The TV is still playing your face when Lois walks in the door.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just sets her bag down with a soft thud, shrugs out of her blazer, and kicks off her heels like she’s been holding her breath all day. The apartment is warm, dimly lit, quiet in that post-broadcast sort of way. There’s half a bottle of wine on the counter, and one of your ties tossed over the back of the couch.

She glances at the screen, still flickering with your closing monologue.

“You misquoted my article,” she says by way of hello.

You don’t flinch. “I cited it.”

“Lois Lane, Daily Planet, isn’t the same as *some are saying, you coward.”

You turn, slowly. She’s got that look again—annoyed, a little smug, very possibly turned on.

“You’re mad because I beat you to the leak.”

She raises a brow. “I’m mad because you beat me to it using my research and then smiled into the camera like you’d done the work.”

You pour her a glass anyway. She takes it without thanks but with a smirk.

This is how it goes. You report for the Channel 5 News. She writes for the Planet. You both chase the same stories from opposite ends of the media food chain. Sometimes she gets there first. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you trade scoops over dinner, or during… other things.

Sometimes, like tonight, you argue about ethics with her knee between yours on the couch.

Lois pads across the floor, barefoot now, wine in hand, blouse half-unbuttoned from the train ride home. She drops onto the couch beside you with a sigh and clicks the remote until the screen cuts to black.

“You know,” she murmurs, tucking her feet under her, “most people bring their partner coffee after a long day. Not a quote from a federal indictment I’ve been chasing for a month.”

You grin. “You love me for it.”

She scoffs. “I tolerate you for it. On Tuesdays. Maybe Thursdays.”

She sips her wine, eyes already drifting toward your laptop.

“I know you’re sitting on more than you aired tonight,” she says. “Your tone shifted in the last twenty seconds. You were holding something back.”

You blink at her. “Are you interrogating me at home now?”

Lois shrugs. “I have range.”

She leans forward, presses her glass to the coffee table, and shifts until she’s straddling your lap—efficient, deliberate, utterly unbothered.

“If you’re not going to tell me your source,” she whispers, brushing her lips against yours, “at least make it worth my while.”

Your hands find her hips before your brain can stop them.

She smiles against your mouth. “Don’t worry. I won’t quote you.”