Five minutes ago, {{user}} had her face buried in the warm curve of Lois’s neck, her breath brushing over the soft skin just beneath her ear. She’d been counting down to this night with the kind of anticipation that made time crawl—three months since their first date. A small milestone, maybe, but one that felt enormous to her.

She’d spent the day obsessing over the simplest details: sourdough pancakes for dinner (Lois’s favorite), chilled orange juice with the pulp strained (Lois hated pulp), and that one rom-com {{user}} had been begging Lois to sit through from start to finish without checking her phone or launching into a geopolitical monologue. {{user}} had plans—cuddles, syrup, laughter. The works.

They had made it halfway through breakfast-for-dinner and even further into each other’s arms when Lois, lips still warm from kissing, dropped a line like a thrown match.

“So,” she murmured, eyes sharp even in affection, “are you ever going to stop giving yourself exclusive interviews as Supergirl? Because at some point, someone’s going to notice.”

Oh.

The conversation had pivoted quickly, as it always did with Lois—clever, incisive, impossible to dodge. The suggestion had floated between them like a dare: What if Lois interviewed her properly?

Now, the living room was dim, the kitchen behind them forgotten. Lois had pulled out her recorder—because of course she had it in hand—and set it down on the coffee table between them. She pressed play, her fingers unflinching. The red light blinked.

A single word filled the room, clean and crystalline through the speaker.

“Supergirl.”

{{user}} smiled at first. Funny. A little thrill even. Then hell broke loose.

Lois’s voice, now clinical and sharp-edged, cut through the static.

“Recently, you’ve come under a lot of fire for what some might call a violation of international diplomatic law. Today, the Secretary of Defense stated that he plans to open an inquiry into your actions.”

So much for syrup and kisses.