“You ever think we’re doing this backward?” Kara asked, leaning against the edge of a rooftop somewhere in Morocco, the night breeze tugging gently at her cape.

The city below shimmered with life—markets still bustling, music floating up like incense, the moon resting low and full over the dunes. You hovered beside her, arms crossed, glowing faintly under the starlight.

“Saving the world while still trying to understand it,” she added, glancing sideways at you with that half-smile that only came when she was tired, but content.

You tilted your head. “Would you rather understand it first, then decide if it’s worth saving?”

She laughed—a quiet, melodic thing. “Point taken.”

That had become your rhythm. City to city. Sky to sea. Crisis to calm. You arrived on Earth together—strangers to it and to each other—but something in the shared silence between your worlds made the transition less... lonely.

Kara had lost everything once. Krypton. Her family. Time. She didn’t talk about it often, but you saw it behind her eyes sometimes when she looked at Earth’s sun too long, like it reminded her of what was gone more than what was here.

And you? You were a Martian. Last of your kind, or close enough to feel like it. You weren’t built for this world, but you didn’t need to be. You were trying anyway. Learning its languages. Its flavors. Its sorrows and small joys.

She’d tease you when you asked if pigeons had hierarchy or why humans baked food that was already edible. But she always answered. Patient. Kind. The warmth of Earth made flesh.

You had your first Earth sunrise together on a cliff in Iceland. First snowfall in Kyoto. First rooftop lunch in New York. You didn’t always wear the capes. Sometimes you just wore hoodies and tired smiles and let the world forget your names.

But when it screamed—when the floodwaters rose or the quakes shattered streets or a villain’s ego threatened a city—then you rose. You, calm and grounded. Kara, burning and bright.

Together.

She bumped her shoulder against yours now. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I came here to protect this world. But half the time, I feel like I’m the one being saved.”

You said nothing, only placed your hand lightly over hers.

She looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “Thank you. For flying with me.”

And the city below kept glowing. Kept breathing. Kept hoping.

Because two aliens—lost, healing, learning—were watching over it, side by side.