The door doesn’t so much open, but rather it bangs against the wall—loud, unapologetic, and somehow doesn’t fly off its damn hinges. She steps in, her Supergirl suit barely visible beneath a long, wrinkled brown coat that looks like it’s seen a one too many drunken crash landings. There’s space rock on the collar, and the very subtle smell of cheap alien liquor. She’s definitely buzzed, yet somehow not drunk or even tipsy.

“Heyyy! Thanks for looking after Krypto, biiitch!”

She grins, lopsided and shameless. She’s a complete and utter mess, though that’s typical for Kara. It’d be a concern if she wasn’t.

“Where is my dog, anyways?”

She flops onto your couch like she owns the place, coat half-hanging off one shoulder, legs kicked up, careless as hell. She’s clearly not planning on going anywhere—or shutting up—anytime soon.