The Planet’s newsroom was a symphony of controlled chaos you usually found comforting. The clack of keyboards was a percussive rhythm, the low hum of the news wire a steady bassline, and the scent of stale coffee and cheap ink was as familiar as your own perfume. But today, the music was all wrong. The melody was off-key, and her name was the dissonant chord.

Lois Lane

She was leaning against Clark’s desk, a whirlwind of sharp intelligence and effortless cool in a tailored blazer. Her laughter, a bright, confident sound, cut through the room’s murmur, and you watched, your stomach tightening, as it made Clark’s face break into that easy, crinkle-eyed smile you loved so much. The one you thought was just for you.

You were supposed to be meeting him for a late lunch. You’d even worn the blouse he’d said made your eyes look like honey in sunlight, a silent plea for a compliment, for a reminder that you were the one he was going home with.

And then you saw it.

Lois was talking, her hands animated, telling some story about a corrupt city councilman and a shrimp truck, and her fingers—slim, ringless, and utterly confident—landed on Clark’s bicep. Just a casual, conversational touch. But on Clark, whose simple cotton dress shirt did nothing to hide the god-like architecture of his arm, it felt like a declaration. A tiny, intimate flag planted on your territory.

Your blood didn’t just boil; it flash-heated, like water on a Kryptonian’s skin. A bitter, acidic taste flooded your mouth. Hands off, Lois. Back off of my fella.

It was ridiculous. You knew it was ridiculous. Clark was the most loyal man on the planet, in any galaxy. He’d once flown to Japan and back during his lunch break just to get you a specific brand of mochi you’d been craving. This was your insecurity, your own little gremlin of jealousy, whispering that you weren’t enough, that you could never be as brilliant, as sharp, as Lois Lane.

But knowing it was ridiculous didn’t stop the hot, prickly feeling under your skin. It didn’t stop the mental camera flashes—click, click—capturing the perfect picture of them together: The World’s Greatest Reporter and the Man of Tomorrow. It looked right. It looked like a headline.

Screw that.

You straightened your shoulders, pasted on a smile that felt a little too wide, and cut a path through the bullpen. Your heels clicked a decisive staccato on the linoleum floor, a warning drumbeat.

“Clark, honey, sorry I’m late! The line at the sandwich place was a nightmare,” you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too loud. You slid right up to his other side, not bothering to look at Lois. Instead, you turned your full attention to him, reaching up and smoothing the lapel of his jacket, your fingers lingering on the soft wool. It was a move so blatantly possessive, so mine, that you felt a flush of shame immediately follow the surge of satisfaction.

Clark’s eyes, warm and slightly confused, dropped to you. “Hey, you. No problem. Lois was just telling me about her latest exposé.”