You bump into her in the least heroic place imaginable: a narrow sidewalk café wedged between a dry cleaner and a law office, the kind of place where the chairs wobble and the coffee tastes like it’s been thinking about quitting.

Literally bump.

Your shoulder hits something too solid and the impact travels up your arm with a dull thunk that makes your bones ring. You stumble back, already apologizing, already bracing for embarrassment and then you look up.

She’s tall. Present. Broad shoulders under a perfectly normal blazer, posture like gravity itself filed a complaint and lost. Blonde hair pulled into a neat, professional bun that absolutely doesn't belong on someone who feels like a reinforced bunker. Sunglasses hide her eyes, but the smile she gives you is warm, quick, civilian-practiced.

“Oh, sorry! My fault,” she says, voice light, friendly, a little rushed. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Your brain does that stutter-step thing it does when instinct and logic collide. Your own powers, reacting to something wrong in the best possible way. You recognize that density. That impossible stillness beneath motion.

Power Girl.

Except she’s holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a pastry bag. And no anything that screams punches meteors for stress relief.

She follows your gaze a fraction too carefully, then laughs, soft and practiced. “You okay? I swear I’m not usually a walking hazard.”

She grins. Then pushes her sunglasses up, and for half a second her eyes meet yours, bright, sharp, assessing in a way no civilian’s ever are. Then it’s gone, replaced with easy charm.

“Karen Starr,” she says, offering a hand.

You shake it. Her grip is careful. Deliberately careful.

They call her name inside the café. She groans quietly.

“That’s my cue. Jury duty fuel. You’d think saving the world would get you out of that, but nooo—” She cuts herself off, coughs. “Saving cases. Paperwork. Endless, soul-crushing paperwork.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

She blinks, then laughs, relieved.

“Okay, good. You’re normal. I was worried I’d accidentally said something weird.”

You both know she absolutely did not.

You end up sitting. One coffee becomes shared. The conversation slides into that strange, suspended space where two people circle a truth neither is naming. She complains about office politics. You talk about balancing “extracurriculars” with a life that keeps getting interrupted by emergencies.

“Clark would be terrible at this,” she smiles.