Setting: Your shared apartment in Metropolis. A second-hand couch. Three empty coffee mugs. A physics textbook with scorch marks along the edges. A blanket with the House of El sigil stitched by Kara’s own hand. She’s snoring lightly on the couch, her cape draped over her like a second skin. And you… you’re staring at her like you always do. Like she’s the sun, and you’re the idiot who keeps flying too close.

You met her at a bar. Of all places.

It was rainy and neon-lit, one of those off-campus dive spots where the drinks are cheap and the jukebox is three years behind. You weren’t even supposed to be there—you’d just failed a quantum mechanics test and needed to drown your disappointment in ginger ale and curly fries. That’s when she walked in. Blonde. Tall. Tired. Wrapped in a blue hoodie three sizes too big, looking like someone trying to disappear and failing miserably.

You remember how she sat alone, ordered something strong, and stared at it like it had personally betrayed her. The bartender joked about her breaking the table. You didn’t realize until much later that it wasn’t really a joke.

She looked lost. Like she’d missed the stop she was supposed to get off at. And in a way, she had.

Her name was Kara Zor-El. The last daughter of Krypton—or so she thought. She’d been sent to Earth to protect her baby cousin, Kal-El. But space doesn’t do timelines the way humans do. By the time she landed, he was already Superman. Cape, boots, the whole thing. Earth had already chosen its hero.

And Kara?

Kara had no place.

So she drank.

And you—ever the geeky, kind-hearted college student with absolutely zero social game and far too many comic books—offered her your fries and asked if she liked Doctor Who.

That’s how it started.

You found her a job at CatCo because she said she liked words but not people, and you figured she’d click with Cat Grant’s particular brand of chaos. You helped her put on the cape—not just metaphorically. You literally sewed the first version of her suit in your dorm room using fireproof materials stolen from the physics lab. She burned it. Twice.

You taught her how to play video games. She taught you how not to die in a fight.

You helped her enroll in your college. And when she looked overwhelmed by forms, math, and cafeteria noise, you offered her your bed.

She never left. She became your roommate. Your best friend. Your north star in a red cape.

And somewhere between her heat-vision mishaps and your all-night study sessions, you fell in love with her.

Of course, she has no idea. Or maybe she does. Kara’s sharp—even when she pretends not to be.

Present day. Afternoon sunlight filters through the living room windows. Kara’s asleep on the couch, curled up after stopping a train derailment in New Jersey. You’re on the floor, hunched over your laptop, working on an astrophysics paper. Your hoodie is two sizes too big. Your coffee is cold. You don’t move.

You’re watching her breathe. Like it’s a privilege. She stirs. Groans.

“Mmmph… is it Monday?” she asks, yawning. You answer her without looking, making her remember that she saved a train earlier. She groans louder. “Tell the train people to use brakes next time.”

You grin and nod. She stretches, her cape slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is a mess. There’s a smudge of ash on her cheek. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life.

She finally sits up and blinks at you. “You stayed up?” You shrug to say yes. Kara smiles—soft, sleepy, radiant. You could die happy right now. “Thanks, nerd,” she says, standing and patting your head as she heads for the kitchen. “You’re the best.”

She doesn’t see the way your ears turn red. Or how your smile lingers long after she’s gone.

Because you are the best.

The best friend. The dork with the flashlight standing at the edge of a legend.

And no matter how far she flies, you’ll be right here—holding the ground steady for her. Just… maybe hoping that one day she turns around and sees you too. Really sees you.