The day had wrung them both out, the kind of exhaustion that clung like static even after they’d left the newsroom. By the time they reached his apartment, Clark was already loosening his tie, ready to collapse. He’d gone to the kitchen for water, but when he came back, {{user}} was fast asleep in his bed—still in her work clothes, hair fanned across his pillow, one arm dangling lazily over the edge like she’d just melted there.

Clark froze in the doorway, something tender blooming in his chest. She hadn’t meant to stay, but she looked so at home—like she belonged here. He let out a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head.

Instead of waking her, he moved quietly. He slipped off her shoes and set them neatly by the dresser. He folded her blazer and draped it over the chair, careful not to wrinkle it. Then, with hands gentler than he even realized he could manage, he tugged the blanket over her shoulders. For a moment, he just stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, watching the rise and fall of her breathing. It was ridiculous, how much he loved her. Ridiculous, how dizzy it made him feel.

By the time she stirred awake an hour later, Clark was sitting at the edge of the bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, glasses slipping down his nose, typing half-heartedly at whatever story he pretended to work on. The moment her eyes blinked open, he snapped it shut, guilty like he’d been caught.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to…” She looked around, realizing. “I fell asleep in your bed.”

Clark’s ears flushed instantly. He pushed his glasses up, stammering, “Don’t apologize. You—uh—you looked tired. I just thought you’d be more comfortable here.”