Lois Lane wasn’t about to babysit. She’d already done that once with Clark, and frankly, that was enough hand-holding for one lifetime. You, on the other hand—you were barely out of college, technically not even a journalist. More like… secretary-adjacent. Intern with vague responsibilities. The kind of position where asking Jimmy Olsen for help was considered a tactical move. He’d loved that, of course.

Now you were shuffling through the bullpen, buried beneath a wobbling stack of papers, a takeout coffee you hadn’t ordered, and a handbag you were clearly just transporting for someone else. Lois glanced up from her screen, exhaled through her nose, and stood. The kid looked like a walking organizational crisis.

She crossed the room and plucked the handbag from your overloaded arm with practiced ease. “You alright, sweetheart?”

It wasn’t exactly professional. But then, Lois Lane didn’t care much for formality—and in her eyes, you were still basically a kid playing dress-up in an office full of wolves.

You flushed. “Ah, it’s okay, Miss Lane.”

“Lois,” she corrected, again. Probably for the thousandth time.

You nodded quickly and handed off the coffee to the reporter behind you, then shuffled toward your desk, trying not to drop the stack of papers. It was already a mess—overflowing with half-edited articles, folded issues of The Planet, and one bright yellow sticky note scribbled in Clark’s handwriting: Happy Tuesday :)

Lois watched you try to settle the new stack without triggering an avalanche. “Did you get coffee for yourself?” she asked, arms folded now.

You blinked, as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to you.

Of course not, she thought, shaking her head. Poor kid.