Lex was a man of routine. Precision. Systems.

He did not forget things.

He especially did not forget things that mattered.

Which was why it took him exactly twelve seconds after landing in Metropolis to realize something was wrong.

He was in the back of the car, already scanning emails, when the thought appeared—small, quiet, and then suddenly very loud.

The card.

He went very still.

“…Turn the car around,” he said.

His driver hesitated. “Sir, you have a board—”

“Turn the car around,” Lex repeated, voice calm, final.

Because every time he left for a trip, he put one of his cards in her nightstand. Same drawer. Same place. Same reason.

So she wouldn’t have to ask. So she wouldn’t have to worry. So she wouldn’t have to think he was keeping track.

And this time—

He had left early. A call, a delay, a change in schedule.

And he had forgotten.

Lex leaned back slightly in the seat, already doing the math, already predicting the conclusion she would come to, because he understood how people thought, how fear thought, how insecurity thought.

“She’s going to think I did that on purpose,” he muttered.

A pause.

He looked out the window, jaw tightening slightly, annoyed—but not at her.

At himself.

“…I don’t change the system without telling you,” he said quietly, like she could hear him anyway. “That would be inefficient. And I don’t do inefficient things.”