It had been too long.
Kara Danvers couldn’t even remember the last time she and Lena had sat down for dinner without the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders. They used to do this all the time—Friday nights, cozy corners of obscure little restaurants in National City, no business calls, no crises, just the soft hum of conversation between the two of them. Their laughter, the clink of silverware, the content silence as they shared their lives with one another.
But lately? It had been chaos.
Lena was drowning in the fallout of L Corp’s latest scandal—global business meltdowns, investors pulling out, and conference calls that stretched into the late hours of the night. She had been flying all over the world trying to fix it all, to piece together what was left of her family’s empire. She was always in motion now, distant in ways Kara had never seen before. Every time Kara tried to reach out, it was either an unreturned text or a rushed, distracted phone call.
And Kara? Well, Kara was Supergirl. Always Supergirl. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to take a breath. Between saving the world and being the reporter everyone depended on, there was no time for anything else. Certainly not for Lena.
Certainly not for the girl who had quietly held her heart for two years.
Kara had been in love with Lena for as long as she could remember, but it was a secret, buried deep in the folds of her own fear. Fear of rejection, fear of ruining their friendship, fear of what would happen if Lena found out who Kara really was. That was the kicker. Lena would never know the full truth—Kara could never let her in on that secret. How could she?
And so, the distance grew.
But tonight, tonight they had carved out a sliver of time for just the two of them. Lena had insisted, despite the chaos swirling around her. "You and me, Kara. We deserve a night where the world doesn’t get to ruin everything." And Kara? She didn’t have the heart to refuse. So, they met at a quaint little bistro, a place that felt like a secret tucked between the streets of National City. The candlelight flickered softly between them, the world outside fading into a distant hum.
The moment Lena had walked into the restaurant, Kara’s breath had caught in her throat. She was still the Lena Kara knew, the Lena she loved—but somehow, tonight, something about her was different. The candlelight played across her sharp cheekbones and soulful eyes, giving her a warmth that almost felt foreign.
"Hey, you," Kara had greeted, standing up and feeling her heart thud painfully against her ribcage. She wanted to hug Lena, to feel the comfort of her presence, but she didn’t. It was safer to keep her distance. Always safer.
Lena had smiled that soft, rare smile. "Hey yourself." Her voice was tired, but the smile she wore lit up her entire face. The smile that made Kara want to fall to her knees and confess everything. But she didn’t.
They sat across from each other, and the conversation started easily enough. Work. The weather. The city. The usual. But both of them knew that something lingered just beneath the surface—something that hadn’t been addressed for far too long. And neither of them seemed brave enough to bring it up.
Their server came by, lighting the candle between them with a flourish. A moment later, a violinist wandered to their table, setting up with an elegant flourish.
"Valentine's Day," Lena had said with a wry smile, eyeing the violinist. "The world’s way of reminding us we should be in love with something—or someone."
Kara had laughed softly, though it rang hollow to her own ears, she just hoped Lena didn’t pick up on it. "Who needs Valentine’s Day when you’ve got you and me, right?"
Lena’s smile wavered for just a second before she caught herself. The tension between them had always been like this—silent, fragile. The violinist began to play, weaving a soft melody that seemed to draw everything into focus.
Kara’s eyes shifted to the candlelight. The glow made everything feel dreamlike. Suddenly, Lena looked so close, so impossibly close. It felt like time had paused between the two of them, like the air itself had thickened, held together by the melody that surrounded them. The music played softly, but every note seemed to echo in Kara’s chest.
Lena’s gaze drifted to Kara, and for a fleeting moment, Kara thought she saw something flicker—something like longing. It made her heart stutter in her chest. But then, it was gone, replaced by a coolness Kara was all too familiar with.
"Isn’t it funny?" Lena asked, her voice a soft murmur, as if she was testing the air around them. "We’ve spent so much time together, and yet, there’s always something left unsaid."
Kara swallowed hard. She could feel her heart beating in her throat now, the violinist’s tune now a background to the thunder of her thoughts. She could tell Lena knew. She could tell Lena sensed the weight of everything unspoken between them.
"You know," Kara said, leaning forward, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke, "sometimes I think the hardest part is knowing what to say and what to leave unsaid."
Lena blinked, her expression shifting subtly, almost imperceptibly. She didn’t respond right away, instead taking a small sip of wine, as if buying time. When she finally spoke, it was slow, deliberate. "Yes," she murmured. "Some things are better left in the silence, aren’t they?"
Kara’s pulse quickened. Was this it? Was Lena trying to say something? Or was it just her heart begging for something that wasn’t real?
The violinist struck a particularly poignant note, the soft, melancholy tune filling the space between them. In that moment, Kara thought she might just be ready to tell Lena everything. To confess. To break free of this prison of silence.
But the fear, the fear of losing Lena as she was—their friendship, their bond—stilled her. The chasm between them, the secret that divided them, seemed too wide to cross without shattering everything.
Lena’s eyes flicked down to the table, the light casting shadows beneath her lashes. "I think it’s easier this way," she said quietly. "Don’t you?"
Kara wanted to scream. To say no, that it wasn’t easier. That it wasn’t enough. Instead, she nodded, her throat too tight to form the words.
In the dim light, the air felt heavy with what wasn’t said, what neither of them had the courage to confess. But as the night wore on, and the violinist played the final notes, it felt like they both knew—whatever this was, whatever they were to each other, it wasn’t over.
Not yet.
But neither of them had the courage to risk it all.
Not yet.