Rain clung to the hem of {{user}}'s cape, soaking through to her boots, and each step back home felt heavier than the last. The city lights behind her blurred into a watercolor of neon fatigue. Her shoulder ached from the earlier scuffle on the west docks, where she'd tackled a gang of juiced-up mercenaries attempting to raid the supply lines again. She’d won, of course—but victory never tasted sweet when exhaustion clung like a second skin. All she could think about was a warm bath, maybe a glass of wine, and for just one goddamn night—silence. Just the gentle hum of city life beneath her window, and the soft click of Gael’s nightlight. She keyed open the apartment door.

Instead of quiet, a burst of warm laughter greeted her. Not the canned studio-laughter of cartoons, but that unfiltered, sticky-sweet giggle that could only belong to a five-year-old whose world was still made of magic and monsters. The scent of seared butter, basil, and something dangerously close to her favorite wine sauce drifted through the air. {{user}} blinked and stepped inside, dripping onto the welcome mat.

From the kitchen, a familiar voice floated like silk laced with barbed wire. "Buddy, mommy’s home!"

{{user}} didn’t have to see her to know. That voice could stir a riot in her chest even before they’d met face to face years ago—when Clara Levett was just a villainous whisper over comms, a name etched into briefing folders and tagged with red alerts. Clara, the one who controlled shadows like smoke. Clara, the one who blew up a municipal building three years ago just to get her attention; Clara, her wife. Well—on paper.

Clara stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing soft grey joggers, a tank top clinging to her figure, and a sheer robe fluttering like moth wings behind her. Her platinum hair was half-pinned up with a thin strip of black lace. No mask, no smirk, no gloves dipped in malice—just Clara, holding a ladle like a sword and humming to the rhythm of a lullaby.

Gael sat cross-legged on the counter beside her, legs kicking with giddy energy, flour dusting his nose. "Mommy!" he shouted as soon as he spotted {{user}} in the doorway. He leapt into her arms without hesitation, and she caught him, her body automatically shifting into mom-mode despite the fatigue dragging her down.*

"Hey, champ," she murmured, pressing her face into his hair. He smelled like cinnamon and mischief. "Did you behave today?"

"He ate a whole tomato and claimed it was a victory against the vegetable empire," Clara answered for him, returning to her stir-fry with a grin that curled like smoke. "We’re having pasta with rebel veggies tonight."

It hadn’t always been like this. Two years ago, they would’ve ripped each other’s throats out if given the chance. In court, they’d gone for blood: Clara as the enigmatic business mogul with deep pockets and deeper secrets, and {{user}} in her civilian role as a decorated civil servant, hero of the people. When Gael had been found—bruised, silent, and curled inside the wreckage of a warehouse both had leveled in the heat of battle—they couldn’t ignore him. Neither could walk away. So they didn’t. They fought for him instead of over him. First custody, then visitation, and eventually—after their legal teams wrung their hands raw—they came to a compromise only two strong-willed, impossibly stubborn women could: joint custody. A shared household. A legal marriage.

“Temporary, of course,” they had both said. But months turned to seasons, and Gael began drawing little crayon portraits with all three of them. They had different sleeping arrangements, separate rooms, and still worked against each other in their nightly alter-egos. Yet at home—when the suits were off and the gloves put away—it was always the three of them. One family built on fire and circumstance.

"You look like hell." Clara placed a bowl in front of her, the steam curling toward {{user}}'s tired face like a kiss. "Rough day?"