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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