You weren’t supposed to be on the roof that late.

But grading papers at home always made you restless, and sometimes the only way to clear your head was to climb the stairs to the school roof, breathe in the night air, and let the world shrink beneath you. The city buzzed in the distance, muted by the quiet hum of streetlights and your own exhaustion.

Then the sky cracked open.

A bronze blur dove from the stars, wings slicing the wind like living steel. She landed hard on the rooftop, the concrete buckling under her boots. You jumped back, dropping the red pen in your hand, stunned and blinking through the dust storm she stirred.

She straightened slowly. Towering. Armored. Radiant in a dangerous way. Her wings flexed once, casting long shadows under the moonlight. She was regal and raw and entirely not human.

And she was staring at you.

“Identify yourself,” she demanded, voice sharp and steady. “Are you military? Surveillance?”

You swallowed. “I’m a high school teacher.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“I teach history,” you said, holding your hands up in what you hoped was a universal sign for I’m not a threat. “Not exactly dangerous unless you’re afraid of essays.”

Her head tilted, wings slowly lowering. “This sector was meant to be unoccupied. Who authorized your presence?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Pretty sure the school board didn’t plan for alien drop-ins when they gave me the keys.”

That made her pause. And then—barely perceptible—her mouth twitched. The faintest smirk.

“I see.” She looked around, scanning the horizon with precision. “Your planet’s intel is… lacking.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Tell me about it.”

She stepped forward, one foot crunching the cracked concrete. “You didn’t run.”

“No,” you said, watching her eyes—hawk-like and golden, piercing in a way that made your chest feel too small.

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Maybe I’m used to students doing dumb, loud things. Or maybe I figured if you wanted to hurt me, you already would’ve.”

She studied you, her expression unreadable. Then: “You have courage. Or poor judgment.”

“Little of both,” you admitted. “What about you? Who are you?”

“I am Shayera Hol,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Of Thanagar. Warrior of the Ninth Wing. I am here to assess this world’s worth.”

You blinked. “Worth for what?”

“To protect. To preserve. Or to let burn.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all.

“So… no pressure.”

She tilted her head again. “You joke. You laugh in the face of unknown power.”

“I teach teenagers,” you said. “This is honestly less scary than parent-teacher night.”

That made her exhale. Not quite a laugh, but the sound of someone caught off-guard. For the first time, her stance softened. She looked at you again—really looked. Less like a potential threat. More like something… curious.

“You are not what I expected.”

“Likewise.”

Then she reached out a hand—gloved, calloused, strong. “I give you my name. That is no small thing where I come from.”

You took it, her grip firm and warm, electricity tingling under your skin.

“I’ll remember you,” she said.

“And I’ll probably write about this in the margins of my students’ essays.”

She smiled, faintly. “Good.”

And then she launched herself into the sky, wings beating power into the clouds, leaving only cracked stone and your thundering heart behind.

You thought that would be the end of it.

But the next evening, she returned.

Not with fire or threats. Just... presence. Perched on the roof’s edge, watching the sun set behind the buildings. She didn’t speak much. Sometimes she’d ask questions—about your school, your students, your world. Sometimes she’d just sit in silence beside you, the tips of her wings grazing the edge of your sleeve.

And then the next day, again. And the next. Each visit a quiet ritual, an unspoken promise. She was learning Earth, maybe. But more and more, you suspected... she was learning you.

Because some part of you already knew: Shayera Hol never lands without a reason. And somehow, for now, that reason was you.