When Perry assigned you and Clark to cover a last-minute story out of town, Clark didn't hesitate. He said “sure” before Perry even finished the sentence. Not because the assignment sounded thrilling—although it kind of did—but because you were going. And he would’ve followed you to Antarctica if you asked.

He told himself it was just professional. A good opportunity. That was easier than admitting he liked the way you always held your coffee with both hands like it was a lifeline, or how you lit up when a story started to click.

Then Perry said the paper was “tight on travel funds.” What he meant, apparently, was: you’ll be flying coach, sharing a rental, and staying at a motel where the check-in counter doubles as a bait shop.

Clark didn’t complain–he never did. But the second he saw the roadside motel that looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since dial-up internet, he hesitated.

“He said it had… charm.”

The flight had been cramped, his knees practically crushed to his chest. You'd fallen asleep on his shoulder for twenty-three minutes, and he had barely breathed the whole time. He’d told himself not to read into it.

And then the motel clerk handed over one key.

“One room?” Clark asked, blinking. “Are you sure?”

“Only vacancy we’ve got,” she muttered, sliding the key across the counter.

The room wasn’t awful–it just wasn’t made for two people who… weren’t a couple. There was one bed, an old floral comforter, and a wall unit that wheezed like it had asthma. Clark stood in the doorway for a full five seconds, trying not to stare.

“Oh,” he said, voice soft. “That’s… okay. I’ll take the floor.”

Then, as if scripted by some cosmic joke, thunder cracked loud enough to shake the windows. Rain pelted the roof a second later, drowning out everything else. The lights flickered, the power turning off and on–and you both doubted it would last through the night.

Clark cleared his throat.

“I, uh… I brought snacks, if you’re hungry. And I’ve got an extra hoodie if you get cold.”