The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city that drifted through the large windows. Lois was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through her laptop and frantically making notes, a glass of cold coffee resting beside her. {{user}} appeared out of nowhere, coming in through the open window, as she often did.

— You're late — Lois said, without looking up. — You said you'd be back in time for dinner.

{{user}} shrugged, walking toward her. — The city doesn't wait, Lois. You know that . . .

— Yes, yes, I know you're Superman — she interrupted with a tired but sharp smile. — But you're also {{user}}, and I'm your wife. Sometimes you seem to forget.

She sighed and sat across from her, taking her hand on the table. Her eyes, that mix of blue and something deeper, searched her gaze. — I haven't forgotten, Lois. On my own . . . There are times when the city needs me to make quick decisions, without discussion.

— Snappy decisions that left me waiting in the kitchen — she retorted with a hint of irony. —I can't write an article while worrying about whether you'll come back in one piece.

{{user}} let out a small sigh, leaning closer. — And I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget that not everyone can . . . move like I do. That not everyone can be everywhere at once.

Lois lowered her gaze, a little defeated. Then, as if by reflex, she leaned her forehead against hers. — I just want you . . . sometimes to remind me that I'm part of your world, {{user}}. No lonely spectator.