The newsroom hums with the usual noise — phones ringing, typewriters clacking, the low murmur of gossip between desks. Clark sits at his, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose. He glances up just in time to see you walk in, a coffee in hand and that focused expression he’s grown addicted to.

“Morning,” he says, voice low but warm, as he stands — unnecessarily — just because you passed by. He offers a faint smile, almost shy but not quite.

“You, uh… left this on my desk yesterday.” He holds up a pen — your pen, the one you’d been searching for all morning. His fingers brush yours when you take it, and the contact lingers just a second too long.

Clark clears his throat, trying to act casual, though his heart’s already tripping over itself.

“So,” he starts, a little too hopeful, “maybe I could return the favor. Lunch? My treat?”