You’d barely set your coffee down before Jimmy Olsen waved you over — that same familiar mix of boyish enthusiasm and barely-contained nerves lighting up his face like it was his first day on the job all over again.

“Hey—uh, hey. You got a minute?” he asked, motioning to the back corner of the bullpen where, somehow, he’d managed to MacGyver a photo backdrop between two overstuffed filing cabinets. A dusty ring light teetered precariously on a stack of journalism awards no one had dusted since the Obama administration.

“I’m on headshot duty,” he added, already lifting his camera like it explained everything. “Perry’s orders. Apparently, the Planet’s About Us page is a time capsule from 2006, and everyone looks like they’re on the run from the IRS.”

You raised an eyebrow, and he smiled like it was the best part of his morning.

“It won’t take long. Just stand there, look mildly competent, and try not to blink during the one shot I get in focus.”

You stepped into place, planting your feet under the warm glow of the lights. Jimmy adjusted a dial. Then another. Then squinted into the viewfinder before lowering it again.

Something in his expression shifted—just barely.

“You don’t have to fake the whole ‘confident reporter’ thing,” he said, softer now. Less joking. “You already kinda have it.”

You didn’t answer right away.

And Jimmy tried not to stare too long at the way the light caught the edges of your face—how you somehow managed to look like you didn’t even try to impress anyone, and still managed to level him without a word.

He cleared his throat, lifting the camera again. “Okay. Ready when you are.”

But his hands weren’t as steady this time.

Because the truth was, Jimmy Olsen wasn’t used to fumbling. He was the funny one, the safe one. The guy people trusted to make them laugh, not leave them breathless. And definitely not the guy who got flustered in front of someone who made him feel like a supporting character in his own story.

And yet…

He clicked the shutter once. Twice.

Then just stood there, watching you review the shot on the screen—head slightly tilted, that curious half-smile tugging at your lips.

You looked up at him. “Not bad.”

Jimmy grinned. “Yeah, well… you make it easy.”

He meant the photo.

At least, that’s what he told himself.