she has never cared to ask for permission. not from principals, not from drivers, and certainly not from the men who think the garage floor belongs to them more than it ever will to her. the aurelion garage hums around her, a controlled chaos, the scent of rubber and heat and something metallic in the air, but she moves through it like she owns it, heels softened by rubber flooring but no less deliberate. her badge swings at her hip ignored. her press access gets her in, but lois lane's reputation keeps her there. her eyes land on him, not where she expects. not center, not loud, not posturing like the others who glance at her twice and straighten up a little too quickly. he’s half under the car, sleeves rolled, grease along his forearms, focused in a way that makes the rest of the room feel like background noise. lois tilts her head slightly. interesting. she steps closer, slow enough to watch, to measure, the way he doesn’t rush, doesn’t scramble when someone calls something out across the garage, doesn’t even look up right away when her shadow cuts across the light. she stops just beside him, arms crossing loosely, one brow lifting as if she’s been standing there longer than she has. ❝ you always ignore journalists, or am i special? ❞ @clarkjosephs
