the bus. "That depends on what you're looking for out here."

Before Kara could ask what he meant, the doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, releasing them into the cavernous concrete parking garage where a small welcoming committee of hotel staff waited with luggage carts and tablet check-in systems. The band moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had performed this routine hundreds of times, each person knowing their role in the choreography of arrival.

Two roadies who had been traveling in a separate equipment truck were already unloading cases, calling out to Jimmy and Theo about specific pieces of gear. Marisol was directing hotel staff, pointing at various bags and equipment cases while simultaneously talking on her phone.

Kara stepped off the bus last, inhaling deeply as her feet touched solid ground for the first time in hours. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and the faint mineral tang of underground concrete, but after the recycled atmosphere of the bus, it felt like pure oxygen. Her legs wobbled slightly, adjusting to the sensation of standing on a surface that wasn't constantly in motion.

Seattle awaited above them—a new city, a new venue, a new chapter in whatever this story was becoming. And somewhere in the midst of it all was Lena Luthor, complicated and magnetic, maintaining a careful distance that somehow felt more intimate than closeness.

Professional boundaries, Kara reminded herself as she shouldered her bag and followed the group toward the elevators. But even as the thought formed, her eyes found Lena in the crowd ahead, her dark hair now tumbling loose around her shoulders as she laughed at something Jack was saying. The sound carried across the garage, clear and musical against the concrete acoustics.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Kara stepped inside, pressed between the road manager and one of the roadies whose bass case bumped gently against her leg. As the doors began to close, Lena glanced back over her shoulder, catching Kara's gaze with an intensity that made the crowded elevator suddenly feel airless. There was a question in those sea-glass eyes, or perhaps a promise—something unspoken but undeniable that made Kara's chest tighten with anticipation.

Professional boundaries be damned, Kara thought, heat blooming in her chest and creeping up her neck. This was going to be the longest—or shortest—three weeks of her life.

The elevator ascended with a smooth glide, the digital numbers climbing steadily. Someone's phone was playing music through tinny speakers—one of GlassHearts' older songs, Kara realized, recognizing the distinctive guitar riff that opened "Midnight Reverie”. Jack immediately began an exaggerated air guitar performance in the limited space, nearly elbowing Sam in the process.

"If you hit me, I will end you," Sam warned without looking up from her phone.

"Nah. You love me too much," Jack replied, undeterred. "I'm the heart of this operation."

"You're the pain in my—" Sam's retort was cut off as the elevator doors opened with another chime, revealing a plush hallway carpeted in deep blue. "Tenth floor. Everyone out. Room keys are digital, check your emails for the access codes."

The group spilled out into the hallway, the controlled chaos of arrival continuing as everyone sorted themselves and their belongings. Kara hung back slightly, watching the well-oiled machine of a touring band in motion. Sam directed traffic with practiced efficiency, pointing people toward their rooms while simultaneously confirming tomorrow's schedule with the venue manager over the phone.

"You're here," Sam said, pausing briefly beside Kara and pointing to a door halfway down the hallway. "1015. My suite is connected through the interior door if you need anything. The Wi-Fi password is in your welcome packet."

"Thanks," Kara said, still slightly overwhelmed by the pace of everything. "What time should I be ready tomorrow?"

"Bus leaves at 10 AM sharp for the venue. Sound check at noon." Sam's eyes flickered briefly to where Lena was unlocking her door further down the hall. Something knowing passed across her expression before she refocused on Kara. "We're ordering room service tonight instead of going out. Text me your order by 7 if you want in on that."

She moved on before Kara could respond, already addressing the next logistical challenge in her rapid-fire way. Kara trudged down the plush hallway toward room 1015, her shoulder aching from her laptop bag as she fumbled with her phone. The digital key app crashed twice before loading, and the lock blinked an angry red twice before finally flashing emerald on her third attempt. She shouldered the heavy door open with a sigh, the roller bag's wheels catching on the threshold's metal strip.

The room greeted her with the familiar anonymous luxury of high-end hotels everywhere—a sprawling king-sized bed draped in blindingly white Egyptian cotton, a mahogany desk positioned to showcase Seattle's jagged skyline through rain-speckled floor-to-ceiling windows. In the bathroom, chrome fixtures gleamed under recessed lighting, and tiny bottles of eucalyptus-scented toiletries stood in perfect formation beside folded washcloths shaped like swans. After twenty cramped hours on the bus, the space felt vast as a cathedral. Kara kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag with a thud that probably echoed in the room below, and launched herself backward onto the bed. The mattress—some miraculous hybrid of memory foam and cloud—cradled her body so perfectly she couldn't suppress a throaty groan of relief.

For a delicious moment, she sprawled motionless, tracing the subtle pattern in the textured ceiling, letting the profound stillness seep into her bones. No diesel engine rumbling through her spine. No perpetual swaying that required constant micro-adjustments just to stay upright. No recycled air thick with five other people's breath, perfume, and anxiety. Just blessed, beautiful silence, broken only by the faint patter of Seattle's inevitable rain against the windows.

Her phone buzzed against her hip. 

Expecting Alex again, she pulled it out without looking.

Settled in?

The single letter "L" glowed at the top of the screen, and her heart fluttered rapid and light behind her ribs, like a hummingbird trapped in her chest cavity, its wings beating against her sternum as she stared at those three syllables that somehow contained multitudes.

Kara sat up, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Professional boundaries, she reminded herself. But then again, responding to a text was hardly unprofessional. It was just courtesy. Basic human interaction.

Yeah. Feels weird not to be moving.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then immediately regretted not saying something wittier or more interesting. 

The three dots appeared almost instantly, indicating Lena was typing a response.

Room service and scribbling lyrics tonight. The rock star fantasy they don't put on magazine covers. Though I suppose the mini-bar champagne adds a touch of required glamour.

Kara smiled at the screen, something warm unfurling in her chest.

Let me guess... kale salad and mineral water?

The reply came quickly:

Double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate milkshake. Don't tell Sam.

The image of Lena Luthor—poised, elegant Lena—secretly devouring a greasy burger in her hotel room made Kara laugh out loud. She typed back:

Your secret's safe with me. For now. Might be good material for the article though…

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

I'm sure we can negotiate terms for your silence, Ms. Danvers. A late night exclusive perhaps?

The formality combined with the suggestive undertone sent heat crawling up Kara's neck. She stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the keyboard while her pulse thudded in her ears. The rain outside intensified, droplets now striking the window with percussive insistence, creating a private soundtrack for her indecision.

She typed, deleted it, typed it again, then added:

An exclusive does sound tempting. Give me 30?

Her thumb trembled slightly before she pressed send. 

The three dots appeared immediately.

Kara let her phone drop onto the bed and pressed her palms against her heated cheeks. The rational part of her brain—the part that had meticulously planned this assignment, the part that had promised Cat Grant a professional, in-depth profile on Lena Luthor—screamed in protest. But that voice was drowned out by the memory of Lena's lips against hers last night, tasting of whiskey, of Lena's fingers tangled in her hair, of the soft sound she'd made when Kara's hands had slipped beneath her shirt.

"Shower," she muttered to herself. "Focus on the shower."

She peeled herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom, flicking on lights that illuminated gleaming marble and spotless chrome. The shower was a glass-enclosed sanctuary with multiple jets and a rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate. Kara turned the dial to near-scalding and stripped off her bus-stale clothes, letting them fall in a crumpled heap on the tile floor.

Steam billowed upward as she stepped under the spray, hot water sluicing over her travel-tense muscles. She tilted her face into the cascade, letting it pound against her closed eyelids, her forehead, her lips. Twenty hours of road grime and nervous sweat washed away, circling the drain in a spiral of soap suds. She worked shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp until the tension headache that had taken up residence at the base of her skull began to recede.

The hotel's eucalyptus body wash foamed between her palms, its scent rising with the steam to clear her sinuses. Kara inhaled deeply, letting the botanical aroma replace the lingering smell of diesel and too many bodies in too small a space. As she rinsed, her thoughts drifted inevitably back to Lena—to the text waiting on her phone, to the promise hidden within those casual words.

"A late night exclusive…"

Kara shut off the water and reached for one of the plush towels folded on the marble counter. She wrapped it around herself, tucking the corner securely between her breasts, and used another to squeeze the excess water from her hair. The mirror had fogged completely, turning her reflection into a pale, indistinct ghost. She wiped a clear patch with her palm and stared at herself—cheeks flushed from the heat, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, pupils dilated with anticipation.

"This is a terrible idea," she told her reflection.

Her reflection didn't argue.

She dried off quickly, wrapping her damp hair in the towel turban-style before padding back into the bedroom. She retrieved her suitcase from where she'd dropped it, hefted it onto the luggage rack with a small grunt, and unzipped it. Inside, her clothes remained in the neat, tight rolls she'd arranged yesterday in her apartment.

Kara pulled out clean underwear—the good ones, she realized with a flush of self-awareness, the matching set of navy blue lace she'd packed without conscious thought—and slipped them on. She hesitated over her clothing options, finally selecting a soft gray V-neck and her most flattering jeans. Professional enough if she ran into someone in the hallway, but not so buttoned-up that it screamed "trying too hard”.

She blow-dried her hair just enough that it wouldn't drip, letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. A touch of tinted lip balm, a spritz of the perfume Alex had given her last Christmas—subtle, with notes of vanilla and bergamot—and she was as ready as she'd ever be.

Kara checked her phone. 

Twenty-seven minutes had passed since Lena's last text.

A swarm of butterflies took flight in her belly as she slipped her phone into her pocket, because she'd need it to access the digital room lock, and stepped toward the door. She pressed her ear against it, listening for voices in the hallway. Silence. She cracked it open an inch and peered out.

The corridor stretched empty in both directions, bathed in the soft amber glow of wall sconces. Room service trays had already appeared outside some doors—the band must have ordered early. From somewhere down the hall came the muffled thump of bass, probably Jimmy testing out new samples.

Kara stepped out, letting her door close with a soft click. She glanced at the room numbers as she moved quietly down the carpeted hallway. 1017... 1019... 1021. Lena's room.

She paused, suddenly aware of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. 

What if Sam saw her? 

What if one of the band members came out for ice? 

What if—

The door to 1023 opened, and Kara froze like a startled deer.

Jack emerged, headphones around his neck, empty ice bucket in hand. He stopped short when he saw her, one eyebrow lifting.

"Danvers," he said, his lips quirking into a knowing half-smile. "Late-night interview?"

Heat rushed to her face. "I—um—just stretching my legs. Bus legs. You know."

"Right," he drawled, his eyes flicking to Lena's door and back to Kara's face. "The old 'bus legs' excuse. Classic."

"I don't—"

Jack held up a hand. "Your secret's safe with me. Though you might want to work on your poker face if you're going for stealth." He winked and strolled past her toward the ice machine at the end of the hall, whistling softly.

Kara stood frozen for a moment, mortification and relief wrestling for dominance. When Jack disappeared around the corner, she finally moved, stepping quickly to Lena's door. She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated, her knuckles hovering inches from the wood.

This was it—the point of no return. She could still turn around, go back to her room, text some excuse. Maintain those professional boundaries. Do the responsible thing.

Instead, she rapped lightly on the door, three quick taps that sounded impossibly loud in the quiet hallway.

A moment passed. 

Then another.

The door opened halfway, revealing Lena with damp hair curling around her shoulders, her face bare and flushed from the shower, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Without a word, she reached out, her slender fingers encircling Kara's wrist like cool silk, and pulled her inside, closing the heavy door with a soft click that seemed to seal them away from the outside world.

Before Kara could catch her breath, she found herself pressed against the textured wallpaper beside the door, Lena's lithe body flush against hers, the curve of Lena's hip fitting perfectly against her own. Lena's hands—those elegant, pianist hands—cupped Kara's face, thumbs brushing feather-light across her cheekbones. Their eyes met for a breathless second—jade green boring into cornflower blue, a silent question, a wordless answer—and then Lena's lips were on hers, soft as velvet and insistent as drowning.

Kara melted into the kiss, her hands finding Lena's waist, fingers digging into the worn cotton of her faded band t-shirt, feeling the impossible narrowness beneath. Lena tasted minty, like spearmint toothpaste, with an undertone of something richer, darker—bittersweet chocolate, Kara realized with a jolt of pleasure. 

Lena's raven hair fell in damp waves around her alabaster shoulders, releasing the heady scent of the hotel's eucalyptus shampoo—the same one Kara had used, though it smelled different, more intoxicating on Lena's skin. Tiny water droplets transferred from Lena's skin to Kara's, cool diamond pinpricks against her flushed cheeks. One of Lena's hands slid from Kara's face to the nape of her neck, manicured nails scraping lightly against her scalp, fingers tangling in her honey-blonde hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss until Kara felt dizzy.

She gasped against Lena's mouth as Lena pressed closer, the solid length of her body aligning perfectly with Kara's, soft curves meeting soft curves. Lena's breasts, fuller than her own, pressed against her through the thin cotton, nipples hardened to stiff points that sent lightning bolts of sensation straight to Kara's core. The sharp jut of Lena's hipbones anchored against her own, and the muscled expanse of Lena's thigh slipped between her legs. Through the whisper-thin material of her V-neck, she could feel the scorching heat of Lena's skin, feverish and damp from the shower, radiating like a furnace against her own rising temperature.

"I ordered the burger," Lena murmured against her lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "But I think I'd rather start with dessert."

Chapter Text

7

So It Goes

So it Goes

Seattle, WA

Lena knew she shouldn't be doing this.

Her rational mind screamed warnings even as her fingers slipped beneath the soft cotton of Kara's V-neck, finding skin like heated silk that quivered beneath her touch. The contradiction thrilled her—the should-not versus the must-have. Kara shivered against her, breath catching in a ragged hitch that sent liquid fire cascading through Lena's veins, pooling molten and insistent between her thighs. She pressed Kara harder against the textured wallpaper, her own thigh wedged between Kara's denim-clad legs, feeling the scorching heat radiating through the fabric.

"Lena," Kara whispered, the name escaping her lips like a prayer.

The sound of her name in that broken voice shattered something inside Lena. She trailed open-mouthed kisses along the constellation of freckles mapping Kara's collarbone, each one a star she wanted to claim. Salt and vanilla bloomed on her tongue, along with something ineffable—bright and golden, like sunlight filtering through autumn leaves, like the first chord of a perfect melody. Kara's fingers tangled in the damp strands at the nape of Lena's neck, tugging with just enough pressure to send electric currents racing down her spine, igniting every nerve ending. For twenty excruciating hours on that bus, Lena had maintained a careful distance, pretending not to notice Kara's every movement, the accidental brush of fingers when passing a coffee cup, the way Kara's breath caught whenever their eyes met. Now she was consuming Kara's warmth with desperate greed, drinking her in like salvation after days in the desert.

"We should talk—" Kara began, voice trembling in Lena's ear.

Panic flared in Lena's chest.

Not now.

She silenced Kara with a deep, searing kiss, tasting mint and desire. It drew a soft moan from somewhere deep in Kara's throat, a sound that vibrated through Lena's body like the lowest note on a bass string.

She couldn't talk.

Wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Talking meant acknowledging the professional boundaries they'd already trampled the other night. It meant confronting the reality of Kara's article, the tour schedule stretching before them, Sam's explicit warning to keep whatever this was at arm's length until the piece was finished. Worse, talking meant opening the door to questions about her life, her childhood, her family—the Luthor legacy with all its jagged edges that had cut Lena for years. The thought alone made her throat tighten, her chest constrict.

"Later," she murmured against Kara's mouth, the word half-promise, half-plea. "We'll talk later."

Kara's hands slipped under Lena's worn Radiohead T-shirt, tracing the soft curve of her waist, the ridges of her ribs with agonizing slowness. Each fingertip left trails of goosebumps in its wake, mapping Lena's body like uncharted territory. Lena sucked in a sharp breath as Kara's thumbs hovered just beneath the curve of her breasts, teasing the sensitive skin there, a hairsbreadth from where Lena ached to be touched.

"Is this okay?" Kara asked, blue eyes searching Lena's—hungering yet hesitant, darkened with desire but still seeking permission.

Lena nearly laughed, the sound catching in her throat. Was it okay? Of course it wasn't. Nothing about this was okay. Kara was here to observe, to analyze, to render Lena legible for readers who would never understand the complexity beneath the public persona. And here they were, pressed against a hotel wall, lost in a need so urgent it bordered on painful, professional ethics dissolving like sugar in hot water. Tomorrow, there would be consequences. Tomorrow, there would be regret and awkwardness and Sam's knowing, disappointed gaze.

But tonight—tonight there was only this. Kara's hands on her skin, Kara's breath mingling with hers, Kara's body fitting against her own like the missing piece of a puzzle Lena hadn't known she was supposed to solve.

"God, yes," Lena answered, because she couldn't bear for Kara's hands to still, couldn't bear for the world to intrude on this stolen, incandescent moment. 

Whatever price she had to pay tomorrow would be worth it for tonight.

A knock at the door froze them both.

"Room service," called a muffled voice from the hallway.

"Fuck," Lena breathed, reluctantly pulling away from Kara, whose lips were swollen from Lena's kisses, her pupils blown wide with desire. For a split second, Lena considered ignoring it—letting the server leave, consequences be damned. "One second," she called toward the door instead, straightening her shirt with trembling hands.

"Should I—"

"Bathroom," Lena whispered, nodding toward the partially open door, hating herself for making Kara hide like some dirty little secret. "Just for a minute."

Kara nodded, slipping silently across the plush carpet into the bathroom. Lena ran her fingers through her damp hair, trying to look less like someone who'd just been devouring a journalist against a wall and more like the professional she was supposed to be. She took a steadying breath and opened the door, her heart still hammering with equal parts desire and dread.

The server wheeled in a cart laden with covered dishes, a bottle of champagne nestled in ice, and the chocolate milkshake Lena had promised Kara. Lena signed the check with a shaky signature, adding a generous tip as if that might somehow absolve her of what she was doing. When the door finally closed, she stood frozen, hand still on the knob, suddenly unsure if she should call Kara back out or send her away.

"Clear," she called softly.

Kara emerged from the bathroom, her cheeks flushed crimson, blonde hair mussed where Lena's fingers had been buried in it moments before. Her glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose. She looked at the laden cart and then back at Lena, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"You really did order a burger."

"I never lie about food," Lena said, lifting the silver dome to reveal a massive cheeseburger, its melted cheese cascading down the sides like molten gold, surrounded by a halo of golden fries dusted with sea salt crystals that caught the light. The rich aroma of grilled beef and caramelized onions filled the room, making her stomach growl even as her throat tightened with anxiety. "Hungry?"

"Starving," Kara admitted, moving toward the cart, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "I haven't had anything but gas station coffee and a stale granola bar since Eugene."

Lena watched as Kara picked up a fry, popping it into her mouth with a small moan of appreciation that sent heat coursing through Lena again, pooling low in her abdomen. She forced herself to look away, suddenly fascinated by the abstract painting on the wall—anything to avoid the sight of Kara's lips. The domesticity of the moment—sharing food in her hotel room, Kara's comfortable presence—felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with professional boundaries and everything to do with how easily Lena could get used to this, how desperately she wanted to. The memory of the other morning ambushed her—Kara perched on her lap on the balcony, her body still warm from sleep, trading kisses that tasted of possibility. "I could get addicted to this," she'd whispered against Kara's lips, not meaning just the press of skin or the pleasure that had left her trembling hours before, but this—the quiet intimacy of existing together in the same space, wanting nothing more than to stay.

"So," Kara said, settling into one of the room's plush chairs with a bright smile that suggested she hadn't noticed Lena's momentary retreat into her thoughts. She reached eagerly for the burger, humming with anticipation as a drop of sauce fell onto the pristine white napkin in her lap, her attention completely absorbed by the meal rather than the storm brewing behind Lena's eyes. "The tour kicks off tomorrow night. When readers open the magazine to find your story..." She hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "What's the one thing about Lena Luthor you want them to actually understand?"

And there it was—the question that sliced through Lena's warm fantasy of shared mornings and quiet intimacy like winter air through an open window. Why Kara was really here. Not for Lena the woman, but for Lena the story. "The Enigma Behind the Music: An Intimate Portrait of Lena Luthor" or whatever ridiculous headline Cat Grant had already approved. The woman Lena had just pressed against a wall was here to dissect her specifically, to expose the person she'd spent years carefully concealing behind lyrics and stage lights and fake smiles. Lena felt something in her chest twist, a dull ache spreading beneath her ribs as she fought the urge to either push Kara away or pull her closer—both equally dangerous.

Lena stared at the champagne bottle, twisting it slowly in her hands. The foil crinkled beneath her fingertips. "What do I want them to understand?" She gave a hollow laugh. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" The cork surrendered with a muted pop that seemed to release something inside her too. She poured, watching amber bubbles race to the surface like all the words she couldn't say. Her hand trembled slightly as she extended a glass toward Kara, careful in maintaining the half-inch of space between their fingers even as every cell in her body screamed to close that gap.

Kara accepted the glass. "To understanding, then," she said, her eyes never leaving Lena's as she took a sip.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp turned the crystal of Kara’s champagne flute into spun moonlight. “To understanding,” she echoed, her words warm against the rim of the glass. Lena’s gaze flickered to the gentle rise and fall of Kara’s throat as she swallowed, recalling how that same curve felt beneath her lips only moments ago. A sudden flush of heat curled through Lena’s veins, drowning out thoughts of tomorrow’s press frenzy, Sam’s cautious glances, and the article looming like a guillotine over her reputation.

Kara set the flute down with a clink, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “You know,” she said, eyes bright, “I really should be taking notes or something.”

Lena laughed again—this time a sharp, brittle sound that barely masked her disappointment. "Oh, yes," she said, voice cooling. "'Lena Luthor raids room service for cheeseburgers at midnight, then makes out with her interviewer'. Cat Grant would put that on the cover in neon lettering, no doubt."

A faint rose bloomed across Kara's cheeks, but she didn't look away. Instead, she tapped a manicured fingertip on the tabletop. "I was thinking more along the lines of, 'Lena Luthor finesses her artistry over champagne, revealing her creative journey and expectations for the tour'."

Something deflated in Lena's chest. The heat that had coursed through her veins moments ago when Kara's body was pressed against hers now chilled, leaving behind only the ghost of desire. She perched on the edge of the mattress, the plush duvet compressing beneath her weight. Her sleep shorts rode high enough to feel the cool air against her thighs—skin Kara apparently had no interest in touching anymore. "So that's our plan—talk creativity?" Lena's voice flattened, her fingers absently tugging her hem lower.

"We could," Kara murmured, seemingly oblivious to Lena's shift in mood. "After all, that is why I'm here."

The words landed like stones. Lena lifted the flute, watching tiny bubbles rise and burst at the surface. "Right," she said, voice soft but edged. "The article." She took a deliberate sip before adding, "My process is almost boring. I hear a melody, I jot it down in my notebook... and sometimes it becomes a song. Not really worth writing about."

Across the room, Kara leaned forward. “I noticed a bit more than that,” she said, eyes gleaming. “On the bus earlier, you slipped away for hours. You came back with ink-stained fingers and a distant glow in your eyes, as if you’d been somewhere made entirely of light.”

“You were watching me,” Lena whispered, her voice betraying more than she intended.

Kara’s lips curved in a soft smile. “It’s part of my job,” she replied, though her gaze flickered down to Lena’s mouth with unmistakable intent. “Although I admit, this interest goes a bit beyond reporting.”

Sudden awareness of her racing pulse made Lena straighten. She lifted her chin, meeting Kara’s steady stare. “And what else have you observed, Ms. Danvers?”

Setting her plate aside, Kara cleaned her fingertips on a crisp napkin before answering. “You get this tiny crease between your eyebrows when you're chasing a melody—right here," Kara said, touching the spot on her own forehead. "Your fingers never stop moving, even when you set your pen down. And sometimes, when you've found exactly the right chord progression, your lips part just slightly, like you're tasting something only you can hear. I've watched you hold your breath right before you play something new for the band, like you're diving underwater.”

Lena's fingers stilled on the champagne glass. She'd spent years cultivating an image so carefully controlled that even her bandmates rarely glimpsed behind it, yet this woman with a press badge had somehow mapped the secret geography of her creative soul in a single twenty hour bus ride. "You notice things most people don't," she said, voice caught between wariness and something dangerously close to pleasure.

“I pay attention to what matters,” Kara said, lowering her voice until it was almost a caress.

An electric hush settled over the room, thick as stage fog before a spotlight cut through. Lena placed her glass on the polished nightstand and stood, needing the distance to steady herself before she risked pulling Kara back into her orbit. She crossed to the broad window, fingertips trailing across cool glass mottled with raindrops that transformed the city lights into fractured diamonds. Beyond, Seattle's skyline glimmered in the dark—towering silhouettes crowned with red aircraft warning lights pulsing like heartbeats, the Space Needle illuminated in emerald green, and the distant ferry terminals where white lights traced paths across the ink-black sound.

“Tomorrow’s chaos will swallow us whole,” Lena said, voice wavering as she pressed her palm to the pane. “Sound check, last-minute rehearsals, interviews every hour. Sam’s mapped it all out to the second.”

“I know,” Kara said, her voice closer than before. Lena heard the soft pad of bare feet on the hotel carpet, then silence. For three heartbeats, she felt nothing but anticipation prickling along her spine—until warm hands found her hips, the unexpected contact sending electricity through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts. “That’s precisely why I’m here tonight.”

Lena closed her eyes, surrendering to the weight of Kara's body against her back. Kara's chin settled into the hollow of her shoulder, a perfect fit, as if sculpted for this moment. Each exhale brushed warm against the sensitive skin below Lena's ear, carrying traces of champagne and salt from the fries. The rain-streaked window cooled Lena's palm while Kara's heat seeped through the thin cotton of her shirt, creating a delicious contrast that made her nerves hum like plucked guitar strings.

Lena's throat tightened. "This complicates everything," she whispered, the words catching like thorns.

"I know that too," Kara admitted, her lips brushing the sensitive spot just below Lena's ear. The contact sent electricity crackling down Lena's spine, her body betraying her mind's hesitation. Kara's breath came warm against her skin. "But I can't stop thinking about the other night. About you."

Lena turned in Kara's arms, meeting those impossibly blue eyes. Her stomach knotted with a sickening familiarity. "This stays between us," she said, the words tasting like ash—the same words Andrea had whispered in a darkened hotel room after her wedding. Lena hated herself for continuing. "No one can know. Not Sam, not the band, and definitely not your editor."

"Agreed," Kara said immediately, her eager compliance making Lena's chest ache with guilt. "Just between us."

Relief mingled with something darker as Lena raised a hand to cup Kara's cheek, feeling the softness of her skin, the slight warmth of her blush beneath her palm. The words she'd just spoken tasted of old betrayals, but beneath them lurked an even older fear—Lillian's cold stare across the dinner table when Lena had first mentioned a girlfriend, Lex's casual threat to "handle the situation" if it ever became public. The mirror of her choices reflected a woman transforming into her own villain while fleeing from the shadows that had always haunted her.

“I ran into Jack in the hallway,” Kara said, the words pressed into the space between them like a reluctant admission. Her voice was suddenly small. “He saw me coming this way.”

It took Lena a moment to register the significance. She’d expected something else—an accusation, maybe, or a confession about the article, or the soft letdown of a woman who’d realized just how much trouble Lena Luthor always managed to be. Instead, she got the unvarnished horror of exposure, shattering the tentative illusion that the hotel room was a world apart from the tour’s prying eyes. The reality crashed in. Jack’s inquisitive gaze, the rumor mill cogs already starting to turn, and the weight of every secret Lena had ever kept straining against the thin dam of her denial.

She froze, her hand suspended against Kara’s cheek, thumb just below her cheekbone. “Jack talks,” Lena managed, and her voice was carved from old ice, the kind that never fully thawed even under stadium lights. “But… he’s… he’s loyal. He won’t—” The sentence trailed off, because she didn’t believe it, not really. Loyalty was a currency that changed value by the hour on tour, especially when a scoop like this could buy Jack the validation he so desperately craved.

Kara’s eyes softened, and she bit her lower lip in a way that briefly undid all of Lena’s fear, replacing it with a brutal, clawing need to taste that lip, to consume the moment before it collapsed under the weight of reality. “So where does that leave us?” Kara asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Tonight, I mean.”

Lena leaned back, letting the question vibrate through her chest where it settled, low and aching. The answer should have been simple—she should have told Kara to leave, to finish their conversation during the day under Sam’s watchful supervision, to protect her from the carnivorous mouth of the press and the thousand ways Lena’s own self-destruction could stain anyone who got too close. Instead, she found herself picturing Jack’s knowing smirk, the flash of his phone’s camera, the way even the best intentions could be weaponized. She tried to imagine the headline: “Lena Luthor’s Midnight Rendezvous—Intimacy or Instability?” She’d been fodder for tabloid ink since her adoption; she’d learned to survive by making her own wounds into armor.

But Kara wasn’t like the others.

Kara didn’t ask for armor, didn’t barter in empty compliments or transactional desire. Kara watched her—really watched, the way a biologist might study a rare, beautiful creature that could never live in captivity. Lena wanted to believe that made a difference, even if it was a lie.

Her hand dropped from Kara’s cheek.

For a moment, she considered retreat—sitting back at the lacquered table, pretending to care about the cooling burger and the dying city lights. She nearly did. But when she looked up, Kara was still there, still present, still so devastatingly open that Lena’s resolve snapped like a brittle guitar string.

She leaned into the narrow space between them, feeling the press of Kara’s body against her own, the champagne-soaked heat of their bodies aligning in defiance of common sense. Lena was suddenly conscious of how little separated them—the thin cotton of their shirts, the invisible line between wanting and having. She could see the pulse in Kara’s neck, see the raw hope and terror flickering in her eyes.

“We shouldn’t,” Lena said, but her voice was thick with everything she wasn’t allowed to say. She hovered there, searching Kara’s face for any sign that she was making a mistake, but all she saw was the reflection of her own longing, soft and unguarded.

Kara’s hand found Lena’s waist, fingers splayed with hesitant reverence, as if she feared Lena might evaporate if she wasn’t careful. “I know.”

Outside, the rain had shifted to a fine mist, muffling the city’s pulse until it felt like the world had been reduced to the slow, synchronized beating of their hearts. Lena let the silence spool out, a tiny fissure of rebellion snaking through her caution. She thought of Andrea’s wedding night, the panic of being discovered, the way shame and desire had warred inside her until she could feel nothing at all. She had promised herself never to repeat old patterns, never to risk another woman’s reputation for the sake of her own hunger. And yet here she was, standing in a luxury hotel with a journalist’s hand at her waist and her name likely already being whispered down the hall.

It would be easier to end this—easier, and safer, and smarter. But Lena had never been any of those things when it came to the people she wanted. So she did the only thing she could. She closed the gap between them, letting her lips brush Kara’s in a kiss that was less a question than a surrender. The taste of champagne lingered, the bubbles dancing on their tongues, and Kara answered with a soft, disbelieving gasp that told Lena she had made the right choice, or at least the necessary one.

They kissed as if it might be the last time, as if dawn would dissolve every spark between them. Lena guided Kara backward until the backs of Kara's knees hit the mattress. Kara sat, breathless, looking up at Lena with those clear, observant eyes that seemed to catalog every detail—the slight tremble in Lena's fingers, the flush spreading up her neck, the way her breath caught when their bodies separated.

Lena felt herself unraveling under that gaze—the same steady blue that had disarmed her since their first interview. Now, with champagne warming her blood and desire clouding her judgment, the effect was devastating. No predatory gleam like she'd grown accustomed to from others, just that familiar, earnest attention that somehow always peeled back her carefully constructed layers.

"Wait," Lena murmured against Kara's lips, pulling back just enough to break their kiss. Kara's eyebrow arched in silent question, her hands stilling at Lena's waist. "I have an idea."

"Oh?" Kara tilted her head, blonde hair falling across one shoulder, catching the amber light from the bedside lamp. Her lips were already swollen from their kisses, a deep pink that made Lena want to claim them again.

Instead, Lena eased herself down, straddling Kara's lap. The rough denim of Kara's jeans pressed against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, a delicious friction that sent heat pooling between her legs. She shifted her weight, settling more firmly, and felt Kara's sharp intake of breath. The power of that small reaction surged through her, steadying her resolve.

"You're here to interview me," Lena said, her voice low and measured despite the racing of her pulse. She traced a fingertip along the sharp line of Kara's jaw, feeling the warmth radiating from her skin. "So let's make this... professional." The word curled from her tongue with a ring of irony, making Kara's eyes widen slightly.

"Professional?" Kara repeated, her hands sliding to Lena's bare thighs, fingertips pressing lightly against the skin just below the hem of her sleep shorts.

Lena leaned forward until her lips brushed the shell of Kara's ear. "A game," she whispered, feeling Kara shiver beneath her. "You ask a question, I answer—or I take off an article of clothing." She pulled back just enough to watch Kara's expression shift from confusion to understanding. "Then I ask you a question, and you do the same."

Kara's pupils dilated, darkening her eyes to midnight blue. "That doesn't sound very professional," she said, but her voice had dropped an octave.

"More professional than what we were about to do without talking at all," Lena countered, rolling her hips slightly, a tease that made Kara's fingers tighten on her thighs. "At least this way you get some material for your article. Right?"

Kara's grin was wickedly bright, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Right."

Lena brushed a fingertip along the curve of Kara's lower lip, feeling the soft swell where her own kisses had left their mark. "You first, Ms. Danvers."

Kara considered for a moment, her journalistic instincts visibly warring with the heat of the moment. She leaned in, her lips barely brushing the shell of Lena's ear, sending electric shivers down her spine. "What's your favorite ice-cream flavor?"

The question was so unexpected, so charmingly innocent amid the charged atmosphere, that Lena couldn't help but laugh. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest, rich and melodic in the dim hotel room. "Starting with the hard-hitting journalism, I see," she teased, then pressed her mouth to the pulse point on Kara's neck, feeling the heartbeat fluttering beneath her lips like a trapped bird. "Mint chip," she murmured against Kara's skin. "Always has been. Even when Lex would try to convert me to something less… pedestrian."

She moved upward, capturing Kara's lips in a quick, teasing kiss. When she pulled back, Kara's eyes had softened, the blue deepening like the ocean at dusk.

"My turn," Lena said, her voice carrying a hint of challenge. Her fingers traced idle patterns on Kara's shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin gray cotton. "What color underwear are you wearing right now?"

Kara's cheeks bloomed with a deep crimson flush that spread down her neck and disappeared beneath her collar. "Blue," she whispered, the word barely audible. Then, with a small smile that was equal parts embarrassment and defiance, "Lace… with… small stars."

The image sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through Lena's veins. She shifted her weight, pressing closer, her thighs tightening around Kara's. "Stars," she repeated, her voice dropping to match Kara's whisper. "How appropriate for someone who's starstruck so easily."

Kara's hands moved from Lena's thighs to her waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her shorts. "I'm not starstruck," she said, her voice steadier now. "Not anymore." She leaned forward, pressing a deliberate kiss to the hollow of Lena's throat, where her pulse hammered visibly beneath pale skin. "My turn. What was the last thing you Googled?"

Lena bit her lower lip, considering. The question seemed innocent enough, but the truth—"Kara Danvers CatCo articles"—would reveal too much, too soon. She'd spent hours the night before their meeting at Noonan’s reading everything Kara had ever written, searching for clues about the woman behind the byline, trying to gauge if she could be trusted.

Instead of answering, she reached for her own shirt hem and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion. The cool air of the hotel room raised goosebumps across her skin as she tossed the faded band tee aside, revealing a soft gray bra underneath.

"Avoiding the question?" Kara's eyebrow arched playfully, though her gaze had dropped to the newly exposed skin, lingering on the constellation of freckles scattered across Lena's collarbones. "Must have been something embarrassing."

"Or private," Lena countered, leaning closer until her lips nearly brushed Kara's ear. "My turn," she whispered, her breath warm against Kara's skin. "That scar on your eyebrow—what happened?"

Kara's hand rose automatically to trace the thin line near her left eyebrow—a detail so small most people never noticed it. "First semester at NCU. I was nineteen and had never learned to ride a bike—grew up too rural, no sidewalks." Her lips curved in embarrassment. "I bought this secondhand Schwinn, was practicing in an empty parking lot at dawn. This cab backed out without looking... I swerved, went over the handlebars." She winced. "The doctor said seven stitches was getting off easy."

Lena leaned forward, her dark hair falling like a curtain around them both, and pressed her lips against the thin scar. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth—the image of college-aged Kara wobbling on a secondhand bicycle at dawn was almost unbearably endearing. She lingered there, breathing in the scent of hotel shampoo—eucalyptus, clean and crisp, like a forest after rain—before pulling back just enough to see Kara's eyes had closed at the unexpected tenderness.

"Your turn," she whispered, her voice rougher than she intended.

Kara's eyes open, the fading neon of Seattle bleeding through rain-spattered glass and tinting those irises a smoky indigo. When Kara lifted her hand, Lena's breath caught—those long fingers brushed a stray lock of her hair, trembling slightly as they traced the smooth curve behind her ear. Each contact sent electricity skittering across her skin. She recognized the conflict in Kara's expression, the journalist's calculation warring with something softer, more vulnerable. This wasn't just an interview anymore—Lena could feel the fragility between them, delicate as spun glass.

Her voice came low, hushed like a confession. “That line in ‘Pull the Pin’, where you sing about love and ruin wearing the same perfume…is that about Andrea?”

And just like that, the spun glass shattered. Lena felt her body freeze, muscles coiling beneath Kara's fingertips. The champagne-swollen warmth inside her vanished, replaced by a static tension that crawled up her spine. Andrea. Of course Kara would dig at the rawest wound now, when Lena was half-undressed, defenses dismantled by desire and proximity. Lena's pulse thundered in her ears, each beat a warning. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, tasting bitterness. "That's not for your article," she managed, her voice clipped and brittle as winter ice. "That's tabloid territory."

Lena watched Kara's face fall, those blue eyes clouding with what looked like genuine remorse. Her shoulders hunched slightly, making her seem smaller. "I wasn't fishing for clicks," Kara murmured, a flush spreading across her cheeks. "I—It’s not—I want to understand you, Lena. Me. Not for the article." The words hung between them, and Lena found herself searching Kara's expression, again, for any hint of calculation or deceit, but found only that same earnest vulnerability that had disarmed her from the beginning.

Part of her wanted to believe Kara's curiosity was genuine—the same part that had melted at the bicycle story, that wanted to collect more of those sweet, silly fragments of Kara's past like precious stones, that craved the warmth of those hands on her skin and the history behind their calluses. But Andrea's name had triggered all her old defenses. She slipped off Kara's lap, immediately missing the heat of their connection even as she retreated from it. She folded her arms across her bare skin, a physical barrier where emotional walls had momentarily crumbled.

Was she overreacting?

Or not protecting herself enough?

“Yes,” Lena finally answered, voice brittle. “It’s about Andrea. Most of that album is, one way or another.” She turned back toward the rain-streaked window, the city lights gone blurry behind rivulets of water. "Print that and Andrea's husband finds out. Her father. My mother calls to remind me I've destroyed the family name—again." She glanced over her shoulder, eyes flashing. "Is that what you want? To wreck lives for a headline?"

Kara stood, too. Lena watched her cross the room in three swift strides, closing the gap between them until Lena could feel the radiating warmth of her body again. "No," Kara said softly, her voice catching slightly, "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry—I crossed a line." The earnestness in those blue eyes made Lena's chest tighten involuntarily.

Lena let her shoulders sag, feeling the storm inside her ease by a breath. She swiveled back toward Kara, aware of her own dark hair falling like a curtain around her face, partially hiding her expression. The anger was subsiding, leaving behind that familiar ache of old wounds—wounds that still bled despite years of practice at deflection. She curved her lips into a wry smile, offering a truce she wasn't entirely sure she felt. "Your turn to forfeit something," she teased, deliberately lightening her voice while maintaining the challenge in her eyes. "Since you won't answer my next question."

“I haven’t heard your question yet.” Kara blinked, caught off guard by the game’s sudden shift.

Lena stepped closer, reclaiming the intimacy that had flickered and dimmed. “Will you write about this—about us—in your article?”

The question landed between them like a gauntlet. Lena watched Kara's face change—saw her fingers twitch at the hem of her gray V-neck before freezing there. Lena held her breath. Everything hinged on this answer. Her career, her privacy, the tabloid headlines that would follow if Kara exposed their time together. Kara's eyes never left hers as she swallowed visibly. "No," Kara finally said, voice steady despite the telltale flush spreading across her cheeks. "Not this. Not us. T-that's personal."

Relief and regret warred in Lena’s chest. She watched Kara let the shirt drop back into place, the fabric sliding harmlessly—but also irrevocably—over her skin. “I won’t write about our...relationship. That’s off the record.” Kara promised, tone unwavering.

Lena took another step, so close she could feel the rise and fall of Kara's breath. Her fingers found Kara's wrist, thumb brushing over the pulse point there—a silent acknowledgment of what she was asking Kara to sacrifice. “Your turn,” she whispered. “Ask me something for the article.”

Lena watched Kara inhale, those blue eyes darkening as they fixed on her lips. Her fingers twitched against her thigh—a tell Lena recognized from their handful of interviews. She could see Kara's internal struggle written across her features. The professional mask at war with something raw underneath. Lena's heart hammered against her ribs, torn between wanting Kara to maintain her journalistic distance and desperately hoping she wouldn't.

"What's the biggest lie anyone's ever told about you in print?" Kara finally asked, her voice rough-edged like whiskey over gravel.

Lena laughed, and the sound carried through the room with an edge too jagged for mere amusement. It was the sound of a cork twisting off a too-old bottle—unnecessary, indulgent, half-painful in its honesty. She could see her reflection in the dark window—hair wild, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a smile that was never quite the right shape for her face. There was a parade of headlines behind her eyelids, a ticker tape of the Luthor name: LENA LUTHOR: THE ICE QUEEN WHO LIED ABOUT LOVE; LENA LUTHOR’S EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE IN VIENNA; LUTHOR HEIRESS DESTROYS FAMILY LEGACY (AGAIN). She had read them all, sometimes aloud in the bathtub for the sick thrill of hearing her own disgrace out loud. She let the laugh linger, a single note in the hush of the hotel room, then stepped forward until only a breath of space separated her from Kara.

She reached out, thumb grazing Kara’s jaw. It was almost too easy—the way Kara’s body leaned toward her, the way those blue eyes dilated at the faintest provocation, as if Lena were the only thing in the world that made sense. “Only one?” she repeated, voice velvet and smoke. “You’ll have to narrow it down. The media’s told a thousand stories about me, and less than half of them start with something I actually did.”

She let her fingers splay across Kara's cheek. “They say I’m cold. Unfeeling. A danger to myself, and… to everyone else.” She traced the line of Kara’s jaw, letting her nails dig in just enough to mark a path, and watched as Kara shivered beneath her. “But the biggest, most persistent lie is that none of it matters to me. That I don’t care what anyone thinks, or what anyone says. That I’m immune.”

She said the last word like a curse. She wanted Kara to hear the thickness in her voice, wanted her to understand. “But I do. Care. It burns.” Her hand found Kara’s neck, thumb pressing lightly against the tendon there. She could feel the blood rushing, the tension coiling beneath skin. “I built up all this armor so no one could ever get through—so I could laugh at the tabloids. But all it means is that they just hit harder.”

Kara’s fingers curled around Lena’s wrist, anchoring her there with a gentleness that was almost humiliating. “That’s not weakness,” Kara said, her voice so low Lena almost didn’t hear it. “It means you’re still human, even if the world tries to write you as something else.”

The words sent a shiver through Lena’s bones, as if someone had finally put a name to the ache she’d carried for years. She wanted to say thank you, to reach for Kara and pull her in, but the old habits rose up—sarcasm, evasion, a smirk to make everything less serious. “Human, sure. But no one ever asked if I wanted to be,” she quipped, but the attempt at levity landed flat.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Outside, Seattle burned in neon and sodium vapor, a city that looked better at night because the darkness made everything seem less broken. The room felt suspended—like they were the last two people awake in the whole world.

Lena felt the last of her resistance crumble, the old reflex to run or bite replaced by a quiet desperation for more—more contact, more heat, more of whatever this was that made the pain feel almost worth it. She let her hands drop to Kara’s shoulders, then slid them along her collarbones, down to the small of Kara’s back. The sensation anchored her, gave her something solid to hold onto as she leaned in.

Their lips met in a collision that was more question than answer, a request for solace disguised as seduction. Kara's mouth opened to her, warm and yielding. Lena pressed forward, her bare skin prickling with goosebumps as Kara's hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into the soft curve above her hip bones. The contact sent electricity racing up her spine, pooling at the base of her skull where tension had gathered all day.

Lena deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against Kara's, drawing a soft moan that vibrated through her own chest. She tangled her fingers in Kara's honey-blonde hair, feeling the silky strands catch against her callused fingertips. The sensation anchored her—something real to hold onto as the room tilted dangerously around them. Kara's hands moved up her sides, tracing the ridges of her ribs with agonizing gentleness, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the soft gray fabric of her bra.

"Wait," Lena murmured against Kara's lips, pulling back just enough to speak. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps that made her chest rise and fall rapidly. "It's my turn to ask a question."

Kara blinked, her pupils blown wide with desire, lips swollen and flushed pink. "Right," she breathed, her voice husky. "The game."

Lena stepped back half a pace, creating just enough space between them to think clearly. The cool air of the hotel room raised fresh goosebumps across her exposed skin. She traced a fingertip along Kara's collarbone, feeling the delicate ridge beneath the thin cotton of her V-neck. "What are you most afraid of?" she asked, the question emerging softer than she'd intended, almost tender in its curiosity.

Kara's eyes widened slightly, clearly caught off guard by the shift from physical to emotional intimacy. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and Lena watched the subtle movement with fascination. Kara's hands fell away from Lena's waist, leaving behind ghost-prints of warmth that slowly cooled in the air-conditioned room.

"I—" Kara began, then stopped. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric nervously. "I could take this off instead," she offered, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Lena shook her head, her dark hair falling across one shoulder. "No shortcuts," she said, stepping closer again until her bare stomach nearly brushed against Kara's shirt. "I want to know."

Kara's eyes met hers, blue and suddenly vulnerable in the dim light. "Disappointing people," she admitted, the words barely audible over the soft patter of rain against the window. "Not being enough. Failing the people who believe in me." Her gaze dropped to the carpet. "Losing someone else I care about."

The raw honesty in Kara's voice—disappointing people—made acid rise in Lena's throat. The irony wasn't lost on her—she'd made Kara promise discretion, extracted vows of silence about whatever was happening between them. And Kara had nodded, eyes earnest, swearing not to tell anyone against her skin like it was a gift rather than a burden. Her stomach clenched with familiar self-loathing as she reached out, tilting Kara's chin up with gentle fingers until their eyes met again. "Someone else?" she prompted quietly, her voice steadier than the trembling guilt inside her warranted. The words echoed between them—someone else I care about—carrying a weight that made Lena's pulse quicken.

Someone Kara cared about.

Present tense.

A shadow passed across Kara's features. "My parents," she said simply. "Car accident. I was thirteen."

Lena's breath caught. She'd read about Kara's background during her pre-interview research, had seen the brief mention of her adoption by the Danvers family—a mirror to her own history with the Luthors. The shared experience of being taken in by strangers after loss had given Lena something tangible to hold onto. So, she knew about it, but hearing it from Kara’s lips made it viscerally real in a way the sterile facts never could. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Kara’s, sharing breath in the narrow space between them.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words inadequate but sincere.

"It was a long time ago," Kara said, but her voice caught on the last word.

Lena's hands found Kara's shoulders, sliding down her arms to intertwine their fingers. "Time doesn't always help," she said, thinking of her own adoption, of Lionel's funeral, of the hollow space in her chest that never quite filled no matter how many years passed. "Some wounds just become part of who we are."

“Your turn,” Kara murmured, voice steadying in the lamplit hush.

Lena swallowed and heard Kara’s quick intake of breath before she spoke. “Forfeit.” With a slow intentional step, Lena moved back. Her hands slid to the waistband of her faded sleep shorts—soft gray cotton that smelled faintly of lavender—then tugged them down in one seamless motion. The fabric pooled at her ankles, exposing the pale planes of her thighs to the room’s chill. She straightened, stepping out of the fabric, revealing only her simple gray bra and matching briefs, each stitch tracing the gentle curve of her body.

Kara drew a sharper breath this time, the sound echoing in the stillness. Her eyes roamed the length of Lena’s body, lingering on the gentle swell of her hips, the smooth expanse of her pale thighs, interrupted only by a scattering of freckles. Lena felt herself flush under the intensity of that gaze—not with shame or embarrassment, but with a fierce, burning need to be see, to be known in a way that went beyond skin and bone.

Lena watched Kara's eyes darken as her gaze traveled over the pale landscape of Lena's exposed skin with the reverence of someone discovering a familiar path in new light. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and she resisted the urge to cross her arms over herself—this unguarded appreciation in Kara's eyes was something entirely new, making her feel strangely vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with her state of undress. The forfeit had been easier than answering, but now silence stretched between them like a taught wire. She stepped forward, close enough that her bare legs brushed against Kara's jeans, and tilted her chin up. "You can ask," she whispered, voice huskier now, the words an invitation meant to cover her sudden insecurities. "Something. Anything."

Kara lifted her hands and cupped Lena’s face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Lena’s heart pounded against her ribs like a frantic bird. Kara’s voice dropped to a whisper, the words trembling between them. “What do you want? Right now? Not what you think you should want or what feels safe or what makes sense. Just… what do you want, Lena?”

The question left Lena breathless. She listened to her own heartbeat, the frantic drumming in her ears. What did she want? It was simple—and terrifying. She wanted to be touched without conditions, to be known without reservations. She wanted to shed every mask until nothing was left but raw, unvarnished truth. The same thing she'd wanted when Kara's body had pressed against hers the other night, the same thing she'd wanted when she'd watched Kara walk into the gala in that black dress. The same thing she'd found herself craving with increasing intensity since that first interview, when Kara had stumbled over her words and blushed, somehow seeing past the Luthor name to the woman beneath. She wanted something real, something to anchor her in a world that always felt just out of focus.

“You,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. One word heavy with every longing she’d ever felt. “I want you.”

She closed the distance, pressing her lips to Kara's in a kiss that sparked like flint against steel. Before Lena could take control, Kara's hands slid firmly around her waist, walking her backward until cool glass pressed against Lena's bare shoulders. The window chilled her exposed skin as Kara deepened the kiss, confidence replacing her previous hesitation. Lena's knees weakened, her fingers no longer directing but clutching at blonde hair for stability. When Kara's tongue swept across her lower lip, demanding entry, Lena surrendered with a soft whimper. The role reversal left her dizzy—yesterday's teacher now breathless student—until Kara finally broke away, keeping Lena pinned against the window with gentle pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Kara breathed, voice rough with concern.

Lena looked down—tremors rippling through her fingers, up her arms, across her bare shoulders. Her jaw quivered, teeth chattering against each other. She nodded, a jerky movement that sent dark hair spilling across her bare shoulders.

“Cold?” Kara asked, though her eyes betrayed that she sensed something deeper.

“No,” Lena whispered, tilting her head up to meet Kara’s gaze. The glow of lamplight traced the planes of Kara’s face. “But you’re wearing too many clothes.”

Chapter Text

8

Sound Check

Kara woke to the harsh buzz of her phone vibrating against the polished mahogany nightstand, the sound amplified by the hotel room's cathedral ceiling. Morning light sliced through a gap in the heavy burgundy curtains, falling across her face like a spotlight, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden beam. She groaned, rolling over to escape the glare, only to find herself tangled in unfamiliar Egyptian cotton sheets—1000 thread count at least—that smelled faintly of lavender and expensive sandalwood perfume, amber body wash, and the lingering notes of Veuve Clicquot from last night, all mingling with the intimate scent of shared perspiration.

Lena.

The memories flooded back in a rush that made her cheeks burn. Lena's pale skin against hotel sheets, luminous as moonlight; the goosebumps that had risen beneath Kara's fingertips as she traced the delicate tattoo on her hip; the way Lena had whispered her name—half plea, half prayer—when Kara's lips found the hollow of her throat; the subtle arch of her spine, a perfect curve of surrender, when Kara's hand had slipped lower, discovering the wet heat that—

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time, vibrating against the polished wood like an angry hornet trapped in a jar. Kara fumbled for it with clumsy morning fingers. She blinked away the gauzy film of sleep, her vision adjusting to the harsh blue glow of the screen that illuminated her face in the dim hotel room.

Sam. Of course.

Bus leaves in 40. Breakfast in the lobby.

Kara sat up with a jolt, nearly dropping her phone, suddenly aware that she was alone in the bed. The sheets beside her were cool to the touch, long since abandoned. Her fingertips traced the ghost-outline where Lena's shoulders, the curve of her spine, and the dip of her waist had been just hours before. The heavy burgundy curtains—thick as theater drapes—blocked most of the light, but a sliver of morning sun illuminated the empty space where Lena should have been. Again.

Disappointment settled in Kara's chest, strangely familiar now—the same hollow ache she'd felt in National City when she'd woken to find herself alone in Lena’s bed after their first night together. She remembered Lena's whispered "stay" from last night, the way those fingers had curled possessively around her hip, keeping her close as they'd fallen asleep. The contradiction made her chest tighten. She found herself clutching her phone in a hotel room that suddenly felt too large, too empty, wondering if this would always be their pattern—intense connection followed by morning absence.

A soft knock at the door made her heart leap.

"Lena?" she called, scrambling out of bed and hastily pulling on her discarded clothes from the night before.

The door opened a crack, and a room service attendant's voice called through, "Breakfast delivery for Ms. Danvers."

Kara's shoulders slumped. "Just a moment," she called back, quickly checking that she was decent before opening the door.

The attendant wheeled in a gleaming brass cart that caught the morning light filtering through the curtains. Under a polished silver dome lay a feast. Six golden-brown pancakes stacked in a perfect tower, each layer separated by a paper-thin slice of butter now melting into rivulets that pooled with amber maple syrup. Beside them, six strips of bacon curled like question marks, their edges caramelized to a mahogany crispness. Ruby strawberries and indigo blueberries cascaded around the plate's rim, their colors vibrant against the bone-white Limoges china. A sterling silver carafe steamed with the rich, earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and beside it stood a slender crystal vase cradling a single white orchid, its petals as delicate as tissue paper. Tucked against the handle of the porcelain coffee cup was a cream-colored note card, folded once.

She plucked it up with fingers that wouldn't quite steady, immediately recognizing the precise, flowing penmanship—each letter tilted at the same perfect angle.

Early rehearsal. Didn't want to wake you.
These are almost as good as the ones at Noonan's.

See you at the venue. -L

P.S. Wear something comfortable. It's going to be a long day.

Kara traced her finger over the looping signature—the elegant swoop of the 'L' like a secret code between them—a smile tugging at her lips despite the hollow ache in her chest. It wasn't a cold dismissal or morning-after regret—just the reality of tour life intruding on whatever delicate, unnamed thing was quickly growing between them. She tucked the note into her pocket, the paper crinkling softly against her hip, and sat down to eat, her stomach growling in protest after the previous night's marathon of tangled limbs and breathless confessions.

The pancakes were indeed almost as good as Noonan's—fluffy and golden, with just the right amount of sweetness. As she ate, Kara mentally cataloged what she knew about the day ahead: sound check at noon, followed by press interviews, then the actual show at eight. Her first real glimpse behind the curtain of what made GlassHearts tick as a live act, not just as personalities in a tour bus.

After a quick shower and change into fresh clothes—dark jeans, a soft blue button-up, and comfortable boots that could handle hours of standing—Kara made her way down to the lobby. The band had already departed, but Sam waited by the entrance, tapping away at her tablet with the focused intensity of someone diffusing a bomb.

"Morning," Kara said, approaching cautiously.

Sam looked up, her dark ponytail swinging as she lowered her tablet. A knowing smile softened her professional demeanor—the same smile she'd worn when she'd caught them on the balcony that first morning. "You got my text. Good. The others left early—technical issues at the venue." She squeezed Kara's arm reassuringly, then gestured toward the door where a sleek black SUV waited at the curb. "Your chariot, Ms. Danvers."

The drive to the venue wound them through downtown Seattle's rain-slicked streets, where morning light fractured against glass towers. They crawled past Pike Place Market's neon sign, its red letters glowing against the gray sky while fishmongers in rubber aprons tossed glistening salmon through the air, their scales catching light as tourists clutched paper cups of steaming coffee and cheered. The SUV then descended into the city's industrial belly, where century-old brick warehouses with arched windows and faded painted advertisements had been gutted, strung with Edison bulbs, and reborn as music venues with names stenciled in minimalist fonts on weathered doors. The Emerald—tonight's location—looked unassuming from the outside: a renovated theater with a faded green marquee that now displayed "GLASSHEARTS - SOLD OUT" in blocky letters.

Inside, the cavernous space buzzed with pre-show activity—roadies in faded black t-shirts wheeled flight cases across the scuffed stage floor, their forearms corded with muscle as they navigated between coils of thick black cable. Above, lighting technicians in safety harnesses dangled like industrial spiders, adjusting rigs suspended from the ceiling's steel skeleton, their shouted instructions echoing in the rafters. At the sound booth, three engineers hunched over a console that stretched nearly twelve feet wide, their fingers dancing across illuminated faders and rotary knobs that glowed amber and red in the dim light. The air hung heavy with a cocktail of scents—the metallic tang of dust burning off hot stage lights, the earthy musk of roadie sweat, the electric anticipation of an empty venue waiting to be filled, all layered over the sickly-sweet residue of last night's spilled beer soaked into the floorboards.

"Wow," Kara breathed, taking it all in.

Sam's face lit up with an unrestrained grin, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she surveyed the controlled chaos of the venue—clearly in her element among the tangle of cables and shouted instructions, like a conductor before her orchestra. "First time backstage at a proper show?"

“That obvious, huh?"

"You have that deer-in-headlights look." Sam checked her watch—a sleek Cartier. "Sound check's in twenty. Feel free to observe, but stay out of the way. Jack gets testy if anyone disrupts his workflow."

With that, Sam disappeared into the labyrinth of backstage corridors, leaving Kara to fend for herself. She pulled out her leather-bound notebook—its corners softened from being crammed into too many bags—and her lucky pen. Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped to a fresh page, the empty lines waiting for her to capture the controlled chaos unfolding around her. This was what she was here for, after all—professional access, not... whatever had happened last night with Lena's lips against her neck and hands tangled in her hair.

She found a spot against the wall where paint had worn away from years of equipment cases scraping against it, positioning herself between a stack of black road cases stenciled with neon yellow band logos and a coiled snake of thick power cables. From here, she could observe without being trampled.

"Three minutes to sound check!" someone called over the PA system, the voice echoing through the empty venue.

The band emerged from the wings like spirits materializing from mist. Jimmy came first, his tall frame commanding attention as he strode onto the stage, followed by Theo twirling drumsticks between his fingers. Evan slipped in quietly, already adjusting the strap of his bass guitar. And finally, Lena—a thick, slate-gray cable knit beanie slouched back on her head, dark hair cascading loose beneath it, the strands shifting from midnight to teal where the last four inches caught the stage lights like tropical waters. Her white tee hung loose with a wide neckline that slipped off one shoulder, the cotton worn thin from washing, revealing glimpses of pale skin as she moved. Dark-wash jeans hugged her legs without clinging, subtle fading along the knees and seams lending them a lived-in quality that matched her effortless presence, the hems stopping just above her teal high-top Chucks—scuffed at the toes, laces double-knotted.

Kara's breath caught in her throat. Even in rehearsal clothes, with no makeup and under the harsh fluorescent work lights that cast bluish shadows beneath her eyes, Lena was magnetic. She moved with a fluid grace that seemed at odds with the nervous energy Kara had witnessed on the bus, her slender fingers already dancing over the strings of her violin—a sleek electric piece in metallic crimson, its carbon fiber body gleaming under the stage lights—as she exchanged quick words with Jimmy, her lips barely moving.

"Alright, people, let's get this show on the road," Jack called from the sound booth, his voice tinny through the overhead speakers. "Starting with levels. Jimmy, give me something on the lead mic."

Jimmy stepped up to the microphone, tapping it twice with a bitten fingernail before launching into an impromptu vocal run that showcased his impressive range, from a gravelly baritone to a clear tenor that cracked slightly on the highest note. His voice, rough around the edges but undeniably powerful, filled the empty venue, bouncing off the walls and high ceiling where dust motes swirled in the spotlight beams.

"Good. Theo, drums."

Theo obliged with a complex rhythm that made Kara's heart race, his sticks a blur as they danced across the drum kit—a vintage Gretsch in midnight blue with brass fixtures that gleamed under the lights. The sound reverberated through the concrete floor, vibrating up through Kara's boots and into her chest, rattling her ribcage like a second heartbeat.

"Evan, bass line."

Evan's fingers—each nail painted a different color, chipped and fading—moved methodically across the fretboard of his battered Fender, producing a deep, thrumming pulse that seemed to anchor the chaos around him. His expression remained calm, almost meditative, as he played, eyes half-closed behind wire-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his sweat-dampened nose.

"Lena, violin."

And then Lena began to play, and everything else faded into background noise. Her bow moved across the strings with such unerring perfection that Kara found herself holding her breath. The melody—haunting and complex, minor key with unexpected sharps that pierced like tiny daggers—wove through the other instruments like a silver thread through dark fabric, transforming what had been individual sounds into something cohesive and alive.

Kara's pen flew across the page, ink smudging her pinky finger as she tried to capture every detail. 

"Alright, let's run through the opening number," Jack called, interrupting Kara's reverie. "From the top, 'Glass Houses.'"

The band shifted positions slightly, a choreography they'd clearly performed countless times. Jimmy adjusted his guitar strap, Theo counted them in with a rapid tap of his sticks, and then they launched into the song that had first put GlassHearts on the alternative music map.

It started with Lena's violin—a single, sustained note that seemed to hang in the air like a question—before Jimmy's guitar crashed in, followed by Theo's thundering drums and Evan's steady bass line. The contrast between the classical elegance of the violin and the raw power of the rock instrumentation created a tension that made the hairs on Kara's arms stand on end.

As the verse approached, Lena lowered her violin, letting it hang from its shoulder strap. She stepped up to her microphone, her voice joining Jimmy's in a harmony that sent shivers down Kara's spine. Their voices—his rough and earthy, hers clear and precise—twisted around each other like vines, supporting and challenging in equal measure.

Jasmine perfume wafted into Kara's consciousness, followed by a voice directly beside her ear.

"Different seeing them like this, isn't it?" Sam whispered.

Kara jumped, her pen skidding across the cream page, leaving a jagged navy line through her careful notes. She'd been so entranced she hadn't noticed Sam approaching. From this angle—ten feet from the stage instead of pressed between screaming fans at The Pit last month—she could see the almost imperceptible head nods between Lena and Jimmy, their silent language of raised eyebrows and quarter-inch chin tilts. Theo's cymbal work rang crystalline in the cavernous empty space, each delicate ping and shimmer distinct without the wall of sweaty bodies and beer-soaked floorboards to absorb the higher frequencies.

Sam nodded toward Lena, who was trading violin licks with Jimmy's guitar in perfect synchrony, her face bathed in the unforgiving lights that revealed the constellation of freckles across her nose and the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.

Before Kara could respond, a metallic crash echoed through the venue. Theo had knocked over a cymbal stand, sending it spiraling across the polished stage floor like a wobbling coin. Instead of stopping, the band seamlessly incorporated the mishap—Jimmy launching into an impromptu guitar riff that climbed three octaves in as many seconds while Lena's laugh bubbled into her microphone, the sound cascading like water over river stones.

"See what I mean?" Sam said, a hint of pride warming her usually clipped tone. "Pure chaos, but somehow it works."

The song ended with a final cymbal crash that sent silver sound waves rippling through the cavernous space. For three heartbeats, the venue held its breath—dust motes suspended in spotlight beams—before Jack's voice sliced through the speakers again.

"Nice recovery on that cymbal, Theo. Let's take it from the bridge one more time, tighten up that transition."

They launched back into the music like Olympic swimmers diving into cold water. Kara's pen hovered, forgotten, as she watched Lena's crimson-lacquered fingernails tap a staccato rhythm against Jimmy's forearm. Their heads bent so close that Lena's loose dark hair brushed his shoulder, their whispered conversation creating a bubble of intimacy amid the chaos. Across the stage, Theo's drumsticks became a blur of motion as he demonstrated a 7/8 pattern, his face contorting with each accent while Evan's fingers walked an alternative bassline up the neck of his instrument, the chipped rainbow polish catching light with each note.

"They'll be at this for hours," Sam said, checking her rose-gold watch for the third time in five minutes. "Want to see the rest of the backstage area?"

Kara's gaze remained locked on Lena, who had climbed atop a Marshall amp, her slender legs folded pretzel-style. The electric violin nestled beneath her chin glowed like a wound in the harsh light as her bow coaxed out a haunting melody that seemed to bypass Kara's ears and settle directly in her chest.

"She'll still be here when we get back," Sam said, a knowing edge to her voice that made Kara flush. "Come on, I'll show you where the real magic happens."

Sam led her through a maze of corridors, pointing out the various rooms and areas that made up the backstage ecosystem of a touring rock band. The green room—a surprisingly comfortable space with couches, a small refrigerator stocked with water and energy drinks, and a table laden with fruit, granola bars, and other snacks. The wardrobe area, where four distinct sections of the rolling rack displayed each band member's stage clothes—Jimmy's distressed leather jackets, Theo's vintage band tees, Evan's minimalist black ensembles, and Lena's elaborate pieces commanding the most space, each item carefully labeled and protected in garment bags. Beyond that, a tiny, cramped bathroom with "DRESSING ROOM" scrawled on printer paper taped to the door, where all four would somehow manage their pre-show transformations.

"And this," Sam said, pushing open a door marked 'PRIVATE', "is where Lena goes before a show."

The room was small—barely larger than a closet—but meticulously arranged. A single chair sat in the center, facing a mirror surrounded by soft lighting. On a small table beside it lay an assortment of items: a leather-bound notebook, a silver flask, a worn pick with faded writing on it, and a framed photograph that Kara couldn't quite make out from the doorway.

"Her pre-show ritual space," Sam explained, her voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper. "No one goes in here except Lena, not even me. She spends the last thirty minutes before every show alone in this room, getting into the right headspace."

Kara nodded, understanding the sacred nature of what she was being shown. "Thank you for letting me see it."

Sam studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable. "You know, most journalists would be taking pictures right now, trying to get a glimpse of what's in that notebook."

She met Sam's gaze. "I'm not like most journalists." Her heart suddenly raced with the same desperate need to be believed that had overwhelmed her every time Lena's eyes had narrowed in suspicion. "The music is..." Her voice softened. "I'm not here to take anything from her. From any of you. I just—" Her fingers trembled slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then adjusted her glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of her nose. "I'm really not like other journalists."

Something shifted in Sam's eyes—not quite approval, but perhaps a lessening of suspicion. "No, I suppose you're not." She closed the door with a soft click. "Come on, there's more to see before the rest of the press arrive."

They wound through a labyrinth of concrete corridors, Sam gesturing toward a wall of blinking consoles where technicians hunched like pilots in a cockpit. "Sound and lighting nerve center," she explained, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. They passed metal detectors flanked by burly men with walkie-talkies, then pushed through double doors into the loading bay where the acrid smell of diesel lingered. Massive black road cases stood stacked like dominos, each stenciled with "GLASSHEARTS" in peeling white paint.

By the time they returned to the main stage area, the band had moved on to "Shattered Reflections"—the haunting seventh track from their latest album. Lena commanded the spotlight, her violin cradled against her neck like a sleeping child. Her red-lacquered fingers danced across the strings with the delicacy of a surgeon, while her bow arm swept in slow, hypnotic arcs, drawing forth sounds that seemed to weep. Jimmy crouched nearby, his guitar work a subtle heartbeat beneath her soaring melody. Lena's body swayed in half-time to the music, her black hair catching blue stage lights as it swept across her shoulders.

Jack appeared beside them, his eyes fixed on Lena. "Somethin’ else, isn't she?" he said, his voice barely audible over the music, one hand absently adjusting a dial on his portable mixing board.

"She's incredible," Kara agreed, unable to keep the awe from her voice.

Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Jimmy dragged me to see her when we were kids—him seventeen, me eighteen, still banging out terrible covers in his mom's garage. Lena was only fifteen back then, this tiny thing with a violin bigger than her arm. First time I saw her at that open mic, she played something that made the whole place go dead silent." His fingers tapped a phantom rhythm against the mixing board. "Jimmy was gone for her from that first night—wouldn't shut up about her all the way home. Been inseparable since."

"Professionally," Sam interjected.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yes, professionally. Though half the music world thinks otherwise."

Kara's stomach twisted into a painful knot, acid rising in her throat at the reminder of what everyone thought they knew. Lena and Jimmy, a tantalizing maybe-couple, their lingering touches and whispered conversations dissected in tabloids and fan forums alike. She could picture the carefully staged Instagram photos—Jimmy's arm draped casually around Lena's waist at industry parties, their faces close but never quite touching, a masterful choreography that kept the public guessing while shielding what happened behind closed hotel room doors with women whose names were whispered secrets. Women like Andrea Rojas. Women like her.

"Anyway," Jack continued, oblivious to Kara's discomfort, "you're seeing the real deal here. No backing tracks, no auto-tune, no smoke and mirrors. What you hear tonight is exactly what they can do live."

The song ended, and Lena's voice carried across the venue, "Jack, the monitor mix is off. I can barely hear Theo's hi-hat."

Jack sighed dramatically. "Duty calls. Enjoy the show, reporter girl." He strode off toward the sound booth, already calling adjustments to his assistant.

Sam checked her watch yet again—a gesture Kara was beginning to recognize as her version of a nervous tic. "Press starts arriving in an hour. The band needs to change and get ready. You should probably do the same."

"Change?" Kara looked down at her outfit, suddenly self-conscious. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Sam's eyes swept over her. "Nothing, if you want to blend in with the tech crew. But if you want to look like you belong with the band for the press photos, you might want to... elevate it a bit."

Kara's heart sank. She hadn't packed anything remotely "elevated" beyond her one good blazer, which was currently hanging in her hotel closet. "I didn't exactly bring a wardrobe for a rock tour," she admitted.

Sam's expression softened fractionally. "Come with me."

She led Kara back to the wardrobe area, rifling through a separate rack of clothes that Kara hadn't noticed earlier. "These are extras—stuff we keep on hand for emergencies, photo shoots, that sort of thing." She pulled out a familiar leather jacket with subtle silver studs along the collar. "Try this."

Kara slipped it on, surprised by how well it fit—snug but not too tight, the leather soft and supple against her skin. Sam nodded approvingly, then handed her a silver pendant on a long chain.

"Better. Keep the blue shirt—it brings out your eyes—but maybe..." She reached out and undid the top two buttons of Kara's shirt, exposing a hint of collarbone. "There. Now you look like you belong."

Kara caught her reflection in a nearby mirror and barely recognized herself. The leather jacket hugged her shoulders and tapered at her waist, its buttery black surface catching the dim backstage lights in subtle gleams. Silver studs winked along the collar like tiny stars against a night sky. The pendant—a delicate silver crescent—hung just below her clavicle, drawing the eye downward to where her blue shirt now revealed a triangle of skin, pale against the dark materials surrounding it. Her glasses, usually a shield between herself and the world, now seemed like a deliberate style choice rather than a necessity. She looked... transformed. Like someone who belonged in the shadowy wings of stages, who understood the language of amplifiers and guitar strings, who might actually run in the same circles as GlassHearts.

"Thank you," she said, genuinely touched by Sam's unexpected help.

Sam waved away the gratitude. "Can't have you looking like a fish out of water in the press photos. Bad for the band's image." But there was a hint of warmth in her eyes that belied the brusque words.

A commotion erupted from the corridor—male and female voices colliding in sharp, staccato bursts that ricocheted off the concrete walls. The words themselves were indistinct, but the tone carried the unmistakable edge of professional disagreement teetering toward personal territory. Sam's expression immediately shifted, her professional mask cracking to reveal the weary resignation of someone who'd mediated this particular argument a dozen times before. Her jaw tightened, nostrils flaring slightly as she exhaled through her nose.

"And so it begins," she muttered, striding toward the noise with Kara following close behind.

They found Lena and Jimmy in the green room, standing toe to toe beneath the flickering fluorescent lights that cast harsh shadows across their contorted features. Theo sprawled across a threadbare velvet couch in the corner, one combat boot propped on the armrest, drumsticks twirling lazily between his fingers as his eyes darted back and forth between his bandmates with undisguised amusement. Meanwhile, Evan hunched over the snack table, meticulously arranging grapes and cheese cubes into perfect geometric patterns, his noise-canceling headphones firmly in place as he hummed softly to himself, an island of order amid the storm.

"Oh sure, let's just throw away weeks of rehearsal and change the setlist an hour before the show.” Lena’s voice cut through the green room’s clamor, every syllable honed to filigreed sharpness by nerves and half-drained adrenaline. She stood, arms anchored at her waist, eyes fixed on Jimmy as if the force of her glare could cauterize his latest, last-minute bright idea. “Brilliant plan, James."

Jimmy, for his part, looked both irate and faintly amused, as if Lena’s fury was a familiar melody, one he could hum along to without ever learning the words. He raked his palm over his scalp, silver rings flashing like teeth. "Look, it's not about trashing the setlist, L. It's about not putting everyone to sleep before we even get to the third song. You really think this crowd is gonna sit still for a four-minute dirge about, what was it, the entropy of memory?" His voice rose mockingly at the end, and he mimed a yawn for emphasis. "We might as well hand out pillows if we open with 'Crystalline’."

Lena’s chin snapped upward. She closed the distance, her five-foot-five frame undaunted by Jimmy’s looming presence. Up close, their differences were stark—Lena's porcelain complexion and sea-glass eyes a dramatic contrast to Jimmy's warm brown skin and amber gaze—yet they somehow mirrored each other almost perfectly. "You helped me write that song," Lena hissed. "And now, what, it's boring? Because it doesn’t hand you thirty seconds to do that cartoonish, legs-spread power stance and play rock god?"

Jimmy let out a ragged, derisive laugh. "Oh, pardon me for trying to make the show worth watching. Unlike some people, I didn’t spend my formative years locked in a practice room learning every violin concerto in the Western canon. I had to actually entertain people." He tilted his head, flashing a grin. "Besides, you know damn well ‘Midnight Run’ is the only track that's got juice. First verse hits like a shot of jet fuel. You open with that, and no one’s sneaking off to the bar, trust me."

"Seriously? You’re lecturing me on crowd control?" Lena's hands trembled, but it was the same controlled tremor she got before a show—a fine, taut wire of focus. She used it to point, stabbing the air an inch from Jimmy's chest. "If you’d actually listen for once instead of just showing off, you’d know the whole point of ‘Crystalline’ is to make people hold their breath. Not everything has to be about instant gratification. Some of us believe in, oh, I don’t know, subtlety?"

"Oh, subtlety," Jimmy echoed, slapping his hand to his heart with a melodramatic flourish. "Yes, let's all bow before Lena Luthor, Patron Saint of Subtlety. Should we genuflect when you enter the room, or just avert our eyes?" He drawled the words in the mock-posh accent he reserved for maximum provocation, then dropped it in favor of a flat, even tone. "You know, not everything has to be a violin solo, either, right? Maybe once in a while you could let someone else take the spotlight."

"Oh, because god forbid your fragile ego survive a single song without a guitar solo," Lena snapped back, but the edge of her mouth twitched, betraying the grudging affection wound through the hostility. "Tell me again about your rigorous musical training, James. How you learned to shred ‘Smoke on the Water’ in your mother’s garage, then spent the next two decades making sure no one ever forgot it?"

Jimmy barked a laugh, his anger dissipating for a fraction of a second as he looked down at her—really looked, as if seeing the teenager who’d once followed him around open mic nights with battered sheet music and a violin. "You know what, L? I actually like ‘Crystalline’." His voice dropped, almost gentle. "But you gotta meet me halfway. At least swap the opener and let the first set breathe a little. If the energy tanks, I swear to god I will never suggest a change again."

Lena regarded him in silence, the room narrowing to just the two of them, as though even the dust motes hung suspended to see which of these twin forces would yield first. She pressed her lips into a line, considering. Then, very deliberately, she reached out and flicked his shoulder—a little harder than necessary. "Fine," she said. "But if the crowd hates it, you’re wearing the unicorn onesie for the encore."

Jimmy grinned, teeth flashing. "Deal. I wear it better than you anyway."

Lena rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased. She turned to Sam, who had remained silent through the exchange, arms crossed and face schooled to neutrality. "Happy, Mom?"

Sam exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'd be happier if you stopped giving the PR team panic attacks every time you two have a creative pissing contest. And please, Lena, for the love of God—stop calling me 'Mom’. We are the same age." She checked her watch. "Forty-five minutes, people. Can we get through one pre-show without blood on the floor?"

A beat of silence, then Lena and Jimmy both broke into awkward laughter, the heat of their argument suddenly vented. In the corner, Theo smirked around a mouthful of Red Bull, and even Evan looked up from his cheese cubes, momentarily abandoning his walled-off world to monitor the temperature of the room.

"Next time," Sam muttered, "I’m locking you both in the wardrobe cage until soundcheck."

"Not unless you want the fire marshal called," Lena shot back, but she was already walking toward the snack table, shoulders relaxed, the fight transmuted into kinetic energy.

Jimmy trailed after her, reached around her just as her fingers hovered over a single cube, scooping up a fistful of cheese in one greedy swoop. When she swatted at his arm, he dodged with the practiced ease of someone who'd been dodging those exact swats for years, his grin wide and unbothered as he popped a cube into his mouth. Kara watched, struck by how quickly the storm had passed, leaving no trace of resentment in its wake.

Lena plucked a cube of cheese from the platter, weighing it in her palm for a moment before launching it with surprising accuracy at Jimmy's forehead. "You know we're going to need to adjust the lighting cues, right?" she asked, already reaching for another projectile.

"Already on it," Evan said, not looking up from his meticulous arrangement of the fruit platter. "Texted Marisol five minutes ago when you two started your nonsense."

Jimmy clapped a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Et tu, Evan?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "Dude, Evan's been ready for both versions of the setlist since last week. He just likes watching you two fight. It's like his own daytime soap." With a nonchalant flick, Theo lobbed a grape into the air, catching it cleanly between his teeth without ever breaking eye contact with Jimmy. He chewed with exaggerated languor, letting the grape burst, then pointedly looked between Lena and Jimmy, daring either of them to call his bluff.

Jimmy snorted, but Lena only smirked, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she wanted to laugh but refused to grant Theo the satisfaction. She was about to retort—Kara could see the comeback forming in the tightening of her jaw, the way she squared her shoulders as though bracing for the next volley—then Lena’s gaze skipped past the others, landing full and unblinking on her. Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened incrementally, pupils dilating with feline quickness as she registered not only Kara’s presence but the subtle changes in her appearance. For a heartbeat, Lena seemed at a loss for words, her lips parted where they’d just been framing a cutting remark. The silence dragged half a second longer than was strictly comfortable, the air in the green room suddenly weighted and expectant.

The transformation was almost chemical. The punk armor—leather jacket, the delicate crescent pendant—had been a borrowed carapace just minutes earlier, but under Lena’s gaze it became something else. A statement, an invocation, a flag unfurled. Kara felt herself flush, heat rising from beneath the collar of her blue shirt to paint her cheeks, the sensation far more intimate than anything the clothes themselves had provoked.

"Nice jacket," Lena finally managed, and the words were soft, almost private, as though they were meant for Kara’s ears alone. The small, sly smile that followed didn’t quite disguise the way Lena’s eyes lingered—not so much on the jacket itself as on the triangle of skin revealed where Sam had undone the top buttons of Kara’s blouse, the pendant’s gentle sway in the hollow below her clavicle. There was a hunger in the look, raw and unguarded, before Lena blinked and recomposed herself with a subtle arch of one brow.

Kara’s first impulse was to respond with a quip, something wry and self-effacing to defuse the charge in the air, but her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward in a nervous, genuine smile. "Sam’s idea," she said, glancing sideways toward the other woman, hoping to redirect some of the attention. Instead, she found Sam watching the exchange with an expression that hovered between satisfaction and mild exasperation, as if she’d anticipated this precise outcome and was already preemptively annoyed by it.

"Sam has excellent taste," Lena said, and this time there was no mistaking the warmth in her tone. She took a half-step closer. Her gaze dropped again, fleeting but deliberate, and Kara caught herself tracing the path of Lena’s eyes like a live current, every nerve ending amplifying the attention.

A brief, awkward silence hung between them—not the brittle, antagonistic tension of the earlier argument between Lena and Jimmy, but something softer, stranger, infinitely more vulnerable. Kara felt herself recalibrating in real time. The person she’d been just an hour ago now seemed impossibly distant, unrecognizable. In this new configuration, she was… not quite a peer, but not a spectator, either. She belonged here, if only for this moment.

At the snack table, Jimmy made a show of clearing his throat. "Can we please stop staring at the reporter like she’s the main course? Some of us are trying to carbo-load in peace." He punctuated the line by shoving half a slice of pepperoni into his mouth, but the mockery was gentle, the edge dulled by camaraderie.

Lena’s lips quirked, but she didn’t look away from Kara. "You ready for tonight?" she asked, voice low, as if there were no one else in the room.

The question caught Kara off guard—the expectation that she would be nervous, or overwhelmed, or perhaps eager to impress. In truth, she felt a peculiar calm, a steadiness that had eluded her through most of high school and all of undergrad. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the borrowed armor, or the simple fact of being seen. "Yeah," Kara said, surprising herself with the honesty of it. "I think I am."

Lena's smile deepened, one corner of her mouth pulling higher than the other, revealing the small dimple Kara savored.

"God, get a room," Theo muttered, but his tone was affectionate, the dramatics more for show than anything else.

Lena pivoted, snatched another cube of cheese from the platter, and launched it at Theo.

Sam cleared her throat from the doorway. "If we're quite done throwing food like children," she said, "You've got twenty minutes until the stylists need you, forty until the press arrives, and exactly two hours before we open those doors. And please," she added, plucking a stray bit of cheese from Theo's shirt, "try not to look like you've been ransacking a kindergarten snack time."

In a blur of practiced chaos, the band collected their belongings—Jimmy wrestling his guitar strap free from a nest of cables, Theo somehow managing to text while managing not to walk into any walls, Evan quietly slipping grapes into his pocket like contraband. Then, with the sudden coordination of a flock changing direction mid-flight, they scattered to their pre-show rituals, leaving the space emptier but still vibrating with their energy. Lena held back, a half-step behind the others, eyes tracking Kara until she crossed into the hallway. Then she fell into step beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed with each step.

"Front row access tonight?" Lena murmured, the question barely audible above the ambient noise of the venue.

"I'll be there," Kara said, her voice steadier than the quickening pulse at her wrist.

Something softened in Lena's expression—a brief, unguarded moment that made Kara's ribs feel suddenly too small. "Good. I like knowing where to find you in the crowd." She held Kara's gaze a beat longer than necessary, then slipped away down the corridor, leaving behind only the ghost of her perfume.

"Ms. Danvers," Sam called, breaking the spell. "The press will be setting up in the main corridor. I suggest you decide which side of the velvet rope you want to be on."

"Ms. Danvers," Sam called, breaking the spell. "The press will be setting up in the main corridor. I suggest you decide which side of the velvet rope you want to be on."

The implication was clear enough to burn: journalist or insider, observer or participant. It echoed in the air between them, as sharp and unavoidable as an alarm bell. Kara had built her entire career—her entire sense of self, really—on the premise of maintaining a perimeter. She was a chronicler, a collector of details and confidences, a ghost sliding through the rooms where the stories happened but never quite taking her place in the narrative. Her detachment was her armor and her brand. If you couldn’t be the main character, at least you could be the one telling the truth.

But standing there in a jacket that wasn’t hers, with the silver-studded collar grazing her throat and the soft, improbable warmth of the leather against her forearms, she felt herself slipping out of that safe zone. Her reflection in the mirror had been an omen, but it was Lena’s gaze—hungry, unblinking, and utterly unashamed—that had made the reality of it stick. The things Lena had said last night came back to her now, braided together with the sensation of Lena’s hand sliding beneath her shirt and the rasp of her breath against Kara’s bare shoulder. There was no way to reconstruct the old distance, no way to sweep the moment back into the realm of the hypothetical.

Kara’s mouth was dry. “I’ll be with the band,” she heard herself say, as if from a great and irreversible distance. The words made a shape in the air, solidifying the choice beyond recall. “For the full experience.”

For a second, Sam simply watched her—calculating, maybe, or simply curious to see how far the newcomer would really go. Then the manager’s face softened by a millimeter, enough for Kara to catch the faintest trace of respect. “Then you’d better stay close,” Sam said, not unkindly. “The show waits for no one."