The newsroom hums — phones ringing, printers spitting out proofs, the low thrum of a dozen stories fighting to be told first. You’re at your desk with a red pen in hand when a familiar draft lands on top of your inbox.

Clark’s handwriting on the sticky note: “Be gentle?”

You glance over your monitor. He’s at his desk pretending not to watch you, glasses slipping down his nose, expression that perfect mix of earnest and nervous.

You pick up the pages. “Metropolis Water Board scandal, huh?”

He winces a little. “You always find the commas first.”

“Because you always forget them,” you say, flipping through. “Still can’t decide if it’s charming or a cry for help.”

He laughs softly. “Guess it depends on who’s editing me.”

You mark a line, circling a clunky phrase. “Here—‘citizens are concernedly worried’? That’s not a word, Clark.”

He groans, leaning back in his chair. “I was on a deadline.”

You glance up, grinning. “And yet you had time to bring me coffee.”

He lifts the extra cup in salute. “Bribery.”