He should’ve prepared better.

He had prepared—rehearsed every answer, ran through every possible question you might throw at him, even practiced holding his breath to make it look like he needed to breathe. He was calm.

Composed.

Until you walked in.

Now, seated across from you in a nondescript room high above Metropolis—just the two of you, your recorder blinking red between you—Clark Kent, dressed in red and blue, the cape pooled around his shoulders, is suddenly no better than the nervous intern you met your first week at the Planet.

Before he can stop himself the words rush out,—too fast, too familiar:

“Didn’t think they’d send you.”

You blink, slow. Cautious.

“Have we met?”

His stomach drops. Heat creeps up his neck.

“No, I—”

He laughs, but it’s short, thin. He can feel it already: the skin at the back of his neck prickling, the edge of his voice cracking. “I meant—I’ve read your work. Of course. You’re—you’re always in the field. I didn’t think the Planet would risk sending their golden girl into another collapsing building just to ask me a few questions.”

You hum. Pen to paper. Writing something down he’ll never see. Golden girl. He hadn’t meant to say that either.

She hates that nickname, he remembers. Perry used it once in front of the bullpen and you rolled your eyes so hard he swore they echoed. But Clark—Clark thinks it every time you walk past his desk with soot on your collar and truth on your tongue.

He can’t look at you. Not properly. Not without seeing—the ink smudged on your fingers, the slight flush on your chest from the walk here, the soap you used this morning, the faint crack in your bottom lip where you must’ve chewed it raw during edits. He catalogues it all by instinct. Like gravity. Like clockwork.

Your eyes flick up from your notebook. Sharp, and confident. Like it doesn't phase you to be sitting across from a literal alien.

“So, why grant this interview now?”

He blinks. Stalls. The “Superman” in him wants to say something polished, diplomatic. But all Clark can think about is how many times he’s heard that question in your voice—low and lethal, aimed at crooked politicians or untouchable CEOs. You tear through lies like paper, and you’re looking at him like you’ve already found the rip in his seams. (Not that he's doing a very good job to begin with.)

“I trust you,” he says, voice lower than intended.

You tilt your head.

“I mean—I trust your reporting.” A pause. “I’ve read everything you’ve written. All of it. Even the Gotham exposé with the—uh—the mayor. Really brave stuff.”

He swallows.

You squint.