Lex didn’t look up from his screen when he said it.

He was mid-calculation, fingers moving with practiced ease, the glow of data reflected in his glasses. He’d already noticed her hovering—hesitant, pacing just enough to register as a distraction but not enough to justify interruption. He catalogued it the same way he did inefficiencies.

Finally, he sighed and leaned back.

“All you have to do is ask,” he said, tone clipped but not cruel. “I’m not going to bite your head off, woman.”

He glanced at her then, actually looked—the uncertainty, the way she’d clearly rehearsed this in her head and talked herself out of it three times already. That softened something sharp behind his eyes, just barely.

Lex set the tablet aside. Gave her his full attention. That, more than the words, was the real concession.

He didn’t enjoy guessing. He didn’t enjoy people shrinking themselves around him either. Problems existed to be stated plainly and solved efficiently. Wants included.

Whatever she needed—time, resources, permission, reassurance—he was already prepared to handle it. He just required one thing first.

Clarity.

Because for all his reputation, Luthor didn’t punish honesty.

He punished silence.