[Mon-El's Original Apartment — September 2017]
The dust was everywhere.
Mon-El stood in the doorway of the apartment he hadn't used in months, taking in the abandoned quality of the space. His clothes still hung in the closet. His few possessions still occupied their designated places. But everything was coated in a fine layer of neglect—testament to how completely he'd moved into Kara's life.
Their life.
He set down his bag and began the mechanical work of making the place habitable again. Wiping surfaces. Opening windows. Washing sheets that had gone stale. The activity was pointless—he didn't need to clean to survive—but it gave his hands something to do while his mind replayed every word of their conversation.
Are you even him? The person I fell in love with?
He didn't know. That was the terrifying part. He had no answers for her because he had no answers for himself.
The first night was the hardest.
He lay in a bed that felt too narrow, too cold, too empty after months of sleeping beside her. Every sound from outside made him tense—hoping, irrationally, that it might be her arriving to continue the conversation. To forgive. To rage. To anything except this silence.
She didn't come.
---
The second day, he returned to patrol.
It felt hollow—going through the motions of heroism while his heart was somewhere else entirely. A traffic accident on the bypass. A building fire in the warehouse district. An attempted robbery that ended when the criminals saw him land.
"Valor!" A child waved from behind a barricade. "You're my favorite!"
Mon-El waved back, forced a smile, moved on before anyone could see the cracks.
At the DEO, he kept to the training rooms and maintenance corridors, avoiding the main floor where Kara might be. He wasn't hiding—not exactly—but he couldn't face her. Not until she was ready.
Winn found him anyway.
"Hey." The engineer appeared in the doorway of the empty training room, pizza box in hand. "Heard you were lurking."
"I'm not lurking."
"You're definitely lurking." Winn crossed the room, set the pizza on a bench, sat down beside it. "So. Whatever you needed to tell her—you told her?"
Mon-El didn't answer, which was answer enough.
"That bad?"
"I don't know yet." He moved to sit across from Winn, exhaustion pressing down on him. "She said she needed time. I'm giving her time."
Winn nodded slowly. "Pizza helps with time. Scientific fact."
"Is it?"
"Absolutely not. But it tastes better than suffering alone, so." He opened the box, revealing pepperoni and mushrooms. "Eat. Whatever's happening, you still need fuel."
They ate in silence—companionable, undemanding. Mon-El found he was grateful for Winn's presence in a way he couldn't articulate. The engineer didn't push, didn't ask questions, didn't try to fix anything. Just sat and shared food and let the quiet be enough.
"You know what's weird?" Winn said eventually. "When you first showed up, I was pretty sure you were going to be terrible. Daxamite prince, frat boy vibes, all the stories about your people. I figured you'd be around for a month, cause some drama, disappear."
"That's oddly specific."
"I have good instincts." Winn shrugged. "Point is—I was wrong. You turned out to be one of the best people I know. Whatever secret you were keeping, whatever big thing you told Kara... that doesn't change who you've been. Who you are."
Mon-El's throat tightened. "You don't know what I told her."
"Don't need to." Winn met his eyes, serious in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "I know you, man. You're a hero. Not because of powers or titles. Because you show up. You care. You try to do right even when it costs you." A pause. "Kara knows that too. She just needs time to remember."
"What if she doesn't?"
"Then that sucks, and I'll be here with more pizza." Winn closed the box. "But I don't think that's going to happen. She loves you too much."
---
The third day, J'onn found him on the DEO roof.
Mon-El had taken to spending his downtime there, watching the city lights from above. It reminded him of the overlook where he'd tried to confess before—where the emergency had interrupted everything. Seemed fitting to wait in a similar place while his life hung in the balance.
"You're troubled." J'onn's voice came from behind, quiet and knowing.
"That obvious?"
"Your thoughts are... loud." The Martian moved to stand beside him, gazing out at the same view. "I'm not reading them. I don't need to. The emotion radiates."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. Pain isn't something to apologize for." J'onn was silent for a moment. "Whatever you told her—it was important enough to risk everything?"
"Yes."
"And true?"
"Yes."
"Then you made the right choice." J'onn's voice carried the weight of centuries. "I've lived long enough to watch lies destroy more relationships than truth ever could. Whatever she decides, at least you gave her honesty."
"I'm not sure that helps right now."
"It will. Eventually." J'onn turned to look at him directly. "Love endures, Mon-El. It survives misunderstanding and anger and even betrayal. But it cannot survive the absence of truth. The foundation must be solid, or everything built upon it will fall."
Mon-El considered that. "And if the truth itself destroys the foundation?"
"Then you'll build something new." J'onn placed a hand on his shoulder. "Either together or apart. But either way—you'll survive. You're stronger than you know."
He left after that, giving Mon-El space to process.
The night stretched on.
---
In the pre-dawn hours, Mon-El found himself holding the paper crane.
He'd discovered it while cleaning—tucked into a drawer he'd forgotten, folded carefully, still perfect after all these months. A symbol of his first attempts to control his new powers. A reminder of simpler times when his biggest worry was not accidentally crushing everything he touched.
The crane felt impossibly delicate in his fingers. He could destroy it with the slightest pressure. Instead, he held it carefully, remembering the person he'd been when he made it.
Confused. Afraid. Determined to become something better.
Had he? Become something better? Or had he just become better at hiding?
The apartment was too quiet. The silence pressed against his ears, amplifying every creak of the building, every distant siren, every beat of his own heart.
Three days. Three days of waiting. Three days of not knowing.
His phone buzzed.
Mon-El almost dropped it, hands suddenly clumsy despite all his coordination. The screen lit up with a single message.
Kara: Rooftop. Our place. Tonight.
His heart stopped. Then raced.
He read the message again. Then again. Four words that could mean anything—reconciliation, rejection, something in between.
Tonight.
Whatever came next, at least the waiting was over.
Mon-El set down the paper crane, stood, and began preparing for the most important conversation of his life.
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