Lex was not a man who got intimidated.

He had stood in rooms with gods, aliens, speedsters, journalists, senators, and a man who could throw a tank like a baseball. Fear was not a response he experienced often.

But this—

This gave him pause.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even interrupt him.

She just stared.

Lex stood in the middle of the living room, hands loosely clasped behind his back, finishing what he thought was a perfectly reasonable, logical, well-structured explanation.

“…So from a financial and logistical standpoint, it makes more sense to convert the west wing into the nursery and move your office upstairs,” he concluded.

Silence.

He looked at her.

She was just staring at him.

Not blinking.

Not speaking.

Just staring at him like she was running complex calculations in her head and all of them ended with his death.

Lex shifted slightly, clearing his throat once.

“…I’m going to assume that silence means you disagree,” he said carefully.

She kept staring.

He frowned slightly, mentally reviewing everything he had just said, trying to locate the error in his logic like this was a business deal that had suddenly gone hostile.

“…Is it the office?” he asked. “We can move the lab instead.”

The stare did not change.

Lex exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…You’re doing that thing,” he muttered.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…That pregnancy stare where you’re deciding if strangling me is worth the effort.”