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That you are || Johnny Storm x Reader (NSFW)

Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x female! reader

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

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

Disclaimer: I aim to keep my writing inclusive for all readers, though as a white author, some minor white-centric phrasing may occasionally slip through my editing process. Please consider this a heads-up if you prefer works completely free of such descriptors.

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

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

How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, call me Johnny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The peace lasted all of ten minutes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Man, you look tense, Doll.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

She blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she’d never said stay away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

She flipped to a random page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

Only if you want it to be.

What did she want it to be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Clare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She landed on a random poem.

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

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

“That one stayed with me, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “More or less.”

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

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

“I have my moments.”

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

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

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

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

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You broke into my room.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “The shelves work fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey Jonathan?”

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

“Thank you,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “I can—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But still—”

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

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

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

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

“Unbelievably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Focus? Long gone.

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

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

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

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

SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.

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

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

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

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

Saturday needed to hurry up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feeling better?” he asked finally.

“Getting there,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t know you.”

“And now you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.

“And yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,” he admitted. “The Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… refreshing.”

His gaze found hers, steadier now. “You weren’t trying to be liked. You weren’t interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.”

“Like?”

He smiled faintly. “Like how you hum when you’re trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you don’t care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.” Her brows lifted, surprised. “I noticed, because I started caring. And I didn’t mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesn’t let anyone take care of her.”

He paused. “And I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell won’t ask. I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’s so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so he’ll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.”

The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. “You make it hard not to care back, you know.” Johnny’s eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fire—”

“Three steps,” he said automatically, lips quirking.

She shot him a look, but didn’t lose her thread. “And then it just… shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.” She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.”

Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadn’t expected. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who aren’t family. It’s easier to be that version of myself so people don’t go digging.”

She shrugged a little. “You’re not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. You’re so much more.”

The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They weren’t touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. “You don’t have to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “But if you ever wonder why it’s you, it’s because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.”

Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. “I already decided,” she said. That made him still. “I don’t know what it means yet,” she added, voice barely audible, “but I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.”

He grinned wide and disbelieving. “That was your moment?”

She gave a soft, shy smile. “Yeah. That was it.”

A beat. “Can I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?”

She didn’t speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. “It wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said.

And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didn’t. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.

She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldn’t believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured.

She laughed under her breath. “You taste like smug satisfaction.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Can’t help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."

“That was literally the first thing I ever said to you.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

He opened his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. Probably.” And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.

A few minutes later, they’d migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.

“Does Sue know you’re here?” she asked, teasing.

Johnny snorted. “She knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but she’s definitely suspicious.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“She is usually right,” he said with a grin.

Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Hey Johnny… This... whatever this is between us, it doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic thing.”

He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. “No. It doesn’t. But it’s something. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”

She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m done pretending, too.”

There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. “So... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?”

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Please don’t say ‘go steady.’”

He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. “That’s not a no,” he murmured.

She smiled, soft and certain. “It’s a yes. I’d love to let you take me out.”

“Perfect.” He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. “Can we still go to the bookstore?”

She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. They’d done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, they’d be pretending they weren’t quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was looking…

“Yes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

One month later…

If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never would’ve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.

New York’s most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasn’t there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.

But not now. Not with her.

Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely.

Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.

It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.

Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager “I’m proud of you” after a long day she hadn’t even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.

It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance she’d put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern “don’t-hurt-her” speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.

“She’s good for you,” she’d told Johnny one morning over breakfast. He’d tried to play it cool, said something like, ‘Don’t start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,’ but she could tell how much it meant to him.

And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, “He’s steadier with you around. Not dull. Just… softer.”

That had stayed with her. Softer. Because that’s how he made her feel, too. He didn’t dim things down. He didn’t take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like he’d always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didn’t feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.

With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life she’d been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.

Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's “head” without thinking, just like Johnny always did.

She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didn’t even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadn’t bought. These weren’t big declarations. They weren’t moving boxes or dramatic speeches.

They were small signs that he wasn’t just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.

Even the cereal.

She hadn’t really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No “so… are we dating now?” moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didn’t. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words “here, take this.” It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn “Franklin” had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into “I’m already outside” calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didn’t intend to let go.

But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. They’d slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. She’d felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.

But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, “Not tonight.” At first, she’d wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.

But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but… respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.

And she couldn’t lie. It made her fall even harder. He could’ve had anyone. That was never the question. But he’d chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldn’t quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t increasingly growing a bit… frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnny’s patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there “Goodnight.”

She wasn’t inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasn’t simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and he’d press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.

She wasn’t sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was… some part of her liked that he didn’t expect it. That he hadn’t made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t turn her desire into an obligation. It felt… safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldn’t deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.

And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasn’t doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.

That didn’t make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasn’t around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie he’d left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.

She’d never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where she’d suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. She’d snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.

He’d ruined her. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe… maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each other’s arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.

The next time it would be her who didn’t allow them to stop.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didn’t work.

"You’re going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "It’s just a press conference."

"It’s not just a press conference," she’d countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "It’s the first time we’ve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesn’t go smoothly, Reed’s going to spiral, and the board’s going to blame you, and you know it."

Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didn’t even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. “You know,” he drawled, “most people go home when the sun goes down.”

She didn’t look up from her screen. “Most people don’t have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, most people also don’t look this good in computer lighting, so you’ve already got a head start.”

“Johnny.”

“Just saying.” He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. “Come home.”

She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet. It’s got to be perfect.”

“It’s already perfect.” His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. “You know how I know that? Because you wrote it.”

Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. “Flattery doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing her temple, “but maybe a little light kidnapping would.”

She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. “Johnny, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.

And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadn’t gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.

She swallowed. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get close. And then stop. Like we’re both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.”

He didn’t deny it. Just watched her. “You said you wanted slow,” he said softly.

“I said I wanted real,” she replied. “And this, us, it is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. That I don’t want more than just—” She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.

Johnny’s brow creased. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“You never let it show. You always stop.”

He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. “Because if I don’t stop… I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want everything with you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I wanted.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because that was it, wasn’t it? The thing she couldn’t name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadn’t been holding back because he didn’t feel it. He’d been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. “You’re not just some guy I’m passing time with,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for casual.”

He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just… grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. “Neither am I.” The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t pull away.

His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered “Not tonight.”

His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just… paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.

“Wait—” he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. “Are we really about to do this in the office?”

She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. “No one’s here,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s gone.”

His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. “I just—” he exhaled, eyes closed. “I don’t want this to feel like something it’s not. You deserve… more than some desk and low lighting.”

Her voice was soft but firm. “I’m tired of waiting, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. “Do you really think it’s going to mean less because it’s here? Do you think I’ll look back and regret it? Because I won’t. It’s not the location that matters.” Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “It’s you. Being with you is the part that matters.”

Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a bed with candles or soft music. It didn’t matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.

In fact, the heels were helpful.

Johnny wasn’t absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.

And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. “God, I love these little skirts,” he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. “You have no idea.”

She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.

Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. “You're still—” she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, “—obnoxiously overdressed.”

He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. “You started it. And I could say the same to you,”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, okay.”

But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.

His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand the wait anymore. “You always look so put-together,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. “Drives me crazy.”

His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “You ruin me. You know that, right?”

She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldn’t hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.”

She rolled her eyes, still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at these pants. They’re a crime against movement.”

He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. “They’re flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.”

“They’re a straightjacket for your legs,” she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. “Seriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?”

Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. “What can I say? I make insanity look sexy.” With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.

He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shot him a look. “I’d argue that it is quite hard…”

His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. “They always say it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I wear them because I always hope you’ll end up taking them off.”

She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of taking things off…” he gestured to her tights.

She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly.

"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I won’t lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your office…” came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. “Hmm… that’s an improvement.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the small grin that bloomed across her cheeks. “Do you say that to all the women you undress on desks?”

“Only the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.” His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.

She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. “You always flirt this much when you’re half-naked in someone else’s workplace?” she managed, fingers threading into his hair.

His grin was pure trouble. “Only when I’m with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of me…” Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. “I don’t think I can look at this office the same again,” he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.

She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. “Yeah me either”

“Mind if I try something?” he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more.

Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “I’ve gotta say,” he murmured, voice husky with laughter, “the skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for me…”

She smiled, lips parting around a breath. “Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.” He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. “Just picture it. You laid out across your desk…” As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. “God,” he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than she’d honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself.

“Yeah much better than just a fantasy,” he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along she’d gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away.

Johnny didn’t ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. “Wow, that’s, are you—”

“Please move,” she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Yes Ma’am,” and that’s all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly.

“Oh, Johnny,” she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath she’d been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.

“Yeah…” he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.

The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights they’d shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. They’d simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. “Johnny—” her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.”

She couldn’t answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.

“Johnny—” she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. One more thrust, rough and deep, and—CRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.

“Well,” Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, “I guess we’re filing this under workplace hazard.”

She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. “You broke my desk!”

He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. “Technically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “How am I supposed to explain this to Sue?”

That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. “Okay, please don’t mention my sister while I’m still inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. “Right. Sorry..”

“Thank you.” He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. “Now let’s go back to the part where I was making you see stars.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. “Pretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.”

His grin widened. “Oh? So I am that good.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.”

“I didn’t let you,” she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “You did that all on your own.”

Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. “Excuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I did not say ravish.”

“You didn’t have to. I read between the lines,” he said with a wink. “Here I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romantic…”

“And instead, you went full ‘raunchy office scandal,’ like this was some bad porno,” she deadpanned.

He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. “You encouraged it. Don’t go rewriting history now.”

She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. “God, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.”

Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. “I can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then I’ll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.” He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. “The desk was just the… prologue.”

She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. “You better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.”

He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. “No promises.”

“I’m serious,” she warned, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s an antique.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. “Now come on, I wanna do this properly.”

She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos of cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button, told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.

“After you, Miss Desk Slayer.” She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.

And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending there’s nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.

When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come find me tonight.”

He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. “You say that now.”

Johnny’s voice was soft. Softer than she’d ever heard it. “No. I mean it. Wherever you are... that’s where I wanna be.”

Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadn’t let herself admit until now.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

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