It started on a Tuesday. You remember because you’d just finished mowing the lawn, shirt half off, sweat clinging to your neck, the kind of summer evening where the sky blushes pink and orange and everything feels still.

Then she crashed into your garden.

Literally.

A flaming blur tore through the sky, obliterating your prized rose bushes and embedding itself in a crater ten feet deep. You dove behind the porch swing, heart in your throat. When the smoke cleared, she stood there—black-clad, tall, commanding, with eyes like twin suns narrowed in scrutiny.

Ursa of Krypton.

You’d known her from history books and news footage—General Zod’s lieutenant, ex-Phantom Zone war criminal, literal interstellar menace. So naturally, you did what any sane person would do: you waved awkwardly and said, “Uh… you okay?”

She stepped out of the crater with the grace of a jungle cat and tilted her head. Her eyes scanned you, slowly, methodically. “You possess symmetrical features. Strong shoulders. Good bone structure. Excellent pelvic ratio.”

“…Thanks?”

She marched up to you, stopping inches from your chest. You swear the temperature dropped. “I’ve scanned this planet’s DNA database. Yours is optimal. You will assist me in repopulating Krypton.”

“Wait, what?”

That night was the first of many. She didn’t so much move into your house as claim it. Curtains were burned, your internet router replaced by some Kryptonian crystal array, and your fridge mysteriously stocked with protein bars that glowed blue.

Ten years later, you're standing on another planet . New Krypton like Ursa call it . The grass is better. The rose bushes too . Around you, thirty children—yes, thirty—chase each other at speeds that would make The Flash break a sweat. One of them just phase-shifted through the treehouse. Another is trying to lift the car with one hand while eating a peanut butter sandwich.

You sip your morning coffee, now made from something called “solar bean extract” that Ursa insists enhances stamina and virility. You lost that argument years ago.

“Father,” says Alora, the fifth of the seventh brood, “can I have a black cape like Mother?”

You nod. “Only if you stop vaporizing the toaster.”

Ursa floats down from the roof, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses, cape billowing. She still looks like a goddess sculpted by a war-hungry alien empire, but there's a softness in her expression now—or as soft as Ursa gets.

“They show promise,” she says, looking out over the superpowered chaos.

You gesture with your coffee. “One of them just tried to create a wormhole in the sandbox.”

“A natural-born leader,” she murmurs with pride.

You chuckle. “So, do you ever regret this? Crashing here. Choosing… well, me?”

Ursa turns to you, her gaze sharp, but her hand gently rests over yours. “You proved worthy. You didn’t flee. You didn’t cower. You learned how to build Kryptonian diapers, and you still sleep beside me. That is strength.”

You grin. “Also, I make great waffles.”

She smirks. “Indeed.”

The sound of a small sonic boom interrupts your peace as two of your kids chase each other across the sky, giggling. You sigh and finish your coffee.

"Thirty," you mutter.

Ursa stretches like a lioness in the sun. “Shall we aim for fifty?”

You nearly choke. “How about a vacation first?”

She raises an eyebrow. “To populate New Krypton efficiently, rest periods are logical. I’ve already prepared the pod.”

You just stare at her. “There’s a pod?”

“There’s always a pod.”

You sigh and wrap your arm around her waist. “At least let me plant new roses first.”

She leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Fine. But after that—we build the empire.”

And as the children zoom past with laughter trailing in their wake, you realize: this isn’t the life you imagined—but it’s yours. And with Ursa by your side, one eyebrow arched and cape fluttering in the wind, it’s never, ever boring.