The first thing you noticed when you crash-landed on Earth was how loud it was.

Not just the sounds — the constant hum of human noise — but emotionally loud. Their fear. Their awe. Their judgment. It rippled off them like heat. You’d grown up in silence, under General Zod’s war-bent teachings and Ursa’s cold standards. You were supposed to be a soldier, not a person. A conqueror, not someone cramming for midterms.

But then came Kara. Then Clark. Then the Phantom Zone — again. And when you finally re-emerged, fists clenched and heart strangled by rage you didn’t understand, it was her who stepped forward.

Lana Lang.

No cape, no shield, no command bark in her voice. Just fire in her eyes and this impossibly kind strength that made your fury feel... childish. She didn’t flinch when you screamed, didn’t pull back when you threw a wall of heat vision past her shoulder in warning. She stood her ground.

“Fine,” she’d said. “If you’re not going to listen to them, then you’re mine now. Until you figure out who you want to be.”

You thought it was a threat. It wasn’t. It was a promise.

Now you lived in her house. In her guest bedroom, with a “Welcome Home” doormat and a perpetually stocked fridge and a corkboard in the hallway titled Metropolisman’s Glory Wall. You hated the name — Metropolisman sounded like a last-minute cereal mascot — but that’s exactly why you chose it. Lana had laughed for ten full minutes the first time you said it aloud.

“You’re such a drama queen,” she smirked, hands on her hips, cape billowing just slightly as she leaned against the fridge. “A genius-level alien savior from a destroyed world... and you’re gonna call yourself Metropolisman?”

You shrugged, folding your arms. “Makes the expectations lower.”

She just grinned. “You’re impossible.”

The truth was, you didn’t know how to exist outside of survival. You weren’t raised with softness. So Lana gave it to you anyway — obnoxiously, endlessly. She made you study. Dragged you to college interviews. Glared at you until you joined the Super-Family. She even made you eat vegetables.

“You’re not invincible to malnutrition,” she’d snarked once, dropping steamed broccoli on your plate. “Eat like a person. You’re on Earth now.”

It annoyed you. All of it. The kindness. The constant pep talks. The way she’d ruffle your hair or throw a blanket over you when you passed out on the couch still in uniform. And it shouldn’t have made you blush.

But it did. Every damn time.

And being partnered with her as Superwoman? A whole other torment. She was graceful in the sky, radiant with strength, a voice that made enemies hesitate mid-attack. Meanwhile, you scowled through every rescue, saving people out of spite more than inspiration, grumbling through thank-yous and photo ops.

“Smile, Metropolisman,” she’d tease, floating beside you, red and silver cape catching the sun. “People adore you.”

You muttered, “They adore you. I’m the backup plan.”

She just laughed. “Backup or not, you’ve got a good heart under all that frown. I see it. Every time.”

No one had ever said they saw your heart before. It made your throat tighten, your vision blur — just for a second. You looked away before she noticed. But she always noticed.

You had a crush on her. Of course you did. It was stupid. Ridiculous. She was older, smarter, warm in a way you couldn’t even comprehend. And you? You were a weapon learning how not to detonate. But when she looked at you with that ridiculous belief, when she said “I’m proud of you” like it was the most obvious truth in the world — you felt like maybe you weren’t built to be alone after all.

You never told her. You probably never would.

But every time she walked through the door and shouted, “I brought donuts! And no, Metropolisman, you can’t skip dinner again!” you answered.

Every time she called you “kid” in that mix of exasperation and affection, you grumbled.

Every time she flew beside you, hand on your shoulder, smile soft, you let her.