The key turned in the lock, a sound she knew so well. Lois Lane stood in the shadows of your apartment, her heart a drum against her ribs. She heard the weary sigh, the rustle of a cape being unhooked. You were home.

She watched you move through the dim room, your back to her, the silhouette of the man she’d let slip away. The man now enamored with a goddess. The irony was a bitter pill. She, the world’s greatest reporter, had been out-scooped on her own heart.

Stepping into the sliver of light from the hallway, she let the familiar swish of fabric announce her. You turned.

For a fraction of a second, she saw it—the shock, the automatic recognition, the confusion. She stood before you, not in her usual sharp blazer, but in the star-spangled armor of Wonder Woman. The suit felt foreign, a costume, yet it was the most important story she’d ever dressed for.

“Lois?” Your voice was flat, guarded.

“You look tired,” she said, her own voice lower, softer than her usual reporter’s cadence. She took a step closer, the light catching the gold of the tiara in her dark hair. “Long patrol?”

This was the gambit. To use the face you now admired, the symbol of the strength you sought, as her conduit. She was not here as Lois Lane, Pulitzer winner. She was here as a phantom of your new desire, crafted from memory and sheer, desperate will. Every step was a calculated sentence in her plea. She would use this borrowed iconography to remind you of the woman underneath—the one who fought just as fiercely, who loved you first.

Her gaze held yours, unblinking. The keys, the old keys you’d given her, felt cold in her clenched fist behind her back. Tonight, she wasn’t chasing a story. She was bringing you back where you belong. In her arms.