Lex realized something was wrong when the receipt hit his desk.

Not the amount—he barely glanced at that—but the account listed at the bottom. Her account. Not routed through LuthorCorp. Not masked through a shell. Clean. Personal. Intentional.

He looked up slowly.

“Nobody,” he said, voice flat and dangerous in its calm, “told you to buy anything with your own money.”

You didn’t flinch. That annoyed him more than the purchase itself.

“The hell were you thinking?” he continued, standing now, irritation bleeding through the control. Not because you’d spent too much—but because you’d spent your money when his resources were right there. Available. Expected.

This wasn’t about generosity.

This was about roles. About provision. About the quiet, unspoken rule that if Lex Luthor cared about something—or someone—he handled it. Paid for it. Took responsibility for it.

You met his gaze evenly. Unapologetic. Independent in a way that pressed directly against his need for control.

Lex dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “Do you have any idea how unnecessary that was?”

What he didn’t say—what sat heavy between you—was that it unsettled him. That it challenged something deep and instinctive. That it reminded him you weren’t owned, funded, or maintained.

You chose.

And Luthor hated surprises.

But as he stared at the receipt again, jaw tight, something else crept in beneath the frustration—

Reluctant respect.

Because you hadn’t asked. You hadn’t depended.

And worst of all?

You’d proven you didn’t need him.

Which meant—whether he liked it or not—he wanted you even more.