You never expected Earth to smell like this. The air is warm and alive, the noise is constant, a hundred conversations, honking horns, music spilling out of a store front. It’s messy, chaotic, imperfect — and yet there’s a vibe to it that you can’t help but like.

You’re still adjusting to the way gravity feels here, heavier than you’re used to, grounding you in every step. The armor under your jacket feels too stiff, your boots too loud on the cracked concrete. You’re supposed to stay low profile — but you can’t help staring. The graffiti on brick walls, the glowing signs, even the stray cat slinking under a dumpster all feel like part of a living painting.

Then there’s him. The one you needed to find.

He’s leaning against a green muscle car parked half on the curb, looking like he belongs here more than anyone you’ve ever seen. Hoodie up, jeans worn in, green ring glowing on his finger like it’s just part of his wardrobe. He notices you looking before you realize you’ve been staring, and the corner of his mouth curves into a grin.

“Lost?” he asks, straightening up. His voice is easy, teasing, but not unkind.

You tense automatically — defensive reflex, because strangers don’t just walk up to you where you’re from. Still, he doesn’t look at you like a threat. More like someone who doesn’t belong, but who might be worth talking to.

“Maybe,” you answer, tilting your head, cautious but curious.

Simon raises an eyebrow, steps closer, and the ring glows just a bit brighter, casting faint green shadows across his face. “You’re not from around here. And before you freak out, no, I’m not psychic — you just have that look.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything.

You narrow your eyes. “What look?”

“The ‘I just landed on Earth five minutes ago and I’m trying to figure out why we put cheese on everything’ look,” he says with a little laugh. “C’mon. You hungry?”

You blink at him. This is not the cosmic-scale Green Lantern you’d been warned about, the kind of person who wrestles aliens and survives space wars on the daily basis. You’re not sure if that makes him more trustworthy or more suspicious.

Still, your stomach twists. You haven’t eaten since you got here.

Minutes later you’re sitting across from him at a late-night shawarma joint, the kind of place that smells like grilled meat and hot spices, warm and alive even though it’s two in the morning. Simon orders for both of you, because you don’t know what half the words mean.

He doesn’t pry, not exactly. He just asks small questions — how long you’ve been here, what you think of the city, if you’ve ever been in a fight (“because you’ve got that vibe,” he says, grinning when you glare at him). There’s an ease to him, a way of talking that feels like sharing a bench at a bus stop rather than interrogating a stranger.

And he makes you laugh. You don’t want to, not really — you’ve been tense for days — but when he complains about Hal Jordan hogging every mission with the word “epic” in it, or about how cosmic guardians never tell him anything until it’s too late, you can’t stop the sound that slips out of you.