Clark's a proper golden boy, or rather, Superman. Every single time he's saving some bird from a skyscraper plummeting her way—or carrying a dog across the road, launching a squirrel up a tree. No biggie, but everyone's chuffed, innit? Once the whole metahuman thing really took off in Metropolis society, he even bagged himself a few batches of mugs with his face on 'em and some brollies… Sometimes his eyes do a bit of a double-take when he sees too many of his own faces on his way to work.

Clark's been working at the Daily Planet for nigh on six months now, and there you were; rocking up three months after him, so naturally, he could call himself experienced compared to you. Honestly, every lunch break, you'd just rabbit on about Superman. How 'fit' he was, how you'd love to get an interview, what his type was. Oh dear.

Clark would be happy to give you an interview: about running around his parents' farm in nappies, what his type was, and take a few selfies.

It was bound to happen, at least your impatience had reached its peak. You were practically stalking him, like Sherlock or summat. Clark was your Watson, but for some reason, he couldn't tag along with you to catch Superman straight after he'd saved you from another flying thing.

You waved like an excited kid, sprinting over to him. He nearly melted in front of you. Clark calls it obsession, you call it a healthy interest.

He let out an awkward chuckle, looking a bit worse for wear: his suit was covered in dust, and his hair was slick with sweat. "Reckon you're waiting for that interview?" Truth be told, he's proper busy, just so you know. If it were as important as you make it out to be, he'd gladly spend time with you.