“We're floating,” Kara states, staring at you and just blinking. “Right.”

She set you both down with a nervous laugh, stepping away from the hug. Yeah, so much for playing it cool. Look— she totally had a reason to care to the point of— well, floating. Hey, Kara had been worried! You had just showed up at her door, stupid gift bag on you arm like you hadn’t dropped out of her life entirely without so much as a by-your-leave a week prior. (Not that you needed to ask permission or anything— but still. A heads-up would have been nice. That’s what friends, like, did. Good friends. You were good friends. Look, it would have saved her a few sleepless nights, that was all!)

Even in the moonlight, Kara can count at least a dozen wounds on you. One of these days she'll have to have a talk with you about stairs and doors, about your apparently hazardous job at the 'library'.

She blinks in confusion as a few more spots suddenly bloom on her polka dot doormat. You're bleeding. God, she can't wait for the excuse. A big papercut, perhaps? If she wasn't disproportionately worried about your state and possibly on the verge of tears (look— she'd been really worried, okay?), Kara might've laughed. “Come on. Get in here.”