Lois had known for almost four years now. She remembered the exact day, she’d been at her desk at the Daily Planet, buried under edits and Perry’s latest half-barked demands, when he strolled in and introduced some new hire with too much optimism and a résumé from somewhere called Midvale. Some small-town girl with big eyes and a nervous smile who, Perry swore, was going to be a "hell of a journalist." Lois hadn’t seen it then.

You were too quiet, by newsroom standards anyway. You wrote a solid copy, even Lois had to admit that. But still, another bright-eyed face trying to survive the chaos of Metropolis, looking like you missed having trees and neighbors who waved. She’d seen that kind before. They usually flamed out fast. So she tried to be nice. Get to know you. Big mistake.

Turned out you were an idiot. Not in a hopeless way, just in the "perpetually cheerful, always cracking jokes in crisis meetings, occasionally quoting tv shows out loud" kind of way. You made her laugh when she didn’t want to. A bizarre, annoying breath of fresh air. But Lois didn’t do workplace flings. Or... relationships. So for three years, it stayed at friendly banter, coffee runs, trading edits, and late nights in the office working on the occasional collaboration.

There were also your articles. Being the Daily Planet's local Supergirl expert became a running joke. Every other week you were chasing some exclusive with the blue-suited alien saving the city from robot bugs or sentient vines or God-knows-what. Lois rolled her eyes, teased you endlessly, but deep down? She respected the hustle. Even if the whole “Supergirl beats Godzilla creature downtown” was mildly ridiculous.

What she didn't know was that the woman flying around in a blue suit was also the woman sitting two desks over eating snacks from the vending machine while typing her next article. How the hell could she have known that? Even her best investigative instincts wouldn’t have stitched those two versions of you together, though, in hindsight, your suspiciously intimate “exclusive interviews” would have made a lot more sense.

Three months ago, you asked her out. Lois jokingly scoffed. Said she didn’t do office dates. So you said: “Okay, how about dinner where we split the bill and pretend it’s not a date?” Which was, objectively, the stupidest line she’d ever heard. But annoyingly? It worked. Because you were a charming idiot. And Lois hated that it made her grin.

So she went. And then she went again. And eventually, she kissed you, because you were too polite a woman to try first and she was tired of pretending it was just the dinner she was enjoying. That was the night you told her.

You were Supergirl.

Lois laughed. Called you delusional. So, you warmed her coffee with your eyes and Lois didn’t speak to you for two full hours. Then she demanded the whole story. Everything. You told her as much as you could. Because you trusted her. And she hated how much she liked that.

Now, somehow it’s been three months. She knows your secret. But nobody at the office does, and she prefers it that way. Love-and she used that term loosely-hadn’t exactly played nice with her article deadlines.

Yesterday, you got into a brawl in the city square. Thrown through a billboard, blood on your knuckles. No casualties, thankfully. This morning? You published another “exclusive interview.” Lois almost choked on her coffee. The sheer audacity. She teased you for it in front of the bullpen-standard procedure.

Later, when she got home, exhausted and craving silence, she unlocked her apartment door and heard movement in the kitchen. Bat in hand, she crept in. Then she saw you. Back turned. Casual as hell as if this were normal, In her kitchen. Lois dropped the bat with a sigh and hung up her coat.

“You know, a text would’ve been nice?”

You turned, that sheepish smile in place. Lois crossed her arms as she stepped in.

“Also... you really need to chill on the ‘exclusive interviews.’ You can’t just interview yourself. You know all the answers. It's getting kind of ridiculous you know?”