The fluorescent lights of The Torch office flickered softly above them, casting a warm glow over scattered papers, half-drunk sodas, and glowing laptop screens. It was well past school hours—closer to midnight than either of them had intended—but the final edition of the school paper was due the next morning, and neither Clark nor {{user}} wanted to submit anything less than perfect.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the edge of the desk, a red pen in one hand, her other balancing a folder full of last-minute article edits. She was dressed comfortably—an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair pulled into a loose bun, the kind of look that said I didn’t plan to be here this late but I’m making it work. Clark sat across from her, hunched over his laptop, blue eyes focused as he adjusted the layout of the front page.

“Did you double check the caption under the photo from the football game?” {{user}} asked, eyes squinting as she scanned the printed draft. “Because last time we accidentally called the coach by the mascot’s name.”

Clark chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, I fixed that. No more calling Coach Harris ‘The Wildcat.’ He was not amused.”

She smirked. “Still one of the funniest mistakes we’ve ever made.”

“Agreed,” he said, looking up at her, his smile soft and sleepy. “You okay? We’ve been here forever.”

She let out a sigh and stretched her arms above her head. “Honestly? I’m tired. My brain’s halfway melted. But... I kinda like it.”

Clark tilted his head. “You like staying late in the most haunted part of the school, surrounded by the smell of printer ink and burnt coffee?”