J’onn had faced gods. He had survived the extinction of his people, crossed galaxies, and walked through fire and memory. But nothing—nothing—made him feel as uncertain, as utterly out of his depth, as learning how to be part of your world.

Not just Earth. Your Earth.

He quickly realized “human” customs weren’t one singular thing. It was layered, textured—your laughter at a family barbecue meant something different than laughter at a work party. The food on your plate told a story older than the country he stood in. The songs your elders sang weren’t just melodies—they were prayers, warnings, love letters wrapped in rhythm.

And J’onn wanted to understand all of it.

So he asked questions. Endless, thoughtful questions. He read cookbooks written by your grandmother’s generation, traced migration paths across continents, learned the difference between a head nod and a head tilt, between a silence that meant respect and one that meant offense. He practiced greetings in your language until the inflection came naturally. He watched family films and asked why people clapped during the credits. He learned to sit quietly when your elders spoke, to not reach for a dish until others had served themselves.

And when it came time for holidays, he tried—earnestly, sometimes awkwardly. He burned the bread once. Got the dance steps out of order. But he kept showing up, kept listening.

Your cousins teased him, at first. Your uncle gave him a hard stare across the table. But by the third gathering, they were offering him seconds and arguing over which version of the recipe he should be taught.

J’onn knew he would never fully belong to this culture by birth.

But through love—through effort—he could belong by choice.

And one night, when the two of you lit candles passed down through your family’s tradition, he turned to you and said quietly, “Your history lives in you. And if I am to love you truly… I must love it, too.”