| Who am I? Hello to whoever is reading this! You can call me Issa (pronounced as ee-sa, it's my nickname!), and for my current age, please check my bio! My pronouns are she/her. You could also find me in ao3 under @/boulevardblues
| What are my interests? I'm a lover of all films, tv, video games, and music! Occasionally books, but I mostly read non-fiction. Please feel welcome to talk to me about anything!
| Why did I start this blog? I have so much ideas inside my head and it would feel like a waste if I didn't share them with other people.
I'd have to say, I have no professional experience in writing (as i am currently a stem major lol), but I've always done it ever since I was young just because. Please don't expect professional grade work from me haha, but either way, I hope you do enjoy my writing!
| Any additional info? Currently, I'm only comfortable writing the occasional fluff and angst, and I only write for characters that I love and/or are obsessed with at the moment. I would also like to add that I do not condone any use of generative ai for writing (or just for anything in general really).
Also! I am completely new to tumblr, so please bear with me while I try to figure this app out. My interactions might be at a minimum early on because I'll probably be too busy navigating everything lol. But please don't let that stop you from interacting with me in any way! I do accept requests, but I need to figure out where that goes through first...
hellooo everyone! i'm not sure if you guys are on twitter/x, but if you are and you're also active on the fandom spaces, you guys might've came across the discourse on generative ai use in fanfiction. i just wanted to come on here and reassure you all that i do not use any sort of generative ai in my work.
i don't want to sound like an asshole, but i believe that the work that i post on online spaces should be something that i could completely own up to as mine. i am also aware that a handful of people read what i write, and it is my responsibility to reassure you that my writing isn't something that came out from an ai bot.
i've been writing fics since 2020, and if you'd like to see more of my previous writing styles, you could go look up these following works that were released pre 2022 on ao3: "crisp disquietude", "reunited, again", and "awaiting temptations" (these are all unfortunately orphaned accounts, but i used to go by the user ventify).
here are some of my google doc screenshots to prove it was mine lol!!
once again, i know that i don't have to go overboard with this, but i would just like my readers to know that what they're reading is something that actually comes from me, and so if any of you have questions on how my writing processes go, i'd be super happy to answer any of them! x
also, for the cherry on top, i major in environmental science, so if anyone can get behind on why generative ai use is bad for the environment, that would be me lol
i'm currently writing chapter three of until further notice and guys i think i'm genuinely addicted to writing banter. my fingers just don't stop typing when it comes to writing playful dialogue i fear i am obsessed with it. i hope none of you are annoyed lol :')
Pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader, platonic!steve harrington x reader
Summary: Set in the early episodes of season four, Hawkins thinks Eddie Munson killed Chrissy Cunningham. You, his best friend for almost a decade, don’t.
So when Steve Harrington offers to help you search for him, you don’t hesitate, you just start driving.
By the time you find Eddie, he’s scared, and half-convinced no one will believe him. By the time you get him back in the car, he’s asleep against you. Somewhere between the search and the silence of the drive home, you tell Steve Harrington everything you’ve never been able to tell Eddie Munson, the boy you are convinced doesn’t love you back.
Oh, and also, you’re leaving Hawkins soon. How could you ever tell him that?
Word count: 7k
Tags: fix-it fic, major yearning, best friends, angst and feels, idiots in love, our girl is going THROUGH it, no use of y/n, unrequited love, or is it really unrequited love?
a/n: hello jq fandom i have recently become an active participant here and i'm loving it. anyway, please enjoy this word vomit full of angst and feels. i think this was the fastest fic i've written in a while lol.
You had always imagined you’d leave Hawkins eventually. Everyone did, didn’t they? Graduate, pack their life into a few cardboard boxes, and chase something bigger than a town where everybody knows everyone else.
It was why you worked almost every day you could, splitting your time between Family Video and whatever odd jobs you could find to save enough money for university. It was practical. Necessary. Between everything that happened with your job at Starcourt mall and the Upside Down, this was definitely a preferable option.
The only problem was Eddie Munson.
Eddie, who you’d known since your time at Hawkins middle and have been friends with ever since.
Eddie, who’d become your best friend long before either of you had figured out who you wanted to be.
Eddie, who you were immensely in love with, and who made leaving Hawkins feel less exciting than it was supposed to be.
Well, that was a conversation for another time. Currently, you are clocking into another shift at Family Video, trying not to lose your mind at how the fluorescent lights hummed overhead with the same commitment they'd had every shift you'd worked there. Somewhere near the back of the store, the television mounted in the corner played a movie trailer on a loop. You'd stopped registering which one sometime last week.
You slid another cassette into its place on the shelf, straightening the row more out of habit than necessity.
Three copies of The Goonies.
Two copies of Ghostbusters.
One copy of A Nightmare on Elm Street that somebody had somehow managed to return with what looked suspiciously like barbecue sauce on the case.
You frowned at it.
“...I’m not paid enough for this.”
Steve looked up from behind the counter, where he was pretending to alphabetize returned tapes. “You’ve been holding the same movie for like, five minutes.”
You purse your lips. “I was thinking.”
“You looked confused.”
“I can do both.”
“Hm.”
He reaches behind the counter for the bottle of cleaner and hands it to you. “For the barbecue sauce.”
You sigh dramatically, already unscrewing the cap. “I swear, people treat these things like dinner trays.”
“Maybe they got hungry during movie night?”
“They could’ve at least picked a better movie.”
“It was A Nightmare on Elm Street.”
“Exactly.” You huff.
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he wanders back toward the shelves. Mornings were usually slow enough that the two of you ended up inventing conversations just to pass the time. Robin would've happily contributed another dozen opinions to the discussion, most of them louder than necessary, but she wasn't due in until later that afternoon.
Not that Steve seemed particularly bothered. He was remarkably good company once you’d gotten past the hair.
A year ago, if someone had told you that Steve Harrington would become one of your favourite coworkers, you probably would've laughed in their face. Back then, he'd just been Hawkins High's former golden boy, the kind of person who seemed to exist in an entirely different orbit from people like you.
Funny how life worked.
Now the biggest argument the two of you had on any given shift was whether the comedy section should be organized alphabetically or by how likely a movie was to make someone actually laugh.
“You moved Caddyshack again.” You comment.
“It belongs over there.” Steve responded.
“It belongs where it’s always been.”
“It belongs where people can find it.” He crosses his arms, and continues, “They know the alphabet.”
“You, my friend, have a lot of faith in the general public.”
He laughs at that. “That’s fair.”
By now, the shift had settled into its usual rhythm. The lunch rush had come and gone with little excitement beyond a customer insisting she'd returned a tape that very much hadn't been returned, and the store had slipped back into the comfortable sort of quiet that made the hours blur together. There wasn't much left to do besides straighten shelves, reshelve returns, and find increasingly creative ways to complain about both.
Steve nudged another tape into place before glancing over at you. “You seeing Munson later?”
You looked up from the stack of returns in your arms. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“He mentioned wanting to stop by after Hellfire.” You tap your fingers on the counter, trying to remember if he had said anything else.
“So that’s a yes?”
“It depends.”
Steve tilts his head to the side. “On?”
“Whether he remembers to actually tell me when Hellfire ends.”
He snorted. “You really think he’d forget?”
You gave him a look as you slid another cassette onto the shelf before adding, “Last week he got halfway across town before remembering we’d made plans.”
“What happened then?”
“He showed up at my house twenty minutes later with gas station candy as an apology.”
Steve laughed. “Did it work?”
“I accepted the candy.” You shrug.
“And?”
“I told him he was still an idiot.”
He hums. “I’m guessing he agreed.”
“He said I couldn’t call him an idiot while eating the gummy bears he bought me.”
“That was actually a decent argument.” He comments, rearranging even more cassettes next to you.
“I know. It was annoying.”
He shook his head with a smile, reaching for another tape. “You guys are weird.”
You smile. “So I’ve been told.”
“You’ve known each other for too long.”
“Nine years will do that.”
There wasn’t much else to say after that.
Some friendships reached a point where making plans wasn't really making plans anymore. You saw each other because you always had.
Sometimes Eddie would show up on your porch with a new cassette tucked under his arm, insisting that you absolutely had to hear the latest song he'd discovered. Other times you'd wander over to the trailer after work with takeout balanced in one hand, knowing Wayne would insist you stay for dinner anyway.
It had never required much thought. It was simply what the two of you did.
Steve reached beneath the counter for another stack of returned tapes before pausing, his attention drifting toward the front windows, hearing murmurs of people talking about Eddie himself.
“Huh.”
You didn’t bother looking up.
“What?”
He squinted out into the parking lot. “Speak of the devil…”
Your head lifted almost immediately. “What?”
For the briefest moment, your brain supplied the obvious answer. Eddie.
Maybe he'd gotten out of Hellfire early. Maybe he'd decided to surprise you. Maybe he'd wandered over because he'd been bored and wanted someone to listen to him complain about freshmen who couldn't remember the rules of Dungeons & Dragons.
You turned toward the entrance.
Instead, two police cruisers sped past the storefront, lights flashing silently through the glass before the sirens caught up a heartbeat later.
They weren’t slowing down. If anything, they seemed to be accelerating.
Steve frowned. “...Well, that’s never a good sign.”
You watched them disappear down the road, another patrol car following close behind. For a moment, the store fell strangely quiet. Even the customer flipping through the new releases glanced toward the windows.
“What the hell happened?” Steve murmured.
You shrugged, though something about the sight left an uncomfortable weight settling in your stomach. Hawkins wasn't exactly immune to strange things anymore. Still… that was a lot of police cars.
Then, the bell above the door jingled so hard it nearly bounced off its hinges. A woman hurried inside, breathing a little too quickly, clutching her purse against her side.
She barely looked at either of you.
“Can you believe it?” she asked, though she wasn’t really asking anyone in particular. “They’re saying someone killed that Cunninghan girl.”
Steve straightened. “...What?”
The woman lowered her voice, though there was no one else in the aisle to overhear. “That Munson boy.” She shook her head, already making her way toward the horror section. “I always knew there was something wrong with him. All that devil worshipping nonsense, and now this? Doesn't surprise me one bit.”
“No.”
The word left your mouth before you’d even realized you were speaking.
The woman looked over. “What?”
You slowly slid the cassette back to the return bin instead. “He didn’t.”
There wasn’t any hesitation, just quiet certainty.
The woman blinked. “Excuse me?’
“He didn’t kill anyone. There’s no way.”
She gave you an odd look, the kind people reserved for someone they thought was too naïve for their own good. “Well, that’s not what they’re saying.”
“I don’t care what they’re saying.” Your voice remained even. “He didn’t do it.”
Steve looked over at you, considering redirecting the woman away to one of the aisles before this escalated. You sounded completely sure, like someone insisting that the sky wasn’t green. Like it wasn’t even up for discussion.
The woman scoffed softly. “You know him?”
“More than anyone.” You say quietly, softly, almost to yourself.
She simply shrugged, muttering something about people never really knowing anyone, before disappearing farther down the aisle in search of whatever movie she'd come in for.
After she was out of earshot, you dragged Steve towards the staff backroom and closed the door.
“I need to go.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“I need to find him, Steve.”
“You—you mean, right now?”
You were already gathering your things up, reaching for your jacket. “If he didn’t do this, then he’s scared.”
“And if he did—”
“He didn’t.” The certainty in your voice hadn’t changed. It hadn’t even cracked.
Steve watched as you shrugged into your jacket, already digging through your bag for your car keys.
“I just… I need you to cover for me.”
He frowned. “For how long?”
“An hour.” You hesitated. “Maybe two?”
“You seriously think you’re gonna find him that fast?” He crosses his arms, doubtful.
“I don’t know.” You looked toward the front windows. “But I have to try.”
Steve studied you for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “Go. I’ve got the store.”
“You sure?”
He says your name, “nothing I can say is going to convince you to stay, anyway.”
You give him a grateful smile. “I owe you.”
You were already halfway out the door before he could respond.
Naturally, the first place you checked was his trailer.
Naturally, it was empty. Wayne wasn't home either, his truck absent from the driveway, leaving only an uncomfortable stillness behind that settled in your chest the moment you climbed back into your car.
From there, the afternoon blurred into a string of familiar roads and increasingly familiar disappointment. Gareth hadn't seen him. Jeff hadn't answered. Every place Eddie had ever wandered off to when he needed space—the old picnic table overlooking the quarry, the stretch of woods you'd claimed as your own in middle school, the abandoned clearing where he'd once insisted would make an excellent Dungeons & Dragons battlefield, stood exactly as you'd left them, untouched and painfully empty.
By the time the sun began sinking behind the trees, you were running on little more than stubbornness. You'd driven the same roads twice, doubled back to places you'd already checked because maybe you'd somehow missed him the first time, and slowed your car every time you spotted someone with long, dark hair walking in the distance.
Every dead end tightened the knot in your stomach a little more. Eddie had always been surprisingly easy to find. Nine years of friendship had taught you how he thought, where he went when life became too loud, which hiding places he preferred when he wanted the world to leave him alone.
For the first time since you'd met him, none of that knowledge seemed to matter.
By the time you pulled into the empty parking lot of a gas station to collect yourself, the sky had darkened completely.
The streetlights flickered on one by one, buzzing softly in the growing dark. The store itself was closed, windows reflecting nothing but your own tired expression back at you. For a moment, you just sat there with the engine still running, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, like if you stayed still long enough, the day might eventually make sense again.
You exhaled slowly, reaching over to kill the engine.
For a second, you didn’t move. Then you pushed open the car door and stepped into the cold air, the pavement crunching faintly beneath your shoes as you made your way toward the payphone mounted against the side of the building.
You dug your change into the payphone and dialed the only number you could think of.
Steve answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
For a moment, you didn’t answer.
The line crackled faintly in your ear, Steve’s voice distant in a way that made everything feel slightly unreal, like you were talking to someone on the other side of something much bigger than a phone call.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” He tries again.
You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said finally. “I’m here.”
A pause. Then immediately, “Did you find him?”
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was just Steve, cutting straight through whatever hesitation you were trying to build around yourself.
You close your eyes for a second. “No.”
Silence on the other end. It stretched longer than it should have.
“Okay,” Steve said slowly. “Okay, where are you?
“I—” You glanced back towards your car, as if the answer might be written there. “I’m at a gas station. I just… I needed to call you.”
“Alright”, he said. “Talk to me. What happened?”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, shifting your weight slightly as you leaned against the payphone booth.
“I checked everywhere,” you said. “His trailer. Wayne’s not even home. Jeff hasn’t seen him. Gareth hasn’t seen him either.”
Steve didn’t interrupt.
“I went to all the places he usually goes when he wants to disappear for a bit. The quarry, the woods, the old picnic table, everywhere. He’s not there, Steve.”
“Okay,” he said again. “Okay. But listen to me, did you check anywhere else?”
You frowned slightly. “What do you mean, anywhere else?”
“I don’t know. You said he plays in a band? Where does he usually play?”
“Um… the hideout? It’s the only place I could think of. He’s not there. I tried his bandmates too, no luck.” You sigh.
“Okay,” Steve said, quieter now. “So not the band.”
“No.”
Then, a little more uncertain this time, “You said he deals, right…?”
“I really don’t know how that is relevant to any of this, Steve—wait!”
It was something you’d heard before, a half-listened-to conversation, Eddie brushing things off with jokes and vague comments about people he knew, places he went when Wayne was working late or when he needed to get…
Steve panics. “Huh? What’s up? Are you okay?
“No, no, it’s just… I know where he is. I know where he gets his drugs. He told me once in passing.” You take a slow breath, then continue, “No else knows about that place. It’s perfect, Steve.”
“Where?”
You hesitated. “Steve, I—”
“No,” he cuts in, quicker now. “Where are you going?”
You sigh. “Reefer Rick’s,” you said finally. The name landed heavier than you expected.
“...You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
A longer silence this time. Then, “I’m coming.”
You blink. “What? No—Steve, it’s fine, I’ve got it.”
“You’re going to a random guy’s house in the middle of nowhere at night after the entire town just decided Eddie Munson is a murderer.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t care what you think it is,” he said, voice firm now in a way you didn’t hear often from him. “I’m coming with you.”
You tightened your grip on the receiver. “Steve—”
“Do not argue with me on this,” he added, a little sharper. Then, softer, like he realized it. “Just… don’t. Okay?”
“Fine,” you said quietly.
“Good. Where are you now?”
The sound of an engine cut through the quiet before you saw him.
Steve’s car pulled into the lot a little faster than necessary, tires crunching against gravel as he swung into the space beside you. The headlights washed over the side of the building before dipping down.
He was out of the car almost immediately.
“Get in,” he said.
You blinked at him. “What about my car—”
“We’ll deal with that later. Please, just get in the car.”
You hesitated for half a second longer before slipping into the passenger seat.
Steve didn’t waste time getting back in either. The engine was running again almost immediately, the car shifting into reverse as he pulled out of the lot with more focus than his usual driving allowed.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
The road ahead stretched out in long, empty lines under the streetlights. “You okay?” Steve asked.
You let out a quiet breath. “I don’t know.”
He nodded once, like that was enough of an answer for now. “Where exactly are we going?”
“North,” you said. “Off the main road. I’ll tell you when we’re closer.”
“You’re really sure about this?” he asked after a while.
“No,” you said honestly.
A pause. Then, Steve gave a short nod. “Cool,” he said. “Me neither.”
The further you drove, the quieter the world seemed to get.
Streetlights grew sparse, then inconsistent, leaving the road to stretch out in uneven patches of darkness broken only by Steve’s headlights. The trees on either side thickened as you left the main road behind, branches leaning in closer like they were listening.
Steve slowed instinctively.
“...This is definitely the ‘middle of nowhere’ part of town,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” you said.
He sighs. “Last chance. You’re sure about this place, yeah?” he asked.
You didn’t answer immediately. Not because you weren’t sure where you were going. You were. Just not about what you were going to find when you got inside.
“It’s where he goes,” you said finally.
The road dipped, narrowing as it turned off the main stretch entirely. The headlights caught on a leaning mailbox, half swallowed by overgrown grass, then on a faded driveway that looked more like a suggestion than an actual path.
You sat up a little straighter. “Here.”
Steve stopped the car. “...This is it?”
You nodded.
He parked a little further back than necessary. Smartly.
Then, he cuts the engine.
The silence outside the car felt heavier than it had in the main roads. Out here, even the night seemed louder. Crickets, distant wind through trees, the faint creak of something you couldn’t see.
Steve looked at the house. “This is where your criminally accused friend hangs out?”
“He’s not—” you started automatically, then stopped yourself. “Just… come on.” You opened the door, and Steve followed a second later.
“Hey,” he said quietly as he rounded the front of the car. “Stay close, okay?”
You gave him a look. “I’m not gonna wander off.”
“I didn’t say you would,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I just meant… don’t do anything heroic.”
You both stood there for a second longer, staring at the house like it might decide to explain itself.
“Wait!” Steve said, and you startle at the sudden noise.
“Don’t do that.” You scold him. You watched as he grabs something from the back trunk, and closes it.
You sigh as you see what he’s pulling out. “What, you just keep that in your trunk all the time?”
He closes the trunk and brings his oar toward you. “Yeah.” He shrugs.
The house sat further back than you expected, half-hidden by tangled trees and the kind of darkness that felt thicker the nearer you got to it. Even Steve’s usual confidence seemed to falter a little as he eased off the gas, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the yard before the car finally rolled to a cautious stop.
You didn’t get far before Steve stopped again. “Hold on.”
You turned back toward him. “What?”
He was already scanning the yard, eyes narrowing as he took in the shape of the porch, the sagging boards, the uneven line of the steps. “This place is… weirdly quiet.”
“It’s abandoned,” you said.
“Yeah, but like—too abandoned.”
You brush him off, continuing to walk towards the house. “What does that even mean?” You mutter under your breath.
You followed more out of instinct than anything else, shoes crunching softly against dry grass and scattered debris.
“Hello?” Steve called out, voice awkward but firm. “Anyone here?”
You knock on the doors, the windows—everything. “Eds? It’s me. Are you inside?”
You sigh, trying again. “Eddie? We just want to talk, I promise! We’re worried sick. If you’re there, come out!” You call out.
Then, “Please?” You say, voice so soft and desperate that even Steve was startled at the tone.
After a few more attempts of calling his name out and not hearing anything back, Steve starts to give up. He calls out your name, “He’s not here.”
You sigh. “Are you sure? I mean, what if he’s just scared?” You whisper.
“He trusts you. There’s no way he’d be scared if it was you.” He tells you, already heading back to his car.
The second you thought to follow him, you both heard something rustling inside of the house.
The way Steve’s head snapped back toward the house was almost comical. You were convinced you could hear something snap. He calls out your name, again, sounding frantic. “Okay, okay, that was a sound. A sound that we both didn’t make.”
You rushed inside, forcing the door open and began your search around the house. Steve crouched slightly near the side, lifting a few planks out of the way. When he doesn’t find anything, he pokes his oar toward literally everything else inside.
You looked at him, brows furrowing. “Don’t do that.”
He gives you a look that says ‘I’ll do what I want.’
You sigh. He nudged at a pile of old tarps and scrap wood, and still nothing.
Then, a movement. So fast you almost didn’t register it as real.
The tarp bursts upward—you’re pretty sure that tarps don’t do that on their own. Steve barely had time to turn before someone slammed into him from the front, knocking him towards the wall with a shout.
“HEY!” A flash of metal appeared—okay, that’s a gun.
Steve made a strangled, very undignified noise and immediately threw his hands higher, like that alone might somehow make him less likely to be shot.
“Okay—okay, nope, nope, nope—hey, hey, I am not—this is not—” Steve started, voice cracking.
“Don’t move!” A voice snapped.
Your brain caught up a half second later, recognition threading through the shock in slow, disjointed pieces. The voice first, then the shape of him under the dim spill of moonlight, the mess of curls falling into his face. Familiar in a way that hit harder than fear, like your body had already decided it knew him before your mind was willing to accept it.
“Eddie,” you said, his name breaking out of you in something halfway between relief and disbelief, like you weren’t sure whether to laugh or fall apart.
His head snapped toward you, the gun still pointed at Steve. For a second, everything in him looked ready to bolt.
But then, he saw your face properly, and something in him broke. Just slightly, just enough to show through the cracks.
The gun didn’t lower, not yet, but his grip faltered like his body had forgotten how to hold it steady. His eyes locked onto you with a kind of stunned disbelief that quickly unraveled into something rawer, sharper. Relief so sudden it looked almost painful.
For a second, he just stared, like he couldn’t quite convince himself you were real.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded, but it didn’t sound like anger.
It sounded like he was trying not to fall apart on the spot. Like your presence alone was the only thing keeping him upright, and he was grateful to the universe for letting it be you standing there instead of anyone else.
Steve was still frozen. “Hi,” he said carefully. “Steve. Friend of—uh, her. You’ve heard of me, right?” He awkwardly chuckles. “She must’ve mentioned me.”
Steve gives you a look, like saying ‘right? You did, right?’
Eddie didn’t lower the gun immediately. His eyes flicked between you and Steve, like he was trying to decide which part of this was real.
You took a slow step forward. “Eds,” you said again, softer this time. “It’s me.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“We came for you,” you replied.
His expression flickered, just for a second. Like the idea hadn’t been one he’d allowed himself to consider.
Almost like you read his mind, you said, “Of course I’ll come for you.”
Steve cleared his throat lightly. “Also,” he added, still very carefully not moving, “if you could maybe not point that at me, that would be great.”
The gun didn’t lower immediately, but Eddie’s attention shifted. You were still standing there, still real, and saying his name like it meant something other than trouble.
Steve tries again. “We’re… not here to hurt you, man.”
Eddie didn’t look at him. His eyes were still on you. Like if he looked away, you might disappear.
“No,” he said automatically. “No, you shouldn’t—this is bad. This is really bad.”
“Eddie,” you said again, and this time you stepped forward.
“Don’t,” he warned, lifting the gun slightly again, but it wavered.
You closed the distance slowly, like you were approaching something skittish and half-broken. Steve shifted behind you. “Hey,” he murmured, mostly to Eddie. “She’s not gonna—”
“I said don’t,” Eddie snapped, but it didn’t land right. His voice cracked halfway through, and that was the moment it stopped being convincing.
You reached him, close enough now that you can see him properly. The dirt on his clothes, the tremor in his hand… The way he was holding himself too rigidly, like if he relaxed even a little, he’d fall apart completely.
“Hey,” you said, softer, and then your hand was on his wrist.
Eddie flinched instantly. “Don’t—”
“It’s me, Eds. C’mon.” you said again. “You’re okay.”
That did it.
The gun dipped, and his knees shifted like they didn’t remember how to stay locked. Steve took the gun from his grip, and his weight dropped fully, like his body had been waiting for permission to stop holding itself together.
Fortunately, you caught him before he hit the ground properly. Steve was there a second later, startled but moving fast now. “Okay—okay, I’ve got him,” Steve said, reaching in as Eddie sagged between you both.
He tried to pull back, but it failed immediately. ‘I’m fine,” he insisted weakly. “I’m fine, I just—”
“You are very much not fine,” you said.
His head tilted slightly toward you. “...You came,” he said, quieter now, like he still couldn’t believe it.
You took a deep breath, and exhaled. Your eyes scanned his face, just feeling pure relief at the fact that you found him. “Yeah,” you said.
“It wasn’t me,” he said suddenly. The words came out too fast, like they’d been stuck behind his teeth for hours. “It wasn’t—okay? I didn’t—she was just—she was there and then she was floating and I didn’t do anything, I swear I didn’t—”
“I believe you,” you said immediately.
He stopped, like his brain hadn’t processed that response as something that could actually happen. “What?” he asked, breath uneven.
“I believe you, Eds.” You repeated.
“No, you don’t,” he said quickly. “You don’t even know what happened. Nobody does. They all just—”
“Eddie.” You tightened your grip slightly on his arm. “I believe you. We can talk about it later, and you’ll tell me everything, and you’ll be alright, okay? Because you didn’t do it.”
“Later?” he repeated, and God, his voice sounds wrecked.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “You won’t believe me,” he said, quieter this time. Not accusing. Just tired. Like it was already decided.
For a second, your chest tightened. “I do believe you,” you said again, softer. “And we are going to talk about it. I promise.”
You sigh, looking around. “But not here.”
He looks confused at that. “Where else?”
“You’re going back to my house, okay? You know that secret basement? I’ll hide you in plain sight—they won’t know, Eds.”
He looks unconvinced at that, so you continue. “My parents are out of town. They won’t be back in another two, maybe three weeks. No one will know.”
Steve looks between the two of you, then adds softly, “I think your best friend would feel better if she knows where you are, don’t you think?”
Eddie looks at him, then back at you. “...Okay,” he said finally.
“Okay,” he repeated, like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
You didn’t think about it, you just moved. Your arms slid around him before he could tip too far, pulling him close against you, head resting on his shoulder.
Eddie melted into the hug.
His grip tightened in the back of your shirt, fingers curling like he was trying to make sure you were real, like letting go might make everything snap back into something worse.
“Good. Even if you said no, I’d still drag your ass,” you said, and his lips quirk up a bit at that.
For the first time since you’d found him, he stopped shaking quite so hard.
Eddie successfully got into the back seat.
You weren’t entirely sure how it had happened in sequence. One moment he was half-standing between you and Steve, swaying like the idea of balance was optional, and the next Steve was practically hauling him into the car while you guided him carefully down into the seat beside you.
Now, the world outside was moving again.
His head rested against the glass, fogging it faintly with each uneven breath. His body kept sliding a little with every turn, like he hadn’t quite remembered how to stay upright even while sitting down.
You watched him without meaning to. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked back to check he was still breathing, still conscious, still there in a way that felt real enough to hold onto. Every time you did, Eddie was still there. Slumped sideways, head tipped against the door like gravity had finally decided it was done negotiating with him.
Steve glanced at the rearview mirror, checking on you both.
“He’s breathing,” he comments.
“I know.”
“You checked like… six seconds ago. He’s alright.”
You sigh. “I know,” you repeat.
“Hey Eddie, you alright back there?” Steve calls out with a slightly louder voice this time.
Eddie made a vague noise that might’ve been a yes if it had been translated more carefully.
You twisted a little more in your seat. “Eddie?”
His eyes cracked open at the sound of your voice. “...Yeah,” he murmured.
Then, a shift. One you felt before you saw.
Eddie’s shoulder moved first, pulling away from the door. His head lifted slightly, like the glass had stopped being enough to hold him up. For a second, he just hovered there—uncertain, unsteady.
He made eye contact with you, and you knew that look. He wanted something. You weren’t really sure what, but you nodded anyway.
Then, he leaned the other way. Toward you. His head came to rest against your shoulder, and you froze.
A moment later, he shifted again, his weight adjusting slightly. He was still leaning into you, but less tentative now. More settled and certain, like his body had decided without asking him that this was where it was supposed to be.
“I’m not comfortable,” he mumbles.
“Um…” You start. Then, you turned to face him, leaning your back against the car door next to you. You hold out your arms open like an invitation, and he crawls toward your chest, head on your shoulder and arms wrapped around your stomach.
You swallowed, tense. You could feel your heart beating uncontrollably, and you pray that he doesn’t notice. His breath was soft on your shoulder, and his arms started to loosen, signaling that he was beginning to fall asleep.
You lifted your arm and let it settle around his shoulders, anchoring him closer.
“It’s warm,” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” you said softly.
And that was it, that was all he had left. He fell asleep right after.
The car had fallen into a different kind of quiet now. Steve noticed everything. He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept driving, eyes fixed on the road like he was giving you the space without having to announce it.
You didn’t even realize you’d started speaking until you heard your own voice. “...He doesn’t know.”
Steve’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “...Doesn’t know what?”
You swallowed. “That I love him.”
The words came out quieter than you meant them to, like they didn’t want to fully exist. Steve didn’t react immediately, just lets the silence sit there for a second.
“You mean like… you haven’t told him?”
You let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except it wasn’t funny. “No.”
A pause. And then softer, “I mean, I can’t.”
Steve glanced at the mirror briefly, then back at the road. “Why not?”
That should’ve been an easy question. You looked down to Eddie, and his face was turned slightly toward your shoulder, mouth parted just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. There was something almost unfair about how peaceful he looked now, like he hadn’t just spent the entire night falling apart.
“Because he doesn’t feel the same.” you said.
Steve didn’t answer right away, and you kept on going. “I know how he is. And I know what I mean to him.”
Steve’s voice was careful when it came back. “And what’s that?”
You hesitated. “Safe.”
He frowned slightly, “I don’t think that’s—”
“It is,” you cut in, then softened immediately, like you didn’t mean to interrupt him. “I’m the person he comes to when he needs somewhere quiet. Or when he needs to crash. Or when he’s had a bad day and doesn’t want to deal with anyone else.”
You let out a breath. “I’m not… I’m not the person he looks at like that.”
You kept going, because once it was out, it didn’t really stop. “I’ve known him since middle school,” you said. “Do you know how long that is? How many versions of someone do you get to see in that amount of time?”
Your voice wavered slightly.
“I’ve watched him grow up. I’ve watched him fail classes and pretend he didn’t care and get way too excited about things no one else understands and I’ve just—”
You swallowed hard.
“I’ve just loved him through all of it.”
Steve’s expression in the mirror softened, but he still didn’t interrupt. You exhaled slowly, like your body was finally catching up to what you were saying.
“And he doesn’t see it,” you add. “Or he does, and he just… doesn’t want it from me. I don’t know which one is worse.”
Steve’s voice came in gently this time. “Hey.”
You didn’t look up.
“I’m serious,” you said. “I don’t think I am… whatever he would want. I think I’m just the person he only remembers when everything else goes wrong. Like I’m the place he ends up, not the person he chooses.”
Silence again.
Eddie shifted slightly against your shoulder, letting out a soft, sleepy sound, something halfway between a sigh and a word you couldn’t quite make out.
You froze for half a second, but he didn’t wake up. He just… settled again. Steve glanced at him in the mirror, then back at you.
“…You’re kind of an idiot, you know that?” he said softly.
That made you huff a quiet, broken breath. “Yeah,” you said. “I know.”
Steve kept his eyes on the road for a long moment, jaw working slightly like he was choosing his words carefully.
“…I think you might be wrong about that,” he said finally.
“About what?”
“Him not seeing you.”
That made you go still, because it was easier than deciding what to do with that sentence.
“No,” you said quietly. “He does. He just… he sees me as something else.”
“Like what?”
You looked down at Eddie again. He had shifted slightly in his sleep, cheek now more firmly pressed against your shoulder.
“Like home.”
Steve glanced at you in the mirror. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s not enough,” you replied immediately.
Steve raised an eyebrow. “Not enough for what?”
You hesitated, and the words feel heavier now. Like they’d been sitting too long in your chest and didn’t want to come out cleanly anymore.
“For him to feel the same way I do,” you said.
Then you added, quieter, ““I don’t even need it to be… the same. I just—”
You exhaled slowly, staring out the window instead of at anything inside the car. “It would mean everything if he felt even an ounce of what I feel for him.”
“…You don’t really see it, do you?” he said finally.
You glanced at him from the rearview mirror. “See what?”
“Him.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Oh, I see him alright.”
“No,” he said gently. “You think he doesn’t notice you,” he continued. “I think you’re missing the part where he always ends up with you. He looks for you first, even when he’s trying not to. He lets you touch him when he won’t let anyone else. He falls asleep on you like it’s the only place he trusts.”
“I’ve known him for a long time, Steve—since we were pre-teens. It’s natural for us to gravitate towards each other when we grew up with one another,” you explain.
“In a few years time, I’ll be in college, and he’ll find someone else who makes him happier than no one else could, and I’ll be okay with that.”
You breathe out a sigh.
“Will you, though?” Steve asks.
You chuckle humorlessly. “God, no. But I’ll tell him that, and you, and everyone else.”
“…Okay,” he said, like he was accepting that he wasn’t going to win that argument tonight. “But at least you’ll know what I think. Hold on to it for your sanity.”
You give him a smile. “Yeah, I guess I will. Thanks.”
A pause settled between you again. The only sound was Eddie’s breathing on top of you and the steady rhythm of the tires against the road.
Then, Steve spoke again. “Have you told him that you’re leaving soon? I mean, you told me that you pretty much saved up enough money for college.”
That made your stomach drop slightly.
“...No,” you said eventually.
Steve nodded once. “You were gonna, right?”
“Yeah. I was going to tell him that I might be leaving this summer…” You trailed off.
“And you didn’t.”
Your jaw tightened. “It’s not like it’s set in stone yet.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You stared out at the dark road ahead. “I was gonna tell him soon, but this happened, and… I just didn’t want to make it real yet,” you said finally.
Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
He kept his eyes on the road for a moment longer, drumming his fingers onto the steering wheel. “You’re not the only one who’s bad at saying things.”
You frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He nudged towards Eddie from the front seat, and you let that sit with you for a moment,
Then, like he was debating whether or not to say it out loud, “I think he’d be a wreck.”
You shifted slightly in your seat.
“I’m serious. You need to tell him now, soften the blow just a bit, give him some time to process it.”
You looked down at Eddie again. He’s still asleep, still warm against your shoulder, still completely unaware of what you were talking about.
“He’d move on,” you said, but it didn’t sound as sure as you wanted it to.
Steve shook his head slightly. “No,” he said again. “He wouldn’t.”
You let out a breath. “He’d continue being the great person he is, and musician, and he’ll make it big with his band and experience everything he dreams of becoming because I know he’s capable.”
You smile fondly at the thought, remembering how he’d tell you about his wishes and dreams for the future.
Then,
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”
You didn’t respond to Steve, because you didn’t trust your voice not to betray you. He didn’t push further. He just repeated,
“He’d be a wreck.”
The rest of the drive passed in a quiet blur.
Streetlights became familiar again, roads widened, and the dark thinned out just enough to feel like you were slowly returning to somewhere that made sense.
Steve slowed as he turned onto your street. “Home sweet home.” He said softly.
The car rolled to a stop in front of your house.
Eddie’s breathing was slow and even, his weight still warm and steady against you. You reached up carefully, brushing a hand against Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie.”
No response.
A little firmer this time. “Hey, Eds.”
He shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. Steve glanced back over the seat. “I’ll get the door,” he said.
He got out first, moving around to the back door and opening it carefully. Cold air slipped into the car, and Eddie stirred at the change, brow furrowing slightly.
“C’mon,” Steve said quietly, one hand on the door frame. “Wake up a little. We’re here.”
Eddie made a low sound of protest. “Five more minutes,” he muttered, barely coherent.
A faint, tired laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “No,” you said softly. “Not five more minutes.”
That got his attention. Sort of. His eyes cracked open slightly, unfocused. “...Where am I?” he mumbled.
“My house. You’re safe here.”
additional notes: i definitely enjoyed writing this one, so much that i'm thinking of making a part two where they get their shit together. i'm not too sure, though. but if anyone would like to share their thoughts/ideas of what part two could be like, feel free to comment or something!
i actually just started to watch stranger things around a month ago with my roommate, and we're just in the beginning of season 4, so i'm super excited to see more of eddie :)
anyway, i'll probably be back with more fics, so stay tuned! x
Pairing: firefighter!jq johnny storm x er nurse!reader
Summary: For nearly a year, you and Johnny Storm, a local firefighter, have shared nothing more than passing moments between emergencies. Enough to recognize each other, not enough to step closer. When a fire destroys your apartment building, you find yourself staying in his home, where distance is no longer something you both can rely on.
Word Count: will be updated once finished
Tags: modern au, firefighter au, no powers au, forced proximity, mutual pining, acquaintances to friends to lovers, domestic fluff, living together, no use of y/n
Pairing: firefighter!jq johnny storm x er nurse!reader
Summary: For nearly a year, you and Johnny Storm, a local firefighter, have shared nothing more than passing moments between emergencies. Enough to recognize each other, not enough to step closer. When a fire destroys your apartment building, you find yourself staying in his home, where distance is no longer something you both can rely on.
Word Count: 9,5k
Tags: modern au, firefighter au, no powers au, forced proximity, mutual pining, acquaintances to friends to lovers, domestic fluff, living together, no use of y/n
a/n: sorry for the wait! i know i promised this chapter a while ago, but the last two weeks have been super eventful. i hope you all enjoy this one! i got a bit carried away
Masterlist
The first week you moved in was… awkward. Not because Johnny made it awkward—if anything, he was trying very hard not to. The problem was that neither of you seemed to know what the rules were supposed to be.
Before the fire, your interactions had always existed within very specific boundaries. Occasional visits to the emergency department, eye contact in the ambulance bay, that sort of stuff. You knew how to talk to Johnny when there was somewhere else you both needed to be.
You did not know how to talk to Johnny when he was standing barefoot in his own kitchen at seven in the morning.
The first morning was probably the worst of it.
You woke up earlier than intended, courtesy of years of hospital shifts and a body that seemed physically incapable of sleeping past a certain hour. For a few moments, you simply stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above you before remembering where you were.
Right.
Your apartment had caught fire.
You were currently living with your firefighter crush.
There was really no normal way to process that information.
By the time you left the spare room, Johnny was already awake. You found him standing in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in one hand and the refrigerator door hanging open in front of him. He looked like he was trying to decide whether there was enough food inside to qualify as groceries.
His head lifted when he heard you approach.
"Morning."
You smiled softly. "Morning."
God, that smile, he thinks. Then blinks. "I–uh, I made coffee."
Your gaze shifted toward the coffee maker. "Oh."
"You drink coffee."
"I do."
"I remembered."
The second the words left his mouth, something changed in his expression. It was subtle, but you watched realization dawn behind his eyes as he apparently decided that remembering a person's coffee habit after almost a year of knowing them sounded suspicious.
You stared at him, and he stared back.
Then, "Not in a weird way."
You blinked. "What?"
A brief look of panic crossed his face. "The coffee. Not that I remember things about you. I mean, I do remember things about you, obviously. We've known each other for a while. That's normal. I just meant—"
You couldn't help it.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Johnny."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. That’s very kind of you."
His shoulders immediately relaxed. "Yeah–yes… you’re welcome."
You reached for a mug before adding, "It would actually be weird if you didn't remember. You see me with a cup of coffee often."
He took a long sip from his own mug like it might save him from the conversation. The tension that had followed you out of the spare room loosened slightly.
You poured yourself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The quiet felt different now, like, easier.
"Did you sleep okay?" Johnny eventually asked.
You glanced over. The question sounded casual enough, but there was something beneath it. Genuine concern, maybe.
"Yeah," you answered. "The bed was comfortable."
His shoulders relaxed almost immediately. "Good."
The response came so quickly that you almost smiled again.
It would have been very easy to miss. Most people probably would have. But over the past year, you'd become surprisingly good at recognizing the moments when Johnny cared more than he intended to let on.
“Judging by the fact that you’re not in uniform and it’s currently 7:30 AM, you don’t have work today.” You comment.
He sets his mug down. "Excellent observation, Sherlock." He says sarcastically. "But no, I don’t have work today. Shift starts tomorrow morning at 8." He slightly tilts his head to the side. "You?"
"Tomorrow as well." You respond.
He claps his hands together. "Alright, that’s settled. I’m all yours today. We should start getting to know each other if we want to live together, roomie."
You raise an eyebrow. "Okay, roomie. Not to sound ungrateful on my first day staying here, but your fridge is absolutely miserable."
Johnny looked offended. "My fridge is not miserable."
You pointed toward the open refrigerator. "You have half a carton of milk, frozen vegetables, lucky charms, and a container of takeout that I'm fairly certain has become… sentient."
He glanced toward the fridge, then back at you. "...Okay, maybe a little miserable."
"A little?"
"I've seen worse."
You took another sip of coffee. "When was the last time you went grocery shopping?"
Johnny frowned thoughtfully. That alone was a terrible sign.
"You don't know, do you?"
"I know."
"You absolutely don't."
"It was recent."
"Johnny."
Johnny sighed dramatically and rubbed a hand over his face. "Fine. Maybe it's been a while."
"A while."
"A few weeks."
"You just looked me dead in the eye and lied before breakfast."
His grin appeared immediately. "See? We're getting to know each other already."
You hated how much that made you laugh.
For a moment, the apartment fell quiet again. Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, catching against the countertops and painting soft patches of gold across the floor. It was strangely peaceful. Just you, a cup of coffee, and Johnny standing barefoot in his kitchen arguing about groceries.
The realization felt oddly domestic. Dangerously domestic.
You cleared your throat and pointed toward the fridge again. "We're fixing this."
Johnny blinked. "We?"
"Yes, we. You cannot live like this."
"I've been living like this for years."
"And that's deeply upsetting."
Johnny laughed.
The sound came easily, and something about that surprised you. Maybe because you were used to seeing him in short bursts. A few minutes here, ten minutes there, always between responsibilities.
This was different.
This was what Johnny looked like when he wasn't rushing somewhere.
"You know," he said, grabbing his mug again, "most people wait at least a week before criticizing their host."
"Most people don't store three different flavors of protein as a primary food group."
That earned another laugh–the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. For some reason, your heart did a small, deeply unhelpful thing at the sight. And damn him, it made you smile as well.
"Alright," Johnny said eventually. "What's the verdict, then?"
"The verdict?"
"Yeah. Since apparently you've appointed yourself as my nutritional consultant."
You considered him for a moment, then smiled. "We're going grocery shopping."
Johnny groaned immediately. "Oh, come on."
"Nope. You brought a nurse into your home. This is the consequence."
"You say that like I adopted a stray animal."
You looked around the kitchen. "Honestly? The jury's still out."
He chuckles at that.
Ten minutes later, you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of Johnny's car, questioning how exactly the morning had escalated to this point.
You had intended to spend your first day as a temporary roommate unpacking the rest of your belongings and perhaps figuring out whether Johnny owned a single vegetable. Instead, you were being chauffeured to a grocery store because the contents of his refrigerator had personally offended you.
"You're awfully judgmental for someone who's technically homeless right now."
You turned toward him.
"That's a low blow."
"It's a factual blow."
"And yet, still rude."
Johnny grinned and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Just saying. You moved in less than twenty-four hours ago and you're already trying to restructure my lifestyle."
“Your lifestyle is unfortunately, what I have to live with at the moment, so forgive me for having standards, Johnny.”
"My lifestyle is fine."
"You have three different flavors of protein bars."
"They serve different purposes."
You stared at him.
Johnny kept his eyes on the road, though the grin threatening at the corners of his mouth made it very difficult to take him seriously.
"Go on," you said. "I'm listening."
"The chocolate ones are for after workouts."
"Mhm."
"The peanut butter ones are for work."
"Right."
"And the cookies and cream ones are for emergencies."
You blinked.
"What kind of emergency requires cookies and cream protein bars?"
Johnny thought about it for a second. "An emotional one."
Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. The conversation dissolved into comfortable silence after that. Not awkward silence. Not the kind you'd spent most of yesterday stumbling through while trying to figure out where exactly the boundaries of this arrangement were supposed to be.
Just... silence.
The radio played softly in the background while the city moved past outside the windows. A few pedestrians crossed intersections, morning traffic crawled along in neighboring lanes, and sunlight filtered through the windshield, warm against your skin.
You glanced over at Johnny. He looked different outside of work.
Not that you'd never seen him out of uniform before. You had, but… this was different.
There was no fire to put out, no patient waiting for treatment, and no reason either of you had to be anywhere in particular.
For once, Johnny looked completely relaxed.
One hand rested on the steering wheel while the other tapped absently against his thigh in time with whatever song was playing. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run a hand through it a dozen times already that morning.
You looked away before he could catch you staring.
Unfortunately, he caught you anyway. "What?"
“Nothing.”
“That wasn't a nothing look.”
You scoffed. “And what exactly does nothing look like?”
“I don't know, but it definitely isn't that.”
You crossed your arms, and Johnny immediately pointed at you. “See? That's guilt.”
“I have nothing to be guilty about.”
“That's exactly what a guilty person would say.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh and looked out the window. “You're insufferable.”
“Yet you voluntarily got into my car.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“Interesting. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks a lot like you enjoy spending time with me.”
The words were clearly meant as a joke, but unfortunately, your heart failed to receive that memo. For a split second, neither of you said anything.
Then, his gaze snapped back to the road. “Well,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat. “We're here.”
You looked up, and the grocery store had somehow appeared in front of you.
The moment the automatic doors slid open, Johnny grabbed a shopping cart and immediately surrendered control of it. You narrowed your eyes.
Johnny flashed you a grin and nudged the cart toward you. "You're the one who declared my refrigerator a public health concern. This is your operation now."
"Smart man."
"I know."
It took approximately six minutes for you to realize that Johnny didn't actually grocery shop. Not properly, anyway.
The first warning sign came when he walked straight past multiple aisles without even glancing at them. The second was when he stopped in front of a freezer and looked genuinely pleased with the selection.
"Johnny."
"What?"
You lock your arm with his, dragging him back to the produce section. “We’re not getting anything from there today.”
He lets himself be dragged. “No?”
“No.”
"I work forty-eight hour shifts, it’s convenient!"
"You are aware that vegetables continue existing during those forty-eight hours, right?"
"Allegedly."
The argument continued into the produce section, where Johnny spent several minutes pretending not to know what certain vegetables were. You were ninety percent sure he was doing it specifically to annoy you.
The remaining ten percent genuinely worried you.
"That's a bell pepper."
"I knew that."
"You just called it a colorful vegetable."
"It is a colorful vegetable."
You shook your head and dropped several peppers into the cart anyway. A few aisles later, you noticed Johnny quietly removing one of the items you'd selected and replacing it with a different brand.
You looked up. "What are you doing?"
"This one."
He pointed toward the replacement. "Is better."
"According to who?"
"According to me."
"Very reliable source."
"Thank you." He nods his head, like he’s proud of himself.
"No, that wasn't a compliment."
Johnny ignored that completely.
A little while later, you wandered into the snack aisle while Johnny disappeared somewhere behind you. You barely thought about it, until he reappeared a minute later and dropped something into the cart.
You glanced down, and you saw your favorite brand of gummy candy. Your brows furrowed immediately. "How do you know I like these?"
He shrugged. "You always buy them."
"When?"
"At work."
You blinked. "What?"
"The vending machine."
His attention had already drifted toward a nearby shelf. "Whenever you're having a bad shift."
For a second, you simply stared at him, because you weren't even sure that was true.
Then you thought about it—the overnight shifts, difficult patients, and days when the emergency department felt like it was trying to kill everyone inside it.
And sure enough… the gummy candy, every time.
"You noticed that?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Johnny looked genuinely surprised. "Well, yeah."
Like it was obvious, like of course he'd noticed.
Then, seemingly unaware of the damage he'd just done to your ability to think coherently, he grabbed another item and kept walking. Meanwhile, you stood there for an extra second staring at the candy in your cart.
By the end of week two, you both pretty much established a routine already.
It wasn’t something either of you had discussed or agreed upon. It had just… happened. Like most things between you lately, it seemed to form in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the moments where neither of you were actively trying to figure out what the correct way to exist around the other was.
Mornings were the easiest part.
Johnny was usually up first, which you suspected was less about discipline and more about firefighter conditioning that had permanently ruined his ability to sleep in. You’d come out of the spare room to the smell of coffee already brewing, the apartment still quiet in that early-hour way that made everything feel softer than it had any right to.
He’d be in the kitchen, half-awake, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand like it was holding him upright more than he was holding it.
Somewhere along the line, you had also started making breakfast. Nothing elaborate, just enough to qualify as food rather than whatever it was Johnny had been surviving on before you arrived. You told yourself it was practical. Efficient, even. If he was going to insist on offering you his spare room indefinitely, the least you could do was prevent him from dying of a diet consisting primarily of protein bars and questionable optimism.
Additionally, there would be lunch packed for him if he was heading to a shift, or something left in the fridge with a note.
He once came out of his room after getting ready, and looked to see you packing up his favorite pasta dish to a glass container. He rushes to the kitchen.
“No way! Is that carbonara? And steak bites? You spoil me.” He reaches his hand out to take the container impatiently, but you swat his hands away.
“Be patient.” You say. Johnny immediately stepped back like he’d been physically reprimanded, crossing his arms instead and leaning against the counter. He started tapping his foot against the hardwood in an exaggerated show of restraint, eyes fixed on the container like it might disappear if he looked away for too long.
You put the container into a random lunch bag you found from one of his cabinets, adding additional fruits and snacks inside, and you slid it towards him. He instantly grabs the bag and gets ready to head out. “Thank you!” He calls out, putting his shoes in.
Johnny, in return, had developed an annoying habit of checking in. It would usually come at random points in your day.
07:58 | Johnny: Made it.
08:00 | You: Huh?
08:01 | Johnny: To the station.
12:56 | Johnny: Sends a picture of the carbonara with a thumbs up on the side.
12.56 | Johnny: Yum
You chuckled at the texts.
13:03 | You: That’s great, Johnny.
That was usually it. Sometimes you’d reply right away, other times you’d forget until much later, only to find another message waiting.
15:24 | Johnny: Still alive?
On one occasion, after a particularly difficult shift, you’d stared at that message for a long moment longer than you meant to. Something about the timing of it felt wrong in a way you couldn’t quite articulate. Like he had known to ask at exactly the right moment without actually knowing anything at all.
15:27 | You: Barely
15:28 | Johnny: That bad?
15:28 | You: Yes
15.28 | Johnny: Want me to pick you up?
15:29 | You: I’m okay, I brought my car. But thank you.
15:29 | Johnny: Okay. Don’t come home too late today.
You didn’t reply after that, but you read it twice before putting your phone down.
Johnny’s messages never demanded anything from you. They fit into your day without asking permission.
That day, you did in fact, come home late. The emergency department had been relentless from the moment you'd arrived, and today’s particularly tough cases were enough to knock you down a bit. Maybe not a bit… more like, a lot.
By the time you finally clocked out, your feet hurt, your shoulders ached, and you felt emotionally wrung out in a way that only healthcare seemed capable of accomplishing. The drive back to Johnny's apartment felt longer than usual, and by the time you parked, all you wanted was a shower and several hours of uninterrupted unconsciousness.
You unlocked the front door as quietly as possible.
The apartment was dark. Well, mostly dark.
A warm pool of light spilled from the living room, illuminating part of the hallway, and in that sight, your brows furrowed. Johnny should've been asleep by now.
As you stepped further inside, the source of the light came into view. He was sprawled across the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, a blanket tangled around his legs. The television was still running quietly in the background, though judging by the fact that his eyes were closed, he hadn't been watching it for a while.
You stared at him for a moment, lips quirking up at the sight.
Idiot.
The sound of your bag slipping from your shoulder must've disturbed him. Johnny startled awake immediately, blinking several times before his gaze landed on you.
For a second, he looked disoriented. Then, his expression softened.
"Oh." His voice came out rough from sleep. "You’re home."
And there it was. That stupid, dangerous feeling in your chest. He hadn't said "you're back", or "long shift?", or even "what time is it?"
Just… you’re home. Like he’d been waiting for it.
"Go back to bed, Johnny. You need it." You pad quietly into the spare room, but then you hear scrambling. You looked back to see him sitting straight up, right hand on the pillows like he was about to get up and follow you.
"Where are you going?" He asks, rubbing his eyes.
"To take a shower and go to bed…?" You respond, a bit confused on why he’s asking.
"Oh…" He rubs the back of his neck. "I was thinking we could hang out here for a while? You had a bad day and… we bought that pint of ice cream the other day…" He trails off, and you think about it for a moment.
Then, your expression softens, and he feels like he has won the lottery.
"Yeah, I’d love to." You walk back to the living room quietly, while he gets up and heads towards the fridge to bring the ice cream back.
For a while, neither of you said much.
The television continued playing in the background, though neither of you were paying attention anymore. The movie had become little more than moving colours and occasional noise filling the apartment. Between that and the low hum of the air conditioning, the living room felt strangely peaceful.
You sat curled into one corner of the couch with the ice cream balanced on your lap while Johnny occupied the opposite end. Every now and then, one of you would steal another spoonful from the carton.
It was nice. Dangerously nice.
The kind of nice that made you forget you'd spent most of the day feeling like you were drowning. Eventually, Johnny glanced over.
"You wanna talk about it?"
You knew what he meant immediately.
The shift, the exhaustion. The fact that you'd come home looking like someone had personally drained every ounce of energy from your body.
For a moment, you considered it.
You considered telling him about the patient you'd lost. About the family members who'd stood outside a room waiting for news that never got better. About the helplessness that always seemed to follow you home after days like this.
Instead, you shook your head. "Not tonight."
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Johnny studied you for a second, then simply nodded. "Okay."
Something about that made your shoulders relax.
Maybe because so many people in your life needed things from you. Answers. Decisions. Explanations. And Johnny, for once, wasn't asking for any of them.
The silence returned, but it felt different now. Easier.
You took another spoonful of ice cream. Johnny immediately took one twice the size.
You narrowed your eyes. "Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You took twice as much."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You absolutely do."
"I think you're imagining things."
You huffed out a laugh despite yourself, and Johnny smiled. The sight of it made something loosen inside you.
Maybe that was why the question slipped out. Or maybe you were simply too tired to stop it.
"Do you ever regret it?"
Johnny frowned slightly. "Regret what?"
"The job."
His expression shifted. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to know he was actually thinking about it.
For a few moments, he didn't answer. He leaned back against the couch and stared toward the television, his spoon resting against the edge of the ice cream carton.
"When I was younger," he finally said, "I thought being a firefighter meant you saved everybody."
You looked over, but Johnny was still staring ahead.
"There was never a version of it in my head where you showed up too late. Or where you did everything right and somebody still didn't make it."
His voice remained quiet. Matter-of-fact.
Like he wasn't telling a story so much as admitting something. "I don't regret the job," he continued. "But there are days where I hate that part of it."
You swallowed, because you understood exactly what he meant. "Yeah," you said quietly.
Then Johnny glanced over. "What about you?"
You laughed softly. Not because anything was funny, but because the answer felt obvious.
"Today?" You shook your head. "Today I would've traded my nursing license for a sandwich and a nap."
He chuckles at that.
"But no," you admitted after a moment. "I don't regret it."
Johnny hums. “Why’d you become a nurse, anyway? An ER nurse, no less.” He grabs another (huge) spoonful of his ice cream.
“Hm. You first.” You answer, grabbing your own spoonful of ice cream. You glanced up to see him thinking about it, a bit of melted ice cream on his nose as a result of that huge spoonful he took. You quietly chuckled at that, and he noticed.
“What?”
You pointed towards his nose, and he looked confused. You sigh fondly. “You have–”
You swiped your thumb across the tip of his nose, picking up the melted ice cream before he could react.
"There."
The word came out absentmindedly. The same way you might brush lint off someone's shoulder or fix a crooked collar without thinking twice about it. The television continued playing in the background. Somewhere outside, a car horn sounded in the distance. The air conditioning hummed quietly through the apartment.
And yet all you could focus on was the fact that Johnny was staring at you.
Except now there was something different about it.
His eyes had gone a little wide, like his brain had briefly stopped cooperating with him. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say. The tips of his ears were turning red in a way that was almost immediate, almost unfairly obvious.
Like he hadn't expected you to touch him.
Like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that you had.
His hand tightened faintly around the spoon in his lap, then loosened again, like he didn’t know what to do with it. He shifted once on the couch. Then again. Like suddenly he couldn’t remember how to sit normally.
And still, he didn’t look away from you. Like looking away would make it less real.
"You had ice cream on your nose," you said finally.
Brilliant. Truly, an incredible recovery.
Suddenly, he laughed. A soft laugh at first, before shaking his head and looking down at the carton between you. "Thanks."
The warmth in your face somehow got worse. You immediately buried yourself in another spoonful of ice cream.
Coward.
Beside you, Johnny's smile lingered for a moment before he finally leaned back into the couch again. He clears his throat. "So."
"So."
"You dodged my question."
You pointed your spoon at him. "You haven't answered mine either."
Johnny groaned dramatically. "Fine."
You smiled.
He sighed heavily, as though he were being forced to reveal state secrets rather than explain his career choices.
“I wanted to become a superhero.” He started, and you tilted your head at that. “Superhero?”
"When I was a kid, there was a house fire a few streets away from where we lived." Johnny glanced down at the spoon in his hand.
"I don't remember most of it, honestly. I was young. But I remember standing outside with my sister watching the firefighters work."
His expression softened slightly. "And I remember thinking they looked like superheroes."
You laughed. "Superheroes?"
"I'm serious."
"You wanted the cool outfit."
"The outfit definitely helped."
You rolled your eyes.
Johnny grinned before continuing. "But mostly..." He paused. "I liked that when everybody else was running out, they were running in."
The teasing smile disappeared. Not completely, just enough. "They weren't standing around wondering what to do. They already knew."
You looked at him quietly.
Because suddenly the answer made perfect sense.
Of course Johnny had become a firefighter.
Of course the guy who drove a stranger to the hospital in his own car because waiting wasn't fast enough had chosen a job like that.
Of course the guy who checked whether you'd eaten, whether you'd made it home, whether you were okay, had chosen a job built around helping people.
The realization settled warmly in your chest. "You know," you said after a moment, "that's annoyingly noble."
He looked at you, a confused yet amused expression on his face. "You sound disappointed."
"Because now I can't make fun of your protein bar addiction."
"You were going to do that anyway."
"That's true."
Johnny shook his head, smiling. Then his gaze drifted back toward you. "So your turn."
You looked down at the ice cream carton. It was empty.
You looked up at the clock. It was late. Super late.
"I…" You start, and he looks at you attentively. "...think that that’s a conversation for next time."
He groans at that, and you give him a cheeky smile. He meets your eyes, then says, "C’mon! I poured my heart out for you. Please?"
You closed the carton of ice cream, getting up. "I’ll tell you, I promise! Just another day though." You call out from your way to the kitchen, and Johnny sighs.
"Fine. But I’m waiting! You promised!" He calls out.
The night ended with both of you feeling closer than ever to each other.
Somewhere along the way, your own texts started mirroring his.
07:44 | You: Made it!
07:45 | Johnny: Yay
07:50 | Johnny: Home soon.
07:51 | You: Get all the rest.
07:51 | Johnny: Will do.
Then, later in the night,
19:54 | You: Long shift. I’ll be home late.
19:55 | Johnny: Waiting.
By week three and four, living with Johnny had become alarmingly easy. At some point, the arrangement had stopped feeling temporary and started feeling normal.
You no longer hesitated before opening his fridge. He no longer knocked before asking if you wanted coffee. Somewhere along the way, the apartment had developed little routines that neither of you remembered creating.
You made breakfast.
Johnny washed dishes.
You packed lunches.
Johnny complained about the amount of vegetables you kept sneaking into his meals.
Every morning followed roughly the same pattern, and every evening followed roughly the same pattern. Somehow, without either of you realizing it, you had both settled into it.
Which was exactly why it felt so strange when Johnny forgot his lunch.
You had noticed the abandoned lunch bag approximately ten minutes after he'd left the apartment.
The bag sat alone on the kitchen counter, packed neatly with the dish you'd made the night before, a bottle of water, a protein bar he'd inevitably eat first, and some carrot and celery sticks that would probably return home untouched.
You stared at it. Then at the front door, then back at the lunch bag.
A text arrived less than a minute later.
07:46 | Johnny: Don’t be mad
You immediately laughed.
07:46 | You: You forgot your lunch.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then reappeared.
07:47 | Johnny: Pls help me
07:47 | You: I’ll bring it over
07:47 | Johnny: You’re a hero.
About twenty minutes later, you were pulling into the station parking lot with Johnny's forgotten lunch sitting in the passenger seat beside you.
The station wasn't particularly busy when you arrived. A few firefighters stood near the apparatus bay talking amongst themselves while others moved equipment around the trucks.
You shifted the car into park and reached for the lunch bag. Before you could get out, your phone buzzed.
Martha.
You smiled automatically. The woman had adopted approximately half the displaced residents after the fire and seemed determined to remain updated on everyone's lives.
The message itself was short.
08:20 | Martha: Good news! Building management sent another update.
08:20 | Martha: They're estimating about three more weeks before we can move back in.
Your fingers stilled. Three weeks.
You read the message again. Three weeks wasn't bad, you think. Actually, it was good. Better than expected, if anything.
You had your own apartment waiting for you—your own furniture, your own space, your own life. You should have been relieved, but instead, your eyes drifted toward the fire station sitting across the parking lot. Lately, home had started looking suspiciously different.
You stared at the message for another moment before locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket.
Nope. You weren't unpacking that thought today.
Instead, you grabbed Johnny's lunch and climbed out of the car. Three weeks was still a long time. Plenty of time! At least, that's what you told yourself as you headed toward the station doors.
You shut the car door behind you a little more carefully than necessary, like the sound might carry further than it should.
The lunch bag swings lightly in your hand as you start toward the station. Up close, it always felt louder than it looked from the street.
Voices echoed out of the open bay doors. Metal clanged somewhere deeper inside the building. Someone laughed, sharp and easy, like they hadn’t just been up half the night somewhere else in the city putting out fires.
You hesitated for half a second at the threshold, then stepped inside.
The inside of the station always felt like a place that refused to sit still, even when nothing urgent was happening. People moved with purpose even when they weren’t rushing anywhere.
A couple of firefighters glanced your way as you walked in.
Then looked again.
Then, very clearly, looked a third time.
You ignored it and kept going.
"Hey," one of them called out casually. "You looking for someone?"
You adjusted the lunch bag slightly in your grip. "Yes," you said. "Johnny Storm."
That did it. The reaction wasn’t dramatic, but it was immediate.
A few heads turned at once, like you’d said something mildly interesting instead of completely ordinary. One of them exchanged a look with another, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood. "Didn’t last long this time," he muttered under his breath, not quite quietly enough.
Another snorted. "He’s getting faster."
You frowned slightly, already feeling like you were missing context you didn’t want.
Before anyone could elaborate on whatever that meant, movement came from deeper inside the station.
Johnny appeared a moment later, still half in motion, like he’d been in the middle of something and decided being elsewhere was suddenly more important.
The second he saw you, his expression shifted. Not surprised, but more like… it softened in a way that didn’t quite match the noise of the station around him.
Like he’d been mid-thought and the sight of you had quietly interrupted it.
"Hey," he said, a little quieter than before, like he was actually glad you were there.
You lifted the bag slightly. "You forgot this."
His gaze dropped to it, and then back to you almost immediately, like the lunch was secondary.
"I did," he admitted, nodding once. "I realized it pretty quickly after I left."
A pause, then a small, almost sheepish exhale. "Wasn’t my most organized morning."
You gave him a look. "You texted me not to be mad."
"That was preventative," he said immediately. "I was trying to get ahead of the situation."
"By confessing to it in advance?"
"Exactly."
You stared at him.
He held your gaze for a second, then broke first, huffing a quiet laugh. "Okay, fine," he added. "I knew I left it. I just also knew I was going to pretend I didn’t for at least ten minutes."
You shook your head slightly, smiling. "That’s worse."
"Is it?" he asked, like he was genuinely considering it. He reached for it, but you pulled it back just out of instinct.
Johnny paused, then narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Are you holding my lunch hostage right now?”
“I’m making sure you acknowledge it,” you said.
He nodded seriously. “I acknowledge it. It is… deeply tragic that I left it behind.”
“That’s better.”
You finally handed it over.
He smiled as he took the bag from you. “I would’ve lasted maybe two hours.”
A voice from behind him, one of his friends, cut in immediately. “Two hours? That’s generous.”
Another firefighter leaned against a nearby counter, watching the two of you with open interest.
Johnny didn’t even turn around. “Jones, Don’t start,” he said.
“Oh, we’re starting,” the guy replied, eyes flicking between you and Johnny like something had finally clicked into place. “Wait—this is her, right?”
A second firefighter straightened slightly. “No way.”
The first one pointed lightly in your direction. “This is the nurse.”
Your gaze flicked up slightly, and Johnny exhaled through his nose like this was exactly what he did not want happening.
“Yes,” he said. “This is the nurse.”
You cleared your throat slightly. “Well,” you said, shifting your weight. “Now that I’ve returned your life support system, I should probably—”
“You should stay for a minute,” Johnny interrupted. It wasn’t pushy, just immediate. Like the thought hadn’t needed permission to come out.
You paused, and he gestured vaguely toward the station behind him. “Coffee’s still fresh. I think. No promises on quality, but it exists.”
You hesitated. “…Is this your way of saying thank you?”
He smiled. “Yeah.”
A beat. “And also my way of delaying paperwork.”
That made something in your expression shift despite yourself. "…That’s fair," you said.
Johnny nodded like he’d won something. "Great. Come on."
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he started walking back inside. Looking over his shoulder only once to make sure you were following.
Johnny doesn’t say much on the walk back inside.
He leads the way like he always does, weaving through the station with practiced ease, greeting people as he passes without really stopping for any of them. You follow a few steps behind him, lunch bag now out of your hands, your presence slipping into the space beside him without needing explanation.
Inside the kitchen area, the noise of the station fades slightly. It’s quieter here, but not silent. There’s always the distant echo of something happening somewhere else in the building.
Johnny drops your bag on the counter and immediately opens a cupboard like he’s proving a point about coffee. You lean against the counter opposite him.
You watch him for a second, then look down at your phone. Martha’s message is still there. You hadn’t really processed it properly yet.
Three weeks.
You turn the screen off again.
Johnny sets a mug down in front of you a moment later. It’s slightly too full, and definitely too strong.
You don’t complain.
He leans back against the counter across from you, arms loosely crossed, watching you in that casual way he does when he thinks you’re not noticing.
You take a sip.
Immediately regret it. "…That’s aggressively bitter," you say.
Johnny looks pleased with himself. "That’s how you know it works."
"Oh," you say, glancing at him. "Martha texted me earlier."
Johnny looks up immediately. "Yeah?"
You nod once. "Building’s supposed to be done in about three weeks."
For a second, he doesn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear you, but because something in the air shifts so subtly you almost miss it yourself.
His hand, which had been resting loosely on the counter, stills. His expression doesn’t change much, but the energy does.
"Oh," he says after a beat.
Johnny clears his throat slightly and reaches for the coffee mug like he needs something to do with his hands now. "Three weeks," he repeats.
"Yeah."
Another pause. Long enough that it starts to feel intentional.
Then he nods once. "Right."
The silence doesn’t last long. It never really does with Johnny.
He shifts first, like he physically can’t stay still inside it. His fingers tap once against the edge of the counter, then stop, then start again like he’s annoyed at himself for doing it in the first place.
Then he exhales, a little too casually. He looks at you for a second, then away again like he’s choosing the next words carefully and not liking any of the options.
"So after that," he says, "you just… go back?"
It’s phrased like a normal question. It isn’t. You don’t answer immediately, because the obvious answer is yes. You were staying here because you had to. Because your building was unlivable. Because the situation made sense, even if the circumstances were chaotic.
Three weeks from now, that stops being true.
"I mean," you say slowly, "yeah."
Johnny nods once, like he expected that. He shifts his weight back against the counter again, arms folding loosely across his chest, but it looks more like something he’s doing out of habit than comfort.
"Right," he says.
A beat passes. Then, quieter, like he’s talking more to himself than to you:
"Yeah. Makes sense."
One night, you were calling with Kathy inside the comfort of your—well, Johnny’s kitchen. You were leaning against the counter with your phone pressed between your ear and shoulder, half-listening to Kathy’s voice on the other end while stirring something you weren’t really paying attention to anymore.
It was late.
Not late enough to feel unusual, but late enough that the city outside had started to quiet down.
“You still alive over there?” Kathy asked first, like she hadn’t just called you to check in on you for the third time this week.
You stirred whatever you were making a little absently. “Barely,” you said. “I think I’ve reached the point where I’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.”
“That’s what happens when you live with a walking disaster,” she replied immediately.
You huffed a quiet laugh.
“He’s not a walking disaster.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then, very deliberately:
“…You’re defending him.”
“I’m correcting you.”
“Mhm,” Kathy said, unconvinced. “How’s domestic life then, hm? Are you two sharing a chore chart? Matching mugs? Slow descent into sitcom behavior?”
You rolled your eyes, even though she couldn’t see it. “It’s just temporary,” you said. “I’m staying there until my building gets fixed. That’s it.”
“Right,” Kathy said slowly. “Temporary. In his apartment. With him. Around the clock.”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Kathy made a sound of triumph. “Oh my god.”
“Don’t,” you warned immediately.
“You’re living with him,” she repeated, like she was tasting the words now. “In his space. Seeing him first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Probably judging his terrible eating habits up close.”
“He doesn’t have terrible eating habits.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
You pressed your lips together. “…Okay, slightly terrible. But I’m helping him!”
“Thank you,” she said. “Progress.”
You sighed, leaning your hip against the counter. “It’s not a big deal, Kathy.”
“It is absolutely a big deal,” she said instantly. “You don’t just move in with a man like that and call it ‘not a big deal.’”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh?” she said, voice sharpening with interest. “Then what is it like?”
You hesitated, and that was your mistake. Kathy caught it immediately. “Oh no,” she said, delighted now. “You hesitated.”
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“You did.”
“I was thinking.”
“About him,” she concluded.
You closed your eyes for a second. “Please stop talking.”
“I’m just observing,” she said sweetly. “For accuracy.”
“There’s no accuracy needed.”
“There is,” she said again, firmer now. “Because I have questions.”
“You always have questions.”
“Correct,” Kathy said, her tone shifting slightly. “My current question is—how is it actually living there?”
You paused a little. “…What?”
“With him,” she clarified. “Is it okay? Like, is he treating you well? Are you comfortable there?”
You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself. “Kathy.”
“I’m serious,” she said immediately. “I’m not asking in a gossipy way. I’m asking in a ‘do I need to come over there and fight a firefighter’ way.”
“It’s fine,” you said, softer now. “Really. It’s… fine. He’s amazing, Kathy. Seriously, he’s always there whenever I need him, he takes great measures to make me feel comfortable in his own home, and he makes me laugh, like… a lot.” You chuckle to yourself at the last part.
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “…You say that like you know him really well,” Kathy said slowly.
You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite land as one.
“I do know him,” you said, like it was obvious. “He’s just… He’ll walk in looking like he’s been through hell and then immediately try to joke about it so nobody worries. And he’ll still ask if I’ve eaten, even if he’s the one who looks like he hasn’t slept in a day. It’s just… him.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“…Right,” Kathy said, but her tone had shifted. Less teasing now. More careful. “And you’re saying this like it’s normal.”
“It is normal,” you insisted gently. “For him.”
There was silence on the line. Not the playful kind anymore, but something more observant. Then Kathy spoke again, quieter. “…You’re talking about him like you care about him a lot.”
That made you pause.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
“I mean,” you said carefully, “I do care about him. Anyone would.”
But even as you said it, it didn’t sound like “anyone.” It sounded like you.
Kathy hummed softly on the other end. And when she spoke again, her voice had changed completely. “Oh,” she said.
Just that. A small, knowing sound, like something had finally clicked into place.
“Oh,” she repeated, slower this time. “No, I get it now.”
You frowned slightly. “Get what?”
But Kathy didn’t answer the question directly. Instead, she let out a quiet, almost amused breath. “You don’t just ‘care about him,’” she said. “You’re in trouble.”
Then her tone shifted slightly, softer but sharper underneath. “…You like him, don’t you?”
You almost dropped the spoon. “What?”
“C’mon, you heard me.” She says with a hint of a smile on her voice.
“I mean, I—no I don’t—”
Before you could finish your sentence, the front door opened. Not gently, but not loudly either. Just… heavy.
Like whoever had walked through it didn’t have the energy to make it sound like anything else. Your eyes flicked toward the hallway before you even fully registered why.
Kathy was still talking, but at this point, you barely heard her. Because the sound of boots on the floor had your attention shifting completely. Slow, tired, dragging.
Johnny appeared in the hallway a second later, and something in your chest dropped immediately.
He looked wrong. Not injured in a clean, manageable way, and definitely not like the usual soot and exhaustion you’d seen before.
This was heavier.
His uniform was a bit off, and his things were thrown awkwardly over one shoulder like it had become too much effort to carry properly. His shirt underneath was darkened in places, hair damp with sweat or water or both. There was a cut along his cheekbone that hadn’t been cleaned yet, and his knuckles looked raw.
But it wasn’t even just that.
It was the way he was standing, like he was still upright out of habit, and you guess that it’s not because he wanted to be.
You straightened instantly. “Kathy,” you said quickly into the phone.
“Wait, I’m not done—”
“I’ll call you back.” You hung up before she could respond.
The silence that followed felt sharp.
Johnny hadn’t fully noticed you yet. He was still in that slow, delayed movement of someone who had just come out of too many hours of chaos and hadn’t fully returned to a place where things were quiet.
Then his eyes lifted, and landed on you. For a second, he didn’t speak. He just… stopped. Like seeing you there anchored him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Hey,” he said finally.
Your phone was already forgotten in your hand.
You took a step forward before you even thought about it. “Johnny,” you said.
His shoulders moved slightly, like he was trying to shrug off something invisible. “I’m fine,” he said immediately, even though he clearly wasn’t.
You didn’t answer that.
You were already moving closer, and you could see him more clearly.
The bruising along his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand when he adjusted his grip on his gear. The way he was blinking slower than usual, like his body was asking for rest and he was ignoring it out of stubbornness alone.
“You’re not fine,” you said quietly.
He gave a weak attempt at a smile. “I’ve been worse.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I know,” he muttered.
Another step closer. You stopped in front of him, and neither of you moved. The apartment behind you felt too quiet again.
Then Johnny exhaled, like the act of standing upright had finally caught up with him. His voice dropped slightly. “I didn’t mean to come in looking like this.”
You looked at him properly. At all of it. “You don’t get to choose what you look like after a shift like that,” you said softly.
He slowly nodded. “It was a long forty-eight hours.”
You swallowed. “I can see that.”
And then, finally, you reached for him, carefully. Your hand touched his arm first, like you were checking if he could still stand there without falling apart.
He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it slightly, like he’d been waiting for permission to stop holding himself up.
You didn’t rush him. You just stayed close enough that he didn’t have to hold himself up alone anymore. “Couch,” you said quietly.
Johnny blinked at you like he needed a second to process the word, then nodded once. “Yeah. Couch sounds good.”
It took a little more effort than either of you admitted to get him moving. Not because he couldn’t walk, but because he was clearly running on whatever was left after everything else had already been used up.
You stayed beside him the whole way, your hand hovering near his arm more than once without actually needing to hold it, like you were ready in case he forgot how to stay upright.
He didn’t, but he did lean slightly closer than necessary anyway.
When he finally sat down, it looked less like a choice and more like something his body had been waiting for all night. Johnny exhaled through his nose, head tipping back against the couch.
You don’t say anything right away. Instead, you disappear into the bathroom and come back with a small first aid kit and a damp cloth, already moving on instinct more than thought.
Johnny opens one eye when you return and groans softly. “Oh no,” he mutters, and you pause, looking at him.
“What?” you ask, and he gestures vaguely at you like it’s obvious. “That look. That’s the ‘I’m about to fix you up like a stray animal’ look.”
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary before setting the kit down. “You are injured,” you reply flatly.
He hums like that’s a matter of interpretation. “I am decorated,” he corrects, and you exhale through your nose despite yourself. That earns him nothing but you stepping closer anyway.
You sit on the coffee table in front of him, close enough that your knees almost brush his, and for a moment the apartment feels smaller than it did earlier. Not in a bad way. Just… contained. Like everything outside this room has been temporarily shut off.
You start with the cloth first, gently wiping away soot and dried sweat along his cheekbone. He flinches slightly at the contact, but not away from you. Just reacting.
“Sorry,” he mutters automatically.
You don’t even look up when you respond. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I know,” he says quietly, after a beat, “it just stings more when it’s someone else doing it.”
That makes your hand slow for half a second before you continue, more careful now. The cut on his cheek is shallow but already sealed at the edges, and you tilt his face slightly without thinking about it too much, just enough to see better.
Johnny goes still immediately, not because he’s told to, but because he’s letting you.
“Tell me what happened,” you say softly, and he exhales, gaze dropping away from yours as if it’s easier to speak when he isn’t fully looking at you
“Call came in around midday,” he starts, voice rougher than usual. “Electrical fire on the other side of town. Thought it was contained at first. Standard entry, standard response.”
You continue cleaning as he talks, and he swallows once before continuing. “It wasn’t. By the time we got there it had already spread through a couple of units. The stairwell was compromised, so we had to reroute through the back. Everything took longer than it should’ve.”
“You were held back?” you ask quietly, and he lets out a short, humorless breath.
“Yeah. Traffic, delayed units, access issues… by the time we got proper entry it was already worse than it should’ve been.”
You clean another small cut along his jaw and lean closer without thinking about it. “That’s why you look like this,” you say, softer now.
He huffs faintly like he’s trying to turn it into something lighter. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”
You reach for the antiseptic and he notices immediately.
“Oh no,” he says again, quieter this time, and you don’t even look up. He says your name, almost like pleading not to use that on him even though he knows that you have to.
“This will sting,” you warn him.
"I figured," he replies, and after a short pause, "go ahead."
You hesitate for just a second before applying it, and he inhales sharply through his teeth but doesn’t move away. When you finish, your hands lower slowly, still close enough that you can feel the heat of him lingering in the space between you.
"You should’ve gotten this cleaned at the station," you say quietly.
He shakes his head slightly. "I didn’t want to sit still that long."
You finally look at him properly then. "You’re sitting still now."
That makes him pause, eyes meeting yours for a moment before he answers, quieter. "That’s different."
"Is it?"
Something in his expression shifts at that. "It is."
You don’t respond immediately. You just reach for his hand instead, careful, almost hesitant at first. Johnny looks down at it, then turns his hand slightly so yours fits properly against his. Like it was always supposed to.
His hand stays in yours longer than it probably needs to.
Neither of you seems interested in correcting that.
The apartment is quiet in a way that feels heavier now that the talking has slowed down, like the space itself is settling around you both. Johnny’s thumb moves once against the side of your hand, small and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You don’t pull away. You don’t think about pulling away.
He exhales slowly, then shifts slightly on the couch, adjusting like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t ache somewhere. It doesn’t really work.
For a moment, he just watches you. Not in a heavy or searching way, just… present. Like he’s grounding himself there without saying it out loud.
Then, slowly, almost like it isn’t a decision he’s making, Johnny shifts again.
This time he doesn’t just adjust his posture.
He leans.
Not all at once, not dramatically, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours first, like a question his body is asking before his mind can stop it. You barely react, but you do still. And when you don’t pull away, he lets the rest of the movement happen.
His forehead comes to rest against your shoulder.
Light at first.
Then heavier, once he realizes you’re not moving.
It isn’t romantic in the way people usually write it down. It’s not confident or certain or even graceful. It’s tired, unguarded. Johnny lets out a quiet breath against you, almost like he’s been carrying it for hours and just now remembered he could let it go.
“Sorry,” he mutters after a moment, though he doesn’t lift his head.
You shake yours slightly. “You don’t need to apologize,” you say again, softer this time.
“You good?” You ask, and he hums. “Very.”
Then, an idea popped into your head. You release your hand from his, much to Johnny’s dismay, and you rush toward the kitchen. After a quick scan of the cabinets, you open one and grab something. Johnny sits there on the couch, confused and somewhat amused.
When you return and he sees what you’re holding, he chuckles instantly.
“Cookies and cream protein bar! For emotional emergencies, right?” You pass one to him and open another one for yourself.
He pats the spot on the couch beside him, and you quickly sit down.
He leans his shoulder against yours, almost carefully, before giving up and just slumping his body onto your side, his head on your shoulder.
“Is this okay?” He asks quietly, taking a bite of his protein bar after.
“Mhm.” You answer.
He calls out your name then, somewhat like wanting to ask for something.
“What is it?”
“My family’s coming over for dinner this Sunday night.” He says, eyes still closed and head still on your shoulder.
“You want me to leave for a few hours? I can do that.” You reassure him.
He lifts his head up, brows furrowed, looking confused. “What? No. I’m thinking you could just join us.” He says.
You blink. “Me?”
“No, the haunted spirits living inside the apartment.” He says sarcastically, then drops the act. “Of course you, who else?”
“You want me to meet your family?”
“It’s better than having to kick you out of home for a few hours.” Johnny shrugs. Then after a beat, he adds, “I also… can’t cook that well.”
You groan, leaning against the cushions. “Fine. I’ll be here.”
He lights up at that, and goes back to leaning his shoulder against yours, still smiling. “Great. Yeah, awesome.”
For a moment, it was quiet. The apartment was illuminated in warm lighting, and the only sounds you could hear were the echoes of the city that is always alive beneath you. You think, how could you possibly come back after this?
“Johnny.” You call out his name softly, and for a moment, you thought he was asleep. Until he answered, “Yeah?”
“Are there really haunted spirits in your apartment?”
He just laughs at that.
additional notes: chapter two is officially complete :) i was aiming for about 5-6k every chapter but i didn't realize i went overboard with this lol. there's still a lot more i want to add so maybe i'll turn this into a four-parter instead of a three-parter? we'll see! but i do hope you all enjoyed reading this one x
also, please comment if you'd like to be tagged in the next one!
Pairing: firefighter!johnny storm x er nurse!reader
Summary: For nearly a year, you and Johnny Storm, a local firefighter, have shared nothing more than passing moments between emergencies. Enough to recognize each other, not enough to step closer. When a fire destroys your apartment building, you find yourself staying in his home, where distance is no longer something you both can rely on.
Word Count: 6,2k
Tags: modern au, firefighter au, no powers au, forced proximity, mutual pining, acquaintances to friends to lovers, domestic fluff, living together, no use of y/n
a/n: i went to the fire station a week ago and that was what inspired this. literally. i hope you all enjoy :) x
Johnny Storm’s days follow a relatively simple routine. He clocks in at 8:00 in the morning and starts a 48-hour shift, consecutively. After those 48 hours end, he goes home to his bachelor pad and rests for a good four days before he has to go back to his job. He might get a few interesting cases here and there, but it’s really nothing to write home about.
Except when he gets to see you, then it’s everything to write home about.
Which is unfortunately a rare occurrence. You’re busy with your work, firefighters don’t usually go to the ER anyway, he knows that—hell, you guys weren’t even that close. Even when he wants to spend time with you, he doesn’t think that he could just stroll into the emergency room one day and ask you out. Well, maybe he can, but he’s just a bit of a coward at that part.
You both met a little under a year ago.
The call itself wasn’t anything special. Small building fire, one victim suffering from smoke inhalation, stable vitals, conscious and talking.
Johnny had carried the woman down three flights of stairs and stayed with her all the way to the hospital, mostly because she refused to let go of his hand. "You're a nice young man," she'd wheezed through the oxygen mask.
"Why thank you, ma’am. Tell everyone for me, please." He gives her his signature grin.
The ambulance rolled into the emergency department's ambulance bay twenty minutes later.
The doors burst open, and there you were.
"Female, seventy-two," the paramedic began as the stretcher was unloaded. "Smoke inhalation. Alert and oriented. Initial oxygen levels were eighty-nine percent on the scene, now sitting at ninety-six on fifteen liters of non-rebreather."
Johnny barely listened. Because you were moving around the stretcher with the kind of confidence that made the chaos look choreographed.
"Any loss of consciousness?" you asked.
"Negative."
"Cardiac history?"
"Hypertension."
"Allergies?"
The questions came rapid-fire. You were efficient, focused, and…
Pretty.
Wait. Pretty?
Johnny blinked, but the older woman noticed immediately. Maybe she has a knack for these things. "Oh," she said, sounding delighted. "He's staring at the nurse."
“Ma'am," he said.
Your head snapped up. Okay, that’s a handsome man—no, you have a job to do.
"He's been carrying me around all afternoon," she informed you.
"Ma'am."
To his horror, you smiled. "Thank you for bringing her in," you said.
He gives you a crooked smile. “Yeah, yeah… you’re welcome. I mean, it’s my job… yeah.” He nods, like that makes his stumbling any better.
After that interaction, he’d be the first person to volunteer every time one of the firefighters had to go to the emergency room. Not that they go there a lot anyway, but hey, he’d take any chance to get a glimpse of you.
The first few times, he was convinced you wouldn't even remember him. You worked in an emergency department. Hundreds of patients passed through those doors every week, accompanied by paramedics, police officers, firefighters, and worried family members. There was no reason a nurse would remember one firefighter she'd met on a random Tuesday.
Then, the next time he walked a patient through the ambulance bay, you looked up from your charting and greeted him by name.
Just like that.
The conversation had lasted less than a minute.
A quick hello.
A question about the patient.
A joke about the soot smeared across his jaw.
But Johnny found himself thinking about it for the rest of his shift. After that, seeing you became something he quietly looked forward to.
Sometimes he would catch you during a particularly brutal shift, your hair hastily tied back and exhaustion written plainly across your face. Other times he'd arrive to find you laughing with one of your coworkers, the sound carrying across the department before you noticed him standing there.
You always seemed happy to see him, and over time, the conversations grew longer.
A minute became five.
Five became ten whenever neither of you was being pulled in opposite directions.
He learned that you survived almost entirely on caffeine during night shifts (much to your dismay). You learned that he couldn't cook anything more complicated than pasta without consulting the internet. He learned which vending machine snacks you always bought when you forgot your lunch. You learned that he hated paperwork more than actual fires.
None of it was important information, at least not on paper.
But somehow, every small detail felt significant when it came from you. The problem was that your relationship never seemed to move beyond the walls of the hospital.
You weren't strangers, yet you weren't friends, either.
Not really.
You and Johnny saw each other because your jobs happened to collide every now and then. And yet, every time he left the emergency department, he found himself wondering when he'd see you again.
The answer was always eventually.
A week, maybe two, or even a month. But sooner or later another call would end at the hospital, and he'd find you somewhere beyond those sliding doors.
That certainty made it easy to do nothing.
Today, Johnny strolled into the fire department in the morning and went straight to the kitchen, as usual. When he has to arrive at the station as early as eight, he doesn’t really have the luxury of a dedicated breakfast time in the mornings.
He grabbed some bread and ingredients from the pantry and made a simple sandwich. This one looks particularly good, he thinks. But before he could get a bite to his sandwich, the station tones screamed through the building.
Johnny closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."
Around him, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone immediately sprang into motion.
So much for breakfast.
He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin, shoved it onto the counter, and followed the rest of the crew toward the apparatus bay while dispatch rattled off the address overhead.
To you, twelve hours in the emergency department rarely stayed twelve hours. Someone always needed help, always arrived five minutes before your shift ended, and always crashed at the worst possible moment.
You'd stopped fighting it months ago.
At least today was your day off.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains and painted soft streaks of gold across your bedroom walls, and for a few moments you simply lay there, enjoying the unfamiliar luxury of not having anywhere to be.
After waking up in the morning, you spent a few blissful minutes doing absolutely nothing. No monitors beeping, no doctors calling your name, just silence. Glorious silence. But eventually, you did have to drag yourself out of bed.
You wandered into the kitchen and started putting together breakfast. Nothing fancy, just enough food to keep you occupied while you figured out how you wanted to spend the rest of your day.
Laundry was probably necessary.
Grocery shopping too.
Also, there was a growing pile of unopened mail sitting on the counter that deserved your attention.
Realistically, you would accomplish none of those things.
Outside, the city was already awake. Cars moved steadily through the streets below, people hurried along the sidewalks, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading away. Exactly the kind of morning you had been looking forward to.
You had just taken another sip of coffee when a loud, piercing alarm cut through the apartment.
Your head snapped up immediately.
For a second, you stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sound to stop.
But of course, it didn't.
The alarm continued to blare through the building in steady intervals, loud enough that you could feel the vibration through the walls.
By the time the second alarm sounded, you were already on your feet.
The apartment door across the hall opened with a loud bang. A moment later, voices drifted in from the corridor. Someone asked if this was another maintenance test. Someone else sounded annoyed enough to ignore it entirely.
You set your coffee down and crossed the apartment toward the front door. The moment you opened it, the faint smell of smoke hit you.
Not strong, not overwhelming.
But unmistakable.
Your stomach tightened. Ah shit, it’s serious.
That was enough to make the decision for you.
You stepped back inside, immediately reaching for your phone, wallet, keys, and the backpack hanging near the entrance. The movements felt automatic, driven by the same instincts that had carried you through countless emergencies at work.
Within two minutes, you were locking your apartment door behind you and making your way toward the stairwell with dozens of other residents.
The atmosphere remained surprisingly calm, and most people looked irritated more than concerned. And yet, the smell of smoke grew stronger with each floor you descended.
By the time you reached the ground floor and stepped outside, several residents had already gathered in the parking lot.
You turned back toward the building, and only then did you notice the thin stream of dark smoke escaping from one of the upper-floor windows.
“Oh dear, that looks bad.” Your neighbour, Martha, says. She had managed to find you in the sea of people.
You look to your side, to her. “Yeah. I’m hoping everyone’s alright.” You respond.
By the time the fire department arrived on scene, a crowd had already formed outside the apartment complex.
Johnny barely spared them a glance as the truck rolled to a stop, though. His attention was fixed on the building. From a distance, the smoke had looked relatively contained. Up close, it was a different story.
Dark smoke pushed from multiple windows near the center of the structure, thick enough to obscure portions of the upper floors. Every few seconds, fresh plumes poured from the building as if something inside was feeding the fire faster than it could burn through.
"Shit," someone muttered beside him.
Johnny silently agreed.
The moment the emergency vehicle stopped moving, the crew sprang into action. Orders were exchanged, equipment was unloaded, and hose lines were stretched across the pavement. Within moments, the organized chaos that accompanied every structure fire had settled over the scene.
A battalion chief was already speaking with building management.
Police officers worked to keep residents away from the entrance.
Paramedics established a treatment area for anyone suffering from smoke exposure.
Okay, here we go, he thinks. Johnny grabbed his gear and headed toward the command post to receive his assignment.
As he approached, fragments of conversation reached him. Apparently, the fire had originated in one of the lower-floor units, but it had spread beyond the apartment itself. There was concern that flames had extended into wall voids and utility spaces, and that immediately complicated everything.
Apartment fires were difficult enough when the fire remained confined to a single unit. Once flames found their way into the spaces between walls, they could travel through a building without anyone realizing how far they'd gone.
Which meant what looked manageable from the outside often wasn't.
The next hour passed in a blur of heat, smoke, and shouted communication.
Johnny's crew was assigned to assist with interior operations. The work was exhausting even by firefighter standards. Every movement felt heavier beneath layers of protective gear, and the air inside the building remained thick despite the ventilation efforts underway.
At one point, they helped escort an elderly resident down several flights of stairs after she refused to leave without her cat. Later, they were redirected to assist another crew investigating smoke that had begun seeping into apartments far from the original unit.
None of it was unusual.
By the time Johnny emerged from the building again, sweat clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck and his shoulders ached from carrying equipment up and down stairwells.
He pulled off one glove and accepted a bottle of water from another firefighter before making his way toward the command area for an update.
That was when his attention drifted toward the evacuation zone.
At first, he didn't think anything of it, just another resident standing among the crowd. Then the woman turned slightly, and his brain took a second to catch up.
A second after that, his stomach nearly dropped into his boots.
There was absolutely no way.
For a moment, he simply stared. Out of all the apartment buildings in the city, all the fires he could have responded to. The sight of you sent a jolt of alarm through him before he could think twice about it.
Were you hurt?
Had you been inside when the fire started?
Had you inhaled smoke?
You looked upright, alert, and uninjured, at least from where he was standing. But that did little to settle the sudden knot of concern tightening in his chest.
Your attention remained fixed on the building, completely unaware that he had spotted you.
Before he could stop himself, his feet were already moving.
He wove through the crowd gathered near the edge of the parking lot, barely registering the conversations around him. Your expression was focused in the way he had seen dozens of times inside the emergency department, as if you were mentally assessing the situation rather than simply witnessing it.
Then you turned your head. The second your eyes landed on him, surprise flickered across your face.
"Johnny?"
He called out your name and stopped in front of you, gaze moving quickly over your face and shoulders as though searching for injuries. "Are you alright?"
You blinked. The question came so quickly that it seemed to catch you off guard. "Yeah," you said. "I'm fine."
Johnny frowned. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Only then did he seem to realize he was still staring. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and took a small step back, trying to recover whatever professionalism he'd abandoned during his walk across the parking lot.
"I just..." He glanced toward the building. "I saw you standing out here and figured you lived in one of the units."
"I do."
The answer was simple enough, but something about hearing it made his stomach sink.
"You got out okay?"
You nodded.
"Good." The response came immediately.
Too immediately, as though he'd been holding his breath waiting to hear it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the scene filled the silence instead. The hiss of water lines being charged, shouted instructions from firefighters, the distant wail of another arriving vehicle. Johnny looked over his shoulder toward the building.
His expression changed slightly, and you noticed it right away. "How bad is it?"
His gaze returned to yours. For a second, he seemed to debate whether he should answer honestly.
That was an answer enough.
Your stomach tightened, and he exhaled slowly.
"It's not great."
You followed his line of sight toward the smoke pouring from the upper floors. The longer the operation continued, the more chaotic the evacuation area became. Suddenly, raised voices cut through the crowd, and several people turned at once.
Near the curb, a man in his sixties slumped heavily against a parked vehicle. At first, it looked as though he had simply sat down.
Then his knees buckled.
Your body reacted before your brain did, and you were already moving by the time someone shouted for a medic. Before you could reach him, the man hit the pavement hard. A small crowd immediately began forming around him.
"Give him space," you called as you pushed forward.
The smell of smoke still clung to his clothing, and his breathing… it sounded wrong. Shallow.
A firefighter dropped to one knee beside him. Johnny.
His eyes widened briefly when he recognized you, but you barely noticed, your attention remained fixed on the patient.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
The man's eyelids fluttered. Okay, so not fully unconscious. Good.
A paramedic arrived moments later, carrying equipment. "We've got two ambulances already transporting," she said quickly as she knelt beside you. "Can you help me out?"
You nodded immediately, and the paramedic began attaching monitoring equipment while you performed a rapid assessment. The patient's skin looked pale beneath the soot staining his face. His pulse was fast, and his breathing remained concerning.
"Smoke inhalation?" you asked.
"Most likely."
The man suddenly started coughing. A harsh, painful sound.
Johnny shifted closer, looking between the both of you. "What do you need?"
"High-flow oxygen." You both answered. Without hesitation, Johnny reached for the equipment beside him.
Within minutes, the patient was receiving oxygen, but his condition still wasn't improving as quickly as you would've liked. The paramedic looked toward the ambulance staging area and swore quietly. Every available transport unit was occupied, and one of the ambulances hadn't even returned from its previous trip yet.
"We need him evaluated at the hospital."
"He needs a blood gas and respiratory assessment," you agreed.
The paramedic looked between you and Johnny, then an idea seemed to occur to her. "You work at Manhattan General, right?"
You nodded.
She turned to Johnny. "Can you drive?"
Johnny stared at her. "That's your question?"
"Can you drive without hitting anybody?"
"Much better."
The paramedic pointed toward the patient. "Good. Because I need this man in an emergency department now, and you're currently the fastest option I've got."
Johnny looked at you, and you looked back at him. For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he shrugged. “Well. This is certainly a first."
The drive to Manhattan General Hospital was surprisingly uneventful. Fortunately, the patient remained conscious for most of the trip. You stayed beside him in the back seat, monitoring his breathing and doing your best to keep him talking while Johnny navigated traffic.
The arrangement felt absurd. A firefighter driving, an emergency room nurse riding in the back, and a smoke inhalation patient occupying the rear seat of what was very obviously not an ambulance.
If anyone asked, you were never admitting this had happened.
By the time the hospital came into view, you were already mentally preparing the report you would give upon arrival. The familiar sight of the emergency department entrance stirred something automatic in your brain.
Johnny pulled to a stop near the ambulance entrance. Before the vehicle had fully settled, you were reaching for the door handle.
"Easy there," Johnny said.
You shot him a look. "Unlike you, some of us spend enough time here to navigate it with our eyes closed."
Johnny scoffed. "I've been here hundreds of times."
"Yeah, but you still have to ask for directions every now and then."
"Only occasionally."
"Sure."
He shook his head. "Alright, that's fair."
The two of you helped the patient inside, and the moment the automatic doors slid open, the controlled chaos of the emergency department washed over you. A nurse glanced up from the triage desk.
Then did a double take. "...Why are you here?"
You didn't slow down. “Long story."
"You're not scheduled."
"Still a long story."
A few heads turned as you passed. Apparently showing up unexpectedly with soot on your clothes was enough to attract attention.
The patient was quickly transferred onto a hospital stretcher, and you immediately slipped back into work mode.
"Male, I would say in his sixties? Smoke exposure from a residential structure fire. Progressive respiratory distress on scene, and oxygen administered prior to transport, but his condition deteriorated during observation."
The receiving physician nodded.
Questions followed, but as always, you answered them automatically.
By the time the report was finished, several members of the emergency department were staring at you with varying levels of concern.
One of your coworkers finally crossed her arms.
"Why are you covered in ash?"
You blinked. Right, the fire. "Apartment building fire," you admitted.
The room fell silent. "Excuse me?" someone asked. "You live there?" another asked.
"Unfortunately."
Several people immediately started talking at once.
Were you okay?
Did you get hurt?
Had you lost anything?
You suddenly regretted saying anything.
One of the nurses pointed toward a chair. "Sit down."
"I'm fine."
"Sit."
"I'm literally helping."
"You are literally homeless."
Johnny snorts at that, and you give him a glare. He looks away right after, lips still quirking up.
Eventually, the nurses on the clock dispersed, having to do their jobs anyway. You look up at Johnny. “Hey, you.”
He smiled. “Hello to you too.”
“Thanks for driving us here. You should probably go back now, they need you.” You stand up, crossing your arms.
He hums. “Yeah. Good work with the patient. That was some quick action.” He says, his voice soft. “Does he need anything else?”
You shake your head. “Nope, he’s in good hands. I’ll probably stay here, watch over him for a bit. Nothing much I can do anyway.”
Johnny nods. Then, “Do you need anything?”
“Nah, not for now, no. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll see you around then?” You ask, hopeful.
“Of course.” He nods, and starts to leave. He gives you a tiny wave, and you give him one back. You watch as he drives off, and you let out a deep sigh.
“Who was that?” Someone suddenly says beside you—Kathy, another doctor who you were particularly close to.
You startle at the sudden voice. “Christ, Kathy! Stop doing that. He’s no one.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, this no one is particularly handsome.”
She waits for your reaction. Then, not being able to hold it, your lips quirk up.
“Ha! I knew it! What’s his name?” She holds you by your shoulders.
“Don’t you have work to do?” You scold, but still smiling.
“Ugh! You’re no fun!”
It wasn’t until nearly two hours into the operation that things began to shift from urgent to uncertain.
The fire itself was still active, but contained enough that the chief was finally able to start thinking beyond suppression and toward damage assessment. That was usually the point where the scene stopped feeling like controlled chaos and started feeling like a long, exhausting problem.
Johnny had just finished rotating out a hose line when one of the lieutenants approached him near the apparatus. “Hey,” the man said, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re the one who brought that patient in earlier, right?”
Johnny frowned, wiping soot from his forearm with the back of his glove. “Yeah.”
“There’s been an update on the residents from the fourth floor. Building management just confirmed structural compromise in the eastern units. Water damage, electrical failure—whole section’s going to be offline for a while.”
Johnny’s attention sharpened immediately, though he didn’t fully know why at first.
The lieutenant continued.
“They’re not clearing the building for re-entry. Not today, and probably not for the next week or two. The Red Cross is getting involved for temporary housing.”
That landed differently. “A week or two,” he repeated quietly.
“Best case,” the lieutenant said. “Worst case, longer.”
Johnny nodded once, though his mind had already drifted. Because in his head, that wasn’t a building update anymore.
It was you.
“Hey, uh, mind if I drive back to the hospital for a bit? Just ten, fifteen minutes? I think I forgot something.” Johnny asks.
The lieutenant looked confused at that, but he looked around, then back at Johnny. “Yeah, we’re alright here for now. Just make sure you come back as soon as possible.”
Johnny nods, and he rushes to drive to Manhattan General Hospital.
By the time he reached you, you were speaking with a patient, your backpack now sitting on the ground beside your feet. You looked tired in a way you hadn’t earlier. Less sharp, more human around the edges, but still very much upright.
When you noticed him approaching, your expression shifted slightly. You frowned. “What are you doing back here? Does anyone else need help?” you said.
“No, no, everyone’s okay for now.” He reassures you. “I just… um…”
There was a pause, brief but loaded with everything neither of you had said since the fire started.
Johnny glanced toward the patient, then back at you. “Mind if I talk to you in private for a second?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” You respond, giving the patient a brief goodbye before walking to a more secluded area of the room.
“They’re saying you might not be able to go back in for a while,” he starts.
You exhaled slowly, like you already knew where this was going. “Yeah, I figured.”
“And you’ve got somewhere to stay?” It came out more direct than he intended.
You blinked at him, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Not really. I’ve got… a backpack and a very strong desire for this to be temporary.”
That should have made it lighter.
It didn’t.
Johnny looked away for a second, jaw tightening as he considered the situation in a way that had nothing to do with firefighting. “You can stay at mine,” he said.
The words came out clean. Immediate, and absolutely no hesitation. Like he’d already decided without telling himself.
You stared at him. “…What?”
“My place,” he repeated, more carefully this time, as if that would make it less insane. “It’s close to the hospital. You’ve got work, and I’ve got a couch. Spare room, technically, but I’ve never used it for anything other than storage.”
That last part sounded like an attempt at credibility. It didn’t help much.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said slowly.
“I know.”
Another pause. Around you, the scene kept moving, but between the two of you, everything had narrowed.
Johnny shifted his weight slightly, suddenly aware of how this sounded and unable to find a version of it that didn’t sound like too much.
“It’s not… I’m not—” he started, then stopped, clearly frustrated with his own sentence. “You don’t have anywhere else right now. And I’m not letting you sleep in a hotel alone for two weeks after your building burned down.”
You studied him for a moment, weighing your options. There was no teasing grin. No easy confidence. No hint that he was offering because he felt obligated or because he thought it was the right thing to do.
He looked genuinely concerned for you. And somehow, that made this infinitely more dangerous.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You'd spent months convincing yourself that whatever existed between the two of you was harmless. Nothing either of you would ever act on.
Then your expression softened just slightly.
“You realize this is a terrible idea. We might not be compatible living with each other and you might hate me forever,” you said, with a smile threatening to form on your face.
Johnny gave a short exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.”
“And you’re still offering.”
“Yeah.” His gaze held yours for a second longer than necessary.
Then, almost reluctantly, you nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “Just for a little while.”
For the briefest moment, something flickered across Johnny's face. Relief.
Maybe even happiness.
It disappeared almost immediately, replaced by an expression that was far more casual than you suspected he actually felt. Inside, he was far from casual. Neither of you could quite ignore the way your pulse had suddenly become much harder to explain.
Okay, holy shit, this is real. She’s moving into my place—we don’t even know each other that well yet. Maybe this was a bad idea? No, no, it’s not. I get to spend time with her! This is amazing. We’ll get to know each other, and—
“Johnny?” You ask, confused by his sudden blank stare.
“Huh?” He snapped out of his trance. “Yes?”
“You okay?” You furrow your brows in concern.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” Johnny nods reassuringly, and he holds a hand out to you. “Do you have your phone? Mine’s somewhere in the car. I can text you details, and we’ll talk about it.” He shrugs, offering.
You reach into your bag and hand it over to him. He types his number in your phone, and texts himself something silly. He gives it back to you, smiling.
“I, uh… I look forward to it.” You say, and you internally cringe. Look forward to it? What is this, a date?
He smiles sheepishly, exhaling. “Yeah, yeah, me too. I’ll see you later then.”
You nod. “Mhm. Get back safely.”
You both pretty much worked it out seamlessly. There was a list of instructions, a rough time estimate, and a shared understanding that neither of you needed to overcomplicate what was already complicated enough. Johnny told you his address. You told him how long it would take you to get what you needed. Neither of you questioned the arrangement again.
It should have felt strange. But it didn’t, not in the way either of you expected.
When you finally left the apartment building, it was with a small list of essentials and a tired sense of detachment that came from functioning too long on instinct alone. You moved quickly through the familiar process of retrieving what you could, like medications and toiletries, half of your wardrobe, your laptop, and your work bag that you had apparently left half-open on your counter in your rush to leave that morning.
The apartment itself looked almost unchanged at first glance.
But the smell had already begun to creep in through the hallway, faint but unmistakable, and the sound of distant movement from below reminded you that whatever normal had existed here earlier in the day was no longer available to you.
When you came back down, Johnny was already there.
He had changed out of some of his gear, and he looks… different, this way. You can’t really pin point on what, but one thing’s for sure, he looks equally as handsome as when you saw him for the first time. Or maybe even more handsome, you dare to think.
“You got everything you needed?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Enough.”
That seemed to be sufficient.
He held out his hand, and you looked at him confused.
“Your bag.” He says. Ever the gentleman.
“Oh. You sure?” You ask.
He rolls his eyes, smiling, hand still out. “Yes, I’m sure. Just give it to me.”
You eventually hand it over to him, and he carries it like nothing. Damn firefighters.
The drive to his place was quieter than the earlier trip to the hospital, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came from two people who were both still mentally catching up to what had already happened.
Occasionally, Johnny would glance at you, as if checking something he could not quite articulate. Each time, you caught it once or twice before he looked away again.
Neither of you commented on it.
By the time he parked, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, and the events of the day felt both recent and strangely distant.
Johnny got out first, walked around the car, and opened your door before you could reach for it yourself.
You looked up at it, then back at him. The building definitely had some questionable design choices.
“Wow.”
Johnny immediately narrowed his eyes. “That sounded sarcastic.”
“It wasn't.”
“It absolutely was.”
“I said one word.”
Johnny pointed toward the building. “For the record, it's a perfectly respectable apartment.”
“Mhm.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That tone.”
“I don't have a tone.”
“You do.”
“I just got displaced by a fire, Johnny. Maybe I'm emotionally fragile.”
“Convenient excuse.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. It's nice.”
His expression brightened immediately. Then, he added, “You can crash here as long as you need.”
As long as you need.
Not forever, not anything bigger than it had to be.
Just enough room for what this was.
The first hour in Johnny’s apartment passed in a blur of half-unpacking and quiet reassessment.
The building itself was nicer than you had expected.
Not extravagant, but comfortable. The lobby had actual plants that somehow looked alive, and the elevator didn't make any concerning noises on the way up, which already put it ahead of several apartment buildings you'd lived in.
When Johnny unlocked the door and stepped aside to let you in first, you hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. You weren't entirely sure what you had expected.
It was cleaner than you had expected.
Not spotless, exactly, but lived-in in a way that suggested someone who functioned on practicality more than decoration. A couch that had clearly been used for naps rather than guests, then to your right, a stack of mail that had been pushed into a corner rather than ignored completely. And when you walked further inside, there was a kitchen that looked like it had been designed for survival rather than enjoyment.
Your eyes drifted around the room.
There were framed photos on a shelf, a few trophies tucked away near a bookcase. Then, a blanket thrown haphazardly over one arm of the couch that looked suspiciously well-loved. You smiled at the sight.
It felt like him.
Comfortable, slightly disorganized, and somehow welcoming despite making absolutely no effort to be.
Johnny hovered awkwardly near the doorway while you looked around.
"So?" he asked.
You glanced back at him.
"So what?"
"So, is it terrible?"
You stared. "Johnny."
"What?"
"You live in a building with functioning elevators."
"That's not an answer."
“It's already nicer than my apartment."
His expression brightened immediately. "Really?"
"No."
The smile vanished.
You laughed.
The offended look he gave you was immediate. "Wow."
"I'm kidding."
"You sounded sincere." He scoffs. “Maybe I should take a look at your apartment and judge for myself.”
You smile at that. “Hmm, maybe. Once all this blows over. I’ll give you a tour.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged and continued your inspection.
The living room flowed into the kitchen, which contained exactly what you expected from a man who worked long shifts and survived primarily on convenience.
You opened one cabinet.
Instant noodles.
Another.
Protein bars.
A third.
Oh. More protein bars! And protein… powder?
You slowly turned toward him.
Johnny immediately pointed a finger. "Don't judge me."
"I opened three cabinets."
"Yes."
"And two of them are protein bars."
"They were on sale."
"Johnny."
"They were really on sale."
You shook your head, laughing. “If I get scurvy while living here, I'm suing you."
"That's not how scurvy works."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely know that."
The conversation dissolved into quiet laughter, and some of the tension you'd both been carrying since the fire eased just slightly.
Johnny gave you space without making a point of it. He showed you where things were, like the bathroom, the spare room, the thermostat that he clearly had opinions about, and then drifted back toward the kitchen as if trying not to hover.
“You can take the room,” he said at one point, nodding toward a door down the hallway. “It’s not much, but the bed’s clean. I changed the sheets last month.”
“Last month,” you repeated.
He shrugged. “It’s usually just storage.”
That explained the slightly chaotic pile of boxes in the corner of the room when you stepped inside. Nothing urgent. Just things that didn’t belong anywhere else yet.
You set your bag down carefully, suddenly aware of how little of your life you had managed to carry with you. Clothes, a few essentials. A version of yourself reduced to what could fit in an emergency evacuation.
You were halfway through walking out of the room when your body betrayed you slightly.
It wasn’t dramatic, just a subtle shift in balance, a delayed reaction catching up with everything you had been running on since the alarm went off that morning. The exhaustion hit you all at once, like your system had finally decided it was done compensating.
Your hand reached for the doorframe without you fully registering it.
Johnny noticed immediately.
He moved before you could properly correct yourself, one hand coming up instinctively to steady your arm.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You blinked, briefly disoriented. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
The contact should have been nothing. Brief, practical. Something that happened between people all the time without meaning anything beyond balance and physics.
But he didn’t let go right away.
Not immediately.
His grip was careful, steady in a way that felt more intentional than necessary, like he was making sure you were actually grounded before he trusted you to stand on your own again.
You became very aware of the fact that he was close. Close enough that the heat from him cut through the tired chill that had settled into your bones.
“I’ve got you,” he said after a beat, like it had come out automatically.
You looked up at him then.
His expression had shifted. Less distracted now, less caught between places. Focused in a way that wasn’t about the fire anymore.
Just you.
“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time.
He nodded once, but didn’t immediately move away. For a second, neither of you did. Holding you felt… natural, like there was no question behind it.
Then, as if realizing it at the same time you did, Johnny slowly released your arm.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I know,” he replied, giving you a small smile.
You hesitated, then glanced toward the room again. “I think I’m just going to—”
“Yeah,” he said immediately. Then, after a pause, softer: “Go rest.”
You nodded. This time when you stepped away, nothing stopped you.
But as you closed the door behind you, you could still feel the place where his hand had been on your arm, like your body had bothered to remember it longer than your mind had intended to.
additional notes: anddd that's it for chapter one folks! i had a fun time writing this au. chapter two definitely has more romantic/domestic moments, so stay tuned for it! it might be released sometime this week? i'm a bit busy at the moment, but i do enjoy writing these to kind of wind down in between.
also, please comment if you'd like to be tagged in the next one!
due to unforeseen circumstances (that were totally foreseeable) i might only be able to post the second part around next week… i’ve been super busy lately but i promise not to disappoint you all with the next one 🫡
Summary: On a random Tuesday, Johnny takes a compatibility test designed by Reed and his childhood best friend (who is also his longtime crush). He only did it to annoy Reed, but he wasn’t aware that he’d get a horrifying score of 98.9% on his compatibility with said childhood friend.
This makes Johnny determined to make a move on her once and for all, and nothing won’t stop him. Absolutely nothing. Except the fact that she’s currently dead set on being immune to his advances.
Oh well, guess he just has to try harder.
Word count: 10,7k
Tags: Childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, it's literally only fluff i don't know what to tell you, idiots in love, but mostly idiot!Johnny, desperate!Johnny, slight jealousy, no use of y/n
a/n: honestly i didn't end up liking this as much as i thought i would towards the end but i was in too deep to actually do anything about it. well, i hope anyone who's reading this enjoys it anyway!
It all started with a stupid machine that was never even supposed to tell Johnny Storm that he needed to date you. Before this, he was perfectly content with being your number one best friend since childhood, doing all sorts of things with you while admiring you in a different light from afar—okay, maybe he wasn’t really content with that, but at least he could pretend that he was!
You met Johnny Storm at the tender age of six, when he was just a tiny blond boy with a stupid-looking bowl cut on him that you never fail to make fun of till this day. He really did look ridiculous. It was a bright, sunny day when you first saw him in the local neighborhood park, and you approached him because you were jealous that he had a cool rocketship plushie held in his hands. Ever since then, you clicked instantly, becoming the bestest of friends. If you ask Sue, she would say that Johnny had always liked you since you were both kids. Maybe it was a puppy crush, maybe it was real love, but either way, she’d recognize the sparkle in her brother’s eyes whenever you were there with him. Something that never seemed to dim after all these years either.
Unfortunately, after their mother passed, they had to move away, and you never saw them ever since.
Almost twenty years later, here you are, an aspiring biologist, being personally called in to work in the Baxter Building by Reed Richards himself. It took a good year to readjust to your current work environment, but it has been worth it. Especially being able to reconnect with the Storm siblings once again.
“Your design model is still compensating too aggressively during high-stress simulations”, you mutter, scrolling through the latest batch of data projected across the holographic screen in front of you. “See? It spikes here.”
Reed adjusts his glasses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the graph. “Hm. you’re right. The emotional variance threshold is overcorrecting.”
“Which means the system’s still prioritizing instinct over learned behavioral patterns.” You sigh.
“It’s a prototype,” Reed says simply.
You let out a snort. “That’s basically saying ‘it barely works.’”
“It works enough.” You can see Reed’s lips quirk up a bit.
The machine sitting in the middle of the lab says otherwise. The Synchronization Index prototype, or as you call it, the compatibility testing machine, looked less like revolutionary technology and more like someone had combined an MRI scanner together with a gaming console. After close to four months of development (even with Reed’s brains), the project was still deeply unfinished.
The original purpose had been simple enough: improve the team’s coordination during missions by analyzing behavioral compatibility and predictive patterns under stress. The deal was also simple. Reed handles all the computational side of things while you focused on the neurological aspects of it.
Johnny, naturally, called it a soulmate machine.
“It’s not a soulmate machine,” you had told him at least four times this week alone.
The lab doors slid open before Reed could respond, followed immediately by the familiar sound of someone humming dramatically off-key. Johnny strolls into the lab.
“There you are, Stretch,” he says, pointing accusingly at Reed. “I’ve been looking for—”
He stops mid-sentence.
Slowly, his gaze drifts toward the machine in the center of the room. Then toward the holographic screens floating overhead. Then towards you.
“Oh my god,” Johnny breathes. “You finally built the soulmate machine.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, but Reed answers before you can. “It measures adaptive synchronization and predictive behavioral compatibility.”
Johnny stares at him blankly.
“So,” he says carefully, “the soulmate machine.”
“It is not—”
“The soulmate machine,” Johnny repeats firmly.
You cross your arms. “Why are you even here?”
“Doesn’t matter now, it can wait. I’m more interested in this.” Johnny immediately drops into the chair connected to the machine. “Test me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s unfinished.”
“That’s never stopped any of you before.” He’s unfortunately correct.
Johnny leans back further into the chair with the confidence of a man who has never once feared consequences in his entire life. “C’mon. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Both you and Reed look at each other, then at him.
Johnny points between the two of you. “Wow. Okay. Little concerning that you both did that.”
Reed steps toward the console, thoughtful. “Actually, this could be useful.”
You blink. “Reed.”
“We need additional live-response data.”
“With Johnny?”
Johnny gasps dramatically. “I’m an excellent test subject.”
You sigh, then look at the clock. 3:52 PM. “Well, I have a meeting with the higher-ups from my department.” You look at Reed. “Do what you gotta do, the ball’s in your court now.”
You give a small wave goodbye to Johnny, taking off your lab coat and walking out of the lab.
The second the lab doors slide shut behind you, Johnny swivels lazily in the chair to look at Reed.
“So,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, “how exactly does the soulmate machine work?”
“It is not a soulmate machine.”
Johnny points at him. “You saying that only makes it sound more like a soulmate machine.”
Reed sighs softly, then gestures toward the neural monitors attached to the chair. “The system analyzes how effectively two individuals function together under varying conditions.”
Johnny grins. “So basically, which of the team I’d survive a road trip with.”
Ignoring him, Reed scans through the available baseline profiles, though most of them are incomplete. Then he pauses. “Hm.”
Johnny immediately narrows his eyes. “That ‘hm’ never means anything good.”
Reed taps something on the console. “You require a baseline comparison subject.”
“Okay?”
Your name sits at the top of the compatibility database, and Johnny straightens in the chair almost immediately. “Oh.”
“The two of you possess nearly two decades worth of history,” Reed explains. “The system also has extensive conversational and behavioral references involving both of you.”
Johnny tries very hard to act normal about that information, but of course he fails immediately.
“Aww,” he says weakly. “We’re scientifically best friends.”
Reed continues typing. “Additionally, your stress-response stabilization patterns consistently improve in her proximity.”
“Reed.”
“And according to mission analysis, you subconsciously prioritize her positioning during emergency scenarios.”
“Reed.”
“In theory, she is the ideal baseline candidate.”
Johnny stares blankly at the screen for several long seconds.
Then, “…Huh.”
Reed looks at him. “Anything wrong?”
“Nope.” Johnny clears his throat. “No problem. Totally normal amount of information to learn about yourself on a random Tuesday. I’m down, let’s do this.”
Reed presses the final command anyway and the machine hums to life. Blue light flickers across the monitors as the sensors attached to Johnny’s temples begin scanning neural activity. A holographic screen expands overhead, rapidly cycling through data points.
Johnny watches the loading bar with mild suspicion.
“So what happens if the results suck?”
“They likely won’t.”
“Wow,” Johnny says dryly. “Your confidence in me is inspiring.”
“You misunderstand. The system favors familiarity.”
Johnny opens his mouth to respond, but the machine suddenly lets out a sharp chime.
Processing Complete. The holographic display shifts, then, a percentage flashes onto the center screen.
98.9%
The room goes completely silent.
“The previous highest recorded compatibility score,” Reed says slowly, “was ninety-one percent.”
Johnny tears his eyes away from the screen. “And mine is—”
“Ninety-eight point nine.”
“…That feels illegal somehow.”
Reed steps closer to the display, studying the rapidly expanding analysis graphs now populating the screen.
“Fascinating. This level of compatibility is statistically abnormal.”
Johnny’s eyes widened. Statistically abnormal. With you. His brain suddenly begins replaying every interaction he’s had with you over the past year at lightning speed.
The way you automatically know what he needs before he asks for them, the way you know exactly what his different silences mean, the way he always looks for you first whenever he walks into a room, the way being around you somehow makes everything feel—
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Johnny slowly sits upright in the chair.
Reed glances at him briefly. “Are you alright?”
“No,” Johnny says immediately.
Reed pauses, and Johnny points dramatically toward the glowing percentage still floating on the screen. “I need to date her.”
“…What?”
“I need to date her,” Johnny repeats, now sounding genuinely alarmed by the realization. “Like, immediately.”
Reed blinks once. “You arrived at that conclusion very quickly.”
“Reed, the science literally said we’re soulmates.”
“It did not say that.”
“It basically did.”
“The machine measures adaptive synchronization.”
Johnny lets out a short laugh. Not because anything’s funny, but mostly because he suddenly feels a little insane.
Of course it’s you.
Of course.
The girl he’s been stupidly in love with since he was young apparently turns out to be his cosmic statistical anomaly too. That honestly tracks. Johnny drags a hand down his face. “You have gotta be kidding me.”
Reed glances up briefly. “Is something wrong?”
“Reed,” Johnny says slowly, “this machine just told me I’ve been wasting my own time for years.”
“That is not what it—”
“Ninety-eight point nine percent,” Johnny repeats. “Do you understand how bad that is for me emotionally?”
Reed considers this. “I don’t think the results are inherently negative.”
“No, see, that’s because you’re happily married.”
Johnny stands abruptly from the chair and starts pacing. He looks at Reed with newfound determination. “I know what I have to do now!” And before Reed could respond, he rushed out of the lab, into the elevator.
The kitchen was quiet and peaceful before Johnny speed-walks inside, tripping over the stairs on his way in. “Ben,” he says urgently.
Ben is halfway through making dinner, and he doesn’t even look up from the stove when Johnny walks in. “You blow somethin’ up?”
“No.”
Ben looks up at Johnny, raising a rocky eyebrow in question. Johnny looks deeply distressed, and he notices this, so he turns the heat down slightly. “Alright. What happened?”
Johnny runs both hands through his hair before pointing accusingly into the air like the compatibility machine personally offended him. He then says your name.
“The stupid compatibility machine thing said me and her are ninety-eight point nine percent compatible.”
Ben blinks once then goes back to stirring the pasta sauce.
“…That all?”
Johnny stares at him. “What do you mean ‘that all’?”
“I mean,” Ben shrugs, “sounds about right.”
“What?”
Ben finally looks at him properly now, expression somewhere between amused and exhausted. “Dude, you’ve been in love with her since before your voice dropped.”
“I have not.” He’s not that obvious, is he? Ben gives him a look, and Johnny immediately folds.
“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “Maybe a little.”
“A little,” Ben repeats flatly.
For a moment, the kitchen falls quiet except for the sound of simmering sauce and Johnny aggressively rethinking the last ten years of his life. Then,
“What do I do?”
Ben blinks. “About what?”
Johnny gestures wildly. “About her!”
Ben stares at him. “…You ask her out.”
Johnny looks bored. “That’s your advice? I was expecting more.”
“That’s usually how datin’ works, yeah.”
“No, but what if she thinks I’m joking?”
Ben’s expression shifts slightly.
Ah, there it is.
Johnny slumps further against the counter now, suddenly looking far less dramatic and far more nervous than before. “I mean, c’mon, Ben,” he says quieter. “Look at me.”
Ben’s lips quirk up a bit. “Unfortunately, I am.”
Johnny lets out a frustrated breath, dragging both hands down his face. “I mean, seriously, Ben. Why would she take me seriously?” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “I’m me.”
Ben snorts. “Yeah. Tragic condition.”
“Hey, I’m serious.” Johnny can’t help it, his lips pull down to a frown.
“I know.”
Johnny leans back against the counter, arms crossed tightly now. “She’s smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. She overthinks everything.” A pause. “What if she thinks I’m just someone who dates for fun and I’m not… serious enough for her?”
Johnny stares down at the countertop as he keeps talking, words coming easier now that he’s started. “I mean, I’ve never exactly given off ‘stable long-term investment’ vibes.” He laughs weakly. “Half the city thinks I’m emotionally allergic to commitment.”
Ben pulls the garlic bread out of the oven before finally speaking.
“Johnny.”
Johnny looks up, seeing Ben setting the tray down carefully. “You know why this is different?”
Johnny shrugs helplessly.
“Because you’re scared.”
Johnny blinks, Ben points at him with the giant oven mitt. “You don’t get scared about girls.”
“That is wildly untrue.”
“No,” Ben says. “You get nervous sometimes. You get awkward sometimes. But scared?” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
Johnny doesn’t answer because unfortunately, Ben’s right. He leans back against the counter across from Johnny. “You’ve liked her for so long you forgot there was ever a version of your life without her in it.”
“And if she matters that much to you,” Ben continues, “then act like it.”
Johnny lets out a slow breath. “…How?”
Ben gives him an incredulous look. “By bein’ honest.”
Johnny immediately grimaces. “Again with this terrible advice.”
Ben laughs. “I’m serious.”
“I know, that’s why it’s terrible.”
Ben shakes his head fondly before saying, more gently this time. “If she thinks this is just another thing for you, then you prove it ain’t.”
Johnny takes a few seconds to internalize everything that Ben has said, but then, they both hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. It was Sue, standing there with her cup of tea, giving them both an impressed smile.
“Aw, you’re finally growing up.” She nods to Johnny. Johnny gives her an unimpressed scowl.
That night, Johnny starts to conjure up every plan that would finally make you realize that he was in love with you.
Well, maybe “conjure up” was too elegant of a phrase. Obsess over was probably more accurate.
The plan was simple. He would tell you how he felt, eventually.
After some preparation.
Maybe a little preparation.
Okay, maybe a lot of preparation.
Because there was a difference between knowing what you wanted to do and actually doing it. Johnny knew he wanted to ask you out, but the problem was that every time he imagined himself saying the words out loud, his brain immediately supplied several horrifying possibilities.
You’re laughing—no, you’re staring. Hm… maybe you’ll just outright say no. Or maybe, just maybe, you saying yes and then asking why it took him almost two decades.
Which was how Johnny arrived at the conclusion that he should start small. You know, ease into it, test the waters and everything.
A concept he had never successfully practiced his entire life.
From the next day onwards, he was absolutely insufferable. He would be everywhere, and while he usually is everywhere you are, this was just on another level.
One day, Johnny appears in your lab sometime after lunch, leaning casually against the doorway. At least, he thinks he looks casual, but in reality, he's been standing there for nearly thirty seconds waiting for you to look up from your tablet.
You don't.
He shifts his weight, and still nothing.
A few more seconds pass before you finally glance up.
"Hey."
The smile you give him is immediate and familiar. Johnny has seen that smile thousands of times over the years, and somehow it still manages to hit him like a truck.
"Hey yourself."
You return your attention to whatever you're working on, but eventually, he clears his throat. "You know, I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
The response comes so quickly that Johnny almost laughs. "See, normally that joke would hurt my feelings."
"Normally?"
"Normally."
You finally set your tablet down and look at him properly. "What do you want?"
"Wow."
"What?"
"Straight to business."
"Johnny."
"Fine, fine." He pushes himself away from the doorway and wanders further into the lab, pretending to inspect one of the monitors nearby. Really, he's just buying himself time, because suddenly the line he'd been planning feels incredibly stupid.
Not that it stopped him.
"I'm admiring the view."
The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You furrow your brows in confusion, then glance over your shoulder toward the large monitor behind you. "The graph?"
Johnny stares. "No."
Your eyes move toward the windows lining the far side of the lab. “Manhattan?"
"No."
You look back at him, and slowly, realization dawns on your face.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
For one glorious second, Johnny thinks he's finally done something right. Then you tilt your head. "That was terrible."
His confidence immediately evaporates. "What?"
"You've used that before."
The accusation is so immediate that Johnny almost chokes. "What? No."
"Johnny."
"Okay, maybe once."
Your eyes narrow.
"More than once."
"I knew it," you say.
"You knew what?"
"You have a system."
Johnny gasps, genuinely offended. "I do not have a system."
"You absolutely have a system."
"I'll have you know my flirting is entirely improvised."
That only makes you laugh harder, which unfortunately, is still the best reaction he's gotten all day. “I’ve known you since we were kids, fireboy. I know how you work.” You point at him with your pointer finger.
Johnny plops down a chair, leaning back and groaning. “Ugh, I was just trying to be… nice.” He finishes lamely with a smile.
“Or… you want something from me.” You approached him, ruffling his hair to annoy him. He doesn’t try to swat your hand away this time, which makes you raise an eyebrow as he tilts his head of messy hair when you pull away. “Mmm, no, not really.” He says with that lazy smirk of his.
You look at him for a few seconds, and scoff playfully, going back to your work.
A few moments later, he ponders again, trying to come up with another plan. He vaguely remembers Reed telling him that a way to Sue’s heart was with direct compliments. Maybe it’ll work on you too?
That evening, he finds you in one of the common lounges of the building, probably wanting to get out of the lab and work in a newer setting. You’re sitting on the couch reading through some notes handed by your team.
“Hey.”
You wave without looking up. Johnny tilts his head, curious as to what you were doing, and sits right beside you. Maybe a little too close, but you don’t notice, not really. Or maybe you do, he thinks. It’s impossible to tell. He observes you under the warm light of the room.
“I think you’re really pretty.” The words leave his mouth before he can overthink them. You finally look up.
“Aw, thanks.” Then, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You eye him suspiciously, as this behavior was a stark contrast to his usual teasing and provoking.
“What? No! I just wanted to say that.” Johnny grins like he’s proud of himself. He waits, and nothing. No realization, no blushing, no dramatic revelation, just… gratitude. Like he’d told you the weather was nice.
You return to your notes, and a beat passes. “I think you’re pretty too.” You don't even look up when you say it.
You just continue highlighting something in your document, and Johnny spends the next ten minutes trying to remember how breathing works.
Johnny recites all of his efforts to Sue, and she just laughs at him. Laughs! He gives her an offended, yet desperate look. “What?”
When Sue’s laughter dies down a bit, she begins to give him some advice: be more direct using actions. Actions, okay, he can do that. Absolutely no problem at all.
The first thing Johnny tries is flowers. You look up from your workstation when he walks into the wet lab carrying an enormous bouquet. Your eyes widen.
"Oh wow."
Johnny straightens. Here we go.
"You got flowers."
"Yeah."
"Who's the lucky girl?"
Johnny freezes. "...What?"
You point at the bouquet. "Are these for someone?"
For a brief, horrifying second, Johnny considers lying. But he internally sighs and sucks it up. "They're for you."
"Oh."
His heart immediately starts beating faster when you give him a smile, a genuine smile. The kind he usually loves seeing. Except,
“That’s so sweet.”
Not romantic. Sweet. Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.
You take the flowers. “Thank you.”
Johnny waits.
You place them in a vase, mentioning something about how this wet lab was actually the perfect place to deliver them because it was coincidentally a plant science lab! How nice!
Then you immediately return to your microscope, and the conversation is apparently over.
Johnny leaves the lab ten minutes later feeling like he somehow lost.
The second thing Johnny tries is lunch. Surely lunch is more date-adjacent, right? So when he remembers you mentioning a tiny sandwich shop three neighborhoods away, he immediately flies across Manhattan to get your favorite order.
You blink when he sets the bag on your desk.
"What's this?"
"Lunch."
You give him a grateful look, “Aw, is this you finally repaying me for all I’ve cooked for you?”
What?
Oh, that’s right. You cook for him—a lot. You mentioned that cooking was one of the ways you destress, and you keep making extra food for yourself, so you started cooking up two portions instead. One for you and one for him.
“Uh, yeah..” He chuckles awkwardly.
Then, you look at the logo stuck into the parchment paper. "Wait."
Johnny perks up.
"You remembered my order?"
"Of course I remembered your order."
You look genuinely surprised, and somehow that feels worse. "Johnny," you say carefully, "I told you that one time. Like eight months ago."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"...That's actually kind of impressive. Thanks."
Johnny immediately decides to survive on that compliment for the next week. Okay, so he’s getting it now! Cater to your wants and needs, not just give you things he thinks sound good.
Johnny starts making notes. Like, actual notes. Like he’s conducting a science experiment. In his chicken scratch writing, he writes down all the attempts he did, and what the outcome of it was.
ATTEMPT #5: Complimented hair, and she said thank you. Outcome: inconclusive.
ATTEMPT #7: Brought coffee, and she smiled, promising to grab coffee with me sometime. Outcome: promising.
ATTEMPT #10: Asked if she would ever date a superhero, and she said probably not. Too busy, too dangerous. But she still said it depends. Outcome: devastating.
The first person you mention it to is Sue, mostly because you’ve known her for two decades now, and also because she’s the safest option. Someone you’re able to trust.
Ben would immediately make it weird, Reed would probably start taking notes, and Johnny… well, Johnny is the problem. So Sue it is.
You, Reed, and Sue are scattered around Reed's lab on a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Reed is buried in whatever world-ending project currently occupies his attention, Sue is reviewing mission reports, and you're attempting to organize several weeks worth of research data.
Attempting being the operative word, because Johnny keeps interrupting your thoughts.
You finally let out a frustrated sigh. Across the room, Sue glances up.
"Everything okay?"
You hesitate, but decide to ask her anyway. "Has Johnny been acting strange lately?"
Sue immediately looks interested, which should have been your first warning.
"Strange how?"
You spin your chair around. "I don't know." A lie. You know exactly how, you just don’t know why. You tap your pen against the desk. “He’s been…”
Sue waits.
“Different…”
“Different.”
“Mm. Different.”
Sue's mouth twitches, and you narrow your eyes. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"The thing where you clearly know something."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Fortunately, Sue respects her brother enough not to air out his feelings about you.
"Liar."
Sue laughs, and you slump back into your chair.
"It's just weird."
"What's weird?"
You gesture vaguely. "He's been showing up everywhere."
Sue hums.
"He keeps bringing me things."
Another hum.
"He complimented me three times yesterday."
Sue raises an eyebrow.
"Only three?"
You throw a pen at her, but she catches it effortlessly with her powers. Of course she does.
"My point is," you continue, "Johnny's always been nice, but this feels… intentional. Like every interaction has an ulterior motive behind it.”
Sue studies you quietly. "What if he's just paying more attention?"
You snort. You seem to do that a lot these days. "Why?"
The question slips out before you can stop it. Why now? Why after all this time? Sue doesn't answer, or maybe she chooses not to. Instead, she returns her attention to the report in front of her. You make a mental note to dig into that later.
Then, you suddenly remembered something. “Hey, Reed. How did it go with the synchronization index results two days ago? You know, the one that Johnny took?”
Reed pauses, but you don’t really seem to notice it. You ask again, absentmindedly. “Who did you use as a baseline comparison? Was it Sue?”
“Uh, no. We used you, actually.”
“Oh, cool! What did Johnny and I get?” You ask with curiosity.
Reed runs a hand through his hair. "So, you know how the highest compatibility score previously recorded was ninety-one percent."
You stare.
"...Okay?"
"Your scores were ninety-eight point nine percent."
The room goes completely silent.
For a moment, you genuinely wonder if you heard him correctly. A strange warmth blooms in your chest. Ninety-eight point nine, you and Johnny. A ridiculous part of you immediately wants to smile, because of course it's Johnny.
Of course the person who knows you best would be Johnny.
But then another thought creeps in.
Slowly, unpleasantly. The timing.
The sudden attention, the compliments, the flowers, the lunches, the flirting, the everything.
Your stomach drops.
Oh.
Oh. That explains everything.
You look away before either Reed or Sue can notice the change in your expression, because suddenly it all makes sense. Johnny took the test, got the score, and he started… trying. Not before, but after. You hate how the realization quickly settles, and how neatly all the pieces fit together. Because for one stupid second, you'd let yourself wonder if maybe…
No. You shut that thought down immediately.
This wasn't romantic, this was Johnny.
Johnny, who turned everything into a competition. Johnny, who chased things because they were exciting. Johnny, who had never looked twice at a finish line he hadn't crossed yet.
Ninety-eight point nine percent. This was a challenge, a goal. You hate how much that possibility bothers you. Maybe because a small, selfish part of you wanted it to mean something else. Wanted all those lingering looks and stupid compliments to be real. Wanted him to choose you because he wanted you.
Not because some machine told him he should.
You force a smile onto your face. "So that's why." You mumble.
Sue's eyes flick toward you, observant and knowing. Unfortunately, you don't look at her long enough to notice. Because by then you've already made up your mind. Whatever this is, it needs to stop.
Before you start hoping for things Johnny Storm was never actually offering.
Johnny realizes there's a problem three days later. Not because you reject him, no, that would’ve been easier. No, the problem is that you're being nice. The kind of nice that creates approximately twelve feet of emotional distance.
"Thanks for the coffee, Johnny."
"Thanks for the meal, Johnny."
"Thanks for helping me carry those samples, Johnny."
By Thursday, Johnny is standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like it personally betrayed him. "This is bad."
Sue barely glances up from her tea, like she already knows what he’s talking about. "How bad?"
"She thanked me."
Sue blinks, and Johnny points dramatically. "Exactly."
"Johnny, most people like being thanked."
"Not like this."
Sue studies him for a moment. "You think she's avoiding you."
"I know she's avoiding me."
"Did she say that?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
Johnny groans. "Because it's her." He throws himself into a chair. "I know her." That was the problem. Johnny knew exactly how you acted when you were annoyed, stressed, happy—everything! And lately? You were acting careful, like somebody trying not to touch a hot stove.
Sue watches him sulk for a moment before finally setting down her mug. "When was the last time you showed interest in something she likes?"
Johnny frowns. "I know things she likes."
"No. I mean actually interested."
"I am interested."
Sue gives him a look. "Johnny."
"Oh." The realization visibly hits him. “You mean… science? I like science, this should be easy.”
Sue stares at him. “No, like… biology. Things that are in her field. Let her know that you care about the things she’s doing, and the fact that you love listening to her. It’ll get her to open up to you more.”
“Sue, you’re a genius!”
Johnny becomes aggressively committed to the bit. He appears in your lab the following Monday wearing glasses.
You stare. "Why are you wearing glasses?"
Johnny immediately touches them. "Oh, these?" He adjusts them casually. Too casually. "Been reading a lot lately."
You narrow your eyes. "Reading."
"Yep."
"What kind of reading?"
Johnny shrugs. "Scientific reading." The answer is so vague that it somehow circles back around to being suspicious. You slowly set your tablet down.
"What scientific reading?"
Johnny freezes. Not because he doesn't know, but because he knows too much. The last three nights have been spent with his face buried in journals while Reed chuckled at him from across the lab. Now his brain is suddenly trying to sort through a ridiculous number of scientific terms at once.
"Cells."
You blink. "Cells."
"Yeah."
A beat.
"There are a lot of those."
Your stare intensifies, and Johnny immediately folds. "Okay, fine. Molecular biology." Now you look genuinely surprised. "Oh."
For the first time all week, Johnny feels like he's accomplished something.
"Why?"
There it is. the question he's been trying desperately to avoid. Why. Because saying because he’s hopelessly in love with you feels a little aggressive for a Monday morning. So instead he says, "I wanted to understand your work better."
The words come out before he can stop them. And for a second, neither of you say anything. Something shifts briefly in your expression, it softens. But at the same second, it disappears.
"Oh."
Johnny's stomach does a weird thing. Because that sounded way more sincere than he'd intended. Which is unfortunate because it was completely true.
You clear your throat. "Well."
You point toward the journal tucked under his arm. "If you're reading that one, chapter four is outdated."
Johnny looks down, then back up. "You've read it?"
You immediately look offended. "Johnny."
"Right. Stupid question."
"Very stupid question."
"You know, I walked directly into that one."
"Yes, you did."
You chuckle, and Johnny feels like his heart is about to burst. “Do you actually wanna learn these things?”
“I mean, yeah!” He nods enthusiastically. Seeing this, you walk over to one of the shelves in the corner of the room. It was quite high up, but you were pretty sure you were able to reach it last time. So you stood on your tip-toes, and tried grabbing the massive textbook sitting on top.
Johnny immediately comes over. “I can reach that—”
“No. I can do it.” You say as you hold the corner of the book.
“No, no, really, I can help you.” He says, and he reaches a hand to the same book, but it ends up falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You look at him with an unimpressed look. He purses his lips, hands behind his back now, looking guilty and looking everywhere but your eyes.
You inhale and exhale sharply, but you grabbed the book from the floor anyway, and placed it in front of him. It was a worn down copy of a ‘Campbell’s Biology’ textbook. “This was with me throughout my high school and university days.” You open up a specific chapter.
“If you really want to learn a few things, you’re welcome to come to me any time. I know you’re smart and capable, but if you have too many thoughts sitting in that brain of yours, I’d love to help you sort them out.” You looked back to the book. “I’d start with this part of the textbook.”
Johnny follows your gaze to the page you've opened. The margins are filled with tiny handwritten notes, some written in different colors, accumulated over what looked like years of use. Several sections had been highlighted, and a few pages were dog-eared.
The book practically screamed that it belonged to you. For some reason, that realization settles strangely in his chest.
He'd expected a polite dismissal. Maybe a sarcastic comment about how long this latest phase of his would last. Instead, you'd handed him one of the textbooks that had followed you through high school and university and were now offering to help him through it.
The fact that you seemed completely sincere about it only made the feeling worse.
Or better, he wasn’t entirely sure.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he carefully turns a page. "You're really volunteering to tutor me?"
You glance up from the chapter. "I'm offering to answer questions."
"That sounds suspiciously like tutoring."
"Only because I know you'll have questions."
Johnny lets out a quiet laugh. "Wow. Good to know you have so much faith in me."
"If I get stuck," he continues, trying, and failing to sound casual, "you're not gonna make fun of me, right?"
You look genuinely puzzled. "Why would I do that?" The answer comes so quickly that he almost misses it. As if the idea had never even crossed your mind. Johnny feels something warm settle in his chest.
Because that's just it, isn't it? You never treated him like he was less intelligent than the people around him. You'd always looked at him like he was perfectly capable of keeping up if he wanted to.
"You'd be surprised," he says lightly.
"Johnny."
Your voice softens just enough to make him look up. "I know you're smart."
The statement is delivered so matter-of-factly that it catches him completely off guard. Johnny flashes a grin. "Careful. Keep saying stuff like that and I'm gonna start developing self-esteem."
You immediately roll your eyes.
"Tragic."
"Absolutely devastating."
Johnny shows up in your lab the next morning like he’s been doing it for years.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans into the doorway for a moment, watching you work, then crosses the room and places a small stack of printed pages on the edge of your desk.
You glance at them, then up at him.
“What’s this?”
“Lab notes,” he says.
You blink once. “…From who?”
“Reed.” That at least makes sense.
You pick up the top sheet and scan it quickly. It’s formatted the way Reed likes everything formatted—dense, precise, slightly over-detailed in a way that assumes the reader is already three steps ahead. Still, it’s useful.
You look back up at Johnny. “Why are you delivering these?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was already coming here.”
You study him for a second longer. He looks… normal. Casual, even. Like he’s just passing through. But he’s also watching you closely, like he’s waiting to see whether this counts as helpful or intrusive. “Put them there.”
Johnny does.
For a few minutes, the lab is quiet again except for the usual hum of equipment and the soft rhythm of your pen making contact with paper.
You assume he’ll leave. He doesn’t.
Instead, he drifts further into the room, stopping near one of your benches. He looks around like he’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to exist in that space without an explicit task.
Then, carefully, he picks up a pair of gloves from your supply tray.
“You don’t need those,” you say without looking up.
“I know.”
Another pause, then he puts them back. After a moment, he starts to speak again. “Can I touch the cabinet?”
You don’t look up. “Yes.”
“Cool.”
You hear movement behind you after that. Cabinets opening. The faint clink of containers being shifted. At first, you ignore it. Johnny has always been… present. This is not new. What’s new is the silence. When you turn around again, he’s reorganizing one of your supply shelves. By size, at first glance. Then by category.
Then, after a moment of observation, you realize he’s also separating things by how often you reach for them. The most frequently used items are already drifting toward eye level.
You stop. “…What are you doing?”
“Helping,” he says, without looking at you.
“That’s not helping.”
“It is if I’m right.”
You step closer, arms folding. “You don’t know what I need where.”
Johnny finally looks at you then, one hand still holding a labeled vial. “I think I do.”
The confidence in it makes you pause, not because it’s arrogant, but it sounds… considered. Like he’s been paying attention in a way you didn’t realize required effort.
You glance at the shelf again. It is, inconveniently, better organized than it was before. “…Why?” you ask finally.
Johnny shrugs, setting the vial down carefully. “Because you shouldn’t have to look for things twice in the same day.”
That’s all he says, like it’s not something worth making a big deal out of.
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, then look away first. “Fine,” you say. “But don’t reorganize anything else without asking.”
He smiles a little.
“Bossy.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Right. Sorry.”
A beat.
“…Boss.”
Your lips quirk up just a tiny bit.
A few days after that, you notice something different in your lab. Your bench is already set up when you walk inside. Not partially, but fully set up. The samples are arranged in labeled rows. The pipettes you prefer are already out. Even the centrifuge has been pre-adjusted to the settings you would have chosen yourself, down to the slight calibration you usually account for.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
“…Reed,” you talk into your communication device, still looking at the bench. “Did you come into my lab this morning?”
A pause. “No,” Reed answers. “Why?”
You glance around, though you already know the answer isn’t going to change. “Someone set up my experiment.”
“That’s unusual,” Reed says, in the tone of someone who is already mentally moving on to five other problems.
Then, mildly, “Is anything missing?”
You look again. Nothing is missing, everything is exactly where it should be.
You turned off your communication device, and that’s when you heard him.
“Morning.”
Johnny is leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, like he didn’t just quietly rearrange your entire workflow before you arrived.
You stare at him. “…Did you do this?”
He looks vaguely pleased with himself. “Maybe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s a pretty good one.”
You walk over to your bench, slow and deliberate.
“You prepared my experiment.”
“I set it up,” he corrects. Johnny pushes off the doorframe and walks closer, hands in his pockets like this is all completely normal.
“I remembered what you said last week about wasting time on setup when you could be running data sooner.”
You blink. That was something you said once, in passing, but you hadn’t even been talking to him. “…You remembered that?”
Johnny shrugs. “You were annoyed when you said it.”
You glance at him. “That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s a reason.”
You don’t respond immediately. You exhale through your nose and turn back to the bench. “Don’t make a habit of entering my lab before I do.”
Johnny’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s bracing for a stricter rejection than the one you actually give him.
“But since you’re here already… you mind helping me out?” You grabbed a spare lab coat and tossed it to him.
He beamed at you like you handed him the keys to the city.
It doesn’t make sense at first. That’s the part you keep coming back to. Johnny Storm doesn’t set up experiments. He doesn’t organize supply shelves. He doesn’t remember small things you said in passing weeks ago and act on them like they mattered.
You sit at your workstation, but your attention keeps drifting back to the bench he prepared.
Everything is already in place. Clean, ordered, functional. Not just “good enough,” but it’s efficient. Annoyingly efficient. You glance at it again. Then, you catch yourself doing it and look back at your screen.
At first, it had been easy to explain away. The compatibility score, the machine, the timing of it all. Ninety-eight point nine percent.
It gave you something neat to hold onto, a reason for sudden behavior that didn’t quite match the version of Johnny Storm you were used to. Because that version made sense. He overdid things and got excited. He moved fast and moved on faster. But somehow… this isn’t that. This has been consistent.
You had told yourself it was all tied to the test, a reaction to being told something about himself that he now wanted to prove or act on. And while that still could be true, it’s just getting harder to fully believe it, because none of this looks like showing off anymore.
You don’t change what you do at first. It’s not obvious, at least not immediately. You just… stand a little closer than usual when he’s talking. Close enough that he notices, but not close enough that it should matter.
Johnny notices anyway because of course, he always notices you.
He’s mid-explanation about something he probably understands better than he’s currently articulating when he pauses for half a second too long, eyes flicking down like he’s just become aware of where he’s standing in space. Then he clears his throat and continues talking.
A little faster this time. You don’t move away.
Later, when he brings you a set of revised lab notes, you take them from him and your fingers brush his hand for a second longer than necessary.
It’s nothing, barely even contact. But Johnny goes still in a way that is immediately noticeable if you’re looking for it.
Which, unfortunately, you are. “Everything okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Then, after a beat, “Yeah. Totally fine.” He smiles like he means it, but… it doesn’t quite land.
You nod and go back to your screen.
The next day, you repeat it on purpose. Not dramatically, just enough to see if yesterday was coincidence.
You lean slightly closer when he’s showing you something on a monitor. Not touching him, just narrowing the space between you and him until he has to decide whether to acknowledge it or ignore it. He chooses neither.
He stops talking for half a second, then resumes with the wrong sentence and has to restart. You file that away quietly.
Interesting.
By the third day, you add something else. A little bit of… sauce, if you will. “You look tired,” you say when he walks in.
Johnny immediately straightens. “I’m not tired.”
“You’re slouching.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re slouching standing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
You tilt your head slightly. “It is for you.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so strained.
Then, you reach out and fix his collar without thinking about it too much. It’s a small adjustment. Barely a touch. Something you’ve done before in passing when he’s been too distracted to notice. Except this time, he does.
He goes completely still. Just… frozen in place like his brain has temporarily stopped accepting new input. Just as soon as you start, you finish adjusting it and step back.
“There,” you say. “Better.”
Johnny nods once. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. That’s—yeah.” He clears his throat. “You’re acting strange.”
“I’m not acting strange.”
A pause.
“You’re acting strange,” he repeats, like that fixes it.
The next scheduled debrief for the development of the Synchronization Index is today. You don’t think much of it when you hear about it.
It comes up in passing, the way most things in Reed’s lab do. Something about recalibration, about running comparative datasets again to stabilize the Synchronization Index after recent adjustments.
Your name is mentioned, briefly, almost absentmindedly.
You barely look up from what you’re doing. “High compatibility,” Reed says, like it’s nothing particularly remarkable.
And it isn’t, not really. The system has been producing results like that more often now, different pairings, different variables. You nod once, as if filing it away in a place that doesn’t require further attention.
“Ninety-four point six percent. Interesting,” you say, and move on. You don’t think about it again.
Not yet. But Johnny hears about it, and of course he makes a huge deal out of it. “Wait,” he says immediately, stopping so abruptly it almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “Back up a second.”
Reed pauses, patient in the way he always is when Johnny is involved.
“You ran her with who?”
“Dr. Scott,” Reed replies.
There’s a short silence.
Johnny’s expression doesn’t change right away, but something in him clearly does. “…Why?”
“Control comparison.” That seems to make things worse.
“No,” Johnny says, too quickly, like the word alone should be enough to undo the situation.
Reed blinks once. “No?”
“That’s not—” Johnny gestures vaguely, as if trying to physically rearrange the concept in the air. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is how it works.”
“No, because the machine doesn’t understand context,” Johnny says, already building momentum.
“It does,” Reed answers calmly.
Johnny ignores him completely. “It must’ve been off,” he decides.
Reed studies him now, more carefully.
“The system?”
“Yes.”
“It produced consistent results.”
Johnny immediately shakes his head. “That just means it was consistently wrong.”
From somewhere behind them, Sue makes a sound that might be a cough or might be laughter she is actively suppressing. Johnny continues pacing lightly now, more animated the longer he talks, as if movement will make the conclusion feel less real.
“It’s probably calibration drift,” he says. “Or environmental interference.”
“You are suggesting the machine is unreliable.”
“I am suggesting,” Johnny says, pointing vaguely as if the argument is already settled, “that the machine is not accounting for real-world variability.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is not.”
Reed does not look convinced.
Johnny exhales, running a hand through his hair, trying again with more urgency. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t make sense.”
Sue finally looks up from her tablet. “What doesn’t make sense?”
Johnny answers immediately. “That.”
Sue tilts her head slightly. “That… what?”
He hesitates, then gestures vaguely again, like the answer is obvious and frustratingly invisible.
“That it would do that.”
Reed watches him carefully now.
“Do what?”
“Be inaccurate.”
Sue leans back slightly in her chair, watching him with an expression that is far too knowing for his comfort. “You don’t like the result,” she says gently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is a little true,” Reed adds.
Johnny turns toward him immediately. “It’s not.”
Reed raises a brow.
Johnny pauses for half a beat, then corrects himself. “It’s… not about liking it.”
Sue hums faintly. “Then what is it about?”
Johnny doesn’t answer right away. There isn’t a clean answer that doesn’t sound like something he is not ready to say out loud, he thinks. Instead, he defaults to what he knows:
“Repeat the test,” he says.
Reed studies him for a long moment.
“Why?”
“To verify consistency,” Johnny replies immediately.
Sue’s expression shifts slightly at that. Not amused anymore, just observant. “That’s not why,” she says again, quieter this time.
Johnny looks at her. For a second, something almost slips through his expression, something that’s… unguarded. Then he shakes it off like it never happened.
“It is why,” he insists, and huffs. He looks back while rolling his eyes, and spots you. He immediately calls out your name and beckons you over.
You smile once you see him, and you walk towards him casually with your hands inside your lab coat pocket. "What?"
Johnny points at you immediately. "Tell Reed the machine is wrong."
You exhale with a smile, looking at his determined face. Determined for what, you don’t know yet. "...Hello to you too."
"Hi. Tell Reed the machine is wrong."
You glance between him and Reed. “What happened to our machine?"
"You got ninety-four point six percent with Dr. Scott."
You wait. "Okay?"
Johnny stares. The fact that you're not immediately alarmed somehow makes him look even more alarmed. "No, not okay."
You laugh. "Why?"
"Because it doesn't make sense. I mean what does the machine think is happening?" Johnny asks, already spiraling. "You guys barely know each other."
You open your mouth, but Johnny keeps going. "You've worked together for, what, eight months?"
"A year and a half."
“That’s not helping,” he mutters immediately.
You study him for a moment. “Helping what?”
Johnny ignores that completely. “It’s not just about time anyway,” he continues. “It’s about context. Shared experience. Patterns. You don’t just build compatibility off proximity and shared work hours.”
“…And what counts as real compatibility?” you ask quietly.
Johnny opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. For the first time, the confidence slips just slightly at the edges, because the answer he almost gives is not scientific at all.
And he knows it.
Johnny is beginning to feel beyond frustrated. He’s done all this and all that, but he just… doesn’t have enough confidence yet. He doesn’t have that one final push to make him brave enough to actually tell you about his feelings. Tonight, he’s pacing in the common room like the floor has personally offended him. Then, he sees a rocky, orange build in front of him. “Ben!”
Ben stops, then sighs. “Whatever it is, you’re doing it wrong.”
Johnny blinks. “I haven’t told you what it is yet…”
Ben finally turns back to face him. He shrugs. “I’ve got an idea.”
Johnny huffs. “Nothing’s working. I don’t know what else to do to get her to come to me.” Johnny drags a hand down his face. “I tried the normal way, didn’t work. I tried the direct way, didn’t work. I tried… whatever I did, and it still didn’t work.”
Ben nods like this is normal information. “Then stop doin’ it.”
Johnny looks at him. “That’s your advice?”
Ben shrugs. “You ever try not runnin’ at a wall?”
Johnny blinks.
“…What does that mean?”
“It means,” Ben says, leaning back, “you keep actin’ like you gotta prove somethin’. Just stop chasin’ it.”
Johnny tilts his head, a bit confused, but somewhat getting it. Bless him. “So I… don’t initiate.”
Ben squints. “If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.”
Johnny nods, already locking in the interpretation. “I don’t initiate.” Johnny had stared at him for a long moment before asking, “And then what?”
Ben had shrugged. “Then she comes to you.”
Which, in hindsight, was not actually advice. It was just a sentence. But Johnny, unfortunately, hears it like a strategy.
The first time, you don’t think much of it.
Johnny not showing up to the lab at the usual time isn’t unheard of. He has missions. He has Reed. He has whatever chaotic schedule comes with being Johnny Storm. So you keep working. You assume he’ll appear later, sliding into the room mid-task like he always does, making some comment about how you look like you haven’t blinked in hours.
But he doesn’t.
Huh, must’ve been super busy today. You think.
The second time it happens, you catch it early enough that it feels worse. You run into him in the hallway outside the lab in the morning, and you see him before he sees you.
When he finally sees you, his expression changes the way it always does, like you’ve become the most natural point of focus in the room. The warmth is there, the familiarity is there, but something underneath it feels restrained, as though it doesn’t quite reach the surface the way it usually does.
“Hey,” he says when you approach.
“Hey,” you reply, automatically matching his tone, because that part hasn’t changed yet.
For a brief moment, it almost feels normal. You ask him if he’s still available later to go get some coffee you’d scheduled together, expecting the usual easy confirmation, maybe a joke about how you’re the only person who tries to make him sit still for breaks.
Instead, Johnny goes quiet for a fraction too long. It’s subtle, not enough to interrupt the rhythm of the conversation outright, but enough that you notice the shift in him as he searches for something to say.
“Yeah,” he starts, then hesitates, and when he continues, it comes out slightly less certain. “Actually, I might have to rain check that.”
“A rain check,” you repeat, because it sounds wrong coming from him.
He nods quickly, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to reinforce it before it can be questioned. “Yeah. Reed’s got me tied up with something. It came up at the last minute.”
There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t sit right. Most importantly, he is not someone who usually steps away from time with you without making it sound like a loss he intends to fix.
You study him for a moment longer, and that’s when you start noticing the details you might have missed otherwise. The way his posture is slightly more controlled than usual, the way his gaze flickers away from yours a fraction too soon, like he is afraid that if he holds it too long, something will slip.
“Is everything okay?” you ask.
Johnny nods immediately, but there is a delay before the nod settles into something convincing. “Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat that feels like an afterthought he didn’t mean to reveal, he adds, “I’m fine.”
He looks at you properly then, and for a second you see it more clearly. Not distance exactly, and not indifference, but effort. Like he is trying to maintain a version of himself that does not naturally fit the situation he is in.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. When you don’t respond right away, he continues, a little more quickly now, “We’ll reschedule. I’ll let you know.”
By the third, fourth, fifth time, you stop pretending you don’t notice. He still shows up (sometimes), still helps, and still answers when you ask him things. But everything has shifted half a step to the side, like he’s deliberately trying not to occupy the same space in the same way.
Even the jokes change.
They’re still there, just… less immediate. Like he’s letting silence happen before deciding whether to fill it. And worse than that, he starts leaving first. Not in a rude way, but in a careful way, like he’s trying not to overstay something you didn’t realize had a limit.
It takes you a while to bring it up, mostly because at first you keep convincing yourself there isn’t anything to bring up. People drift a little without it meaning anything deeper than that. Except Johnny doesn’t really “drift.” Not like this.
So when you finally catch him alone in the lab doorway one afternoon, you decide you’re just going to ask. He looks up when you call his name.
“Hey,” he says, like always.
“Hey,” you reply, but you don’t move back to your work this time.
Instead, you just look at him for a second longer than usual, trying to figure out where exactly the shift happened. Johnny notices that immediately. Of course he does.
“Everything okay?” he asks, a little too quickly.
You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “I think something’s changed,” you bring it up.
That makes him pause. “What do you mean?”
You lean back slightly against the edge of the table, folding your arms without really thinking about it.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “You’ve just been different lately. You’re around less. You keep rescheduling things. Even when you’re here, it feels like you’re halfway somewhere else.”
You pause, then add, a little more quietly, like you’re afraid that this is the case, “Did I do something?”
That finally gets a reaction out of him. “What? No,” he says immediately, almost horrified by the idea.
But then it fades a little, like the certainty doesn’t hold. “No, it’s not that.”
You watch him carefully now. “Then what is it?”
Johnny opens his mouth, closes it again, and lets out a breath through his nose like he’s trying to decide whether he’s about to say something stupid or something irreversible.
“It’s… advice,” he says eventually.
That makes you blink, looking at him like you’re silently saying ‘are you kidding me?’
“Advice.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding once, like that explains everything and also absolutely nothing. “From Ben.”
You stare at him for a second. “…Ben told you to start avoiding me?”
“No,” Johnny says quickly, then corrects himself just as fast. “Not like that. He said I was doing too much. Like I was…” He stops, clearly searching for the wording, then gives up a little. “He said I should stop chasing and just… let things happen.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“And your interpretation of that was to disappear?”
“I thought,” he says, slower, “if I stopped being in your face all the time, you’d have space. And then you’d… come to me.”
That lands in the air between you in a way that makes the room feel quieter than it was a second ago.
“…Come to you?”
He nods once, like he fully hears how bad that sounds now that it’s out loud. “Yeah,” he says, more uncertain now. “That was the idea.”
I shake my head in even more confusion. “What do I need to come to you for?”
“Just… uhhh…” Johnny stands there, confused on how to go on with this.
“Okay, don’t answer that, just… That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you describe out loud,” you say.
Johnny gives you a look. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” For a second, it almost resets into something lighter. But then he goes quiet again, and whatever humor was in his expression fades back into something more unsettled.
“I just didn’t know how else to do it,” he admits.
You take a step closer without really thinking about it. “Do what?” you ask, softer now.
Johnny looks at you, and this time he doesn’t try to joke his way around it. Instead, he just exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Tell you,” he says quietly. “That I like you. Without messing it up.”
For a second, you don’t say anything.
It isn’t that you don’t understand him. You do. It’s just that your brain takes a moment to process what exactly he just said, because it doesn’t fit neatly into any of the explanations you had been building over the past week.
Johnny watches you carefully while that happens, which only makes it harder to think, because he looks like he’s bracing for impact even though he’s standing completely still.
“I—” he starts, then stops himself almost immediately, shaking his head slightly. “Okay, no, I’m not doing the talking thing right. Just—ignore that. Forget I said it. That was—”
“Johnny,” you interrupt gently, not loud, just enough to pull him back.
He goes quiet again. You take a breath, slower than usual, trying to steady yourself in the way you normally do when something unexpected comes up in the lab.
“So,” you say after a moment, “your plan was to avoid me until I came to you.”
He hesitates. “…Yeah.”
“And that was supposed to help you tell me you like me.”
“Also yes,” he admits, a little miserably.
You nod slowly, like you’re processing experimental results that don’t behave the way they’re supposed to. “That’s not how people work,” you say.
“I know that now,” he says quickly. “I panicked.”
“You’ve been panicking?” you ask.
Johnny lets out a breath that sounds halfway like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Kind of,” he says. “Yeah.”
You glance down briefly, then back at him. “I thought you were… I don’t know,” you admit, a little more honestly than you intended. “Trying to prove something. Or that it was just the test. Or that it was easier to turn it into a challenge than actually… yeah.”
Johnny shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says, firmer now. “No, it wasn’t that.”
He hesitates, then adds, more carefully, “I didn’t start doing any of this because of the test. I started because I was trying not to ruin it.” He looks at you like he needs you to understand that part specifically.
“I’ve known I like you,” he says, a little more quietly now. “For a long time. That’s not new. What’s new is that I actually said it out loud and then immediately realized I have no idea what I’m doing with it.”
Then, almost helplessly, “So I listened to Ben.”
You huff a small laugh at that before you can stop yourself. Johnny shifts slightly, like he’s preparing himself again, but this time it’s not for retreat.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says more simply. “But I think I already kind of did.”
You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “You did something very stupid,” you agree.
He nods immediately.
“Yeah.”
“But,” you add, after a pause, “you didn’t mess it up.”
That makes him look up properly. You exhale, a little softer now. “You just made it more complicated than it needed to be.”
Johnny stares at you for a moment like he’s not entirely sure whether that’s better or worse.
“…Is that fixable?” he asks.
“I mean, it’s not like you burned down my lab or something. Of course it’s fixable.” You say with a smile. That gets a real laugh out of him this time, and something tight inside him finally loosens.
Then, quieter again, “So… what now?”
You look at him for a second longer than necessary, and this time, instead of overthinking it, you just answer him plainly. “Now you stop avoiding me,” you say. “And we figure it out properly.”
Johnny nods once, absolutely no hesitation this time. “Okay,” he says.
In the warm afternoon light of the building hallway, he starts to lean in, almost instinctively. You do too, but then,
“Wait.”
Johnny pulls back slightly, confused, and a bit worried. “What is it?” He asks in a low voice, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.
“You did all of that because of the stupid soulmate machine?” You immediately regretted the words that came out of your mouth, because—
“You called it the soulmate machine!” Johnny exclaims, wide eyes and a smile that’s brighter than the sun.
“Oh my God, no, I—” You start, but he interrupts you.
“Nope! No take backs! You called it the soulmate machine, it is officially named the—”
You kiss him.
Honestly, it isn't even a conscious decision.
One second he's standing there preparing what is undoubtedly going to become the most obnoxious victory speech in recorded history, and the next you're grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down.
The rest of the sentence disappears completely, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Johnny Storm shuts up.
The hallway goes very, very quiet. When you finally pull back, Johnny just stares at you. You stare back.
His brain is clearly attempting to reboot.
"...Did you just kiss me?" he asks.
You immediately roll your eyes.
"Oh my God. No, hold on." He points at you, looking genuinely overwhelmed now. "You kissed me."
"Yes."
"You kissed me."
"Johnny."
"You kissed—"
You place a hand over his mouth.
"You're ruining it."
He makes a deeply offended noise against your palm for approximately two seconds. You release your hand, then the biggest grin you've ever seen appears on his face.
"You like me."
You groan.
"I literally just kissed you."
"I know!" he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. "I'm just making sure we're both on the same page!"
additional notes: thanks for reading till the end!
the title idea was literally inspired by a statistics class that i'm doing in uni atm, the same class that i have finals for in a week...
also, as i've mentioned before i definitely felt disappointed with the end results of this fic but!!! it's my first one in a long time, and it's my first ever in this account. so please stay tuned for more works! i swear i'm planning to write something better for you guys :)
okay, one final thing, i have never posted in tumblr before so i am completely clueless as to how to navigate this app. please bear with me. if any of you want to help me out i would most definitely appreciate it. i don't know what the hell i'm doing with this app.
wait you guys i didn’t realize this reached 500 likes you are all crazy i love all of you 🫶🫶 this was my first fic on here i’m so glad you all read it!!
Pairing: firefighter!johnny storm x er nurse!reader
Summary: For nearly a year, you and Johnny Storm, a local firefighter, have shared nothing more than passing moments between emergencies. Enough to recognize each other, not enough to step closer. When a fire destroys your apartment building, you find yourself staying in his home, where distance is no longer something you both can rely on.
Word Count: 6,2k
Tags: modern au, firefighter au, no powers au, forced proximity, mutual pining, acquaintances to friends to lovers, domestic fluff, living together, no use of y/n
a/n: i went to the fire station a week ago and that was what inspired this. literally. i hope you all enjoy :) x
Masterlist
Johnny Storm’s days follow a relatively simple routine. He clocks in at 8:00 in the morning and starts a 48-hour shift, consecutively. After those 48 hours end, he goes home to his bachelor pad and rests for a good four days before he has to go back to his job. He might get a few interesting cases here and there, but it’s really nothing to write home about.
Except when he gets to see you, then it’s everything to write home about.
Which is unfortunately a rare occurrence. You’re busy with your work, firefighters don’t usually go to the ER anyway, he knows that—hell, you guys weren’t even that close. Even when he wants to spend time with you, he doesn’t think that he could just stroll into the emergency room one day and ask you out. Well, maybe he can, but he’s just a bit of a coward at that part.
You both met a little under a year ago.
The call itself wasn’t anything special. Small building fire, one victim suffering from smoke inhalation, stable vitals, conscious and talking.
Johnny had carried the woman down three flights of stairs and stayed with her all the way to the hospital, mostly because she refused to let go of his hand. "You're a nice young man," she'd wheezed through the oxygen mask.
"Why thank you, ma’am. Tell everyone for me, please." He gives her his signature grin.
The ambulance rolled into the emergency department's ambulance bay twenty minutes later.
The doors burst open, and there you were.
"Female, seventy-two," the paramedic began as the stretcher was unloaded. "Smoke inhalation. Alert and oriented. Initial oxygen levels were eighty-nine percent on the scene, now sitting at ninety-six on fifteen liters of non-rebreather."
Johnny barely listened. Because you were moving around the stretcher with the kind of confidence that made the chaos look choreographed.
"Any loss of consciousness?" you asked.
"Negative."
"Cardiac history?"
"Hypertension."
"Allergies?"
The questions came rapid-fire. You were efficient, focused, and…
Pretty.
Wait. Pretty?
Johnny blinked, but the older woman noticed immediately. Maybe she has a knack for these things. "Oh," she said, sounding delighted. "He's staring at the nurse."
“Ma'am," he said.
Your head snapped up. Okay, that’s a handsome man—no, you have a job to do.
"He's been carrying me around all afternoon," she informed you.
"Ma'am."
To his horror, you smiled. "Thank you for bringing her in," you said.
He gives you a crooked smile. “Yeah, yeah… you’re welcome. I mean, it’s my job… yeah.” He nods, like that makes his stumbling any better.
After that interaction, he’d be the first person to volunteer every time one of the firefighters had to go to the emergency room. Not that they go there a lot anyway, but hey, he’d take any chance to get a glimpse of you.
The first few times, he was convinced you wouldn't even remember him. You worked in an emergency department. Hundreds of patients passed through those doors every week, accompanied by paramedics, police officers, firefighters, and worried family members. There was no reason a nurse would remember one firefighter she'd met on a random Tuesday.
Then, the next time he walked a patient through the ambulance bay, you looked up from your charting and greeted him by name.
Just like that.
The conversation had lasted less than a minute.
A quick hello.
A question about the patient.
A joke about the soot smeared across his jaw.
But Johnny found himself thinking about it for the rest of his shift. After that, seeing you became something he quietly looked forward to.
Sometimes he would catch you during a particularly brutal shift, your hair hastily tied back and exhaustion written plainly across your face. Other times he'd arrive to find you laughing with one of your coworkers, the sound carrying across the department before you noticed him standing there.
You always seemed happy to see him, and over time, the conversations grew longer.
A minute became five.
Five became ten whenever neither of you was being pulled in opposite directions.
He learned that you survived almost entirely on caffeine during night shifts (much to your dismay). You learned that he couldn't cook anything more complicated than pasta without consulting the internet. He learned which vending machine snacks you always bought when you forgot your lunch. You learned that he hated paperwork more than actual fires.
None of it was important information, at least not on paper.
But somehow, every small detail felt significant when it came from you. The problem was that your relationship never seemed to move beyond the walls of the hospital.
You weren't strangers, yet you weren't friends, either.
Not really.
You and Johnny saw each other because your jobs happened to collide every now and then. And yet, every time he left the emergency department, he found himself wondering when he'd see you again.
The answer was always eventually.
A week, maybe two, or even a month. But sooner or later another call would end at the hospital, and he'd find you somewhere beyond those sliding doors.
That certainty made it easy to do nothing.
Today, Johnny strolled into the fire department in the morning and went straight to the kitchen, as usual. When he has to arrive at the station as early as eight, he doesn’t really have the luxury of a dedicated breakfast time in the mornings.
He grabbed some bread and ingredients from the pantry and made a simple sandwich. This one looks particularly good, he thinks. But before he could get a bite to his sandwich, the station tones screamed through the building.
Johnny closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."
Around him, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone immediately sprang into motion.
So much for breakfast.
He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin, shoved it onto the counter, and followed the rest of the crew toward the apparatus bay while dispatch rattled off the address overhead.
To you, twelve hours in the emergency department rarely stayed twelve hours. Someone always needed help, always arrived five minutes before your shift ended, and always crashed at the worst possible moment.
You'd stopped fighting it months ago.
At least today was your day off.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains and painted soft streaks of gold across your bedroom walls, and for a few moments you simply lay there, enjoying the unfamiliar luxury of not having anywhere to be.
After waking up in the morning, you spent a few blissful minutes doing absolutely nothing. No monitors beeping, no doctors calling your name, just silence. Glorious silence. But eventually, you did have to drag yourself out of bed.
You wandered into the kitchen and started putting together breakfast. Nothing fancy, just enough food to keep you occupied while you figured out how you wanted to spend the rest of your day.
Laundry was probably necessary.
Grocery shopping too.
Also, there was a growing pile of unopened mail sitting on the counter that deserved your attention.
Realistically, you would accomplish none of those things.
Outside, the city was already awake. Cars moved steadily through the streets below, people hurried along the sidewalks, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading away. Exactly the kind of morning you had been looking forward to.
You had just taken another sip of coffee when a loud, piercing alarm cut through the apartment.
Your head snapped up immediately.
For a second, you stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sound to stop.
But of course, it didn't.
The alarm continued to blare through the building in steady intervals, loud enough that you could feel the vibration through the walls.
By the time the second alarm sounded, you were already on your feet.
The apartment door across the hall opened with a loud bang. A moment later, voices drifted in from the corridor. Someone asked if this was another maintenance test. Someone else sounded annoyed enough to ignore it entirely.
You set your coffee down and crossed the apartment toward the front door. The moment you opened it, the faint smell of smoke hit you.
Not strong, not overwhelming.
But unmistakable.
Your stomach tightened. Ah shit, it’s serious.
That was enough to make the decision for you.
You stepped back inside, immediately reaching for your phone, wallet, keys, and the backpack hanging near the entrance. The movements felt automatic, driven by the same instincts that had carried you through countless emergencies at work.
Within two minutes, you were locking your apartment door behind you and making your way toward the stairwell with dozens of other residents.
The atmosphere remained surprisingly calm, and most people looked irritated more than concerned. And yet, the smell of smoke grew stronger with each floor you descended.
By the time you reached the ground floor and stepped outside, several residents had already gathered in the parking lot.
You turned back toward the building, and only then did you notice the thin stream of dark smoke escaping from one of the upper-floor windows.
“Oh dear, that looks bad.” Your neighbour, Martha, says. She had managed to find you in the sea of people.
You look to your side, to her. “Yeah. I’m hoping everyone’s alright.” You respond.
By the time the fire department arrived on scene, a crowd had already formed outside the apartment complex.
Johnny barely spared them a glance as the truck rolled to a stop, though. His attention was fixed on the building. From a distance, the smoke had looked relatively contained. Up close, it was a different story.
Dark smoke pushed from multiple windows near the center of the structure, thick enough to obscure portions of the upper floors. Every few seconds, fresh plumes poured from the building as if something inside was feeding the fire faster than it could burn through.
"Shit," someone muttered beside him.
Johnny silently agreed.
The moment the emergency vehicle stopped moving, the crew sprang into action. Orders were exchanged, equipment was unloaded, and hose lines were stretched across the pavement. Within moments, the organized chaos that accompanied every structure fire had settled over the scene.
A battalion chief was already speaking with building management.
Police officers worked to keep residents away from the entrance.
Paramedics established a treatment area for anyone suffering from smoke exposure.
Okay, here we go, he thinks. Johnny grabbed his gear and headed toward the command post to receive his assignment.
As he approached, fragments of conversation reached him. Apparently, the fire had originated in one of the lower-floor units, but it had spread beyond the apartment itself. There was concern that flames had extended into wall voids and utility spaces, and that immediately complicated everything.
Apartment fires were difficult enough when the fire remained confined to a single unit. Once flames found their way into the spaces between walls, they could travel through a building without anyone realizing how far they'd gone.
Which meant what looked manageable from the outside often wasn't.
The next hour passed in a blur of heat, smoke, and shouted communication.
Johnny's crew was assigned to assist with interior operations. The work was exhausting even by firefighter standards. Every movement felt heavier beneath layers of protective gear, and the air inside the building remained thick despite the ventilation efforts underway.
At one point, they helped escort an elderly resident down several flights of stairs after she refused to leave without her cat. Later, they were redirected to assist another crew investigating smoke that had begun seeping into apartments far from the original unit.
None of it was unusual.
By the time Johnny emerged from the building again, sweat clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck and his shoulders ached from carrying equipment up and down stairwells.
He pulled off one glove and accepted a bottle of water from another firefighter before making his way toward the command area for an update.
That was when his attention drifted toward the evacuation zone.
At first, he didn't think anything of it, just another resident standing among the crowd. Then the woman turned slightly, and his brain took a second to catch up.
A second after that, his stomach nearly dropped into his boots.
There was absolutely no way.
For a moment, he simply stared. Out of all the apartment buildings in the city, all the fires he could have responded to. The sight of you sent a jolt of alarm through him before he could think twice about it.
Were you hurt?
Had you been inside when the fire started?
Had you inhaled smoke?
You looked upright, alert, and uninjured, at least from where he was standing. But that did little to settle the sudden knot of concern tightening in his chest.
Your attention remained fixed on the building, completely unaware that he had spotted you.
Before he could stop himself, his feet were already moving.
He wove through the crowd gathered near the edge of the parking lot, barely registering the conversations around him. Your expression was focused in the way he had seen dozens of times inside the emergency department, as if you were mentally assessing the situation rather than simply witnessing it.
Then you turned your head. The second your eyes landed on him, surprise flickered across your face.
"Johnny?"
He called out your name and stopped in front of you, gaze moving quickly over your face and shoulders as though searching for injuries. "Are you alright?"
You blinked. The question came so quickly that it seemed to catch you off guard. "Yeah," you said. "I'm fine."
Johnny frowned. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Only then did he seem to realize he was still staring. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and took a small step back, trying to recover whatever professionalism he'd abandoned during his walk across the parking lot.
"I just..." He glanced toward the building. "I saw you standing out here and figured you lived in one of the units."
"I do."
The answer was simple enough, but something about hearing it made his stomach sink.
"You got out okay?"
You nodded.
"Good." The response came immediately.
Too immediately, as though he'd been holding his breath waiting to hear it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the scene filled the silence instead. The hiss of water lines being charged, shouted instructions from firefighters, the distant wail of another arriving vehicle. Johnny looked over his shoulder toward the building.
His expression changed slightly, and you noticed it right away. "How bad is it?"
His gaze returned to yours. For a second, he seemed to debate whether he should answer honestly.
That was an answer enough.
Your stomach tightened, and he exhaled slowly.
"It's not great."
You followed his line of sight toward the smoke pouring from the upper floors. The longer the operation continued, the more chaotic the evacuation area became. Suddenly, raised voices cut through the crowd, and several people turned at once.
Near the curb, a man in his sixties slumped heavily against a parked vehicle. At first, it looked as though he had simply sat down.
Then his knees buckled.
Your body reacted before your brain did, and you were already moving by the time someone shouted for a medic. Before you could reach him, the man hit the pavement hard. A small crowd immediately began forming around him.
"Give him space," you called as you pushed forward.
The smell of smoke still clung to his clothing, and his breathing… it sounded wrong. Shallow.
A firefighter dropped to one knee beside him. Johnny.
His eyes widened briefly when he recognized you, but you barely noticed, your attention remained fixed on the patient.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
The man's eyelids fluttered. Okay, so not fully unconscious. Good.
A paramedic arrived moments later, carrying equipment. "We've got two ambulances already transporting," she said quickly as she knelt beside you. "Can you help me out?"
You nodded immediately, and the paramedic began attaching monitoring equipment while you performed a rapid assessment. The patient's skin looked pale beneath the soot staining his face. His pulse was fast, and his breathing remained concerning.
"Smoke inhalation?" you asked.
"Most likely."
The man suddenly started coughing. A harsh, painful sound.
Johnny shifted closer, looking between the both of you. "What do you need?"
"High-flow oxygen." You both answered. Without hesitation, Johnny reached for the equipment beside him.
Within minutes, the patient was receiving oxygen, but his condition still wasn't improving as quickly as you would've liked. The paramedic looked toward the ambulance staging area and swore quietly. Every available transport unit was occupied, and one of the ambulances hadn't even returned from its previous trip yet.
"We need him evaluated at the hospital."
"He needs a blood gas and respiratory assessment," you agreed.
The paramedic looked between you and Johnny, then an idea seemed to occur to her. "You work at Manhattan General, right?"
You nodded.
She turned to Johnny. "Can you drive?"
Johnny stared at her. "That's your question?"
"Can you drive without hitting anybody?"
"Much better."
The paramedic pointed toward the patient. "Good. Because I need this man in an emergency department now, and you're currently the fastest option I've got."
Johnny looked at you, and you looked back at him. For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he shrugged. “Well. This is certainly a first."
The drive to Manhattan General Hospital was surprisingly uneventful. Fortunately, the patient remained conscious for most of the trip. You stayed beside him in the back seat, monitoring his breathing and doing your best to keep him talking while Johnny navigated traffic.
The arrangement felt absurd. A firefighter driving, an emergency room nurse riding in the back, and a smoke inhalation patient occupying the rear seat of what was very obviously not an ambulance.
If anyone asked, you were never admitting this had happened.
By the time the hospital came into view, you were already mentally preparing the report you would give upon arrival. The familiar sight of the emergency department entrance stirred something automatic in your brain.
Johnny pulled to a stop near the ambulance entrance. Before the vehicle had fully settled, you were reaching for the door handle.
"Easy there," Johnny said.
You shot him a look. "Unlike you, some of us spend enough time here to navigate it with our eyes closed."
Johnny scoffed. "I've been here hundreds of times."
"Yeah, but you still have to ask for directions every now and then."
"Only occasionally."
"Sure."
He shook his head. "Alright, that's fair."
The two of you helped the patient inside, and the moment the automatic doors slid open, the controlled chaos of the emergency department washed over you. A nurse glanced up from the triage desk.
Then did a double take. "...Why are you here?"
You didn't slow down. “Long story."
"You're not scheduled."
"Still a long story."
A few heads turned as you passed. Apparently showing up unexpectedly with soot on your clothes was enough to attract attention.
The patient was quickly transferred onto a hospital stretcher, and you immediately slipped back into work mode.
"Male, I would say in his sixties? Smoke exposure from a residential structure fire. Progressive respiratory distress on scene, and oxygen administered prior to transport, but his condition deteriorated during observation."
The receiving physician nodded.
Questions followed, but as always, you answered them automatically.
By the time the report was finished, several members of the emergency department were staring at you with varying levels of concern.
One of your coworkers finally crossed her arms.
"Why are you covered in ash?"
You blinked. Right, the fire. "Apartment building fire," you admitted.
The room fell silent. "Excuse me?" someone asked. "You live there?" another asked.
"Unfortunately."
Several people immediately started talking at once.
Were you okay?
Did you get hurt?
Had you lost anything?
You suddenly regretted saying anything.
One of the nurses pointed toward a chair. "Sit down."
"I'm fine."
"Sit."
"I'm literally helping."
"You are literally homeless."
Johnny snorts at that, and you give him a glare. He looks away right after, lips still quirking up.
Eventually, the nurses on the clock dispersed, having to do their jobs anyway. You look up at Johnny. “Hey, you.”
He smiled. “Hello to you too.”
“Thanks for driving us here. You should probably go back now, they need you.” You stand up, crossing your arms.
He hums. “Yeah. Good work with the patient. That was some quick action.” He says, his voice soft. “Does he need anything else?”
You shake your head. “Nope, he’s in good hands. I’ll probably stay here, watch over him for a bit. Nothing much I can do anyway.”
Johnny nods. Then, “Do you need anything?”
“Nah, not for now, no. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll see you around then?” You ask, hopeful.
“Of course.” He nods, and starts to leave. He gives you a tiny wave, and you give him one back. You watch as he drives off, and you let out a deep sigh.
“Who was that?” Someone suddenly says beside you—Kathy, another doctor who you were particularly close to.
You startle at the sudden voice. “Christ, Kathy! Stop doing that. He’s no one.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, this no one is particularly handsome.”
She waits for your reaction. Then, not being able to hold it, your lips quirk up.
“Ha! I knew it! What’s his name?” She holds you by your shoulders.
“Don’t you have work to do?” You scold, but still smiling.
“Ugh! You’re no fun!”
It wasn’t until nearly two hours into the operation that things began to shift from urgent to uncertain.
The fire itself was still active, but contained enough that the chief was finally able to start thinking beyond suppression and toward damage assessment. That was usually the point where the scene stopped feeling like controlled chaos and started feeling like a long, exhausting problem.
Johnny had just finished rotating out a hose line when one of the lieutenants approached him near the apparatus. “Hey,” the man said, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re the one who brought that patient in earlier, right?”
Johnny frowned, wiping soot from his forearm with the back of his glove. “Yeah.”
“There’s been an update on the residents from the fourth floor. Building management just confirmed structural compromise in the eastern units. Water damage, electrical failure—whole section’s going to be offline for a while.”
Johnny’s attention sharpened immediately, though he didn’t fully know why at first.
The lieutenant continued.
“They’re not clearing the building for re-entry. Not today, and probably not for the next week or two. The Red Cross is getting involved for temporary housing.”
That landed differently. “A week or two,” he repeated quietly.
“Best case,” the lieutenant said. “Worst case, longer.”
Johnny nodded once, though his mind had already drifted. Because in his head, that wasn’t a building update anymore.
It was you.
“Hey, uh, mind if I drive back to the hospital for a bit? Just ten, fifteen minutes? I think I forgot something.” Johnny asks.
The lieutenant looked confused at that, but he looked around, then back at Johnny. “Yeah, we’re alright here for now. Just make sure you come back as soon as possible.”
Johnny nods, and he rushes to drive to Manhattan General Hospital.
By the time he reached you, you were speaking with a patient, your backpack now sitting on the ground beside your feet. You looked tired in a way you hadn’t earlier. Less sharp, more human around the edges, but still very much upright.
When you noticed him approaching, your expression shifted slightly. You frowned. “What are you doing back here? Does anyone else need help?” you said.
“No, no, everyone’s okay for now.” He reassures you. “I just… um…”
There was a pause, brief but loaded with everything neither of you had said since the fire started.
Johnny glanced toward the patient, then back at you. “Mind if I talk to you in private for a second?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” You respond, giving the patient a brief goodbye before walking to a more secluded area of the room.
“They’re saying you might not be able to go back in for a while,” he starts.
You exhaled slowly, like you already knew where this was going. “Yeah, I figured.”
“And you’ve got somewhere to stay?” It came out more direct than he intended.
You blinked at him, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Not really. I’ve got… a backpack and a very strong desire for this to be temporary.”
That should have made it lighter.
It didn’t.
Johnny looked away for a second, jaw tightening as he considered the situation in a way that had nothing to do with firefighting. “You can stay at mine,” he said.
The words came out clean. Immediate, and absolutely no hesitation. Like he’d already decided without telling himself.
You stared at him. “…What?”
“My place,” he repeated, more carefully this time, as if that would make it less insane. “It’s close to the hospital. You’ve got work, and I’ve got a couch. Spare room, technically, but I’ve never used it for anything other than storage.”
That last part sounded like an attempt at credibility. It didn’t help much.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said slowly.
“I know.”
Another pause. Around you, the scene kept moving, but between the two of you, everything had narrowed.
Johnny shifted his weight slightly, suddenly aware of how this sounded and unable to find a version of it that didn’t sound like too much.
“It’s not… I’m not—” he started, then stopped, clearly frustrated with his own sentence. “You don’t have anywhere else right now. And I’m not letting you sleep in a hotel alone for two weeks after your building burned down.”
You studied him for a moment, weighing your options. There was no teasing grin. No easy confidence. No hint that he was offering because he felt obligated or because he thought it was the right thing to do.
He looked genuinely concerned for you. And somehow, that made this infinitely more dangerous.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You'd spent months convincing yourself that whatever existed between the two of you was harmless. Nothing either of you would ever act on.
Then your expression softened just slightly.
“You realize this is a terrible idea. We might not be compatible living with each other and you might hate me forever,” you said, with a smile threatening to form on your face.
Johnny gave a short exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.”
“And you’re still offering.”
“Yeah.” His gaze held yours for a second longer than necessary.
Then, almost reluctantly, you nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “Just for a little while.”
For the briefest moment, something flickered across Johnny's face. Relief.
Maybe even happiness.
It disappeared almost immediately, replaced by an expression that was far more casual than you suspected he actually felt. Inside, he was far from casual. Neither of you could quite ignore the way your pulse had suddenly become much harder to explain.
Okay, holy shit, this is real. She’s moving into my place—we don’t even know each other that well yet. Maybe this was a bad idea? No, no, it’s not. I get to spend time with her! This is amazing. We’ll get to know each other, and—
“Johnny?” You ask, confused by his sudden blank stare.
“Huh?” He snapped out of his trance. “Yes?”
“You okay?” You furrow your brows in concern.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” Johnny nods reassuringly, and he holds a hand out to you. “Do you have your phone? Mine’s somewhere in the car. I can text you details, and we’ll talk about it.” He shrugs, offering.
You reach into your bag and hand it over to him. He types his number in your phone, and texts himself something silly. He gives it back to you, smiling.
“I, uh… I look forward to it.” You say, and you internally cringe. Look forward to it? What is this, a date?
He smiles sheepishly, exhaling. “Yeah, yeah, me too. I’ll see you later then.”
You nod. “Mhm. Get back safely.”
You both pretty much worked it out seamlessly. There was a list of instructions, a rough time estimate, and a shared understanding that neither of you needed to overcomplicate what was already complicated enough. Johnny told you his address. You told him how long it would take you to get what you needed. Neither of you questioned the arrangement again.
It should have felt strange. But it didn’t, not in the way either of you expected.
When you finally left the apartment building, it was with a small list of essentials and a tired sense of detachment that came from functioning too long on instinct alone. You moved quickly through the familiar process of retrieving what you could, like medications and toiletries, half of your wardrobe, your laptop, and your work bag that you had apparently left half-open on your counter in your rush to leave that morning.
The apartment itself looked almost unchanged at first glance.
But the smell had already begun to creep in through the hallway, faint but unmistakable, and the sound of distant movement from below reminded you that whatever normal had existed here earlier in the day was no longer available to you.
When you came back down, Johnny was already there.
He had changed out of some of his gear, and he looks… different, this way. You can’t really pin point on what, but one thing’s for sure, he looks equally as handsome as when you saw him for the first time. Or maybe even more handsome, you dare to think.
“You got everything you needed?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Enough.”
That seemed to be sufficient.
He held out his hand, and you looked at him confused.
“Your bag.” He says. Ever the gentleman.
“Oh. You sure?” You ask.
He rolls his eyes, smiling, hand still out. “Yes, I’m sure. Just give it to me.”
You eventually hand it over to him, and he carries it like nothing. Damn firefighters.
The drive to his place was quieter than the earlier trip to the hospital, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came from two people who were both still mentally catching up to what had already happened.
Occasionally, Johnny would glance at you, as if checking something he could not quite articulate. Each time, you caught it once or twice before he looked away again.
Neither of you commented on it.
By the time he parked, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, and the events of the day felt both recent and strangely distant.
Johnny got out first, walked around the car, and opened your door before you could reach for it yourself.
You looked up at it, then back at him. The building definitely had some questionable design choices.
“Wow.”
Johnny immediately narrowed his eyes. “That sounded sarcastic.”
“It wasn't.”
“It absolutely was.”
“I said one word.”
Johnny pointed toward the building. “For the record, it's a perfectly respectable apartment.”
“Mhm.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That tone.”
“I don't have a tone.”
“You do.”
“I just got displaced by a fire, Johnny. Maybe I'm emotionally fragile.”
“Convenient excuse.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. It's nice.”
His expression brightened immediately. Then, he added, “You can crash here as long as you need.”
As long as you need.
Not forever, not anything bigger than it had to be.
Just enough room for what this was.
The first hour in Johnny’s apartment passed in a blur of half-unpacking and quiet reassessment.
The building itself was nicer than you had expected.
Not extravagant, but comfortable. The lobby had actual plants that somehow looked alive, and the elevator didn't make any concerning noises on the way up, which already put it ahead of several apartment buildings you'd lived in.
When Johnny unlocked the door and stepped aside to let you in first, you hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. You weren't entirely sure what you had expected.
It was cleaner than you had expected.
Not spotless, exactly, but lived-in in a way that suggested someone who functioned on practicality more than decoration. A couch that had clearly been used for naps rather than guests, then to your right, a stack of mail that had been pushed into a corner rather than ignored completely. And when you walked further inside, there was a kitchen that looked like it had been designed for survival rather than enjoyment.
Your eyes drifted around the room.
There were framed photos on a shelf, a few trophies tucked away near a bookcase. Then, a blanket thrown haphazardly over one arm of the couch that looked suspiciously well-loved. You smiled at the sight.
It felt like him.
Comfortable, slightly disorganized, and somehow welcoming despite making absolutely no effort to be.
Johnny hovered awkwardly near the doorway while you looked around.
"So?" he asked.
You glanced back at him.
"So what?"
"So, is it terrible?"
You stared. "Johnny."
"What?"
"You live in a building with functioning elevators."
"That's not an answer."
“It's already nicer than my apartment."
His expression brightened immediately. "Really?"
"No."
The smile vanished.
You laughed.
The offended look he gave you was immediate. "Wow."
"I'm kidding."
"You sounded sincere." He scoffs. “Maybe I should take a look at your apartment and judge for myself.”
You smile at that. “Hmm, maybe. Once all this blows over. I’ll give you a tour.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged and continued your inspection.
The living room flowed into the kitchen, which contained exactly what you expected from a man who worked long shifts and survived primarily on convenience.
You opened one cabinet.
Instant noodles.
Another.
Protein bars.
A third.
Oh. More protein bars! And protein… powder?
You slowly turned toward him.
Johnny immediately pointed a finger. "Don't judge me."
"I opened three cabinets."
"Yes."
"And two of them are protein bars."
"They were on sale."
"Johnny."
"They were really on sale."
You shook your head, laughing. “If I get scurvy while living here, I'm suing you."
"That's not how scurvy works."
"You don't know that."
"I absolutely know that."
The conversation dissolved into quiet laughter, and some of the tension you'd both been carrying since the fire eased just slightly.
Johnny gave you space without making a point of it. He showed you where things were, like the bathroom, the spare room, the thermostat that he clearly had opinions about, and then drifted back toward the kitchen as if trying not to hover.
“You can take the room,” he said at one point, nodding toward a door down the hallway. “It’s not much, but the bed’s clean. I changed the sheets last month.”
“Last month,” you repeated.
He shrugged. “It’s usually just storage.”
That explained the slightly chaotic pile of boxes in the corner of the room when you stepped inside. Nothing urgent. Just things that didn’t belong anywhere else yet.
You set your bag down carefully, suddenly aware of how little of your life you had managed to carry with you. Clothes, a few essentials. A version of yourself reduced to what could fit in an emergency evacuation.
You were halfway through walking out of the room when your body betrayed you slightly.
It wasn’t dramatic, just a subtle shift in balance, a delayed reaction catching up with everything you had been running on since the alarm went off that morning. The exhaustion hit you all at once, like your system had finally decided it was done compensating.
Your hand reached for the doorframe without you fully registering it.
Johnny noticed immediately.
He moved before you could properly correct yourself, one hand coming up instinctively to steady your arm.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You blinked, briefly disoriented. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
The contact should have been nothing. Brief, practical. Something that happened between people all the time without meaning anything beyond balance and physics.
But he didn’t let go right away.
Not immediately.
His grip was careful, steady in a way that felt more intentional than necessary, like he was making sure you were actually grounded before he trusted you to stand on your own again.
You became very aware of the fact that he was close. Close enough that the heat from him cut through the tired chill that had settled into your bones.
“I’ve got you,” he said after a beat, like it had come out automatically.
You looked up at him then.
His expression had shifted. Less distracted now, less caught between places. Focused in a way that wasn’t about the fire anymore.
Just you.
“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time.
He nodded once, but didn’t immediately move away. For a second, neither of you did. Holding you felt… natural, like there was no question behind it.
Then, as if realizing it at the same time you did, Johnny slowly released your arm.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I know,” he replied, giving you a small smile.
You hesitated, then glanced toward the room again. “I think I’m just going to—”
“Yeah,” he said immediately. Then, after a pause, softer: “Go rest.”
You nodded. This time when you stepped away, nothing stopped you.
But as you closed the door behind you, you could still feel the place where his hand had been on your arm, like your body had bothered to remember it longer than your mind had intended to.
additional notes: anddd that's it for chapter one folks! i had a fun time writing this au. chapter two definitely has more romantic/domestic moments, so stay tuned for it! it might be released sometime this week? i'm a bit busy at the moment, but i do enjoy writing these to kind of wind down in between.
also, please comment if you'd like to be tagged in the next one!
hello friends! i just started writing a firefighter!johnny storm x er nurse!reader piece and i was wondering if anyone would like to be tagged when i post it?
i’ve got the rough plot down and i’m working my way through the details as i write it, so it should be finished sometime this week! it might be a two/three parter as well.
if anyone would like to be tagged, please comment down below! :) stay tuned x
Summary: On a random Tuesday, Johnny takes a compatibility test designed by Reed and his childhood best friend (who is also his longtime crush). He only did it to annoy Reed, but he wasn’t aware that he’d get a horrifying score of 98.9% on his compatibility with said childhood friend.
This makes Johnny determined to make a move on her once and for all, and nothing won’t stop him. Absolutely nothing. Except the fact that she’s currently dead set on being immune to his advances.
Oh well, guess he just has to try harder.
Word count: 10,7k
Tags: Childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, it's literally only fluff i don't know what to tell you, idiots in love, but mostly idiot!Johnny, desperate!Johnny, slight jealousy, no use of y/n
a/n: honestly i didn't end up liking this as much as i thought i would towards the end but i was in too deep to actually do anything about it. well, i hope anyone who's reading this enjoys it anyway!
It all started with a stupid machine that was never even supposed to tell Johnny Storm that he needed to date you. Before this, he was perfectly content with being your number one best friend since childhood, doing all sorts of things with you while admiring you in a different light from afar—okay, maybe he wasn’t really content with that, but at least he could pretend that he was!
You met Johnny Storm at the tender age of six, when he was just a tiny blond boy with a stupid-looking bowl cut on him that you never fail to make fun of till this day. He really did look ridiculous. It was a bright, sunny day when you first saw him in the local neighborhood park, and you approached him because you were jealous that he had a cool rocketship plushie held in his hands. Ever since then, you clicked instantly, becoming the bestest of friends. If you ask Sue, she would say that Johnny had always liked you since you were both kids. Maybe it was a puppy crush, maybe it was real love, but either way, she’d recognize the sparkle in her brother’s eyes whenever you were there with him. Something that never seemed to dim after all these years either.
Unfortunately, after their mother passed, they had to move away, and you never saw them ever since.
Almost twenty years later, here you are, an aspiring biologist, being personally called in to work in the Baxter Building by Reed Richards himself. It took a good year to readjust to your current work environment, but it has been worth it. Especially being able to reconnect with the Storm siblings once again.
“Your design model is still compensating too aggressively during high-stress simulations”, you mutter, scrolling through the latest batch of data projected across the holographic screen in front of you. “See? It spikes here.”
Reed adjusts his glasses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the graph. “Hm. you’re right. The emotional variance threshold is overcorrecting.”
“Which means the system’s still prioritizing instinct over learned behavioral patterns.” You sigh.
“It’s a prototype,” Reed says simply.
You let out a snort. “That’s basically saying ‘it barely works.’”
“It works enough.” You can see Reed’s lips quirk up a bit.
The machine sitting in the middle of the lab says otherwise. The Synchronization Index prototype, or as you call it, the compatibility testing machine, looked less like revolutionary technology and more like someone had combined an MRI scanner together with a gaming console. After close to four months of development (even with Reed’s brains), the project was still deeply unfinished.
The original purpose had been simple enough: improve the team’s coordination during missions by analyzing behavioral compatibility and predictive patterns under stress. The deal was also simple. Reed handles all the computational side of things while you focused on the neurological aspects of it.
Johnny, naturally, called it a soulmate machine.
“It’s not a soulmate machine,” you had told him at least four times this week alone.
The lab doors slid open before Reed could respond, followed immediately by the familiar sound of someone humming dramatically off-key. Johnny strolls into the lab.
“There you are, Stretch,” he says, pointing accusingly at Reed. “I’ve been looking for—”
He stops mid-sentence.
Slowly, his gaze drifts toward the machine in the center of the room. Then toward the holographic screens floating overhead. Then towards you.
“Oh my god,” Johnny breathes. “You finally built the soulmate machine.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, but Reed answers before you can. “It measures adaptive synchronization and predictive behavioral compatibility.”
Johnny stares at him blankly.
“So,” he says carefully, “the soulmate machine.”
“It is not—”
“The soulmate machine,” Johnny repeats firmly.
You cross your arms. “Why are you even here?”
“Doesn’t matter now, it can wait. I’m more interested in this.” Johnny immediately drops into the chair connected to the machine. “Test me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s unfinished.”
“That’s never stopped any of you before.” He’s unfortunately correct.
Johnny leans back further into the chair with the confidence of a man who has never once feared consequences in his entire life. “C’mon. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Both you and Reed look at each other, then at him.
Johnny points between the two of you. “Wow. Okay. Little concerning that you both did that.”
Reed steps toward the console, thoughtful. “Actually, this could be useful.”
You blink. “Reed.”
“We need additional live-response data.”
“With Johnny?”
Johnny gasps dramatically. “I’m an excellent test subject.”
You sigh, then look at the clock. 3:52 PM. “Well, I have a meeting with the higher-ups from my department.” You look at Reed. “Do what you gotta do, the ball’s in your court now.”
You give a small wave goodbye to Johnny, taking off your lab coat and walking out of the lab.
The second the lab doors slide shut behind you, Johnny swivels lazily in the chair to look at Reed.
“So,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, “how exactly does the soulmate machine work?”
“It is not a soulmate machine.”
Johnny points at him. “You saying that only makes it sound more like a soulmate machine.”
Reed sighs softly, then gestures toward the neural monitors attached to the chair. “The system analyzes how effectively two individuals function together under varying conditions.”
Johnny grins. “So basically, which of the team I’d survive a road trip with.”
Ignoring him, Reed scans through the available baseline profiles, though most of them are incomplete. Then he pauses. “Hm.”
Johnny immediately narrows his eyes. “That ‘hm’ never means anything good.”
Reed taps something on the console. “You require a baseline comparison subject.”
“Okay?”
Your name sits at the top of the compatibility database, and Johnny straightens in the chair almost immediately. “Oh.”
“The two of you possess nearly two decades worth of history,” Reed explains. “The system also has extensive conversational and behavioral references involving both of you.”
Johnny tries very hard to act normal about that information, but of course he fails immediately.
“Aww,” he says weakly. “We’re scientifically best friends.”
Reed continues typing. “Additionally, your stress-response stabilization patterns consistently improve in her proximity.”
“Reed.”
“And according to mission analysis, you subconsciously prioritize her positioning during emergency scenarios.”
“Reed.”
“In theory, she is the ideal baseline candidate.”
Johnny stares blankly at the screen for several long seconds.
Then, “…Huh.”
Reed looks at him. “Anything wrong?”
“Nope.” Johnny clears his throat. “No problem. Totally normal amount of information to learn about yourself on a random Tuesday. I’m down, let’s do this.”
Reed presses the final command anyway and the machine hums to life. Blue light flickers across the monitors as the sensors attached to Johnny’s temples begin scanning neural activity. A holographic screen expands overhead, rapidly cycling through data points.
Johnny watches the loading bar with mild suspicion.
“So what happens if the results suck?”
“They likely won’t.”
“Wow,” Johnny says dryly. “Your confidence in me is inspiring.”
“You misunderstand. The system favors familiarity.”
Johnny opens his mouth to respond, but the machine suddenly lets out a sharp chime.
Processing Complete. The holographic display shifts, then, a percentage flashes onto the center screen.
98.9%
The room goes completely silent.
“The previous highest recorded compatibility score,” Reed says slowly, “was ninety-one percent.”
Johnny tears his eyes away from the screen. “And mine is—”
“Ninety-eight point nine.”
“…That feels illegal somehow.”
Reed steps closer to the display, studying the rapidly expanding analysis graphs now populating the screen.
“Fascinating. This level of compatibility is statistically abnormal.”
Johnny’s eyes widened. Statistically abnormal. With you. His brain suddenly begins replaying every interaction he’s had with you over the past year at lightning speed.
The way you automatically know what he needs before he asks for them, the way you know exactly what his different silences mean, the way he always looks for you first whenever he walks into a room, the way being around you somehow makes everything feel—
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Johnny slowly sits upright in the chair.
Reed glances at him briefly. “Are you alright?”
“No,” Johnny says immediately.
Reed pauses, and Johnny points dramatically toward the glowing percentage still floating on the screen. “I need to date her.”
“…What?”
“I need to date her,” Johnny repeats, now sounding genuinely alarmed by the realization. “Like, immediately.”
Reed blinks once. “You arrived at that conclusion very quickly.”
“Reed, the science literally said we’re soulmates.”
“It did not say that.”
“It basically did.”
“The machine measures adaptive synchronization.”
Johnny lets out a short laugh. Not because anything’s funny, but mostly because he suddenly feels a little insane.
Of course it’s you.
Of course.
The girl he’s been stupidly in love with since he was young apparently turns out to be his cosmic statistical anomaly too. That honestly tracks. Johnny drags a hand down his face. “You have gotta be kidding me.”
Reed glances up briefly. “Is something wrong?”
“Reed,” Johnny says slowly, “this machine just told me I’ve been wasting my own time for years.”
“That is not what it—”
“Ninety-eight point nine percent,” Johnny repeats. “Do you understand how bad that is for me emotionally?”
Reed considers this. “I don’t think the results are inherently negative.”
“No, see, that’s because you’re happily married.”
Johnny stands abruptly from the chair and starts pacing. He looks at Reed with newfound determination. “I know what I have to do now!” And before Reed could respond, he rushed out of the lab, into the elevator.
The kitchen was quiet and peaceful before Johnny speed-walks inside, tripping over the stairs on his way in. “Ben,” he says urgently.
Ben is halfway through making dinner, and he doesn’t even look up from the stove when Johnny walks in. “You blow somethin’ up?”
“No.”
Ben looks up at Johnny, raising a rocky eyebrow in question. Johnny looks deeply distressed, and he notices this, so he turns the heat down slightly. “Alright. What happened?”
Johnny runs both hands through his hair before pointing accusingly into the air like the compatibility machine personally offended him. He then says your name.
“The stupid compatibility machine thing said me and her are ninety-eight point nine percent compatible.”
Ben blinks once then goes back to stirring the pasta sauce.
“…That all?”
Johnny stares at him. “What do you mean ‘that all’?”
“I mean,” Ben shrugs, “sounds about right.”
“What?”
Ben finally looks at him properly now, expression somewhere between amused and exhausted. “Dude, you’ve been in love with her since before your voice dropped.”
“I have not.” He’s not that obvious, is he? Ben gives him a look, and Johnny immediately folds.
“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “Maybe a little.”
“A little,” Ben repeats flatly.
For a moment, the kitchen falls quiet except for the sound of simmering sauce and Johnny aggressively rethinking the last ten years of his life. Then,
“What do I do?”
Ben blinks. “About what?”
Johnny gestures wildly. “About her!”
Ben stares at him. “…You ask her out.”
Johnny looks bored. “That’s your advice? I was expecting more.”
“That’s usually how datin’ works, yeah.”
“No, but what if she thinks I’m joking?”
Ben’s expression shifts slightly.
Ah, there it is.
Johnny slumps further against the counter now, suddenly looking far less dramatic and far more nervous than before. “I mean, c’mon, Ben,” he says quieter. “Look at me.”
Ben’s lips quirk up a bit. “Unfortunately, I am.”
Johnny lets out a frustrated breath, dragging both hands down his face. “I mean, seriously, Ben. Why would she take me seriously?” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “I’m me.”
Ben snorts. “Yeah. Tragic condition.”
“Hey, I’m serious.” Johnny can’t help it, his lips pull down to a frown.
“I know.”
Johnny leans back against the counter, arms crossed tightly now. “She’s smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. She overthinks everything.” A pause. “What if she thinks I’m just someone who dates for fun and I’m not… serious enough for her?”
Johnny stares down at the countertop as he keeps talking, words coming easier now that he’s started. “I mean, I’ve never exactly given off ‘stable long-term investment’ vibes.” He laughs weakly. “Half the city thinks I’m emotionally allergic to commitment.”
Ben pulls the garlic bread out of the oven before finally speaking.
“Johnny.”
Johnny looks up, seeing Ben setting the tray down carefully. “You know why this is different?”
Johnny shrugs helplessly.
“Because you’re scared.”
Johnny blinks, Ben points at him with the giant oven mitt. “You don’t get scared about girls.”
“That is wildly untrue.”
“No,” Ben says. “You get nervous sometimes. You get awkward sometimes. But scared?” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
Johnny doesn’t answer because unfortunately, Ben’s right. He leans back against the counter across from Johnny. “You’ve liked her for so long you forgot there was ever a version of your life without her in it.”
“And if she matters that much to you,” Ben continues, “then act like it.”
Johnny lets out a slow breath. “…How?”
Ben gives him an incredulous look. “By bein’ honest.”
Johnny immediately grimaces. “Again with this terrible advice.”
Ben laughs. “I’m serious.”
“I know, that’s why it’s terrible.”
Ben shakes his head fondly before saying, more gently this time. “If she thinks this is just another thing for you, then you prove it ain’t.”
Johnny takes a few seconds to internalize everything that Ben has said, but then, they both hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. It was Sue, standing there with her cup of tea, giving them both an impressed smile.
“Aw, you’re finally growing up.” She nods to Johnny. Johnny gives her an unimpressed scowl.
That night, Johnny starts to conjure up every plan that would finally make you realize that he was in love with you.
Well, maybe “conjure up” was too elegant of a phrase. Obsess over was probably more accurate.
The plan was simple. He would tell you how he felt, eventually.
After some preparation.
Maybe a little preparation.
Okay, maybe a lot of preparation.
Because there was a difference between knowing what you wanted to do and actually doing it. Johnny knew he wanted to ask you out, but the problem was that every time he imagined himself saying the words out loud, his brain immediately supplied several horrifying possibilities.
You’re laughing—no, you’re staring. Hm… maybe you’ll just outright say no. Or maybe, just maybe, you saying yes and then asking why it took him almost two decades.
Which was how Johnny arrived at the conclusion that he should start small. You know, ease into it, test the waters and everything.
A concept he had never successfully practiced his entire life.
From the next day onwards, he was absolutely insufferable. He would be everywhere, and while he usually is everywhere you are, this was just on another level.
One day, Johnny appears in your lab sometime after lunch, leaning casually against the doorway. At least, he thinks he looks casual, but in reality, he's been standing there for nearly thirty seconds waiting for you to look up from your tablet.
You don't.
He shifts his weight, and still nothing.
A few more seconds pass before you finally glance up.
"Hey."
The smile you give him is immediate and familiar. Johnny has seen that smile thousands of times over the years, and somehow it still manages to hit him like a truck.
"Hey yourself."
You return your attention to whatever you're working on, but eventually, he clears his throat. "You know, I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
The response comes so quickly that Johnny almost laughs. "See, normally that joke would hurt my feelings."
"Normally?"
"Normally."
You finally set your tablet down and look at him properly. "What do you want?"
"Wow."
"What?"
"Straight to business."
"Johnny."
"Fine, fine." He pushes himself away from the doorway and wanders further into the lab, pretending to inspect one of the monitors nearby. Really, he's just buying himself time, because suddenly the line he'd been planning feels incredibly stupid.
Not that it stopped him.
"I'm admiring the view."
The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You furrow your brows in confusion, then glance over your shoulder toward the large monitor behind you. "The graph?"
Johnny stares. "No."
Your eyes move toward the windows lining the far side of the lab. “Manhattan?"
"No."
You look back at him, and slowly, realization dawns on your face.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
For one glorious second, Johnny thinks he's finally done something right. Then you tilt your head. "That was terrible."
His confidence immediately evaporates. "What?"
"You've used that before."
The accusation is so immediate that Johnny almost chokes. "What? No."
"Johnny."
"Okay, maybe once."
Your eyes narrow.
"More than once."
"I knew it," you say.
"You knew what?"
"You have a system."
Johnny gasps, genuinely offended. "I do not have a system."
"You absolutely have a system."
"I'll have you know my flirting is entirely improvised."
That only makes you laugh harder, which unfortunately, is still the best reaction he's gotten all day. “I’ve known you since we were kids, fireboy. I know how you work.” You point at him with your pointer finger.
Johnny plops down a chair, leaning back and groaning. “Ugh, I was just trying to be… nice.” He finishes lamely with a smile.
“Or… you want something from me.” You approached him, ruffling his hair to annoy him. He doesn’t try to swat your hand away this time, which makes you raise an eyebrow as he tilts his head of messy hair when you pull away. “Mmm, no, not really.” He says with that lazy smirk of his.
You look at him for a few seconds, and scoff playfully, going back to your work.
A few moments later, he ponders again, trying to come up with another plan. He vaguely remembers Reed telling him that a way to Sue’s heart was with direct compliments. Maybe it’ll work on you too?
That evening, he finds you in one of the common lounges of the building, probably wanting to get out of the lab and work in a newer setting. You’re sitting on the couch reading through some notes handed by your team.
“Hey.”
You wave without looking up. Johnny tilts his head, curious as to what you were doing, and sits right beside you. Maybe a little too close, but you don’t notice, not really. Or maybe you do, he thinks. It’s impossible to tell. He observes you under the warm light of the room.
“I think you’re really pretty.” The words leave his mouth before he can overthink them. You finally look up.
“Aw, thanks.” Then, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You eye him suspiciously, as this behavior was a stark contrast to his usual teasing and provoking.
“What? No! I just wanted to say that.” Johnny grins like he’s proud of himself. He waits, and nothing. No realization, no blushing, no dramatic revelation, just… gratitude. Like he’d told you the weather was nice.
You return to your notes, and a beat passes. “I think you’re pretty too.” You don't even look up when you say it.
You just continue highlighting something in your document, and Johnny spends the next ten minutes trying to remember how breathing works.
Johnny recites all of his efforts to Sue, and she just laughs at him. Laughs! He gives her an offended, yet desperate look. “What?”
When Sue’s laughter dies down a bit, she begins to give him some advice: be more direct using actions. Actions, okay, he can do that. Absolutely no problem at all.
The first thing Johnny tries is flowers. You look up from your workstation when he walks into the wet lab carrying an enormous bouquet. Your eyes widen.
"Oh wow."
Johnny straightens. Here we go.
"You got flowers."
"Yeah."
"Who's the lucky girl?"
Johnny freezes. "...What?"
You point at the bouquet. "Are these for someone?"
For a brief, horrifying second, Johnny considers lying. But he internally sighs and sucks it up. "They're for you."
"Oh."
His heart immediately starts beating faster when you give him a smile, a genuine smile. The kind he usually loves seeing. Except,
“That’s so sweet.”
Not romantic. Sweet. Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.
You take the flowers. “Thank you.”
Johnny waits.
You place them in a vase, mentioning something about how this wet lab was actually the perfect place to deliver them because it was coincidentally a plant science lab! How nice!
Then you immediately return to your microscope, and the conversation is apparently over.
Johnny leaves the lab ten minutes later feeling like he somehow lost.
The second thing Johnny tries is lunch. Surely lunch is more date-adjacent, right? So when he remembers you mentioning a tiny sandwich shop three neighborhoods away, he immediately flies across Manhattan to get your favorite order.
You blink when he sets the bag on your desk.
"What's this?"
"Lunch."
You give him a grateful look, “Aw, is this you finally repaying me for all I’ve cooked for you?”
What?
Oh, that’s right. You cook for him—a lot. You mentioned that cooking was one of the ways you destress, and you keep making extra food for yourself, so you started cooking up two portions instead. One for you and one for him.
“Uh, yeah..” He chuckles awkwardly.
Then, you look at the logo stuck into the parchment paper. "Wait."
Johnny perks up.
"You remembered my order?"
"Of course I remembered your order."
You look genuinely surprised, and somehow that feels worse. "Johnny," you say carefully, "I told you that one time. Like eight months ago."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"...That's actually kind of impressive. Thanks."
Johnny immediately decides to survive on that compliment for the next week. Okay, so he’s getting it now! Cater to your wants and needs, not just give you things he thinks sound good.
Johnny starts making notes. Like, actual notes. Like he’s conducting a science experiment. In his chicken scratch writing, he writes down all the attempts he did, and what the outcome of it was.
ATTEMPT #5: Complimented hair, and she said thank you. Outcome: inconclusive.
ATTEMPT #7: Brought coffee, and she smiled, promising to grab coffee with me sometime. Outcome: promising.
ATTEMPT #10: Asked if she would ever date a superhero, and she said probably not. Too busy, too dangerous. But she still said it depends. Outcome: devastating.
The first person you mention it to is Sue, mostly because you’ve known her for two decades now, and also because she’s the safest option. Someone you’re able to trust.
Ben would immediately make it weird, Reed would probably start taking notes, and Johnny… well, Johnny is the problem. So Sue it is.
You, Reed, and Sue are scattered around Reed's lab on a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Reed is buried in whatever world-ending project currently occupies his attention, Sue is reviewing mission reports, and you're attempting to organize several weeks worth of research data.
Attempting being the operative word, because Johnny keeps interrupting your thoughts.
You finally let out a frustrated sigh. Across the room, Sue glances up.
"Everything okay?"
You hesitate, but decide to ask her anyway. "Has Johnny been acting strange lately?"
Sue immediately looks interested, which should have been your first warning.
"Strange how?"
You spin your chair around. "I don't know." A lie. You know exactly how, you just don’t know why. You tap your pen against the desk. “He’s been…”
Sue waits.
“Different…”
“Different.”
“Mm. Different.”
Sue's mouth twitches, and you narrow your eyes. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"The thing where you clearly know something."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Fortunately, Sue respects her brother enough not to air out his feelings about you.
"Liar."
Sue laughs, and you slump back into your chair.
"It's just weird."
"What's weird?"
You gesture vaguely. "He's been showing up everywhere."
Sue hums.
"He keeps bringing me things."
Another hum.
"He complimented me three times yesterday."
Sue raises an eyebrow.
"Only three?"
You throw a pen at her, but she catches it effortlessly with her powers. Of course she does.
"My point is," you continue, "Johnny's always been nice, but this feels… intentional. Like every interaction has an ulterior motive behind it.”
Sue studies you quietly. "What if he's just paying more attention?"
You snort. You seem to do that a lot these days. "Why?"
The question slips out before you can stop it. Why now? Why after all this time? Sue doesn't answer, or maybe she chooses not to. Instead, she returns her attention to the report in front of her. You make a mental note to dig into that later.
Then, you suddenly remembered something. “Hey, Reed. How did it go with the synchronization index results two days ago? You know, the one that Johnny took?”
Reed pauses, but you don’t really seem to notice it. You ask again, absentmindedly. “Who did you use as a baseline comparison? Was it Sue?”
“Uh, no. We used you, actually.”
“Oh, cool! What did Johnny and I get?” You ask with curiosity.
Reed runs a hand through his hair. "So, you know how the highest compatibility score previously recorded was ninety-one percent."
You stare.
"...Okay?"
"Your scores were ninety-eight point nine percent."
The room goes completely silent.
For a moment, you genuinely wonder if you heard him correctly. A strange warmth blooms in your chest. Ninety-eight point nine, you and Johnny. A ridiculous part of you immediately wants to smile, because of course it's Johnny.
Of course the person who knows you best would be Johnny.
But then another thought creeps in.
Slowly, unpleasantly. The timing.
The sudden attention, the compliments, the flowers, the lunches, the flirting, the everything.
Your stomach drops.
Oh.
Oh. That explains everything.
You look away before either Reed or Sue can notice the change in your expression, because suddenly it all makes sense. Johnny took the test, got the score, and he started… trying. Not before, but after. You hate how the realization quickly settles, and how neatly all the pieces fit together. Because for one stupid second, you'd let yourself wonder if maybe…
No. You shut that thought down immediately.
This wasn't romantic, this was Johnny.
Johnny, who turned everything into a competition. Johnny, who chased things because they were exciting. Johnny, who had never looked twice at a finish line he hadn't crossed yet.
Ninety-eight point nine percent. This was a challenge, a goal. You hate how much that possibility bothers you. Maybe because a small, selfish part of you wanted it to mean something else. Wanted all those lingering looks and stupid compliments to be real. Wanted him to choose you because he wanted you.
Not because some machine told him he should.
You force a smile onto your face. "So that's why." You mumble.
Sue's eyes flick toward you, observant and knowing. Unfortunately, you don't look at her long enough to notice. Because by then you've already made up your mind. Whatever this is, it needs to stop.
Before you start hoping for things Johnny Storm was never actually offering.
Johnny realizes there's a problem three days later. Not because you reject him, no, that would’ve been easier. No, the problem is that you're being nice. The kind of nice that creates approximately twelve feet of emotional distance.
"Thanks for the coffee, Johnny."
"Thanks for the meal, Johnny."
"Thanks for helping me carry those samples, Johnny."
By Thursday, Johnny is standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like it personally betrayed him. "This is bad."
Sue barely glances up from her tea, like she already knows what he’s talking about. "How bad?"
"She thanked me."
Sue blinks, and Johnny points dramatically. "Exactly."
"Johnny, most people like being thanked."
"Not like this."
Sue studies him for a moment. "You think she's avoiding you."
"I know she's avoiding me."
"Did she say that?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
Johnny groans. "Because it's her." He throws himself into a chair. "I know her." That was the problem. Johnny knew exactly how you acted when you were annoyed, stressed, happy—everything! And lately? You were acting careful, like somebody trying not to touch a hot stove.
Sue watches him sulk for a moment before finally setting down her mug. "When was the last time you showed interest in something she likes?"
Johnny frowns. "I know things she likes."
"No. I mean actually interested."
"I am interested."
Sue gives him a look. "Johnny."
"Oh." The realization visibly hits him. “You mean… science? I like science, this should be easy.”
Sue stares at him. “No, like… biology. Things that are in her field. Let her know that you care about the things she’s doing, and the fact that you love listening to her. It’ll get her to open up to you more.”
“Sue, you’re a genius!”
Johnny becomes aggressively committed to the bit. He appears in your lab the following Monday wearing glasses.
You stare. "Why are you wearing glasses?"
Johnny immediately touches them. "Oh, these?" He adjusts them casually. Too casually. "Been reading a lot lately."
You narrow your eyes. "Reading."
"Yep."
"What kind of reading?"
Johnny shrugs. "Scientific reading." The answer is so vague that it somehow circles back around to being suspicious. You slowly set your tablet down.
"What scientific reading?"
Johnny freezes. Not because he doesn't know, but because he knows too much. The last three nights have been spent with his face buried in journals while Reed chuckled at him from across the lab. Now his brain is suddenly trying to sort through a ridiculous number of scientific terms at once.
"Cells."
You blink. "Cells."
"Yeah."
A beat.
"There are a lot of those."
Your stare intensifies, and Johnny immediately folds. "Okay, fine. Molecular biology." Now you look genuinely surprised. "Oh."
For the first time all week, Johnny feels like he's accomplished something.
"Why?"
There it is. the question he's been trying desperately to avoid. Why. Because saying because he’s hopelessly in love with you feels a little aggressive for a Monday morning. So instead he says, "I wanted to understand your work better."
The words come out before he can stop them. And for a second, neither of you say anything. Something shifts briefly in your expression, it softens. But at the same second, it disappears.
"Oh."
Johnny's stomach does a weird thing. Because that sounded way more sincere than he'd intended. Which is unfortunate because it was completely true.
You clear your throat. "Well."
You point toward the journal tucked under his arm. "If you're reading that one, chapter four is outdated."
Johnny looks down, then back up. "You've read it?"
You immediately look offended. "Johnny."
"Right. Stupid question."
"Very stupid question."
"You know, I walked directly into that one."
"Yes, you did."
You chuckle, and Johnny feels like his heart is about to burst. “Do you actually wanna learn these things?”
“I mean, yeah!” He nods enthusiastically. Seeing this, you walk over to one of the shelves in the corner of the room. It was quite high up, but you were pretty sure you were able to reach it last time. So you stood on your tip-toes, and tried grabbing the massive textbook sitting on top.
Johnny immediately comes over. “I can reach that—”
“No. I can do it.” You say as you hold the corner of the book.
“No, no, really, I can help you.” He says, and he reaches a hand to the same book, but it ends up falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You look at him with an unimpressed look. He purses his lips, hands behind his back now, looking guilty and looking everywhere but your eyes.
You inhale and exhale sharply, but you grabbed the book from the floor anyway, and placed it in front of him. It was a worn down copy of a ‘Campbell’s Biology’ textbook. “This was with me throughout my high school and university days.” You open up a specific chapter.
“If you really want to learn a few things, you’re welcome to come to me any time. I know you’re smart and capable, but if you have too many thoughts sitting in that brain of yours, I’d love to help you sort them out.” You looked back to the book. “I’d start with this part of the textbook.”
Johnny follows your gaze to the page you've opened. The margins are filled with tiny handwritten notes, some written in different colors, accumulated over what looked like years of use. Several sections had been highlighted, and a few pages were dog-eared.
The book practically screamed that it belonged to you. For some reason, that realization settles strangely in his chest.
He'd expected a polite dismissal. Maybe a sarcastic comment about how long this latest phase of his would last. Instead, you'd handed him one of the textbooks that had followed you through high school and university and were now offering to help him through it.
The fact that you seemed completely sincere about it only made the feeling worse.
Or better, he wasn’t entirely sure.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he carefully turns a page. "You're really volunteering to tutor me?"
You glance up from the chapter. "I'm offering to answer questions."
"That sounds suspiciously like tutoring."
"Only because I know you'll have questions."
Johnny lets out a quiet laugh. "Wow. Good to know you have so much faith in me."
"If I get stuck," he continues, trying, and failing to sound casual, "you're not gonna make fun of me, right?"
You look genuinely puzzled. "Why would I do that?" The answer comes so quickly that he almost misses it. As if the idea had never even crossed your mind. Johnny feels something warm settle in his chest.
Because that's just it, isn't it? You never treated him like he was less intelligent than the people around him. You'd always looked at him like he was perfectly capable of keeping up if he wanted to.
"You'd be surprised," he says lightly.
"Johnny."
Your voice softens just enough to make him look up. "I know you're smart."
The statement is delivered so matter-of-factly that it catches him completely off guard. Johnny flashes a grin. "Careful. Keep saying stuff like that and I'm gonna start developing self-esteem."
You immediately roll your eyes.
"Tragic."
"Absolutely devastating."
Johnny shows up in your lab the next morning like he’s been doing it for years.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans into the doorway for a moment, watching you work, then crosses the room and places a small stack of printed pages on the edge of your desk.
You glance at them, then up at him.
“What’s this?”
“Lab notes,” he says.
You blink once. “…From who?”
“Reed.” That at least makes sense.
You pick up the top sheet and scan it quickly. It’s formatted the way Reed likes everything formatted—dense, precise, slightly over-detailed in a way that assumes the reader is already three steps ahead. Still, it’s useful.
You look back up at Johnny. “Why are you delivering these?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was already coming here.”
You study him for a second longer. He looks… normal. Casual, even. Like he’s just passing through. But he’s also watching you closely, like he’s waiting to see whether this counts as helpful or intrusive. “Put them there.”
Johnny does.
For a few minutes, the lab is quiet again except for the usual hum of equipment and the soft rhythm of your pen making contact with paper.
You assume he’ll leave. He doesn’t.
Instead, he drifts further into the room, stopping near one of your benches. He looks around like he’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to exist in that space without an explicit task.
Then, carefully, he picks up a pair of gloves from your supply tray.
“You don’t need those,” you say without looking up.
“I know.”
Another pause, then he puts them back. After a moment, he starts to speak again. “Can I touch the cabinet?”
You don’t look up. “Yes.”
“Cool.”
You hear movement behind you after that. Cabinets opening. The faint clink of containers being shifted. At first, you ignore it. Johnny has always been… present. This is not new. What’s new is the silence. When you turn around again, he’s reorganizing one of your supply shelves. By size, at first glance. Then by category.
Then, after a moment of observation, you realize he’s also separating things by how often you reach for them. The most frequently used items are already drifting toward eye level.
You stop. “…What are you doing?”
“Helping,” he says, without looking at you.
“That’s not helping.”
“It is if I’m right.”
You step closer, arms folding. “You don’t know what I need where.”
Johnny finally looks at you then, one hand still holding a labeled vial. “I think I do.”
The confidence in it makes you pause, not because it’s arrogant, but it sounds… considered. Like he’s been paying attention in a way you didn’t realize required effort.
You glance at the shelf again. It is, inconveniently, better organized than it was before. “…Why?” you ask finally.
Johnny shrugs, setting the vial down carefully. “Because you shouldn’t have to look for things twice in the same day.”
That’s all he says, like it’s not something worth making a big deal out of.
You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, then look away first. “Fine,” you say. “But don’t reorganize anything else without asking.”
He smiles a little.
“Bossy.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Right. Sorry.”
A beat.
“…Boss.”
Your lips quirk up just a tiny bit.
A few days after that, you notice something different in your lab. Your bench is already set up when you walk inside. Not partially, but fully set up. The samples are arranged in labeled rows. The pipettes you prefer are already out. Even the centrifuge has been pre-adjusted to the settings you would have chosen yourself, down to the slight calibration you usually account for.
You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.
“…Reed,” you talk into your communication device, still looking at the bench. “Did you come into my lab this morning?”
A pause. “No,” Reed answers. “Why?”
You glance around, though you already know the answer isn’t going to change. “Someone set up my experiment.”
“That’s unusual,” Reed says, in the tone of someone who is already mentally moving on to five other problems.
Then, mildly, “Is anything missing?”
You look again. Nothing is missing, everything is exactly where it should be.
You turned off your communication device, and that’s when you heard him.
“Morning.”
Johnny is leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, like he didn’t just quietly rearrange your entire workflow before you arrived.
You stare at him. “…Did you do this?”
He looks vaguely pleased with himself. “Maybe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s a pretty good one.”
You walk over to your bench, slow and deliberate.
“You prepared my experiment.”
“I set it up,” he corrects. Johnny pushes off the doorframe and walks closer, hands in his pockets like this is all completely normal.
“I remembered what you said last week about wasting time on setup when you could be running data sooner.”
You blink. That was something you said once, in passing, but you hadn’t even been talking to him. “…You remembered that?”
Johnny shrugs. “You were annoyed when you said it.”
You glance at him. “That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s a reason.”
You don’t respond immediately. You exhale through your nose and turn back to the bench. “Don’t make a habit of entering my lab before I do.”
Johnny’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s bracing for a stricter rejection than the one you actually give him.
“But since you’re here already… you mind helping me out?” You grabbed a spare lab coat and tossed it to him.
He beamed at you like you handed him the keys to the city.
It doesn’t make sense at first. That’s the part you keep coming back to. Johnny Storm doesn’t set up experiments. He doesn’t organize supply shelves. He doesn’t remember small things you said in passing weeks ago and act on them like they mattered.
You sit at your workstation, but your attention keeps drifting back to the bench he prepared.
Everything is already in place. Clean, ordered, functional. Not just “good enough,” but it’s efficient. Annoyingly efficient. You glance at it again. Then, you catch yourself doing it and look back at your screen.
At first, it had been easy to explain away. The compatibility score, the machine, the timing of it all. Ninety-eight point nine percent.
It gave you something neat to hold onto, a reason for sudden behavior that didn’t quite match the version of Johnny Storm you were used to. Because that version made sense. He overdid things and got excited. He moved fast and moved on faster. But somehow… this isn’t that. This has been consistent.
You had told yourself it was all tied to the test, a reaction to being told something about himself that he now wanted to prove or act on. And while that still could be true, it’s just getting harder to fully believe it, because none of this looks like showing off anymore.
You don’t change what you do at first. It’s not obvious, at least not immediately. You just… stand a little closer than usual when he’s talking. Close enough that he notices, but not close enough that it should matter.
Johnny notices anyway because of course, he always notices you.
He’s mid-explanation about something he probably understands better than he’s currently articulating when he pauses for half a second too long, eyes flicking down like he’s just become aware of where he’s standing in space. Then he clears his throat and continues talking.
A little faster this time. You don’t move away.
Later, when he brings you a set of revised lab notes, you take them from him and your fingers brush his hand for a second longer than necessary.
It’s nothing, barely even contact. But Johnny goes still in a way that is immediately noticeable if you’re looking for it.
Which, unfortunately, you are. “Everything okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Then, after a beat, “Yeah. Totally fine.” He smiles like he means it, but… it doesn’t quite land.
You nod and go back to your screen.
The next day, you repeat it on purpose. Not dramatically, just enough to see if yesterday was coincidence.
You lean slightly closer when he’s showing you something on a monitor. Not touching him, just narrowing the space between you and him until he has to decide whether to acknowledge it or ignore it. He chooses neither.
He stops talking for half a second, then resumes with the wrong sentence and has to restart. You file that away quietly.
Interesting.
By the third day, you add something else. A little bit of… sauce, if you will. “You look tired,” you say when he walks in.
Johnny immediately straightens. “I’m not tired.”
“You’re slouching.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re slouching standing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
You tilt your head slightly. “It is for you.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so strained.
Then, you reach out and fix his collar without thinking about it too much. It’s a small adjustment. Barely a touch. Something you’ve done before in passing when he’s been too distracted to notice. Except this time, he does.
He goes completely still. Just… frozen in place like his brain has temporarily stopped accepting new input. Just as soon as you start, you finish adjusting it and step back.
“There,” you say. “Better.”
Johnny nods once. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. That’s—yeah.” He clears his throat. “You’re acting strange.”
“I’m not acting strange.”
A pause.
“You’re acting strange,” he repeats, like that fixes it.
The next scheduled debrief for the development of the Synchronization Index is today. You don’t think much of it when you hear about it.
It comes up in passing, the way most things in Reed’s lab do. Something about recalibration, about running comparative datasets again to stabilize the Synchronization Index after recent adjustments.
Your name is mentioned, briefly, almost absentmindedly.
You barely look up from what you’re doing. “High compatibility,” Reed says, like it’s nothing particularly remarkable.
And it isn’t, not really. The system has been producing results like that more often now, different pairings, different variables. You nod once, as if filing it away in a place that doesn’t require further attention.
“Ninety-four point six percent. Interesting,” you say, and move on. You don’t think about it again.
Not yet. But Johnny hears about it, and of course he makes a huge deal out of it. “Wait,” he says immediately, stopping so abruptly it almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “Back up a second.”
Reed pauses, patient in the way he always is when Johnny is involved.
“You ran her with who?”
“Dr. Scott,” Reed replies.
There’s a short silence.
Johnny’s expression doesn’t change right away, but something in him clearly does. “…Why?”
“Control comparison.” That seems to make things worse.
“No,” Johnny says, too quickly, like the word alone should be enough to undo the situation.
Reed blinks once. “No?”
“That’s not—” Johnny gestures vaguely, as if trying to physically rearrange the concept in the air. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is how it works.”
“No, because the machine doesn’t understand context,” Johnny says, already building momentum.
“It does,” Reed answers calmly.
Johnny ignores him completely. “It must’ve been off,” he decides.
Reed studies him now, more carefully.
“The system?”
“Yes.”
“It produced consistent results.”
Johnny immediately shakes his head. “That just means it was consistently wrong.”
From somewhere behind them, Sue makes a sound that might be a cough or might be laughter she is actively suppressing. Johnny continues pacing lightly now, more animated the longer he talks, as if movement will make the conclusion feel less real.
“It’s probably calibration drift,” he says. “Or environmental interference.”
“You are suggesting the machine is unreliable.”
“I am suggesting,” Johnny says, pointing vaguely as if the argument is already settled, “that the machine is not accounting for real-world variability.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is not.”
Reed does not look convinced.
Johnny exhales, running a hand through his hair, trying again with more urgency. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t make sense.”
Sue finally looks up from her tablet. “What doesn’t make sense?”
Johnny answers immediately. “That.”
Sue tilts her head slightly. “That… what?”
He hesitates, then gestures vaguely again, like the answer is obvious and frustratingly invisible.
“That it would do that.”
Reed watches him carefully now.
“Do what?”
“Be inaccurate.”
Sue leans back slightly in her chair, watching him with an expression that is far too knowing for his comfort. “You don’t like the result,” she says gently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is a little true,” Reed adds.
Johnny turns toward him immediately. “It’s not.”
Reed raises a brow.
Johnny pauses for half a beat, then corrects himself. “It’s… not about liking it.”
Sue hums faintly. “Then what is it about?”
Johnny doesn’t answer right away. There isn’t a clean answer that doesn’t sound like something he is not ready to say out loud, he thinks. Instead, he defaults to what he knows:
“Repeat the test,” he says.
Reed studies him for a long moment.
“Why?”
“To verify consistency,” Johnny replies immediately.
Sue’s expression shifts slightly at that. Not amused anymore, just observant. “That’s not why,” she says again, quieter this time.
Johnny looks at her. For a second, something almost slips through his expression, something that’s… unguarded. Then he shakes it off like it never happened.
“It is why,” he insists, and huffs. He looks back while rolling his eyes, and spots you. He immediately calls out your name and beckons you over.
You smile once you see him, and you walk towards him casually with your hands inside your lab coat pocket. "What?"
Johnny points at you immediately. "Tell Reed the machine is wrong."
You exhale with a smile, looking at his determined face. Determined for what, you don’t know yet. "...Hello to you too."
"Hi. Tell Reed the machine is wrong."
You glance between him and Reed. “What happened to our machine?"
"You got ninety-four point six percent with Dr. Scott."
You wait. "Okay?"
Johnny stares. The fact that you're not immediately alarmed somehow makes him look even more alarmed. "No, not okay."
You laugh. "Why?"
"Because it doesn't make sense. I mean what does the machine think is happening?" Johnny asks, already spiraling. "You guys barely know each other."
You open your mouth, but Johnny keeps going. "You've worked together for, what, eight months?"
"A year and a half."
“That’s not helping,” he mutters immediately.
You study him for a moment. “Helping what?”
Johnny ignores that completely. “It’s not just about time anyway,” he continues. “It’s about context. Shared experience. Patterns. You don’t just build compatibility off proximity and shared work hours.”
“…And what counts as real compatibility?” you ask quietly.
Johnny opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. For the first time, the confidence slips just slightly at the edges, because the answer he almost gives is not scientific at all.
And he knows it.
Johnny is beginning to feel beyond frustrated. He’s done all this and all that, but he just… doesn’t have enough confidence yet. He doesn’t have that one final push to make him brave enough to actually tell you about his feelings. Tonight, he’s pacing in the common room like the floor has personally offended him. Then, he sees a rocky, orange build in front of him. “Ben!”
Ben stops, then sighs. “Whatever it is, you’re doing it wrong.”
Johnny blinks. “I haven’t told you what it is yet…”
Ben finally turns back to face him. He shrugs. “I’ve got an idea.”
Johnny huffs. “Nothing’s working. I don’t know what else to do to get her to come to me.” Johnny drags a hand down his face. “I tried the normal way, didn’t work. I tried the direct way, didn’t work. I tried… whatever I did, and it still didn’t work.”
Ben nods like this is normal information. “Then stop doin’ it.”
Johnny looks at him. “That’s your advice?”
Ben shrugs. “You ever try not runnin’ at a wall?”
Johnny blinks.
“…What does that mean?”
“It means,” Ben says, leaning back, “you keep actin’ like you gotta prove somethin’. Just stop chasin’ it.”
Johnny tilts his head, a bit confused, but somewhat getting it. Bless him. “So I… don’t initiate.”
Ben squints. “If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.”
Johnny nods, already locking in the interpretation. “I don’t initiate.” Johnny had stared at him for a long moment before asking, “And then what?”
Ben had shrugged. “Then she comes to you.”
Which, in hindsight, was not actually advice. It was just a sentence. But Johnny, unfortunately, hears it like a strategy.
The first time, you don’t think much of it.
Johnny not showing up to the lab at the usual time isn’t unheard of. He has missions. He has Reed. He has whatever chaotic schedule comes with being Johnny Storm. So you keep working. You assume he’ll appear later, sliding into the room mid-task like he always does, making some comment about how you look like you haven’t blinked in hours.
But he doesn’t.
Huh, must’ve been super busy today. You think.
The second time it happens, you catch it early enough that it feels worse. You run into him in the hallway outside the lab in the morning, and you see him before he sees you.
When he finally sees you, his expression changes the way it always does, like you’ve become the most natural point of focus in the room. The warmth is there, the familiarity is there, but something underneath it feels restrained, as though it doesn’t quite reach the surface the way it usually does.
“Hey,” he says when you approach.
“Hey,” you reply, automatically matching his tone, because that part hasn’t changed yet.
For a brief moment, it almost feels normal. You ask him if he’s still available later to go get some coffee you’d scheduled together, expecting the usual easy confirmation, maybe a joke about how you’re the only person who tries to make him sit still for breaks.
Instead, Johnny goes quiet for a fraction too long. It’s subtle, not enough to interrupt the rhythm of the conversation outright, but enough that you notice the shift in him as he searches for something to say.
“Yeah,” he starts, then hesitates, and when he continues, it comes out slightly less certain. “Actually, I might have to rain check that.”
“A rain check,” you repeat, because it sounds wrong coming from him.
He nods quickly, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to reinforce it before it can be questioned. “Yeah. Reed’s got me tied up with something. It came up at the last minute.”
There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t sit right. Most importantly, he is not someone who usually steps away from time with you without making it sound like a loss he intends to fix.
You study him for a moment longer, and that’s when you start noticing the details you might have missed otherwise. The way his posture is slightly more controlled than usual, the way his gaze flickers away from yours a fraction too soon, like he is afraid that if he holds it too long, something will slip.
“Is everything okay?” you ask.
Johnny nods immediately, but there is a delay before the nod settles into something convincing. “Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat that feels like an afterthought he didn’t mean to reveal, he adds, “I’m fine.”
He looks at you properly then, and for a second you see it more clearly. Not distance exactly, and not indifference, but effort. Like he is trying to maintain a version of himself that does not naturally fit the situation he is in.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. When you don’t respond right away, he continues, a little more quickly now, “We’ll reschedule. I’ll let you know.”
By the third, fourth, fifth time, you stop pretending you don’t notice. He still shows up (sometimes), still helps, and still answers when you ask him things. But everything has shifted half a step to the side, like he’s deliberately trying not to occupy the same space in the same way.
Even the jokes change.
They’re still there, just… less immediate. Like he’s letting silence happen before deciding whether to fill it. And worse than that, he starts leaving first. Not in a rude way, but in a careful way, like he’s trying not to overstay something you didn’t realize had a limit.
It takes you a while to bring it up, mostly because at first you keep convincing yourself there isn’t anything to bring up. People drift a little without it meaning anything deeper than that. Except Johnny doesn’t really “drift.” Not like this.
So when you finally catch him alone in the lab doorway one afternoon, you decide you’re just going to ask. He looks up when you call his name.
“Hey,” he says, like always.
“Hey,” you reply, but you don’t move back to your work this time.
Instead, you just look at him for a second longer than usual, trying to figure out where exactly the shift happened. Johnny notices that immediately. Of course he does.
“Everything okay?” he asks, a little too quickly.
You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “I think something’s changed,” you bring it up.
That makes him pause. “What do you mean?”
You lean back slightly against the edge of the table, folding your arms without really thinking about it.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “You’ve just been different lately. You’re around less. You keep rescheduling things. Even when you’re here, it feels like you’re halfway somewhere else.”
You pause, then add, a little more quietly, like you’re afraid that this is the case, “Did I do something?”
That finally gets a reaction out of him. “What? No,” he says immediately, almost horrified by the idea.
But then it fades a little, like the certainty doesn’t hold. “No, it’s not that.”
You watch him carefully now. “Then what is it?”
Johnny opens his mouth, closes it again, and lets out a breath through his nose like he’s trying to decide whether he’s about to say something stupid or something irreversible.
“It’s… advice,” he says eventually.
That makes you blink, looking at him like you’re silently saying ‘are you kidding me?’
“Advice.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding once, like that explains everything and also absolutely nothing. “From Ben.”
You stare at him for a second. “…Ben told you to start avoiding me?”
“No,” Johnny says quickly, then corrects himself just as fast. “Not like that. He said I was doing too much. Like I was…” He stops, clearly searching for the wording, then gives up a little. “He said I should stop chasing and just… let things happen.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“And your interpretation of that was to disappear?”
“I thought,” he says, slower, “if I stopped being in your face all the time, you’d have space. And then you’d… come to me.”
That lands in the air between you in a way that makes the room feel quieter than it was a second ago.
“…Come to you?”
He nods once, like he fully hears how bad that sounds now that it’s out loud. “Yeah,” he says, more uncertain now. “That was the idea.”
I shake my head in even more confusion. “What do I need to come to you for?”
“Just… uhhh…” Johnny stands there, confused on how to go on with this.
“Okay, don’t answer that, just… That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you describe out loud,” you say.
Johnny gives you a look. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” For a second, it almost resets into something lighter. But then he goes quiet again, and whatever humor was in his expression fades back into something more unsettled.
“I just didn’t know how else to do it,” he admits.
You take a step closer without really thinking about it. “Do what?” you ask, softer now.
Johnny looks at you, and this time he doesn’t try to joke his way around it. Instead, he just exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Tell you,” he says quietly. “That I like you. Without messing it up.”
For a second, you don’t say anything.
It isn’t that you don’t understand him. You do. It’s just that your brain takes a moment to process what exactly he just said, because it doesn’t fit neatly into any of the explanations you had been building over the past week.
Johnny watches you carefully while that happens, which only makes it harder to think, because he looks like he’s bracing for impact even though he’s standing completely still.
“I—” he starts, then stops himself almost immediately, shaking his head slightly. “Okay, no, I’m not doing the talking thing right. Just—ignore that. Forget I said it. That was—”
“Johnny,” you interrupt gently, not loud, just enough to pull him back.
He goes quiet again. You take a breath, slower than usual, trying to steady yourself in the way you normally do when something unexpected comes up in the lab.
“So,” you say after a moment, “your plan was to avoid me until I came to you.”
He hesitates. “…Yeah.”
“And that was supposed to help you tell me you like me.”
“Also yes,” he admits, a little miserably.
You nod slowly, like you’re processing experimental results that don’t behave the way they’re supposed to. “That’s not how people work,” you say.
“I know that now,” he says quickly. “I panicked.”
“You’ve been panicking?” you ask.
Johnny lets out a breath that sounds halfway like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Kind of,” he says. “Yeah.”
You glance down briefly, then back at him. “I thought you were… I don’t know,” you admit, a little more honestly than you intended. “Trying to prove something. Or that it was just the test. Or that it was easier to turn it into a challenge than actually… yeah.”
Johnny shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says, firmer now. “No, it wasn’t that.”
He hesitates, then adds, more carefully, “I didn’t start doing any of this because of the test. I started because I was trying not to ruin it.” He looks at you like he needs you to understand that part specifically.
“I’ve known I like you,” he says, a little more quietly now. “For a long time. That’s not new. What’s new is that I actually said it out loud and then immediately realized I have no idea what I’m doing with it.”
Then, almost helplessly, “So I listened to Ben.”
You huff a small laugh at that before you can stop yourself. Johnny shifts slightly, like he’s preparing himself again, but this time it’s not for retreat.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says more simply. “But I think I already kind of did.”
You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “You did something very stupid,” you agree.
He nods immediately.
“Yeah.”
“But,” you add, after a pause, “you didn’t mess it up.”
That makes him look up properly. You exhale, a little softer now. “You just made it more complicated than it needed to be.”
Johnny stares at you for a moment like he’s not entirely sure whether that’s better or worse.
“…Is that fixable?” he asks.
“I mean, it’s not like you burned down my lab or something. Of course it’s fixable.” You say with a smile. That gets a real laugh out of him this time, and something tight inside him finally loosens.
Then, quieter again, “So… what now?”
You look at him for a second longer than necessary, and this time, instead of overthinking it, you just answer him plainly. “Now you stop avoiding me,” you say. “And we figure it out properly.”
Johnny nods once, absolutely no hesitation this time. “Okay,” he says.
In the warm afternoon light of the building hallway, he starts to lean in, almost instinctively. You do too, but then,
“Wait.”
Johnny pulls back slightly, confused, and a bit worried. “What is it?” He asks in a low voice, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.
“You did all of that because of the stupid soulmate machine?” You immediately regretted the words that came out of your mouth, because—
“You called it the soulmate machine!” Johnny exclaims, wide eyes and a smile that’s brighter than the sun.
“Oh my God, no, I—” You start, but he interrupts you.
“Nope! No take backs! You called it the soulmate machine, it is officially named the—”
You kiss him.
Honestly, it isn't even a conscious decision.
One second he's standing there preparing what is undoubtedly going to become the most obnoxious victory speech in recorded history, and the next you're grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down.
The rest of the sentence disappears completely, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Johnny Storm shuts up.
The hallway goes very, very quiet. When you finally pull back, Johnny just stares at you. You stare back.
His brain is clearly attempting to reboot.
"...Did you just kiss me?" he asks.
You immediately roll your eyes.
"Oh my God. No, hold on." He points at you, looking genuinely overwhelmed now. "You kissed me."
"Yes."
"You kissed me."
"Johnny."
"You kissed—"
You place a hand over his mouth.
"You're ruining it."
He makes a deeply offended noise against your palm for approximately two seconds. You release your hand, then the biggest grin you've ever seen appears on his face.
"You like me."
You groan.
"I literally just kissed you."
"I know!" he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. "I'm just making sure we're both on the same page!"
additional notes: thanks for reading till the end!
the title idea was literally inspired by a statistics class that i'm doing in uni atm, the same class that i have finals for in a week...
also, as i've mentioned before i definitely felt disappointed with the end results of this fic but!!! it's my first one in a long time, and it's my first ever in this account. so please stay tuned for more works! i swear i'm planning to write something better for you guys :)
okay, one final thing, i have never posted in tumblr before so i am completely clueless as to how to navigate this app. please bear with me. if any of you want to help me out i would most definitely appreciate it. i don't know what the hell i'm doing with this app.
