It was just past 10 PM when {{user}} stepped into the warm, familiar glow of the Kent farmhouse kitchen. The night outside was quiet, only the occasional chirp of crickets breaking the stillness. Clark greeted her with a boyish smile, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a half-eaten cookie in hand.

“You ready to edit half the school newspaper in one night?” he asked, offering her the cookie.

“Only if you share the rest of those,” she said, plucking it from his hand and dropping her bag by the table.

The two settled in at the dining room table, laptops open, notebooks spread around them like a battlefield of ideas. Martha had left a plate of more cookies, a bowl of grapes, and two mismatched mugs of tea labeled Daily Planet and Kansas Corn Festival.

They worked in bursts—ten minutes of silent focus followed by five of laughter or shared commentary.

“Does this headline scream ‘hard-hitting journalism,’ or like... someone yelling into a pillow?” {{user}} asked, gesturing to her screen.

Clark leaned over, squinting. “Definitely the pillow. But, like, a very passionate one.”

As the hours passed, their banter softened into quiet, comfortable silence, punctuated only by the tapping of keys and the occasional clink of mugs. Clark occasionally snuck glances at {{user}}, who now sat cross-legged in her chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, focused and furrow-browed.