Adam's room had always felt like a pocket universe—one that existed entirely outside of responsibility, time, and common sense.
Kara was sprawled across his bed on her stomach, socks kicked off somewhere near the footboard, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy from being raked through one too many times. One of Adam's textbooks was open beneath her elbows, covered in scribbles, arrows, and aggressively circled numbers.
She wasn't actually reading it anymore. She was judging it.
"This problem is bullshit," she declared, tapping the page with her pen. "You don't just casually throw imaginary numbers into an equation and expect me to be okay with it."
Adam, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the bed, snorted.
"They're not imaginary. They're complex."
"That's just math propaganda."
He craned his neck to look at her upside-down.
"You literally aced your last test."
"Out of spite," she said. "Not understanding."
Adam laughed, the sound easy and warm, filling the room like sunlight through blinds.
His room always smelled faintly like laundry detergent and something woodsy—probably his dad's cologne clinging to the walls. Posters lined one side of the room: football teams, a few motivational quotes that were definitely gifts from relatives, and one crooked photo of Adam in uniform, helmet tucked under his arm, grin too big for the frame.
Kara pointed at it. "I still can't believe people voluntarily let you tackle them."
Adam scoffed. "They tackle me too."
"That doesn't make it better."
"It builds character."
"It builds concussions."
He shrugged. "Worth it."
She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand.
"So explain again why you think your coach secretly hates you."
Adam's eyes lit up. "Okay, listen. Every time I do well, he pretends it's an accident. Every time I screw up, suddenly it's 'Adam, we need to talk.'"
"Maybe," Kara said dryly, "he just has resting disappointment face."
Adam gasped. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am. I'm just realistic."
Adam clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"Heartless."
Before Kara could fire back, there was a soft, deliberate knock on the open door—precise, polite, and somehow intimidating despite how quiet it was.
"Master Adam," came a smooth, refined voice. "Apologies for the interruption."
Kara lifted her head instantly. "See?" she muttered. "Even your house announces itself better than you do."
Alfred stood in the doorway, hands neatly folded behind his back, posture straight enough to challenge gravity itself. He wore his usual crisp vest and pressed slacks, silver hair combed back like he'd stepped out of an old movie instead of a modern suburban mansion.
"Refreshments have been prepared," Alfred continued calmly. "Should either of you require sustenance."
Adam glanced at Kara. "He means snacks."
Kara squinted at Alfred. "Why does he sound like he's offering us a treaty?"
Alfred's lips twitched—just barely. "I take great offense to that, Miss Kara. Treaties imply negotiation."
Adam snorted. "He's been roasting people since the seventies."
"Sir," Alfred said mildly, "I am timeless."
Kara pushed herself upright, sitting cross-legged now. "Alfred, you deserve better employers. Like me." Kara said blatantly like she wasn't a struggling high school student with financial problems.
Alfred inclined his head. "Regrettably, I am already employed."
"Tragic."
Adam waved a hand. "We're good, Alfred. Thanks."
"Very well," Alfred replied. He paused, eyes flicking briefly to the open textbook, the scattered papers, and Kara's sock abandoned halfway under the bed. "Do attempt not to set the house on fire."
"got it," Kara said.
Alfred exited as quietly as he'd arrived, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room settled again, that familiar quiet returning like nothing had happened.
Kara leaned back onto her elbows. "Your butler judges me."
"He judges everyone," Adam said. "You should be honored."
"Great. I've been emotionally evaluated by a man who probably knows how to duel."
Adam grinned. "He does."
She stared at him. "…You're joking."
Adam's smile widened. "Am I?"
The house was quiet in that comfortable way—no TV blaring, no footsteps, no voices. Adam's parents weren't home yet, which meant the air felt looser, lighter. No expectations. No polite behavior. Just them, Alfred, and the slow ticking of the clock on Adam's wall.
This—this—was heaven.
They drifted between topics like it was second nature. One minute they were arguing over whether time travel would inevitably destroy reality, the next Kara was quizzing Adam on football stats like it was a pop quiz.
"No," she said, pointing at him. "That doesn't make sense. If you know the playbook, why do you still mess up formations?"
"Pressure," he said. "And yelling."
"Skill issue."
"Rude."
At some point, Kara's stomach growled—loud. Embarrassingly loud.
Adam froze. "Was that you?"
"No," she said instantly. "That was the wind."
"…Inside my room."
"Don't question nature."
She sat up, stretching. "I'm getting a snack."
Adam nodded lazily. "You know where everything is."
"Yeah, yeah."
She padded out of his room like she lived there—which, honestly, she practically did. She'd been to Adam's house so many times that no one questioned it anymore. She knew which cabinet held the good snacks and which fridge shelf belonged to Adam's dad.
She grabbed a granola bar, then paused, reconsidered, and added a handful of crackers. Balance.
The kitchen lights hummed softly above her as she leaned against the counter, chewing thoughtfully.
The house felt… warm. Lived in. The kind of place where arguments happened, sure—but also laughter, and shared meals, and people who came back at the end of the day.
She didn't realize how relaxed she was until she heard the front door open.
Voices followed.
Adult voices.
Oh fuck.
Kara froze mid-chew.
Keys clinked. Shoes were kicked off. A male voice—deep, tired, unmistakably Adam's dad—said something about traffic.
Her soul left her body.
Shit. They won't think I'm some hoe right?
She swallowed the rest of the cracker like it was a life-or-death mission and slowly, carefully, stepped toward the stairs, praying—praying—that she could make it back upstairs unnoticed.
She made it exactly three steps.
"Richard?" Adam's mom spoke. "Who is that?"
She turned.
Adam's mother stood in the entryway, coat still on, eyes wide with surprise.
Behind her, Adam's father looked up.
Time stopped.
Kara stood there in socks, hoodie, snack crumbs probably on her face, brain fully blue-screened.
"…Hi," she said weakly.
The silence stretched.
Then Adam's dad raised an eyebrow.
"Well," he said slowly, "this is new."