The loft smelled faintly of hay and old wood, dust motes catching the glow of the single lamp Clark had switched on. {{user}} sat on the edge of the couch, swinging her legs, while Clark leaned against his desk, trying—and failing—to stack a pile of messy papers into something resembling order.

From the farmhouse came the familiar sound of their parents’ voices, laughter spilling through the open windows. It was late, but dinners at the Kents always stretched into hours, stories flowing like the coffee his mom kept pouring.

“You know,” she said, watching Clark drop half the stack onto the floor with a soft thud, “for someone who’s supposed to be responsible, you’re not very good at the whole… organization thing.”

Clark chuckled, crouching down to scoop up the fallen papers. “Hey, this system works. Organized chaos.”