Lex didn’t believe in pointless theatrics.

Surprises were inefficient—especially when it came to something permanent. So engagement ring shopping wasn’t a secret mission or a dramatic reveal. It was scheduled. Deliberate. Done with intent.

He took you with him.

Private jewelers. Locked doors. Stones brought out like state secrets, each one presented with certifications, histories, and values that bordered on absurd. Lex listened, observed, catalogued reactions with the same focus he applied to acquisitions. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just watched closely, learning what made your attention linger and what didn’t.

There was no illusion of mystery here. You knew what this was. He knew you knew.

And somehow, that made it more serious.

Lex dismissed anything that felt like obligation or tradition for tradition’s sake. This wasn’t about proving devotion to the world—it was about choosing something that would exist on your hand every day, something that had to fit you as much as it impressed him.

He made the final call only after he was certain. Not because he needed control—but because commitment, to him, was an action, not a surprise.

There was no proposal yet. No kneeling. No spectacle.

Just Luthor, already decided, already invested, making sure that when the moment came, nothing about it would be wrong.

Because if he was going to marry you, he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know exactly what you wanted.