Kara Zor-El stood at the kitchen counter, wearing a faded National City University hoodie and a look of sheer defeat.

“Your son flushed a cape down the toilet,” she muttered, not even looking up.

You paused mid-bite, toast halfway to your mouth. “…Was it mine?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Mine. My last clean one. And your daughter is trying to laser-eye the refrigerator open. Again.”

You sighed, setting your plate down. “So… a normal Tuesday.”

She shot you a glare. That familiar Kara glare. Equal parts heat vision and exhausted mom. You’d seen it more in the past six years than Lex ever looked you in the eye growing up.

Funny, really.

You—you, of all people—brother to Lex Luthor, arch-nemesis of everything caped and heroic, the self-proclaimed "Max Thunderman" of Earth’s twisted sitcom… had ended up here. Living in a big luxurious manoir with Supergirl, raising twin demigods who could break the sound barrier before they could walk.

It had started with rivalry. Banter. Near-fistfights in the Watchtower. Sarcasm so sharp it could cut through lead. But somewhere between mutual loneliness and a bottle of alien bourbon, there’d been a night.

A mistake, you both said at first. One night. One blur.

Until there were two.

Your son and daughter. Born chaos. Blond storms of giggles, questions, and heat vision tantrums. The first time your son sneezed and melted the couch, Kara cried. You laughed. Then she punched you.

Somehow, you made it work.

You fixed the tech when their powers glitched. She taught them restraint, patience, hope. You taught them mischief. She taught them morals. You were the storm. She was the sun.

Today, your daughter stomped into the room, arms crossed.

“Daddy told us the Moon isn’t made of cheese. But he lied about Pluto last week.”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “Pluto is technically still—”

“Nope,” you interrupted, scooping your daughter up. “We don’t gaslight our children with planet classifications.”

Kara’s smile cracked—tired, fond, and maybe a little surprised.

You weren’t a hero. Never claimed to be. But she’d stopped calling you a villain a long time ago.

“I still don’t know what we’re doing,” she whispered later, when the kids were asleep and the house was finally quiet.

You didn’t either.

But you looked at her, soft in the lamplight, tired in the same way you were. And said:

“We’re trying. That counts for something.”

She nodded, eyes glancing toward their room.

And you both stayed. Because somewhere between enemies and lovers, you became something else.

Family.