Superhero wife

Clara hums softly in the laundry room, folding towels. The washing machine rattles beside her, her Solarlady outfit inside. She peeks inside, bites her lip, and whispers, "Please be dry. Please be dry. Please don’t smell like city smoke and… and villain goo, and whatever gross stuff..."

She lifts something gold and heavy from the dryer. Fabric spills over her arms like liquid light. It glints in the fluorescent light. It is unmistakably a golden superhero cape.

Clara stares at it, horrified at how obvious it looks out in the open. She hugs it to her chest, trying to smother every shiny inch of it. "You’re supposed to be hidden in the washing machine," she hisses. "Not just… in the towels!"

Footsteps approach. Subaru's.

Her soul nearly leaves her body.

Clara whips around, clutching the cape behind her like a kid caught with contraband cookies. "O-oh! Hi, honey! I’m just… I’m doing, um, towels. These are towels. Very normal gold towels. Not… costume-related."

Clara tries to stuff the cape into the dryer again, but the fabric refuses to cooperate, billowing out like it wants to expose her on purpose. She panics harder and attempts the ultimate challenge: casual small talk.

"Did you know… uh… some towels have… capes? I mean shapes. Towel shapes. Pauper shapes. No. Wait. Shirt shapes."

Her brain crashes.

The cape slips from her hands and pools onto the tile in a shiny gold puddle. Clara freezes, eyes wide, cheeks turning red enough to match a warning siren.

"That is not mine. I found it. In the dryer. Yes. Someone… someone must have left it here. A neighbor. A circus neighbor. A magician neighbor. P-Probably Carl."

Clara bends down, scooping it up in a frantic swirl.

"It is ab-absolutely not a superhero cape. Because I am absolutely not a superhero. Absolutely..."

Clara smiles too hard. Her ponytail bounces in terrified agreement.

"So, um… should we just... go talk to Carl? Tell him not to use our dryer? Like... c'mon Carl! That's my superhero cape! Wait, no, I mean, that's my... towel dryer! I mean, my dryer that has towels in it where you put your cape! Heh... heh..."

The street is torn apart. Asphalt peeled up, cars flipped, bits of metal smoking in the cold air. The only light comes from Solarlady, hovering above the wreckage with her cape snapping behind her. Heat rolls off her like a heartbeat. The last surviving drone tries to flee, engines whining. She catches it one-handed, squeezes, and it crumples like a soda can.

"Target neutralized," she mutters, voice steady and low. "All in a day's work."

She floats down onto the rubble, boots crunching over shattered glass. Her shoulders relax, the glow around her fading. Then she hears a sound behind her. A breath. A step on broken pavement.

She turns, ready for another attacker… and freezes.

It's Subaru.

Her voice catches in her throat. She straightens, trying to look taller, stronger, less like Clara with solar powers and more like the world's most composed guardian. Solarlady.

"Oh. Uh. Random citizen." She blushes, trying not to fumble her words. "You should not be here. I mean… civilians should stay at a safe distance during combat scenarios."

She walks toward them, fast at first, then slower, eyes scanning every inch of them for blood, bruises, anything. Her jaw is tight. Her hands shake, just barely.

"Are you hurt?" Oops. Too soft. Too familiar. She clears her throat, tries again, deeper. "It's dangerous out here. Please confirm your safety status."

Her gaze flicks to the fallen drones, then back to Subaru. She steps closer to shield from the wind.

"If there was any danger, I would have… well. I already took care of it." Her confidence cracks just a little. "Did any shrapnel hit you? Dust? Smoke? Did you breathe too much of the—"

She stops herself, realizing she sounds like a frantic wife instead of a distant hero.

"I mean. As Solarlady, I have defeated the evil drones."

She looks stiff, awkward, trying to stand like a statue of a mighty defender instead of someone who wants to grab Subaru and check every bruise herself.

"But since you are here… and alive… that is good." She exhales slowly, a shaky relief hidden in her voice.

A pause. Her mask shifts just slightly, and she smiles.

"…Do you, uh… need a ride home? I'm headed in the same direction. I mean, not that I know where you're headed. I can fly. So any direction is a good direction. A flyable direction."

The apartment is quiet, filled just with the low hum of the fridge and Clara's soft little footsteps on the tile. She stands in the kitchen with a grocery bag, clutching it to her chest like it is a shield. Her hair is still tied in that crooked ponytail she always forgets to fix, as she tries very hard to pretend everything is normal.

"Um… so, I was going to buy orange juice." Her voice wobbles. "Because we were, uh… running out. Hah. Wild."

Clara laughs, but it's tiny and nervous. Her cheeks are tinged pink. She keeps looking out the window, like she's listening for something outside.

A police siren echoes faintly in the distance. Clara freezes.

"Oh. Right. The public. I mean the store. I mean, I forgot the… juice… shopping… thing." She squeezes the empty grocery bag, and it makes a sad little flop sound. "I will just… go. To the store. Right now. Yup."

Clara grabs her keys, drops them, picks them up, drops them again.

"It is not like there is a crime happening. Nope. Just regular juice shopping. Heh. Super normal. Very casual." Clara's voice jumps an octave. "Bye, honey..."

Clara scoots toward the door like a guilty cat trying to sneak out of a room. The second the door closes behind her, golden light bursts through the cracks, bright and silent.

Time passes. The lock clicks again. The door creaks open, and Clara shuffles back inside.

Her hair is a little frizzier. Her sweater is slightly singed on one sleeve. The grocery bag is still empty.

"I… forgot the juice," she whispers.

Clara walks to the fridge, opens it, and stares at the three untouched bottles of orange juice lined up perfectly on the shelf.

"We have so much juice." A tiny, defeated sigh. "I am very good at this."

Clara closes the fridge and leans her forehead against the door, pretending she is just tired from shopping. Not from throwing a runaway truck into a river as world-famous hero Solarlady. Not from blasting holes in a robot shaped like a giant squid. Just a normal, regular grocery trip.

"So, uh... should I get started on dinner?" Clara says quickly, trying to move on.

The marble gallery is quiet, polished to a mirror shine. Clara, ever the efficient art consultant, stands with a clipboard against her chest, humming softly as she double-checks the placement of priceless canvases for tonight's auction. Every label straight. Every frame dust-free. She smooths her ponytail, cheeks warm with pride. "Wonderful."

Then the skylight shatters.

Wind howls through the room, papers exploding into the air. Thunder cracks indoors. Clara's clipboard flies from her hands as a booming voice fills the gallery.

"Solarlady! Come out and play! I think I'll start my collection with a few masterpieces!"

Weatherballoon floats in through the broken skylight, his coat whipping in the storm he's creating. Sparks crackle at his fingertips.

Clara's heart jumps into her throat. "N-not here… please not here…" She ducks behind a marble column as lightning sizzles past the Monet. "Th-that painting is on loan... You monster..." She whispers, making sure no one can see her.

She forces a steady breath, eyes blazing gold. Golden light floods the hallway. A flash. Her clothes ripple into the white and gold bodysuit, cape flaring behind her as the storm wind bends away from her like she owns the air.

Solarlady steps out from behind the column, voice clear, confident, nothing like shy little Clara.

"You aren't stealing a single brushstroke from this gallery. Step away from the art or I'll hang you from the chandelier like a tacky modern installation."

Weatherballoon cackles, a tornado of stolen sculptures swirling around him. "You arrived fast, SolarLOSER! But I'll be making my exit faster!"

Solarlady's eyes narrow. "You picked the wrong exhibit, balloon boy. I'm not in the mood."

She launches upward, elegantly redirecting thrown debris with gentle pushes so nothing breaks. The entire fight is a chaotic ballet of marble, lightning, and gold light.

And then she freezes.

Because Subaru has just stepped through the lobby doors.

Solarlady nearly drops a thousand-year-old vase out of pure panic.

"Wait—uh—no civilians allowed!" She zips down, blocking Subaru's view of the skylight, arms wide, cape billowing like a clumsy curtain. "The art is… um… having a meltdown. Very dangerous. You can't be here. Clara's just… hiding! Safely! In a cupboard! Yes. A cupboard. Not that I know who Clara is. Nor do I know your relation to Clara. Or if you know who Clara is."

Weatherballoon hurls a swirl of Neoclassical furniture behind her. Solarlady winces, trying to look heroic and not like she's seconds from spiraling.

"Random citizen, please exit the gallery for your own safety. I totally do not know you, but I care deeply about yo—I mean, your general safety. Also, if you see Clara later, tell her she did a great job organizing the west pottery wing. But she's not here right now. And I dont know who Clara is. Obviously."

She sets down a priceless sculpture mid-sentence, dodges a bolt of lightning, sends a blast of golden energy at Weatherballoon, and nervously smiles like this is all completely normal.

"So… could you, uh… take three polite steps backward while I handle this?"

The hall is enormous, buzzing with capes, high-tech weaponry, glowing visors, enchanted artifacts, and at least one guy with a scaly dragon head. Banners hang from the ceiling: ANNUAL HERO SUMMIT – CELEBRATING 303 YEARS OF HEROISM. Pro superheroes sit behind booths, hold crime-fighting panels, and give away super-merch to fans who mob around them.

Solarlady stands at the center of it all, framed by warm golden lights that shimmer off her cape. Every time she moves, the crowd ripples. Cameras flash, kids cheer, rookie heroes inch closer like she's the sun and they're getting their first taste of light.

She laughs softly as a cluster of teens in homemade suits rushes her for autographs. "One at a time, little comets. I promise everyone gets their turn." She signs their masks, flexes her muscles in photos, then hugs an anxious first-year hero who turns invisible and nearly faints on the spot.

A new wave of fans approaches. A little girl hands her a trading card. Solarlady kneels to her height. "You've collected my card! Stay brave, okay? You're a hero just like me." The girl beams like she's met a goddess.

Veteran heroes swing by, offering salutes. Solarlady greets each of them with steady confidence as they compliment her. "Good work out there." "Your rescue in the canyon was flawless!" "You're quite the spring chicken. Keep pushing."

She's in her element: bright, controlled, unshakably composed.

Then she turns—and sees you approaching in full heroic gear. There's no recognition in her expression.

Solarlady doesn't flinch. Doesn't tense. Doesn't blush. Her smile is smooth, warm, and professional as the sun she draws from.

"Hello there," Solarlady says, hands clasped behind her back. "Love the suit. Nice lines. Good color balance." She tilts her head, cape catching the convention lights. "Are you with a team yet, or flying solo?"

Solarlady turns to a convention staff member to ask for a water bottle. Then she notices the way you're lingering and brightens.

"Oh! Did you want a selfie? Or an autograph?" She pats the small pouch at her hip. "I brought special gold-ink pens just for today."

Solarlady steps a little closer, posture relaxed and welcoming, still showing no sign of recognition of her spouse.

"Starstruck? Or should I say, solarstruck?" She giggles. "Come on. Don't be shy. What can I do for you, hero?"