gabbyblabb - Tumblr blog

gabbyblabb · 17 days ago

Text

This mannnnnn

Caramel

my main masterlist - eddie munson masterlist

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 8.4k words

description: he's burned inside your memory after a summertime fling. now, after high school, he's everywhere you go. is it fate? or something even more devastating?

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI!!, no use of y/n, reader and eddie have history, lovers to enemies to lovers again, reader and eddie are out of high school, reader is a hairdresser, tons of yearning, eddie being toxic (in the past), jokes about 'stalking', nicknames (mainly sweetheart), jealousy, drinking alcohol, smut, pussy eating, dirty talk, hair pulling, unprotected p in v, reader on bc, finishing inside, cuddling. angst and then fluff.

authors note: this fic is heavily inspired by caramel by conan gray! his new album FUELED me this weekend. I wrote this in like two days and it fulfilled something new in me. ty @amanitacowboy for the beta <3 i hope you enjoy it! please reblog, like, and comment <3

how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune

He had carved a place out in your brain, occupied by him and him only.

He had spent the latter half of high school ignoring you, even though your history was a prominent stain in your life. Senior year you spent yearning for simpler times with him.

Eddie Munson was something you really did not need. But in some sick twisted and backwards way, you wanted him.

You two had a summer fling that was a whirlwind to say the least. He was your first everything. Kiss. Sexual experience.

First love? Maybe?

But that all went straight to hell when you started senior year and he completely ignored you and started talking to other girls. The only interaction you had with him that entire year was a party over spring break and he drunkenly pinned you to a wall in the hallway, his lips ghosting over yours, quietly confessing how much he missed you. You kissed him, lips lingering a bit too long than they should have.

Could not have been missing you that much, you remember thinking, because the next week he was holding hands with some girl from your physics class.

After graduation, you decided college was not for you. You went to hair school, got your certificate, and paid rent to stay at your parents' house. You cut hair at the local salon on Main Street and tried to make just enough to pay bills. Extra money was hard to come by.

Hawkins stayed the same, but as an adult, it felt different.

You only saw a couple classmates around during the school year, and dreadfully, Eddie was one of them.

After one particularly long day at the salon, you stop by the grocery store that's on the way from your house and decide to grab yourself a cheap microwavable meal. It's all you could do for yourself, a small little treat.

You turn to head to the registers, eyes flickering upward to see Eddie Munson standing directly in front of you. He was already looking at you, those big, stupid brown eyes boring into yours.

Eddie would never admit it, but you had done the same to his brain. But instead of indulging in his desire to be strictly yours after that one summer, he ran away. Like he always did.

Because giving your all to someone was terrifying. And he was young. He had always been told by his Dad to keep his options open and that no woman was truly worth monogamy.

So he pushed you away, finding ways to distract himself from your beautiful smile and the history you two harbored.

He promised himself he would find someone whose lips were sweeter. Tongue sharper. Hips just as addictive.

But it's been almost three years. And no girl came close to you.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You hold your frozen food close to your chest, almost trying to hide in embarrassment.

"Long time no see, sweetheart."

His eyes light up when you roll your eyes at his statement, the toothpick placed in between his teeth rolling back and forth.

He's the next customer in line and you are praying for the elderly in front of him to hurry up. But he's hoping she takes a bit longer getting change out of her purse as the employee lazily scans her Raisin Bran. He is so smitten seeing you looking all pretty, eyes tired, and shoulders slouched.

"Hi, Eddie," is what you decide on saying as you shift on your non-slip sneakers. He scans you up and down, taking in your end-of-shift appearance.

"What are you getting up to these days?"

"Work."

You are quick to respond now, not wanting to drag out the conversation longer than it needed to be.

"Where are you working now?" He presses, putting his odd arrangement of groceries on the moving belt.

"Shear Works."

He has no clue what that is or where. You can tell you've confused him almost immediately as he turns with his brows all furrowed and nose scrunched. "Am I supposed to know what that is, sweet-"

"Hair salon in downtown Hawkins," You reply bluntly, grabbing the separator on the moving belt to put your single item down. You clear your throat, watching the cashier bag Eddie's items and tell him his total.

He pays her in cash, tucking the loose change in the leather jacket he's been wearing since junior year. You can tell it's starting to grow a bit tighter in his shoulders by the worn marks across his collar.

"You do hair?" He asks, grabbing his bag and leaning against the end of the aisle. You greet the cashier with a smile and nod as she scans your item, bagging it. You start to dig through your small change purse as you bite back to Eddie.

"Yes, that's what I went to school for."

He scoffs, crossing his arms, his plastic bag hanging on two of his fingers. Still heavily littered with rings.

"Do you cut men's hair?" He asks, almost teasing you.

You peer up at him as you hand the cashier exact change. She hands you a receipt and you stuff it in the plastic bag she hands you. "No."

Eddie follows you out of the exit, chuckling to himself. You are halfway in the middle of the street by the time he repeats your name.

"Always nice seeing you, sweetheart."

"Likewise, Munson."

You run into him not too long after that. An early morning run to the gas station turns into you trying to hide yourself behind a display in the chip aisle, away from him.

But Eddie can almost sense when you're around. He follows his intuition and walks to grab a bag of Doritos. When you peek your head to check if the coast is clear, your eyes meet his.

"Well, would you look at that," He smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your obvious plan, "Hiding from something, darlin'?"

You roll your eyes, sighing at your strategy to avoid the guy again blowing up in your face. "Good morning, Eddie."

"You look beautiful as ever today," He compliments, scanning you up and down. You take note of his outfit, a dark navy blue jumpsuit, a white tank top peaking out over his chest. You realize then he actually works. "Heading to work?"

"Yeah, I needed." You stop looking at your hands to remember what you had come in for in the first place. A plain white milk for your coffee at the salon. Right. "Milk."

He raises his brows curiously. "Just milk?"

"And gas."

He nods at that, licking the corner of his lips. It's not lost on you that his flattery has your hair prickling over your arms and neck. He was making you nervous with the way he was eyeing you.

He just couldn't look away. Eddie was a simple guy. But this being the second run-in with you in the last two weeks, he cannot help but admire new things about you. You paint your nails this pretty red color, slightly chipping around the cuticles. The way you part your hair. The clothes you wore were also a bit tighter, showing off your curves.

You side-step him while he daydreams about you, like he used to as a longing teenage boy. You needed to stop looking at him, or else your body would start shaking with adrenaline.

He's like a tall, tempting glass of wine when you've been sober for a couple of years.

You get in line, pay for your items quickly, and get outside to your car. You did not really need gas; you just wanted another excuse to be inside the god forsaken store.

Eddie watches you from the inside, shifting his head back and forth to make sure you would still be in the parking lot as he left. When he pushes the glass door open, you are getting in the driver's side of your small sedan.

"Hey," He hollers, gesturing towards you, "I'll see you around?"

You want to say no. You need to, actually. But you don't.

You just nod. "Sure. See you around, Eds."

Calling him by the nickname you used to call him was not lost on him.

The next time you and Eddie see each other, it's at the same grocery store you visited before.

You had a craving for some Honey Combs and Oreos, knowing your period would be coming soon, and that's probably why. You grab the Oreos first, lost in your own thoughts about the borderline horrible haircut you did on some poor old lady earlier today. It was eating you alive-

Until you see him in the cereal aisle. He grabs a box of Honey Combs and looks at the packaging, lost in his own thoughts. He would be eating cereal for dinner for the 4th time this week.

He knows someone is watching him, and he's almost not surprised it's you. He knew he'd be seeing you again.

You knew this had to be a sign from whatever was above.

He's in his normal clothes, not the jumpsuit from before. A t-shirt that hangs right above the belt on his tight black jeans. He's still wearing those damn boots he has had since junior year.

"You stalkin' me?" His voice shrills, stepping away from the towering cereal shelves. You walk towards him, feigning confidence, but in actuality, you just want to show him up and show him you were not going to hide from him this time.

You reach up for a box of Honey Combs. "No, I think you are stalking me."

The smile that stretches across his lips makes you grin in return. He nods, accepting your twisted around answer.

"You caught me red-handed. I've been staking out the grocery store every day, just waiting for you to show." He plays into it, shaking the box of Honey Combs towards the parking lot through the large glass panels at the front of the store.

You giggle, tucking the box of cereal under your armpit.

God, he missed that laugh. He didn't know he could miss a sound that much.

"Knackering for Honey Combs?" You wave your own box at him.

He looks at you incredulously, "Well, of course. It's only the best cereal. I'm the one who put you on those, remember?"

You remembered everything Eddie introduced you to. Metal. Dungeons and Dragons. Honey Combs. Lord of the Rings. Changing your turntable needle. How to inhale while smoking a joint. How to play three chords on the guitar.

He sees your brain going down the line, the face you make indicating that you are considering something.

"That's right," You admit, looking at the yellow box in all its glory, "You did introduce me to some good shit."

He offers a half-hearted smirk, "And some not so good shit."

He can reflect, too. That time in his life was not great. His one-track mind made him kind of an asshole. The last couple of years, he's moved away from a lot of the mentalities he pressured himself to endorse and believe in when he was trapped in high school. Being confined in that place made him constricted. He did not see himself growing up in any way every time he failed.

Nowadays, all he does is work at the shop, play D&D with his friends on his nights off, and sleep. Fuck a high school diploma.

You cross your legs, swaying in your position in the middle of the aisle. "You were a douche."

His eye twitches jokingly at that. "Yeah, it was bad, huh?"

"Doesn't make those fun times, awful, though. Even when you were a douche, they were good memories."

"Very good," he agrees.

"Exactly."

You two stand there, awkwardly smiling and agreeing.

He doesn't know why he says it. Maybe it's his mind extending an olive branch, but he stops nodding, looking around as if someone may catch him hitting on you or something. Who cares?

"Are you busy?"

You shake your head no, your stomach twisting at your initial thoughts.

"You want to come hang out? I rented a shitty horror movie and was gonna order some Chinese."

He knew that was your favorite. He was actually planning on ordering a pizza.

You had no plans, and your heart was nudging you towards the potential of being close to Eddie. In his house again. Spending time with him. Being close to him again.

All the signs were pointing you here. You had been hiding away from it. But after your first rekindling moment at this grocery store, he's been haunting your thoughts. He's not going anywhere anytime soon, you thought to yourself.

He's practically shaking, waiting for your response.

"Sure, I can just follow you home."

"Who's the real stalker now?"

You smack his shoulder, making him almost drop his box. "Shut up and let's check out."

When you arrive at his trailer, it looks the same as the last time you left it. Hats lining the walls, a coffee table littered with ashtrays, and dirty dishes in the sink. You hold your hands in front of your figure, biting your lip as Eddie puts the bags on the counter, slowly unpacking them all.

"Do you want anything to drink?" He asks, not looking up from his task.

His body is buzzing while your eyes are watching his every move.

"What do you have?"

He looks in the fridge as he puts some stuff away, "Beer, water, and apple juice."

"I'll take a beer."

He shoots you a look like you had just told him you were expecting a baby or something. Shock and amazement.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're just full of surprises nowadays."

He grabs two cans, his long wing span reaching out to give you one. You pop the top, taking a sip of the infamous light beer that Eddie's tongue used to taste like almost every day. That summer you two shared together consisted of a lot of late-night bonfires at people's houses and lots of shared drunken kisses.

As he takes a sip, he cannot help but smile as you take a swig and wince. "Yummy."

The chuckle that leaves his throat is gritty and strangled, so you both break into more booming laughs at the noise. You lean against his counter across from the fridge, the tension between you two slowly melting away. It felt like being in the room with your best friend again. A familiar space and beer can do wonders in putting your mind at ease, specifically.

But Eddie is struggling. Those flutters he used to feel every time you entered a room start to bloom in the pit of his stomach. He does not know why he invited you here, but he's starting to regret it. He did not expect those feelings to ram back into his chest the moment he heard your belly laugh again.

And he doesn't know if he's ready to just ignore those emotions, like he knows he needs to. He does not want to do something he would regret. He did not want to misstep.

Even if he did, what would he be losing out on if he ended up drifting back into your sphere? No girls are lining up to be with him. He's too busy to worry about dates and impressing someone new.

You look at him, noticing his face twisting into almost contempt. It makes the hairs on your arm stand up, heat flaring up your neck.

"You know," You start, taking another sip and smacking your lips. You needed to guide his mind elsewhere, "I would have thought you ditched this place after high school."

"I tried," he shrugs, leaning back against cabinets beside you. A change of subject worked better for him, anyway, "But being broke does things to a guy. Plus, I got a job at the auto shop on Hurley. Doesn't pay the greatest, but I'm pretty good at it."

The jumpsuit. He was a mechanic. "So that's where the hint of motor oil comes from."

That makes him smile, those butterflies now scattering around all of his insides. He loved to banter with you, and with time, you only became more of a smart ass.

His mind drifts, trying to figure out how he can continue the conversation without staring down at you in wonderment.

"Do you want me to order the food?"

You take another sip of your beer, a small gnawing in your stomach taking over your thoughts. "Yeah, I'll just get my usual."

"General Tso's chicken? Extra veggies?"

You press yourself further into the edge of the counter, knowing this cannot be the reason your bubbling desire for Eddie crashes over you. He remembers your fucking order from years ago.

You tuck your bottom lip under your top teeth, "You got it."

After he orders and gives the restaurant his address, they estimate about 30 minutes, so you two occupy the time by sitting on Eddie's couch and catching up on other things in life. You tell him about how you still live with your parents. How annoying your Mom still is.

He tells you all about Wayne's promotion, which, while demanding, is bringing in a lot of extra cash. He goes on about how Wayne is going to buy a new house and let Eddie rent the trailer for a good deal, so they can finally have spaces to themselves.

It's the first time that he seems optimistic about his future, and it's endearing. The Eddie you used to know was pretty pessimistic. He had no future plans and did not think he would even make it past 25. All signs are pointing to the opposite.

The food arrives, and Eddie gets the TV set up with the cheesy horror flick he picked up before the grocery store. He knew you hated movies like this, but the promise of Chinese for sure won you over.

At least, that's what he thinks.

As you ate, you couldn't help but think of all the silly memories you had on this couch. Tickle fights. Eddie putting you in his lap while he rolled a joint, explaining to you step by step on how to do it. Watching the random NASCAR races with Wayne while Eddie doodled things for his next campaigns. You spent a whole summer as a teen in this world, and now, here you are, back in it as an adult. It did not feel that far away.

You finish eating, and instead of focusing back on the movie, you make more small talk with Eddie as he demolishes his steak and broccoli. You grab the plate he made and walk into the kitchen, feeling like you need to at least do something to help clean up. He bought you dinner, you do the dishes you two made.

He follows you in there, grabbing another beer for himself from the fridge. He lingers there for a moment, watching you scrub the sauce off the porcelain dish. Your side profile was slightly highlighted by the overhead light that you had flicked on as you fiddled with the faucet.

He could not peel his eyes away.

You finish the dishes, laying them out to dry and toweling off the water from your hands. You turn back to him, noticing his slightly agape lips as he examines you.

Shit. All that time and work to push all those debilitating thoughts of love and yearning were now crashing into him.

He moves closer to you as you pin yourself against the counter beside the sink.

You look between both eyes, trying to muddle through your own emotions of being in front of the guy you would spend hours on end at night trying to forget. Now you were sharing a meal with him and doing his dirty dishes.

But he always lingered, like a scar littered across the skin of your chest, right where your heart is. You could never fully let go of him.

"Do you believe in fate?"

It comes out as a whisper as his foot falls creep closer to you. You think back to your thought process from earlier. There had to be a reason he's finding you everywhere all of a sudden.

"I don't believe in much, beautiful." His palm slides across your face, cradling your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes like he may miss something. You don't even flinch, his hands feeling so natural on your body. When his other hand creeps around your waist, pulling you flush with his, you finally get a better smell of his new shampoo. More masculine than the infamous strawberry scent he used to reek of in high school.

He does not know what prompted his movements towards you, but you looked like a star in the sky he could hold. He wanted you close.

"So what would you call this…" Your hands finally find their way to his midsection, resting right above his black belt.

He thinks for a moment, because he truly does not know what this magnetic pull is between you two. It has been consistent from the moment he first laid eyes on you and talked to you years ago.

And in that moment, he feels like an idiot. He literally had it right with the first girl he ever cared about, and his instinct was to push her away and see if another one came around that could be even better.

He was an immature fool.

There was not going to be anything better than this.

The sparks that prickled his fingertips the moment they settled on your skin. The stuttering of his heart when you finally did it in return to his stomach. He had never gotten anywhere close to that with any other girl.

His dad was wrong. "No girl in the world is worth keeping around forever."

What bullshit.

"Witchcraft," Eddie muses, leaning towards you a bit, "Only explanation."

You tilt your nose up to brush against his, "You're so stupid."

He is the first to make the move, his beautifully symmetrical lips leaving your view only to press against yours. It's like you are projected back to that same hormonal teenage body you used to have, practically white knuckling him to keep him close to you.

And the way you melt so seamlessly against him, your strength to keep him so close is not lost on him. You used to grip him so hard that he thought you were trying to harness his gravity to keep you from levitating off the ground.

It's slow at first, but turns impatient quickly. His hand on your waist starts to creep down to your hip, and the one delicately gracing your cheek is now pulling you forward by the nape of your neck.

When your head tilts back, you instinctively open your mouth to allow his tongue to slip in.

He still tastes like those Marlboro Reds.

You've always tasted sweet, but there's something else. It was not the spice you just ate, or the beer you had earlier, whatever it is, it completely throws Eddie off. It's a light bulb moment, though. Because while you are still a lot like the girl he initially fell for, he has time to make up for and new things to learn about you.

The more you kiss him, the more he is absolutely sure that he wants to do exactly that.

You pull away, your breath being stolen every time he moves his head. "Will Wayne come home-"

"He's working until 9. We have time."

His expansive, warm palm grips the back of your thighs. Eddie had picked you up before, but that was your high school weight. You were a bit different now. So when he mouths to you to jump, you hesitantly do. Both his hands fondle your ass and thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist. He pads down the familiar hallway of the trailer, leading back to the room you were well acquainted with years ago.

Both of you do not know what you are doing or how you got here so quickly.

The moment he opens his bedroom door, you know you're jumping back into the deep end with your obsession with Eddie.

Obsession sounds like a scary word, but it was not in the way your friends made it seem to be. In high school, you thought about him all the time, talked about him a good sum of the time when you were with others, and always found yourself eager to be around him. When he was around, you would hang yourself off him like an accessory to his all black outfits.

He was very similar back then. Dreaming about you when he slept at night, yapping about you to Hellfire during the times Dungeons and Dragons was not being discussed, and every moment spent together was the best part of his day.

Now here you two are, years later, still somehow just as attracted, if not more, to one another.

It was all Eddie's fault for not putting it the puzzle pieces together correctly. He could not help but feel like a fool.

He kisses you again, almost like he was internally trying to erase that part of his memory by focusing on how perfectly your lips slotted against his.

He drops you onto his bed, wedging his legs between yours, tongues intertwined still.

You rake your hands through his hair, trying to ignore the tangles that are laced between the strands. As you tug slightly, Eddie hums against your mouth. You giggle when he moves away, "Don't stop doing that."

"What," You muse, letting his mouth trace down your mouth, to your chin, to your jaw, "Pull your hair?"

He laughs against your skin, "Stop that."

"What? Just trying to jog my memory as to what you like, Munson."

His lips press to your pulse point, the softness of the moment making your skin prickle with goosebumps. He lingers there for a moment as his hand leaves your hip to cradle the back of your head.

"I think we are a bit different, now. Maybe we like different things," He quips, his eyes raking over your features. His eyes are so dark, but there's a twinkle to them.

"You sure about that?" You say, pushing his hair away from his cheeks with one hand.

"You taste sweeter," He dotes, kissing your cheek, "You also have a new scent. Burnt hair, maybe?"

You slap his shoulder, gawking at him in mock offense. "Wow, low blow."

His smirk is so precious, it makes your stomach twist.

"You said I smell like motor oil, sweetheart."

You laugh again, throwing your head back into his hand more, "Looks like we both stink, then."

He giggles along with you, his perfectly aligned teeth beaming at you like they used to when you teased him. There's a moment after the laughter subsides, where everything gets quiet and you two just study one another.

He spent years of his life trying to imagine you as some villain in his story so he would just move on, but you were too bright, too electric, too beautiful to imagine as some criminal that would steal his heart and implode his life.

Maybe the heartbreak would be awful if you did end up dropping him, but even back in the day, he had no intentions of hurting you, and you seemed pretty into him.

He remembers when he told you that you two would be taking a break from each other, you were so accepting and casual about it.

But what he didn't know was that you wanted to scream at him. You went home that night, stole some wine from your mom, and cried for hours. You didn't want to push the subject, make him resent you, and risk any reconciliation.

Every time you saw him it was like salt in the wound. For months, you would run into him, and he would somehow reopen the wound even more by giving you a longing expression or touching your back when walking by you.

You two were dancing around the issue. Which was that both of you never wanted to stop being together.

He was brainwashed. You were a pushover.

So you two did your little dance around each other, occasionally weakening for a night and caving in to whatever you both needed at the time. That party over spring break. The bonfire at your friend's house, where he was dropping off weed.

Force proximity brought you together; that was for sure.

But this moment was chosen by the two of you. Sure, you had run into each other countless times, but it traces back to your question for him earlier. Fate.

"Can I kiss you more?" He asks, gently. You just nod, spending the next ten minutes rolling around in his bed, getting more aquatinted with his lips again.

The moment his hips press into you a bit more, you remember the very first night he took you. It makes the wetness pool in your panties as you return the motion.

Eddie cannot remember a time in recent years when he wanted to sleep with a girl as much as he wanted to sleep with you. He would never admit it, but every girl after you never compared, and he always found himself a bit disgusted with himself after every interaction.

You had only ever had him. Never going further with anyone else except for hand stuff.

Now you're back on top of him, locking him under you with your thighs.

"Do you want to-"

"So badly," He admits to you, his eyes still shut from focusing on kissing you. You fiddle with his belt buckle, popping the button on his jeans. You don't touch his crotch fully until he thrusts it towards your open palm, his jaw going slack in anticipation.

When your shirt slides off, so does his. You halt your movements, getting a look at a tattoo you had never seen before. A demon head over his left pec, all dark and harsh against his beautiful, pale skin. You smile as you trace your nail over it.

His heavy-lidded eyes admire the way you give his ink a once-over before returning to lock your gaze back to his face.

"Like it?" His voice sounds like air is caught in the back of his throat, which makes it even deeper than usual. His hands explore around your bare back, your bra still latched in the back. Seeing you like this again is invigorating

You just offer a half-hearted smile. "Does it matter if I do or don't?"

He rolls his eyes, his fingers sliding up under the clasp that's holding your boobs from dropping out of your bra.

"Not completely. It's permanent, so I can't really get rid of it if you hated it," He explains, peeling the straps off your shoulders and letting your bra pool between your stomachs.

They've only gotten better with time, he thinks to himself. You somehow got even more perfect since the last time he saw you naked.

"I don't hate it, Eddie," You lean forward, dragging your clothed core against his growing bulge, "It matches your aesthetic."

And it did. You did not love the design, but it was painfully Eddie, so you couldn't hate it. He had more tattoos scattered about, but this one was for sure his biggest and darkest. You liked that he expressed himself through art, music, and games he played with his friends. He's always been creative, which is one of the main things that drew you to him.

"Sounds like you hate it."

You tilt his chin up and press a longing kiss to his lips, just to stunt the conversation there.

The rest of your clothes come off the moment before Eddie's tossing you back onto the bed, your back flush with his navy blue sheets. His hands spread across your legs, fingers imprinting into the flesh as he crawls up you.

Lying bare under him again does not make you feel insecure like you thought it would. It's like getting the wheel of a manual car. Even though your new car is automatic, you still have the familiarity to know how to shift into gear and drive.

He kisses you again, just for good measure.

He hovers over your body, and you spot his cock straining against his briefs. It makes you wiggle against him, pushing your pelvis upward to lure him. He takes the bait, settling his shoulders between your legs.

He cannot help but bring his fingers up to your slit, spreading you open. A memory flashes to the first time he made you fall apart on his fingers. You looked so ethereal, writhing in the back of his van, your moans reverberating off the metal walls.

Feeling him between your legs is driving you insane. You reach down, raking your hands through his curls again. "Please, I need you."

He doesn't tease you like he used to, simply because this moment is too soft and intimate to bring in his old ways. He needed to taste you, feel you fall apart.

His tongue flattens to your cunt, licking between your lips painfully slow. His fingers need to be somewhere, so they bury right into your tight hole, dragging in and out as his tongue explores you.

Eddie has always loved eating pussy. Your pussy specifically.

The feeling of you shifting your hips, eagerly chasing that high he always brings you to, makes him close his mouth and press kisses to the top of your pussy. The moment his lips reopen, you look down to observe him sucking your clit into his mouth. The electricity that surges through your body makes you inadvertently scream his name.

And just like he always did, he does not give up until you are gushing around his fingers and moaning his name.

Your whole body feels like jello, your muscles feel like they are sinking out of your flesh. Eddie stands up, shoving his briefs down his legs and almost tripping as he flings them across the room. You cannot help but giggle at his clumsiness.

His eyes cannot avert from you, that's why he's fumbling over himself. You were so fucking perfect, laid out like this.

"That's my girl," Eddie tuts, crawling back over your body to kiss you with his messy, wet lips. You don't have time to display your confusion about his words before he's grinding into you, his mouth diving down to suck on your neck.

Your hands find his hair as his cock slips in between your sensitive pussy lips.

"Do we need a condom?" He asks, unsure if you were still taking that small white pill every day.

You think for a moment. You were still on birth control. You only ever took Eddie raw. That's how you needed him.

"No. Are you safe?"

"Of course."

"Then no."

Eddie cannot believe he's about to do this all over again. There was doubt at first, but now he's never been more sure about anything in his life. He needed you like he needed air. His heart is racing so fast, it feels like it may give out the moment he's pressing into you.

You haven't had sex in over a year, so the stretch is overwhelming at first. Eddie's cock was for sure the biggest you've ever had the pleasure of indulging in, and he knew how to use it. The first time you two ever had sex, he was so slow and careful with you. While you probably needed that now, you could not stand the idea of taking this easy.

"Jesus, fuck me," You throw your head back, exposing your neck and jaw to him. He chuckles, leaning forward more, fully sheathing his cock inside you. The pressure isn't unpleasant, just overwhelming. He dips his head down, his teeth lightly clamping down on your clenched jaw.

He needed to recenter himself or else he would bust immediately.

"You need to tell me how you want this to go," He pleads, his breathing ragged.

"Not slow."

His chest heaves and lets out a hasty chuckle. "Okay, noted."

He draws his hips back, taking a moment before he plunges back into your soaked center. His hands rest on your hips, his rings gripping you so hard they will leave imprints.

Even though Eddie has fucked you countless times, this singular moment felt like the most important time ever.

When he snaps his hips forward, you somehow find a way to relax into it. Eddie's core flexes as he repeatedly thrusts into you, which makes you whine. The pace he was setting was exactly what you needed.

"Yes, right there," You mutter as he hits that spot that makes your fingers and toes tingle with pleasure. He does exactly what you say because he knows hitting that spot will have you falling to the edge and into pure bliss. He needed you to finish again before he came. He was a gentleman after all.

"God, I missed this pussy so much. Never been another one like it."

He doesn't know why he says it, he's so blinded by chasing his high and watching you all slack jawed, taking him so pretty.

The goosebumps that shoot up your body are enough to have you clenching around him.

"Yeah?" Is all you can say as you watch his tongue poke out the corner of his mouth, like he's focusing or restricting the inevitable.

He sighs, like he's been holding his breath. "Need you to cum, sweetheart. Need to watch you fall apart on me like old times."

You reach your hand down between your bodies, toying with your clit that he was responsible for making so sensitive. That familiar burst of unbridled pleasure starts to surge as his hips speed up, pistoning into you.

"Yes, Eddie, yes! Right there!"

He grits his teeth, watching your eyes roll to the back of your head as you keen. Your hands grip onto the hair on the nape of his neck, trying to anchor yourself.

"So perfect- such a perfect pussy. Just for me," He rambles, his body quaking above you, "All for me."

The restriction on his dick from your cunt makes his orgasm rip through his body, a heat rising to his cheeks as he plants his knees on the bed, trying to regain his stability. He slowly grinds himself into you, pumping you full as your body practically jolts back and forth.

Eddie's hands move to above your head, caging in your head as you two breathe hot air into each other's mouths. You are trying to rack your brain for something to say, but you are drawing a blank. All you can think about is the beautiful way his eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles at your delighted expression.

Sex with Eddie was the best. But him being this close, chest pressed against yours, that was your favorite part of intimacy with him. You just liked how warm he felt against you.

He eases himself out of you, lying on his side as you try to catch your breath. You shoot him a look before returning your eyes to the ceiling fan spinning above you.

He didn't know what to say. You didn't either. So you both sat in silence for a good bit before you moved onto your side, turning your back to him. You are forced to stare at the wall that is littered with random metal bands album covers. You gather his wrist in between your fingers, draping it over your midsection. He takes the hint; this routine is something he vividly remembers about being with you.

His body heat practically penetrates your bare skin as you two just lie there in the dark. You don't remember falling asleep, and he doesn't remember ever trying to wake you up.

His alarm rattles you both awake, shooting up from the all-too-comfortable bed at the same time. You are a bit disoriented at first, until you blink a couple of times to bring his room into focus.

His hand moves away from you, slamming his fist on the top of his alarm clock.

"Fuckin' 5AM," he grumbles, rolling off his bed dramatically. Watching his completely nude body crumble onto the floor is actually comical, so you huff out a small laugh. He stands, and that's when you fully take in his beautifully toned back. He has gotten a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him like this. Being a mechanic must be good for his physique.

"I go in late today," You remember, slipping past his comforter to plant your feet on the ground. He turns around to you as he slips on some underwear.

Your tired eyes and sluggish movements are quite endearing. He cannot help but smirk down at you all naked and irresistible in his bed. You stand up, gathering your own clothes and slowly pulling them back onto your body.

As you do that, you notice something in the corner of Eddie's room. Something you had never noticed before. You step closer, not really caring if you alarm Eddie. It's something hot pink and very obviously a bra.

Your heart stills in your chest, as jealousy immediately crawls up your throat, burning you like acid. You have never felt such a jab to the stomach. You had not even contemplated him having a girlfriend or someone he was seeing. You turn to him, half-tempted to confront him.

He isn't paying any attention, his mind on fiddling with his work jumpsuit. When he does finally meet your eyes, they are welling with tears. It takes him off guard, looking around the room to see what could have caused such a visceral reaction.

You purse your lips, biting the inside of your cheeks. You suddenly remember how this ended before. You were all his until you weren't anymore, and someone else came along. It was not worth the argument.

You grab his bedroom door handle before the tears spill from your eyes. You practically sprint to the front door, scaring the living shit out of Wayne, who was asleep on the couch by the door.

You stumble out of the trailer, but before you can make it to the driver's side of your car, you hear Eddie coming after you.

"Wait," He calls out, his bare chest not covered by any sort of shirt. He was so taken aback by your sudden outburst. He starts to panic that he fucked up royally before he could even really prove to you that he wanted you back. "What's going on?"

"I need to leave," Is all you say, wiping your wet cheeks, "I shouldn't have come."

"Wait, wait, wait," He grabs your driver's door, almost forcing you to look at him and be honest. You don't know if he deserves it, but you feel cornered. "What happened? Did I do something?"

"The bra."

He looks at you, puzzled and trying to connect some sort of dots. The bra? The bra.

It was not what you thought, but it did look bad. He would admit that.

"Sweetheart, it's truly not what you think."

You scoff, shaking your head and flicking your keys between your fingers. "Never enough for you, huh?"

That's like a bullet to his chest. You had never gone after him like that before, and it completely throws him off balance. It aggravates him that you won't just listen to him.

But you did not owe him that. He has a track record, and you feel dumb for just going along with it because he made you feel special.

"You know that's not what-"

"Bullshit, Eddie," You get in your car, starting the engine and reaching for the door. He lets go, not wanting to get his fingers caught in an angry girl's car door frame. He stands there completely stunned and unsure what to do. He can't stop you from leaving, so he doesn't.

He watches as you pull out of his gravel driveway and speed down to the exit of the trailer park.

And you? You cannot help but cry in frustration. You felt so stupid. So easy.

Eddie Munson was the same guy you knew him to be.

He was losing his goddamn mind.

Work was hell for the next two days. He was half tempted to call out because he had managed to fuck up more than a handful of times because he has been moping around the shop like a lovesick puppy.

Maybe a grief-stricken, kicked and battered puppy.

He fucked up, again.

The night you two spent together plays through his mind over and over again. There was not a moment that went by that his stomach did not twist over the mere idea of you.

As he's doing a simple oil change, he thinks about the way you felt next to him on the couch. How easy it was to just sit with you and talk about life. You were the only girl he had ever been with who truly made him feel that he was heard. You didn't have to do much, sure, but your eyes reflected your interest in his sad little life.

And then he pours in the wrong motor oil. He realizes it as soon as his coworker Doug snatches the bottle away and eyes it curiously. He knew then, he could not live like this.

But how would he convince you that he had truly changed? His heart shifted the moment you made eyes at him at the grocery store. He had suppressed this shit for too long. Something needed to give.

On the third day of internal turmoil, his boss tells him that he can be the first one out the door today. It was only 1PM, and he knew that he was only doing this because the old man could read the room pretty well. He needed a day off.

But he says something before Eddie goes that triggers a light bulb in his head.

"You need to trim that hair, boy. Gettin' in your eyes. Probably why you keep fuckin' up lately."

Fate.

Not witchcraft. It was stupid fate.

Eddie turns to his boss with a wicked smile, punching out his card. "You're right. I should go get a cut, huh?"

The next couple of days at work were incredibly slow, and your brain was working overtime trying to find ways to stay busy. You were the only stylist in the salon who accepted random people off the street, so you pray every time someone walks by the big windows that they decide they need a perm or color.

By 3PM, you are ready to pack your purse and lunch box up and go home empty handed. Your back is turned to the door as the receptionist welcomes the patron.

It's like slow motion as you turn and see him standing there, looking all disheveled.

How did he know where you worked?

You told him at the grocery store weeks ago. He remembered. Shit.

"Can I help you, sir?" She asks Eddie as his eyes bore into yours. You wish you were just dreaming, and you could just wake up already.

What? He would humiliate you at work now, too? Was in private not enough?

"I need a trim. Do you accept walk-ins?" He asks, but he's not looking at the front desk girl, who's only trained to say hello, get payment, and offer a goodbye. He's staring directly at you. She looks between you two, somehow reading that this would be a situation you would take up.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.

"We do, but not for assholes who-"

He steps towards you, eyes looking so sincere, you thought he might drop to his knees before you. He's never been so focused on you before.

"Please, sweetheart." His hands are at his sides, but they are twitching to touch you. To pull you in and beg in front of everyone. But he doesn’t move an inch, waiting for your move. "The bra was from one of my live shows at the Hideout. You know my band? Some random old lady threw it at me and I thought it was funny-"

"Stop talking."

"And I keep fuckin' up at work and I can't even do a simple oil change without thinking about your beautiful smile or the way your eyes light up-"

"Eddie."

"And I don't know why I kept the bra, okay? But I promise it's not anyone's. I am sorry, okay? I really like you, and I fucked this up so many times over-"

You put your hand over his mouth, cupping it so he can't speak anymore. You see out of the corner of your eye, the front desk girl and the hairdresser beside her, practically gawking at you two. You slowly drag Eddie to your chair, helping him sit down with his mouth still covered. You lean down, eye to eye with him.

"You really like me?" You whisper as you watch his eyes look glassy and desperate. He nods as you slowly remove your hand from his mouth.

"Yes, I really do. I don't want to fuck this up again."

Eddie's always been a pretty awful liar. He usually falters, starts to giggle, almost immediately giving himself away.

He doesn't waver once, saying it.

You swallow, asking yourself if you want to entertain this or not.

He was here, appealing to you like a man dejected and devastated. He had never done that before. Every single time he would hurt you before, he would leave you alone for months, never offering another thought.

But he's fucking here. At your work. In public. Pleading.

You suck in a harsh breath, your heart racing as you accept the inevitable.

"I do accept walk-ins," You declare, grabbing the back of the salon chair, "But I don't do men's haircuts."

A smile cracks across his face, "Well, I don't want a men's haircut. Just a trim off the old mop. Could be considered a ladies' cut, honestly."

You gather his hair to the back, watching him in the mirror as his eyes ease a bit as you tease him.

"Do you perm this thing?" You joke, knowing this is just the luck he has with his curly locks.

He whistles, "Low blow, sweetheart."

tags: @mediocredreams @mrsjellymunson @rebelfell @katsfandomcorner @walleloveseve @thejordiverse @cosmicrager

@wdsara48 @emxxblog @hockeyhughes

642 notes · View notes

gabbyblabb · 17 days ago

Text

SVAED RN

Get a Johnny!

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word count: 3.9k

Description: Bad cramps don’t let you sleep. You hesitate to call Johnny because you think you’re not there with him yet, but after nothing helps, you give in. Turns out having a boyfriend with fire hot powers comes very in handy.

Tags/warnings: no spoilers, fresh relationship, hurt/comfort, johnny is full of himself and surprises, putting his powers to good use, flame on, banter, he sucks at making breakfast, fluffy and domestic johnny <3

Note: I literally can’t stop kicking my feet when writing this man, please enjoy another self indulgent sweet and funny piece 🫶🏼

archive | masterlist

You curl tighter on your couch under a weighted blanket, shifting again and again, as if the next position will finally trick your body into forgetting the ache burning low in your stomach. It doesn't.

The cramps continue, a deep pressure that makes it impossible to find comfort. You've been like this all evening, a pad you heated way too long ago now laying useless on your lower belly, a half empty mug of tea forgotten on your coffee table, and the soft glow of the moon coming through the glass doors illuminating your tired face. It's well past midnight now, and you feel frustrated with your own body for not being able to get up to your bed, or at least just fall asleep right where you are.

You think of Johnny.

How easy it would be to press the little button on the watch he gave you, send him a quick message, and have him there. But your stomach knots for a different reason at the thought. He doesn't need to see you like this, cranky, bundled in mismatched pjs, curled up like some wounded thing. At least your ex boyfriend never wanted to deal with... this. The unglamorous parts.

Surely, in the short period of time you've been dating Johnny, he has proved a million times he's better than any other excuse of a guy. Every single one. Which is probably why you feel the need to keep things romanticized in some way.

You've spent nights with him before, heavenly late hours tangled in his sheets, or sleepovers at your place that stretched into lazy mornings. But those nights had always been planned to some degree. Wearing cute little shorts, soft perfume, or maybe nothing at all if things got heated, which was pretty often to be fair. But always with a little polish, a little effort, like you were still trying to show the best version of you.

Cramp.

You roll over, again, and tug your blanket higher. Try to gaslight yourself into believing you're fine. But the wave of pain twists through you, sharp enough that you press your face into the cushion to muffle a groan. Your chest tightens and you suddenly feel small.

Alone.

Your arm comes out of the blanket and your fingers drift to the watch on your wrist before you can stop yourself. You trace the smooth edge of the screen, remembering how proud Johnny was when he put it on you the first time, like he'd just given you the most thoughtful thing in the world. And he did, he meant it to make you feel safe, connected, never too far away from him.

Johnny it is, then.

That’s what you needed. Just him, next to you, being warm, and solid and distracting enough to pull you out of the spiral of despair. Your finger hovers over the screen for a few seconds and finally, after another wave of pain, you give in. One press and a ping gets sent to Johnny, all the way to the Baxter Building.

It's quite comical when you think about it. Johnny likes to call it a superhero signal, in case you ever need him. Just like right now.

Wait– but what if he's already asleep? What if he just reads it in the morning and–

The screen lights up almost immediately. A ping vibrates softly on your wrist with his reply.

"On my way."

It's interesting how just a few words from him, on a screen even, already give you some relief. You lay tucked in, eyes on the ceiling as you wait for his arrival. And before you know it, you hear those familiar soft footsteps on your balcony, followed by the hiss of the glass door sliding open.

You glance up eagerly, and there he is, Johnny Storm in all his sleeping clothing glory.

A soft white shirt with some blue striped pants, blonde hair sticking up in every possible direction from where he must've rolled out of bed, and that signature, charming smile on his face when he caught you bundled up on the couch.

He doesn't even wait for you to speak before stepping inside and crouching in front of you, one knee pressing into the carpet, his hand going up to gently brush some stray strands of hair off your forehead. The teasing smile softens as soon as he sees your face.

"I was starting to think you forgot about me," he jokes about not seeing you all day, still trying to make it light, but his eyes give him away.

They're worried. Worried that you've been feeling sick all day and didn't tell him, worried that you're curled up like this without him knowing.

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" he tilts his head, as his hand continues to stroke your hair.

You open your mouth, but your throat closes around the answer. You don't know how to explain the mix of embarrassment and stubborn independence. So instead, you shrug weakly.

"I guess ... I didn't want to bother you. It's just.... it hurts and I can't sleep, and–"

"Hey," he cuts in gently, thumb brushing over your temple. "C'mere," he leans forward in his crouched position, pulling your upper body straight into his chest. He's so warm it feels unfair, his arms wrapping around you like all day you should've been there. "You could never ever bother me, you need me and I'm here, end of the story."

You bite your lip, the edges of your embarrassment softening under the warmth of his voice. He pulls away just enough to look at you, trying to coax a smile out of you.

"Besides, if I knew you'd be curled up like a burrito in this blanket, I would've been here hours ago. You're basically begging me to make fun of you," he teases, earning a snort from you.

You try to tug the blanket higher over your face, but he only laughs and tugs it back down, playful, his fingers brushing your cheek. "There she is," he says softly, eyes searching yours. "My girl."

You smile, about to say something but another cramp tenses your body, and Johnny immediately pulls you to him again, your cheek over his heartbeat. He doesn't let go right away, you stay pressed against his chest until you stop clutching his shirt. Only when your breathing steadies, Johnny pulls back to study your face, his eyes narrowing in that way that makes you feel completely seen.

"Alright, sweetheart" he whispers, cupping your face. "Tell me how bad it hurts."

You gesture vaguely at your stomach, cheeks heating. "It's just... cramps. Really bad. I just wanted you here ...you don't have to–"

"Stop," he kisses your forehead before you can finish. "I do have to. It’s literally my only purpose as your hot, lucky boyfriend."

That earns a soft laugh from you, probably the first in hours, and he smiles satisfied.

"I'm gonna need you to wait here for me," he backs slightly to stand up, but you grab his hand.

"Wait, Johnny don't leave–"

"It's only a few minutes, alright?" he reassures, and only stands up when you nod hesitantly and drop his wrist. "Don't miss me too much, I know you like to see my face and all that–”

"Johnny, just go..." you chuckle, and he grins wider, saluting his way out the balcony.

The room feels colder as soon as he's gone, and you realize how his absence feels like missing sunlight. Like all day you've been lying under a cloud of rain. But sure enough, the cold doesn't last longer than five minutes, when he's landing back again with a triumph smile on his face as he makes his way to your kitchen.

You stare curiously from the couch at Johnny moving swiftly through it, with a raised hand in flames to illuminate the countertop. You hear cupboards opening, the soft clink of a mug being set down, and being filled with water. He rips open with his teeth a paper package he pulls from his pocket, placing the tea bag in the water. He makes his way back to you carrying the mug in one hand, as the other lowered his fire to just one flame under the mug to instantly heat it up. You sit down just in time as he arrives, a steaming cup of tea now in his hands, the scent instantly soothing.

"Careful, sugar" he smiles, handing the hot mug to you, "and ... take these," he reaches the pocket of his striped pants, pulling out a small plastic pill bottle.

"Painkillers haven't been helping much," you shake your head, sipping from your tea. He just kneels in front of you again, so he can be on eye level.

"These are special ones Reed made specifically for my sister, since she deals with pretty bad cramps too," he explains, opening the bottle and pouring two baby blue pills on his hand before handing them to you. "The tea is also his mixture, Sue says it helps a lot."

You stare at him in silence, melting in awe. You can't believe you had convinced yourself all day Johnny wouldn't want to deal with this. He does have a sister after all. And he's been raised right, partly by her. So you nod, taking the pills with a sip of tea, and set the mug on your coffee table before wrapping your arms around his neck. Your lips meet his, and it feels like you've been stupidly depriving yourself of your oxygen. He's soft with it, slowly savoring it like he's been missing you all day too, smiling against your tea flavored lips when he pulls apart for air.

The movement made the blanket around you fall open, revealing the heating pad lying crooked on your low belly. Johnny doesn’t even doubt.

"Trade me, babe" he says, taking the cold pad away before slipping his hot hand against your lower belly. The relief on your face is instant, like it was the last missing piece. "Let's keep that there, and drink this before I have to spoon feed you, because I will." he mocks seriousness, picking the mug from the table, guiding it to your lips.

You happily take a sip, smiling against the mug. "Since when are you so bossy?"

"Since you forget to take care of yourself," his tone is teasing, but his eyes are soft, lingering until you take another sip, so you do.

"Better?" he asks, half smug half relieved.

"Better," you nod, not even able to control your smile anymore. "You are ... simply the best, Johnny Storm," you praise wholeheartedly, starting to forget about the pain.

"I know, I know," he rolls his eyes playfully, lifting up from his crouching position without taking away his hand, before gesturing to your side. "Now, your portable heating pad's knees hurt, scoot."

You move over amused, and he sits next to you, his free arm instantly curling around your shoulders. His body always radiates heat, steady and overwhelming in the best way. You can't help but relax, your head finding its way to his chest as you sip the last of the tea.

"So much for a superhero," you tease now, making him gasp in feigned offense.

"This is after hours, babe," he defends, "besides, I've proven myself to be very useful," to make his point stronger, he takes the empty mug from your hand and places it away.

"Oh you have, fire boy," you nod, playfully placing a kiss on his chest as a thank you.

"See? You could've had this hours ago if you'd just called me," his hand rubs soothing circles along your arm. "And I mean it ... I wanna be here for you. All of it. Even this. Especially this."

"I know," you whisper, hugging him tighter, the ghost of a smile on your face. "I know, Johnny."

You cuddle in silence for a while, the pain quickly drifting away from the medicine and Johnny's unbelievable heat. Your hand slipped under his shirt a while ago, tracing patterns on his toned skin.

"You know what..." he breaks the silence, and you recognize the spark in his voice. "Forget space travel. I could make commercials about this. 'Tired of cramps? Get a Johnny!’”

"Yeah? I'm sure Ben would love to see that," you shake your head laughing, patting his chest but he catches your hand, lacing your fingers with his. "Lucky for me, I have my Johnny already," you lift your chin up to look at him.

"Yes, but yours comes with extra features," he wiggles his eyebrows, while his mouth keeps running just to coax more giggles out of you. "I'm just saying... heating mode, snuggle mode, horny sex god mode–"

"You're so full of yourself, Johnny."

"Why thank you," he kisses your temple, obnoxiously sweet. "Full of snacks, too. I also brought gummy bears," he says, and you tilt your head to find his smirk.

"You did not."

"Check my pocket," he nods excitedly, and you reach over his pants, accidentally grazing his crotch. "Wow–wow, not that pocket!"

You can't help but snort, reaching the right pocket this time. Sure enough, there's a little crinkled bag tucked inside. Your chest warms almost as much as your belly does under his palm. Johnny looks far too pleased with himself.

"See? I even brought candy to your midnight pity party" he says, already reaching the bag to grab two gummies. He pops one in your mouth before eating one himself.

"My pity party? I hate you," your offended voice comes out muffled from chewing the gummy.

"Except you love me," he shrugs smugly, reaching for more gummies to do the same again. One for you, one for him.

And damn this idiot, you do. Especially when he tilts his head to peck your lips, lingering with the candy's leftover sweet taste. You eat a few more in silence, only giggling when he attempts to throw one and catch it in the air and fails miserably, only for you to get it at the first try.

"Alright, alright ... that's enough," he crinkles the bag and puts it next to your empty mugs on the coffee table. "Sue would kill me if she sees me eating candy right now."

"You're just saying that cause you lost–"you attempt to tease, but a yawn takes over your voice, your eyes inevitably narrowing.

"I'm saying that because you need to rest," he corrects, already getting up. "C'mon, sweetheart, we're doing this right" he slides one arm under your knees and another around your back. "This couch isn't good enough for you."

The blanket stays wrapped around you, tucked close to your chest, while his warmth radiates through your whole body as he walks to your bedroom. He nudges the door open with his foot, and in a couple of strides reaches the bed. He lays you down softly, and places a kiss your forehead that makes you smile. For a second, he just looks at you, messy hair, tired eyes, and you swear he couldn't look more in love.

Then, without warning, he starts tugging the blanket away.

"Hey!" you protest, clutching it tighter around you. "Johnny, I need that," you complain, but he just smirks, leaning over you.

"Wrong! You got me now. I'm waaay better than some blanket."

"You gave me this blanket."

"Yeah, well, now I'm taking it away," he shrugs, smiling condescendingly.

You groan, half laughing, trying to wrestle the blanket back, but he wins easily, tossing it onto the floor with a winning grin.

"There. Much better," he says, and before you can complain about him washing it, he slides in beside you, embracing your body with his.

The heat of him hits immediately, wrapping you far warmer and softer than the blanket ever was. His arm goes around your waist, palm flattening over your stomach again, radiating that gentle, steady warmth. The way you relax into his body makes him smile.

"See?" he mumbles against your hair. "Told you, babe, way better," he tugs you closer to his chest, pulling the covers of your bed over you.

One hand stays over your stomach, spreading heat exactly where you need it, while the other strokes slow, soothing patterns down your back. You listen to his heartbeat for a while, the rhythm grounding you more than anything else has all day.

This isn't another night where you prepped yourself the whole day to smell like literal heaven when he tasted your skin. Tonight is different. You're in mismatched faded pjs, hair undone, tired face. And he doesn't look at you like you're any less. If anything, his eyes are softer, more focused, like this is the you he'd been waiting to see.

"You know," he says after a long silence, voice getting lower with sleep, "this is my favorite look on you."

"I look awful," you groan, burying your face in his chest.

"Yeah, awful ... totally hideous. Which is why I'm keeping you forever," he chuckles, like it's a joke, but his words always hold more meaning to them.

You lift your head just enough to meet his blue eyes. The way he’s looking at you makes you realize this might be the most intimate night you’ve ever shared. And you’re happy.

Johnny can feel it. The way your body melts against his, the way your breathing evens out. And then suddenly your eyes are fluttering shut, lips parted slightly.

“Sleep babe, I got you,” he whispers, pressing a feather light kiss to your forehead.

And with his body pressed against yours, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you finally drift off. Safe, held, and cared for in every way that matters.

The first thing you notice when your eyes blink open is warmth. Not just the weight of his arm still around your waist, or the way his chest rises steady beneath your cheek, but the faint heat radiating from his palm, still exactly where it had been all night, like he never once let go. You shift, slow and careful, and he feels it.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Johnny mumbles, in his deeper morning voice. You tilt your head just enough to see him, his blonde hair even messier than last night, eyes heavy lidded and a lazy smile. “How you feeling?”

“Mmm, it doesn’t hurt,” you hum, snuggling into his chest.

“Told you, babe. Human torch heating pad, runs all night and never shuts off,” he drawls, joking even when he’s still half asleep.

You chuckle, and try shifting out of his arms, just enough to stretch, enough to maybe get up and get cleaned up. But the second you move, Johnny makes a low groan in his throat, instantly clinging tighter.

“Nope,” he mumbles. “I’m still in service. You can’t get up yet.”

You laugh softly against his chest. “Johnny, I need to–“

“Shhh,” his nose nuzzles into your hair, lips brushing the your head. “Don’t argue with Johnny.”

There it is, the third person his family always mocked him about. It should be ridiculous, really, but it’s also so him that your heart squeezes. He’s lying there with messy hair and the bedsheets wrinkles imprinted on his cheeks, clinging to you like it’s the best place he could be in, and somehow you love him more for it.

So you don’t argue, you don’t tease. You just let yourself sink back into him, curling closer, your hand finding its way under his shirt to rest against his warm skin. His grip softens a little at that, enough to let you breathe, but he doesn’t let go.

“That’s better,” he beams, satisfied. “Knew you’d see reason.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it, and you happily melt into his arms. Eventually, after a while of drifting between sleep and squinting at the soft sunlight coming through your windows, your stomach betrays you. It growls loud enough that Johnny finally cracks one eye open and smirks.

“Hungry?” he teases.

“Starving. I only had those gummy bears last night,” you shift against him, trying to sit up.

“Nope,” he says, gently holding you back down. “You stay. I’ll bring you something,” he orders, already rolling out of bed like he wasn’t in deep sleep just a few minutes ago.

“Johnny, angel, I love you but … you’re a literal fire hazard in any kitchen,” you look at him apologetically as you sit up.

“Excuse you, haven’t I proved by this point you’re in good hands?” He presses a dramatic hand to his chest, pretending to be wounded. You just raise your eyebrows at him, so he leans forward to press a kiss right between your frown. “I love you too, by the way.”

You bite back a smile, shaking your head. He makes his way to the door now, hair sticking up, crinkled shirt, striped pajama pants hanging low on his hips. He stops to point at you before walking out. “Don’t move, breakfast in bed.”

You smile with tight lips, pretending to be excited until he turns around and you can flop back in bed, knowing this is going to be a disaster. Because as ironic as it sounded, he’d been close to burning down your kitchen before. You guess he’s just not used to the fact that only the Baxter Building was fireproof from head to toe.

As expected, when your stomach wins out and you walk into the kitchen moments later, the first thing you see is Johnny leaning over the stove, hand glowing as he absorbs fire out of the frying pan. Smoke curls toward the ceiling, and the smell of something close to charred fills the air.

“What are you doing?” you lean in the doorway, arms crossed as you bite back a smile.

Johnny straightens instantly, tucking the pan behind him and airing out the smoke with his hand like that’ll somehow help. Unfortunately for him, when he moved the pan behind his back, a fried egg, or what used to be one, flops onto the floor. Suspiciously black, yet his grin is far too casual as he steps in front of it to hide it. “What? Nothing to see here. Everything’s under control. Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Uh huh,” you arch a brow, trying not to laugh.

He sighs defeated, placing the pan back on the counter and leaning to pick up the burnt ‘breakfast in bed’ from the floor. He mutters a curse as he throws it away, only to turn to you right after like nothing happened.

He lifts his hands up smiling, holding his index fingers up as if to say ‘wait up’. He goes through your cabinets, letting out a small cheer when he finds what he was looking for.

“Lucky for you, sweetheart… you got your very own Johnny Storm cereal,” he pulls out the box, holding it with one hand and pointing his face on the cover with the other. “Only the finest, of course. Your favorite.”

“That’s your favorite,” you argue, narrowing your eyes.

You think he’s about to protest but he’s too busy shoving his hand inside the box, eyes opening wide in excitement as he reaches what he was looking for. The mini human torch that came in the cereal.

‘Flame on!’ ‘Flame on!’ ‘Flame on!’

“Got another one for your collection, babe!” he beams, already walking over to the shelf display on your living room.

He finds the other identical plastic toys lining up there, and adds a third to your surprisingly growing collection. You shake your head as he strolls toward you all happy.

“Now you have three Johnny’s,” he cheers, his hands instinctively going to your waist when he reaches you.

“I have four,” you correct, draping your arms on his shoulders to bring in him close enough to almost kiss. “You’re my favorite one, though.”

Lovely divider by @enchanthings

Thank you so much for reading! feedback is always appreciated 🫶🏼

2K notes · View notes

gabbyblabb · 17 days ago

Text

SAVING

That you are || Johnny Storm

Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x female! reader

Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)

Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...

Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)

Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.

How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?

Perhaps it wasn’t all intentional. Bias was unavoidable to a degree. Woven into human nature as certain at times as our hair color or eye color. We built our opinions from scraps of known information, shaped by learned behavior and the neat little patterns our brains insisted on seeing. It was biology to use that information in order to protect oneself from harm. And it certainly didn’t help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herself…

“I need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few months—”

“I think I’m prepared to handle the job’s tasks,” she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with your skills,” Sue assured, though her pause lingered a fraction too long. Ever the diplomat, she weighed each word with care, as if balancing her professionalism against the instincts of an older sister.

“Johnny is…” Sue’s eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. “A handful.” The warning hung in the air, far heavier than the casual delivery suggested. A handful could mean many things. Immature. Demanding. Reckless. Charming in that dangerous sort of way. And yet, no amount of quiet bracing could have prepared her for the moment he actually walked in.

The door swung open like it had been waiting for his entrance, and if his sister’s comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone who’d never been told no. A confidence in his step that made it feel like he knew the entire world stopped and stared at him alone. “Hey, Sue—” his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her.

Sue gestured between them. “Johnny, this is—”

“The temporary assistant,” he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.

“I hope it was all relevant to the job,” she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness she’d use in a boardroom. Her tone wasn’t cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.

Johnny tilted his head, studying her. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. “If there’s anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, I’ll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be talking plenty,” he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didn’t.

“As much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.” Her nod was crisp, professional.

“Please, call me Johnny.”

“I prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,” she said evenly. “It helps maintain clarity.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work for me,” he said, grin leaning more boyish at that moment.

Sue stayed quiet, her expression unreadable. As if deliberately letting the moment stand. It was both proof of the warning she’d given moments ago and a silent test to see how her new assistant would handle the man in question. Luckily, the charms of the Human Torch seemingly missed. Without missing a beat she replied, “Then we’ll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.”

Johnny’s eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. “Well,” he said, leaning back just enough to suggest he’d conceded without actually conceding, “guess I’ll just have to earn the downgrade to ‘Johnny.’”

“Highly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jones’s maternity leave,” she replied, tone even. “However, I can’t dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.”

“A challenge.” His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. “I like that.”

“Okay, Johnny,” Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. “That’s enough harassing the poor girl.”

“I reject that. I’m not harassing.” He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug.

“Go.” Sue’s tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.

“Leaving.” He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. “Pleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. I’ll see you around.” And with that, he’d left as casually as he’d arrived, like the interruption had been nothing more than a warm-up act.

Thus began a steady procession of small, unavoidable run-ins with the man. The first came during her opening week on the job. Sue suggested a short trip back across town to the Baxter Building. Something small to act as a private celebration before Tabitha’s send-off to bed rest ahead of her little one’s arrival. Just the three of them, some bakery pastries, and coffee spread across the couch in the quiet living area.

The peace lasted all of ten minutes.

“Alright,” came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. “I return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.” A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. “Oh, speaking of sugar…”

Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddler’s little sneakers bounced against Johnny’s side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure they’d just had. Judging by the spark in Johnny’s eyes, he himself was in a similar state.

“Johnny,” Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.

“What?” He grinned, all innocence that didn’t fool anyone. “I gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.”

“How’s my favorite non robotic assistant?” he’s eyes darted to Sue’s regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. “No offense Tabby,” He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Storm,” Sue’s newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time they’d met.

Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. “Y’know, most people would’ve cracked by now. You’re starting to make me nervous.” When she didn’t respond to his comment he continued. “Guess I’ll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.”

At the sound of his name, Franklin beamed at her and held out a tiny hand. She reached forward and shook it gently, the faintest smile touching her lips. “See that? He likes you already,” Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. “And the kid’s got great instincts.” Sue made a quiet, knowing sound from her corner of the couch, and Tabitha sipped her coffee to hide a grin.

The assistant straightened, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Instincts aside, I’m sure Franklin’s affections are much easier to earn than mine.”

Johnny’s brows were lifted in a mock challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. “Johnny…”

“What? I’m just talking,” Johnny said innocently, bouncing Franklin on his hip with practiced ease. The toddler let out another gleeful squeal, arms flailing in delight. Johnny's eyes, however, lingered on the young woman next to him on the sofa. That ever-present smirk playing at his lips never wavering. “We’ve got months, Sweetheart,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. “I’m a patient guy.”

His gaze flicked toward the coffee table. Years of living with Sue had trained him not to ask before grabbing what he assumed was fair game. Especially with a toddler in the mix. In the Baxter Building, "what's mine is yours" was practically law between the Storm siblings. So, without a second thought, he reached out and snagged the to-go cup resting beside a stack of picture books and spare pacifiers. He popped the lid, took a confident sip... and immediately regretted it.

Instead of the lightly sweetened, milky, vanilla thing Sue usually drank, he was hit with a full blast of unadulterated espresso: jet black, no sugar, extra strong. He paused mid-sip, visibly tensing like someone who’d just been punched in the taste buds.

Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. “Johnny—”

He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. “Who drinks this willingly?” he rasped, eyes watering. “This isn’t coffee, it’s punishment in a cup.”

Setting the drink down with exaggerated caution, he glanced back at the woman, her amusement clearly growing behind her smirk. Something ignited in his stomach watching as her less than rigid act came at his displeasure. The first time she’d let down the professional act even for a moment.

Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. “You know,” he said, voice smooth now, “a girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.” He let the words hang, just long enough to be felt before flashing her the kind of grin that usually came with a warning label. “Lucky for you, I’m happy to provide...”

“Out.” Sue’s voice cut through the air, firm and unforgiving as she extended her arms toward Franklin. Her expression left no room for argument, just the steady authority of an older sister who’d long since run out of patience for Johnny’s antics. Johnny raised his hands in surrender, already backing toward the door, mischief practically radiating off him. But as he stepped away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes locking onto the woman again.

With a wink and that signature smirk, he added, “Rain check on the Sweetness. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

He hadn’t been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasn’t long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.

Three days. That’s all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Storm’s professional life, and she was already debating whether or not she should fake her own death and vanish into the mountains. Tabitha had officially left for maternity leave and the mess left behind had fallen squarely into her lap. She was doing her best not to buckle under the pressure, holed up in the adjoining office, a fortress of to-do lists, unanswered messages, and too many events to cram into someone else’s schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis.

A vinyl record spinning low in the corner, some vintage jazz number meant to soothe her fraying nerves. It almost worked. Until the faint murmur of voices in the hallway reached her. It was barely noticeable over the gentle crackle of the record, but enough to prick her ears. Then: a knock. Polite. A beat too casual. Followed by the door opening anyway. She didn’t look up, figuring it was Sue, back early from her meeting. But the footsteps were too light, too familiar in their rhythm. Then a voice.

“Man, you look tense, Doll.”

She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like he’d just stumbled upon something far more interesting than whatever his day had originally held. Her glasses were crooked. Hair a mess from her anxious fingers running through it all morning. She knew she looked a wreck. Not the kind of way anyone wants to be caught in, and especially not in front of him. But then again, he was just her boss’s younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.

“Way to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,” she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. “I’m—”

But he laughed. A real, unpolished sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It hit the walls of the office and filled the space entirely, as it worked to clear out the tension just a little. “No, no, you’re right,” he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. “I mean, I’ve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,” he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. “Gotta say, I like it.”

“Not much in here that lets me know more about you,” he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. “I thought I’d come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.” He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words might’ve been too much.

She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadn’t been teasing. Just… genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. “There’s not much to know,” she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richard’s impossibly packed schedule.”

In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didn’t push. Instead, he sat something onto the desk beside her keyboard with a quiet thunk. A to-go cup.

Her eyes flicked to it, then to him. He nodded to it without a word, his eyes effectively saying for you. She’d been expecting, instinctively, something saccharine and ridiculous. A caramel swirl monstrosity with six sugars and whipped cream, and enough milk to supply a whole maternity ward. A callback to his over-sweetened preferences, that time he’d drank from her cup when he’d assumed it Sue’s.

But the cup was plain. The aroma sharp. She lifted it slowly, cautious and took a sip. Dark. Strong. Bitter. Exactly the way she drank it. Her brows lifted, just slightly, and for once, words didn’t come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just… pleased. “Didn’t think I’d get it right?” he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadn’t shifted.

She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. “Honestly?” she said, glancing back at him. “No.”

“Well,” Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

And damn him, he was. His words tugged at something in her chest. Something small and inconvenient and far too easily stirred. She hated that it caught her off guard, hated more that he didn’t seem to notice the ripple his presence left behind. His gaze had already shifted, roaming over the cluttered corners of her office again with idle interest, like he was seeing it for the first time.

“You know,” he added casually, “you should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.”

She huffed a small breath through her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. “Anyway. I’m off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.”

She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. “Thank you,” she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. “For the coffee, Mr. Storm.”

He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. “One of these days,” he tossed over his shoulder, “it better be just Johnny.” And with that, he disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasn’t sure she was thrilled to notice.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturdays were sacred. Or at least they were supposed to be. A quiet little corner carved out of her week, untouched by phones ringing or emergency scheduling changes. No Sue, no international crisis, no chaos in superhero suits. Just her and the worn spines of old books, the scent of paper and dust, the ritual comfort of a place that didn’t expect her to perform.

The shop was tucked away. Not the sleek chain store down the block, but a tiny, tucked-in independent with uneven floors and the kind of silence that invited exhale. She came here often enough that the owner, a soft-spoken man with thick glasses and a deep love for Victorian ghost stories, knew her name. She was halfway down the second-floor fiction aisle, a stack of paperbacks already under one arm, when a voice spoke from just behind her. “Didn’t peg you for a poetry girl.”

She froze. Turned. And there he was. Johnny Storm, of all people, standing a few feet away, sunglasses pushed into his hair making it look disheveled, a to-go coffee cup in hand, and the most unbothered expression she’d ever seen him wear. He was in jeans. A white shirt. Some kind of casual jacket. Not the polished charm of his media persona, not the gleam of a man trying to impress. Just… a guy. In a bookstore. On a Saturday morning before most of the city bothered to be awake.

She blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. “Give me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.”

“I bet you pretended to read them. Or got some girl in your class to give you the bullet points ahead of class with that charming smile.”

He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. “Guilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” he nodded at the book in her hand. “You into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?”

“I’m into the classics,” she said, slipping it into her stack.

“Well,” he said, with a half-smile, “guess I’ve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. “What genre did you have me under?”

He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. “Non-fiction,” he said finally. “Sharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.”

She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like he’d just won a bet with himself. “I try to be professional,” she said, mostly to herself.

“And you’re great at it,” Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. “But I’d like to assume there’s more to you than lists and calendar reminders.”

Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadn’t let herself think about in months. That she’d built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone else’s storm, and somewhere along the way lost a bit of the things she found enjoyable. It was hard to have a life when the majority of your working life revolved around keeping someone else afloat. “Shouldn’t you be at some event?” she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. “Shaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?”

He shrugged. “Needed a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.”

That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. “You have a therapist?”

“Why does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?” he laughed. “I’ve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind I’ll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.”

She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. “Trade you. You recommend a book I’ll pretend I’ll finish, and I’ll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesn’t taste like battery acid in return.”

She eyed the cup with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Straight espresso,” he said, lifting it like a dare. “No sugar, no cream. I’m branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It's still crime in a cup.”

She took it, sniffed, and sipped. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how she took hers. He didn’t joke after that point. Didn’t smirk. Just turned and walked toward the front counter and waited for something better from the tiny espresso machine tucked into the back corner of the store, installed by the owner’s wife in what looked like a quiet rebellion against the chain cafés nearby.

She brought the cup to her lips again, pretending not to notice how easily he left it behind in her hands, like it was second nature to share. Like the fact that his mouth had touched it before hers wasn’t worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. She’d drunk after him once before. This just felt… different.

Her eyes followed him as he drifted toward the shelves, one hand brushing the spines like they might give him the answer to some quiet question. No rush. No bravado. Just a guy wandering a bookstore like the world outside wasn’t made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read.

Johnny Storm didn’t strike her as the kind of man who read often, and certainly not by choice. There was too much velocity in him, too much need for movement and distraction. She imagined him more of a fan of the cinemas than novels. There was strong doubt he sat still long enough to fall into a story unless the pages were filled with action or something lude. And so, she'd never quite assigned him a literary genre in her mind. No tidy label. No easy shelf to place him on.

Something accessible seemed safer, palatable, maybe even charming in its simplicity. So by the time he returned, a faint grin curving his mouth, one hand cradling a new cup of something more suited to his taste, the other tucked coyly behind his back like it contained a secret, she already had a book waiting in her hands.

She wasn’t entirely sure what made her reach for that particular one. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against his reputation. A subconscious test, curious to see how he'd handle a story that offered less escape and more reflection. One with a title that might resemble a mirror. Maybe she simply liked the way it looked, worn and quietly tragic among the glossier titles. Whatever the reason, she held it out between them.

The Beautiful and Damned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This isn’t some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?”

She shook her head, lips twitching. “Not unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.”

Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. “Read Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. I’m sure it’s good. Thanks for the recommendation.” Then, without missing a beat, “Which brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean, your suggestion for me?”

“I’m giving you a book rec. Equal exchange. A little literary diplomacy if you will. We read, we reconvene, we give each other another and so on.” Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasn’t strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not… whatever this was. It wasn’t quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasn’t nothing.

A quiet discomfort flickered at the edge of her thoughts. It was all a little too casual, too familiar. Too easy. She worked for his sister, after all. There were boundaries, weren’t there? Unspoken, maybe, but understood. Sue had never forbidden anything, never drawn a line in the sand. Her only warnings had been gently pragmatic: that Johnny could be a lot. Loud. Reckless. The type who flirted with beautiful women because he didn’t know how not to.

But she’d never said stay away.

Before she could dwell on it too long, Johnny was already extending the book toward her with something like pride glittering in his eyes. The Blazing World, by Margaret Cavendish. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by the choice. A name she didn’t recognize. A curious blend of science fiction, philosophy, poetry and in ambitious prose. Strange and brilliant in ways that rarely showed up on casual reading lists, and even fell through the cracks of scholarly work.

She took it slowly, fingers brushing his as they passed the slim volume between them. His skin was warm, unsurprisingly, given he carried the sun’s power in his body. She let her thumb skim the edge of the pages, not yet opening it. Her voice came quiet, more contemplative than she'd expected. “You’ve read this?”

“I’ve attempted to read it,” he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something you’d appreciate more than I could.” The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it was…observant. It showed his understanding of her tastes, given the little information he had on her, and provided a thoughtful recommendation. It almost made her feel sheepish, given she’d picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where he’d put in more effort.

She glanced up at him, studying the way he leaned back slightly, letting her set the tone. No teasing. No firework smile. Just him, standing there, strangely sincere beneath all that practiced bravado. “It seems weird,” she said finally, thumbing the cover. “But brilliant. The kind of thing I’d stumble upon.”

He grinned again. “Sounds like I provided a better suggestion,.”

She tried not to laugh but didn’t quite succeed, and he looked far too pleased with himself. They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the space between them a breath too close, books cradled like offerings in their hands. Then, casually he said, “So. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?”

She blinked. “You’re seriously going to read it?”

He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. “I said I’d try. Besides…” He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. “Feels like the kind of deal you don’t back out of.”

She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. “Same time,” she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her boss’s brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing she’d scold herself for… later.

He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didn’t bother her after passing a few bills to the owner. Didn't even turn back around. She could hear the bell above the door jangling as he stepped out into the late afternoon light. She watched him go, unsure what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But with the book still clutched in her hands, she tried not to dwell. And when she finally cracked open the cover, she found herself smiling.

Not because of the words on the page. But because, against every reasonable assumption, Johnny Storm had just surprised her.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights were too bright when she came back in. The kind of artificial white that bleached out time and made everything feel faintly unreal. Her meeting had run over, leaving her with a dull headache and the vague sense that she’d forgotten something important, though she couldn't name what. She set her folder down with a muted thud, shrugging off her coat before freezing mid-motion.

There was something on her desk. Not just something. A book. She recognized it immediately. The worn, wine-colored cover. The familiar weight of it in her memory. The Beautiful and Damned. Only, this copy wasn’t hers. Hers had never been dog-eared like that, the spine a little more cracked now than before, the corners softened as if handled too often in too short a time. She stared at it, unmoving. A note might’ve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you I’d finish it in his cocky handwriting would’ve fit the narrative she’d built for him in her head. But there was no note. Just the book, left deliberately.

Slowly, she pulled out her chair and sat down. The silence of the office folded around her. When she opened the cover, her breath caught. The margins were full of ink. Not dense, frantic scribbles or anything that suggested pretense. Just... notes. Small, blocky handwriting in black pen. He hadn’t annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. He’d written where it seemed to strike his fancy.

She flipped to a random page.

“This guy's self-pity could power the city grid.”

“Does Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?”

“This part… hits harder than I wanted it to.”

She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, there’d be another brief line in the margins. Some funny. Some startlingly intelligent. Some… vulnerable in a way that made her heart trip a little in her chest. Not because they were bold confessions, but because they weren’t. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. He’d read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And he’d thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines.

She wasn't sure what she had expected from him on Saturday. Maybe a careless toss of the book back into her hands, some joke about the slow downfall of rich people, a sarcastic rating. But not this. Not a thoughtful connection with the literature. Not ink on paper. Not something left behind, with no need for acknowledgement or using it as an excuse to harass her at work. Just a quiet answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d been asking.

There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on.

Her eyes drifted back to the desk. Nothing else was left with it. But there was something in the way the book had been placed deliberately there without spectacle. Like he wanted her to find it. Like he wanted her to notice. But he didn’t want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasn’t fully confident with the situation after all.

She leaned back in her chair, the book still open in her lap. The office buzzed faintly around her, but she didn’t hear it. Instead, she felt the weight of those pages, of everything between the lines. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bookstore was quieter than usual. No light filtered through the front windows, not with the snow falling outside. And the cold shift in weather seemingly kept everyone away. A coffee grinder rumbled briefly before dying into stillness. The smell of cinnamon and old pages curled in the air. She was already in the same aisle when he found her, pretending to browse, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a book she wasn’t reading.

“Hey,” came his voice, softer than usual.

She looked up. Johnny stood a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, coffee in one hand, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t look like someone who set things on fire for a living. Here, he just looked... a little uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful. He nodded toward her, then toward the shelves. “So. Did you finish it?”

It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. “I did.”

A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. “And?”

She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. “It was strange,” she said finally. “Dense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So... you loved it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes, but softly. “What made you pick it?”

He shrugged. “I remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like it’d match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.”

That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. “You think I have dramatic energy?”

“I think you build your own world,” he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Or, you know. Something like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... charged. She watched the way he sipped his coffee, how his fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed something sure to ground himself in the moment. “I liked the annotations,” she said after a moment. “You are actually funny when you aren’t trying too hard.”

“I can’t say I get that a lot,” he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didn’t feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadn’t named yet and something he wasn’t forcing her to.

He gestured toward a nearby display. “Okay. Your turn.”

“For what?”

“New picks,” he said. “I’m clearly on a streak. I’ll try not to ruin it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this becoming a regular thing now?”

He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. “Only if you want it to be.”

The words hung in the space between them, casual on the surface, but landing somewhere far less casual inside her. He said it with the same ease he said most things, like nothing mattered too much, like no moment was ever heavy enough to be held too tightly. But now, with him standing just behind her, following her lead as she turned down a quieter aisle, she couldn’t quite ignore the way her thoughts tangled around the simplicity of it.

Only if you want it to be.

What did she want it to be?

She let her fingers trail the shelves, touching covers she didn’t read, spines she didn’t care about. Searching. A book for him, that was the task. Another title. Another exchange. Something witty or unexpected. Something that said I see more in you without actually saying anything at all.

And yet her mind refused to focus. Because now, the game felt different. Slightly altered in its stakes. It had been harmless, hadn’t it? Originally just a test to see what he was made of. Now it could be a flirtation wrapped in pages and margins, passed between them like a secret handshake. Now it felt like she was making choices with weight. Choosing a book meant choosing how much to show. What version of herself she wanted him to hold in his hands. How much of her growing appreciation for him she’d let on.

Behind her, she could hear the subtle shift of his footsteps as he paused somewhere down the aisle. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just… waiting. As if he knew better than to fill the silence too soon. She pulled a title from the shelf, turned it over, and put it back. Too grim. Another. Too ridiculous. Another. Too transparent.

How did you find the perfect book for someone who was suddenly no longer a passing curiosity? What does he see when he looks at me? The question slipped in before she could stop it. It wasn’t that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm she’d been warned about. No charming remarks. No obvious lines. Just these brief, disarming glances. Like he was trying to understand her.

And now here she was, stalling in front of the fiction section. Like what she picked for him could open or close a door she hadn’t even decided she wanted to walk through. She glanced sideways, found him leaning lightly against the end of the shelf, idly flipping through something he hadn’t really chosen. He looked relaxed. At ease. He was watching her, eyes lifting from the pages every so often to her, then back down. Not like he was even particularly curious about the outcome. Just... present. There. Noticing. She turned back to the shelves, pulse ticking louder than it should’ve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadn’t thought about since. She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve.

Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. “From the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?”

She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “Sue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.”

That pulled a faint smile from him, the crooked and boyish kind, but something flickered behind it. He leaned into the shelf beside him, posture casual but gaze a little more focused now, the book still resting open in his hand. “Asking my sister about me,” he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. “Now that’s unexpectedly personal.”

“I wasn’t asking about you,” she replied, too quickly, too defensively. “She mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.” Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like she’d said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.

But he didn’t tease her for it. Didn’t grin or throw out some easy line the way she expected. He just watched her. Not with judgment, but with something far more subtle. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding. She couldn't tell. He flipped the book closed with one hand, the soft sound of the pages coming together. “Well,” he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, “it’s a good pick. You’re not wrong, by the way. About space.”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. “I used to memorize the constellations,” he continued, more to the book than to her. “Could name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.”

That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the way he shifted his weight, his free hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, like maybe he regretted the truth of it.

“You don’t think that anymore?” she asked, carefully.

“I think,” he said, glancing up again, “that the older you get, the harder it is to look up. So much happening around you, all the responsibility of being an adult, it leaves little room for those daydreams of distant stars.” He said it like it wasn’t profound. Like it didn’t carry a weight that caught her off guard.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to fidget, to ground herself in something tangible. Instead, she said, “That’s why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.”

That made him smile again. “I’ll read it,” he said, voice low. “Promise.” She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasn’t just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. “Alright,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. “I owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?”

She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Dangerous words,” he said with a wink, stepping away from the shelf and back toward the café corner of the shop. “Alright, emotion roulette it is.” She followed a few steps behind, bookless, hands tucked into her sleeves. But the space between them wasn’t awkward. It was almost familiar; comfortable in a way that snuck up on her.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. “I’ll confess, I did some research before today. So this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I might’ve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. Just pressed the book gently into her hands before she could protest. She looked down.

John Clare.

A collected volume. Thick, matte-bound, the kind of edition usually found in academic libraries or quietly aging on secondhand shelves. It wasn’t a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone else’s hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the author’s voice had been filtered through other intentions.

But this time, she didn’t move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasn’t flashy, and certainly was off the beaten path, and had still chosen it anyway. She traced a thumb lightly along the edge of the pages. The spine cracked faintly under her grip, and she could already feel the density of it. The weight of someone’s entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.

“You called ahead,” she repeated softly, not quite a question.

He shrugged, half-apologetic. “Didn’t want to wing it. Figured if I was gonna bring you poetry, it should be something thought out a bit more than your Frosts of the world."

That answer surprised her more than the book itself. She opened to the first page, letting the weight of it settle in her hands. The paper was thinner than she liked. The font, a little too small. But there was something in it that made her pause. A sort of stillness she hadn’t expected. “Clare’s not one of the poets I’m largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible than most,” she said.

“Yea,” he agreed. “I read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didn’t sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just… it made sense in a way I didn’t expect.”

She blinked. That wasn’t the kind of reaction she expected him to admit. Especially not about a 19th-century poet who wrote about hedgerows and abandonment in the same breath. “So you picked this for me,” she said slowly, “because… it got under your skin?”

“I picked it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “because it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe you’d like that. I thought breaking up the rich academics with a man who spent time in an asylum or living amongst paupers would have a genuine nature you’d enjoy. You don’t seem to like flashy things.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clare’s name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadn’t noticed was locked. Normally, she would’ve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But he’d gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didn’t say thank you. Not because she wasn’t grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what he’d just handed her. Not the book itself, but the thought behind it. So instead, she just held it. And that seemed to be enough for him.

Johnny didn’t press. He didn’t wait for a reaction like he needed validation. He just gave a small nod, "There's a table open near the back," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the café corner, where a window seat sat mostly in shadow, partially hidden by a crooked row of nonfiction titles and a wilting potted plant. “If you’re not in a rush.”

She hesitated, then followed. Neither of them said anything as they settled into the space. He placed his drink down, she set the book beside hers, and for a while, the only sounds were the low murmur of voices across the store and the soft shuffle of pages turning somewhere nearby. She watched him over the rim of her cup. He’d leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didn’t want to name. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the wood, quiet and patient.

Finally, she reached for the book again. Her thumb flipped through the first few pages. The introduction. The publication note. The timeline of Clare’s life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.

She landed on a random poem.

“I am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didn’t require understanding. It simply existed with profound truth. Like someone had written down a thought that had once lived, wordless, at the back of her own mind. And now here it was, plain and devastating and true. She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he must’ve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.

“That one stayed with me, too.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasn’t the intensity that got to her, it was the ease. The way he let silence exist between them without rushing to fill it. He was simply present.

She closed the book carefully, ran a finger once along the edge of the pages, and asked, suddenly needing to know, “Why are you doing this?” Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. “This,” she said again, motioning vaguely between them. “The books. The effort. Poetry, for God’s sake. I know you’re not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. I’m sure you could find much better company for that.”

There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet curiosity, laced with something more hesitant underneath. A softness mixing with caution. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled once through his nose, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Honestly?” he said. “I’m not totally sure.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. “But when I’m around you,” he continued, slower now, “it’s like I don’t have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I don’t have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.”

His eyes lifted to hers again. “You don’t look at me like I’m supposed to prove something. That’s… rare.”

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t look away either. “And I think there’s something about you,” he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. “Something still. Like, there’s this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I don’t exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.”

That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didn’t apologize for saying it. “I guess I just like being around that,” he said. “It feels safe. Real. I don’t know. Maybe that sounds selfish.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, almost before he finished.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not about impressing you. If it was, I’d be doing a way worse job, trust me. I’ve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the ‘charming’ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just… want to know what it’s like to be seen by someone who doesn’t already have an idea of me in their head.”

She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadn’t made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sue’s warning. From the articles she tried to avoid. Small giggled conversations on her walk home from young women calling the billboard of him half exposed dreamy. The only contradiction to those being from the sparse moments he’d shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.

This version of him — stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone — felt startlingly close to something she hadn’t realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didn’t ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. “Well,” she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, “you’ve shown me a few sides I didn’t expect to experience, Mr. Storm.”

The use of his name was deliberately formal, but not cold. More playful than professional now. A tease, laced with familiarity. The kind of formality that invited contradiction. He caught it immediately. His grin flickered to life. “Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. “It’s already in there.”

She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadn’t lifted entirely. It lingered beneath their words, steady and quiet, but this, the soft return to banter, felt like exhale. Like an acknowledgment that they could hold both things at once: the intimacy, and the distance. The honesty, and the pretense. Johnny took another sip of his coffee which had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze drifted back to the book in her hands, then to her. For a moment, something uncertain passed through his expression. Almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again.

He looked away, toward the front windows of the shop. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. What had started earlier as a quiet flurry had built slowly into something more committed. The light from the streetlamps cast soft halos through the drifting flakes, and the sidewalks were turning from gray slush to something closer to white. “Huh,” Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. “Coming down harder now.”

She followed his gaze. People passed by in heavy coats, shoulders hunched, breath visible in short bursts of steam. The kind of cold that made your bones feel thinner. “I could walk you home,” he offered, lightly.

The words were casual. He tried to make them sound that way, at least. But there was a quiet earnestness underneath. She looked at him for a second too long. Long enough that his confidence wavered just slightly, a flicker behind his eyes. “Are you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?” she asked, deadpan.

He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. “Fine,” she said, slipping her coat on. “But if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, I’m leaving you.”

“Noted,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “Subtle heroism only. Got it.”

They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldn’t get damp. Then they stepped out into the street together. The snow greeted them in silence. Clinging to their hair and eyelashes as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. The city felt smaller in the snow. The world reduced to a few feet ahead of them, the hush of their footsteps, and the occasional flicker of streetlight through the white.

They were halfway down the block when the wind came slicing between the buildings, sharp and sudden. It cut through the wool of her coat like it wasn’t even there. She flinched at the cold and instinctively curled in on herself, shoulders tucking tighter, hands disappearing deeper into her pockets. A shiver worked its way through her before she could stop it.

Johnny noticed. He glanced sideways at her, brow lifting just slightly, like he was trying to decide how much trouble he'd be in for what he was about to do. Then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and tugged her gently into his side. One arm slung easily over her shoulders, like it had happened a thousand times before. Effortless. “Pretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,” he said, casually. Light on the surface.

But his arm stayed where it was. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. Her steps faltered for a half-second. Less from the physical shift and more from the fact that it felt... Natural. Not like something he was doing to be charming. Not to get a reaction. Just a kind gesture to keep her warm.

She glanced up at him, lips parted slightly like she might object on principle. But he was staring ahead, focused on the snow, pretending like he hadn’t just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. “You really think Sue would care that much?” she asked, tone deliberately flat.

“Oh, she’d absolutely care,” he said. “She really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.”

She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didn’t move away. His warmth radiated through the fabric of her coat. The snow was still falling, heavier now, and the sidewalks were turning slick with a fine sheen of frost, but beside him, tucked neatly into his side, she didn’t feel quite as brittle in the cold. They kept walking like that. No big moment. No shift in the world around them. Just his arm around her shoulders. And her letting it stay there. Which, for both of them, felt quietly remarkable.

They rounded the final corner before her building, the familiar stoop materializing out of the haze. She slowed her steps, and so did he. “This is me,” she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

He stopped with her, but didn’t pull away just yet. His arm stayed where it was for a second longer than necessary before he let it drop. The absence of it made the cold return too quickly. He looked at the building, then at her. Snow clung to the edges of her coat, melted on the curve of her collar. She didn’t meet his eyes right away.

“You warm enough now?” he asked, tone light.

She nodded. “More or less.”

He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, “Didn’t want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

She huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close. “How noble of you.”

“I have my moments.”

She glanced up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. Snow was caught in his lashes, and melted into the blond fringe over his forehead. There was nothing performative in his face now. No smug smile, no raised brow. Just a softness she didn’t quite know how to answer.

“Well,” she said, adjusting the book under her arm. “Thanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.”

He gave a slow nod, as if there were words he wanted to say but chose to hold back. Then, with a small, familiar tilt of his head, he said, “Anytime.” Stepping back from the stoop, he added, “I’ll see you Monday.”

The reminder settled between them. Sue’s schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. They’d see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.

“Goodnight, Mr. Storm,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didn’t look back, but her fingers curled tighter around the book she carried. Eager to lose herself in its pages. In something that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She didn’t see him on Monday. Not because he’d flaked. Johnny was many things — sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time — but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family.

She didn’t see him because she never made it to work at all.

Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasn’t cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldn’t clear, muscles aching in a dull, persistent throb. The flu had claimed her completely. She spent the day wrapped in blankets, while she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the world moved on, but inside her house, everything felt still. Except the steady, frustrating pulse of illness.

Sue had told her to stay home. The call had gone through that morning. Franklin crying in the background, muffled sounds of bickering between Ben and Johnny over cereal and Sue’s gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. “You need to rest. You’re not permitted in the office until you feel better. That’s an order.”

She had reluctantly agreed, lips pressed tight, even as guilt settled heavy in her chest. Missing work felt like failure. Like letting Sue down. Letting Johnny down, especially since the foundation was in memory of their parents, stung especially hard given their recent… breakthrough. But the fever that had clawed its way into her bones didn’t care about guilt. It demanded surrender. And so she surrendered, curling deeper into tangled sheets, the weight of the blankets somehow both comforting and suffocating.

The hours passed in a strange blur. Outside, daylight faded from pale to gray, then sank into the muted shadows of early evening. The city’s usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow. She’d never put much effort into updating the place. Where most clung to sleek, modern trends, she preferred the warmth of older things: a four-poster bed, a worn chestnut wardrobe, faded floral wallpaper, candle holders still half-used. It had a quiet kind of charm. A lived-in elegance, even if she rarely spent time there. Her fever-glossed eyes drifted over the room. Past the quilted blanket draped over the plush chair in the corner, the wooden record player and vinyl stack beside it, the shelf overflowing with books, titles spilling onto the floor like fallen soldiers.

And there, on the nightstand, lay the book Johnny had given her. Still unopened.

She closed her eyes again. The television murmured in the background, turned low, more ambient noise than entertainment. The stillness was a comfort.

Until it wasn’t. A knock. Hesitant. Unexpected. She froze. The room seemed to shrink around her. Another knock came, firmer this time, breaking the fragile calm. Her pulse fluttered. Who could it be? Friends? She didn’t have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didn’t come again, she sighed and sank back into the pillows. Probably someone at the wrong door. A delivery. A mix-up. She was too sick to care.

But then, light. Not the flicker of the television, but something warmer. Like a fireplace glow. That’s nice, she thought hazily. Fireplaces are nice. A small, delirious smile tugged at her lips as she buried herself deeper under the covers.

Another knock. Not from the front door this time. From her bedroom window. She sat up, breath catching, sheets clinging to her overheated skin. Panic lanced through her, briefly, until she registered the source of the flickering light outside the glass. She stumbled toward the window, ignoring the fever-sweat clinging to her back, the weakness in her knees. Fumbling with the latch, her fingers finally managed to pry it open. A blast of cold winter air rushed in, stealing the breath from her lungs and chasing heat from her cheeks.

And there he was. Hovering just above the fire escape, flames curling lazily around his shoulders and hands, casting flickering light across the snow-dusted ledge behind him. Johnny Storm. “I thought I had the wrong window for a second,” he said, grinning, though his voice held something gentler than his usual swagger. A thread of concern tugged behind the humor.

She blinked, dazed, gripping the windowsill like it might keep her upright. “You’re here?”

“Uh... yes? Is that a question?” he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.

“Just... fever,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting past him, toward the soft mess of her room. The nest of blankets, the tissues, the half-empty mug of cold tea on her nightstand. “Wasn’t sure I was hallucinating.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. Instead, he stepped closer, the flames fading from his skin until only the natural warmth of him remained, haloed in faint light. Then, before she could even process it, his hand reached forward. Back of his dexterous fingers, cool and gentle against her forehead. “Oh, doll… you’re burning up,” he murmured, brow furrowing.

She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. “Bit ironic coming from the Human Torch.” That led to a chuckle, short-lived though it was, as it dissolved into a sudden coughing fit. She braced herself against the window frame, chest heaving, head spinning.

Johnny’s hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. “Easy. I’m not worth laughing to death over, yeah?”

She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. “Do you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?”

Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. “What? And ruin the moment? I’m Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.”

Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. “Just don’t fall, Hotshot.”

“Oh, I never fall,” he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. “I fly.” With practiced ease, he climbed inside, landing softly on the hardwood floor beside her bed. The moment he was in, she noticed the bag slung over one shoulder. Navy blue backpack, slightly beat-up, and obviously full.

Her brows furrowed. “What’s in the bag?”

“Supplies,” he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. “Soup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, don’t ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.”

“You really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?”

He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. “Sue said you were sick, and when you didn’t show up today, I figured I’d do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I entered with style,” he corrected, “Huge difference.”

She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. “You’re ridiculous.”

Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. “And yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.” She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her boss’s brother, Jonathan Storm himself, was standing in her room with a bag and concern written all over his face. Like taking care of her was just something he did now.

Almost as if he could sense the direction her thoughts had drifted, Johnny’s gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. Not even close. He lived among glass walls and touchscreens, floors that practically cleaned themselves, and a fridge that probably told you the weather and your mood. Her apartment, in comparison, felt like it belonged in another century. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture passed down, not bought.

Framed photos lined her dresser. A school portrait from second grade with pigtails. A blurry snapshot of her with a chocolate-covered mouth at a birthday party. Trinkets from forgotten vacations. A chipped ceramic dish that held earrings and loose change. The floral wallpaper had peeled in places, but she hadn’t bothered to fix it.

And then… the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. “Whoa.” Her eyes followed his. Three narrow shelves were mounted unevenly, packed end to end with novels. Classics, sci-fi, romance, history. Some stacked sideways, others crammed on top of one another like a game of bookish Tetris. And that wasn’t counting the ones on the floor. Piles of them leaned against the wall, curling at the corners, some clearly re-read until the spines cracked.

“You… uh,” Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. “You ever think about getting an actual bookcase?”

She blinked. “The shelves work fine.”

“They’re working overtime,” he replied, stepping closer. “You’re one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “They’ve survived this long.”

“I think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,” he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.

“That’s only about a third of it,” she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. “I’ve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to books…”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making you talk this much. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel.” He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. “Bathroom?” he asked, nodding toward it.

She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didn’t close behind him, her curiosity rising, until she heard the faucet turn on.

The sound of running water filled the room, followed by the creak of a cabinet and the soft clatter of what she guessed was a soap dish. He emerged a moment later, brushing his hands together. “Alright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.”

She blinked at him. “You drew me a bath?”

He shrugged, casual. “Better you try it while someone’s here to make sure you don’t drown or fall and hurt yourself.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. That’s… unexpected.”

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart.” He turned, walking back toward the window like he might be heading out. But then he stopped and looked back at her with a more serious expression. “I’ll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?” His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something unsure beneath it. His eyes dropped to his sock-covered feet, as if she might suddenly ask him to grab his sneakers, climb back out the window, and forget this ever happened.

For a moment, she said nothing, just watched him, feeling the warmth behind her ribs outweigh the fever in her skin. “You can stay,” she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. “But,” she added, clearing her throat, “no making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. I’m too fevered to fight back right now.”

He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior. And I’d never mock… Mr. Bear,” he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed.

She rose unsteadily from the bed, and for a second, he instinctively stepped forward, attempting to steady her but she waved him off gently, managing her way to the bathroom door. Just before disappearing inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Hey Jonathan?”

“Yeah?” Hearing his full name, not the one he went by, was a step in the right direction, but still felt entirely too formal for his liking. Still, he fought the grin threatening to take over his face at the small concession she’d offered.

“Thank you,”

His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. “Anytime, Doll.”

She lingered just a moment more after the door clicked shut, listening faintly as his socked footsteps padded away from her bedroom. A second later, the soft creak of the floorboards in the hall told her he was far enough to respect her privacy. She exhaled slowly and turned toward the bathroom. Warm steam curled gently around the frame as she stepped inside. The tub was already filling, the water swirling with just enough heat to soothe without scalding. But what stopped her wasn’t the bath. It was the candles.

Three of them. Set along the edge of the sink and the corner of the tub, flickering softly. Matchbook she kept in the drawer absent. He’d lit them. So she wouldn’t have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didn’t dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didn’t erase the ache in her bones, but it helped. The low flicker of candlelight danced across the tile. Johnny Storm. Lighting candles. Drawing baths. She smiled faintly to herself.

Ten minutes. That was all she could manage before the fatigue started tugging her under. She climbed out carefully, dried off, slipped into fresh clothes. Sweats, thick socks, and the hoodie she usually reserved for laundry days. It smelled like clean cotton and fabric softener. Damp but brushed hair soaking through the material, she padded down the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance.

Her apartment hummed. Soft record on the turnstyle, Elvis it sounded like, and the occasional soft clink of metal against ceramic. When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw him. Johnny was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup with focused intensity. He’d found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl. He hadn’t noticed her yet.

She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. “Didn’t burn the place down, did you?” she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.

Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. “There she is,” he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. “Looking a little more alive.”

She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. “I’d say it smells good, but I currently can’t smell much,” she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.

“I didn’t screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,” Johnny said.

She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He set the mug down in front of her, along with a spoon, then sat across from her, forearms resting on the table. For a moment, there was only the sound of the spoon clinking against ceramic as she stirred the soup, letting the steam warm her face. She felt the weight of his gaze but didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to stay,” she said eventually.

“I know,” he replied. “Didn’t really feel like leaving.”

She glanced up at him then. His hair was still tousled from the wind, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looked almost out of place in her old kitchen, like a snapshot from someone else’s life. “You could’ve just dropped the stuff off,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. “This is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sister’s overglorified secretary.”

Johnny smiled faintly. “I stopped seeing you as just ‘Sue’s assistant.’ a long time ago.”

She went still at that. He didn’t push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. “This is good,” she said after a beat, voice low.

“Not much of a cook, but I’m good at heating things up,” he said. “It’s kind of my thing.” That got a small smile from her, the first real one since she sat down.

Johnny stood slowly, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. For a second, she thought he might walk off, give her space again. But instead, he circled the table and lowered himself into the chair beside her. She turned slightly, eyes following him, uncertain. He didn’t speak, just reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her forehead. His palm was cool, fingers steady. She leaned into it without thinking.

Still too warm. His brow twitched. His touch moved gently, sliding from her forehead to the side of her face, then drifting into the damp strands of her hair. He paused there, fingers tangled loosely in it. “You’re soaked,” he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to keep you sick.”

Her breath caught, at the quiet concern in his voice, at how close he was now, at the way his fingers held more tenderness than she was used to. Before she could say anything, he pulled back slightly. Palm smooth over her head, and then: Warmth.

Not fever-warm, but something softer. A slow, radiating heat that started at the base of her skull and traveled through the heavy strands of her hair. She could feel it shift, lifting dampness, drying gently. It was careful, completely in control, and absent of the heat she knew him capable of. She closed her eyes. When it faded, her hair was dry. Still tousled and messy, sure, but no longer soaking through her sweater. No longer clinging to her skin.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Johnny’s hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didn’t meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for the spoon again, when she noticed his other hand resting near it. She brushed their fingers together intentionally. His head turned toward her at that. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thanks.”

He only nodded. But he didn’t move away. “Our mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. “She’d lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. Johnny glanced at her again, then down at where her hand was still resting on his. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked first.”

She shook her head. “Johnny, it’s okay.” The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.

“You called me Johnny,” he said, turning more fully toward her now.

“Yes,” she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, “but—”

“No ‘Mr. Storm.’ No ‘Jonathan.’ I admit, I kind of thought you’d take that to your grave.”

She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. “Blame the fever.”

He didn’t smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. “You don’t have to pretend with me right now. You don’t have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.”

Her fingers shifted slightly against his. “You’re my boss’s brother,” she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines she’d drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.

“And you’re not at work,” Johnny replied, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “You’re sick, and alone, and I’m not here because anyone asked me to be. I’m here because I want to be.”

She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. “I don’t… let people see me like this,” she admitted.

“I noticed,” he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. “I mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,” he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didn’t waver.

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, you’d stop looking at me like I was…”

“What?” he asked.

“Like you are right now,” she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.

Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.”

The words hung in the space between them. They were irritatingly sincere. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like she was grounding herself. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasn’t sure she had the clarity to unpack just yet. Not tonight. Not like this, bleary-eyed and fever-warm, emotions unguarded and closer to the surface than they usually were.

But what struck her most was that he didn’t push. He didn’t follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didn’t move closer or lean in. He just… gave her room to sit with it. And that, more than anything, made her exhale a quiet, breath of relief. Because the truth was, she didn’t trust herself right now. Not with her head foggy and her heart aching and all these new emotions rising like steam off hot pavement. She couldn’t tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.

“Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. “Moving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If you’re done with that” he nodded to her soup, “I’ll take care of it while you go lay back down.”

She blinked. “I can—”

“Nope,” he cut in. “Your only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. I’ll handle the rest.” She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like he’d done this before. Like taking care of her wasn’t some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. “Also, I put on something actually worth watching. What’s the point of being sick if you’re stuck with the news? You need something comforting.”

She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. “Like what?”

“Like something you enjoy,” he said over his shoulder, rinsing out the mug and tossing the rest of the soup.

She wandered toward the television, feet dragging softly across the floor. She hardly watched anything these days, but her fingers moved on instinct, flipping to the one channel she remembered always airing the reruns that brought her a strange kind of comfort.

By the time he returned and dropped onto the couch beside her, she had already sunk into the cushions, blanket pulled around her shoulders, the black-and-white with intro music drifting through the room. He raised a brow, surprised. “The Twilight Zone?”

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you were a Serling girl.”

“It’s my favorite,” she said, voice low but sincere.

Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. “Can I let you in on a secret?” She arched a brow, waiting. “It’s my favorite too.”

A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. “You are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.”

He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. “I’m not. You can ask Susie. I still make her watch them with me, though she claims I just like how dramatic the opening theme is.”

She gave him a sideways look. “That does sound like you.”

He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. “I really like that one with the World War I pilot. Y’know, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.”

Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. “That’s a good one,” she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. “Kind of poetic, actually.”

She tried not to unpack the notions under his favorite episode. The idea he saved lives for a living, and he seemingly understood what standing one’s ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian.

He smiled, oblivious to her internal thoughts, and said nothing else. For a moment, the show filled the room with that strange mix of eerie music and philosophical narration. The light flickered gently on both of their faces, shadows shifting as they sat in silence. Then Johnny glanced over at her and frowned. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.

“You’ve got chills,” he said, already sliding closer. “You should be under like, six blankets right now.”

“I’ve got one,” she pointed out, feebly. He didn’t say anything, just reached for the other end of the blanket she had half-draped over herself and scooted closer until he could pull it around both of them. She went rigid. “Johnny, don’t. I don’t want you to get sick.”

He gave a short, soft laugh. “Sweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sick”

“But still—”

He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Let me take care of you.”

She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didn’t. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the warmth he gave off, literally and otherwise. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending she didn’t want him close. So she nodded, and leaned, just slightly, into the space between them. And Johnny, in his own quiet way, shifted to make room. Pulled her in.

He was warm. But it wasn’t harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her without expecting something in return. Actually, the last time was the night he walked her home. She rested her head against his shoulder, her body finally beginning to settle, her muscles less tense, her breathing slower. “See?” he murmured, voice close to her ear.

She huffed out a faint laugh. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Unbelievably.”

The episode played on, but she barely registered it, her body finally relaxing into the pull of warmth and fatigue. Every now and then, she felt Johnny’s fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions.

“You really don’t do this much, do you?” he asked after a quiet minute. She didn’t answer right away. “Let people take care of you,” he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.

“I don’t really know how,” she admitted. “I got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.”

Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. “I see that.”

“Being vulnerable,” she added, “it never felt safe. Even when it was.”

There was a beat of quiet between them. “You don’t owe anyone softness,” he said, voice low and even. “But you deserve to have it. When you want it.”

That made her blink. Not because it was overly sweet or romantic, but because it was… kind. Thoughtful. Honest. And completely unexpected coming from someone the world painted as a hotshot. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

“For what?”

“For being much more than I originally thought you were. You’re, well for a lack of better words, kind.”

Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.

“Noted.” Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didn’t move, just adjusted slightly to let her rest more comfortably, eyes flicking back toward the screen but not really watching. Outside, the city moved on. Cars in the distance, and the hum of nightlife. But in that little pocket of warmth and television static, she was finally still.

And Johnny, for once, was content to be quiet.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She was back at work. Back to pressed collars and polite emails, back to the soft echo of her heels against the polished floors. Her desk was where she’d left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish “I’m fine, really” before sweeping her into two meetings and asking for three updates. It was easier, in a way: Slipping back into routine. No vulnerability required. No warmth, no weight, just structure and the quiet comfort of being needed.

And yet. Her fingers paused on the keyboard.Her mind drifted back to that night. To the TV flickering in her living room, the glow of black-and-white episodes washing over her walls. To Johnny’s arm around her, steady and warm. He hadn’t stayed. At some point, long after she’d fallen asleep, he’d moved her upstairs to bed. She hadn’t even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:

Didn’t want to wake you. Get some rest, and I’ll check in later. — Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm

She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words weren’t easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didn’t know what name to give it yet.

Not a romance, not exactly. But something more than familiarity. Something quiet. Unrushed. She rubbed her temple absently, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bottom corner of her monitor. A little past three. The week had crawled and sprinted all at once, especially after returning on Tuesday. Her gaze drifted toward the tote bag tucked under her desk. She’d brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out.

John Clare had been a delightful surprise. There was something raw and untamed about his work, brilliant and aching in a way that clung to her long after she’d set the book down. He wasn’t polished like the other Romantics. His verses didn’t care for perfection. They bled loneliness and dirt and madness, and somehow, they still made her feel seen. Clare was a laborer, a man of the earth, not the universities. His longing was not performative, but primal. Honest. It had struck a chord she hadn’t expected.

She still had a day left before Saturday. What had started as a casual coincidence now felt like something... A rhythm. A tether to something outside her routines. It wasn’t grand, or loud, or public. But it was theirs. And she was looking forward to it. More than she wanted to admit. Not just for the books. Not even for the quiet comfort of thumbing through dusty spines in side-by-side silence.

But because she was genuinely eager to hear his thoughts on Verne. His take on the moral gray areas, the invention of impossible machines, the way he always seemed to latch onto the underdog character no one else noticed. She wanted to talk about what she’d read. Wanted to see the way his eyes lit up when he made a point, or how he interrupted himself when he got too excited. She wanted to know what he’d pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him and—

God. Those eyes. That particular shade of crystalline blue that somehow still felt warm. The bashful smile he sometimes slipped into when he was proud of something and didn’t want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret.

She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadn’t meant to click. With a quiet sigh, she closed it. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but the page in front of her looked like static.

Focus? Long gone.

It was as if Johnny Storm — brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm — had shown up with that ridiculous navy blue backpack and cracked something open in her. Not with grand gestures. Not with fire and flair. But with soup. With gentle whispers into her damp hair. With the quiet, unexpected way he’d tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.

And that was the part she couldn’t shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didn’t give him credit for. He was the type to pay attention when no one thought he was looking. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee. Who lit candles so the light wouldn’t hurt your eyes when you were sick.

He was careful with her. Considerate. Like she was something delicate and worth handling gently, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved the opportunity to be if she chose it. That’s what he said. Said she deserved the choice of being soft. And somehow, that made her head pound worse than any flu ever could.

The quiet hum of her thoughts was broken by the subtle ping of the pager clipped to her waistband.

SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.

She sighed, already pushing back her chair, straightening her blouse in the reflection of her black screen. Back to business. Back to the part of her life where everything made sense, where emotion had its place. Boxed and filed neatly beneath efficiency. But as she reached for the doorknob to close the door behind her, something stopped her. Soft yellow and crooked at the corner, a sticky note clung to the wood just above eye level. She stared for a beat before plucking it off.

"Hope your day is fantastic. See what I did there? Fantastic. Anyways, Johnny"

There was a tiny doodle of a winking face next to his name. Also a little doodle of their team's logo next to the word fantastic. Of course there was.

Her lips twitched. And then, despite every effort not to, she smiled. It was ridiculous. The handwriting was awful, and the joke barely qualified as a pun. But it was so very him. Playful, charming, and still, somehow, thoughtful. He hadn’t made it into a performance. Just a small note, as if to be respectful of her packed schedule with the lost days this week. Meant for her, and no one else. She pressed it flat between her fingers for a moment, then carefully tucked it into the side pocket of her planner before heading down the hall toward Sue’s office, still smiling.

Saturday needed to hurry up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturday morning came quietly, sunlight sifting through gauzy curtains in pale ribbons. The kind of morning that felt like a breath held just a little longer than usual. She put on music while getting dressed. Something light and old. The kind of record that made the apartment feel like it belonged to a version of her she hadn’t let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But today…Today, she hesitated over her wardrobe. No T-shirt. A sweater instead: soft blue and warm against her skin. A nicer pair of jeans. The nail lacquer she’d brushed on the night before had dried into a muted burgundy that made her feel quietly elegant. Her makeup was subtle, but thoughtful. Deliberate. She didn’t think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didn’t need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasn’t a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft.

A lightness threaded through her chest as she smoothed down the hem of her sweater. Something weightless and unfamiliar, like the feeling of stepping outside just before a storm breaks and realizing, for once, you don’t mind if it rained.

A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasn’t supposed to meet her at the shop for another thirty minutes. Curious, she jogged down the narrow staircase of her townhouse, feet against the old wood, and pulled open the front door, only to be met with…Wood. A solid wall of it.

She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasn’t a wall. It was furniture. A bookcase. A towering, beautifully worn, dark walnut bookshelf stood on her porch like some kind of offering from the gods of literature themselves. And behind it, peeking over the top, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, was Johnny Storm. “Surprise!”

Her eyes widened. “What in the world—?”

“I know we said bookstore,” he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, “but I figured if I’m going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.”

“My collection,” she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.

“My mistake,” he said solemnly, stepping into full view. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows. He looked infuriatingly handsome. Like he’d just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. “I rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,” he added. “Had to sweet-talk the guy to part with it. Said it belonged to some ex-college professor who chain-smoked and read philosophy aloud to his cats.”

She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. “You… dragged a whole bookcase to my house?”

“I carried it,” he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. “Didn’t trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.”

She stared for another breath. Then, without fully meaning to, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a tight-lipped smile. But a genuine, bubbling laugh that warmed the air between them. Johnny’s grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. “I figured if we’re going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.”

She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.” But he didn’t step back. Not yet. Just stood in her doorway like he belonged there, looking pleased with himself and, at the same time, strangely... hopeful. She rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bookshelf, fingers grazing the worn wood. It was beautiful. Not new. Not modern. But solid. Thoughtful. Like he’d really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.

“I love it,” she said quietly. And she meant it.

“I saw it and immediately thought of you,” he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. “Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just… it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesn’t fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.”

She nodded once, slow. “It’s perfect.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. Eyes soft, the usual spark of mischief dimmed down to a low, steady glow. She was still in the sweater she’d picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than they’d been in days.

“You feeling better?” he asked finally.

“Getting there,” she said.

“Good.” He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. “Because I was hoping maybe we could still do the bookstore. Unless you want to stay in. I can take down those poor shelves and set up this bad boy. Promise I’ll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.”

She laughed, “I think the bookstore’s still on the table,” she said, then glanced at the shelf again. “But maybe we move this first? I don’t want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.”

Johnny grinned. “You mean how classy and well-read you are?”

“I mean how I’ve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.”

He smirked. “If this is a courtship ritual, I’m definitely doing it wrong. I should’ve brought flowers.”

She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Next time, maybe.”

He arched a brow. “So you’re saying there’ll be a next time?”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Get the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.” With a dramatic sigh and an over-the-top bow, Johnny lifted the bookshelf again and carried it inside, the wood groaning slightly as he maneuvered it through the narrow entryway. She closed the door behind him, warmth curling at the edges of her stomach as she watched him start up the stairs without being told what to do.

Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that should’ve felt more disarming than it did. She followed behind him. He knocked her bedroom door ajar with his foot and stepped in, mindful of the pair of shoes she’d been planning to wear before he showed up unannounced. Glancing around her tidy room he smiled as he looked at her made bed. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile. “I thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.”

“We did,” he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. “But it was provisional, and frankly, I’m reconsidering the terms.”

She scoffed softly, leaning against the doorframe as he set the bookcase down with care. He was already sizing up the room, scanning for a suitable spot. “Do you happen to have much in the way of tools?”

Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. “Sparse would be generous. I have a sad little drill I found at a pawn shop in Harlem. Missing most of the bits. Pretty sure it gave its dying breath the last time I tried to hang a curtain rod.”

Johnny winced in playful sympathy. “Let me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.”

She raised a brow. “Since when do you fix power tools?”

He glanced over at her, feigning offense. “I do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasn’t just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.”

Her lips twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. “I actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesn’t mean I forgot my mechanics classes.”

She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didn’t come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasn’t loud or performative, it was subtle. Quietly competent. Jonathan Storm was kind. He was loyal in a way that wrapped around the people he cared about without asking for anything in return. And, frustratingly, he was smart. Not just clever, but sharp. Capable.

It was borderline infuriating to watch him revive the half-dead drill with a few taps and a muttered, “Come on, don’t embarrass me now,” and then methodically take apart the sagging old shelves. He moved with a purpose, placing the new bookcase against the wall like he already knew exactly how she’d want it.

She’d meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But she’d ended up sitting there instead, caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, watching him work like he belonged there. And then he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his warmth brushing against her skin. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice soft.

She hesitated, then let out a breath. “Just thinking.”

He nudged her knee gently with his own. “About...?”

“You.”

He turned his head to look at her fully. “What about me?”

She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. “I just… I was wrong about you. In so many ways.”

There was a pause.“How so?” he asked quietly.

She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. “You told me you liked that I didn’t have this idea of you in my head. And maybe it looked that way from the outside. But Sue warned me before I ever took this job what I’d be dealing with. And I don’t live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. You’re a public figure, and people talk.”

He didn’t flinch, just listened. “I didn’t want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isn’t it? You take what you’ve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.”

She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. “But then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didn’t have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. You’ve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being careful,” he said. “And yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. I’ve done it, too.”

He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. “But when I said I liked that you didn’t have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didn’t treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didn’t flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.”

She blinked, surprised. “I had a wall up.”

He smiled faintly. “Exactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason… that was comforting. Honest. You didn’t pretend to like me.”

“I didn’t know you.”

“And now you do?”

A beat. Her voice dropped. “I’m starting to.”

Johnny’s expression softened, but he didn’t push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. “Well… I guess it’s my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the bookcase again. The dark wood, worn at the edges, like it had lived another life before finding its way to her room. “Why me?” she asked quietly.

He blinked. “What do you mean? I feel like I just—”

“No, not really,” she cut in gently. “You’ve said pieces. But I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, you’ve ended up… here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sister’s assistant.” He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. “And before you say it, yes, I am Sue’s assistant. That’s how you know me. That’s the reason we’ve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become… familiar? Why keep showing up?”

Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t answer right away. “When I first met you,” he said slowly, “you treated me like I was just another guy getting in the way of your schedule. You barely looked at me. You were busy. Focused. Unimpressed.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.

“And yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,” he admitted. “The Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… refreshing.”

His gaze found hers, steadier now. “You weren’t trying to be liked. You weren’t interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.”

“Like?”

He smiled faintly. “Like how you hum when you’re trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you don’t care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.” Her brows lifted, surprised. “I noticed, because I started caring. And I didn’t mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesn’t let anyone take care of her.”

He paused. “And I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell won’t ask. I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’s so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so he’ll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.”

The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. “You make it hard not to care back, you know.” Johnny’s eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fire—”

“Three steps,” he said automatically, lips quirking.

She shot him a look, but didn’t lose her thread. “And then it just… shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.” She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.”

Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadn’t expected. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who aren’t family. It’s easier to be that version of myself so people don’t go digging.”

She shrugged a little. “You’re not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. You’re so much more.”

The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They weren’t touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. “You don’t have to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “But if you ever wonder why it’s you, it’s because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.”

Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. “I already decided,” she said. That made him still. “I don’t know what it means yet,” she added, voice barely audible, “but I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.”

He grinned wide and disbelieving. “That was your moment?”

She gave a soft, shy smile. “Yeah. That was it.”

A beat. “Can I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?”

She didn’t speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. “It wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said.

And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didn’t. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.

She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldn’t believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured.

She laughed under her breath. “You taste like smug satisfaction.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Can’t help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."

“That was literally the first thing I ever said to you.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

He opened his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. Probably.” And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.

A few minutes later, they’d migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.

“Does Sue know you’re here?” she asked, teasing.

Johnny snorted. “She knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but she’s definitely suspicious.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“She is usually right,” he said with a grin.

Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Hey Johnny… This... whatever this is between us, it doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic thing.”

He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. “No. It doesn’t. But it’s something. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”

She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m done pretending, too.”

There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. “So... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?”

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Please don’t say ‘go steady.’”

He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. “That’s not a no,” he murmured.

She smiled, soft and certain. “It’s a yes. I’d love to let you take me out.”

“Perfect.” He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. “Can we still go to the bookstore?”

She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. They’d done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, they’d be pretending they weren’t quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was looking…

“Yes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

One month later…

If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never would’ve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.

New York’s most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasn’t there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.

But not now. Not with her.

Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely.

Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.

It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.

Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager “I’m proud of you” after a long day she hadn’t even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.

It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance she’d put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern “don’t-hurt-her” speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.

“She’s good for you,” she’d told Johnny one morning over breakfast. He’d tried to play it cool, said something like, ‘Don’t start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,’ but she could tell how much it meant to him.

And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, “He’s steadier with you around. Not dull. Just… softer.”

That had stayed with her. Softer. Because that’s how he made her feel, too. He didn’t dim things down. He didn’t take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like he’d always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didn’t feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.

With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life she’d been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.

Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's “head” without thinking, just like Johnny always did.

She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didn’t even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadn’t bought. These weren’t big declarations. They weren’t moving boxes or dramatic speeches.

They were small signs that he wasn’t just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.

Even the cereal.

She hadn’t really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No “so… are we dating now?” moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didn’t. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words “here, take this.” It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn “Franklin” had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into “I’m already outside” calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didn’t intend to let go.

But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. They’d slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. She’d felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.

But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, “Not tonight.” At first, she’d wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.

But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but… respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.

And she couldn’t lie. It made her fall even harder. He could’ve had anyone. That was never the question. But he’d chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldn’t quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t increasingly growing a bit… frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnny’s patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there “Goodnight.”

She wasn’t inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasn’t simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and he’d press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.

She wasn’t sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was… some part of her liked that he didn’t expect it. That he hadn’t made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t turn her desire into an obligation. It felt… safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldn’t deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.

And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasn’t doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.

That didn’t make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasn’t around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie he’d left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.

She’d never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where she’d suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. She’d snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.

He’d ruined her. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe… maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each other’s arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.

The next time it would be her who didn’t allow them to stop.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didn’t work.

"You’re going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "It’s just a press conference."

"It’s not just a press conference," she’d countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "It’s the first time we’ve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesn’t go smoothly, Reed’s going to spiral, and the board’s going to blame you, and you know it."

Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didn’t even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. “You know,” he drawled, “most people go home when the sun goes down.”

She didn’t look up from her screen. “Most people don’t have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, most people also don’t look this good in computer lighting, so you’ve already got a head start.”

“Johnny.”

“Just saying.” He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. “Come home.”

She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet. It’s got to be perfect.”

“It’s already perfect.” His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. “You know how I know that? Because you wrote it.”

Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. “Flattery doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing her temple, “but maybe a little light kidnapping would.”

She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. “Johnny, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.

And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadn’t gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.

She swallowed. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get close. And then stop. Like we’re both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.”

He didn’t deny it. Just watched her. “You said you wanted slow,” he said softly.

“I said I wanted real,” she replied. “And this, us, it is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. That I don’t want more than just—” She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.

Johnny’s brow creased. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“You never let it show. You always stop.”

He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. “Because if I don’t stop… I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want everything with you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I wanted.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because that was it, wasn’t it? The thing she couldn’t name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadn’t been holding back because he didn’t feel it. He’d been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. “You’re not just some guy I’m passing time with,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for casual.”

He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just… grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. “Neither am I.” The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t pull away.

His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered “Not tonight.”

His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just… paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.

“Wait—” he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. “Are we really about to do this in the office?”

She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. “No one’s here,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s gone.”

His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. “I just—” he exhaled, eyes closed. “I don’t want this to feel like something it’s not. You deserve… more than some desk and low lighting.”

Her voice was soft but firm. “I’m tired of waiting, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. “Do you really think it’s going to mean less because it’s here? Do you think I’ll look back and regret it? Because I won’t. It’s not the location that matters.” Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “It’s you. Being with you is the part that matters.”

Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a bed with candles or soft music. It didn’t matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.

In fact, the heels were helpful.

Johnny wasn’t absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.

And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. “God, I love these little skirts,” he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. “You have no idea.”

She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.

Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. “You're still—” she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, “—obnoxiously overdressed.”

He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. “You started it. And I could say the same to you,”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, okay.”

But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.

His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand the wait anymore. “You always look so put-together,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. “Drives me crazy.”

His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “You ruin me. You know that, right?”

She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldn’t hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.”

She rolled her eyes, still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at these pants. They’re a crime against movement.”

He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. “They’re flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.”

“They’re a straightjacket for your legs,” she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. “Seriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?”

Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. “What can I say? I make insanity look sexy.” With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.

He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shot him a look. “I’d argue that it is quite hard…”

His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. “They always say it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I wear them because I always hope you’ll end up taking them off.”

She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of taking things off…” he gestured to her tights.

She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly.

"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I won’t lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your office…” came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. “Hmm… that’s an improvement.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. “Do you say that to all the women you undress on desks?”

“Only the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.” His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.

She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. “You always flirt this much when you’re half-naked in someone else’s workplace?” she managed, fingers threading into his hair.

His grin was pure trouble. “Only when I’m with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of me…” Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. “I don’t think I can look at this office the same again,” he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.

She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. “Yeah me either”

“Mind if I try something?” he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more.

Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “I’ve gotta say,” he murmured, voice husky with laughter, “the skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for me…”

She smiled, lips parting around a breath. “Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.” He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. “Just picture it. You laid out across your desk…” As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. “God,” he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than she’d honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself.

“Yeah much better than just a fantasy,” he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along she’d gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away.

Johnny didn’t ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. “Wow, that’s, are you—”

“Please move,” she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Yes Ma’am,” and that’s all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly.

“Oh, Johnny,” she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath she’d been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.

“Yeah…” he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.

The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights they’d shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. They’d simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. “Johnny—” her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.”

She couldn’t answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.

“Johnny—” she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. One more thrust, rough and deep, and—CRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.

“Well,” Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, “I guess we’re filing this under workplace hazard.”

She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. “You broke my desk!”

He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. “Technically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. “How am I supposed to explain this to Sue?”

That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. “Okay, please don’t mention my sister while I’m still inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. “Right. Sorry..”

“Thank you.” He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. “Now let’s go back to the part where I was making you see stars.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. “Pretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.”

His grin widened. “Oh? So I am that good.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.”

“I didn’t let you,” she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “You did that all on your own.”

Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. “Excuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I did not say ravish.”

“You didn’t have to. I read between the lines,” he said with a wink. “Here I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romantic…”

“And instead, you went full ‘raunchy office scandal,’ like this was some bad porno,” she deadpanned.

He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. “You encouraged it. Don’t go rewriting history now.”

She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. “God, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.”

Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. “I can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then I’ll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.” He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. “The desk was just the… prologue.”

She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. “You better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.”

He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. “No promises.”

“I’m serious,” she warned, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s an antique.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. “Now come on, I wanna do this properly.”

She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos — cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button — told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.

“After you, Miss Desk Slayer.” She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.

And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending there’s nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.

When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come find me tonight.”

He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. “You say that now.”

Johnny’s voice was soft. Softer than she’d ever heard it. “No. I mean it. Wherever you are... that’s where I wanna be.”

Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadn’t let herself admit until now.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Thanks for reading!

3K notes · View notes

gabbyblabb · 19 days ago

Text

SAVED RN

dirty little secret

★Ch 1/23 | masterlist | 1 2

thefreak!eddie x valedictorian-to-be!fem!reader

[2.9k words] *After years of avoiding him, you have an unexpected run-in with the town's resident freak in the school auditorium.

NSFW/MDNI- slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, secret relationship trope, eventual smut, sorta-kinda mentions of religion, no monsters/upside down, canon divergence, characters are in high school, reader is of the age of consent.

Chapter 1: Girl of the Year

The atmosphere of the classroom had been reduced to utter chaos with the soon to ring final bell. Many of the students had abandoned their chairs at this point, choosing instead to perch atop their desks as they engaged in their own conversations, the lesson stopped early when the teacher realized the teens were too antsy for the weekend ahead to keep their focus. A homogenized murmuring of plans being made filled the room, girlish giggling and soft halfhearted thwacks against letterman jacket sleeves, the occasional pop of a burst gum bubble. You, however, remained in your seat, hands folded dutifully in your lap as your eyes trailed the teacher's snaking path between the rows of desks, passing back the graded tests from earlier in the week. Impatiently, the toes of your loafers wiggled, ankles crossed, anticipation gnawing at your nerves. After side-stepping a rogue backpack left in the middle of the aisle, the teacher finally stopped beside your desk, meeting your eager gaze with his typical stoic expression.

"Great work, per usual," he commended lowly as he placed the test face-down on the desk.

Immediately, you snatched it up and turned it over, a wide smile of triumph gracing your features. A perfect score. Completely expected, yet a relief all the same. Beaming down at the test, eyes roaming self-indulgently over the pristine page, the lack of red correction marks, your gaze only snapped away when a paper football nailed you right in the temple. Eyes narrowed, you glowered at the perpetrator, lips pursed in an effort to subdue the smile that threatened to crack.

"What's the verdict, brainiac?" Andy asked from the desk beside yours, smugness written all over his face as he watched your clumsy attempt at untangling the paper football from your hair.

Wordlessly, you held up the page, letting the big "100" scrawled across the top speak for itself. A self-satisfied smirk of your own had broken across your face, an opportunity to brag being something you'd gladly take any time. His reaction was the same as it always was, like every other time he'd teasingly ask about your scores. Exaggeratedly whooping, nudging his friends next to him to join in on the over-the-top display of praise, something that never failed to make you flush in embarassment, even as you laughed along.

Despite how bothered you acted by it all, rolling your eyes as they patted your shoulders, you lived for it, admittedly. The compliments, the claims that you're perfect, the reaction of admiration-fueled shock upon learning just how much you're able to achieve in a week. It's what made all the hard work worth it, really.

An overachiever in every sense of the word, you were on the student council, a member of the event planning commitee, the president of the drama club, and wrote for the school paper. And somehow, in addition to maintaining a perfect grade point average, you still managed to find time to hang out with your friends regularly. Being awarded Valedictorian of your class seemed well within your reach at this point, and with the impressive applicant profile you were building, getting into any of your top pick universities seemed well within reason as well. Striving for these goals served as good motivation, yes, but what really spurred you on was recognition.

Though shrouded in teasing, the boys' flattery sparked a sense of pride deep within your chest, only further fanned by the friendly smile you exchanged with your usually-grouchy teacher on the way out of the classroom. You continued to ride that high as you strode through the hallway, head held high, a broad grin plastered across your face. As you walked with your books hugged to your chest, you couldn't help but feel like a princess in her palace, the hallways your royal domain, the friendly faces smiling and waving as you passed your doting subjects.

The heavy doors to the auditorium creaked as you pressed your back against the push bars, the musty scent of the old carpets and draperies filling your nostrils as soon as the door cracked open behind you. Per usual, you were the first to arrive. It was by design, coming earlier than everyone else, immediately after the final bell rang. Those few minutes alone in the auditorium before the rest of the cast showed up for rehearsal felt like a reset of sorts. A moment to regroup, to clear your mind and just breathe before the neverending carousel of obligations started up again. Though, of course, you couldn't help being productive even when taking a moment to decompress.

In the back of the house, you let your backpack slip off your shoulder and drop to the floor with a small thud, gingerly placing the books in your arms on top of it. Rolling the tension from your shoulders, you walked up to the control board behind the last row of seats, an array of switches and knobs laid out before you. You turned a knob and the floodlights above the stage came to life. Beneath the lights, a figurr standing centerstage behind a table was revealed, their arm cast over their face to sheild themselves from the sudden blinding glare.

You flinched slightly, not realizing you'd been sharing the silence with someone else, your eyebrows furrowing as you squinted at the figure. Judging by the shoulder-length curls, unruly as they frizzed around their face, you'd originally thought it a girl standing beneath the floodlights. It's only when they dropped their arm to their side, their own face scrunched and squinting as they stared out at the darkened house, that you realized it was a boy. That it was him, Eddie Munson, the freak of Hawkins High.

Admittedly, you'd never talked to him before, never even shared a class with him, but the distain that twisted in your gut upon the mere sight of him was instinctual. You'd heard enough about him over the years through murmurings in the hallway, from the mouths of your own friends even, that he was bad news. Gossip wasn't something you paid much attention to, really, the mere concept of it seeming trivial and downright childish when you had things more worth your while to be focusing on. Eddie Munson was a rare case, however. Being a two-time super senior metalhead burnout was something that was enough to turn your nose up at, in your opinion, no matter if the rumors surrounding him were true or not. He was the complete antithesis of yourself, downright no good, and now, intruding in a space where he didn't belong.

After his brief scan of the house, an unintelligable grumbling spilling from his lips, Eddie resumed what he'd been doing. You watched as he arranged items, what they were you couldn't see from where you were standing, meticulously upon the table. You hadn't realized you'd been standing there staring for as long as you had until the bite of your fingernails digging into your palms snapped you out of it. And then, your feet were carrying you down the aisle between the seats, your gait a stiff fast-walk towards the stage.

"Excuse me," your voice projected through the empty auditorium, sharp and reprimanding as your hands swung at your sides. Eddie didn't respond, didn't even look up as he continued placing what you could now make out as figurines of some sort onto the table, his tongue poked out of his mouth and curling upon his upper lip in pure focus. You knew he'd heard you; you were practically shouting at him. He was ignoring you, and it only made your irritation with his unwelcome presence grow.

"Excuse me," you tried again, firmer this time, each syllable enunciated exaggeratedly to ensure he'd really hear it this time. You'd sped up to an almost-jog, booking it directly to the edge of the stage. "I'm talking to you."

"I know," Eddie mumbled flatly, dismissively, gaze still downcast on the task before him. A small huff escapes you, your mouth downturned in a frown as your hands gripped onto the ledge of the stage, left in sheer disbelief by his audacity.

"You're not supposed to be in here," you stated firmly, authoritatively. He simply chuckles in response, the sound more like a scoff as he shakes his head slowly, still never once looking up from the table.

"I've got every right to be here, actually," he counters coolly, calmly, as if he's the reasonable one here. As if hes not totally invading where he's not welcome. The subtle mockery in his voice, the smugness of the smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth makes the irritation swirling inside you grow into rage. You watch as he plucks one of the figurines from its spot, putting a different figurine in its place before switching it back to the original figurine again. How badly you wanted to jump up onto that stage and fling those stupid little figurines right off the table. Instead, feeling the need to maintain some semblance of self control, your fingers tighten on the ledge of the stage, so severely that your knuckles turn white.

With a deep breath to center yourself, you close your eyes, it taking a great deal of effort to keep your voice even when you explain, "This space is reserved for rehearsals. Closed rehearsals, actually. So, unless you're a part of the production, you can't be here."

It's then that he finally stops the obsessive rearranging of his figurines, that he straightens his hunched stance and looks up from the table. Squinting, one of his eyes closed entirely from the glare of the lights, the open one meets yours. Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he raises one of his shoulders in a half-shrug, something blasé about his voice when he speaks. Like he doesn't believe you. "That's never been an issue before. I've been holding my club meetings in here for years."

"Maybe so, but I'd bet those were nights where there weren't rehearsals being held here. Tonight there is rehearsal, so you and your club," you explain again with a sigh of exasperation, beginning to feel like you're talking in circles with the guy. There's something in the way you refer to his club, with a thinly veiled tinge of belittlement, that makes him bristle, a scowl already twisting his features. You'd heard of this club of his. Of course you had. The fabled Hellfire Club. A gathering for tabletop games that's really a guise for a Satanic cult, or at least that's how your friends liked to describe it. You, however, found those rumors to be stupid and downright ignorant, obviously influenced by the Satanic Panic sweeping through the Bible Belt. That didn't mean you thought the club was any less lame, though. And you'd certainly made that sentiment clear, continuing, "will have to meet another time."

"No way!" he barks out, his eyebrows raising as a humorless laugh punches out of him. Shaking his head with a scornful smile, he chuckles, "I've been planning this campaign for weeks. I'm not just gonna push it back because you and your fellow thespians wanna practice tap dancing. No way."

It was your turn to scowl at his mocking tone, at the way he'd trivialized your rehearsals. Mirroring his pose, you cross your arms over your chest, eyebrows furrowing so much that they nearly meet in the middle. If he wanted to play that way, you could too. So, with another deep breath, your glare of contempt slowly melted away, morphing into a faux smile wrought with condescension as you say, "Well, if your campaign is so important, than I guess you'll have to hold your little meeting somewhere else."

Just then, the doors in the back of the house opened, the sound echoing through the empty auditorium. You turned your head, watching as your castmates file in, their conversations beginning to fill the space, voices projected excessively due to the acoustics as they plop themselves into the seats. Waiting for the drama teacher to arrive and start the rehearsal, they were all the typical actors, too engrossed with themselves to pay much mind to the territorial war you were waging at the stage. When you look up at Eddie again,, his sights are focused on the drama kids in the back, his jaw tensing as it dawns on him that he's losing ground. With how he's leant over the table, hands gripping the edges tightly, the floodlights above cast shadows across his face. They catch on his brow, darkening his eyes completely, his pupils indistinguishable from his irises. And when his gaze fixes on you again, they appear sinister. Tensely, he asks, "And where am I supposed to go?"

The slightest twinge of unease settles in your stomach, being pinned beneath his menacing glare, but the fear is overpowered by the small triumph of him backing down. Even as slight as the concession was. Before the satisfaction can show on your face, you schooled your expression into one of neutrality, not wanting to celebrate too soon. Not until he's packed up his things and left.

"I dont know," you shrug, not caring where he ended up as long as it wasn't here. The first thing that comes to mind, a rather uncharitable thought, you spit out. "The storage closet?"

Where he belongs, you think.

"The storage closet," he repeats slowly, each syllable dripping with pure loathing, his face scrunched up to match. He paused, still hunched over the table, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he stares you down. For a moment, you think he's about to argue back and keep on with his obstinate refusals, but to your surprise and simultaneous relief, he straightens. Without another glance in your direction, as if he's too ashamed to in his defeat, he swipes his figurines into his backpack with a single flourish of his hand.

With your arms still crossed over your chest, you turn your back to him, resting the small of it against the ledge of the stage. A smile so wide it could crack your face in half spreads across your lips, something akin to glee swelling in your chest. Victory had never tasted so sweet and you savored it thoroughly with Eddie's retreating footsteps serving as the soundtrack.

***

"It's not like he was asking me out," Vickie protests with a roll of her eyes as the two of you walked side-by-side to first period, the matter of her hot coworker being all she seemed capable of talking about this morning. Though you'd decided romance was pretty much off the table for you this year, with everything else you had on your plate, you still indulged in boy talk eagerly. Overachieving Valedictorian-to-be, yes, but a teen girl nonetheless.

"He totally was. Ever heard of a study date?" you counter with a small chuckle, shaking your head at your friend's naievity as you sipped your coffee.

"Right, because homework is so romantic," she remarks sarcastically, groaning before she goes on to recount the conversation with her coworker for the third time this morning. You try to listen, but you're unable to give her your full attention with the sight of a familiar head of curls approaching from the opposite end of the hall coming into view. Eddie is all arrogance, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim vest as he walks directly down the center of the corridor.

You're thankful when he doesn't meet your gaze, unsure if your stomach could handle it after the showdown that occurred the last time you'd been in his presence, especially when you'd spent the entire morning sipping coffee on an empty stomach. In fact, it's like he doesn't even see you at all, unfazed and detached as he carelessly shoulders past the students in his way. As he nears, you gently nudged Vickie with your elbow, shepherding her to the edge of the hallway, not wanting to risk being caught in Eddie's path of apathy.

Though, it doesn't seem to matter at all. At the last moment, just as he's passing, he suddenly veered to the side. And in a manner that can only be viewed as intentional, his shoulder crashed against yours, knocking the disposable coffee cup right out of your hand, its contents splashing directly onto your cream colored cardigan before the cup fell unceremoniously onto the floor.

"My bad, didn't see you there," Eddie remarks insincerely, the cocky smirk on his face making it blatant that he wasnt sorry at all. As quickly as it happened, he was gone. Leaving you gaping with your hands held out in front of you uselessly, your shoulders scrunched up to your chin as you watched him stride to the other end of the hall.

"What a jerk," Vickie muttered in disgust, kneeling down to pick up the soggy cardboard cup at your feet. You seemed to snap out of your stunned stupor then, crouching down beside her to help clean up the mess. You didn't care that the surrounding students were staring at you, and for the moment, your stained sweater didn't matter. Your thoughts were solely on Eddie Munson. You weren't sure how you'd get back at him, but what you were sure of was that this was far from over.

302 notes · View notes

gabbyblabb · 21 days ago

Text

SOBBING RN

good trouble

pairing: johnny storm x fem!reader summary: you’re trouble in the most irresistible form: brilliant, daring, and utterly captivating. simply put, you’re exactly the kind of woman who makes someone like johnny storm forget the world and fall in love without warning. tags: bombshell!reader, astrophysicist!reader, johnny is down bad bc obviously, slow burn mutual pining goodness warning(s): no spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, reader wears a dress, heels, and makeup, period accurate misogyny (boooo), academia-based sleep deprivation, making out/slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 13.6k (i really put the slow in slowburn) note: first johnny fic!! seeing joseph quinn on the big screen really made me go back to my roots and start writing for the mcu again... anyway, i hope everyone enjoys 🩷

masterlist

Johnny Storm probably fell for you the second he laid eyes on you. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Especially not with a crowd to charm and flashbulbs hunting for his best angle. But there you were, drawing eyes in a dress that seemed designed to ruin him, all soft shimmer and sharp silhouette, the kind of entrance that made the room hold its breath just long enough for him to notice.

You didn’t even glance his way as you entered. That was the maddening hook.

The Future Foundation’s annual charity gala was an overengineered marvel in itself; crystal orbs floated mid-air like captive stars, a jazz band played from a suspended glass platform, and waiters balanced trays of molecular appetisers that emitted little clouds of lavender-scented vapour. Reed had designed the centrepiece: a rotating scale model of the solar system that actually adjusted to the planets’ real-time positions.

Johnny had been leaning on the bar, nodding politely through a monologue by some famous actress, when the atmosphere shifted. Heads turned. You glided through the crowd with a tilt of your chin that said the flashbulbs were just part of the décor. Diamonds at your ears caught the light; your lips a bold crimson promise; your gown shimmering in that dangerous shade neither silver nor gold, but a perfect champagne hue.

It wasn’t that you belonged here. You belonged everywhere, that was obvious. But you didn’t orbit anyone, and that was unusual in Johnny’s world. People clung to him, Reed, Sue, and Ben, for reflected light. You seemed perfectly content to generate your own.

“Who’s that?” Johnny asked Ben, who was already smirking like a man who’d just spotted trouble.

“You don’t want to know,” Ben grumbled, which of course only made Johnny want to find out more.

Reed spotted you almost instantly—no surprise, given that the gala swarmed with senators and starship engineers alike, and you were one of the few who could pass in both circles. When he reached you, his handshake was warm, his smile almost paternal. Reed had been one of your PhD advisors at Caltech, someone you admired professionally and respected personally.

You hadn’t been able to keep in touch as much as either of you would have liked to—his time leading the Fantastic Four and saving the world monopolised most of his time—but seeing your old mentor again brought on a wave of homesickness.

“You look wonderful,” Reed said, a genuine warmth in his voice. “It’s great to see you!”

“You too, Dr Richards,” you replied with equal enthusiasm.

“Reed,” he corrected with a chuckle. “I haven’t been your advisor in years. Listen, I know this is sudden, but I could really use your expertise. Would you consider consulting on a new project?” Reed leaned in, voice dropping so the jazz band couldn’t drown him out. “Astrophysics, of course. High-profile, a great deal of data to sift through. I could use your perspective—I’ve missed your mind in the lab.”

You grinned at that, the corners of your mouth tugging with real affection. “You always did know how to make an offer sound irresistible.”

“I mean it,” Reed said. His eyes twinkled with the faintest trace of amusement. “We’ve got some new readings from the Kepler Array that don’t quite add up. I thought of you immediately.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” you said, tilting your head. “And a little suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“You’ve just admitted the smartest man I know needs my help,” you teased. “Either the universe is in real trouble, or you’re buttering me up for a committee meeting from hell.”

He laughed, that rare warmth lighting his face. “It might be both.” Reed squeezed your arm reassuringly. “You’ve always had a knack for cutting through the noise. It would be great to work together again.”

The familiar spark of pride and challenge flared inside you. “Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble. And if it involves star charts and black holes, I’m your woman,” you agreed.

Truthfully, Reed’s offer couldn’t have come at a better time. You were looking to get back into research, and you knew the Future Foundation had resources you could only imagine in your dizziest daydreams.

Reed chuckled quietly. “Speaking of trouble, this gala’s a world away from the lab. But it’s necessary; funding won’t flow otherwise.” He paused, eyes sharpening. “I know you don’t mind the magazine covers or tabloids, but this is another level of criticism. And it’s only going to get worse once you start working with us.”

You shrugged, smirking. “I’m good with trouble,” you said lightly. “Comes with the territory when you’re as visible as I am. You don’t have to worry about me, Reed.”

Reed nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. “Good. You haven’t changed—you still have that same spark. It’s what made you my best student at Caltech.”

As you caught up, you glanced around. Flashes from photographers punctuating the air like tiny bursts of lightning, illuminating faces polished to perfection. The room thrummed with whispered conversations and clinking glasses.

You were accustomed to having eyes on you at public events like this, having been dubbed "Astrophysics Barbie" amongst other not-so-affectionate nicknames in the scientific community.

Across the room, Sue appeared beside Johnny and Ben, arching an eyebrow at the look of awe plastered on her little brother’s face. “More distracted than usual, Johnny. Who’s the latest wildfire?”

Ben snickered at her pun.

Johnny shrugged, trying to act casual but failing spectacularly. “Just someone who caught my eye when she walked in. She lit up the entire room without even trying.”

Ben snorted, shaking his head. “Careful, Johnny. You’re already playing with matches, and we all know how that ends.”

Johnny shot him a mock glare and turned to Sue. “Do you know her? Ever seen her at these events before?”

Sue glanced over at you, her smile thoughtful. “Not personally, but she’s impossible to miss. Last I heard, she’s the face of astrophysics and a shoo-in for the Nobel one day. And, not that I trust tabloids, but I hear she’s a real firecracker. I think she used to work with Reed.”

Before Johnny could press for more, Reed called out, “Sue, come here! I want you to meet someone.”

Johnny watched as Sue approached you. The moment you started talking, her face lit up with genuine warmth. Johnny could tell that Sue immediately liked you, based on the way she embraced you and threw her head back laughing.

You looked untouchable, like you belonged to a world far above theirs.

Ben stood beside Johnny, arms crossed, smirking.

Johnny, painfully aware of his friend’s knowing grin, rolled his eyes. “Don’t you dare say a word,” he warned.

“There’s not much to say,” Ben said, eyes twinkling.

Johnny tried not to show it, but Ben saw right through him. You had him completely hooked.

You were deep in conversation with Sue when you caught the unmistakable blur of Johnny Storm cutting through the crowd as if the gala was his personal runway.

He arrived just close enough to interrupt, voice dripping with that cocky charm that usually made women melt like wax.

“Careful,” Johnny said, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leaned in, “that dress? Absolutely lethal. I’m surprised they let you into the Baxter Building looking like that.”

You met him with a slow smile, the kind that said you knew his game and weren’t impressed. “Lethal’s one word for it. I know you’re usually the one who brings the heat, so I figured I’d give you a break tonight.”

His grin twitched, unsure how to take your response. Johnny couldn’t tell if you were indulging him or mocking his flirtation. “And here I was, thinking I’m the only one who can handle the fire.”

You laughed, smooth and low. “Oh, Mr Storm. I’m no stranger to fire.” Your eyes flicked to the sharp line of his jaw, the bravado barely masking the nerves you caught so easily. Most people wouldn't have caught his tell, but you could see right through him. “I don’t think you’re ready for this level of trouble.”

Johnny took a step closer, undeterred. “Try me.”

“Please,” you said, voice dripping with mirth. “You’re going up against someone who’s been running circles around geniuses and politicians since before you could light up like a glowstick.”

He laughed, that confident burst you’d heard before, but now there was a crack. “You might be trouble, but I like trouble.”

“Careful what you wish for.” You tilted your head, letting the light catch in the sequinned edge of your gown, the picture of polite interest. “You’re used to people falling over themselves when you walk into a room, aren’t you?”

Reed and Sue watched, visibly amused as you dismantled Johnny’s bravado without breaking a sweat. Reed nodded approvingly—you were still the sharpest mind in the room.

After all, you were the only one who truly saw through Johnny. The rest of the world—helped along by his brother-in-law—was content to believe he was just a raucous playboy without the brains of his teammates. But anyone who really knew Johnny knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Johnny’s grin faltered briefly but came back full force. “Depends on the room, I suppose.”

Something softened in your voice. “You’ve got charm, I’ll give you that.”

Johnny’s gaze locked with yours, and for a breath, he thought you might be flirting back. The way your eyes lingered, the small dip in your smile. But then he caught himself and stepped back just enough to reset.

“You must be new to the gala this year,” Johnny said, struggling to regain his footing. Usually, women crumbled the moment he showed any interest in them. Your resistance was a new game, and it was throwing him off.

You smiled wider, a flash of something mischievous in your eyes. “You’re the one plastered on the front page of every tabloid in town. Maybe I’m just here to see if the legend lives up to the hype.”

Sue and Reed exchanged glances that communicated how much they were enjoying your showdown.

Johnny’s eyes flicked between you and them. Then, suddenly, “Dance with me,” he said, all charm and dare.

You tilted your head, running your eyes down the length of him in a lazy sweep. Johnny tried not to flush. Then, you shook your head. “Not tonight, hotshot. I have more important things to do than indulge your ego.”

Turning to Reed and Sue, you hugged them tight and promised to see them soon.

“Well, it was interesting meeting you, Mr Storm,” you said, voice playfully formal. “I dare say this won’t be the last time.”

“It was my pleasure,” Johnny said, still watching you leave.

Raising an eyebrow, your grin slipped into a smirk. “I’m sure it was.”

Winking at Sue, you slipped away, leaving Johnny with that half-charmed, half-frustrated look that said losing the last word was a challenge he intended to meet.

When you glanced back, Johnny was still watching you go. He laughed, sharp and delighted, once you were out of sight. “Wow,” he muttered, reaching up to muss his perfectly styled hair.

Reed sipped his champagne with the faintest grin. “This ought to be interesting,” he murmured to no one in particular.

The elevator dinged and slid open onto the 33rd floor, the part of the Baxter Building where brilliance lived and breathed. Reed’s lab was the kind of organised chaos you had expected from your former mentor.

A vast playground of polished metal surfaces, blinking consoles humming with quiet purpose, and holographic displays casting pale blue glows that danced in the curved white walls like ghosts of the future. It was part cathedral, part spaceship, part mad scientist’s dream.

You stepped out, hips swaying just enough to remind the room that brains and beauty could live in delicious harmony. Your pencil skirt clung with precision, but it was the crisp white of your lab coat that told everyone you meant business.

“Good morning, Reed,” you greeted, extending a take-away cup like a peace offering. The aroma promised the kind of caffeine salvation only a day in this lab could justify. “Hope your coffee order’s still the same as it was yesterday.”

He barely looked up, fingers dancing over a cluster of blinking controls. “Good morning,” he murmured, voice heavy with frustration. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m trying to recalibrate the Excelsior’s propulsion matrix. The harmonic oscillator’s behaving like it’s got a mind of its own.”

You took a step closer, eyes narrowing as you caught the cascade of floating schematics, the faint pulse of light tracing circuits in midair. “The resonant frequency isn’t syncing with the quantum dampers?”

Reed’s eyes lifted, surprise flickering like a flare. “Exactly. Thought it was a software glitch at first, but—”

You cut him off, pointer finger floating over a bank of circuits. “You’re missing the feedback loop with the nano-turbines. It’s causing phase cancellation. If you adjust the pulse width modulation on the transistor array here, it should smooth out the interference.”

Reed’s lips twitched in a rare grin. “You always were the quickest in the room,” he recalled.

You weren’t one of those scientists who spoke jargon to sound smart; you were succinct and clever. Reed was pleased that his star student still managed to outshine him after all these years.

“Honestly, I should have known you’d have a handle on this,” he commented. “Not just astrophysics but all the messy engineering that keeps a ship flying.”

You gave a mock innocent shrug, eyes sparkling. “What can I say? I like feeling intellectually superior to the poor souls I usually get stuck working with.”

Reed chuckled, shaking his head. He knew exactly the kind of misogynistic jerks you often had to work with, so he couldn’t blame you.

That glow of pride from impressing Reed warmed your chest, but before you could savour it, the elevator door opened and Johnny marched in, all swagger and smirk.

“Hey, mind if I hang around?” Johnny said, grinning like he knew the effect it usually had on women. “I’m sure this tech wizardry’s beyond me, but someone’s gotta keep you entertained.”

You caught the challenge in his eyes, that mix of admiration and amusement. You didn’t let him off easy.

“Johnny, save the show for later,” you said, voice laced with teasing authority. “We’re busy keeping the universe from collapsing.”

Johnny laughed, the sound easy and genuine. You caught Ben’s chuckle from the corner, the kind that said, Yep, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

H.E.R.B.I.E. glided by, wheels spinning silently as he delivered the latest Kepler Array readings. You nodded at the robot, offering him a genuine smile. “Thanks, H.E.R.B.I.E. Couldn’t do this without you.”

The robot beeped softly, an almost affectionate affirmation.

Johnny took a tentative step closer, but you intercepted, your smirk widening. “If you want to learn, sit down and watch. No distractions. And keep your hands to yourself.”

He grinned like a kid caught sneaking cookies, but obeyed, sliding onto a nearby stool with eyes glued to you. You and Reed quickly leaned back into the tangle of tech and equations, and it was hard for Johnny to look away.

This was your domain, and nowhere felt more like home than when you were elbow-deep in problems with Reed. You thrived on puzzles that teased your mind, each anomaly a quiet dare to prove you were far more than just a pretty face.

Nearly a month into your stint at the Baxter Building, you already knew you’d made the right call. It was far more satisfying than your old life as an assistant professor at Columbia. You weren’t cut out for lecturing; you’d earned your PhD to push boundaries, get hands-on, and chase the questions that kept your curiosity alive.

You’d learned fast that working for the Future Foundation wasn’t a solitary endeavour.

The moment you stepped into the lab, you became part of the Fantastic Four’s revolving door. Reed’s team dropped by as often as the blinking consoles refreshed—sometimes to check in, sometimes to offer unsolicited advice, and occasionally to steal a moment’s distraction from their own chaos.

You had a standing invitation to dinner every night, and a guest room had been set up for you, waiting patiently for you to claim it while the project stretched on. But despite the warmth of the offer, you preferred a little more distance from work. Boundaries weren’t just professional necessities; you needed them to stay sharp.

Still, you were moved by the unexpected tenderness that came with belonging.

Sue had taken to swooping in like a guardian angel, fussing over you with insistence to take breaks. She often expressed how grateful she was for you—your presence in the lab meant that Reed’s workload had halved, and it gave him room to breathe.

Ben, with his soft gruffness, began appearing more often, armed with cookies from his favourite bakery. It was a simple gesture that made the lab smell sweeter and the days a little lighter, especially when you were seconds from a rage-filled doom spiral.

Johnny had a vinyl collection like a personal DJ, always ready with exactly the record you wanted when it was your turn to pick the lab’s soundtrack. He’d even dash off mid-discussion to fetch whatever you wanted, his casual showmanship softening under the steady warmth of your easy camaraderie.

Slowly but surely, you were finding your footing as a part of their little bubble.

You leaned over the glowing console, eyes scanning the latest Kepler Array data with practised precision. “These fluctuations here,” you said, tapping a cluster of irregular readings, “don’t match the typical cosmic background radiation levels. It’s like something’s interfering.”

Reed nodded, intrigued. “Could be a localised gravitational distortion,” he offered. “But nothing in the archives matches this.”

You smirked, a spark lighting your gaze. “My bet’s on a subtle quantum effect. Maybe linked to that glitch in the propulsion system that’s been giving us trouble.” You flicked a command with practised ease, shifting the holograms into tighter alignment. “If we adjust the dampening fields just right, it should stabilise the whole system.”

Johnny popped his head over Reed’s shoulder with a grin that promised nonsense. “So, basically, she’s saying it’s some kind of space magic and we should cross our fingers it works?”

You didn’t miss a beat, arching an eyebrow. “Johnny, if I wanted your opinion, I’d give you a chemistry set and tell you to build a rocket.”

He laughed, like he was painfully aware this wasn’t his most charming work. “Ouch. Okay, fair. I’ll stick to the fire, and leave the brains to you.”

Reed chuckled but didn’t interrupt, clearly enjoying the show.

Ben wandered over, cookie in hand. “You really think this’ll fix the Excelsior’s hiccup?” His voice was gravelly, but carried genuine respect.

You popped a cookie into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “More than think—I’m betting my reputation on it. It just needs the right tweak and a healthy dose of stubborn optimism.”

Johnny settled on a stool, eyes locked on you in a way that made his usual smirk falter into something softer, less sure. You caught the flicker of admiration, mixed with something almost like awe.

“You’re unbelievable,” Johnny muttered, half to himself, half to the room.

You caught it and teased, “Is that a compliment or are you just admitting defeat?”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, conceding. “Maybe both. You’re not just a pretty face, are you? That’s… kind of disarming.”

You grinned, the corner of your mouth curving with triumph. “That’s the point, Mr Human Torch. I’m just here to keep you on your toes.”

Ben laughed, shaking his head. “You’re going to give him a heart attack.”

Johnny leveled Ben with an exaggerated scowl, but there was no heat behind it.

The day stretched on, filled with the satisfying hum of tech and quiet bursts of laughter. Reed and you dove into the Kepler Array data, unravelling anomalies with a shared intensity that made for the perfect level of productivity. Johnny lingered nearby, occasionally shooting you a sideways glance, softened by genuine fascination.

That night, just as you began to pack up your notes, the elevator doors swung open and Sue appeared, hands on her hips, eyes bright with determination.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly, stepping inside. “You’re not leaving without dinner. It’s been far too long since we had a proper meal together, and I’m not getting stuck with the boys tonight.”

You raised an amused eyebrow, caught by the sincerity in her tone.

“I mean it,” Sue added, her smile softening. “I need some girl time, not just science and sarcasm.”

Reed nodded in agreement, already pulling up a chair. “Sue’s right. It’s overdue.”

Johnny smirked, clearly amused. “Guess you’re stuck with us for the evening.”

You exchanged a look with Sue, and a quiet understanding blossomed between the two of you. In that moment, the Baxter Building wasn’t just a workplace. It was a home, and you were becoming a part of it.

“Alright,” you said, settling back with a smile. “Dinner it is. Let’s see if you can keep up with me outside the lab.”

Sue’s laughter filled the room, light and warm. “Challenge accepted.”

You settled into the Baxter Building’s living room like you owned the place. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city’s nightscape like a living painting, a deep blue velvet backdrop studded with a thousand lights. You sank into the soft embrace of the sofa set, your posture relaxed but every inch deliberate.

You were dressed for comfort, but the polished edge was undeniable. Relaxed trousers, a silk blouse cinched at the waist, hair pinned with effortless precision, and a smirk that suggested you were about to take no prisoners. You were about to make more than just conversation—you were here to win.

Glasses clinked, soda bubbles fizzing in crystal tumblers, popcorn steamed gently in bowls scattered across the low coffee table, buttery warmth mingling with the soft hum of blinking tech in the background. The room buzzed with the kind of electric banter that only family could make feel so effortless.

Ever since you stayed over for dinner for the first time a couple of weeks ago, you had become a family dinner regular. You were working later nights than you had at your old job, and you were running out of excuses to avoid family dinner.

Admittedly, it was nice to spend time with the Fantastic Four. They were warm and welcoming, and you never felt out of place among them.

Tonight in particular, they were in their element: family fun, banter crackling like static electricity in the air.

Johnny’s grin was all reckless charm as he slid a deck of cards onto the table. “Alright, team,” he announced, voice dripping with that trademark confidence. “Let’s play a little poker. Low stakes, high fun. And maybe I’ll finally get to see if the famous astrophysicist can bluff as well as she dazzles.”

You lifted a perfectly shaped brow, exaggerating your cluelessness with a tilt of your head. “Poker? That’s the one where a flush beats a straight, right?” You paused, hiding a grin as you saw the corner of Johnny’s mouth twitch. “Or maybe it’s the other way around? Honestly, I’m a bit fuzzy on the rules, but I’m happy to learn.”

Johnny leaned forward, elbows on the table, his breath warm against your cheek. “Flush beats straight, love. And these chips?” He tapped the stack with mock solemnity. “Each one’s worth bragging rights and a whole lot of pride.” His voice dropped an octave, flirting effortlessly. “Think of me as your poker tutor tonight.”

You considered this with mock gravity, eyes dancing over your cards as if they held secrets you had yet to unlock. “Alright then. Teach me, Human Torch.”

Reed chuckled from his corner, watching the exchange with an amused gleam. You caught his eye and shared a quick wink—a silent nod to countless poker nights past, where you’d swindled him blind and made it look easy.

Sue settled in beside you, pretending to be the innocent newbie too. But you both knew better. You exchanged a glance, a subtle signal, and suddenly your confused questions became part of the ruse. “Wait, so if I raise here, does that mean I’m bluffing or...?” You let the question hang, voice teasingly innocent.

Johnny’s grin faltered just a touch, the kind of brief crack you delighted in exposing. “Careful, that’s how legends fall.” His eyes flicked to Sue, who raised her own brow with perfect poker-face poise.

Ben rumbled a laugh from the other side of the room, booming enough to rattle the glasses. “You two are just setting him up to crash and burn.” His grin was broad, but there was an unmistakable warmth in the way he regarded you both.

You deliberately mixed up chip values, asking, “So, does a red chip beat a blue one? Or am I already out of the game?” Your voice was the picture of confusion.

Johnny chuckled, leaning in with a genuine smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t lose on your first night.” His tone was kind, even as his eyes twinkled with challenge. “Besides, it’s about the fun, not the winnings.”

You threw him a sidelong glance, dropping a chip into the pot with exaggerated hesitation. “Good, because I’m here to win your respect, not your cash.”

The table erupted into laughter, Sue nodding conspiratorially beside you. Reed shook his head, amused, but his eyes gleamed with pride. “You two make this look too easy.”

As the game unfolded, you caught Johnny’s quick glances. He was genuinely rooting for you, even as you threw playful shade his way. When you called his bluff with a perfectly timed smirk, you could practically see the spark of admiration behind his feigned frustration.

The game was a dance of glances, bets, and raised eyebrows. You watched Johnny’s quick twitches—the way he glanced at you like he was trying to decipher a particularly cryptic puzzle, the sharp inhale when you matched his raises with a smirk.

You weren’t just playing poker; you were playing him, and the way his bravado slipped just enough for you to see the real man beneath the flame.

At one point, Johnny leaned over your shoulder, fingers ghosting dangerously close to your cards, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You sure you want to go all in? This could get… heated.”

You suppressed a smile. “I run a little cold,” you shot back, voice low, eyes locked on Johnny. “So heat is very much welcome.”

The thrill of the game and the way Johnny was watching you sent a sweet, dizzy flutter through your chest. Your fingertips tingled with anticipation, heart steady but alive with electric possibility.

The room hummed with quiet laughter as Sue leaned forward, whispering to Reed, “She’s playing him like a fiddle.”

Ben chuckled from his corner, having clocked your ruse from the beginning.

By the final hand, you settled back with effortless poise, your breath even, eyes calm and sparkling with a confidence that made Johnny’s grin falter for the briefest second.

He pushed a hefty pile of chips into the centre, but there was a flicker of hesitation.

You matched his bet, sliding your own chips forward as your heartbeat hummed a steady rhythm beneath your skin. Your mind worked the room like a well-oiled machine, calculating, predicting.

You knew Johnny thought he had the better hand, and that was why your bluff would work.

“Going all in, huh?” Johnny said, a slow smile tugging at his mouth, eyes narrowing with challenge. “Confident, aren’t you?”

You met his gaze without flinching, voice low and smooth as velvet. “Maybe the student is becoming the master,” you teased.

The tension stretched, thick and charged, the game slipping from cards into something much more electric. Johnny tossed his cards down first, flashing that arrogant grin like he’d already won. It was a solid hand: a full house, impressive enough to make anyone sit up and take notice.

You let your fingers linger over your cards a beat longer. Then, you laid down your cards with deliberate grace, a perfect bluff that told a story only you could sell.

A royal flush.

The room froze for a heartbeat, eyes darting between your hand and Johnny’s, before exploding into laughter and mock outrage. Johnny sat slack-jawed, eyes wide, caught off guard in a way that only made you more irresistible. Disbelief flickered in his gaze before it melted into admiration.

You leaned in, voice barely above a whisper, the heat between you both folding into the playful intimacy of the moment. “That’s the problem with fire,” you murmured, “it’s easy to read the smoke signals.”

The table erupted into raucous laughter. Johnny swore revenge, but you could hear the breathlessness in his laugh. His usual cocky armour slipped, revealing the genuine admiration and just a flicker of something softer.

Sue elbowed him lightly. “You’re losing your touch, Johnny.”

Ben grinned. “You got outplayed by the new girl.”

Johnny gave a playful cry of outrage, but the warmth in his eyes told the truth: he was pleased you won.

You felt it then. This was more than a game; this was the beginning of something electric, the kind of trouble you both lived for.

As the chips clattered and the night wore on, you knew one thing for sure. You weren’t just part of the Fantastic Four’s world. You were quickly becoming the centre of Johnny’s.

The mission was done. The adrenaline was finally ebbing, and Johnny found himself sinking into the comfort of his sanctuary: his bedroom in the Baxter Building.

It was more than just a place to sleep. Johnny’s room felt like a curated echo of his personality. It was bold, stylish, a little eccentric, and surprisingly layered beneath the surface.

A plush, round bed was tucked to the right, layered with patterned throws and an avalanche of pillows—currently occupied by both Sue and Ben, who had taken up casual residence the moment they stepped inside. Sue sat cross-legged, picking at one of Johnny’s knit cushions with idle fingers, while Ben lay back with his boots still on, arms crossed behind his head like he owned the place.

Books, gadgets, and half-burned candles cluttered sleek shelves along the walls. Johnny’s desk curved like a wave, covered in scribbled notes, retro record sleeves from albums he knew you loved, and a white mushroom lamp glowing beside a half-finished model of a jetbike.

Johnny dropped into the blue chair in the middle of the room, his posture half-slouched, one leg kicked up on the ottoman like he needed the chair to catch him before he unravelled completely.

The familiar thrum of his heart was slowing, but not yet steady.

The others had filtered in behind him after the mission. Reed, already scrolling through data on a slim tablet; Ben with that trademark easygoing grin; and Sue, ever the calming presence, watching him with a mix of amusement and quiet understanding.

“So,” Reed began, voice calm but laced with its usual edge of clinical scrutiny, “how’s my protégé fitting in? I think she’s doing a spectacular job.”

Johnny let out a short, breathy laugh, eyes flicking toward the window. “She’s… something. Not just another genius. She holds her own against you. And yeah, she let me think I was winning for a bit. I’m not used to that.” He ran a hand through his hair, and for a second, the flicker of uncertainty gave him away. “It’s kind of throwing me off.”

Sue arched a brow and leaned her elbow against one of Ben’s knees, smirking. “You seem to have met your match. You’re not exactly easy to beat, Johnny.”

Ben chuckled from the bed, folding his arms across his chest. “Kid, I’ve seen you fight monsters, fall outta the sky, and still land with a smile. But this? This right here?” He pointed lazily toward Johnny. “You’re like a lovesick puppy.”

Johnny shot him a glare, but it lacked real heat. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Ben teased. “That look on your face? You’re smitten. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Johnny groaned, leaning his head back. The ceiling light caught the edges of his cheekbones. “I don’t know. Reed and Sue, you have this stable, solid relationship. Someone who gets you. I never thought I’d find that. And now, she’s here, and I’m trying to play it cool like always, but it’s not working. She sees right through me.”

Reed, still half-distracted by his data, looked up. His voice was softer now. “Love’s not easy for any of us. It’s a challenge, like any mission. But you don’t have to go at it alone.”

Sue stood up from the bed, her hand brushing Johnny’s arm. “And don’t waste time pretending you don’t care. Be honest with her, and with yourself. That’s the only way it works,” she advised.

Johnny exhaled slowly, the energy peeling off him like old paint. “She’s trouble,” he said quietly. “The kind that makes me want to be better. The kind that isn’t really troublesome at all, it’s just forcing me to face something I haven’t had to deal with before.”

Ben raised a bottle of soda he’d grabbed from the mini fridge under the bar. “To good trouble, then.”

Johnny let himself smile. His bedroom, the laughter of people who knew him too well, the messy desk, the rumpled bed, the hum of the city below—it all grounded him.

Reed’s tablet chimed softly, pulling him back to the present. He glanced up, a slight crease between his brows. “H.E.R.B.I.E. says our newest member is still logged into the system,” Reed glanced toward the window, “but she stepped out for some air. It’s quite late.”

Johnny’s chair creaked as he pushed himself upright, a sudden sharp edge cutting through his fatigue. “I’ll go find her,” he said. “Make sure she’s okay.”

Sue gave him a small, knowing smile. “She’s lucky to have you watching her back.”

Johnny slid his feet back into his boots, already moving toward the door. “Get some rest,” he ordered his family. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

Johnny made his way down to the East River, the city’s noise a distant hum swallowed by the chill night air. The Baxter Building loomed behind him, a sentinel in the dark, its windows faintly glowing like stars trapped in glass.

Above the water, the Excelsior launch pad hovered silently, bathed in soft blue light that shimmered on the river’s surface like scattered stardust.

This was the quiet spot Johnny claimed when his head was too full for the humdrum of the Baxter Building’s walls. The wooden bench near the water’s edge, worn smooth by countless restless nights, waited patiently.

But tonight, when he arrived, you were already there.

You hadn’t expected company. The river’s cold breath curled around you, biting at your exposed wrists beneath the crisp cut of your coat. The night was so still, it felt as though even the stars were holding their breath, waiting.

You drew your knees tighter together, boot heels resting on the frost-slick planks, and kept your eyes on the water.

Its surface rippled in liquid silver, catching the moonlight like fragments of a shattered mirror. The Excelsior’s glow poured across the black water in long, unbroken ribbons, swaying gently with the current. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trembling just enough for you to feel it.

You told yourself it was the cold and had nothing to do with Johnny Storm.

Beneath your polished exterior, the bombshell astrophysicist persona stood guard. It was the armour you’d learned to wear to survive boardrooms, press briefings, and laboratories full of men who thought they knew more than you before you’d spoken a word.

It was an image built from perfect hair, crisp lines, and a voice that never faltered. A necessity.

Success in your world demanded a mask: an impeccable image, flawless intellect, steel resolve. But here, under the vast and indifferent sky, you could almost imagine taking it off.

That’s when Johnny’s shadow fell over the bench.

You didn’t turn right away, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “If you’re here to brood, the spot two feet to your left is open.” Your voice was steady, but inside, your heart was skipping beats you tried not to count.

The sound of Johnny’s chuckle warmed you more than you’d admit. He sat beside you, close enough that the cold no longer pressed quite so sharply against your side. You could feel the faint heat radiating from him, soft as a sunbeam through glass.

“Let me guess,” you went on, finally glancing at him, “you’ve claimed this spot longer than me?”

“Long before you ever showed up,” he said, wearing that impossible grin. “Even before I was the Human Torch.”

“Impressive,” you said dryly. “So you were dramatic even before the powers?”

His grin widened. Johnny leaned back, stretching out his legs. “I prefer to think of it as memorable.”

You tilted your head. “You mean loud?”

“Strategically attention-grabbing.”

You huffed a laugh. “Sounds suspiciously like someone compensating for something.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That’s cold.”

The banter looped on, familiarly effortless. You volleyed jabs about Johnny’s sunglasses collection; he countered with digs about your “movie star walk” through the lab. Beneath it all, though, you felt an awareness in the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you smiled. He noticed the way your voice softened on certain words without meaning to.

“You’re one to talk. I’ve seen you walk into the lab like you’re about to be photographed for the cover of Astrophysics Monthly,” Johnny joked.

“That’s because I’m always ready,” you shot back, crossing one leg over the other in an exaggerated pose. “The camera could be anywhere.”

He chuckled, the sound warm enough to curl in your chest. For a while, the banter circled harmlessly, back and forth. Two well-defended citadels lobbing witty remarks across the river between them.

The easy banter felt like a shield against the silence, but beneath it, your mind was a storm. You thought about the endless hours you’d poured into your work, the lectures given with razor-sharp precision, the whispered doubts cast your way because of your gender, your youth, your brilliance.

Yet here, beside this man who could ignite cities with a glance, you felt the edges of that persona soften, even if just a fraction.

The wind picked up off the river, sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his. The heat that came off Johnny wasn’t metaphorical; it was bone-deep, a steady hum against your side. You found yourself leaning in, inching closer like he was gravity.

His shoulder brushed yours, and the contact was startling in its simplicity. Not staged. Not part of the act. Just him: steady, warm, unguarded.

Johnny noticed you huddling closer for warmth. Of course he did. But he didn’t make a joke. He just stayed still, warm and solid beside you, letting the cold do the work of closing the distance.

For a while, you both watched the water in silence, listening to the quiet lap of waves against the pier. The night smelled faintly of salt and metal, the city’s energy reduced to a distant pulse. Your breath misted in the air, mingling with his.

After a moment, you tilted your head back toward the stars. “Do you ever look up and feel like the world’s too small? Like there’s more out there you’re not quite ready to reach?”

Johnny’s voice was lower now, without its earlier spark of mischief. “All the time. Sometimes I pretend I’m halfway to the moon and the rest of the world’s just trying to catch up.”

A smile pulled at you, smaller and quieter than the ones you usually let people see. “I wish I could be that untethered. Sometimes I think I get too caught up in the performance of it all. And I know I have to be, but it’s exhausting.”

Johnny looked at you fully then, and there was no teasing in his gaze. “You don’t have to pretend to be anything. You’re not just some bright star, you know. You’re the whole constellation.”

The words landed warm in your chest, and for a moment, you forgot about holding your posture. You let yourself lean just a little heavier against him. His shoulder pressed back, not shifting away.

“What if you could go anywhere right now?” you asked softly. “No responsibilities, no saving the world, no being the perfect eligible bachelor. Where would you fly?”

Johnny looked out at the river’s shimmering stretch and grinned. “It's not so bad here.”

Your laugh came easily, and the sound felt foreign in its honesty. For once, you didn’t have to worry about how it sounded. The night around you was cold, but with his heat at your side, you could have stayed there forever.

The wind skimmed off the river again, sharper now, and you instinctively tugged your coat tighter.

Johnny noticed.

Without a word, he shrugged out of his leather coat and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. The lining was still unnervingly warm from his body heat, like it had been sitting near a fire. His hands lingered a second too long at your shoulders, the weight of them grounding you in a way that made your pulse skip.

You swallowed hard.

“You’re freezing.” Johnny said it as though giving you his jacket was the only solution.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the scent of smoke and something faintly sweet hit you, and the words tangled in your throat.

“I’m fine,” you countered, though you didn’t move to return the jacket. “You know I’m capable of basic thermoregulation.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said with a lazy half-smile, “but my way’s better.”

For a few beats, you both sat in comfortable quiet, the river whispering its endless, low song.

Then his voice broke the stillness. “Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t… this?”

“This?” you echoed.

“The science, the speeches, the whole bombshell astrophysicist thing the tabloids love?”

You tilted your head toward him, caught off guard. “That’s a big question for two in the morning.”

“I’m a big-questions kind of guy,” Johnny said, though his smirk didn’t quite hide the curiosity in his eyes.

You hesitated. For a second, you almost told him about the other paths you’d once imagined for yourself, the softer dreams you’d traded for the armour you wore now.

But you caught yourself, retreating into a teasing smile. “What about you? Would you still be setting things on fire for a living?”

Johnny grinned, letting you dodge his question. “Maybe I’d be a chef. Same skill set, less collateral damage.”

You laughed, and the tension slipped back into its familiar dance. Light, teasing, safe.

“Actually, I’d probably do something with cars,” Johnny admitted. “Racing them, fixing them—I don’t know, I always just liked taking things apart and putting them back together again.”

“Ah,” you hummed, grinning. “I’m familiar with that kind of curiosity. I don't know how many times I used to take apart our toaster and put it back together just waiting for my parents to get home after school.”

Johnny tried to picture a younger you waiting up for your parents and fiddling around with kitchen appliances. It was too adorable a thought to linger on—the last thing he wanted to do was blush in front of you.

“You’ve got that look again,” he said.

“What look?”

Johnny’s expression softened. “The one where you’re thinking about something you’re not gonna tell me.”

You arched a brow. “You’ve known me for how long, and you still think I’m easy to read?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say you’re easy to read, but I’ve spent a lot of time trying to.”

That landed too close. You tipped your head back toward the skyline, letting the wind steal whatever reply you might have had.

Your thigh brushed Johnny’s, and you felt him still, just slightly, as though deciding whether to close the gap or keep it where it was. Heat radiated through the denim, curling low in your stomach.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low, “you might get addicted.”

You almost snorted. “To what?”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His gaze found yours, steady, unreadable, but lit with something that made the air between you feel thinner, hotter. Finally, he said, “To the warmth.”

You swallowed hard, breaking eye contact first. Your heart thudded in your ears. It was almost too much—too close, too revealing.

“Y’know,” Johnny said after a beat, “I don’t think I’ve ever been up here this late. Or early, I guess. Feels like we’re not even in the same city anymore.”

“It’s like the rest of the world went to bed and forgot about us,” you agreed.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You could have told him it was dangerous. That being alone with him like this was already pushing the limits of what you could keep hidden. But you just said, “Ask me in the morning.”

His grin came slowly, curling at the edges, but he didn’t push.

The conversation circled again, back to safe territory. Johnny told a story about a botched mission in Madrid that involved three fire alarms and one very offended goat. You countered with the tale of the time you accidentally blew a circuit in Reed’s lab and invented a new chemical smell in the process.

Johnny watched you for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice had that low, dangerous warmth again. “You’ve got frost on your hair.”

He reached up, brushing the strands lightly with his gloved fingers. The touch was barely there, but it sent a sharp little current down your spine.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure your voice would work if you tried it.

You were the one to speak this time, low and almost without thinking. “Maybe I already am.”

Johnny’s brows lifted just slightly. “Addicted?”

You didn’t answer.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air held the shape of something that might have become a kiss. Then a distant siren wailed through the city, a reminder that the world was still turning, still watching.

Johnny leaned back slightly, letting the space between you expand just enough for you to breathe. But the warmth stayed, coiled under your skin.

You hadn’t expected Johnny to come see you. The two of you didn’t communicate much when you weren’t at the Baxter Building. He occasionally called your landline and chatted to you about his day or the record he just got.

But tonight, there was a real knock on your apartment door. A gentleman’s knock, as if he’d been standing there rehearsing it.

When you opened it, you caught Johnny mid-grin, his shoulders hunched in the way people do when they’re pretending they’re not excited. The collar of his red jacket was turned up against the wind, his hair swept into soft disorder by the February chill.

“Thought I’d pick you up properly,” he said. His tone was light, but his eyes, quick and searching, made the air between you feel like a live wire.

You stared back at him. “How do you know where I live?” you wondered.

Cheerfully, Johnny declared, “Reed told me! Now come on, these plans are non-optional and took several weeks of planning to ensure that every single member of the Fantastic Four will be available.” He winked. “Including our honorary member.”

Luckily, Sue had called a couple of days ago to let you know that you all had plans coming up. You doubted that she knew her little brother intended to pick you up from your apartment without warning, but at least it meant you were dressed for the cold and ready to go by the time he showed up.

You stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind you, the scent of his cologne already catching in the wool of your coat. Johnny didn’t comment on your outfit, though you saw him notice, but he did take your gloves from you without asking, tucking them into his own pocket like you wouldn’t need them.

The Fantasticar was waiting at the curb, and the city beyond shimmered with the kind of cold that makes neon look sharper. You slid into the backseat, and the moment the doors sealed shut, the world went quiet. Just the muffled hum of the engine and Johnny’s knee brushing yours.

Reed turned from the front passenger seat with a polite nod. “Evening. Ben’s already out, said he’d meet us there.”

Sue leaned over the seat to squeeze your arm warmly. “Glad you could make it. It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper night together.”

You smiled back, but your attention was snagged when Johnny’s hand settled over yours on the seat between you. The heat of his palm seeped through your skin in slow waves, curling up your arm and blooming in your chest. You didn’t pull away.

“You’re gonna like this,” Johnny said, watching you instead of the skyline. “We’re giving you a real night out tonight. No tourist stuff. No press-friendly stops. Just—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Us. What we’d always do if we were, you know, branded on fewer billboards.”

And there it was again. That gentle, careful crack in the Johnny Storm persona. The flicker of something that wasn’t all heat and showmanship. Something meant for you alone.

Outside, Manhattan’s glass edges blurred past, streetlamps streaking gold across the windows, but you didn’t look away from him until the car slowed at your first stop.

The car coasted to a smooth stop outside a modest diner tucked between a faded bookstore and a neon-lit laundromat. The sign flickered slightly, Dot’s Diner, casting a soft pink glow over the wet pavement.

Johnny slid the door open and held out a hand to you, his smile easy, the kind that made you forget everything for a moment. “Home turf,” he said, voice dipped in something almost nostalgic.

You stepped out into the crisp night air, the scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee curling up your nose. The chill nipped at your cheeks, but the warmth from Johnny’s hand still lingered as he guided you up the cracked sidewalk.

Reed and Sue were already inside, being led to a booth by the window. Reed’s fingers danced absently over the menu, his ever-present watch glinting under the flickering diner light.

“Ben’s probably eyeing the pie counter,” Johnny murmured, leaning close enough that your shoulders brushed. The heat radiating off him was enough to make your cheeks warm.

You settled into the booth beside Sue, the vinyl seats creaking softly beneath you. Around you, the comforting clatter of dishes and low murmurs from other late-night patrons seemed to hum.

“You’ve got to try the coffee,” Sue said, passing you a menu. “There’s no reason it should be this good, but it’s magic.” She smiled and nudged Johnny lightly. “He’s been sneaking in here since he was about nine. After school then, and now, when he wants a break from Reed’s rambles.”

Johnny snorted, flashing that cocky grin. “Hey, Reed’s rambles are basically bedtime stories, that’s how quickly they put me to sleep.”

Reed glanced up from the menu, eyebrows raised. “I prefer to think of them as intellectual nourishment.”

You smirked, catching Johnny’s eye. “Sounds like someone needs to optimise his charisma settings.”

Reed ignored the jab, seriously folding his fingers. “I’m actually trying to optimise the diner coffee. I suspect Dot’s brew is less science, more nostalgia, and that’s what makes it so delicious.”

Ben slid into the booth beside Reed, his thick slice of pie almost too big to balance on the plate. He snorted loudly. “Optimal? It’s diner coffee, Reed. The only optimisation is how fast you can guzzle it before it turns into a sad lukewarm puddle.”

Johnny’s grin deepened. “Ben’s got a point, but Dot’s coffee is more than caffeine. It’s tradition. Like a warm hug you don’t have to pretend to enjoy.”

The diner’s middle-aged waitress, Dot herself, appeared like clockwork, ruffling Johnny’s hair with practised affection. “You haven’t changed a bit, kiddo. And you’ve got yourself a lovely friend here. Haven’t seen you around before, sugar.”

Johnny laughed, loud and genuine, like the sound had been bottled up for too long. “Don’t let her fool you, she’s tougher than she looks,” he insisted, nodding toward you.

Caught off guard by the warmth radiating from Dot’s eyes, you introduced yourself, your voice lighter than you felt. “Nice to meet you, Dot.”

Her smile deepened. “Johnny’s always been a charmer. But he’s got a good heart. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Johnny waved away the flirtation like a pro but kept that slow smile that said he’d already claimed this space for both of you. “Two coffees,” he ordered once introductions were done. “My usual, and one with cream and two sugars for her. And bring her a slice of your signature cake, no whipped cream.”

You blinked, caught off guard, your familiar order settling around you like a warm blanket. You hadn’t even said a word, but Johnny had it memorised. It was like your coffee order was just another little piece of you he’d tucked away.

Dot jotted it down and bustled off, humming a tune that sounded like a 50s record.

Johnny reached over, absentmindedly brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. You swallowed, breath catching just slightly, and said nothing.

The coffee arrived quickly, steaming and rich, exactly as you liked it. The cake was dense and buttery, the kind that melts slowly on your tongue, carrying a hint of sweetness that cut through the chill like a warm sigh.

Johnny took a slow sip of his black coffee. “You know, this place? It’s kind of my secret hideout. When I was a kid, I’d come here after getting grounded—”

Sue chuckled, eyes sparkling. “‘Grounded’ is putting it mildly. Remember the time you tried flying off the roof with a makeshift cape?”

Ben’s laugh was like thunder. “And nearly broke his neck. Again.”

Johnny shot him an offended look, but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Hey, you weren’t even there! And that was experimental flight testing, okay? You just don’t appreciate genius when it flies too close to the sun.”

You smiled, soaking in the rhythm of their family; the teasing, the history, the way they fit like pieces of a puzzle you didn’t even know you wanted to be part of.

Sue nudged you gently. “Johnny’s never really outgrown this place. It’s where he found his footing when everything else was spinning out of control.”

Johnny’s voice lowered, just a bit. “When we first came back from space, with powers I couldn’t handle yet, Dot’s was the only place I could go to shut out the noise, sit with my own head, and not feel like a freak.”

“And now?” you asked, leaning in, your tone soft but edged with playful challenge.

Johnny’s grin came back, slower, deeper, like he was carrying a secret just for you. “Now, it’s a place I want to share. With you.”

Ben raised his fork in mock salute. “Welcome to the family, kid.”

You caught Johnny’s gaze. There was a flicker, a quickening in his eyes that made your heart do that uneven skip. You threw him a teasing smile. “Guess that makes me officially part of the crazy, huh?”

Johnny’s laugh was low, and he leaned closer. “Crazy? Yeah. But you’re the kind we want to keep around.”

You smirked, letting your fingers trace idle patterns on your mug. “Careful, Johnny. That sounds dangerously close to commitment. I don’t think you’re ready for that level of chaos.”

He raised an eyebrow, mock offence lighting his features. “Please. I invented chaos.”

Before you could volley back, a young guy from the counter sidled up, flashing a grin that was way too practised for 2 AM. “Hey, I couldn’t help but notice you from over there. How about you let me buy you a drink sometime?”

You glanced over at Johnny, who was watching the exchange with a slow, amused smile, with the barest flicker of hesitation.

Turning back to the guy, you gave him a once-over, your eyes sparkling. “Well, aren’t you a bold one to come say that around a table of superheroes?”

He laughed nervously, clearly thrown off but trying to keep his cool. “Hey, no pressure. Just figured I’d ask.”

You leaned forward, voice low and teasing. “Flattery will get you everywhere, but I don’t do casual dating. Not when the company is this dangerous.” You gave a slow, deliberate smile that said you knew exactly the effect you had, and weren’t sorry about it.

Johnny shifted in his seat, fingers tightening subtly around your hand. His smile was a little tighter now, as if the playful confidence he’d worn all night was faltering just a bit. The rare moment caught him off guard.

Seeing you so desired, so magnetic, and being reminded that you weren’t his.

Sue caught the flicker in Johnny’s eyes and gave you a wink. “Trust me, you’re the most dangerous person here.”

The guy seemed to get the hint, nodding politely and retreating back toward the counter with a sheepish grin. You turned back to Johnny, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear—just like he had done for you earlier.

“Even at a late-night diner with superheroes, I’m still the centre of attention,” you joked, trying to cheer him up.

Johnny shook his head, chuckling. “Guess you really are the hottest thing to come out of astrophysics in the last fifty years, huh?”

You arched a brow, grinning widely. “Did you just quote The Daily Press headline about me from last month?”

Johnny shrugged, refusing to look abashed. “What can I say? I’m a big fan.”

You leaned closer, your voice dropping just enough to tease. “Well, big fan, if you’re gonna quote headlines, you might want to bring me more than coffee next time.”

After the night had worn on and the laughter and stories faded, the group slowly spilt out into the cold. Johnny was at your side as you stepped into the street, and the others headed toward the waiting Fantasticar.

You and Johnny lingered, falling a step behind the others. The world around you shrank, and sounds dimmed. Only the quiet hum of distant traffic and the soft scuff of your footsteps against the wet sidewalk filled the space between you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could feel the weight of the night, heavier somehow now, like everything had pulled you closer to a line neither dared cross yet.

Johnny’s voice was low, the usual swagger stripped away, fragile in the quiet. “This is my real New York. Figured you should see it.”

The words hit you like in a way you hadn’t expected, warm and heavy in the cold air. You swallowed hard, your breath visible in the frigid air, and you forced a lightness to your tone. “I loved it. The diner, Dot—everything was incredible. It felt like stepping into a scrapbook, if that makes any sense.”

Johnny gave you a slow, careful smile, blue eyes catching the glow of the streetlamp. “Makes perfect sense. Couldn’t have explained it better myself.”

You felt the charged silence coil tighter. Your fingers itched to reach for Johnny, to close the space, but your heart clenched at the thought of what would come next.

You stepped a fraction closer, your shoulder brushing his. Johnny’s gaze dropped—first to your lips, then darted up to your eyes, panic flickering there before he steadied himself. His hand came up, resting lightly on your upper arm, warm and steady, holding you in place without overstepping.

You leaned into the heat of his touch. You craved it like a shield against the night’s chill. But just as quickly, reality snapped back, and you pulled away so fast you almost stumbled. His hand was there in an instant, steadying you, his fingers curling around your wrist with a flicker of heat.

The tension twisted tighter between you; this desperate dance of wanting and restraint, of holding on and letting go.

Your heart pounded. “Johnny, I’ve always known you weren’t what the tabloids made you out to be. But tonight... I think I really saw you for the first time. And you’re great.”

His lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours. “Great? You really think that?”

You smiled softly, fierce with certainty. “You’re more than fire and headlines. You’re smart and kind. You don’t have to talk yourself down around me. No billboard or photoshoot is going to change that.”

A shadow crossed Johnny’s face, vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual bombast. “Sometimes, I’m scared that’s not enough. That people only see the show.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing lightly along his jaw, anchoring him. “They see you. The real you. At least, I do.”

Johnny exhaled slowly, releasing a held breath, then looked away for a moment, jaw tight. When he met your eyes again, there was something raw and desperate in his gaze.

You both fought the pull to close the distance, to let everything spill out in a rush. Instead, you fell silent, the city’s muted glow wrapping around you like a fragile bubble.

Johnny’s hand lingered a moment longer before retreating slowly to his side. “Let’s get you inside,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “It’ll be warm in the Fantasticar.”

You nodded, but didn’t move away just yet. Instead, you let your head fall lightly against his shoulder, seeking warmth, safety, something steady amid the chaos.

The distant laughter of your friends faded behind you, but here, in this charged stillness, time seemed to slow to a whisper.

“A night like this...” Johnny breathed, voice nearly breaking. “Feels like the start of something.”

You closed your eyes against the sharp ache in your chest. “Yeah,” you whispered back. “Feels like it.”

For a breath, the world seemed to pause. Just the two of you suspended in the quiet glow of the streetlamp. Your hands lifted almost without thinking, fingers curling gently around Johnny’s jaw, tilting his face toward yours. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, and you felt the rapid thump of his heartbeat through the fabric of your coat—fast, urgent, impossible to ignore.

Your lips hovered inches from his, every nerve on fire, every second stretching out like a held breath. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the desperate longing tangled with hesitation.

Then, just as your lips were about to meet, a distant shout—one of the others, calling your names—shattered the spell.

You both pulled back, breath hitching, eyes wide, searching each other’s faces for what neither dared say out loud yet.

Johnny’s smile was small, laced with both frustration and promise. “Not yet,” he murmured.

“No,” you agreed, voice soft but sure. “We’ll take our time.”

Side by side, you finally turned toward the others, the night suddenly feeling both too short and full of promise all at once.

The lab was a constellation of softly humming machines and glowing holograms, the gentle pulse of data streaming from the Kepler Array lighting your face in cool blues and greens. Reed’s notes were sprawled across the holo-display, a meticulous mess of edits and rewrites that blurred into the small hours of the morning. You rubbed a hand over your eyes, feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion settle like a weight in your bones.

Without thinking, you reached for the third cup of coffee beside you, but it was already gone. A soft knock on the counter behind you made you look up. Johnny holding a fresh cup of coffee, the warmth of it radiating even through the ceramic. You hadn’t even heard the elevator doors open.

“Thought you could use this,” he said, voice low and steady, not a trace of the usual showmanship. His eyes flickered with something tender, a quiet encouragement that made your chest tighten.

You smiled, fingers brushing the rim of the cup. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

Johnny stepped closer, careful not to disturb the delicate web of papers and holograms. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled in behind him, carrying a tray with a carefully wrapped sandwich and a small container of fruit.

“Look at you,” he said, a teasing grin creeping back in. “You’re practically living here. Not to mention you’re officially H.E.R.B.I.E.’s favourite. He only makes us sandwiches when we ask for them, you get one just for being here.”

You laughed softly, the sound brittle but real. “I don’t have a choice. The paper’s due next week, and Reed won’t stop until it’s perfect.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. set the tray down gently and earned a pat on the head from Johnny, who sat on the edge of the workstation. He watched you with an intensity that made you feel seen beyond the lab coat and the academic pressures.

“Hey,” Johnny said, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “Don’t forget to breathe. I know I’m not the PhD here, but I hear that’s pretty important for staying alive.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was no pretence there, just steady, unwavering support.

The hours slipped by, punctuated by quiet moments: Johnny handing you coffee refills, fetching things you forgot, H.E.R.B.I.E. putting on an Etta James record you loved based on Johnny’s recommendation.

When your head finally lolled sideways against the table in a rare moment of surrender, Johnny caught you before you fell, the warmth of his arms a balm against the stress that threatened to overwhelm you.

The team filtered through occasionally. Sue dropped in for a quick word of encouragement, Ben’s booming laughter echoing from the hall, Reed’s approving nod as he reviewed another revised section.

And always Johnny, your constant anchor in the storm of brutal academia.

You leaned back in your chair, the exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, your eyes tracing the constellation of blinking lights and streaming data on the console. For a moment, you let yourself drift, thinking about how utterly unlike the glossy headlines and magazine covers this scene was.

No perfectly tailored dress, no flawless makeup, no rehearsed smiles for the cameras. Just coffee-stained notes, tired eyes, and a stubborn mind refusing to give up.

If those tabloid writers could see you now—unpolished, raw, hunched over a hologram with your hair a tangled mess and your fingers stained with ink and caffeine—they’d probably call it a meltdown or a bombshell burn-out. But you knew better.

This was your work. The real work.

The moments when you weren’t the image of effortless glamour, but the person who connected dots no one else could see, who stayed up past midnight chasing anomalies, who rewrote papers until every word carried the weight of truth.

You were always going to be the bombshell astrophysicist, but now you could prove that you had the brains to back it up, the talent to own it, and the experience to make your mark.

And this time, you weren’t alone.

Johnny’s quiet presence wasn’t just a comfort. It was the kind of support that turned chaos into something manageable, the kind of steady hand that let you finally believe you could thrive, not just survive.

The lab was quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the faint rustle of papers. Afternoon light spilt through the tall windows, pooling gold on the steel counters and screens cluttered with equations and data sets. You sat at the long table, fingers still tingling from hours of typing, your mind a swirl of corrections and rewrites, exhaustion and anticipation.

Reed’s presence was steady beside you as he set the final version of the paper down with a deliberate calm that made your heart race despite the fatigue. His eyes, the eyes of a man who rarely allowed himself to show vulnerability, were locked on you.

“This is... exceptional,” Reed said quietly, voice low but steady. “I’ve read every draft, every line. But this—this is something else. Your insight connected pieces of the puzzle no one else even noticed. You saw the anomalies not as isolated noise, but as a pattern. A map pointing to the unknown.”

You blinked, identifying his words as more than praise. It was recognition. The kind that whispered, You belong here.

Then Reed shifted, looking around to make sure no one else was listening. “I’m putting your name first on this paper.”

You caught your breath. The significance hit you like a jolt.

In the academic world—especially one as competitive and hierarchical as astrophysics—the lead author was sacred territory. Usually reserved for the most senior scientist, the one with the longest CV, the most grants, the most authority. To Reed, the titan of the field, to willingly hand over that spot was almost unheard of.

“I want this to be your moment,” Reed said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Not because I have to, but because you earned it. More than anyone on this team. Your work made this publication possible. And this is just the beginning. At the Future Foundation, we want to help you build your career. Not just in name, but in respect. In freedom. Right here at the Baxter Building.”

You exhaled shakily, feeling a fierce, unexpected surge of emotions. Pride, relief, and a deep sense of safety. Here was a place that saw you, really saw you. Not just the bombshell who turned heads in the tabloids, but the mind behind the equations, the relentless seeker of truth.

You thought of every late night spent battling doubt, every article that questioned your credibility, every sideways glance from peers who couldn’t reconcile your beauty with your brilliance. And now, here was Reed Richards—your mentor, your colleague, your champion—showing you that you belonged. That your voice mattered.

You smiled, that radiant, unstoppable smile that had carried you through more than you liked to admit. “Thank you so much.”

Reed’s eyes softened, a rare softness breaking through his usual measured composure. “You have no need to thank me. You’ve earned every bit of this, and more.” He paused, then leaned in slightly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It is my hope, and the Future Foundation’s, that you will continue to conduct your research here, with the full support of the team. We want you to have your own lab in the Baxter Building. Whatever you need to push this work further—funding, equipment, personnel—we will provide it, within reason. Consider it an investment in not just the future of astrophysics, but in you.”

You blinked, stunned. The sheer scope of the offer was borderline incomprehensible. This was more than a job or a title. It was a vote of confidence, a declaration of belonging. You were being given the keys to the city, scientifically speaking, and you had the freedom to do whatever your heart desired next.

Reed smiled then, a real, open smile. “I want you to know it’s been an honour mentoring you. Not just because you’re the future of the field but because you’re the present. Your work is invaluable. Your mind is brilliant. I’m excited to see what you’ll do next.”

You felt your throat tighten. The weight of those words, after so many nights of doubt and struggle, was almost overwhelming. You hesitated a moment before standing, and Reed rose too, closing the distance between you.

When you pulled back, Reed looked at you, eyes sharp and warm. “So, what do you want to do next?”

You grinned, heart pounding in your chest. “Right now? All I want is to go tell Johnny.”

You paused in the hall outside Johnny’s door, taking a deep breath as your fingers brushed the cool wood. You hadn’t had the time to rehearse this moment, and now, standing here, you felt your heart hammering. Nerves twisted in ways both familiar and new.

Tentatively, you knocked.

“Uh—come in!” came his voice, higher-pitched than usual, carrying that unmistakable mix of surprise and delight.

You opened the door, and the sight that greeted you made your chest stutter. Johnny was halfway between tidying and abandoning the task altogether: pillows scattered across the floor, vinyl records perched precariously on his bed, a half-empty mug teetering on the edge of his nightstand. He froze the moment he saw you, blue eyes wide and golden with shock, then smiled so broadly it nearly made you stumble forward.

“You—what—how—” Johnny stammered, flinging a pillow onto the bed with too much force. “You’re here! I—wait, hold on, don’t just—oh man, it’s a mess.” His usual grin faltered into a panicked, adorable frown. He ducked to snag another pillow off the floor, knocking a stack of records onto the carpet. “Okay, fine. This is fine. Totally fine. You’re here. And I’m— I was just cleaning.”

You laughed softly, letting the nerves of the hallway slip away. Stepping closer, you brushed the hair from Johnny’s forehead. “I’ve always assumed your room would be a little chaotic. But,” You paused, smiling softly, “it’s kind of charming.”

Johnny’s eyes softened, and he wasn’t fumbling anymore. “Charming? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my room. But now I’m blushing, and it’s— look, I’m a disaster right now, but you’re here.”

You tilted your head, heart thudding. “I come bearing news.”

“Oh?” His voice was teasing now, but his pulse betrayed him. “You’re going to make me proud, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, breath catching. “The paper’s ready for peer review. Reed is putting my name first. And…” Johnny nodded encouragingly, like he couldn’t believe there was even more good news. “He wants me to stay. The Future Foundation is giving me my own lab, full funding and everything.”

Johnny’s jaw dropped. “That’s huge. That’s amazing. You’ve earned it. You’ve always been this brilliant, unstoppable—no, scratch that—you’ve always been…” He stopped, flustered, eyes darting to yours and then down to your lips and back up again. “…everything anyone could hope for. I’m just— I don’t even know what to say.”

You laughed, feeling that fond happiness building up in your chest. “You’re cute when you’re panicking,” you mused.

He grabbed your hands, holding them tight. “Cute doesn’t cover it. You’re just extraordinary, and I’m a complete mess and I wasn’t expecting you, and I… I just—” Johnny’s eyes flicked to your lips again, then back to your eyes, panic and desire tangled in equal parts.

You took a deep breath, leaning forward just slightly. “I’ve wanted to tell you… I’ve wanted to be with you for a while now.”

Johnny’s lips parted, a shiver running through him. “I’ve been waiting to hear that. And to say it back.”

Your hands lifted, trembling slightly, and cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing lightly against the warm planes of his cheeks. Johnny’s eyes flicked to yours, dark and wide, and for a heartbeat the world shrank to nothing but the two of you. Slowly, painfully, and deliberately, you tilted his face down toward yours, every movement weighted with the things neither of you had dared to say.

Johnny didn’t pull away. His lips parted just a fraction, and you caught a soft hitch in his breath, tiny and raw, that sent your pulse spiking. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to close the distance.

Your foreheads brushed first, soft, almost trembling contact, and his eyes fluttered shut. Heat pooled low in your chest, a slow burn that throbbed through your arms, your stomach, every inch of you. His lips hovered against yours, so close it was dizzying—so close it was painful.

Then, almost without thinking, your hands slid higher, fingers threading through his hair, cupping the back of his neck as you tilted your head, brushing your lips against his. The contact was feather-light, barely there, yet it sent shivers racing across your spine. Johnny’s hands lifted instinctively, one pressing to your waist, the other along your back, grounding him as much as grounding you.

It started slow, tentative, but the heat that radiated from him pulled you in inexorably. Every brush of his lips against yours, every shared, shallow breath, made your knees weaken. You pressed closer, hands moving as if they had a life of their own, memorising the planes of his body, the soft warmth of his chest, the quick, staccato beat of his heart that thundered so loudly you could feel it through your lab coat.

Johnny groaned, low and urgent, and your heart ached with need. You pulled back just a fraction to catch your breath, only to feel him close the distance immediately, impossibly fast, as if any space between you was unbearable. His hands slid higher, one cupping your neck, the other tracing your spine, and you shivered, pressed flush against him, losing the fight to hold yourself apart.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with want, and it was all the permission your racing heart needed.

You tilted your head, letting your lips brush his once more, softly, teasingly, before pressing harder, letting every ounce of longing, every second of frustration, pour into the kiss.

Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers threading through soft strands, while his hands roamed your sides, over your back, up to your shoulders, anchoring you to him. You moved together like two halves rediscovering a whole, slow, staggered steps across the floor as if navigating both desire and the fragile, electric tension of finally being together.

A sigh escaped you when your lips parted for air, and his forehead rested against yours, pulses wild. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed, voice rough, vulnerable, trembling with every beat of his heart.

“You have no idea,” you whispered, your hands lingering on his jaw, tilting his face down to yours again. You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer, letting months of slow-burning longing and the playful banter break through the surface.

Between kisses, you laughed breathlessly. “I can’t believe we’re finally doing this.”

Johnny grinned against your lips. “I’ve imagined it a thousand times, and it’s even better than I ever dreamed.”

His hands gripped your sides as you pressed against him, and yours tightened in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Every soft moan, every whispered gasp, every racing heartbeat proved you’d both held back for too long. The kiss was messy, greedy, desperate, and perfect all at once.

Finally, you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, lips swollen and tingling. “Better than you ever dreamed, huh?” you teased softly, voice breathless but triumphant.

“Definitely,” Johnny admitted, shaking his head in disbelief, a slow, radiant grin spreading across his face. “Can you blame a guy? God forbid he dreams about his girlfriend before he gets a chance to tell her.”

You laughed softly, heart soaring. “Girlfriend,” you murmured, letting the word taste on your tongue, letting it sink in. “I like the sound of that.”

He kissed you again, slow this time, deliberate, savouring every inch of you, letting the fire settle into a warm, unshakable rhythm. The world outside his room, the stress of work, all fell away. Only this, only you, only him.

“You’re incredible,” Johnny whispered once more, and this time it felt like a vow, a promise, a beginning. You pressed your lips to his again, slower, deeper, letting your sighs mingle in the warm glow, finally free to show the love that had been simmering beneath months of longing.

You finally pulled back, breathing ragged but steadying as the heat of the kiss lingered on your lips. Johnny’s arms wrapped around you, strong and protective, pressing you flush against him as if he never wanted to let go.

“You’re really here,” Johnny murmured, voice low, roughened by the mix of laughter and longing. His lips brushed against your temple as he pressed a gentle kiss there.

You tilted your head up to look at him, eyes glittering with the same mix of disbelief and joy. “I know,” you whispered, tracing a line along his jaw. “It’s finally real. No holding back.”

He smiled, and it was a slow, soft thing that made your chest swell. “I’ve been waiting for this,” Johnny admitted.

“So have I,” you replied, voice trembling with the same mixture of awe and relief. “I… I have so much I want to tell you. About the paper, about Reed putting me first, about having my own lab. You were the first person I wanted to tell.”

His hands slid down to cup your waist again, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’m listening, trouble,” he said, leading you to a chair. You laughed at the nickname. “Tell me everything.”

And as you began to recount Reed’s offer, the paper being ready for peer review, and your new lab above his, his smile never wavered, never faltered. Johnny was there, entirely present, sharing in your triumph, sharing in your life.

You stayed entwined like that until the soft crackle of the record reached its final notes. Johnny, ever thoughtful, lifted the needle and gently put on a new record. The familiar warmth of the music filled the space around you both. Eventually, the music played on quietly in the background as exhaustion and contentment tugged at your eyelids, and you both drifted off in the first real sleep you’d had in weeks.

3K notes · View notes