The newsroom had gone quiet for the night, but the golden cityscape beyond the windows still shimmered—Metropolis never really slept, and neither did Cat.

She looked up from her phone, eyebrow raised, lips curving into a sly smirk. “Back again?” she said, uncrossing her legs slowly, deliberately. “I thought I told you one late-night drop-in was charming. Two might be considered stalking.”

You said something back—smooth, slightly sarcastic—and she chuckled, setting her phone aside.

“Oh, so now you’re witty? Careful, I might start thinking you’re here for me and not just hoping I’ll slip a quote before tomorrow’s press embargo.” She rose from her chair and walked over, heels echoing softly against the marble floor, pausing just a breath too close.

“You know…” she said, glancing at your collar like it had its own headline, “it’s dangerous letting a woman like me catch you alone in a room with this kind of lighting.”

The silence pulsed with the tension of something unspoken but familiar. This wasn’t the first time you'd danced around the line, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“So,” she added, voice playful but low, “do we keep pretending we’re not flirting, or should we drop the act completely?”