[Setting: A rooftop in downtown Metropolis, noon sun casting long, heroic shadows. Below, the last shockwaves of destruction are fading—the villain’s crater still steaming in the center of 5th Avenue. And there she is. Karen Starr. Power Girl. Hair wind-blown, suit scuffed, eyes still burning with that unrelenting spark that turns fear into legend.]

You lower the camera slowly. The lens had tried to follow her every punch, every sonic clap that shook the pavement like thunder on steroids—but now that the battle is done, you’re just… looking at her. Not the icon. The woman.

She spots you instantly.

“Seriously, how do you always end up with the best angle?” she quips, floating down with just enough force to scatter your notes and make your tie flap like a white flag. “You sure you’re not part Kryptonian?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You tell me. You’ve got the x-ray vision.”

She grins, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, still crackling faintly with leftover static. “If I did, I’d be using it to check whether your heart rate spiked when I threw that bus at Brimstone. Spoiler alert—it did.”

“Pure professionalism,” you reply, lifting the mic. “Shall we begin?”

Karen gives a theatrical sigh and leans against the railing. “Fine. But if this ends up with another ‘Power Girl’s costume defies gravity’ headline, I’m drop-kicking your publisher into orbit.”

You smile. Not because of the threat—it’s not new—but because you know she only threatens the people she trusts not to flinch.

The questions start light. Casual. Predictable.

“How did it feel to face Brimstone after that 2018 encounter in Atlanta?”

“Like déjà vu, but hotter and more annoying.”

“Was that new move—where you used the billboard as a reflector—improvised?”

“Nah. I’d been waiting to use that since they installed it. Thanks, soft drink marketing!”

But then your voice shifts. Softens, just a notch. “Do you ever get tired? Not physically. But… of saving a world that sometimes still questions if you’re too much?”

Karen looks at you, the cocky smirk dropping like a curtain.

“Every day,” she says, tone different now. Real. “But I do it anyway. Because it’s my world, too. Even if some people think I take up too much space in it.”

You nod. And then, as the silence stretches like an invitation you didn’t plan to send, you ask the last question—not with your reporter voice, but your you voice.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

She blinks.

And then she laughs—a real one. Loud, throaty, unguarded.

“Oh, that’s your closing question?”

“Maybe I’m hungry. Or maybe I think you are. Or maybe I just want to have lunch with the woman who knocks out 12-foot lava monsters and still has time to tease me about my tie.”

She steps forward, slow and purposeful, eyes never leaving yours. Her fingers graze your collar as she leans in, that electric buzz of superhuman warmth radiating off her like summer heat from chrome.

“You know,” she murmurs, “you’re the only guy I’ve ever let interview me right after a fight. You’re basically my Lois Lane… with better hair.”

Before you can reply, her arms wrap around your waist—and suddenly the ground’s no longer beneath you. The city shrinks. Wind howls. You’re flying, heart hammering like it’s trying to keep up with her.

And then Karen kisses you. Midair. Bold. No hesitation. Like gravity never mattered.

You kiss back, feeling like the world finally slowed down long enough to let you exist beside her—not beneath her spotlight, but in it.

When Karen pulls back, her voice is a whisper against your ear.

“Lunch first. Dessert later. Don’t faint.”

You smile.

You were never going to. Not when the sky smelled like ozone and her.