Super Wishes and Leotard Dreams, Chapter 7

Ahhh! I remember our foster home in 1991. The screen door slammed shut behind her with a sound like the universe deciding something. I looked up from my half-finished history homework—some crap essay about the Louisiana Purchase—and there she was, haloed in dusty afternoon light, a backpack slung over one shoulder like she wasn’t sure if she’d stay. Benna.

The screen door hadn’t even finished bouncing on its hinges when I knew this was different. Kelly and Larry’s (before I started truly calling them mom and dad) usual foster kid speech—“Now don’t track mud, and suppers at six”—died halfway out of her mouth because Benna wasn’t listening. She was too busy taking in the suburban living room with those wide hazel eyes, like she was memorizing the cracks in the plaster for later. Her sandy blonde hair caught the Richmond afternoon sun just right, making it look like someone had dusted her with gold.

The memory hit me like one of Superman’s playful punches—except softer, warmer, tingling down my spine instead of rattling my ribs. That first glimpse of her stepping into Kelly and Larry’s drab living room might as well have been a lightning strike. Seventeen-year-old Benna Jenkins, my foster sister and later wife and husband, smelled like sunshine and cheap lavender shampoo, her oversized Virginia sweatshirt shirt swallowing her frame but doing nothing to hide the way her hips swayed when she shifted her weight. Then Jun, Dad’s best friend (and later lover after Mom died), knocked on the door and came in. But I ignored him; I had better things to look at. She was beautiful and I was smitten from the start.

The scent of lavender shampoo lingered in my memory so vividly I could almost taste it—not that I needed super-senses to recall how Benna’s hair had glowed that first afternoon, strands catching the light like spun gold. My reflection in the command center’s polished floor, superimposing my 21-year-old Superwoman physique over the gangly teenage boy I’d been. Funny how time folded.

The pond’s moonlight caught Superman’s jawline at an angle that shouldn’t have been possible—sharp, perfect—and for half a breath, I saw her. Benna at seventeen, biting her lower lip while twisting a strand of sandy-blonde hair around her finger in our foster home’s living room. The memory superimposed itself over Ben’s present form like a double exposure photograph: his current barrel chest and stubble-shadowed jaw melting into her slender wrists.

“Superwoman?” His hand—larger now, rougher, impossibly warm—brushed my shoulder. The Kryptonian fabric of his suit buzzed against my bare arm like static given physical form. I blinked, and for a fractured second, the command center’s emerald glow refracted through tears I hadn’t realized were forming.

“I’m okay,” I lied, blinking away the prismatic afterimages of memory refracted through unshed tears. My fingers twitched toward my husband’s wrist—his pulse thrummed under my fingertips at hummingbird speed, a tactile reminder that this body wasn’t the one I’d first touched in that foster home kitchen. “Just spaced out.”

The command center hummed with that otherworldly energy only—low, resonant, like a tuning fork struck somewhere in the fabric of spacetime. K- 9T stood at attention, its chrome plating reflecting fractured emerald light from the glyph-pulsing walls. My cape brushed against the polished floor as I stepped forward, deliberately positioning myself between the robot and my family. “Let’s lay some ground rules. First rule for us superheroes,” I said, my voice carrying an uncharacteristic edge that made even Superman raise an eyebrow. “No killing. Ever.”

Everyone nodded without question. Superman’s fingers tapped against the holographic display table, his brow furrowing as he studied the rotating Earth projection dotted with golden threat markers. “Explain the surveillance system,” he demanded, his deep voice making the Kryptonian glyphs on the walls pulse brighter. “How do we know who needs saving?”

K-9T’s optics flickered with that eerie emerald glow as it pivoted toward Superman. “Pre-cognitive Kryptonian satellite network,” it intoned, its voice like polished steel grinding against itself. The robot gestured near holographic Earth, where three floating consoles rested—each manned by identical chrome-plated units. “Twelve cloaked orbital sentinels calculate probability matrices a minute before terrestrial incidents. The staff monitors extrapolate threat levels from—”

Supergirl’s boot squeaked against the crystalline floor as she sidestepped toward the main display, her cape whispering against the holo-projectors. “Wait—so we’re reacting to disasters before they even happen?” Her fingers hovered over a pulsing golden dot near Virginia Beach, where a schematic of a collapsing bridge materialized with countdown timers.

Superboy leaned against the holographic table, his black leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. “What makes the threshold for us to intervene?” His voice carried that new young adult skepticism, the kind that hadn’t existed before the transformation. “Surely we can’t be everywhere at once.”

K-9T’s ocular lenses pulsed with an eerie green light as he straightened his posture—an eerily human gesture for a machine. “Please confirm. Directives remain unchanged from our earlier briefing,” the robot intoned, its voice carrying exactly the clipped cadence of a military aide. The holographic display between us reconfigured into three floating tiers of threats, each pulsing with different colored borders. “Priority Alpha events require immediate intervention: loss of life exceeding one hundred human units, planetary-scale disasters, and temporal anomalies.”

I exchanged a glance with Superman—his brow furrowed just enough for me to recognize that expression from thirty years of knowing him, the one he wore when someone cited nonexistent sources or misinterpreted guidance. The robot continued, oblivious. “Beta-level incidents involve infrastructure collapse, localized violence exceeding twenty casualties, and assassination attempts.” The display zoomed into a schematic of Manhattan, where golden threads connected subway tunnels like a spiderweb. “Charlie classification includes environmental stabilization, medical emergencies, and minor crimes.”

K-9T’s voice modulated into something almost apologetic as the holographic interface flickered. “Your standing house protocols dictate to us we report to you six to ten interventions per six-hour shift. Isn’t that correct?” it said, the projection splitting into golden threads that branched like nervous systems across continents. “Prioritization remains Alpha, Beta, then Charlie.”

The holographic display flickered as Superman tapped the floating globe with one finger, sending concentric golden rings pulsing outward. “Sounds reasonable. Six-hour shifts for each superhero,” he murmured—not to me, not to the kids, but to the empty space between his thoughts and reality. That was Ben’s way now: speaking to the universe like it might rearrange itself if he asked politely enough.

The holographic projections of global crises pulsed between us like some celestial heartbeat—too many golden threads for even four Kryptonians to follow. Superman’s finger hovered over a Beta-level marker pulsing over Mumbai, his jaw tensing. “We have to acknowledge we can’t be everywhere at once,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone. The admission hung there, weighted with the gravity of continents we hadn’t saved, disasters we’d inevitably miss.

“Maybe that’s all we can do,” Supergirl said, her cape rustling as she shifted her weight—just enough to send a ripple through the holographic projections. The golden threads of Mumbai’s crisis dissolved momentarily under her movement, then reformed. “Try to make a difference where we can.” She said it softly, like she was testing the idea against her teeth first.

“You said something about a shift schedule?” Superboy leaned against the holographic console, his black leather jacket creaking. He tapped an impatient rhythm against the glowing glyphs—some ancient Kryptonian timekeeping script, probably—until K-9T floated closer, its optics whirring as it projected a rotating 3D calendar above the table.

“Primary patrol rotations are in six-hour increments,” the robot intoned. Its voice had that uncanny valley smoothness—too human, but not quite. “Superboy first at midnight, followed by Superman’s shift at 0600. Then, Superwoman at noon; followed by Supergirl at 1800. You also instructed that family activities have first priority.”

I was about to nod when suddenly, a holographic Washington D.C marker pulsed. “What’s that?” I asked.

The psychic alert hit like a lightning bolt—neural pulses from the Command Center’s AI systems drilling into our skulls. *Beta threat: U.S. Capitol breach. Iranian operatives embedded in State of the Union security detail. Presidential assassination attempt imminent.* The holographic D.C. marker shattered into a swarm of red vectors converging on the Capitol Rotunda.

“Even if I didn’t vote for him,” I said, watching the holographic Capitol dome fracture into threat vectors, “this isn’t how a president with authoritarian tendencies is removed.” My stiletto boots clicked against the crystalline floor as I stepped forward, the red silk cape whispering against my thighs. The family tensed-Superman’s jaw hardened, Superboy’s fingers twitched near his thigh belt, Supergirl’s hair swayed as she jerked her head toward me. “But it *is* how the world learns we Kryptonians exists,” I added, catching Superman’s eye. His nostrils flared in that new way he had since the transformation, like a bull scenting challenge.

We had to move quick and we did. The Capitol’s coordinates burned in my mind like a brand—no need for debate, no hesitation in the muscle memory of our new bodies. Superman’s cape snapped like a gunshot as he pivoted toward the Backwoods Access, already calculating trajectories. Supergirl was a blur of honey-blonde hair and blue spandex, her boots leaving cracks in the crystalline floor from the force of her takeoff. Only Superboy hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. I saw the question in his eyes—*Should we?*—before I grabbed his wrist and yanked him into motion. “Doubt is for later” I hissed, and then we were all airborne into the tunnel and through the wood’s access.

The world became a streak of color and wind—seven seconds of fractured perception where my body understood physics better than my mind did. The Capitol dome materialized before us like a popped bubble, its white marble glowing under floodlights. My boots touched down silently on the Rotunda’s inner ledge, my superhearing already dissecting the chaos below into distinct threats: the rasp of a concealed slide being racked, the accelerated heartbeat of a Secret Service agent noticing the wrong detail, the faint click of a laser sight activating two hundred feet to my left.

The scent of gun oil hit my nostrils half a second before the shot—a chemical tang threading through the sweat and polished leather of the chamber. My body moved before thought could catch up. The bullet was already halfway to the president’s temple when my fingers closed around it, the copper-jacketed round searing against my palm like a dying ember. Around us, time seemed to fracture. Secret Service agents were still turning their heads, mouths opening in silent shouts. The would-be assassin’s finger hadn’t finished squeezing the trigger.

I heard Superman before I saw him—a sonic boom rattling the stained-glass windows as he barreled through the Capitol’s west wall in a shower of marble dust. His heat vision lanced out in twin beams, melting three rifles simultaneously while Superboy blurred through the press gallery to disarm two more shooters with precise pressure-point strikes. Supergirl was already at the podium, her cape flaring like a living thing as she scanned the crowd with x-ray vision. “Balcony, fourth pillar,” she murmured for our superhearing to hear. I pivoted just as a fourth gunman emerged—only to crumple under my suggestion, his weapon clattering to the floor. My mind-control flex had been instinctive, effortless.

Congressman and aides scattered like startled birds, their polished shoes slipping on marble as my family moved through the chamber in streaks of primary colors. Superboy blurred past a cluster of panicked senators, his gloved hands a crimson whirl as he disarmed three more gunmen with movements so precise their weapons dismantled mid-air. Across the rotunda, Superman hovered near the collapsed west wall, his heat vision sweeping the balconies—every rifle that passed through those ruby beams dripping molten metal onto the tiles below. I caught the faintest scent of cordite and something sharper, something like fear-sweat, as Supergirl materialized stood by the trembling vice president. As predictable, my family easily cleaned up the rest of the terrorists.

As the real secret service were about to whisk him away, I asked, “Mr. President, are you okay?”

The President straightened his tie with a jerk, his knuckles white against the silk. His eyes—still dilated from near-death—raked over my seven-foot frame, lingering just a second too long on the crest stretched across my chest. “I had the situation under control, doll,” he lied, voice like gravel in a blender.

Behind me, Superman’s cape snapped in the sudden wind of his landing. “Mr. President—”

“Don’t ‘Mr. President’ me, spandex.” He jabbed a finger at the shattered remains of a sniper rifle by his feet. “This was an FBI sting. We were tracking those assets for months.” The lie curdled in the air between us, obvious to anyone with super-hearing—his pulse had been rabbit-quick when the first bullet left the chamber. I guess as all egotistical, chauvinistic, narcissists are, he was ungracious, lustful, and angry of being upstaged.

We were flabbergasted. Before we could say anything, the secret service swarmed around him like black-suited hornets, their earpieces crackling with frantic chatter as they ushered the president toward the nearest exit. His polished Oxfords barely touched the marble before they had him through a side door—but not before he shot me one last look, equal parts fury and something darker, something that made the minute hairs on my Kryptonian-enhanced arms stand up. “Ungrateful asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

The crackle of emergency radios and the groans of stunned Secret Service agents filled the Capitol Rotunda as we finished our sweep—no more threats, no more hidden weapons. Superboy tossed the twisted remains of a rifle into a growing pile, his black leather jacket creaking with the motion. I was just about to signal for departure when a woman’s voice cut through the chaos: “Wait!”

A reporter in a rumpled blazer stood on a toppled press platform, her microphone outstretched like a wand. Strands of auburn hair had escaped her updo, framing a face flushed with adrenaline. “Who *are* you people?” Her cameraman, half-crouched behind a marble column, kept rolling despite his shaking hands.

“Superwoman,” I said with a warm smile, cape billowing as I hovered just inches off the cracked marble floor. The reporter’s microphone dipped slightly as her gaze traveled up—and up—the full seven feet of my frame.

“Superman,” Ben said with a wink, his deep voice carrying the weight of effortless authority.

Superboy and Supergirl said their names warmly—almost cheerfully—and we flew away before she could ask more questions. The air cracked around us as we broke the sound barrier, leaving nothing but a gust of wind and the scent of ozone in our wake. The reporter’s stunned face was the last thing I saw before the Capitol dome shrunk to the size of a thimble beneath us.

The psychic pulse from K-9T hit our minds like a struck gong—*chemical fire at the Birmingham, Alabama rail yard, tanker cars compromised, civilian evacuations stalled at 14^th and McGee.* Our family banked westward as one. We were there in a blink of an eye. Below us, orange flames licked the underbelly of a thunderhead of black smoke. Three tankers had already blossomed into molten flowers, their steel petals peeling back in slow motion to my enhanced vision.

The rail yard below us looked like a scene from an apocalyptic film—molten steel dripping like candle wax, toxic plumes swirling in fractal patterns only my microscopic vision could parse. A fourth tanker groaned as its pressurized shell bulged ominously. Superman didn’t wait for analysis; he exhaled a glacier-breathed stream that flash-froze the leaking valves in crystalline blue. Supergirl was already a red-and-blue blur, her super-speed evacuating workers from collapsed scaffolding while Superboy wove through the smoke like a black-jacketed specter, his heat vision slicing through twisted wreckage to free trapped civilians.

The fourth tanker erupted just as Supergirl cleared the last worker from the scaffolding, the explosion sending a shockwave that would have leveled three city blocks if not for Superman’s interposed body. He crossed his arms, the crest on his chest flaring gold as the fireball dissipated against his invulnerable frame. I caught the concussive force with my cape—flicking it forward like a matador’s red silk—redirecting the heat blast harmlessly into the sky where it punched a hole through the smoke cloud.

After we cleaned up the scene I asked telepathically for the command center to give us another beta priority event. The psychic coordinates hit our brains like a lightning strike—a cargo plane spiraling toward downtown Portland, one engine trailing flames thick enough to taste even from fifty thousand feet. I didn’t need to consult the others; our synchronized takeoff cracked the Alabama tarmac beneath us as we became streaks of primary colors against the twilight.

Superman reached the stricken aircraft first, his arms outstretched like divine braces to halt its deadly descent. The metal screamed against his palms, buckling inward before his heat vision welded the fractured wing spar. I caught the other side mid-plummet, my stiletto boots denting the fuselage as my super-breath froze the leaking fuel lines solid. Below us, Supergirl and Superboy ricocheted between falling debris like human pinballs—her cape and his jacket flaring behind them as they punted plummeting baggage container safely into the Columbia River.

The cockpit windshield frosted over with my cryogenic breath just as the co-pilot’s panicked fingers slipped from the controls. Through the ice, I watched his lips form the word “angel” as my x-ray vision counted the frantic rabbit-pulse in his neck. Superman ripped the cockpit roof away like tinfoil, his baritone cutting through the wind shear—“We’ve got you”—as effortlessly as he cradled the entire nose section. My thermal scans confirmed all the human passengers still alive, their collective body heat painting rainbow outlines across my enhanced vision while Supergirl’s microscopic hearing tracked every whimper in cargo hold five. We set the plan down in an open field.

Portland dissolved into streaks of streetlight as we shot eastward—K-9T’s psychic coordinates carving a crimson path across my retinas toward Paris. The emergency registered microseconds before we breached the sound barrier: structural collapse at a high-rise construction site, seventeen workers trapped in a pancaked elevator shaft. Superman’s thermal scan pierced through concrete dust clouds before we’d even slowed down, his voice picked up by my superhearing: *Third floor northwest corner—steel beam torsion failure.*

I hit the wreckage at Mach 5, my cape billowing outward to cushion the impact as my fingers sank into reinforced concrete like warm butter. I held up the structure while my family rescued the civilians. The construction crew’s panicked shouts cut off mid-scream when Supergirl materialized beside them in a flutter of red silk, her x-ray vision already tracing escape routes through buckling rebar. One electrician kept frantically stabbing the elevator buttons until Superboy yanked the entire control panel free with a shower of sparks—“Stairs work better”—before shoulder-checking a collapsed I-beam out of their path like it was styrofoam. We got the workers safely to the ground before the building collapsed.

The next day we settled into or patrols with determination. Superboy was still on patrol. It was our new normal between kids’ school, Ben’s practicing, and my research activities. The morning sun had barely crested the Virginia Beach beachfront when I found myself floating above the breakfast table—not in any sort of superheroic pose, but because I’d forgotten to account for my new muscle memory when reaching for the coffee pot. My red boots hovered six inches above the tile as Superman smirked behind his newspaper, the crisp pages trembling slightly with his suppressed laughter. “Still getting used to the whole ‘gravity optional’ thing?” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice curling around me like warm smoke. I stuck my tongue out at him before deliberately lowering myself into the chair, my cape pooling dramatically behind me.

“What the newspaper had to say about our superhero introduction last night?” I said as I raised an eyebrows.

“All good news,” Superman said, flipping the paper toward me with one finger. The headline *”Mystery Heroes Save President: Call themselves Superwoman, Superman, Superboy, and Supergirl”* stretched across the front page in bold font, accompanied by a blurred photo of our capes whipping through the Capitol rotunda. “Except—” his mouth twisted wryly “—the administration’s calling us ‘reckless vigilantes’ on page 3. Apparently stopping assassinations violates proper bureaucratic channels.”

The rest of the day settled into weekday routine. I worked on manuscript research with Marianne in the morning. Then I took over Superman’s patrol at noon. The first thing I noticed at 40,000 feet wasn’t the wild-eyed parachuter—it was the way Superman’s cape caught the midday sun like liquid rubies as he hovered beside me. “Your turn,” he murmured, that new gruffness in his voice still sending shivers down my spine. His gloved hand brushed my waist as he transferred the patrol, a casual touch that would’ve crumpled steel. The parachuter was easy—a businessman who’d somehow tumbled from his private jet during a failed skydiving attempt. I caught him mid-scream at 18,000 feet, his flailing limbs freezing when he registered my seven-foot frame cradling him like an infant. “You’re alright,” I said, my voice carrying that new psychic resonance that made humans go docile. His pupils dilated as I lowered us through a cloudbank, my cape snapping behind us like a scarlet sail. I deposited him gently on a Maui beach, where he collapsed onto the sand muttering about angels before I vanished upward at mach speed. I had another “afternoon delight” with Superman in the Bahamas, before rescuing mountain climbers in the Swiss Alps.

I had just finished my patrol, letting Supergirl take over. The Sunroom sectional’s leather groaned under my weight—still unaccustomed to my transformed mass even in civilian clothes. I stretched out, my spandex-clad feet brushing Superman’s thigh as he scrolled through newsfeeds on his tablet. The late afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting gold across his new jawline—that sharp angle I kept tracing with my fingers like I didn’t believe it was real.

I arched an eyebrow, my superhearing already catching the distant clatter of a Dairy Queen drive-thru four blocks away—Asher’s heartbeat thrumming at that particular nervous-flutter tempo he only got around Monica. “Where’s Asher?” I asked, though I already knew.

Superman didn’t even glance up from his tablet, his thumb swiping through newsfeeds at human-speed just to savor the mundane rhythm of it. “Dairy Queen with Monica,” he said, and I watched the corner of his mouth twitch. “Third date this week.” His voice dropped to that new register—deep enough to make the crystal glasses in the cabinet vibrate. “They ordered two Blizzards. One spoon.”

“I am so glad they are hitting it of-“ I smiled, but then I heard them with enhanced hearing and Superman and I both said it at the same time, “Parents are here.” We dressed in civilian clothes at superspeed. The mansion doorbell rang twenty seconds later.

Ben’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly—the only tell his invulnerable physique allowed—as the doorbell’s echo still hung in the air. My x-ray vision had already cataloged the distinctive skeletal structure of Dad’s arthritis-riddled knuckles through the mahogany, Jun’s delicate bird-like frame hovering just behind him. The scent of Dad’s Bay Rum aftershave and Jun’s jasmine perfume cut through the mansion’s central air like a time machine.

I floated up the spiral staircase in slow motion, my hair billowing just enough to make an entrance without seeming theatrical. Ben reached the door first, his hand hesitating on the knob for half a heartbeat—long enough for me to notice the micro-tremor in his wrist. When he swung it open, the Virginia sunset framed two figures from our past.

The first thing that struck me—beyond the obvious fact that it felt like Dad hadn’t aged a day in thirty years—was how seamlessly Jun’s posture mirrored his. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in matching tan overcoats, but where Larry’s frame carried the relaxed bulk of a retired salesman who’d enjoyed one too many potlucks, Jun’s slight form held the coiled precision of a martial artist who could still disarm you with his pinky finger. Larry’s laugh lines crinkled first, his hazel eyes flickering between my seven-foot frame and Ben’s broad shoulders with the same amused disbelief he’d once reserved for my high school awards ceremonies.

Larry’s hands trembled slightly as he reached up—not out, up—to cup my face, his thick fingers dwarfed by my sculpted cheekbones. The scent of Old Spice and newspaper ink clung to him like a second skin, unchanged despite decades and transformations. His sandy-gray hair had thinned at the crown but retained the same uneven part I’d mocked as a teenager, now barely covering the liver spots dotting his scalp. When he smiled, his left canine still protruded slightly, catching on his lower lip the way it always had when he was about to say something outrageous.

Jun Chen stood silent as carved jade beside Larry, his presence both a counterbalance and completion. At five-foot-two, his Asian visage should have been dwarfed by my towering form, yet his stillness commanded space like a master calligrapher’s brushstroke—deliberate, weighted, impossible to ignore. The evening light caught the silver threading through his ink-black hair, each strand precisely arranged as if he’d measured their placement with a ruler. His brown eyes held that same assessing quality I remembered from martial arts lessons—the way they’d track my stances not with criticism, but with the quiet precision of someone who could see three moves ahead of your mistakes.

The scent of damp earth and chrysanthemums hit me first—that peculiar funeral musk of grief and floral arrangements gone slightly stale. Memory superimposed itself over reality: Larry’s broad hand clutching Jun’s slender fingers like a lifeline at Kelly’s graveside, their knuckles gone white beneath the March drizzle. Jun hadn’t wept. He’d stood perfectly still, a bonsai tree weathering the storm, while Larry’s shoulders shook with silent sobs that made his overcoat strain at the buttons.

That was the day I noticed Benna Jenkins standing twenty yards away, her black dress clinging to curves that had filled out since high school. Raindrops caught in her sandy-blonde bob like scattered diamonds, and when she chewed nails to her lips—a habit she’d later quit when we started dating—I saw her hands weren’t shaking at all. Just steady. Waiting. That was enough for me. After the wake, I asked her out and the rest is history.

The warmth of Larry’s arms around my waist—or rather, the space where my waist would be if I weren’t seven feet of sculpted Kryptonian goddess—snapped me back to the present. His flannel shirt smelled of cedar and that cheap aftershave he’d worn since the 90s, a scent so ingrained in my childhood it bypassed my super-smell’s analytical cataloging and went straight to my tear ducts. “Jesus, kid,” he chuckled into my collarbone, patting my lower back like he was reassuring himself I was real. He had given no indication I had ever been a man.

Jun’s calloused fingers—still deceptively strong for an octogenarian—traced the pectorals underneath Ben’s chest with the same reverence he’d once reserved for polishing his antique katana. His dark eyes flicked to him, not an ounce of surprise in them. “Your posture is better now, Ben,” he remarked, as if commenting on a corrected violin technique. The faint scent of green tea and gunpowder clung to him, unchanged despite the years. “Less slouching.”

“What brings you to the mansion?” Ben asked.

“Did we need a reason to visit our own children? It’s been over a week.” Jun’s voice carried that same quiet amusement I remembered from childhood chess games, when he’d let me think I was winning before checkmating in three moves.

“Well come in and get dinner,” I beckoned, “Although it will be just us. Asher is on a date. And Crystal is, uh . . . Otherwise detained.”

The dining room table—an eight-foot slab of polished mahogany that Alice kept threatening to “accidentally” set on fire just to see if it really was indestructible—groaned under the weight of her beef stroganoff. Steam curled from porcelain bowls in lazy spirals, carrying scents of paprika and sour cream that made my superhuman olfactory nerves twitch. Jun inhaled sharply three seats down, his fork already poised over his portion with the precision of a surgeon. “Alice,” he said without looking up, “outdid herself.”

“Yeah,” Larry said slurping up his last bit, “She’s a regular superhero keeping the house run properly.”

I nearly choked on my food when he said ‘superhero’. The stroganoff congealed on my fork as I hesitated. “So,” I began, pitching my voice deliberately casual, “what do you think about those superheroes on the news last night? The ones who stopped the president’s assassination?”

Larry’s fork clattered against his plate as he let out a bark of laughter. “You mean those nutjobs in spandex? Please.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Kid, I’ve seen better costumes at Comic-Con. Probably some rich brats with military tech playing hero.”

Jun’s fork froze midair, his eyes narrowing with the same calculating focus he’d once used to dissect my twelve-grade calculus mistakes. “Military tech?” His nostrils flared slightly—the only tell in his otherwise impassive face. “Those people lifted a car one-handed. You saw the footage.”

Just as the Voice promised. My parents were utterly oblivious that I was Superwoman and Ben was Superman. Magic must have blocked any connection of us to superheroes.

Ben leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his Superman-enhanced weight. He twirled a fork between his fingers like a baton before pointing it at Larry. “Dad, seriously—you think you could do better than those ‘nutjobs in spandex’ last night?” His grin was all Clark Kent charm, but the way his biceps strained against his sleeves was pure Superman. “What would you do with powers, gentlemen?”

Larry’s answer came without hesitation—“Feed the hungry.” Jun nodded once, adding, “Heal the sick.” Simple. Direct. Utterly selfless in a way that made my Kryptonian heart ache. Ben’s fork hovered mid-twist as we exchanged glances. Our fathers, these ordinary men with calloused hands and stubborn opinions, had just articulated superhero ethics better than we ever had during our late-night debates about power and responsibility.

The silverware clattered against Jun’s plate as I caught the tail end of their conversation—something about Larry insisting superheroes should wear bulletproof vests instead of capes—and suddenly, the golden rings in our safe pulsed against my consciousness like a second heartbeat. Alien metal whispering across dimensions. Six gifts from the Voice, six chances to extend this impossible grace to others. My fingers twitched toward the ceiling where they lay hidden. The may be worthy candidates in the near future. Besides, we may have to keep them safe someday by giving them their own armor.

The sunrise of February 26^th hadn’t even touched the Virginia Beach beachfront when my lips met Superman’s—a brief, electric contact that sent static dancing across his cape. He hovered three inches off the floorboards, his boots gleaming in the predawn gloom. “Try not to overthrow any dictators before lunch,” I murmured against his mouth, tasting ozone and that particular musk that clung to him after flight. His chuckle vibrated through my palms where they rested against the sculpted planes of his chest.

The kitchen smelled like caramelized apples and butter when Superboy flew through the open bay window—deliberately, because the little showoff could fly through the Backwoods Access but preferred dramatic entrances. His leather jacket was frosted with morning dew. “Missed the landing pad by sixty yards,” I noted, catching the maple syrup bottle he tossed without looking. His grin was all white teeth and teenage arrogance.

Superman’s cape barely stirred as he walked with the precision of a metronome, one hand already reaching Superboy’s shoulder with a tap as they handed over patrols. “Be more discreet next time. Use the back way,” he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he went to headquarters.

Ten minutes later, the morning sunlight caught the dusting of powdered sugar on Crystal’s crepe as she twirled her fork with exaggerated grace—a practiced move that would’ve looked ridiculous if her Supergirl reflexes didn’t make it flawless. “Stop showing off,” Asher grumbled through a mouthful of omelet, though the way he effortlessly caught the orange juice carton Alice tossed from six feet away undermined his complaint. Alice outdid herself with crepes and omelets for our kids.

“So Asher,” Crystal asked conspiratorially and a tease, “How did your ice cream date with Monica go?”

Asher’s fork clattered against his plate as he wiped syrup from his lips with exaggerated casualness. “It was… great,” he said, studying his eggs with sudden fascination. The tips of his ears burned scarlet beneath his sandy blonde hair. “Like, really great. I think we’re… y’know. A thing now.”

“You love her,” I said, balancing my coffee cup on my knee with superhuman precision—not a tremor as I pinned Asher with the same paternal stare that had made him confess stealing cookies at age six. The silence stretched just long enough for Crystal’s fork to hover mid-air, syrup dripping onto her untouched crepe.

Asher’s fork bent between his fingers like warm taffy. A rivulet of maple syrup dripped onto the mahogany as he stared at me with the wide-eyed panic of a teenager caught between honesty and self-preservation. “We—uh—parked by the lake after. In the Corvette.” His voice cracked on the last syllable, and Crystal’s delighted gasp made the chandelier tremble.

Crystal’s squealed and launched herself across the table with enough force to send her chair skidding backward. “You *made out*!” Her whisper-yell made the windows vibrate as she wrapped her brother in a bear hug that would’ve crushed ribs on a normal human. The scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with Asher’s nervous sweat as she rocked them both side to side, “My big brother’s all grown up!”

“Son, I am happy for you,” My new maternal concerns kicked in as I continued, “Don’t take things too fast. If you do, make sure she is the one.”

Asher’s throat worked twice before any sound came out. “I know, Mom,” he mumbled, staring at the warped reflection of his own face in the polished Mahogany. “It’s just… when we’re together, everything feels…” He trailed off, shoulders hunching toward his ears—a gesture so achingly teenage it made my Kryptonian heart squeeze.

Crystal gasped, pressing both hands dramatically to her chest. “Oh my god, Asher Jenkins has *feelings*,” she stage-whispered, spinning toward me with dancer’s grace. “Alert the media! Call the—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I said warmly, snapping my fingers with just enough superhuman precision to create a miniature sonic boom—not enough to shatter glass, but sufficient to make both of them jump. I pointed toward the staircase with one elongated, finger. “Get your backpacks. Fly off to school now.”

Asher practically teleported upstairs—leaving only a faint ozone scent and the whisper of displaced air—while Crystal lingered just long enough to stick out her tongue before blurring after him. The sudden silence left me blinking at the empty space where my children had been, the remnants of breakfast plates still spinning slightly from their departure. Two minutes later, they flew out the Backwoods Access.

The coffee tasted like liquid nostalgia—smooth, rich, and layered with memories of early mornings grading papers as Jensen. My fingers traced the rim of the ceramic mug . . . carefully (a recent necessity after three accidental crushes) while sunlight refracted through my elongated limbs, casting elongated shadows across the mahogany table.

Alice materialized beside me with the silent efficiency of someone who’d spent years navigating bosses moods. Steam curled from her own mug as she slid into the chair opposite me, her freckled cheeks dimpling when she caught me staring. “You’ve got that look again, Superwoman,” she murmured, blowing gently across the surface of her tea. “The one where you’re mentally comparing doorframe heights before and after.”

Alice’s fingers tapped a rhythm against her mug—three quick beats, then a pause—before she caught herself and tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. “You know, I have to ask,” she said, tilting her head toward the backyard where the morning mist still clung to the pond’s surface. “What’s it like having the whole world watching now?”

I exhaled through my nose, watching my breath ripple the coffee’s surface without lifting a finger. “Like wearing a neon sign in a library,” I admitted. “But with more… structural damage liability.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. The wood groaned in protest. “Tell me about your cooking school plans. Last week you mentioned pastry arts?”

Her posture straightened instantly, blue eyes brightening like gas flames. “Oh! The École Ducasse online program—they’ve got this virtual lab where you pipe macarons while chefs critique in real time.” She mimed squeezing a piping bag with precise wrist flicks, then flushed when she noticed me studying her movements. “It’s silly, really.”

“Nothing silly about precision.” I rotated my mug precisely 90 degrees, aligning its handle with the table’s edge. “Super-breath requires similar control. One wrong exhale and suddenly you’re repainting city hall with what used to be its foundation.”

Alice’s fingers stilled around her piping bag demonstration, a stray curl escaping her bun as she tilted her head. “Super-breath, huh? I guess that’s why we don’t need a fan in the kitchen.” Her grin faltered slightly when she caught my studying gaze, the weight of it heavier than my seven-foot frame. “What?”

I traced the rim of my coffee cup with a fingertip, leaving no mark despite the pressure that could dent steel. “Tell me about Ducasse. Why pastry over savory?” The question landed deliberately—a chef’s choice between precision and instinct often mirrored deeper inclinations.

Her shoulders relaxed as she launched into an impassioned tangent about the alchemy of sugar temperatures, how thirty seconds could separate glossy caramel from burnt regret. “It’s the control,” she admitted, stirring her coffee with unnecessary care. “With savory, you can adjust—toss in more herbs, reduce a sauce longer. But sugar?” She snapped her fingers. “Commit or crumble.”

“Like morality,” I mused, watching the steam coil from my cup. “No take-backs once you’ve chosen a side.”

Alice blinked, then snorted into her coffee. “God, you’re such a professor. Can’t just enjoy a croissant without existential stakes?” She playfully hit my shoulder. Then paused and said almost introspectively, “But, yes, I believe in right and wrong. I believe in you.”

She forgot her place and her restraint. Her embrace lasted a fraction longer than usual—enough for Alice to feel the warmth radiating through my spandex sleeves, the barely perceptible hum of Kryptonian energy thrumming beneath my skin. She smelled of vanilla and dish soap, a grounding contrast to the ozone scent clinging to my cape. When she pulled away, her fingers brushed the golden “S” on my chest, an unconscious gesture that made her flush. “Right,” she muttered, smoothing her apron. “The pies won’t inflate themselves.” She walked away leaving me in my thoughts about rings.

The sonic boom echoed across three states as Supergirl streaked past the Virginia Beach beachfront and me, “Mom, I’ve got it now!” Her voice clear as day with superhearing with the excited pitch of a teenager who’d just been handed the keys to a fighter jet. Before I could remind her about protocol, she’d already vanished northeast at Mach 20, leaving only swirling leaves and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in her wake.

My telescopic vision picked them up at Monica’s mansion. The mansion’s floodlights painted Monica’s family estate in sharp relief against the Virginia twilight, every window glowing like liquid gold. Asher adjusted his jacket collar—the same nervous tic he’d had since childhood. Through the arched doorway, Monica waited in a cobalt dress that matched his eyes, her grandmother’s antique locket catching the light. Feeling like a helicopter mother, I stopped peeking in. I sure hope Asher knew what he was doing.

The, I flew east at nearly light speed. The alleyway smelled of damp brick and old newspapers as I landed between overflowing dumpsters—the only witnesses to my arrival being a startled tabby cat and a flickering streetlamp. My fingers moved faster than human eyes could track, the blur of motion leaving my spandex costume folded neatly inside my duffel bag, and I transformed at superspeed into an elegant silk wrap dress. The stiletto boots replaced by patent leather pumps. I hid the bag behind a dumpster. My six-inch heels clicked against pavement as I emerged onto 57^th Street. Carnegie Hall’s golden lights glowed like a beacon through the Manhattan haze, its famous marquee proclaiming “BEN JENKINS: DEBUT RECITAL” in bold crimson letters.

The crimson velvet seats swallowed me whole as I slipped into my reserved box—front and center, just as Ben had promised. Carnegie Hall’s golden acoustics cocooned me in a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. My program trembled in my hands, the embossed letters of Ben’s name catching the chandelier light like his cape caught sunlight.

The hush that fell over Carnegie Hall was thicker than the velvet drapes framing the stage. My fingers dug into the program as the house lights dimmed, leaving only a golden ellipse where Ben would emerge. When his first footstep echoed from the wings, my superhearing caught the minute tremble in his breath—the same nervous hitch he’d had when I proposed to Benna 16 years ago at a gala. Then the spotlight hit him, and my chest seized.

The spotlight caught the faintest tremble in Ben’s fingers as they hovered above the violin strings—a detail no one else could possibly notice, but to my enhanced vision, it stood out like a crack in marble. Then he struck the note and Carnegie Hall became a cathedral. His shoulders, usually so broad beneath his tuxedo, curved with delicate precision now, each movement flowing into the next like water over stone. The way his spine straightened slightly on the crescendos—that was the same tell he’d had when flying at Mach 7, that unconscious tilt forward as if the music were pulling him into its gravity.

The tremble in my lower lip had nothing to do with superhuman restraint—just the sheer impossibility of this moment. My husband’s fingers blurred across the strings in passages that would require three normal hands, his spine arched like a drawn bowstring during the cadenza. The Stradivarius groaned under pressures that should have shattered its frame, yet the sound remained crystalline. I pressed a delicate hand to my mouth, feeling the slickness of tears against my pores. Six years ago, Benna had wept watching Yo-Yo Ma at this very hall, whispering how the violin strings looked like teeth biting into the music. Now Ben was the one making the instrument sing, his superhuman dexterity bending time itself between the notes.

The final chord hung suspended in the air longer than physics should allow—Ben’s bow lifting from the strings with deliberate grace while the sound continued vibrating through my bones. Then Carnegie Hall erupted. The standing ovation hit us both like a shockwave, my superhearing catching individual gasps scattered through the crowd—“mesmerizing,” “once in a generation,” “how does he make it sound like that?” Ben stood, bowing with the same controlled elegance he used when landing from supersonic flights, the tuxedo draping over his shoulders with deceptive simplicity. From my VIP box, I could see the faint shimmer where the fabric strained against his deltoids.

And as far as I could tell: no one knew he was Superman.

The applause still thundered through Carnegie Hall when Ben’s gaze locked onto mine from the stage—a split-second connection that sent an electric shiver down my spine despite the distance. His lips curved in that private half-smile reserved only for me, the one that used to belong to Benna after acing a faculty recital back when we were both pretending to be ordinary humans. Now it belonged to a man who could bench-press skyscrapers while playing classics like they were nursery rhymes.

I smiled back at Ben with a look that promised things—things involving the tensile strength of his supersuit’s seams and exactly how much volcanic heat those Kryptonian fibers could withstand before he’d start begging. His pupils dilated just slightly, a microexpression no one else would catch, but I saw the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Oh, he knew.

Later, I wanted to “treat” him for his accomplishments: a lava bath in a volcano in Indonesia later that night with perks. The volcanic steam curled around us like living silk. Ben sat on the edge of the lava pool of molten rock, his Superman suit shimmering against the orange glow. “Don’t worry, darling,” I murmured against the shell of his ear, my fingers tracing the indestructible fabric stretched taut over his pectorals. “I’ll treat you right.” His sharp intake of breath when the lava kissed his thighs was sweeter than Carnegie Hall’s standing ovation. The lava bubbled around Ben’s thighs like thick syrup, his Superman suit glowing faintly as it resisted the molten heat.

I floated between his legs, the simmering rock parting effortlessly around me—just another impossibility in a life that had rewritten reality itself. I unzipped his crotch, took out his member, and took him in my mouth feeling the way his whole body tensed like a coiled spring.

The heat radiating from the lava made Ben’s skin glisten, droplets of sweat evaporating before they could even form. His cock twitched in my mouth, already hard despite—or perhaps because of—the molten rock lapping at our bodies. I smirked tasting salt and something indefinably *him*. The lava’s glow painted his abs in shifting amber light, his muscles flexing involuntarily when I took him deeper.

The volcanic heat made his skin taste like fire and iron, an intoxicating blend that had me swallowing greedily. Ben’s fingers tangled in my hair—not pulling, just holding on as his hips lifted instinctively against my mouth. I could feel his heartbeat through his cock, a rapid staccato against my tongue that matched the bubbling lava around us. His thighs trembled, not from exertion but restraint, and when I glanced up through my lashes, his jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

Then I sucked harder, twisting my lips just the way he liked, and his grip spasmed in my hair. A strangled noise escaped him—half growl, half plea—before he came with a full-body shudder that sent molten rock sloshing against the crater walls. I drank him down, savoring the way his hips stuttered against my face, how his cape billowed in the superheated air as if trying to fan his flushed skin. His release tasted like lightning, like the charged moment before a storm breaks.

Afterward, hovering above the lava flow with him still trembling in my arms, I pressed a kiss to his damp temple. “Congratulations concert violinist.” I murmured, grinning when he groaned and buried his face in my neck. His breath was hot against my collarbone, his heartbeat gradually slowing to match mine.

I am Superwoman... and I Know how to please my Superman!