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Chapter Text

The first mistake was tequila.

The second was Kara looking at her like that-all wide-eyed affection and toothy smile, like Lena hung the damn moon just by offering her another shot. She should've seen it coming. Kryptonian tolerance or not, there are only so many shared drinks and shoulder touches before gravity wins.

They stumbled back to Lena's penthouse sometime after midnight. They were giggling-giggling-about something stupid. A cat video, maybe. Or Kara's very passionate monologue about waffles. Lena doesn't remember the exact moment her fingers brushed Kara's, only the part where Kara didn't pull away.

The kiss was inevitable. The rest of it, too.

And now...

Now, Lena wakes up to Kara snoring softly into her pillow, one arm flung across Lena's waist like they've been doing this forever. Her hair's a mess, lips slightly parted, and she's got a content little smile like she's dreaming about sunshine and pancakes.

Lena stares at the ceiling.

Well. Shit.

She carefully extricates herself from the human heat lamp that is Kara Danvers and pads to the kitchen. Coffee. She needs coffee. Preferably before Kara wakes up and turns this into something real.

Because that's the thing. This can't be a thing. Kara is her best friend. Her ridiculous, loyal, painfully golden best friend. The one who bakes cookies when she's sad and texts "just checking in" like clockwork. The one who doesn't do messy. Or complicated. Or Lena Luthor.

It was just a mistake. One stupid, tequila-fuelled mistake.

She has the coffee halfway brewed when Kara wanders in, rumpled and radiant, like heartbreak in a hoodie.

"Mornin'," Kara says, voice husky with sleep. "Is that for me?"

Lena blinks. "It's for me. But I suppose you've earned a cup."

Kara grins. That grin that could melt titanium.

"So... last night."
(Oh no. Don't talk about last night. Abort mission.)

"Yeah," Lena says, leaning on casual like it's structurally sound. "About that. We-uh. Probably shouldn't make it a habit."

Kara's expression falters-just for a second-then recovers.

"Right. Totally. Unless... I mean. Unless we wanted to."

Lena nearly drops the mug.

"What?"

"Not that we have to. Just. It was nice. Being with you. I like being with you."

Kara sips her coffee like she hasn't just drop-kicked Lena's nervous system into chaos.

And Lena, fool that she is, hears open, easy friendship. Casual comfort. Something that can be kept neat and labelled and tucked away under "we're adults who occasionally have sex but don't get weird about it."

"Yeah," she says slowly, watching Kara through her lashes. "It was nice."

And that's how it starts.

They don't talk about it again.

But Kara keeps showing up. Movie nights turn into sleepovers. Sleepovers turn into breakfasts. Lena finds her fridge suspiciously full of Kara's favourite almond milk. There's a hoodie-Kara's-draped over her couch, and Lena wears it when she's cold. Or lonely. Or both.

They don't talk about it, but they keep doing everything else.

And Lena?

Lena tells herself it's fine.

That this isn't a relationship.

That just because Kara holds her a little too long, or texts her goodnight like a ritual, or instinctively reaches for her hand during a horror film, doesn't mean anything.

Because if it did, she'd have to admit she wants more.

And wanting more-especially from Kara-is dangerous.

So she smiles. She keeps the game going. She pretends casual isn't killing her slowly.

Because it's not like Kara sees this as anything more... right?

It's the dog that should have been the first clue.

They're walking through the park on a Tuesday evening-Lena having left work early, a miracle in itself-when Kara spots him. A golden retriever, not quite a puppy but not fully grown either, sitting forlornly by a bench with no owner in sight.

"Lena," Kara whispers, tugging her sleeve. "Look."

The dog's collar has no tags. His ribs show slightly beneath his coat. He watches them approach with uncertain eyes.

"He needs help," Kara says, and Lena already knows she's lost this battle.

She sighs. "We can take him to a shelter."

Kara's face falls. "But-"

"After we check if he's microchipped and put up some signs."

The dog comes home with them. To Lena's apartment, because it's closer and has that expensive vacuum that can handle pet hair. The vet finds no microchip. The signs they post around the neighborhood yield no calls.

"He needs a name," Kara says on day three, as the dog curls between them on the couch. "Just temporarily."

"Krypto?" Lena suggests dryly.

Kara grins. "Too obvious. How about... Waffle?"

"We are not naming him after your breakfast obsession."

"Too late. He looks like a Waffle."

The dog-Waffle-thumps his tail against the cushions.

"See? He agrees," Kara says triumphantly.

By day seven, there's a dog bed in Lena's bedroom, a jar of organic treats in her kitchen, and a leash hooks installed by her front door. Kara stays over more often, claiming that "Waffle gets anxious" if they're both gone.

Lena doesn't question it. She tells herself this is just a temporary arrangement. Just friends helping a stray.

The fact that Kara refers to Waffle as "our dog" when they pass other pet owners in the park is just... semantics.

Kara insists Waffle needs a new one-"the fancy kind with a shock-absorbing handle, because he pulls when he sees squirrels." Lena had planned to send her assistant. Instead, she finds herself trailing behind Kara on a lazy Sunday morning through the cavernous expanse of a pet superstore, coffee in one hand, mental excuses in the other.

Kara is in her element, crouched on the floor comparing chew toy materials like it's national security. Waffle, delighted, sniffs every aisle. Lena tries to look disinterested and fails spectacularly when she reaches for a ceramic food bowl set. It's minimalist. Classy.

"Too expensive," she says aloud, to no one in particular.

"But it matches your kitchen!" Kara chirps, appearing beside her with a bag of grain-free treats. "I mean-Waffle's kitchen. Our kitchen?"

Lena's heart does something humiliating.

"Temporary kitchen," she corrects. "This is a temporary situation."

Kara doesn’t argue. Just smiles. The kind of smile that makes Lena want to buy matching monogrammed placemats and never mention the word "temporary" again.

Later, she pays for everything. Kara hums beside her, smug and content. Lena tells herself this is normal. Just helping a friend.

Just dog things.

Nothing else.

Lena tells herself it's fine.

Really. Totally fine.

So what if Kara left her favourite hoodie at Lena's place three weeks ago and hasn't asked for it back? So what if they keep ending up on Lena's couch watching reruns and falling asleep tangled together? So what if Kara started calling it "our dog" when they passed that golden retriever at the park last Sunday?

This isn't a relationship.

Because they never said it was.

Because if Kara wanted more, she would've said something. Right?

It's five months in when Lena first notices something's off.

They're at a charity gala-Lena in a backless black dress, Kara in a tailored suit that makes Lena's mouth go dry-when Jack Spheer appears, champagne in hand and charm at full voltage.

"Lena Luthor," he grins. "Still breaking hearts and making billions?"

"Jack," she smiles, accepting his quick hug. "Still exaggerating my net worth?"

"Never." He turns to Kara, offers his hand. "And this is...?"

Kara steps in. "Kara Danvers. I'm usually with Lena."

It hangs there, ambiguous enough to draw a smirk from Jack. "I see."

Lena opens her mouth. Closes it. Reaches for her wine instead.

Later, when Jack excuses himself, Lena catches Kara looking at her with an expression she can't quite name. Something wistful and a little guarded.

Kara asks quietly, "Was that okay? What I said?"

Lena swallows. "It was... confusing."

Kara smiles. "Sometimes that’s the point."

"What?" Lena asks.

Kara shakes her head. "Nothing. He seems nice."

"He is."

"Old flame?"

"Ancient history."

Kara nods, takes a sip of her drink. "You looked good together."

Lena stares at her. "We looked terrible together. He couldn't keep up with my work schedule and I couldn't stand his protein shakes."

"But he's smart. Charming."

"So are many people. Doesn't mean I want to date them."

"But you did date him."

"Are you jealous?" Lena asks, half-joking, half-terrified of the answer.

Kara looks away. "No. Just curious."

That night, for the first time in months, Kara doesn't stay over. She claims an early deadline, kisses Lena's cheek at the door, and leaves before Lena can figure out what just happened.

Waffle whines softly from his bed, as confused as she is.

"I know, buddy," Lena sighs. "I miss her too."

"You're late," Sam says when they walk in, Waffle in tow.

"Blame the dog," Lena lies, shrugging off her coat. Kara follows close behind, balancing a bottle of wine and a Tupperware of some impossibly wholesome quinoa salad.

Ruby beams. "I made place cards! You guys are on the same side."

"Like a courtroom," Kara whispers, leaning in.

"Like a couple," Lena hisses back.

Dinner is... something. Kara makes everyone laugh with a story about Waffle chasing a drone. Lena refills her glass twice. Sam raises an eyebrow every time Lena hands Kara a fork, or automatically slices her bread in half.

After dessert, Sam corners her in the kitchen.

"So how long have you two been official now?"

Lena blinks. "We're not."

Sam laughs like she’s joking. Then realises she isn’t. "Oh my God. You're serious."

"We're friends," Lena insists.

Sam just stares at her. "Then why did Kara just call your dog 'our son'?"

Lena excuses herself.

It's Andrea who ruins everything.

You should meet Marianne. She's an art curator. Brilliant. Intense. Your type.

Lena ignores it. At first. Then Kara cancels two sleepovers in a row-something about back-to-back rescues and a supervillain who'd taken hostages in a yogurt shop. Lena doesn't doubt her. She just... notices the silence.

No "miss you." No "rain check?" Just a tired smile and an "I'll see you soon."

She tries not to overanalyze. Tries not to count the hours between texts or note how Kara's stops by for shorter periods, always with an excuse to leave. How she still holds Lena at night, but doesn't quite melt into her the way she used to.

Waffle notices too. He paces between the door and the couch, ears perking at every elevator ding in the hallway.

"She'll be back," Lena tells him, not entirely convinced herself.

Andrea sends a follow-up message.

Seriously. It's been 2 years. Get back out there.

Lena stares at the text, a strange hollow feeling in her chest. A year. They've been doing this dance for almost ten months. Sleeping together. Sharing meals and dog walks and quiet moments. And yet they've never put a name to it.

Maybe that's the problem.

Maybe Kara's tired of the ambiguity. Maybe she wants something real, something defined-something Lena's been too afraid to offer.

Or maybe she's simply moved on.

Lena agrees to the drink out of spite.

Not at Kara. Not really.

At herself.

Marianne is lovely. Crisp blazer. Sharp wit. Terrifyingly knowledgeable about 19th-century sculpture.

Lena sits across from her at a too-trendy wine bar and laughs at the appropriate moments. She's technically present. But her mind is elsewhere.

On Kara.

On whether she fed the dog.

On whether she's busy or just... distant.

The wine is excellent-a Bordeaux that costs more than Lena's first computer-but she barely tastes it. Marianne asks about L-Corp, about her latest research project, about whether she's seen the new exhibition at the modern art museum.

Lena answers on autopilot, all the while wondering what Kara is doing. If she's flying over the city right now. If she's thinking of Lena at all.

"You seem distracted," Marianne says finally, not unkindly.

Lena blinks. "I'm sorry. Work has been... demanding."

"It's not work," Marianne says, stirring her wine. "It's whoever gave you that watch."

Lena's hand moves unconsciously to her wrist, where a slim silver watch sits-Kara's Christmas gift, engraved with a tiny constellation on the back. She hadn't even realized she was fidgeting with it.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been there," Marianne smiles. "Want to talk about it?"

Lena considers lying. But what's the point?

"It's complicated," she says.

"It always is."

Marianne kisses her cheek outside the bar. Lena thanks her. Then spends the Uber ride home staring out the window and wondering when exactly her heart got so particular.

The next morning, there's a knock at her door at 8 a.m. Lena opens it in pyjamas and sleep-matted hair to find Kara holding two coffees and an almond croissant.

"I figured you'd need caffeine after your big date," Kara says, far too cheerful. Too controlled.

Lena's stomach drops.

"You knew about that?"

"Andrea posted a photo. Tagging you. Marianne had very intense eyebrows."

Lena forces a smile. "It was just one date."

Kara hums. Hands over the coffee. Doesn't step inside.

Something in her posture is off. Tighter. Guarded.

"Look, I just... wanted to say it's totally fine," Kara says after a long pause. "You don't owe me anything."

(Then softer, looking somewhere near Lena's shoulder instead of at her eyes.)
"I've just been with you. This whole time. I assumed that's what we were doing."

Lena's heart hiccups.

Kara offers her the croissant like it's a shield. Then nods and walks away.

Lena stands in the doorway, coffee growing cold in her hand, and watches Kara disappear down the hallway. When she steps back inside, Waffle is sitting by her feet, head tilted in confusion.

"I know, buddy," she whispers. "I messed up."

There's a strange hollowness to the days that follow. Kara doesn't call. Doesn't text. Lena stares at her phone far too often, typing and deleting messages that never quite capture what she wants to say.

I miss you.
I'm sorry.
I didn't know what we were.

None of them feel right.

Waffle grows restless, pacing the apartment and bringing Kara's forgotten sweatshirt from the bedroom to the couch, then back again, as if trying to conjure her with the scent.

Lena buries herself in work. Stays late at the lab. Comes home to an apartment that feels wrong without golden hair splayed across her pillows and the sound of off-key humming from her shower.

It's almost funny. How something can become vital without you noticing. How spaces can feel empty of someone who was never officially there to begin with.

On day five of the silence, Lena doesn’t cry. Not exactly.

She just sits on her kitchen floor with Waffle pressed against her side and wonders how something so foundational-Kara’s laugh in the morning, her text at 11:03 p.m. like clockwork-could vanish without a single definitive end.

She’s not angry. Not even sad. Just... displaced.

Like she’s still living in a world where Kara should be walking through the door any minute now.

Waffle shifts. Whines. She strokes his ears, eyes fixed on the door like a fool.

She doesn’t realise she’s been sitting there for over an hour.

Lena doesn't eat the croissant.

She sits at her kitchen table and stares at the untouched pastry for fifteen minutes, because somehow that-the fact that Kara brought her breakfast even when she was clearly hurting-breaks her more than the date ever could.

She replays every moment in her mind like a courtroom drama.

The toothbrush Kara keeps in her drawer.

The way she always calls before showing up.

That night last month when Kara brought soup and watched musicals with her when she had the flu. She didn't even flinch at Lena's sneezing fits. She just tucked her in and stayed.

Lena had called it casual.

Kara hadn't called it anything.

But Kara acted like it meant everything.

She deletes Marianne's number. Doesn't tell Kara.

Not because it changes anything.

But because, apparently, she already belongs to someone.

She just doesn't know how to say it.

She doesn't notice the change all at once.

It's more of a quiet subtraction. A thousand soft, invisible edits to her days.

At first, it's just fewer texts. A little more white space between their hangouts. Then it's Kara showing up later, leaving earlier. Cancelling plans with a smile and a promise she always keeps-but not right away.

On day seven of the weirdness, Kara texts: Can I stop by later? Need to pick up my spare glasses from your place. 7pm ok?

No emoji. No exclamation point. Not even a period that could be interpreted as passive-aggressive. Just... neutral.

Lena replies: Of course. I'll be here.

She spends the next three hours overthinking what to wear, settling finally on jeans and a soft sweater-casual, but not trying-too-hard casual. She doesn't know what the rules are now. Doesn't know if there are rules at all.

Kara arrives exactly at seven, knocks instead of using her key. When Lena opens the door, Waffle nearly knocks her over in his excitement.

"Hey buddy," Kara grins, kneeling to accept his enthusiastic greeting. "Missed you too."

Lena's chest aches. "Come in. Can I get you anything? Water? Wine?"

"Just here for my glasses," Kara says, but she steps inside anyway. She looks tired. Still beautiful-she's always beautiful-but faded somehow, like a photograph left too long in the sun.

"They're in the bedroom," Lena says. "On the nightstand. Your side." She winces at the phrasing-your side, as if they had official designated territories in her bed.

Kara nods and disappears down the hallway. Waffle follows, tail wagging furiously.

When she returns, her expression is carefully blank, glasses in hand.

"Thanks," she says.

"Kara-" Lena starts.

"It's okay," Kara interrupts. "Really. We're okay."

"Are we?"

Kara hesitates. "We will be."

She still touches Lena. Still wants her. But it feels... less.

Less urgent. Less warm. Less theirs.

They still sleep together. That doesn't stop.

But even that's changed.

Where it used to feel like laughing through kisses and tangled limbs and whispered secrets, now it's quieter. More careful. Like Kara's holding something back-or protecting something Lena can't see.

They don't cuddle anymore. Not really. Kara turns away when it's over, sits on the edge of the bed and stretches like she's already halfway out the door. The first time, Lena blames the time. The second, she blames herself.

By the third time, it becomes a pattern.

And she hates how her body still leans toward Kara instinctively, how she still reaches out in the dark even when she knows she'll come up empty.

Kara always kisses her goodbye.

She never stays the night.

Lena doesn't ask about it.

Not because she doesn't want to-but because she's convinced she already knows the answer.

Kara's pulling away.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just... gently. Slowly. Like she's trying not to hurt her. Like she's preparing Lena for something Lena's not ready to name.

And Lena?

She does what she always does.

She adapts.

She smiles more. Reaches out less. Buys Kara coffee and makes excuses for why she doesn't ask to see her again until next week.

She thinks if she pretends not to notice, maybe it won't hurt as much when Kara finally leaves for good.

Because she knows what this is.

She knows what happens when one person starts feeling too much in something that was only supposed to be casual.

What she doesn't know-what she never once allows herself to consider-is that it might not be one-sided.

Not for a second.

Because if she opens that door, even a crack, the whole thing could come crashing down.

The spiral starts after that night Kara brings her soup and doesn't kiss her when she leaves.

It's a particularly miserable spring evening, rain hammering against the windows and a chill permeating even Lena's state-of-the-art heating system. She's wrapped in three blankets, sniffling pathetically, when her doorbell rings.

Waffle bounds to the door, barking in recognition.

Kara stands there, drenched but smiling, holding a paper bag from that Thai place across town that makes the soup Lena loves. Her glasses are spotted with raindrops, hair plastered to her neck.

"You didn't have to come," Lena says, voice raspy.

"Of course I did," Kara replies, stepping inside and shaking water everywhere like a puppy. "You're sick."

She unpacks the soup, heats it properly, sets up a tray with water and tissues and even a small vase with a single daisy. She fluffs pillows. Adjusts blankets. Puts on the playlist Lena likes when she's feeling under the weather-classical with a few indie tracks mixed in.

It's domestic. It's tender. It's everything.

And then Kara checks her watch, says she has an early morning, and leaves with just a squeeze of Lena's shoulder.

No kiss. No lingering hug. Nothing.

Lena stands at the window for ten whole minutes, watching the street below, waiting to see if Kara turns around.

She doesn't.

That's when Lena realises she's in love with her.

It's not a sudden epiphany. No thunderclap. Just... acceptance.

The way her body reacts when Kara's name lights up her phone. The way she scans every room for that stupid blonde ponytail. The way Kara's laugh sits behind everything joyful in her life, like the soundtrack to her stupid, fragile heart.

She loves her.

She's loved her for a while now, she thinks. Perhaps even right from the start.

And she's absolutely, utterly ruined everything.

She doesn't tell anyone.

Not Andrea. Not Sam. Not herself, really. It lives in the quiet spaces-in the sleepless nights and the empty half of her bed. In the coffee she buys just in case Kara stops by. In the text she never sends.

She tries to fix it the only way she knows how.

She gives Kara things.

Concert tickets to that indie band Kara pretends not to love. A first edition of Kara's favorite childhood book, found after weeks of searching. A ridiculously expensive dog toy for Waffle, wrapped with a bow that matches Kara's eyes.

None of it lands the way she wants it to. Kara always thanks her, always smiles, but it feels like she's being handed back pieces of herself she didn't realise she'd lost.

And Lena can't stop thinking:

If she loves me... why is she leaving like this?

She tells herself Kara's moved on.

That someone else is making her laugh now. Someone who doesn't ask for more than what's offered. Someone who doesn't need a label.

She tells herself this, and it almost works-until Alex slips at brunch and mentions the surprise.

"She's been planning it for weeks. Said it's for someone special."

Lena nearly chokes on her mimosa.

Alex doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does. But she backtracks quickly, changes the subject, talks about something inane. Lena hears none of it.

The word special ricochets through her like shrapnel.

Who? Who's special?

And why isn't it her?

She goes home and sits in her apartment, staring at the hoodie Kara left here six months ago. She clutches it like a lifeline and tells herself it's fine.

If Kara's happy, she'll deal with it.

She has no claim. She made sure of that.

She tries to write a message. Just something simple. A crack in the dam.

I miss you.
Do you still think of me the same way?
Tell me this wasn't nothing.

None of them feel safe.

She deletes them all.

In the end, she sends nothing.

She doesn't expect the invitation that arrives the next morning. Just a text from Kara: Wear something nice. 7 p.m. Rooftop.

And Lena stares at it like it's a trap door she's been circling all year.

Her hands are shaking when she types: Okay.

She spends the rest of the day telling herself this is the end.

A goodbye party.

A thank-you-for-the-memories dinner.

She tells herself she deserves it.

And deep down, she wonders if Kara ever really wanted her in the first place.

Lena is going to throw up.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Actually. Violently.

She's standing in front of a rooftop door in three-inch heels and an outfit she changed four times. She hasn't eaten since brunch. She's running on caffeine, existential dread, and half a breath.

Her phone buzzes.

Take the lift to the top. Then through the fire exit. It's open.
-- K

She stares at it for a second too long. The period feels aggressive.

She considers running.

But she's already here. Already cracked open. Already unraveling. So she climbs the final steps, pushes open the door-and freezes.

Because it's not a goodbye.

It's... a date.

A ridiculous, over-the-top, Kara date.

There are fairy lights. Real ones. Strung haphazardly but lovingly between beams, like Kara tried to copy Pinterest but got distracted halfway through and decided to wing it. There's a projector screen looping a silent slideshow-pictures of the two of them across the past year. Concert selfies. Sleepy mornings. Kara's thumb in the corner of half the shots.

And in the middle of it all-Kara, grinning, cheeks pink, wearing Lena's favourite blue button-down and looking like hope personified.

"You made it!" Kara beams. "You look amazing."

Lena stares at her like she's just spoken fluent octopus.

"What... is this?"

"Our anniversary," Kara says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Lena's mouth goes dry.

"Anniversary," she echoes.

"One year," Kara says, stepping forward, practically glowing. "Since the night we got together. Technically it was the day after, but you fell asleep in my bed with your cold feet on my calves, and I figured-hey, close enough."

Lena blinks.

Her brain skids. Not just on the words, but the tone. Like this is a thing they’ve talked about before. Like this is a fact.

"You think this is our anniversary?" she asks, slow, as if the sentence is foreign.

Kara smiles, unbothered. "Of course. One year since us."

Us.

The word hits like a dropped glass. Sharp. Unexpected.

Lena’s mind spins-rummaging through every memory of the past year like she’s trying to find the receipt. Their dinners. The sleepovers. The couch naps. The 'accidental' brushing of hands that stopped feeling accidental months ago.

She thinks of the dog. The toothbrush Kara keeps in her drawer. The soup.

But soup isn’t a love confession. Friends bring soup. Friends sleep over. Friends occasionally-* sleep together*.

Right?

Friends can do all that and not have anniversaries.

Can’t they?

“I thought we were just…” she begins, but it trails off. She doesn’t know the end of the sentence. Just what it wasn’t.

She looks at Kara. Really looks.

“I mean,” she says, breath catching, panic starting to take root, “we never said anything. We never talked about being together. You never asked. I never answered. We just… did things. And I thought-”

“You thought it wasn’t real?” Kara asks, softly.

“No,” Lena whispers. “I thought it couldn’t be.”

Kara’s face shifts-hurt and confusion threading together.

“I brought you soup.”

“That’s not-Kara, soup isn’t a contract. I thought it was just… kindness.”

“You met my mom.”

“You told me it was brunch!”

“We co-parent a dog.”

Lena throws her hands up. “I thought we were just really intense friends who sometimes had sex and shared a dog and maybe got a little domestic about it, but that didn’t mean it was dating! People don’t throw anniversaries for accidental situationships!”

Kara stares.

And Lena, slowly, painfully, realises she might be the only person in their lives who didn’t think they were already together.

Her voice wobbles. “I didn’t know I was allowed to believe it was real.”

Kara stares at her.

Then slowly sits down on a folding chair, like she might need a moment to reboot.

"You thought I didn't want more?"

Lena nods, helpless.

"You've been pulling away for months," she whispers.

"Because I thought you wanted space," Kara says, arms thrown up in exasperation. "You went on a date!"

"Because I thought you didn't want me!"

"Lena, I've only ever wanted you."

Lena starts laughing.

It comes out weird and cracked and teary. She laughs so hard she has to sit down, too.

"Oh my God. You dolt."

Kara frowns. "Why is that funny?"

"Because I've been in love with you for months and thought it was completely one-sided!"

"It wasn't!"

"I know that now, Kara!"

They stare at each other.

The slideshow behind them clicks to a photo-Kara and Lena in matching flannel pyjamas, holding a pumpkin pie between them like a newborn.

Lena wipes a tear off her cheek. "You really thought we were dating this whole time?"

Kara shrugs. "I mean... yeah. You steal my hoodies."

Lena stares at her.

Then gets up, crosses the space, and pulls Kara to her feet.

"So... we're officially official now?"

Kara tilts her head. "We've been official since the waffles."

Lena kisses her.

This time, it doesn't feel like a question.

It feels like a very, very overdue answer.

Chapter Text

SAM

Lena stirs her tea like it’s personally responsible for her choices.

Across the table, Sam is blinking like she’s trying to reboot her entire understanding of the universe.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says slowly. “Say that again.”

“We’re officially together now,” Lena says, proud and a little red in the cheeks.

“Now.”

“Yes.”

“As in… just now.”

“Last week. The rooftop dinner.”

Sam sets her cup down very gently. “Lena. I need clarification. Are you telling me that you and Kara… have not been in a relationship… this whole time?”

Lena straightens. “Correct.”

Sam just stares at her.

“She has a key to your home.”

“For emergencies.”

“She has her own drawer in your bedroom.”

“For sleepovers.”

“She changed your Wi-Fi name to ‘Kara & Lena’s Fortress of Solitude.’”

“Okay, that was… maybe a little bold-”

“She was your plus-one to every event last year.”

“Because she’s reliable.”

“You go to the farmers’ market together every Sunday. You split groceries. She knows your dog’s vet’s birthday.”

“We’re just close!”

“She’s in your medical file as your emergency contact!”

“Well-yes-but she’s efficient in a crisis!”

Sam throws her hands in the air. “Lena, she labels your leftovers! That’s not friendship. That’s domestic partnership.”

Lena frowns. “That’s a stretch.”

Sam leans across the table, deadly serious. “Do you or do you not have matching mugs that say ‘Boss Luthor’ and ‘Best Danvers’?”

Lena opens her mouth. Closes it again. “That was a gag gift.”

“Do you or do you not sleep in her T-shirts?”

“They’re comfortable!”

“You kiss her goodbye, Lena.”

“That’s… cultural.”

“Whose culture?!”

Lena groans and slumps forward onto the table.

“I thought it was one-sided. I thought I was making everything up. She started pulling away and I assumed she was trying to let me down gently.”

Sam is quiet for a second. Then:

“And what was Kara actually doing?”

Lena peeks up. “Planning a surprise anniversary dinner. For our ‘one-year.’”

Sam snorts so hard her tea nearly goes out her nose.

“I’m sorry. I love you. But you are an idiot.”

“Yes,” Lena says into the table. “I am painfully aware.”

“How did Kara take it when you told her you didn’t think you were dating?”

“She looked genuinely offended that I was surprised.”

“God, I bet she did. That poor woman. She’s been your girlfriend this entire time and just didn’t realise you didn’t know.”

Lena sits up, rubs her eyes, then says flatly:

“I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

Sam grins. “Not even a little.”

ANDREA

Andrea’s desk is immaculate. Her blazer is immaculate. Her expression is the equivalent of a verbal scalpel she hasn’t even unsheathed yet-but Lena can feel it.

“So,” Andrea says, dry as overcooked toast. “You’re dating Kara now.”

Lena nods, cautiously. “Yes. We made it official.”

Andrea leans back, arms crossed. “Convenient.”

Lena blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been dodging Marianne for weeks. And now, just in time to avoid another date? You declare yourself in a committed relationship with Kara Danvers.”

“Because I am in a committed relationship with Kara Danvers.”

Andrea tilts her head. “You weren’t a month ago.”

Lena frowns. “No, but-”

“You were friends.”

“We were-”

“You said yourself it wasn’t serious.”

“It wasn’t labelled. That’s different.”

Andrea raises an eyebrow. “Lena. You once told me you didn’t believe in labels.”

“That was before I found out Kara thought we were dating the whole time!”

Andrea pauses.

Then slowly sits forward.

“Kara thought you were dating.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. But now I do.”

“Because you’re trying to get out of dinner with Marianne.”

Lena glares. “This has nothing to do with Marianne.”

“Doesn’t it? You went on one date and panicked so hard you spiral-texted me about the ethical implications of ghosting someone via polite brunch cancellation.”

“That was one time.”

“And then you stopped sleeping properly.”

“Coincidence.”

“And now you’re claiming Kara’s your girlfriend.”

“She is!”

“Since when?”

“Since-” Lena stops. Freezes. “...Since a week ago.”

Andrea waits.

Lena hesitates. “But it’s not like it just started. We’ve been doing… couple things.”

“Like what?”

“Well. She has a toothbrush at mine.”

“So does my niece when she visits from Barcelona.”

“She’s my emergency contact!”

“So is my assistant. For travel insurance.”

“We co-parent a dog.”

“You also co-parent a startup with me and I’m not proposing.”

“She… she brings me soup when I’m sick.”

Andrea just looks at her.

“And I made her birthday cake.”

“It had edible glitter and a cape.”

“She has a drawer in my closet!”

“It’s not like you monogrammed her pyjamas.”

“She helped me pick out new towels.”

“You used a couples discount at that spa weekend and didn’t even flinch.”

Lena’s mouth opens.

Closes.

“Oh.”

Andrea finally smiles. Not cruelly-just smugly. “So. You were dating.”

Lena sits down, hard. “We were dating.”

“Yes.”

“The entire time.”

“Yes.”

“I am such an idiot.”

Andrea sips her espresso, serene. “Yes. But at least now you’re honest about it.”

Lena sighs into her hands. “Do you think Marianne will still be mad?”

“Yes. But Kara might make her a friendship cake.”

“Please never say ‘friendship cake’ again.”

MARIANNE

It’s supposed to be a quick gallery opening-just a pop-in, smile, sip the free prosecco, congratulate Marianne on the new collection, and leave before any awkward small talk.

Lena arrives late.

Which is why she walks in and immediately spots Kara-standing next to a minimalist sculpture made entirely of shattered phone screens-chatting animatedly with Marianne.

Marianne is laughing.

Kara is gesturing.

Lena panics.

She weaves through the room as casually as someone actively melting down can manage, nearly knocks over a coat rack that she momentarily mistakes for modern art, and finally reaches them just as Marianne says-

“-and then you made her a cake with a dog on it?”

“Golden retriever in a cape,” Kara says proudly.

“Of course.”

They both turn as Lena arrives. Kara lights up immediately.

“Hi!”

Lena kisses her cheek and maybe squeezes her elbow a little too tightly, like please don’t say anything else charming in front of my ex-almost-date.

“Marianne,” Lena says, nodding.

“Lena,” Marianne replies, amused. “You didn’t mention your girlfriend was a golden retriever in human form.”

Kara blushes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Lena wants the floor to open.

“We were just chatting about edible glitter,” Marianne says, sipping her wine. “And your truly impressive cake-making history.”

“It was just one cake,” Lena mutters.

“There was a fondant cape,” Kara adds.

Marianne grins. “I can see why you fell for her.”

Kara goes pink and beams.

Lena blacks out for a second.

They make polite conversation for a few minutes. Marianne excuses herself-graceful, unfazed, maybe even a little endeared-and Kara watches her go.

“She’s nice,” Kara says, turning to Lena. “I can see why you dated her.”

“I didn’t,” Lena hisses. “It was one date.”

“Still. She’s cool. And she said she liked my vibe.”

“Your vibe.”

“Yeah. She said I give off ‘golden retriever loyalty with faint bisexual chaos.’”

Lena pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I can’t believe you charmed her.”

Kara shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“That’s worse.”

“Should I not have talked to her?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just-of course you’re perfect. Even my failed rebound likes you.”

“I’m not perfect,” Kara says, then adds thoughtfully, “I forgot how to open a bottle of wine with a corkscrew last week.”

“You used brute strength.”

“Supergirl has many skills.”

Lena groans.

“Are you mad?”

“No. I’m mortified.”

Kara grins and bumps her shoulder. “You’re cute when you spiral.”

“That’s not helping.”

“Want to go home and I’ll make you feel better with waffles?”

“That’s helping.”

They leave ten minutes later, hand in hand, while behind them, Marianne texts Andrea:

She’s sweet. I get it now.

RUBY

It’s Sunday brunch at Sam’s place. The table is loaded with waffles, fruit, and three types of syrup because Kara believes in carbohydrate-based joy.

Kara is wearing one of Lena’s hoodies.

Ruby is dunking strawberries into whipped cream and watching them like she’s performing a science experiment.

Lena is pretending to be calm.

Sam is definitely not pretending.

“So,” Sam says, all too casually, “you two are official now?”

Kara beams. Lena glares across the table. “Don’t start.”

Sam raises a hand. “Just making conversation.”

“We’ve been dating for a week,” Kara says, cheerful and proud.

Lena sighs. “We’ve been dating for a year. We just didn’t know it.”

“You didn’t know it,” Kara mutters into her mimosa.

Lena kicks her under the table.

“Anyway,” Lena says, trying to change the subject, “Ruby, how’s school?”

“Fine,” Ruby says. Then, without missing a beat:  “So… wait,” she says slowly, looking between them. “You’re my godmum.”

Lena nods, cautious. “Yes.”

“And Kara’s your girlfriend now.”

Another nod.

Ruby squints. “So… is she like… my step-godmother? Is that a thing? Like, is that allowed?”

Kara opens her mouth, probably to say something ridiculous.

Ruby barrels on. “I mean, if you’ve been together this whole time and just didn’t know, maybe you are secretly married. And that would definitely make her something official. Right?”

She looks delighted with her own logic, then adds helpfully, “Should I make her a badge?”

Lena groans into her hands. Kara beams.

“I’d love a badge,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Ruby grins. “I’ll make it sparkly.”

Sam puts down her fork and looks like she’s having the best brunch of her life.

“It’s not a thing,” Lena splutters.

“Technically,” Kara says, very seriously, “I think that’s a thing.”

“It’s not a thing,” Lena grinds out again.

“It could be a thing,” Kara says. “Like a cool, rogue family tree branch.”

“A side quest of godparenting,” Ruby adds, nodding.

Sam is straight-up laughing now.

Lena wipes her mouth, half choking, half resigned. “This is not how legal relationships work.”

“Too late,” Ruby says, handing Kara a strawberry. “You’re in.”

Kara takes the strawberry solemnly. “I accept this honour.”

Lena groans and drops her head into her hands.

“Do I need to swear an oath?” Kara asks, nudging her. “Because I’ll do it. I’ll make it dramatic. There can be a cape.”

“You are not writing yourself into my will as ‘step-godmother,’ Kara.”

“Too late,” Sam says. “I’m putting it in mine.”

ALEX

Lena’s not nervous, exactly.

It’s more… aware.

Alex invited her out for a drink. Alone. No Kara. No Ruby. No buffer. Just “we should talk” energy, which is always promising when it comes from a woman with elite combat skills and access to classified weapons.

She arrives to find Alex already seated, beer in hand, smirking.

“You’re late,” Alex says. “Very on-brand.”

“Traffic,” Lena replies. “And existential dread.”

“Also on-brand.”

Lena sits.

There’s a beat.

“So,” Alex says, tone deceptively mild. “You and Kara are finally official.”

Lena nods cautiously. “Yes. A week ago.”

Alex takes a long sip of her drink.

“Cute.”

Lena blinks. “Cute?”

Alex sets her glass down with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer.

“I knew you were in love with her six months ago. I knew Kara thought you were already together eight months ago. I gave it two weeks, tops. For you to notice. Maybe a month. Six, if you were being obtuse.”

“And yet here we are.”

“One year later.”

“I’m aware,” Lena says flatly.

“Lena,” Alex deadpans, “she calls you her person.”

“She says that about everyone.”

“She has you listed as her emergency contact under ‘Home.’”

“Oh.”

“Home, Lena.”

Lena groans.

Alex grins.

“I will say,” she continues, sipping again, “there was one moment I considered having you killed.”

Lena nearly chokes. “I’m sorry?”

“The date. With Marianne.”

“Oh my god.”

“She told me,” Alex says, unfazed. “Said she saw you at that wine bar. Laughing. Looking cosy.”

“It was one date-”

“That’s one date too many when my baby sister thinks you’re already hers.”

“I didn’t know-!”

“I figured that out eventually. But not before I ran three background checks and looked into some discreet solutions.”

“Discreet solutions?!”

“You’re lucky J’onn talked me down.”

“J’onn?!”

“He said, and I quote, ‘It’s not a crime if they’re both in denial.’”

Lena drops her head to the table. “I’m never going to live this down.”

Alex pats her shoulder-sharp and smug.

“Nope. But at least you’re not making out with other people while my sister’s at home making you soup.”

“She did make me soup,” Lena mumbles.

“Damn right she did. And I’ll be watching.”

Lena lifts her head, wary. “Watching?”

“One toe out of line, Luthor,” Alex says sweetly, “and I will end you.”

“Understood.”

Alex downs the rest of her drink, satisfied.

“Good. Now finish your whiskey. You’ve got a family dinner to survive.”

“With you?”

“With all of us. And Ruby made a name card that says ‘step-god-mom Kara.’ Don’t screw it up.”

KARA

They’re curled up on Kara’s couch, a blanket over their legs and a dog snoring softly at their feet. The TV is playing some old romcom, muted. Lena’s head rests on Kara’s shoulder. Kara’s fingers are in her hair.

It’s peaceful. Cozy. Settled.

And yet.

Lena exhales.

“I have a question.”

“Mmm?”

“At what point,” Lena says, slowly, “did you realise I didn’t know we were dating?”

Kara stills.

Pulls back just enough to look Lena in the eye.

“...Wait. You didn’t?”

Lena blinks. “Are you joking?”

Kara shakes her head, looking genuinely stunned. “I mean, I thought you were maybe being funny about it? Or, like… playing hard to get? Ironically?”

“Kara. I went on a date with someone else.”

Kara winces. “Yeah, but… I thought maybe you were just testing the waters? Or like—trying to figure out if we were… open.”

“Open?” Lena repeats, incredulous.

“I don’t know!” Kara throws up her hands. “You never said we were exclusive. And if being with you meant letting you see other people, I figured—I mean, I wouldn’t love it, I mean… I’d hate it… but I’d… adapt.”

Lena stares at her.

Then bursts out laughing. Loud, breathless, slightly unhinged laughter.

Kara blinks. “What?”

“Oh my God,” Lena wheezes. “You thought we were in an open relationship I didn’t know I was in?”

Kara crosses her arms, defensive now. “I thought you knew we were in a relationship. I was just trying to be supportive.”

“You poor, loyal golden retriever,” Lena says, wiping a tear from her eye. “You were ready to suffer silently through polyamory just to keep dating me.”

Kara grumbles. “You make it sound pathetic.”

“It is pathetic,” Lena says fondly. “And somehow the most romantic thing you’ve ever done.”

Kara tilts her head. “So we’re not open?”

“No, Kara. We’re not open.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Just checking.”

Lena leans in. “You really would’ve gone full Supergirl-on-the-sidechick if I’d asked, huh?”

Kara shrugs. “Would’ve made a schedule.”

Lena kisses her to shut her up—still laughing.

Lena groans and hides her face in her hands. Kara grins and wraps her up in a full-body hug.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” Kara says, smug and warm.

They sit there for a moment. Lena’s face still pressed into Kara’s shoulder. Kara softly kisses the top of her head.

“So when did you realise I was in love with you?” Lena mumbles.

“I don’t know. I guess I just always assumed you were. You kept letting me pick the movie.”

Lena pulls back to squint at her. “That’s your metric?”

Kara shrugs. “That and the time you threatened to sue a bakery because they gave me the wrong cake.”

“It was your birthday, Kara. They spelled your name ‘Clara.’”

“You used litigation as an expression of love.”

“You made me a slideshow.”

“You steal my hoodies.”

“You bring me soup.”

They both smile. It's ridiculous. And perfect.

Lena leans in and kisses her.

“Next time,” she murmurs, “we label it.”

“Deal.”

There’s a pause.

“But you are putting ‘step-godmother’ in your bio.”

“Kara.”

“Step-god-aunt, technically.”

Lena kisses her again just to shut her up.

It doesn’t work.

But she doesn’t really mind.

Epilogue (years later):

“Do you remember,” Kara says, laughing into her wine glass, “when you thought we weren’t dating?”

“Do you remember,” Lena counters, “when you just assumed we were and never mentioned it?”

Kara shrugs. “Seemed obvious.”

Lena stares at her, fond and exasperated. “You’re lucky I like oblivious women.”

“You love oblivious women,” Kara corrects. “And besides-you did steal my hoodies.”

Lena leans across the table. “I’d steal your last name if you let me.”

Kara chokes.

Lena smirks.

Kara doesn’t recover for ten full minutes.