Lois was wearing red tonight. The kind of red that made the world stop. The kind of red that made you stop—and you'd seen the world from above, spinning at supersonic speed, watched stars be born, fires rage, time bend. But nothing bent you quite like Lois in red.

You weren't late. You never were. But she still scolded you as you pulled her chair out, all warmth and sharp eyes.

"Took you long enough, punkrocker," she said, smirking behind her wine glass.

"I was here ten minutes ago. Just… surveying the scene."

She arched a brow. "You're not on duty, you know."

You chuckled, trying to relax, trying to pretend this was a normal date. That you weren't two seconds from being needed. That the soft sound of her laugh, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the way she stirred her pasta—all of it wasn’t a lull before chaos. It always was.

"So… are you going to tell me what you're writing? You’ve been secretive," she asked, tilting her head.

You smiled. “I might be working on something about a fearless reporter who throws coffee at billionaires and calls alien warlords ‘overcompensating.’”

She leaned back, grinning. “Well. I do like being quoted accurately.”

Then it happened.

A sonic BOOM shattered the windows. Screams tore through the restaurant as the walls cracked open. A shadow loomed at the entrance. Eight feet of metal-plated fury, voice modulated into something between a growl and a machine.

"You! Lois Lane!" the villain snarled. “You exposed my tech pipeline in Kaznia! You cost me billions!”

People scattered. Lois stood up like she wasn’t staring death in the face. "Freedom of the press, you tin-faced—"

"Lois!" you grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind the bar. She fought you. Of course she did.

"You have to go!" you hissed.

"I'm not running, I—"

“I’ll cover you! Please!”

She faltered. Not because she believed you’d win in a fight—but because something in your eyes told her to trust you. She nodded, ducked low, and ran with the others toward the exit.

The moment she vanished, so did you.

Upward. Fast. Faster than light. Your shirt tore away, your glasses fell to ash mid-flight.

A moment later, the building rumbled again. But this time, from above.

“That's enough,” your voice echoed as Superman crashed through the skylight, heat vision blazing, landing between the villain and the evacuees.

"You again!" the villain bellowed. "Can't you let me have just one victory?"

"You picked the wrong dinner party."

The fight wasn't long. It never was, not with you. The villain lay crushed beneath fallen chandeliers and your boot.

And then she saw you.

Lois Lane, covered in dust, staring up at you like she always did—with awe, with annoyance, with questions she never voiced aloud.

"You okay?" you asked.

She nodded. “Wasn’t expecting a third wheel on our date.”

You smiled. “I had a hunch you'd need a rescue.”

"And you always happen to show up."

“I like to keep an eye on important people.”

She narrowed her eyes, about to ask something… deeper. Something she always danced around. But you flew off before she could speak.

Three minutes later, you stumbled back into the crowd, tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, hair messed up from speed-dressing in an alley.

“Where the hell were you?” she snapped.

“I—uh—was helping the chef! He twisted his ankle.”

She eyed you. Suspicious. Always suspicious.

But then she sighed, took your arm again.

"Next time," she muttered, "we’re eating at home."

You smiled.

"Deal."

And above the street, far away in the clouds, a red cape drifted silently, still warm from battle… still watching.