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Root Vegetables & First Impressions
The homeless shelter at the edge of the city had always smelled like cinnamon this time of year—cinnamon and disinfectant and the heated, communal breath of too many bodies packed into too small a space. This December, there was an undercurrent of something new and less identifiable, like the metallic tang of anxiety, or perhaps the weight of expectation. Kara Danvers was no stranger to expectation, but even she found herself unsettled as she reached up to tape another construction paper snowflake from the drop-ceiling, the remnants of sticky glue cold on her fingertips.
It was Christmas Eve, which sounded simple enough in principle, but in the hands of the Danvers sisters it had ballooned into a logistical nightmare involving two borrowed crock pots, three dueling playlists, and a donation drive that had somehow snared four journalists, a tech heiress, and the city’s best-known scientist. Kara had never been able to leave well enough alone. She squinted up at her handiwork, unsure if the snowflake looked festive or more like an accidental Rorschach test. Probably both. The shelter director had said that festive chaos was better than institutional beige, and Kara was determined to deliver.
Across the main room, Alex was holding a clipboard in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, simultaneously disinfecting and delegating. She wore her hair pulled back into a sharp ponytail, the same way she had when they were kids and had cleaned the entire house before their mother came home. Some things never changed, except now she was barking orders at a rotating cast of volunteers, most of whom were too grateful for the free dinner to question her authority.
"Hey, you missed a spot," Alex called, brandishing the clipboard like a weapon toward a corner where the decorations had run out. Kara rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help smiling. She climbed onto the folding chair and fixed yet another snowflake to the ceiling, ignoring the way it wobbled beneath her. The chair was probably older than she was, but she’d flown on less stable things, metaphorically speaking.
As she climbed down, she noticed a pair of teenage boys watching from the rec table, both wearing identical expressions of detached cool. One of them, Tommy, had made his own snowflake earlier—a jagged, lopsided thing with more holes than paper. Kara wasn't sure if it was supposed to be ironic or if he was just terrible at crafts, but she’d hung it front and center anyway.
"Looks good, Ms. D," Tommy said, his voice thick with the bravado of sixteen-year-olds everywhere.
"It's for you guys," Kara said. "Might as well make it look like an actual holiday party."
He shrugged, but she caught the flicker of a smile. The other boy, Luis, leaned in and whispered something to him, and they both snickered. Kara pretended not to notice. There was a rhythm to the shelter, a kind of fragile ecosystem; she’d learned long ago that the trick was to participate just enough to bridge the gap without overwhelming it.
In the far corner, a partially decorated artificial Christmas tree drooped under the weight of hand-me-down ornaments. Winn and James were struggling to untangle a string of lights that looked like it had survived the better part of a decade in a janitor’s closet. James, half into his red Santa jacket and looking every inch the ex-jock-turned-community-organizer, was clearly losing patience.
“Is the famous Luthor actually going to show, or just send a check?” Winn asked, his voice low, but not low enough.
James snorted. “Her CFO said she’s bringing her. And her kid.”
Kara raised an eyebrow. Lena Luthor had always been a kind of mythic figure in National City. Genius, billionaire, too well-dressed for her own good. Kara had seen her a few times at fundraisers, but never in a room as honest as this one. It was hard to picture someone like Lena Luthor stepping foot in a shelter, much less one with peeling linoleum and a coffee maker that only worked if you kicked it.
She was still pondering the logistics when the front door banged open, admitting a blast of cold air and three silhouettes against the December dusk. The first was a woman in a practical wool coat, tall and striking with chestnut hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders, her smile broad and warm enough to cut through the fug of exhaustion in the room. The second was a smaller figure, half-shielded by an oversized messenger bag, alabaster skin contrasting sharply with raven hair pulled back into a severe ponytail that accentuated high, aristocratic cheekbones and piercing green eyes.
Kara's breath caught in her throat. Lena Luthor. In person. Not just glimpsed across a crowded fundraiser or frozen in courtroom footage on the evening news, but actually here, standing in this shelter with its drooping ceiling tiles and ancient folding chairs.
She was... prettier in person. Not that Kara hadn't thought she was pretty in all those magazine spreads and press conferences. Or when she'd watched Lena testify against her brother, her voice steady even as her fingers trembled against the witness stand. But those images hadn't captured the exact shade of green in her eyes, or the way her jawline could probably cut glass, or the slight flush on her cheeks from the December cold.
Between the two women stood a preteen girl with a ruby-red beanie pulled down over her ears and the same high cheekbones and warm brown eyes as the smiling woman, though her expression carried none of her mother's ease—her gaze darted around the room with the careful assessment of someone who had learned to read rooms early.
The woman with the smile strode ahead, her confidence radiating outward like a force field, while Lena hung back, pausing at the threshold as if waiting for permission to enter. Kara recognized the look in Lena Luthor's eyes—the subtle inventory of exits and threats, a bodily memory of spaces where belonging was conditional and never guaranteed.
The smiling woman clapped her hands twice, the sound cutting through the shelter's ambient noise. "Everyone!" Her voice carried a natural authority tempered with warmth. "I'm Samantha Arias, this is my daughter Ruby—" she placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, "—and this is Lena Luthor." She gestured toward her companion with a slight tilt of her head, her eyes crinkling at the corners with unmistakable fondness.
There was a brief silence as the name landed, then Alex was striding forward, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Luthor. And you too, Ms. Arias."
"Please, call me Sam," the woman corrected.
Another flicker of recognition. Kara remembered reading about her in the paper—some startup that had gotten acquired by L-Corp, then pivoted to AI. Her smile alone could light up the city block.
The tension in the room seemed to recalibrate itself. Some of the regulars—the older men with coffee-stained teeth, the mothers with wary eyes—straightened, recalculating the social hierarchy. A few of the kids whispered to each other, nudging each other to look.
Sam immediately gravitated toward Alex, who seemed momentarily flustered as Sam took the clipboard from her hands and started examining the to-do list. Ruby drifted toward the half-decorated wall where Kara had left her paper snowflakes, picking one up with careful fingers.
"I'm good at these," Ruby announced to no one in particular, already reaching for the scissors.
Kara found herself moving forward, drawn toward Lena like a magnet. "Would you like to help in the kitchen?" she heard herself ask. "We're a little short-staffed in there. Unless you're just here for the check-writing portion of the evening." She immediately cringed at her own words.
Smooth, Danvers.
Real smooth.
Lena's eyes locked onto hers, sharp and green, and for a moment Kara was sure she'd overstepped. But then Lena's lips twitched—the ghost of a smile, or maybe just a tic of discomfort.
"I have a PhD in biochemistry," Lena replied quietly. "I think I can handle stirring."
"Perfect. We're in desperate need of your scientific expertise." Kara gestured toward the double doors at the back, ignoring the way Alex was shooting her warning glances over Sam's shoulder. "Just follow the smell of burning. I mean, not that anything's burning. Yet. Though statistically speaking, with Nia in charge of the sweet potatoes, it's only a matter of time before something catches fire. Not that we're planning a fire! That would be a terrible Christmas surprise. Though I guess it would be warm? No, that's not—" She cut herself off, heat crawling up her neck. "This way."
As they crossed the crowded floor, Kara noticed the way Lena kept her body angled away from the others, her hands sheathed in expensive gloves, her expression unreadable. She walked with measured steps, as if the ground might shift beneath her at any moment. Kara recognized that, too.
The kitchen was an entirely different universe. Nia was up to her elbows in sweet potatoes, her hair tied back with a strip of what looked like tinsel. Kelly Olsen was orchestrating a symphony of casseroles, her phone propped against a stack of canned yams as she FaceTimed with someone—probably her sister, judging by the flurry of medical jargon. Brainy, the newest volunteer, was hunched over a tray of appetizers, aligning them with the obsessive focus of a chess master.
"We have reinforcements," Kara declared, ushering Lena in. Nia looked up gratefully, her face smudged with flour.
"Oh, thank god. Can you take over the mashed potatoes? They're rebelling."
Lena slipped off her gloves and coat. Underneath, she wore a black sweater that probably cost more than Kara's entire wardrobe, but she looked strangely vulnerable in it, as though the fabric wasn't armor at all but an additional layer of skin.
"Just follow the recipe," Nia said, handing her a battered cookbook opened to a page splattered with generations of butter. "And don't let Brainy talk you into any 'improvements'."
Lena nodded, tightening her ponytail. "Understood."
Kara lingered, suddenly unwilling to leave. She grabbed a spoon and started stirring a pot of gravy that didn't really need stirring. "I'll just... help with this."
Lena glanced at her, one eyebrow arched slightly. "Is that gravy or cement?"
"It's, uh—" Kara looked down at the thick, gluey substance. "It's a work in progress."
"I see." Lena's voice was dry, but not unkind. "Perhaps it needs a little more liquid to reach its full potential."
"Right! Liquid. That makes sense." Kara grabbed the nearest carton and poured without looking.
"That's orange juice," Lena pointed out, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Kara froze, mortified. "I knew that. I was just... testing your observational skills. Very important in biochemistry, right? Observation?"
"Absolutely critical," Lena agreed, her lips twitching again. "Though I'm not sure the gravy will benefit from your scientific method."
"It's a Christmas miracle in the making," Kara insisted, dumping the ruined gravy and starting over. "Or a cautionary tale. Either way, it'll be memorable."
A small sound escaped Lena—not quite a laugh, but close. Kara felt irrationally proud of herself.
She watched as Lena methodically approached the potatoes, measuring salt with the precision of someone handling volatile chemicals. There was something mesmerizing about her movements, the careful way she tested the temperature of the water before adding butter.
"You know what they call a potato's favorite holiday?" Kara asked, unable to help herself.
Lena looked up, her expression wary. "I can't imagine."
"Mash Wednesday." Kara grinned, then immediately wished she could disappear into the floor. "Sorry. That was terrible. I don't know why I—"
"I would have gone with 'Spud-mas’," Lena said, her voice so soft that Kara almost missed it.
Kara blinked, then broke into a genuine laugh. "That's much better! I should have consulted you before I went with the whole religious angle. Though I guess you could also go with... with..." She fumbled, suddenly aware that she was flirting—was she flirting?—with Lena Luthor over mashed potatoes. "With, um..."
"Tuber Tuesday?" Lena suggested, her eyes still on her work, but the corner of her mouth definitely quirking upward now.
"Yes!" Kara exclaimed, too loudly. Nia shot her a curious look from across the kitchen. "That's exactly what I was going to say. Tuber Tuesday. Great minds, right?"
Lena made a noncommittal sound, but Kara could have sworn she saw the ghost of a dimple appear in her cheek.
They worked side by side in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kitchen filling with the smell of roasting turkey and the sound of Nia's off-key humming. Kara found herself sneaking glances at Lena's profile, at the careful way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, at the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.
"So," Kara ventured, "how did Sam convince you to come tonight? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here! We are. Very thrilled. It's just—" She waved a hand vaguely. "You know."
"I know," Lena said, her voice neutral but not cold. "Sam can be... persuasive. And Ruby wanted to help decorate."
"Well, they're both naturals. Sam's already commandeered Alex's clipboard, which is basically like stealing Thor's hammer around here."
Lena's eyebrow quirked again. "You're comparing your sister to a Norse god?"
"Only in terms of organizational intensity," Kara clarified. "Though she did once threaten to smite someone for moving her protein shaker."
This time, Lena's smile was unmistakable—small, but real. It transformed her face, softening the sharp edges and lighting up her eyes. Kara felt something flutter in her chest, like she'd just won a prize she didn't know she was competing for.
"What about you?" Lena asked, surprising her. "Why are you here on Christmas Eve?"
Kara hesitated, caught off guard by the question. "I guess I just... don't like the idea of anyone being alone during the holidays. And the shelter's short-staffed this time of year." She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Plus, I make a mean green bean casserole. It would be selfish not to share that with the world."
"Very altruistic," Lena murmured, but there was no mockery in her tone.
"What can I say? I'm practically a saint." Kara gestured with her spoon, accidentally flinging a glob of gravy onto the wall. "A very coordinated saint."
Lena actually laughed then—a soft, husky sound that made Kara feel like she'd just won the lottery.
"You know what they say," Kara continued, emboldened. "The road to heaven is paved with good condiments."
"I'm fairly certain that's not the expression," Lena said, but her eyes were bright with amusement.
"No? Well, I've always been a trailblazer. Speaking of which, did you hear about the chef who died? They say he pasta way."
Lena groaned, but she was still smiling. "That's terrible."
"I know. I should be ashamed. But I've got a million of them. My sister says it's a disease."
"Is there a cure?"
"None that science has discovered yet. Though I've heard laughter is the best medicine." Kara waggled her eyebrows hopefully.
"In that case, I'm afraid you might be terminal," Lena replied dryly, but the dimple was back.
Kara clutched her chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Ms. Luthor. And here I thought we were bonding over root vegetables."
"A foundation for any lasting relationship," Lena agreed, her tone so deadpan that Kara almost missed the joke.
The word "relationship" hung in the air between them, oddly charged. Kara felt her cheeks warm again. She opened her mouth to say something—though she had no idea what—when the kitchen doors swung open and Ruby burst in, followed by Sam.
"Mom says the kids are getting hungry," Ruby announced, eyeing the food with undisguised interest. "Also, I made seven snowflakes and Tommy says they're better than his, but he's just jealous because mine don't look like they were made by a kindergartner."
Sam rolled her eyes fondly. "What my daughter means is that dinner is in thirty minutes, and Alex is having some sort of clipboard-related meltdown in the main room. Something about the schedule being off by four minutes?"
"That sounds like Alex," Kara confirmed. "She once made a PowerPoint about the optimal way to load the dishwasher."
"I know," Sam said, her smile widening. "She showed it to me. It was very... thorough."
There was something in Sam's tone that made Kara look at her more closely. Interesting.
Ruby had already sidled up to Lena's workstation, peering into the pot of potatoes. "Can I try some?"
Lena hesitated, then offered her the spoon. "Be careful, it's hot."
Ruby took a careful taste, then nodded approvingly. "It's good. But it needs more butter."
"Everything needs more butter," Sam said with a sigh. "It's her life philosophy."
"It's a good philosophy," Ruby insisted.
Kara watched as Lena added another pat of butter to the potatoes, her movements careful but no longer stiff. There was something different about her now—a slight softening around the edges, as if the kitchen's warmth had begun to melt some invisible barrier.
"So," Kara said, leaning against the counter next to Lena, "what are the chances I can convince you to try my infamous green bean casserole? It's got those little crunchy onion things on top."
Lena looked at her, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "I suppose I could be persuaded."
"Great!" Kara beamed, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fair warning, though—I can't promise it'll be as a-maize-ing as your potatoes."
Lena's eyes widened slightly, and for a horrible moment, Kara thought she'd pushed the pun too far. But then Lena leaned in, close enough that Kara could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle, like rain on warm stone.
"That joke was quite the missed steak," Lena murmured, her voice low and rich.
Kara stared at her, momentarily speechless, before breaking into a delighted laugh. "Oh my god. Did you just—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lena said primly, but her eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter.
And just like that, Kara knew she was in trouble—the good kind, the kind that made her heart race and her palms sweat and her brain short-circuit in the best possible way. Because Lena Luthor had just made a food pun, and it was possibly the most attractive thing Kara had ever witnessed.
The kitchen timer went off with a shrill beep, and Nia yelped as her sweet potatoes threatened to overflow. Kara lunged for the pot, grabbing a dishcloth to protect her hand as she lifted the bubbling mass off the burner.
"Crisis averted," she announced, setting the pot down on a trivet. She glanced back at Lena, who was watching her with that same almost-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The moment between them lingered like the steam rising from the potatoes—warm and visible and impossible to catch.
"All hands on deck!" Kelly called, clapping twice. "Time to get everything to the serving table."
The kitchen erupted into choreographed chaos. Kara grabbed her green bean casserole, the top perfectly browned and crispy, and hefted it toward the double doors. Lena followed with her mashed potatoes, her movements precise and careful.
"Watch out for the—" Kara started, but too late. Lena's heel caught on the uneven threshold between kitchen and dining area, and she pitched forward. Kara dropped her casserole onto the nearest table and lunged, catching Lena by the elbow. The mashed potatoes wobbled precariously but didn't spill.
"Structural integrity maintained," Lena said, a little breathlessly. Her face was inches from Kara's, close enough that Kara could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.
"That would've been a mash disaster," Kara whispered, and was rewarded with that soft, husky laugh again.
The serving line formed quickly—shelter residents first, then volunteers. Kara found herself stationed behind the green beans, wielding a serving spoon like a scepter. Lena stood beside her, her posture gradually relaxing as she dished out potatoes to a line of grateful diners.
"This is really good," Tommy said through a mouthful as he passed by for seconds. "Like, actually good. Not just shelter-food good."
"High praise," Kara told Lena with a grin. "Tommy's our resident food critic."
Lena's cheeks flushed slightly. "It's just potatoes."
Don't sell yourself short," Kara said. "Those are artisanal potatoes. I saw how much care went into them."
"I just followed the recipe book Nia thrust into my hands," Lena admitted in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder. "She was halfway through making them when I took over. I've been pretending I knew what I was doing the whole time."
Kara let out a surprised laugh. "Your secret's safe with me. And hey, those are still the best rescue-mission potatoes I've ever had."
"You're easily impressed."
"Or you're secretly talented." Kara nudged her gently with an elbow. "Admit it—you're a culinary genius hiding behind a biochemistry PhD."
Lena's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You've discovered my master plan. World domination through starch."
"I knew it!" Kara snapped her fingers. "Next thing you'll tell me you've engineered self-replicating dinner rolls."
"That's phase two," Lena said solemnly. "Very hush-hush."
A small girl approached the table, her hair in uneven braids, eyes wide as she stared up at Lena. "Can I have extra, please?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Without hesitation, Lena gave her a heaping spoonful. "Of course. And would you like gravy?"
The girl nodded, and Lena carefully poured a perfect pool of gravy into the center of the mashed potatoes. "There. A gravy volcano."
The girl's face lit up. "Thanks, lady!"
"You're welcome," Lena said, her voice gentler than Kara had heard it all evening.
As the girl skipped away, Kara felt something warm unfurl in her chest. "You're good with kids."
Lena's expression shuttered slightly. "Not particularly. I just remember what it's like to be hungry."
The simple statement hung between them, heavy with implications Kara couldn't quite decipher. Before she could respond, Alex appeared at her elbow, looking harried.
"We're running low on napkins, and James says the Santa suit is itchy, and—" She broke off as Sam materialized beside her, holding out a stack of paper napkins.
"Problem solved," Sam said, her smile dazzling. "And tell James to stop complaining. Ruby says the beard makes him look distinguished."
Alex blinked rapidly. "Right. Yes. Distinguished. That's... good."
Kara bit back a laugh as her normally unflappable sister fumbled for words. Sam was standing just a little too close, her hand brushing Alex's arm as she passed over the napkins, and Alex's ears had turned a telltale shade of pink.
"You missed a spot," Sam said, reaching up to brush something—real or imagined—from Alex's shoulder.
"I—what? Where?" Alex patted frantically at her shirt.
"Got it," Sam said with a wink, and Alex looked like she might spontaneously combust.
Kara caught Lena's eye and mouthed, "Is she always like this?"
Lena gave a small nod, her expression amused. "Always."
"Interesting," Kara murmured, watching as Sam steered Alex toward the beverage table, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back.
Dinner progressed in a blur of laughter and conversation. Kara found herself constantly aware of Lena beside her—the way she carefully wiped the serving spoon between uses, the slight tilt of her head when she listened to someone speak, the unexpected warmth of her arm against Kara's when they both reached for the salt at the same time.
By the time the last plate was filled, Kara's cheeks hurt from smiling. She helped clear the tables while Lena and Nia tackled the mountain of dishes, working in companionable silence broken only by Nia's occasional humming.
"HO HO HO!" James's booming voice cut through the post-dinner chatter. He stood by the drooping Christmas tree, resplendent in a slightly-too-small Santa suit, his beard askew but his smile genuine. Winn hovered beside him in a green elf hat with a bell that jingled every time he moved.
"Gather 'round, everyone!" Winn called, his voice pitched higher than usual. "Santa's got presents!"
The younger children needed no encouragement, rushing toward the tree with excited squeals. The teenagers hung back, affecting disinterest while still edging closer.
"I need one more helper," James announced, scanning the room. "Someone to hand out the gifts while I check my list."
Ruby immediately pointed at Lena, who had just emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Her! She should do it!"
Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Excellent idea, Ruby. Lena would be perfect."
Lena froze, her eyes widening. "Oh, I don't think—"
"Come on, Ms. Luthor," Tommy called from his spot against the wall. "Santa needs help."
A chorus of agreement rose from the other kids. Lena looked trapped, her gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. Kara moved toward her instinctively.
"You've got this," she whispered. "Just smile and hand them the boxes. Easy peasy."
Lena shot her a look that clearly said nothing about this was easy, but she squared her shoulders and walked toward the tree. Winn immediately plopped a red and white Santa hat on her head. It clashed magnificently with her elegant black sweater, and Kara had to stifle a laugh at Lena's expression—somewhere between mortified and murderous.
But then James handed her the first present—a small, brightly wrapped box with a glittery bow—and something shifted in Lena's demeanor. She knelt down to be at eye level with a small boy in a too-large sweatshirt, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"Are you Michael?" she asked, her voice gentle.
He nodded, bouncing on his toes.
"This one has your name on it," Lena said, holding out the gift. "Merry Christmas."
The boy took the package reverently, then threw his arms around Lena's neck in a quick, fierce hug before darting away to tear into his present. Lena looked stunned, one hand rising to touch the spot where his arms had been.
Kara couldn't tear her eyes away as Lena continued distributing gifts. With each child, she grew more confident—kneeling to their level, asking their names, smiling as they ripped into the wrapping paper with abandon. When a tiny girl with braided hair burst into tears of joy over a plush unicorn, Lena produced a tissue from nowhere and gently wiped her cheeks, murmuring something that made the child giggle through her tears.
It was... breathtaking. This woman who had entered the shelter like a reluctant ghost was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Santa hat still perched rakishly on her dark hair, the white pom-pom dangling near her ear, listening intently as three children showed her their new treasures all at once.
"She's good," Alex said, appearing at Kara's side. "Who would've thought?"
"I would," Kara said softly, unable to look away from the scene. "I mean, I didn't know, but... I'm not surprised."
Alex gave her a searching look. "You like her."
It wasn't a question. Kara felt heat creep up her neck. "She's nice."
"Uh-huh." Alex's tone was deeply skeptical. "That's why you've been staring at her for the last ten minutes without blinking."
"I've blinked!" Kara protested. "I'm a normal human who blinks a normal amount."
"Sure you are." Alex nudged her with an elbow. "Just be careful, okay? She's still a Luthor."
"And you're still a judgmental pain in my—" Kara broke off as Sam approached, carrying two cups of what looked like eggnog.
"For the hardworking Danvers sisters," Sam said, handing them each a cup. Her fingers lingered against Alex's for a beat too long.
"Thanks," Alex mumbled, suddenly fascinated by the contents of her cup.
Sam's smile was pure mischief. "I made it myself. Special recipe."
Alex took a cautious sip, then coughed. "There's rum in this."
"Just a splash," Sam said innocently. "For holiday cheer."
"There are children present," Alex hissed, though she took another, larger sip.
"They have their own, virgin version," Sam assured her. "I'm not a complete reprobate."
"I never said—"
"Your face did." Sam leaned in closer. "It's very expressive, your face."
Alex made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a cry for help. Kara decided to take pity on her sister.
"I'm going to see if Lena needs help," she announced, slipping away before either of them could respond.
As she approached the tree, Lena looked up, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. The Santa hat had slipped to one side, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance that was so at odds with her usual polished image that Kara felt her heart do a complicated flip in her chest.
"Having fun?" Kara asked, dropping down beside her.
"Surprisingly, yes," Lena admitted. She glanced at the children now playing with their gifts, her expression soft. "They're so... grateful. For such small things."
"Sometimes the small things mean the most," Kara said. "Especially when you're not expecting anything at all."
Lena looked at her then, really looked at her, as if seeing her properly for the first time. "You're very wise, Kara Danvers."
"Nah," Kara said, bumping her shoulder gently against Lena's. "I just make really good green bean casserole. It gives me sage-like qualities."
Lena's laugh was quiet but genuine. "Another food pun. You're incorrigible."
"I prefer to think of myself as consistent," Kara said. "Reliably cheesy."
"Like a good fondue," Lena suggested, and Kara felt that flip in her chest again.
"Exactly like that."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching as James distributed the last few gifts. Across the room, Alex was listening intently to something Sam was saying, her head tilted toward the other woman, a small, private smile on her face.
"Your sister seems to be enjoying herself," Lena observed.
"Yeah," Kara said, grinning. "I haven't seen her this flustered since college when she had a crush on her TA."
"Sam has that effect on people," Lena said. "She's... irresistible when she decides she wants something."
"And right now she wants my sister?"
Lena's lips curved upward. "It would appear so."
"Huh." Kara considered this. "That's... actually kind of perfect. Alex needs someone who can make her laugh. And someone who isn't intimidated by her clipboard tyranny."
"Sam once reorganized an entire department using nothing but sticky notes and sheer force of will," Lena said. "Your sister's clipboard holds no power over her."
Kara laughed. "I'd pay to see that showdown."
"I think we're witnessing the preliminary rounds right now," Lena said, nodding toward where Sam was now holding Alex's clipboard, examining it with exaggerated seriousness while Alex tried to snatch it back.
A small voice interrupted their conversation. "Excuse me, Ms. Luthor?"
They both looked over to see the little girl with the unicorn standing before them, clutching her plush toy to her chest.
"Yes, sweetheart?" Lena asked, and Kara's heart did that strange flip a third time at the gentle endearment.
"Can you help me name her?" The girl held up the unicorn. "I can't decide."
"Oh," Lena looked momentarily lost. "I'm not sure I'm the best person for—"
"Please?" The girl's lower lip trembled slightly. "You're smart. Tommy said you're the smartest lady in the whole city."
Lena's expression softened. "Well, in that case... may I?" She held out her hands, and the girl carefully placed the unicorn in them. Lena examined it with the same focused attention she'd given the mashed potatoes earlier. "Hmm. She looks like a... Celeste to me. It means 'heavenly' or 'of the stars'."
The girl's face lit up. "Celeste! That's perfect!" She reclaimed her unicorn, hugging it tightly. "Thank you, Ms. Luthor!"
As the child skipped away, Lena watched her go with a wistful expression that made Kara's chest ache.
"That was perfect," Kara said softly.
Lena shook her head. "It was just a name."
"It was exactly what she needed." Kara hesitated, then added, "You're good at that. Knowing what people need."
Lena's gaze shifted to Kara's face, searching. "Not always."
"More than you think," Kara insisted. She reached out impulsively and straightened Lena's Santa hat. "There. Now you look like a proper Christmas elf."
"I think that's the first time anyone has ever used the word 'proper' to describe me in a Santa hat," Lena said dryly.
"Well, there's a first time for everything," Kara said. "Like you making potato puns and me ruining perfectly good gravy with orange juice."
"A Christmas of firsts," Lena agreed, her voice soft.
Their eyes met, and Kara felt something shift between them—a current of possibility, warm and unexpected as a summer breeze in December. She opened her mouth to say something, though she wasn't sure what, when a crash from the other side of the room made them both jump.
"Sorry!" Winn called, standing over the remains of what had once been a plastic punch bowl. "Total accident! Nothing to see here!"
Lena laughed, the sound surprised and genuine. "Is it always this chaotic?"
"Only on days ending in 'y'," Kara confirmed. She stood and offered Lena a hand up. "Come on. Let's go help before Winn drowns in fruit punch."
Lena took her hand, her fingers warm and surprisingly strong. As they crossed the room together, Kara was acutely aware that Lena hadn't let go—and that she had no intention of being the first to break the connection.