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Lena never liked birthdays. Never really understood them, really.
They were never about joy in her family, never about her. In the Luthor house, birthdays were just another stage to display wealth and power, another way for Lionel to parade his name under the guise of celebration. Every year, the parties were filled with his friends, his colleagues, and his expectations. And every year, she smiled for them like a porcelain girl rehearsing warmth she didn’t feel.
So even after she met the superfriends, even after they formed a bond stronger than family, she never let birthdays mean much. She’d trained herself to pretend it didn’t matter.
But Kara? Kara loves birthdays. She loves everything about them. Loves the hunt for the perfect gift, the glow of surprise parties, the smell of frosting and laughter in the air. Kara Danvers loves birthdays the way she loves people: wholeheartedly, without hesitation.
For the first time in years Lena feels small on her birthday. Small and foolish and almost childlike in her hope because Kara, the girl who remembers everyone, the girl who plans weeks in advance and makes every person feel like the center of the universe on their birthdays, simply… forgot hers.
She wakes early, despite promising herself she wouldn’t. She lies still beneath the sheets, pretending not to listen for the faint sound of boots on her balcony, for that soft knock before the door opens and light floods the room. But the city hums quietly outside, and no one lands.
Lena leaves the balcony open anyway. Just in case.
Sam and Ruby call first thing in the morning, loving and cheerful, and Lena makes herself sound casual, as if it doesn’t matter that someone remembered. She tells herself it’s silly to care, but when she hangs up, her chest feels a little less empty.
At the office, Jess greets her with flowers — orchids, her favorite — and lunch from that place she likes by the river. Lena thanks her with the perfect smile, the one that makes people believe she’s genuinely touched. But the moment Jess walks out, the expression slips, her face returning to something quieter, heavier.
The day goes on like that. The employees stop by her office with well-meaning smiles, gifts she didn’t ask for, kind words that almost reach her. And she appreciates it, she really does, but she keeps catching herself glancing at the balcony, expecting the sound of someone arriving, a familiar voice cutting through the hum of work.
It doesn’t come.
Maybe Kara’s busy, she tells herself. Maybe there’s a crisis. Maybe she’s somewhere halfway across the planet saving someone’s life. And it should be enough, that thought should be enough, but every time she tries to convince herself, her chest tightens anyway, like her body refuses to believe her mind.
By afternoon, the excuses start to sound thin even in her own head.
She shuts her laptop earlier than usual, stares at the city through the tall windows, and tries to swallow the restlessness sitting at the base of her throat. Then, because she can’t stand the thought of waiting anymore, she decides to find Kara herself.
The Tower feels alive when she walks in. The lights hum, screens flicker, voices echo softly. Brainy smiles when he sees her, followed by Alex’s warmth, J’onn's kindness and Nia’s earnest enthusiasm. There’s a cake waiting on the table, a single candle trembling in the air.
“Happy birthday, Lena! We're so glad you're a part of our lives!” Nia says, her eyes bright, her voice full of that effortless kindness Lena both envies and adores. The others follow with hugs, gifts, laughter that fills the space like sunlight.
It’s lovely. It’s everything birthdays are supposed to be. And yet, the longer she stands there, the heavier her smile feels.
Because Kara isn’t there.
Her gaze keeps flicking toward the elevator, toward the sound of the boots landing on the balcony, toward anything that might mean Kara’s on her way. But every minute stretches into another reminder that she isn’t.
She hates herself for the disappointment. Hates the way she can’t seem to stop caring. Hates that she doesn’t even understand why this feels like rejection, or why this feels like heartbreak.
“Where’s, um, your sister?” she asks finally, trying to sound casual, though her throat feels tight around the words.
Alex hesitates. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “She hasn’t been in all day, but I’m sure she’ll show up later. You know Kara.”
“Of course,” Lena says with a smile that tastes false even to her.
She stays a while longer, pretending to be present, pretending that she isn’t mainly looking toward the elevator doors. Eventually, she makes an excuse and leaves.
Her apartment greets her in silence. Not the peaceful kind, but rather the hollow one. The kind that fills the space behind her ribs and makes her able to hear her own heartbeat. She drops her bag, slips off her heels, and stands in the middle of the living room without turning the lights on.
The balcony door is still open. She hadn’t realized she’d left it that way.
She almost closes it. Almost.
That night, she dreams of voices and laughter that aren’t there.
The morning after her birthday is worse.
Her phone lies face down on the nightstand. She’s been pretending not to care since she opened her eyes, but she keeps reaching for it anyway. Fingers brushing the edge, heart stuttering each time she gives in. Some part of her still expects a message. Something simple. Happy birthday, Lena. Sorry I was late. Something that would make this ache make sense.
But there’s nothing. No messages. No calls. Just silence.
She sets the phone down with careful precision, because if she doesn’t, she might throw it just to hear something break that isn’t her heart.
She tells herself she’s fine. She’s always fine. She’s outgrown birthdays. She’s outgrown waiting for things that never come.
But by Thursday, the mask begins to slip. She’s shorter with Jess than usual. Her patience frays in meetings. She avoids Alex’s calls, leaves Nia’s messages unread.
She doesn’t want comfort. Doesn’t want pity. She just wants to understand why this hurts so much.
Why one forgotten birthday feels like something else entirely, like something she can’t name, like something that feels too close to being left behind.
By Friday night, the silence has hollowed her out.
She sits on her immaculate white couch. The cushions are untouched, the lines too sharp. A new bottle of wine rests beside her, an empty one next to it. Her laptop glows faintly, a half-written document open and blinking, each unfinished sentence staring back like a reminder of everything she can’t quite say.
She tells herself she isn’t waiting anymore. She’s above this, past this. But her phone lies face-up on the table, and every time the screen lights, her pulse betrays her in a way she can't quite fake. That split second where hope stirs, desperate and uninvited, before collapsing in on itself again.
She hates that she’s doing this. Hates the smallness of it, the absurdity of sitting in the dark waiting for someone that should’ve already come.
She thinks of all the times Kara went out of her way for her, crossing oceans just to bring back the perfect scone from that café in Ireland because Lena once mentioned liking it; dropping by unannounced with takeout when she knew Lena hadn’t eaten; the way she remembered every insignificant detail, from how Lena took her coffee to the melody she hummed while she worked. Kara, who once promised to take her to Argo, to show her around as if she was the prize, or maybe the best thing Kara had on Earth. Kara, who always kept her promises.
Except this one. Except for her birthday.
The thought lands like a weight in her stomach — dull, humiliating, final.
It’s gut-wrenching to want something so small and still not have it.
Her vision blurs, and for a moment she convinces herself it’s just the wine. But then a tear slips free, warm and treacherous, and another follows. She blinks hard, furious, but it’s too late. The sob comes up strangled, raw, as if dragged from somewhere deep and childlike. A sound she hasn’t made in years. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to quiet it, to cage it, but her chest trembles anyway.
“Pathetic,” she whispers, voice cracking on the word. “When did you become so pathetic, Lena Luthor?”
Her name sounds like an accusation in her own mouth. A curse, almost.
Her chest aches the way it always does when it’s Kara. When she’s laughing, when she's leaning in, when she’s angry, when she’s gone. It’s an ache that knows Lena better than she knows herself. It sits in her bones, quiet and constant, something she pretends not to notice until nights like this, when the silence around her feels carved from it.
The thought cuts through her mind before she can stop it, sharp and reckless and awfully real.
No. That can’t be it.
She laughs under her breath, shaking her head as if motion could undo the thought. “God, no. Don’t be ridiculous, Lena.”
But the wine has softened her edges, and the apartment feels too still, too alive with absence. The silence answers her back like an echo.
That’s why it hurts. Because it’s Kara. Because somewhere along the way Lena's world began to orbit around her and her only. Around her smile, her voice, her presence. Around the way Kara makes her feel like she is more than just a Luthor, more than the sum of every mistake and every headline. The way she is seen, truly seen, in a way that no one else has ever managed.
Her throat tightens.
“No,” she says again, louder now, as if she can drown it out, as if the sound could fill the hollow she’s been ignoring. “I’m drunk. I’m tired. She’s just—she’s my friend. That’s all. Stop—thinking—nonsense.”
But the word friend scrapes against her tongue like something broken, something she’s outgrown without realizing it. It tastes bitter and wrong in this sentence, a lie her heart refuses to swallow.
She leans forward, pressing her palm hard against her eyes, as if she can push the thoughts back inside her skull. Her voice is smaller when she speaks again. “People don’t cry like this for a friend, Lena.”
The admission leaves her body like a wound exhaling air.
It’s absurd.
It’s impossible.
It’s true.
She’s in love with Kara.
The glass slips from her hand before she realizes she’s loosened her grip. It hits the edge of the coffee table and cracks, a sharp, ringing sound that startles her into stillness. Red wine spills across the white couch, spreading like a stain she can’t control.
For a second, she just stares.
Then she sees the blood.
A thin line, bright and wet across her palm. It doesn’t even sting at first. It's just there, quiet proof that she’s been bleeding, inside and out, for someone who never even came. She presses a napkin against it, watching the fabric bloom red.
She sits there like that for a long time, bleeding quietly in the dark.
And still, the thing that hurts most, the thing that sits like glass in her throat, is that Kara still hasn’t called.
She tips her head back, eyes burning, and lets the silence press against her once more.
There’s no knock at the balcony. No voice in the dark. No miracle. Just the slow, steady pulse in her hand, and the echo of her own foolish heart finally telling her what it’s been trying to say all along. She's in love with Kara and Kara doesn't love her back.
Morning comes cruelly bright.
The first thing Lena feels is the pounding in her head. Sharp, rhythmic, merciless. The kind that makes her angry at herself for drinking this much, for letting it get this far. The second is the taste of old wine on her tongue, the bitter kind that clings to regret. Her eyes are half-open, unfocused, and the world tilts when she tries to move.
“Lena?”
The voice reaches her through the haze. Soft, urgent, too real.
She groans, pressing her face into the couch cushion. “Not now, Kara,” she mumbles, voice rasping, half-asleep.
For a moment, there’s silence. Then her eyes snap open. Her heart stutters, then races. She sits up too fast. “Kara?”
The pain flares behind her eyes, but she ignores it — ignores the blur, the nausea, the way her whole body protests — because there she is. Kara, coming in from the balcony, hair wild from the wind, still in her Supergirl suit, eyes wide with panic.
“Lena, Rao, what happened?” She’s at Lena’s side before she can even blink, before Lena can decide whether this is real or some cruel hangover hallucination she’s conjured out of longing.
Lena blinks, dazed. The scene around her sharpens. The glass shattered on the floor, the bottle tipped over, the white couch stained in red that’s part wine, part blood. She hadn’t even noticed the dried streak on her palm until Kara takes her hand, thumb tracing the cut like she’s afraid she could hurt Lena any more.
Kara’s studying her hand, then her face. There’s so much intent in her eyes it almost hurts to look at her. Like she’s seeing too much. Like she might hear every thought echoing in Lena’s mind. I love you. I’m in love with you. Kara Danvers, I’m so in love with you.
“It’s okay,” Kara says, her voice soft but sure. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Lena wants to let out that bitter, acid laughter that’s been bubbling in her stomach alongside the wine. But before she can form it, Kara is gone again, moving through the apartment like she belongs, like this is normal.
She comes back with a first-aid kit, water, aspirin. The domesticity of it nearly undoes her. Kara kneeling before her, golden morning light catching in her hair, focused and gentle as she wraps the bandage around Lena’s hand.
“Oh, Lena…” Kara’s voice cracks on her name. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lena manages, her voice raw and small. “I don’t matter.”
“What?” Kara frowns, and the sound is full of disbelief, not at Lena’s words, but at the fact that she could ever think them.
Her gaze searches Lena’s face like she’s trying to learn it by heart, to understand every fracture. Kara’s hand lifts, hesitates, then touches her cheek — so soft, so careful that Lena can’t help but close her eyes.
“Let’s get some food into you,” Kara murmurs. “You’ll feel better.”
By the time Lena can stand without swaying, Kara’s made her eggs and toast and is watching her with that ridiculous, hopeful expression. The one that’s half guilt, half sunshine, and wholly unbearable.
Lena loathes it. Hates her. Absolutely loves her.
“Feeling better?”
Lena can’t answer. Can’t speak. Realizing she’s in love with Kara feels like stepping onto thin ice. Every breath is a risk, every glance a crack spreading under her feet. How is she supposed to survive Kara Danvers now, with her mind humming her name like a fever? How is she supposed to swallow back this feeling when lying to herself isn’t an option anymore?
She nods. It’s all she can manage.
Kara’s eyes light up immediately, too bright, too warm. “Good.” She smiles and Lena’s stomach somersaults, her pulse betraying her completely. “I, um, actually need a favor.”
There it is. That’s why Kara suddenly remembered her.
Lena forces a thin smile. “Sorry, I think I’ve met my quota of crises this week.”
“It’s… kind of important,” Kara says, fidgeting with her glasses. Restless hands smooth over her suit, as if even her skin can’t stay still. “Just… trust me? Please?”
Maybe it’s the hangover, or the exhaustion, or maybe it’s just Kara — that soft please, that pleading look, eyes shimmering with hope like she’s offering salvation instead of another stabbing in the heart. Whatever it is, Lena gives in. Begrudgingly. Stupidly. Entirely.
The flight is quick, though the scenery changes so completely it feels like crossing continents. When they land, there’s only quiet. Trees stretching high above them, a lake that mirrors the pale sky, and sunlight so gentle it almost feels undeserved on Lena’s skin.
“Kara, where are we?”
“Come on,” Kara says, reaching for her hand, lacing their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if they’ve always done this. Lena’s breath stumbles in her chest, and she has to ignore the pounding in her heart long enough to make sense of what’s happening.
The cabin is small, simple. A kitchen, a couch, a fireplace, a door slightly open that hints at a bedroom. There’s nothing unusual about it. Nothing familiar.
Except—
A birthday cake on the kitchen table. A banner strung above it, Kara’s unmistakable handwriting curling into Happy Birthday, Lena! Balloons. Flowers. Ribbons. Like a child’s dream of joy brought to life.
“What is this?” Lena asks, voice low, thin, already trembling with disbelief.
Kara’s smile is soft, hesitant. “Happy birthday, Lena.”
And that’s what breaks her.
“Really?” Lena’s laugh is sharp, bitter, cracking halfway through. “My birthday was days ago, Kara. Days! You didn’t call, didn’t stop by, didn’t even text. And now you think you can make it up with a secret celebration?”
Her tone slices the air clean open. Kara flinches, shoulders tightening like she’s taken a physical blow.
“But—”
“What? I’m not even worth being celebrated out loud?” The anger comes out faster now, wild and shaking, the kind that’s born from hurt that’s been stewing too long. “You—of all people—you forgot. You always remember everyone else, but not me.”
“Lena, no,” Kara blurts out, eyes glassy as she shakes her head. “I didn’t forget. I sent you flowers! Orchids, your favorites. A card, and, um, food from that place you love so much. The one you said reminded you of Dublin.”
The words hit like static — flowers? card? Lena’s mind scrambles back through the blur of that morning: Jess handing her the bouquet, saying someone sent them. She hadn’t even seen a card, just assumed it was from Jess.
For the first time in days, Lena doesn’t know what to say. Because she spent all week thinking Kara didn't care, didn't remember her, when there was a card.
"Wait—Wait…You sent the flowers and the food, but you didn't show up there to wish me a happy birthday in person?”
Kara bites the inside of her mouth, looks down, “You didn't read the card, did you?”
“I—Might have thought the flowers were from Jess.” Lena breathes out, confused. “I don't get it, why does it matter?”
Kara is silent for a while, like she is choosing word by word to make the most perfect sentence, but when she opens her mouth, she doesn’t say much. “Well, look around.” Her breath catches like she’s been caught mid-confession, like there’s something else buried under all her words that she doesn’t know how to say.
Balloons. Flowers. Ribbons. A banner that says ‘Happy Birthday Lena!', a cake that reads… She steps closer, furrows her brows, reads it more times than she needs to understand those simple words, but she needs to be sure. A cake that reads ‘Happy birthday, I love you like you're mine.’
Wait.
Lena’s throat tightens. The words on the cake blur again, not because she can’t read them, but because she finally can.
Her fingers twitch at her sides, heart drumming against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Slowly, she looks up. Kara is standing there, hands clasped together in that nervous way she has, shifting her weight like she wants to disappear and stay forever in the same breath.
“Does this…” Lena swallows, her voice quieter than she means for it to be. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
Kara’s lips part, a small, trembling smile forming there, and her voice breaks on the honesty of it. “It means I’m in love with you.”
It’s so simple. So Kara. No theatrics, no hesitation—just truth, bare and steady, like sunlight through glass.
“I’m sorry you thought I wasn’t celebrating you out loud,” she goes on, voice soft but certain. “I just… I wanted you all to myself. For once.”
Lena doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until it leaves her all at once, a fragile sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. The air feels lighter now, impossibly so, like the world has shifted and she’s the only one who knows it.
For a moment, she can’t move. Just stands there, staring at the woman who has always been too much light for her eyes to adjust to.
“You’re serious,” she whispers, almost to herself.
Kara steps closer, searching her face with those wide, open eyes that feel impossibly soft and loving. “I’ve never been more serious about anything.”
Kara’s still watching her, still waiting for something. Permission, maybe. The kind of patience that makes Lena’s chest ache, because who waits like this for a Luthor? Who loves her like this?
Lena takes one small step closer, then another. The air between them hums. Kara’s hand finds hers again, warm, steady, fingers lacing as if they were made to hold each other like this.
“You’re in love with me,” Lena says, the words tasting strange and holy all at once.
Kara nods. “Hopelessly.”
The confession is still echoing somewhere between them when Lena leans in and kisses her. It’s clumsy at first, a little too desperate, but Kara catches her halfway, one hand finding Lena’s cheek, the other the back of her neck, holding her like she’s something precious and breakable and wanted.
The kiss deepens, softens, finds its rhythm. It tastes like all the unspoken words Lena’s been choking on for years. It tastes like a confession she can’t take back, and doesn’t want to.
When they part, barely breathing, Lena murmurs against Kara’s lips, “Well, Kara Danvers, I’m in love with you too.”
Kara laughs, bright and unguarded, head tipping back, eyes small with joy. “Good,” she says, grinning. “That kiss would’ve been really weird if you didn’t.”
And Kara looks at her again, with those eyes as if she can see right through her, see all of her, want only her. “Happy birthday, my love.” And the word makes Lena's heart stop, explode, and race all at once.
“Next time, please read the card.”
Lena finds it on Monday morning, still tucked between the almost-dead flowers, and reaches for it without hesitation.
Dear Lena, happy birthday.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.
I love you.
Not like a friend. Not like family.
I love you like you're mine.
PS: I know this is too much, and maybe you don't feel the same way, so… If you do, give me a call? And if I don’t hear from you, I'll just know to give you some space.
Oh yeah… She should’ve read the card.