[National City, Their Apartment — June 2017, 7:23 AM]
The toaster popped.
Mon-El reached for the bread, butter knife already in hand. Two slices—golden brown, perfectly timed. He'd mastered the temperamental machine six weeks ago, after three months of producing either charcoal or warm bread depending on the day's alignment with cosmic forces only the toaster understood.
Behind him, Kara padded into the kitchen in bare feet and one of his t-shirts, her hair a chaotic halo of sleep-mussed blonde.
"Morning," she mumbled, making a beeline for the coffee maker.
"Morning." He watched her pour a cup, add exactly three sugars—she'd deny it if asked—and take the first sip with an expression of pure contentment. "Sleep well?"
"Mmm." She moved to the kitchen island, leaned against it, watched him butter the toast. "Training yesterday ran late. M'gann added a new obstacle course to the basement gym."
"I know. I helped design it."
"You designed the section with the spinning platforms?"
"Guilty."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"Those are not mutually exclusive." She set down her coffee cup and made her move.
Six months. Six months of mornings exactly like this one, and she still thought she was being subtle. The slight lean forward. The casual reach. The completely transparent grab for his toast that she genuinely believed he didn't see coming.
He let her take it.
"Ha!" She bit into the stolen slice with triumph. "Victory."
"Truly, you've outwitted me once again."
"Don't patronize me. I earned this."
"You've earned the same slice of toast every morning for six months. I make extra now."
Kara froze mid-chew. "You... what?"
"I make three slices. You steal one. I eat two. Everyone's happy." He shrugged. "It seemed more efficient than fighting about it."
She stared at him. Then at the toast. Then back at him.
"How long have you known?"
"Since week two."
"And you never said anything?"
"You seemed to be enjoying yourself."
For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she burst out laughing—real laughter, bright and unguarded, the kind she only let herself have when they were alone.
"I hate you," she said again, but she was smiling.
"I know." He kissed her cheek as he passed, taking his own two slices to the table. "Patrol today?"
"Light duty. North sector coverage while Alex runs training exercises." She joined him at the table, stolen toast still in hand. "You?"
"Bar shift this afternoon. Training this morning." He checked the clock. "I should probably get started soon."
"You've been training hard lately." Kara's voice was carefully casual. "Harder than usual."
"I want to stay sharp."
"You're the sharpest person I know. Present company included." She set down her toast, met his eyes. "What are you preparing for, Mon-El?"
The question hung in the air between them. Honest. Direct. The kind of question she'd learned to ask after six months of watching him push himself past the point of reason, again and again.
He could tell her. Could explain the knowledge that sat like a stone in his chest—his parents were coming. The fleet was out there, somewhere in the darkness between stars, searching for their lost prince. The invasion he'd watched play out on a screen in another life was approaching in this one.
But he couldn't explain how he knew. Couldn't justify the certainty without revealing secrets that would unravel everything.
"General preparedness," he said instead. "We've faced a lot of threats. Cadmus, Mxyzptlk, random alien attacks. I want to be ready for whatever comes next."
Kara studied him for a long moment. He could see her weighing his words, testing them against what she knew about him, about the careful way he sometimes guarded certain thoughts.
"Okay," she said finally. Not convinced, but willing to let it go. "Just don't overdo it. Even Daxamites need rest."
"I promise to adequately pace myself."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's the best I've got."
She finished her toast, drained her coffee, and stood. "I should go. Crime waits for no one."
"Be careful out there."
"Always am." She crossed to him, bent down for a kiss that started casual and lingered into something more. "Dinner tonight? I'll bring takeout."
"Thai?"
"I was thinking Chinese."
"I can be flexible."
"I know you can." She kissed him again, quicker this time, then headed for the balcony. "Love you."
"Love you too."
She launched into the sky, a blur of red and blue against the morning light. He watched until she disappeared, then turned back to the empty apartment.
---
The basement beneath M'gann's bar had evolved considerably since the early days.
What had started as a cramped storage space with a few improvised weights was now a fully equipped training facility. Reinforced walls that could handle Daxamite-level impacts. Adjustable gravity plates for resistance work. A simulation system that Winn had helped install, capable of generating holographic opponents and environmental hazards.
Mon-El started with the basics. Speed drills—crossing the space in the shortest time possible, adjusting trajectory mid-flight to avoid suddenly appearing obstacles. Strength training—lifting progressively heavier weights, pushing until his muscles burned with the good kind of pain.
Then he moved to the specialized work.
His TK field responded to his command with an ease that would have been impossible nine months ago. He extended it outward—ten feet, fifteen, twenty—wrapping it around training dummies, lifting them, moving them, protecting them from simulated threats.
The breakthrough during the Medusa crisis had opened new possibilities. His field could now protect multiple targets simultaneously. Could extend beyond arm's reach. Could wrap around another person and shield them from harm.
It was the kind of power that could change the shape of a battle. The kind of power that might make the difference when his parents arrived.
He pushed harder.
Two hours into the session, the sweat was dripping down his face despite Daxamite physiology that rarely needed to regulate temperature through such primitive means. His hands shook slightly—the tremor that came from pushing his TK field past comfortable limits, forcing it to extend and hold and protect beyond its natural range.
Good. Progress came from discomfort.
"You're overdoing it."
Mon-El turned. M'gann stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, watching him with the patient expression of someone who'd seen too many warriors burn themselves out in pursuit of impossible standards.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
"That's normal."
"That's exhaustion." She crossed to the water station, filled a glass, brought it to him. "Sit. Drink. Tell me what's eating at you."
"Nothing's eating at me."
"Lar." She used the Daxamite name deliberately, the old name from a life he'd abandoned. "I've been running a bar for longer than you've been alive. I know what 'nothing' looks like. This isn't it."
He took the water. Drank. The cool liquid helped, but she was right—he was more tired than he wanted to admit.
"Something's coming," he said finally. "I can feel it. This peace we've had—six months of relative quiet—it's not going to last."
"Peace never does." M'gann settled onto a weight bench, studying him. "Is it a specific something, or just general dread?"
"Specific." He couldn't tell her how he knew. Couldn't explain the episodes he'd watched, the invasion he'd seen unfold. "My people. I think they're looking for me."
"Daxamites?"
"The royal fleet. If any ships survived the planet's destruction..." He let the implication hang.
M'gann was quiet for a moment. "And you're training to fight them?"
"I'm training to protect the people I care about." He set down the empty glass. "Whatever it takes."
"Noble." Her voice carried something complicated—understanding, maybe, or the weight of her own difficult choices. "Just make sure you don't destroy yourself in the process. The people you care about need you whole, not burned out."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"No, you won't." But she smiled slightly as she stood. "Your shift starts in three hours. Try not to cripple yourself before then."
She left him alone with the training equipment and the weight of everything he couldn't say.
---
Evening brought Kara home with boxes of Chinese food and stories of the day.
"—and then he tried to climb the fire escape, which, okay, points for creativity. But he was carrying six stolen laptops in a duffel bag, and the bag was too wide for the railings, so he just got stuck there." She laughed, settling onto the couch with her container of lo mein. "The look on his face when I floated up and said 'need some help with that?'"
Mon-El claimed his spot beside her, started on his kung pao chicken. "You do enjoy the ridiculous ones."
"The ridiculous ones are fun. The serious ones are exhausting." She wound noodles around her chopsticks. "How was training?"
"Productive. M'gann told me I was overdoing it."
"You were."
"How would you know? You weren't there."
"Because you always overdo it." She nudged him with her shoulder. "You've been pushing harder the past few weeks. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"I just want to be ready."
"For what?"
The question again. Direct. Unavoidable.
"Whatever comes next." He reached for her hand, laced their fingers together. "We've had six months of peace. That's longer than I expected. And I don't want to be caught off guard when it ends."
Kara studied him for a long moment. He could see her weighing his words again, testing them against the things he wasn't saying.
"You know something," she said quietly. "Something you're not telling me."
"I know a lot of things I'm not telling you." Honesty, carefully measured. "Some of them are about my past. Some of them are about... possibilities. Things that might happen."
"How do you know about things that might happen?"
"Call it intuition." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. "I've learned to trust my instincts."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she shifted closer, rested her head on his shoulder.
"Whatever you're not telling me—whatever secrets you're still keeping—I can wait." Her voice was soft. "You've earned that trust. Just... promise me that when it matters, you'll tell me."
"When it matters. I promise."
"Good." She kissed his cheek. "Now eat your chicken before it gets cold."
They finished dinner on the couch, her feet in his lap, watching some terrible reality show that Kara loved and Mon-El pretended to tolerate. Outside, the city lights sparkled against the dark. Another normal night in a string of normal nights.
But later, after she'd fallen asleep beside him, Mon-El lay awake and watched those lights.
Somewhere out there, beyond the stars, ships were moving. He could feel it in his bones—the approaching storm, the confrontation that couldn't be avoided. His parents were coming. The invasion was coming.
He pulled Kara closer, felt her shift against him in her sleep.
Whatever was coming, he would face it. With her. With the team. With the strength he'd spent nine months building.
He just hoped it would be enough.
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