The clock on Clark’s wall ticked past midnight, the soft hum of the city drifting in through the half-open window. His apartment was lit only by the lamp on the desk, casting warm gold across scattered papers and the two of them.

{{user}} sat at the desk typing steadily, her hair falling into her face every so often. Clark, perched on the edge of the armchair with his sleeves rolled up, was pretending to proofread his own notes—though most of his attention kept sliding toward her.

“You know,” she said suddenly, not looking up from the screen, “for someone who types as fast as you, you’ve been awfully quiet.”

Clark blinked, caught. “Oh—uh, yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About the article?” she asked, glancing at him over the top of her laptop.

He hesitated, then gave a little shrug. “Something like that.”

She smiled faintly, turning back to her draft. “Right. Sure.”

For a while, the only sound was her typing and Clark absently tapping his pen against the arm of the chair. When she let out a sigh and leaned back, stretching, he immediately sat up straighter.

“Do you want coffee? Or tea? I can—uh—I can make something,” he offered quickly, already half-rising.