Tears…
Johnny Storm x Reed’s-younger-sister!Reader
Summary: Johnny loves women. He loves the sparkle, the batting lashes, the effortless yes that usually follows a grin and a well timed wink. Johnny is also very good at women. Historically excellent. But this is different. This is you. You, who require evidence, documentation and demonstrated growth. He did not mean for it to become a challenge. He only wanted one date. One. A victory lap. Instead he is now discovering that proving himself to you feels suspiciously less like a game and more like character development.
Author’s note: Yesss it’s inspired from the song Tear by Sabrina Carpenter that goes (I get wet at the thought of you…being a responsible guy…tears run down my thighs)
Also, I was the one in tears by the time I (finally) finished writing this. The tears only being from my eyes. (Pictures sourced from Pinterest. Credits to their rightful owners.) Divider Credits: @saradika-graphics
Happy Reading! 💜
When did you get hot..? : Part 2
Masterlist
word count: 6.8k
The Baxter Building after two in the morning possessed a particular kind of quiet.
Not silence. It was never silence. There was always the mechanical respiration of machinery buried behind walls, the steady circulation of ventilation through hidden arteries of steel, the faint metallic complaint of something Reed had once described as stable with an optimism that suggested interpretation.
But it was quiet enough that your footsteps sounded accusatory.
Quiet enough that your own presence felt intrusive.
You were a microbiologist. You did not forget things.
Precision was not a personality trait. It was discipline. Petri dishes were labeled in deliberate script. Slides were catalogued twice. Notes were written once in ink and once in memory. Contamination was not inconvenience. It was insult. A lapse in vigilance. A failure of respect toward the science itself.
So when you stopped halfway down the corridor and felt the absence before you fully identified it, irritation arrived clean and immediate.
“My culture slides.”
The words struck tile and echoed thinly back at you.
You closed your eyes.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
You pivoted sharply and retraced your steps, already calculating incubation time, already imagining gradual degradation, already preparing a calm and devastatingly articulate speech in case Reed had wandered too near your bench with curious hands and absent genius. You were drafting citations in your head. You were prepared to be academically lethal.
The lab lights were still on.
You frowned.
You distinctly remembered turning them off. You replayed mundane tasks before sleep the way other people replayed arguments. It was how you maintained control.
Your grip tightened on the door handle and pushed it open.
You stopped.
Johnny Storm stood before the blackboard like a man unveiling the future at the World’s Fair. One hand rested against the chalk tray with theatrical confidence. The other was tucked neatly behind his back, posture composed with such exaggerated patience that it bordered on parody.
He was wearing your glasses which sat crooked on his face. He was clearly squinting and was equally clearly committed.
He smiled at you as though this had been inevitable.
“Oh good,” he said brightly. “You’re here. I was about to begin.”
You blinked once.
The board behind him was full.
Not with equations, or cosmic radiation projections, or with Reed’s dense architectural diagrams that looked like divine intervention would be required to decipher them.
A pyramid dominated the center.
At the top, written boldly:
YOU
Beneath it, branching downward with alarming neatness:
PROS OF DATING JOHNNY STORM
Elite hero status Excellent jawline symmetry Built in heating system, winter proof High public approval rating
Competitive banter enrichment Fireproof cuddling potential, pending consent
Your gaze drifted to the right side of the board.
CONS
Brother in law situation Brother in law situation Brother in law situation
Each one circled and then crossed out with violent chalk strokes that had clearly required emotional commitment.
And beneath them, written with unnecessary flourish:
Will be the hotter one in the relationship. Literally.
You inhaled through your nose slowly.
“Tell me,” you said, voice level and precise, “that you did not stay up constructing a pyramid scheme about me.”
He adjusted your glasses with grave professionalism and clapped once as if convening a lecture hall.
“First of all,” he said, lifting a piece of chalk and gesturing toward the board, “this is not a pyramid scheme. It is a strategic relational projection model.”
You stepped toward your workstation, refusing to indulge this. You had slides to retrieve. A reputation to maintain. A doctorate track to uphold.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist before you made it three steps.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “You do not get to leave before the data presentation.”
“Johnny.”
“Let me tell you why,” he continued, repositioning himself in front of the board like a man pitching investors, “you have been wasting your youth around men who do not appreciate what they are being handed.”
Your eyebrows rose slowly.
“And let me tell you,” he added, tapping PROS with sharp emphasis, “why I am the superior long term investment.”
You looked at him.
Then at your glasses perched on his face.
Then back at him.
“You are wearing my glasses.”
“For maximum professionalism,” he replied instantly. “It establishes credibility.”
“You look ridiculous.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice into something conspiratorial.
“You are threatened by my statistical dominance.”
The laugh escaped before you could regulate it. Quick. Unplanned. A crack in composure.
It startled you more than him.
“It is two thirty in the morning.”
“And yet,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the board, “I am still actively working toward your long term happiness.”
“By drafting bullet points about your jawline?”
His expression shifted to mild offense.
“You are welcome.”
You stepped forward, took the chalk from his hand with quiet authority, and circled Brother- in-law situation again.
“You crossed out the only real problem.”
He shrugged without hesitation. “Temporary obstacle.”
“That is not how marriage works.”
“It is not my marriage.”
Your mouth parted in disbelief.
“Johnny Storm.”
He grinned like someone who had won something imaginary but deeply satisfying.
You gathered your culture slides and moved toward the door, reminding yourself that you were a rational adult with academic goals and a functional prefrontal cortex.
Behind you, his voice followed.
“So you are not denying the jawline symmetry?”
You paused.
Breathed.
Refused to turn around.
“You are insufferable.”
“And persistent,” he corrected smoothly.
You stepped into the hallway.
He followed, naturally, as if the concept of boundaries had been misfiled in his upbringing.
“See,” he continued, gesturing loosely, “another pro. Commitment.”
“Go to sleep, Johnny.”
“Cannot. I am campaigning.”
You reached your door and unlocked it with more force than necessary. You stepped inside but he slipped in before it shut.
“Johnny.”
Too late.
He launched himself onto your bed with theatrical ease.
With shoes on.
You stared at the boots against your blanket with an expression that suggested several disciplinary actions were being evaluated.
“You did not just do that.”
“I am relocating the discussion to a more intimate venue.”
“Get off my bed.”
He stretched out comfortably, hands behind his head, utterly at home in a space that was aggressively not his.
“Counterpoint,” he said lightly, “you are intrigued.”
You crossed your arms.
“You are loud. Reckless. Obnoxious. And genetically inclined to catastrophic decision making.”
“Heroically inclined,” he corrected.
“And,” you said with deliberate clarity, “you are my brother-in-law.”
He pushed himself up onto his elbows.
For a brief moment, the performance shifted but the grin did not vanish. It softened.
“Technicality,” he said, quieter now.
You hated that your pulse had changed. Hated that irritation and awareness occupied neighboring spaces inside you.
“Johnny.”
He told himself he was not trying to rile you tonight. Not when he was attempting something that almost resembled sincerity. But there was something about the way your brows drew together when you were frustrated. The way your voice sharpened when you were precise. The way your control slipped in microscopic fractures when you laughed.
It did inconvenient things to him.
You were frustrated.
You were brilliant.
You were devastating.
He exhaled a low sound that bordered on a chuckle.
“Are you finished?” he asked, leaning back against your dresser now instead of the bed, giving you space without admitting he was doing it. “Because I have counterpoints.”
Your expression flattened slowly. Deliberately. Like a vault door sealing shut.
You let out a loud groan and dragged both hands down your face, palms pressing into your eyes as if you could physically erase the last five minutes.
“Oh my god.” You shook your head and looked at him again, already tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.
“See. You always have some counter logic. And it is not even logic. This is exactly why…”
Your voice trailed off because you did not have the vocabulary for whatever this was.
Johnny watched you unravel in real time. He knew he should probably take you seriously. He knew that would be the adult response. The respectful one.
Instead, something dangerously fond unfurled in his chest.
You were riled up. Cheeks flushed. Voice tight with precision. Hands moving in restrained exasperation like you were conducting an orchestra no one else could hear.
It did something profoundly inconvenient to him.
He scoffed softly and pushed himself upright, shifting from sprawled confidence to deliberate proximity. Before you could hide again, he leaned forward and gently caught your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face.
“No, no, no. C’mon. Don’t hide that pretty face from me.”
His grip was steady. Not forceful. Just certain. Warm fingers wrapped around yours, holding you there, anchoring you in place.
And for a fraction of a second, the teasing dimmed.
He was still smiling, but he was looking at you now. Really looking.
“Look, I get it. I do,” he said, quieter. “I know I’m a reckless idiot half the time and a loudmouth the other half. And do not even get me started on the whole brother in law situation.”
A soft chuckle left him, but it lacked its usual shine.
His thumb traced an absent, slow circle over your skin. As if that were neutral. As if that did not send a subtle current up your arm.
“But what’s so wrong about us going out,” he added, voice dipping just slightly, “just once.”
Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. You noticed things you would prefer not to notice. The way his hair fell into his eyes when he leaned forward. The faint heat radiating from him even in stillness. The way his expression shifted when he thought you might actually consider it.
The way he watched you like he already saw the future and liked it.
For one disorienting second, something in you wavered.
Then instinct returned.
You let out a small, incredulous laugh and pulled your hands free, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if physically reassembling your boundaries.
“Yeah. That is exactly everything you just pointed out.”
He blinked.
“You really do not realise how different we are,” you continued, voice sharpening again. “And also the fact that you have dated half the women in this city and I do not want to be one of them.”
You shot him a look, your smile widening with disbelief.
“Johnny. I like a little responsibility. I like people who care about the smallest things.”
The smirk on his face faltered.
Not dramatically. But just enough.
Because he knew you were right. He was messy, impulsive, loud. His dating history could not be defended under oath. Meanwhile, you labeled petri dishes like sacred relics and treated research like ritual.
He leaned back onto his hands, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer a counterargument.
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I get it. I’m a mess. I’ve dated an embarrassing amount of women. Fine. But what about the good parts?”
You rolled your eyes so dramatically it bordered on athletic.
“That is not what I meant.”
You waited for comprehension. It did not arrive.
“I like someone who pays attention to detail,” you said slowly, like you were explaining something foundational. “Someone who notices and cares about things most people overlook.”
You were mid sentence when something shifted in his expression.
A flicker.
A recalibration.
And then, unfortunately, a plan.
Johnny sat up fully, energy snapping into place behind his eyes.
You saw it happen.
That look.
He was not retreating.
He was strategizing.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “You want someone who pays attention. Fine.”
Before you could ask what that tone meant, he leaned toward your nightstand and picked up the top stack of your research papers. Weeks of work. Carefully annotated. Not recreational reading.
Without asking. Without hesitation.
“Hypothesis regarding quantum fluctuation stabilization,” he read aloud, squinting like he absolutely understood it. “Yeah. Okay. Mm hmm.”
You stopped mid breath. Your irritation melted into horror.
“You want responsible?” he continued, flipping the page with theatrical seriousness. “I’ll be so damn responsible I will memorize all this nerd science by morning.”
You stared at him.
Long.
Flat.
“No,” you said carefully. “That is not what I meant.”
He looked up proudly, like a student who had misread the entire question but was confident anyway.
“That is your takeaway?” you demanded. “Have you been listening to anything I just said?”
He stood abruptly, paper still in hand, new determination radiating off him.
You watched in disbelief as he moved toward the door, energized by a conclusion that was catastrophically incorrect.
His smirk widened at your silence.
“Believe me,” he called over his shoulder, lazy and confident, “I’ve been listening. You want someone who pays attention. So I’m paying attention.”
He paused in the doorway and turned back to you.
There was something dangerous in that grin now. Not just cocky. Focused.
“Trust me,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You’re gonna be begging me to take you out by the end of this week.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
You stood there in the quiet he left behind.
He had listened, he had understood nothing. And somehow, the worst part was that he looked so certain he was right.
Your gaze drifted to the stack of papers he had disturbed. The faint crease where his fingers had pressed into the margins. The subtle warmth still lingering in the air.
A week.
You exhaled slowly.
This was going to be a disaster.
You just were not sure for whom.
By the next morning, Johnny had officially abandoned the research papers.
He had made it through three paragraphs of dense scientific terminology before realizing two things.
One, memorizing your work would take weeks. Two, it might actually require understanding it.
He preferred survival odds above ten percent. Still, he refused to admit defeat.
He wandered into the kitchen instead, drawn by the smell of breakfast and the rhythmic snap of something meeting hot oil. Ben stood at the stove, broad back turned, frying bacon with the kind of quiet competence that came from years of feeding people smarter than him and somehow surviving it. H.E.R.B.I.E hovered nearby, metal arms extended, assisting with mechanical precision.
Johnny paused in the doorway.
And then, like divine intervention, a thought struck him.
Ben was responsible.
Annoyingly responsible.
Solid. Reliable. The kind of domestic presence that made rooms feel anchored.
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. He could work with that.
He strolled in, hands tucked into his pockets, expression arranged into something deliberately casual.
“Morning, old man.”
Ben glanced over his shoulder, one rocky brow lifting immediately. He knew that tone. That was the tone that usually preceded either structural damage or a decision that would make headlines.
Johnny nodded toward H.E.R.B.I.E.
“Morning, Herbert.”
H.E.R.B.I.E. beeped pleasantly.
“Anyway,” Johnny continued, leaning against the counter, “I gotta ask you something.”
Ben flipped the bacon without looking at him.
“What is it, matchstick?”
Johnny hesitated.
Which, in itself, was suspicious.
“How do you be… responsible?”
The word sat awkwardly in his mouth.
Ben slowly turned off the stove and faced him fully.
“Responsible?” he repeated.
He wiped his hands on a towel, squinting at Johnny like he was assessing possible head trauma.
“Kid, I ain’t responsible. I just got too old to care about burning things down anymore.”
H.E.R.B.I.E. emitted a soft corrective beep.
Johnny’s smirk flickered but held.
“Okay, but what if you pretended to be responsible? Like. How do you even start?”
Ben stared at him for a long moment. Then he chuckled. Low. Knowing.
“Sounds like someone’s trying to impress someone.”
Johnny straightened defensively.
“That is not…”
Ben raised a massive hand.
“Responsibility starts with the little things. Show up on time. Finish your tasks. And for the love of everything, act your age for once.”
Johnny rolled his eyes dramatically.
“You make it sound so easy, Grimey.”
He frowned at the concept like it had personally offended him.
“So. Show up on time. Finish tasks. That’s it? That’s the big secret? Sounds boring as hell.”
Ben plated the bacon and shot him a pointed look.
“It ain’t supposed to be exciting. Being responsible is about doing what needs to be done, whether you like it or not.”
He paused.
“And trust me, kid. That’s a lot more attractive than burning your way through half the city.”
That did it.
Johnny’s posture shifted.
This was no longer advice.
This was a challenge.
And Johnny Storm had never met a challenge he did not immediately convert into competition.
He left the kitchen with renewed purpose.
If responsibility was about the little things, then he would dominate the little things.
He started with breakfast.
Which was how your coffee ended up salted.
In his defense, the containers were identical and he had been moving quickly. In your defense, you nearly expelled the entire mouthful back into the mug.
He attempted to organize your research notes.
Which was how half of them slid directly into the kitchen sink while he was attempting to “wipe a smudge off the counter.”
He offered to carry your lab bag.
Which was how a small flicker of heat singed the ends of your hair when he misjudged distance.
You froze.
He froze.
A faint curl of smoke rose between you.
“I meant to do that less,” he muttered.
By mid afternoon, the pattern was clear.
He was everywhere.
Fixing things that were not broken. Adjusting items that did not require adjustment. Offering assistance in tones that suggested he had recently enrolled in a seminar titled ‘How To Be Dependable In Ten Easy Steps.’
And somehow, in attempting to reduce your stress, he had multiplied it.
Johnny knew he was failing.
Spectacularly.
Salt instead of sugar. Papers in the sink. Minor cosmetic combustion.
It would have been easy to retreat. To laugh it off. To lean into charm and chaos and pretend he had never tried.
But he did not.
Because beneath the bruised ego and accumulating embarrassment was something stubborn.
He wanted to prove you wrong. Or maybe he wanted to prove himself capable.
He just needed a win.
Later that afternoon, you stepped into the living room in search of your glasses and stopped short.
Johnny was crouched in front of the loose cabinet you had been complaining about for days, screwdriver in hand, jaw set with intense concentration. Ben sat comfortably nearby in a chair, holding an instruction manual and reading aloud in a slow, suspiciously theatrical tone.
It was the cabinet.
The one that tilted every time it opened.
The one you had threatened to fix yourself out of sheer irritation.
Your brows lifted.
“What is happening here?”
Johnny froze mid twist, head snapping toward you with a grin that could only be described as guilty.
Ben did not look up.
“Step four,” he read evenly. “Tighten screw until secure. Do not overtighten.”
“Maintenance,” Johnny said quickly, gesturing toward the cabinet. “You said this thing was collapsing. So. I’m fixing it.”
A loud crack split the room.
The cabinet door detached cleanly and fell forward, landing squarely against your shoes.
Silence.
Ben cleared his throat.
“Hypothetically,” he muttered, “responsible people don’t break things while trying to fix them.”
You startled slightly at the crash, letting out a soft sound as you stepped back from the wreckage.
“Well,” you said carefully, adjusting your glasses with deliberate calm, “I did say it was collapsing.”
You glanced at the fallen door.
“And now it did.”
Johnny stared at the wood in his hands, face flushing a shade that had nothing to do with fire.
“Okay. Technicality,” he said defensively, crouching to retrieve it. “It was already collapsing. I just expedited the process.”
He looked at you over his shoulder.
“You’re not even gonna give me credit for trying?”
You arched a brow, an amused smile tugging despite yourself.
“Credit for salted coffee and almost burning my hair?”
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“Anyway. I’m heading to the store. Anyone need anything?”
Johnny straightened immediately, still clutching the cabinet door like evidence in a trial.
“Hey. The coffee thing was an honest mistake. And I did not actually burn your hair. So. Not a total disaster.”
Then your words caught up to him.
“I’ll come with.”
Your brows furrowed.
“You sure?” you asked lightly, sharing a pointed look with Ben. “It’s groceries. We’re not going there to cause havoc or woo women.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, though his jaw tightened slightly.
“Hilarious.”
He crossed his arms.
“I know what groceries are. And I can buy them without causing havoc or flirting with every woman in sight. Thank you very much.”
Ben snorted behind the manual.
You studied Johnny for a second longer than necessary.
He looked determined.
Which historically meant unpredictable.
He set the cabinet door carefully against the wall, wiped his hands on his jeans, and stepped toward you with that same competitive glint still alive in his eyes.
Responsibility, apparently, had now extended to produce aisles and checkout lines.
And judging by the way he squared his shoulders before following you out, this was no longer about cabinets or coffee.
It was about proving something.
The grocery store was the last place you expected to witness character development.
You moved aisle to aisle with your usual efficiency, basket hooked over your arm, selecting items with unconscious precision. The rhythm was familiar. Predictable. Anchoring.
Johnny was not.
He walked beside you with unusual focus, scanning shelves with narrowed eyes like this was a classified operation. When you reached for pasta, he had already grabbed the exact brand you preferred. Not the flashy packaging. Not the cheapest option. The one you always chose.
He checked expiration dates. Compared labels. Paused to confirm the correct flavor of yogurt.
You slowed slightly, watching him from the corner of your eye.
And then you noticed something else.
A woman passed. Attractive. Confident.
Johnny did not look.
Not a glance. Not a reflexive smirk. Not even a subconscious shift of posture.
He simply continued down the aisle, placing items in the cart with quiet deliberation.
It was almost eerie.
Johnny Storm was rarely quiet. Rarely methodical. Rarely competent without leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.
And yet here he was.
Focused. Responsible.
You hated that it worked.
Later that night, you stood in the lab, head bent over a culture slide, pipette steady between your fingers. The room hummed softly around you. Normally, that hum steadied you. Normally, precision was refuge.
Tonight, it was not enough.
Your thoughts drifted back to the grocery store. To the way he had checked labels, the way he had not looked at anyone else.
Johnny wanted to take you on a date. Not a joke, not a stunt. A date.
And suddenly he was fixing cabinets. Ruining cabinets. Buying groceries with alarming competence. Making tea without being asked.
Half his attempts had detonated.
The other half had landed.
You pressed your fingers briefly to your temples. He was getting under your skin.
That was the problem.
Across the mansion, Johnny was pacing.
The cabinet door. Your face when it fell.
The salted coffee.
The grocery store.
The way you had watched him.
He hated how much it mattered.
He could walk into any room and command attention without trying. That had always been enough. So why did it bother him that you were unconvinced? Why did your raised eyebrow feel more significant than applause?
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
Then he remembered the tea.
A slow smirk formed.
If responsibility was about the little things, then he would weaponize the little things.
He made his way to the lab, mug in hand, pausing just outside the door when he heard your frustrated sigh.
He nudged it open with his foot.
“Relaxing tea,” he announced lightly, holding it out toward you. “Because I know you’re over there stressing about me.”
A beat.
“Or maybe you’re stressed because you keep thinking about our date.”
You glared at him.
Then groaned and buried your face in your hands.
Perfect. Exactly who you needed while you were already spiraling.
“Okay. Thank you for the tea. I’m not even going to ask why you remembered that.”
You accepted the cup despite yourself.
A small smile slipped out before you could stop it.
“And why are you so stuck on this date?”
There was softness in your tone now. Resigned. Curious.
“I know you’re doing all this to prove you’re capable.”
Johnny leaned back against the wall, posture loose, confidence sliding back into place.
“Capable?” he echoed, placing a hand over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He pushed off the wall and wandered through the lab, examining beakers with exaggerated seriousness.
“I’m just demonstrating that I am more than a handsome pain in the ass. Responsible. Reliable. Date worthy.”
He glanced at you over his shoulder.
“If I can survive a grocery store without flirting or causing property damage, I deserve some credit.”
His hand drifted toward a small vial near your station.
Your eyes tracked it instantly.
You moved it out of reach without breaking eye contact.
“Yeah. Totally.”
You lifted the cup to your lips.
“It’s just that you almost rinsed weeks of work down the sink. And the cabinet door fell on my feet.”
A pause.
“And you had a pyramid scheme prepared.”
His smirk flickered.
“Okay. Fine. I had a system.”
He gestured vaguely.
“But the groceries were solid. That counts.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“So. Does that mean there’s any chance of that date? Or do I have to keep proving myself?”
You hummed thoughtfully, as though evaluating experimental data.
You understood something about Johnny.
If he set his mind on something, he would not stop.
Right now, though, you were enjoying this far too much.
“I don’t know,” you said lightly. “I do like responsible guys.”
You tilted your head, studying him.
“And you’re finally trying.”
A soft smile curved at your mouth.
“It’s adorable.”
The word hit him instantly.
His smirk vanished.
“Adorable?” he repeated, incredulous.
He gestured to himself.
“I am a human fireball who fights aliens and eats cereal for dinner. I am not adorable.”
He stopped.
His eyes narrowed as something clicked.
He took one slow step closer.
“Are you enjoying this?”
You laughed, raising your hands.
“Hey. I’m encouraging growth.”
You leaned forward slightly, tone playful but sincere.
“It’s a good thing. You should be proud.”
Johnny studied you.
The irritation faded.
Then the defensiveness.
What remained was reluctant amusement.
“You are enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.
A small smile betrayed him.
“You cruel woman.”
And yet he did not leave.
He stayed.
Watching you.
Waiting.
Because somewhere between salted coffee and expiration dates, this had stopped being about proving he could be responsible, and started being about whether you would ever look at him and see something else.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the warm mug.
You told yourself it was just tea. Not the way your pulse had shifted when he stepped closer, not the way the lab suddenly felt smaller.
He was trying.
You were amused.
The next morning, Johnny had actually outdone himself.
You walked into the kitchen with your coffee in one hand and your lab notes tucked under your arm, already halfway through reviewing data in your head. You stopped as soon as you crossed the threshold.
The cabinet hinge he had broken the day before was fixed.
Not temporarily adjusted. Not awkwardly hanging on by a miracle. Properly fixed.
Johnny strolled into the kitchen a second later with the air of someone pretending very hard not to care. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, watching you take it in with an expression that was carefully neutral but not fooling anyone.
“Morning,” he said casually.
He was waiting for a reaction.
You set your coffee and notes down slowly, still staring at the cabinet as if it might undo itself under scrutiny. When you finally looked up at him, you gave him a small, measured smile.
“Yeah. Good morning.”
You tried to read him. This had to be deliberate. Some new attempt to impress you. But he had not announced it. He had not dramatically gestured at it. He had not made a speech.
He had simply fixed it.
That was new.
Johnny pushed a hand through his sleep rumpled hair and shifted his weight like this entire thing was effortless. “Sleep well?” he asked, his voice still rough from just waking up.
You hummed in response and moved toward the pantry. “Yeah. You?”
You reached for the cereal box and then froze.
Your tea bags were sitting beside it.
Alphabetized.
Perfectly aligned, labels facing forward, arranged with a level of precision that bordered on criminal.
Your body went completely still.
Johnny saw the exact moment you noticed. He tried to maintain his composure, but satisfaction flickered across his face before he could stop it.
“Slept like a damn baby,” he replied lightly.
Your heart betrayed you and skipped.
He did not just wake up early enough to alphabetize your tea.
He did not.
This had to be the universe playing a cruel and elaborate trick.
You cleared your throat. “I need to go.”
The words came out too quickly. You grabbed your coffee and notes in a rush that was absolutely not subtle.
Johnny blinked at you. “Wait. What?”
“My culture slides are waiting,” you said, already moving toward the hallway.
You did not look back.
Johnny stood there for a second, staring at the empty doorway you had just disappeared through. “Did I do something wrong?” he called after you.
Silence answered him.
Then it clicked.
The tea.
A slow grin spread across his face as realization settled in. He had finally gotten a reaction that was not sarcasm or mild amusement. He considered following you to the lab, pushing it a little further, teasing you about how flustered you had looked.
He decided against it.
For once, he let it sit.
Later that evening, everyone gathered for dinner. The table was loud in the familiar way it always was, conversation overlapping and laughter filling the space. Ben’s voice carried easily across the room. You rolled your eyes at least twice before the first course was finished.
Johnny sat across from you.
And he paid attention.
If your bread ran out, he passed the plate before you asked. When your glass dipped below half, he refilled it without comment. If you reached for something, it was already sliding across the table toward you.
He did not announce it. He did not make a show of it.
He just did it.
You tried not to react. You especially tried not to react after the tea incident that morning. You refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing it had gotten to you.
But you noticed.
And every time your eyes met his, he gave you a subtle smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then Ben cleared his throat and brought up the date again.
He had been trying to set you up for weeks, insisting you needed time outside the lab, something normal, someone normal. He had a specific friend in mind and he refused to drop it.
Johnny’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. His fork pressed into his food with slightly more force than necessary.
You chuckled and gave Ben a look. “Ben, come on. We’ve been over this. I don’t want to go out on a date.”
You shrugged lightly. “I’m actually good with my own company.”
Johnny kept his face neutral. He took a bite and chewed carefully, ignoring the flicker of smug satisfaction that passed through him.
Ben did not relent. “You can’t stay locked up in that lab all day,” he insisted. “You need real human interaction.”
You groaned and slumped back in your chair before leaning forward in exaggerated defeat. “Okay. You know what. I’ll go out with this guy. One time. And that’s it.”
Johnny’s fork stopped midair.
He stared at you.
You were supposed to keep refusing.
Ben broke into a triumphant grin. “That’s the spirit.”
Johnny forced himself to move again. Forced himself to swallow.
One date.
It was just one date.
No big deal.
Right?
After dinner ended, you stayed back in the kitchen, washing your plate slowly while the house quieted around you. The sound of running water filled the space as you tried to focus on something simple and mundane.
Johnny’s ridiculous acts from that morning refused to leave your mind. The cabinet. The tea bags. The quiet way he had done it all without making it about himself.
And now this date with Ben’s friend.
You put the kettle on and leaned both hands against the counter, exhaling sharply.
Across the room, Johnny lingered under the excuse of pouring himself another glass of water. He had barely tasted his food. His thoughts had been stuck on one thing since dinner.
You agreed.
He stared down at the water in his glass, jaw tight. Why did the idea of you going out with some perfectly polite, normal guy irritate him this much?
After a moment of internal debate, he cleared his throat. “So. You’re really going on that date, huh?”
You let out a small scoff and turned toward him with a smirk. “Yeah. But only to drive that guy away.”
You pointed at him immediately. “And I need you to keep your mouth shut about it. Not a word to Ben.”
Johnny’s entire demeanor shifted. The jealousy evaporated into something far more entertaining.
A slow grin spread across his face. “Oh. So you’re just going so you can say you went. Not actually planning on enjoying it?”
He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the counter. “Who knew my little scientist was such a liar.”
You rolled your eyes and moved toward the kettle. “I’m not being a liar,” you muttered.
A second later you sighed. “Okay. Maybe I am.”
You straightened defensively. “But Ben would not take no for an answer. So I’ll just go out and bore that guy away by being myself.”
Johnny laughed softly. “Really. Being you?”
He stepped closer, raising a brow. “You’re going to bore him away by being a snarky, sarcastic, nerdy smartass?”
You paused mid sip and looked at him cautiously. “Yes?”
You set the cup down and leaned against the counter. “Come on. You know that’ll work. I’ll talk about alien nuclei and my boring non powered life. That’s going to bore him.”
Johnny pushed off the counter and closed some of the space between you. “No,” he said lightly. “That will not work at all.”
He rested his elbows near yours. “Most guys don’t run from nerdy girls. They think it’s cute.”
His gaze lingered on your face. “Especially if she’s got nice eyes.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks before you could stop it. You looked away and gulped the rest of your tea with unnecessary intensity.
“Yeah, well,” you said, setting the empty cup down, “you’ll see it works. Then Ben will be off my back.”
You pointed at him confidently and walked out of the kitchen.
Johnny watched you go with that smug grin still firmly in place. “I doubt it,” he called after you. “But hey. If it fails, you know who’s got a date ready.”
He whistled as he left the room, acting entirely too pleased with himself.
The grin lingered.
Just not quite as long as he pretended it did.
The next evening, you came home from your date.
And the worst part?
It had gone well.
Not awkwardly well. Not tolerably well.
Well.
The mansion was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of quiet that felt aware of you. You slipped off your shoes, loosened your coat, and headed toward the common room out of habit. Tea before bed. Something steady. Something predictable.
Johnny was on the couch.
Television on low. Volume barely audible. Remote resting loose in his hand.
There was a cup of tea on the table.
And a slice of pie beneath a glass cover.
You stopped.
“You’re awake?” you asked, trying for casual.
His eyes flicked up. Over you. Taking you in in one sweep before snapping back to your face.
“Yeah,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “Couldn’t sleep. You just get back from your little date?”
Neutral. Deliberately neutral.
You dropped onto the other end of the couch with a tired exhale and tossed your bag aside.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between you. The TV murmured to itself.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees.
“That guy listened to me talk about bacterial structure for twenty minutes.”
Johnny’s brow lifted.
“No way.”
“And,” you added, turning to look at him fully, “he asked follow-up questions.”
Johnny leaned back slowly.
“Twenty minutes?” he repeated.
“I know.”
You pressed your fingers to your temples, half laughing, half distressed.
“And the worst part?” You looked at him, eyes wide with genuine confusion. “He seemed genuinely interested in me.”
Johnny said nothing.
“And I kind of… didn’t have a bad time.”
There it was.
You watched it happen.
The shift.
Subtle. Fast. Controlled.
His jaw tightened. Just barely.
“Wow,” he said, aiming for breezy. “You almost sound disappointed.”
“I am.”
You fell back against the couch and stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.
“That wasn’t the plan.”
You let out a frustrated breath.
“He’s probably going to tell Ben it went well and ask for a second date.” A pause. “I’ll just refuse this time.”
You pushed yourself up and turned toward the kitchen.
“I need tea.”
“Maybe… don’t refuse.”
You froze.
Slowly, you turned around.
He hadn’t meant to say it. That much was obvious. His posture had gone rigid, like the words had slipped out without permission.
“You’re saying that?” you asked quietly.
He stood, setting the remote aside.
“I mean,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, “you said you had a decent time, right? And he’s into science. Why not just give him a shot?”
You stared at him.
Days. Days of him fixing cabinets. Alphabetizing tea. Refilling your glass without being asked. Standing too close at the counter. Watching you like he was solving something.
And now
“Look,” he added, voice tightening, “I’m not saying I like it. But if the guy listened and didn’t run… maybe don’t waste your time.”
Your stomach dropped.
You turned slowly toward the kitchen again.
The kettle was warm.
Steam still curled faintly from the spout.
Your tea sat steeped in your favorite mug.
Beside it, the slice of pie. Covered carefully. Protected.
And a small note, written in slanted handwriting you knew too well.
For Richards Jr.Boring guys with science stuff since inception.
Your breath hitched.
The cabinet.
The tea bags.
Dinner.
This.
None of it flashy.
None of it loud.
Just… consistent.
Quiet.
Intentional.
You pressed your fingertips to the counter.
This was not the version of him you knew how to handle.
This was worse.
This was dangerous.
Because the guy from tonight had been stable. Polite. Interested.
He had listened, asked questions and even offered to walk you home.
He was safe.
Johnny was…
You let out a sharp breath that cracked into a half-hysterical laugh.
“You are so ridiculous,” you muttered.
You nodded once, like you were trying to convince yourself of it.
“I hate you so much right now. This is messed up.”
And before your composure could fully fracture, you walked out.
Johnny shot to his feet.
“Wait… that’s not…” he started, but the words came out delayed, clumsy. “I didn’t mean to mess with your head.”
You were already halfway down the hall.
“Okay, fine,” he called after you, running a hand through his hair. “The tea bags were on purpose. And the pie is because I’m an idiot who likes seeing you smile.”
No response.
Your door closed upstairs.
Silence settled.
Johnny stood there in the hallway, staring at nothing.
His brain replayed it in slow motion.
Ridiculous.I hate you.Messed up.
That wasn’t teasing.
That wasn’t sarcasm.
That was…
He blinked.
“…What?”
He had alphabetized tea.
Fixed a cabinet.
Saved the pie.
And somehow that had made you look like you were about to short-circuit.
His ego didn’t even know what category this fell under.
He’d gone from annoying pain in the ass…
To whatever the hell that was.
He opened his mouth to say something smart.
Nothing came out.
For once in his life, Johnny Storm had absolutely no idea what move he’d just made.
And that unsettled him far more than the date ever had.
When did you get hot...? : Part 2
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