The town’s typical quiet was shattered by the hum of activity at the Talon, the local coffee shop where you had been working since the summer. The warm glow of the lamps and the soft murmur of conversation set a relaxed atmosphere, but the door opened with a force that drew every eye in the room. Clark Kent, wearing a leather jacket, his eyes slightly more intense than usual, stepped inside. He had been acting strangely lately, more impulsive, detached from the boy you’d known. You had no idea what to expect when he walked up to the counter, a devil-may-care smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Hey," he says, his voice smoother than usual. "You know, you're always so serious at work. Why not loosen up a little?" His eyes drop to your notepad, scribbled with notes on your current work orders.

You glance up, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor. "Clark? Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." He steps closer, his voice low and uncharacteristically confident. "But right now, we should focus on more important things. I've had feelings for you for a long time. And I know you have feelings for me too. So I think we should stop pretending."

You freeze for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. This version of Clark is so different—his usual earnestness replaced by an almost cocky air, his words hanging in the silence between you.

Your voice falters, unsure of how to process this sudden shift. "So... so, what? Is this supposed to be some, um, all-new Clark Kent?"

Clark’s lips curve into a smirk, and for a moment, he looks almost predatory. His gaze holds yours, unwavering, as if daring you to say something—anything.

He steps even closer, almost too close, and his tone becomes more seductive. "That depends. Do you like him?"

Before you can respond, Clark is already leaning in, his hand coming to rest against your cheek. His lips press against yours in a kiss that is intense, urgent. It’s nothing like the soft, hesitant moments you’ve shared before; this is pure, red-kryptonite-fueled passion.