Karen Starr—or Kara, as she knew herself in the quiet moments when the cape was off—stood in the doorway of the new apartment, a cardboard box in her arms. You were her third roommate. Terra and Omen had come before, each collocation turning into something deeper, a friendship that felt like anchor points in the ever-shifting tides of her life. She hoped, with a quiet ache of want, that it would be the same with you.

“Thanks for helping,” she said, her voice softer than the one she used in press conferences or battle. You just smiled, taking the box from her hands. There was an ease in your movements, a lack of ceremony that she appreciated. Super strength meant she could have moved everything in a single trip, but she liked this—the shared effort, the mundane collaboration of settling a home.

When the last box was unpacked, the furniture arranged in a tentative harmony, you both collapsed onto the couch. “Food?” you suggested, and she nodded, pulling out her phone. They ordered takeout—something greasy and comforting—and ate from the containers, legs stretched out, shoulders almost touching.

The movie was something forgettable, a comedy with too many pratfalls. But Karen wasn’t really watching. She was watching you—the way you laughed at the dumb jokes, the way you glanced at her to see if she was laughing too. There was a warmth building in the room, not from the screen, but from the simple fact of sharing space, sharing silence, sharing breath.

Then the lights died.

The screen went black. The hum of the refrigerator ceased. The city glow from the window seemed to dim, as if the entire block had sighed and settled into shadow.

“Crap,” you muttered, a low, frustrated sound in the dark.

Karen sat still. In the sudden absence of light, her senses heightened—the Kryptonian part of her always waiting, always listening. She could hear your breathing, steady and close. She could feel the slight shift of the couch as you leaned back. She could smell the lingering scent of soy sauce and fried rice, mixed with the new-dust smell of the apartment.

For a moment, she considered using her heat vision to ignite a lamp, or flying out to check the grid. But she didn’t move. This was a human problem—a blown fuse, a tripped breaker, a city hiccup. And she was here, with you, in the human dark.

Her heart beat a little faster. Not from danger, but from possibility. The movie was gone. The distractions were gone. All that remained was the two of you, unseen but present, in a room that still felt like a promise.

She hoped, in the quiet black, that this was the beginning of something—not a collocation, but a connection. And she waited, listening to your breath, for the next thing you would say.