helping them clean up. the silence filled with nothing but the sound of strained breaths and the smell of bloodstained cleaning gauze. standing between their legs and bringing them close, their heads resting against your chest as they seek comfort, fingers grazing against their hair. whispered comforting nothings. their hands grasping at your waist pulling your closer and squeezing you as they ground themselves. wordless reassurance, your whispered questions and their silent responses, a shake of their heads, a following nod. the subtle squeeze when you attempt to step away, a silent plea against.
bringing them to the shower after coaxing them, silently helping them undress and step under the hot, comforting water. washing them as they lean against you, hands never leaving your skin, too fearful to not be touching you. more comforting words, more silences where words aren't needed nor welcomed. drying each other, shallow kisses in adoration, a small gesture of gratefulness rather than lust. an act of devotion beyond their voices, the vulnerability of being taken care of.
cuddling in bed, firmly pressed against them, a clingy embrace, safe and protected. soft kisses against their foreheads, soft words, soft touches. the steady breathing against your neck when they fall asleep, the last feather-like caress against their face.
a whispered "doesn't matter what happened, i'm right here with you" lost in the darkness of their room.
đđđđđđđ â dean di laurentis x fem!reader
đđđđđđđ â dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his familyâs charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who canât stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.
đđđđđđđđ â 18+ mdni, fake dating, enemies-to-lovers banter, only one bed trope, forced proximity, tension, flirting, dean being dean, suggestive moments, almost kiss, no smut in this part.
đđđđ đđđđđ â 7,019.
đđźđđĄđšđ«'s đ§đšđđ â part one of boyfriend material is finally here. iâm so excited for this mini-series. tell me what you thought about part 1 <3
đđđđđđđ â¶ you can find my taglist here!
đđđđđđđđđđ â¶ you can find my masterlist here!
The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasnât good at begging without making it dramatic.
The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.
âNo,â you answered.
Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. âYou didnât even let me finish.â
âYou said, âI need a huge favor,â and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,â you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. âThat was enough.â
Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Allie didnât bother trying.
She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. âThis is my favorite conversation.â
Dean gave her a look. âNo one asked you.â
âYou showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.â
âItâs almost ten.â
âOn a Saturday,â Allie added. âThatâs basically dawn.â
Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone whoâd made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.
It wasnât an unfamiliar expression on him.
âJust hear me out,â he tried.
âAbsolutely not.â
â[Y/N], come on.â
âDean, no.â
âIâm serious this time.â
âThatâs when youâre usually most dangerous.â
Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.
Dean pointed at her. âDonât encourage this.â
âShe doesnât need encouragement,â Hannah said. âSheâs doing great on her own.â
âYou donât even know what Iâm about to ask.â
âI know it involves you, your family, and the phrase âhuge favor,â so that tells me everything I need to know.â
Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. âOkay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents Iâm seeing someone.â
Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.
Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. âIt made sense at the time.â
You stared at him. âNo, it didnât.â
âYou donât have the context.â
âWas the context that you lied?â
âItâs more complicated than that.â
Allie leaned forward like sheâd been waiting for this. âOh, this is good.â
Dean let out a groan. âItâs not good.â
âItâs incredible,â she corrected. âKeep going.â
Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. âTheyâve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.â
You hummed thoughtfully. âWonder why.â
His gaze cut to yours. âYouâre not helping.â
âIâm still listening.â
âYouâre judging me with your whole face.â
âIâm capable of both.â
Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.
You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. âFine. Go on.â
Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.
âMy familyâs hosting this charity weekend,â he started. âCountry club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.â
âThat sounds expensive and exhausting,â Allie said.
âIt is.â Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. âExactly.â
You raised an eyebrow at him. âIâm still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.â
âIâm getting there, okay?â
âIâm getting older,â you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.
Hannah tried to hide another smile.
âMy mom asked if I was bringing anyone,â Dean admitted. âAnd I said yes.â
You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didnât, you narrowed your eyes.
âDean,â you warned, watching him look away. âDean.â
âI panicked,â he admitted.
âYou panicked,â you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.
âShe got weirdly intense.â
âShe asked whether you had a date.â
âShe asked it like it meant something.â
âOh my god, Dean.â
âAnd then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didnât correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.â
The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.
Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. âThis isnât funny.â
âItâs kind of funny,â Hannah admitted.
âItâs actually very funny,â you told him.
Dean looked at you like youâd personally wounded him. âIâm in crisis.â
âYouâre dealing with consequences.â
âI need your help.â
âYou need a reality check.â
âI need a girlfriend.â
âI need a girlfriend,â Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.
Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like heâd lost his mind.
Dean held up both hands before you could react. âFake girlfriend.â
âNo,â you told him, setting your mug down hard.
âYou havenât even heard the full plan yet.â
âThereâs no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.â
âThatâs actually hurtful.â
âThat feels fair.â
Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. âItâs one weekend.â
âNo.â
âItâs three days.â
âStill no.â
âTwo nights, technically.â
âNot a chance.â
âIâll owe you big.â
âYou already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.â
Dean winced at that. âThat was an accident.â
âYou said, and I quote, â[Y/N] thinks you look hot.ââ
âI was just trying to distract him.â
âDistract him from what, exactly?â
Dean paused before admitting, âI donât remember.â
âThatâs what I thought.â
He sighed your name, long and pleading.
You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didnât hate Dean the way you pretended to.
Hating Dean Di Laurentis wouldâve been a lot easier if he werenât so hard to like.
He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Maloneâs, called you âsunshineâ when you glared at him, and âsweetheartâ when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.
But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allieâs drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasnât a big deal.
Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.
You found that deeply inconvenient.
âNo,â you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.
Deanâs shoulders slumped. âYou donât even want to know whatâs in it for you?â
âNo.â
âIâll get you tickets to the next game.â
âI already know too many hockey players.â
âIâll make Garrett stop calling you scary.â
âI actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.â
âIâll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.â
âYou absolutely canât.â
Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. âFair.â
Allie leaned closer to you. âYou should ask for money.â
Dean looked genuinely offended. âIâm not paying someone to date me.â
âYouâre not,â you told him, âbecause Iâm not dating you.â
âFake dating,â Dean corrected.
âSomehow, still no.â
He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. âHelp me.â
Hannah lifted both hands. âIâm not getting involved.â
âYouâre already involved,â Dean told her. âThis is your apartment.â
âThatâs not how involvement works.â
Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since heâd shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.
âPlease,â he murmured.
The word landed differently this time.
It wasnât dramatic this time. It wasnât teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
Damn him for making it harder to say no.
You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.
âWhy me?â You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.
Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadnât expected you to ask.
Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. âBecause theyâll believe you.â
You frowned at him. âWhy?â
âBecause you donât act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.â
Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.
She held up both hands, still grinning. âSorry. That was good.â
You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what heâd just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.
âAlso,â he added, a little quieter, âyouâre good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think youâre smart, and you wonât get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.â
âYou say stupid things all the time.â
âExactly. I need supervision.â
You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as sheâd just witnessed something historic.
âOh my god,â Allie gasped. âYouâre considering it.â
âIâm not.â
Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. âYou kind of are.â
âIâm not,â you insisted, which didnât help your case. Deanâs eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. âDonât look excited.â
âIâm not,â Dean said, looking extremely excited.
âYou are,â you told him.
âIâm cautiously optimistic.â
âYou should be afraid.â
âI can multitask,â he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You dragged both hands over your face.
This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldnât agree to under any circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasnât one of them.
He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyoneâs serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.
âNo kissing,â you told him, and Dean went still.
You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. âDo you want my help, or do you want to die?â
Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.
You pointed at him. âNo kissing unless necessary.â
âDefine necessary.â
âYou know exactly what necessary means.â
âI do, but Iâm getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.â
âMy definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.â
Deanâs eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself youâd imagined it.
Almost.
Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. âThe majority?â
You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.
You hated him.
You hated him.
You were starting to think that might be a problem.
âNo sex,â you added, sharper this time.
Allie choked on a laugh.
Hannah breathed, âOh my god.â
Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. âSweetheart,â he murmured slowly, âI hadnât even brought that up.â
Heat rushed to your face. âThatâs why Iâm bringing it up first.â
âVery responsible of you.â
âIâll stab you with this spoon.â
Deanâs grin widened. âFake relationship rule number two. No sex.â
âRule number one,â you corrected, âis no kissing unless necessary.â
âRight. Very tragic rule.â
âRule number three,â you went on, ignoring him. âNo feelings.â
Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. âWere you worried?â
âYes. For you.â
Dean laughed. âFor me?â
âYou seem emotionally fragile.â
âIâm already devastated.â
âRule number four,â you continued. âNo calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.â
Deanâs smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.
âWhy not?â Dean wanted to know.
âBecause thatâs weird.â
âWeâre pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?â
âYes.â
âInteresting.â
âItâs not interesting, Dean.â
âItâs kind of interesting.â
âRule number five,â you went on, louder this time. âWhen this is over, we go back to normal.â
Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didnât immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.
The word sat between you in a way you didnât want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. Itâd always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. Itâd always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.
Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. âDeal.â
Your stomach tightened a little. âYouâre agreeing too easily.â
âI told you, Iâm desperate.â
âThatâs very comforting.â
âI mean it,â he promised. âYour rules. Iâll follow them.â
Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.
Dean glanced at her. âWhat?â
âNothing,â Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.
âThat sounded like a judgmental cough.â
âI just think âyour rules, Iâll follow themâ is going to age beautifully.â
You ignored her and held Deanâs gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.
âYou owe me,â you reminded him.
âAnything,â Dean promised.
âYou donât even know what I want yet.â
âThen Iâll find out.â
The words shouldnât have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.
Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. âThis weekend is going to be a disaster.â
Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.
**
Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.
Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.
dean
wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with
you
so basically nothing?
dean
very hurtful.
you
objectively accurate.
dean
my momâs going to love you.
you
because iâm obviously charming?
dean
because youâre mean to me. sheâll find it refreshing.
you
your family sounds smarter than you.
dean
everyone says that, actually.
By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasnât twisting.
Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.
You wished he looked worse. It wouldâve been helpful if heâd shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.
Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like heâd been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.
His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasnât supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.
âYou lookâŠâ Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.
You raised an eyebrow. âCareful.â
His mouth curved. âExpensive.â
You stared at him because somehow that was worse.
Dean smiled like he couldnât believe he had to explain it. âThat was a compliment.â
âThat was a weird compliment.â
âMy motherâs going to love it.â
âYou really know how to make a girl feel special.â
He took your bag from your hand like it hadnât occurred to him not to.
âIâm your fake boyfriend,â he reminded you. âThatâs my job.â
You froze. Dean froze, too, like heâd realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.
âWhat was rule number four again?â
Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. âNo calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.â
âAnd are we currently around anyone?â
Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. âDoes that count?â
âDean,â you warned.
âFine.â He put your bag in the trunk. âIâm the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?â
âMuch better.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âYou literally begged me.â
âIâm regretting it already.â
âNo, youâre not.â
He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.
âNo,â he told you. âIâm not.â
That shouldnât have warmed something in you. It did anyway.
The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.
âMy momâs going to ask how we got together.â
âWeâre going to need a story.â
âWe already have one.â
You looked over at him. âSince when?â
âI flirted with you until you gave up.â
You stared at him until he glanced over. âWhat?â
âThatâs not a story.â
âItâs close enough to the truth.â
âItâs absolutely not.â
Dean grinned as heâd just found a loophole. âSo you admit thereâs some truth to it?â
âI admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.â
âNot anything.â
âSorry,â you corrected. âAnything attractive that breathes.â
Dean tilted his head as heâd just caught you. âSo you admit youâre attractive?â
You closed your eyes as that might help. âI hate you.â
âThatâs not very fake girlfriend of you.â
âDean. Rule four.â
âFake girlfriend,â he insisted.
âThat still counts.â
âIt doesnât.â
He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.
You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it shouldâve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Deanâs phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.
He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. âCan you read that for me?â
You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.
Mom
Canât wait to meet her. Your father says, âPlease donât be late.â I say try not to scare her off before dinner.
You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. âShe sounds nice.â
âSheâs nice,â Dean admitted. âThatâs the problem.â
âSince when is nice a problem?â
âWhen nice people are disappointed in you, itâs worse.â
Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.
That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you werenât supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.
âYouâre nervous.â
Deanâs thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.
âIâm not nervous.â
âYou are.â
âIâm just focused.â
âOn lying to your parents, you mean?â
âOn surviving this weekend.â
You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. âDo they really think youâre that unserious?â
Deanâs mouth twitched, but it didnât quite turn into a smile. âI mean, I havenât exactly given them evidence otherwise.â
Something in your chest pulled tight. âDean.â
He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.
âI know what people think of me,â he admitted. âItâs not like theyâre wrong.â
You didnât answer immediately, because youâd thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didnât count, like how heâd shown up at Hannahâs after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.
Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.
âMaybe youâre just bad at letting people see the evidence,â you offered.
Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.
âDonât make it weird,â you told him.
His voice was softer than you expected. âYou made it weird.â
âNo, I didnât.â
âYou said something nice to me.â
âThat was an accident.â
âDo that again, and I might fall in love.â
Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Deanâs grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.
âRule three,â you reminded him.
âNo feelings,â he agreed lightly. âYeah, yeah.â
But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.
**
The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.
It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.
You stepped out of Deanâs car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering youâd agonized over your outfit for an hour.
Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. âYou okay?â
You blinked at him. âWhat?â
He looked down at you, brows drawn like heâd noticed before you had. âYou got quiet.â
âIâm just observing the rich peopleâs habitat.â
His mouth twitched. âCareful. They can smell fear.â
âGreat. Then Iâll stand behind you.â
âYou think I look less scared?â
âYou look like you belong here.â
Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldnât quite read.
âYeah,â he murmured. âThatâs the idea.â
Before you could ask what he meant by that, a womanâs voice called his name.
âDean, sweetheart!â
Deanâs whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.
A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.
His parents.
Your stomach flipped when Deanâs hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.
âMom,â Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.
She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.
âAnd you must be [Y/N],â she greeted warmly.
You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.
âOh,â you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.
His mother pulled back, still smiling. âSorry, Iâm a hugger. Dean shouldâve warned you.â
âHe left that part out,â you told her.
Deanâs father stepped forward and offered his hand. âItâs nice to meet you finally.â
Finally.
The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.
You shook his fatherâs hand and smiled. âItâs nice to meet you, too.â
His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.
âSo,â his mother began, slipping her arm through Deanâs like she wasnât about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. âHow long has this been going on?â
Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. âLong enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.â
Deanâs mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.
His fatherâs mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. âThat sounds like Dean.â
âIt really does,â you agreed sweetly.
Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. âYouâre enjoying this too much.â
âYou literally begged me,â you whispered back.
His eyes flicked down to yours.
For half a second, the lobby disappeared.
His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. âWell, I already like her.â
Deanâs gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.
âYeah,â he murmured. âThat happens.â
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
So you looked away first.
Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Deanâs mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.
She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.
Dean answered the last one before you could. âShe hated me at first.â
You blinked at him. âAt first?â
His motherâs smile widened. âAnd now?â
You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. âNow I tolerate him.â
Dean pressed a hand to his heart as youâd wounded him. âSheâs shy with affection.â
âIâm shy with public displays of murder.â
His father laughed under his breath. Deanâs mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.
It was ridiculous how easy it was.
That shouldâve been the first warning sign.
The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, âKing suite, eighth floor.â
You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.
Your stomach dropped.
âKing suite?â you echoed.
Deanâs head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.
She blinked at him with perfect innocence. âIs something wrong?â
âNo,â Dean said, too quickly.
At the same time, you asked, âOne bed?â
Deanâs father raised an eyebrow. Deanâs mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.
Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.
âWeâre good,â Dean said smoothly. âShe likes to pretend she needs her own space.â
You turned your head very slowly toward him.
Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.
âIsnât that right, sweetheart?â
Sweetheart.
Your nails dug into your palm.
Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasnât private.
Still.
Dean was enjoying this.
You smiled back, bright and dangerous. âOnly because you kick in your sleep, babe.â
Deanâs eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.
Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.
âBabe?â he murmured, like he was testing the word out.
âYou started it,â you whispered back.
âYouâre going to regret that,â he murmured, still close to your ear.
âCanât wait.â
You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like heâd forgotten himself for half a second.
Then he stepped back, smile still in place.
You were in trouble.
The room was somehow worse.
The suite was beautiful, because apparently Deanâs family didnât do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.
You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you said, very clearly, âAbsolutely not.â
Dean sighed, already resigned. âHere we go.â
âYou knew.â
âI didnât know.â
âYou absolutely knew.â
âI thought there would be a couch.â
You stared at him. âThereâs a couch.â
You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.
It looked like itâd been designed exclusively for people without spines.
Dean made a face.
You pointed at the couch. âEnjoy.â
âIâm six foot two.â
âCongratulations.â
âI wonât fit.â
âFold.â
Dean turned to you like youâd lost your mind. âYou want me to sleep on that?â
âYou created this problem.â
âI didnât create the furniture.â
âYou created the fake serious girlfriend.â
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. âFair.â
You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. âIâm not sharing a bed with you.â
Deanâs eyebrows rose. âScared?â
You laughed. âOf you?â
âYeah.â
âDean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.â
âMy ego and my charm.â
âYour delusion.â
âYou like my charm.â
âI tolerate your charm.â
âYou said you tolerate me. Thatâs different.â
âIâm expanding the category.â
He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. âYou know, for someone who hates me, youâre very committed to arguing with me.â
âFor someone who needs me, youâre very committed to being unbearable.â
âMaybe thatâs my love language.â
âThen I pity every woman youâve dated.â
Deanâs smile faltered, barely enough to notice.
But you noticed.
The joke had landed wrong somehow.
You almost apologized.
Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. âYou can have the bed.â
Your arms loosened before you could stop them. âDean.â
âItâs fine,â he said, but it didnât sound like it.
The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.
You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.
Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.
âI didnât mean it like that.â
He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. âRelax. Iâve slept in worse places.â
And just like that, the moment was gone.
You didnât know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it âcasual,â which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.
You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.
âSo,â Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, âshould we practice?â
You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. âIf the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, Iâm throwing this at you.â
Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. âHostile work environment.â
âYou created the job.â
âI meant the story.â
âWhat story?â
âOur story.â
The shoe lowered in your hand. âRight.â
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasnât already beginning to unravel around you.
âHow did we get together?â he asked.
âYou annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.â
âFunny, but my mother is going to want details.â
âFine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.â
âTrue.â
âYou flirted.â
âTrue.â
âI rejected you repeatedly.â
âDebatable.â
âDean.â
âIâm listening.â
âAnd then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.â
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. âI like that.â
âYou like being called annoying?â
âI like that your version still has me winning.â
âYou didnât win. I suffered a moment of weakness.â
âIâll take it.â
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.
Dean saw the almost-smile.
âCareful,â he murmured.
You looked at him, instantly suspicious. âWhat?â
âYou almost looked like you liked me for a second.â
The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, youâd have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.
You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. âDonât get excited, Di Laurentis.â
âToo late,â he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.
He probably noticed anyway.
Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Deanâs family was warmer than youâd feared, which shouldâve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.
His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.
âYou two bicker a lot,â his mother said, smiling into her glass.
Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. âItâs part of our charm.â
âOur?â you echoed, eyebrows rising. âInteresting.â
âFine. Your charm. My patience.â
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.
His mother noticed.
You could feel it.
âSo,â she said, looking entirely too pleased, âDean tells us youâre the reason heâs been slightly less impossible lately.â
You nearly choked on your water.
Behind you, Deanâs arm stiffened. âI said no such thing.â
His fatherâs mouth twitched. âYou said she keeps you in line.â
âThatâs completely different.â
You turned to him before you could stop yourself. âYou talk about me?â
Deanâs eyes met yours, and for once, he didnât look away.
Then he said, âOnly to complain.â
âLiar,â you said, but there was no heat in it.
His mouth curved. âProve it.â
The table faded again.
That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.
You hated it.
You liked it.
You were doomed.
Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.
The door clicked shut behind you.
The performance dropped, sort of.
Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. âYou were good.â
You kicked off your shoes. âI know.â
He laughed quietly. âHumble.â
âI was excellent.â
His smile softened. âYou were.â
The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.
âMy mom loves you.â
âShe has good taste.â
âMy dad too.â
âClearly, good taste runs in the family.â
Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.
âYeah,â he said, still looking at you. âThey do.â
Your pulse stumbled.
No.
Absolutely not.
You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.
It wasnât.
The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.
You pointed at the decorative couch. âYour throne.â
Dean followed your gaze and sighed. âYouâre really going to make me sleep there?â
âYes.â
âYouâre cold.â
âYouâll survive.â
âI might not.â
âHow tragic.â
He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
Dean stared at you. âDonât laugh.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
âIâm being respectful.â
âYouâre biting your lip.â
âOut of grief.â
He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.
You couldnât help it.
Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. âYouâre enjoying my suffering.â
âDeeply.â
âYou know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.â
You froze, and Dean froze too.
For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.
No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.
âSorry,â he said, quieter this time.
The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.
âItâs fine,â you said.
Dean stood, suddenly restless. âIâll sleep on the couch.â
You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasnât watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line youâd drawn.
The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.
Maybe.
You exhaled. âDean.â
He looked up, cautious now.
âYou can sleep in the bed.â
His eyebrows rose like he wasnât sure heâd heard you right.
âBut,â you said sharply, pointing at him, âthere will be rules.â
His mouth curved slowly. âMore rules?â
âYes.â
âI love rules.â
âYou break rules.â
âI lovingly challenge them.â
âYou stay on your side.â
âYes.â
âNo touching.â
âYes.â
âNo flirting.â
His smile widened. âIn my sleep?â
âEspecially in your sleep.â
âWhat if I dream about you?â
âThen wake up ashamed.â
Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.
âDeal,â he said, softer than you expected.
You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didnât trust Dean and partly because you didnât trust yourself.
When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.
You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.
He looked up from his phone. âWhat?â
âWhereâs your shirt?â
Dean looked down at himself like heâd forgotten. âOff.â
âI can see that.â
âI sleep shirtless.â
âNot tonight.â
âYouâre policing sleepwear now?â
âYes.â
Deanâs gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didnât want to name.
âYouâre flustered.â
âIâm annoyed.â
âYouâre standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.â
âIâm glaring at all of you.â
âMy chest feels singled out.â
You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.
âPut a shirt on.â
âWhy?â
âBecause.â
âBecause why?â
âBecause I said so.â
Deanâs smile turned dangerous. âThatâs not a reason.â
Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.
âThere,â he said.
You blinked. âThat was⊠easy.â
âI can be easy.â
âNever say that again.â
His grin returned immediately. âToo tempting?â
You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.
âGo to sleep, Dean.â
âYes, maâam,â he murmured.
You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Deanâs weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him thereâhis warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then Deanâs voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. âYou did save my life today, by the way.â
You stared into the dark. âI know.â
âMy mom wouldâve killed me if I showed up alone.â
âShe still might if she ever realizes this is fake.â
Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldnât see his face well in the darkness.
âDean?â
âYeah?â
You didnât mean for your voice to soften. âAre you okay?â
He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.
More surprised.
âWhy wouldnât I be?â
âYou went quiet.â
âIâm fine,â he said, too quickly.
You recognized the answer because you used it too.
Fine.
The least convincing word in existence.
You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
âYou donât have to pretend with me,â you told him.
The words were out before you could think better of them.
Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.
âThatâs funny,â he said softly.
âWhy?â
âBecause pretending is kind of the whole point, isnât it?â
Something in your chest tightened. âNot all of it.â
The silence after that was different.
Thicker.
Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.
âYouâre being nice again,â he murmured.
âIt keeps happening by accident.â
âThatâs a dangerous habit.â
âDonât get used to it.â
âToo late.â
Your breath caught.
There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didnât feel like a joke.
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didnât see it.
Your pulse jumped.
âDean,â you whispered.
âI know,â he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.
He didnât move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.
âNo kissing unless necessary,â you whispered.
His gaze lifted back to yours. âRight.â
âThis isnât necessary.â
âNo,â he said, but neither of you moved. He didnât look away, and you didnât roll back over.
Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.
Deanâs hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.
Your fingers curled into the sheet.
He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.
âGoodnight, [Y/N].â
You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. âGoodnight, Dean.â
You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didnât come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.
Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie MunsonâHawkinsâ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.
Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N
A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 8.4k
masterlist
You didnât even bother glancing back.
The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you werenât part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didnât care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.
You werenât angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just⊠done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem classâtoo close, too familiarâbut honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and youâd spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being âa thing.â
Now, finally, you were alone.
You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gymâs back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.
Then you caught itâthe scent of smoke.
Cigarette smoke.
You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the buildingâs edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadnât tried at allâand still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.
He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didnât say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.
âWell, well,â he said finally, voice low and amused. âDidnât peg you for a backdoor escape artist.â
You crossed your arms, smirking. âDidnât peg you for someone whoâd show up at prom.â
He shrugged. âHad to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. Itâs like a zoo in there.â
You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.
He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. âSo. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?â
You tilted your head. âMy dateâs dancing with someone else.â
Eddie winced dramatically. âOof. Harsh.â
âNah,â you said, leaning against the wall beside him. âWe had the chemistry of a wet sponge. Iâm just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.â
He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.
âWell,â he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, âwelcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.â
You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. âIâll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.â
Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. âSuit yourself.â
The silence that followed wasnât awkward. If anything, it felt kind of⊠easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.
âSo what about you?â you asked. âDidnât have a date either?â
Eddie snorted. âPlease. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someoneâs mom taking pictures? Nah. Iâm just here for the chaos. Thought Iâd maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackersâyâknow, the classicsâbut someone already beat me to it. So now Iâm stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.â
You laughed again, easier this time. âWell, you wear the gremlin look well.â
He placed a hand on his chest. âHigh praise.â
The silence that followed wasnât awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didnât even exist out here.
You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. âI used to think you were all noise, yâknow,â you said without really thinking. âLike, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.â
âI mean, I am all of those things,â he said, raising a brow.
âSure,â you said. âBut I donât know⊠I think thereâs more to it.â
He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. âAlright. Your turn. Tell me something about you thatâd surprise me.â
You thought about it. Then, what the hell.
âI like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.â
Eddie blinked. âWhat?â
You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. âYeah. I mean⊠itâs not something I talk about. People think itâs weird.â
âOkay, hold on.â He straightened up, suddenly animated. âWhat kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?â
âBoth,â you said, grinning despite yourself. âRay Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And thereâs this one graphic novel series Iâve been obsessed withâThe Long Tomorrow. You probably havenât heard of it.â
Eddieâs mouth fell open. âAre you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? Thatâs, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.â
Your jaw dropped. âWait, you like Moebius?â
âLike him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesnât âaccidentallyâ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.â
You couldnât stop smiling now. âThatâs ridiculous.â
He pointed at you with his cigarette. âYouâre ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now youâre telling me youâre secretly a sci-fi nerd?â
You rolled your eyes. âIâm not a prom queen.â
âNo,â he said, grinning. âYouâre way cooler.â
The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edgeâjust honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.
âGuess we both had the wrong idea,â you said quietly.
He nodded. âGuess so.â
And just like that, the space between you didnât feel so distant anymore.
You both stood there for a while, trading storiesâabout favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.
Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.
âI wanna know what love isâŠâ
You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.
Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. âYou should go back in,â he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. âItâs prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesnât hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.â
You tilted your head at him. âYou mean someone boring?â
He gave a breathy laugh. âSomeone who wonât get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.â
You shrugged. âI already got ditched by my date. Whatâs the worst they can do? Gasp?â
Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. âStill⊠Iâm not exactly prom royalty.â
âWell, neither am I,â you said. âSo maybe thatâs the point.â
He didnât answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.
You tilted your head again, studying him. âYou know,â you said slowly, âyou could go dance too.â
Eddie barked a short laugh. âYeah, right.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â He held up his hands, surrender-style. âI canât dance. I mean it. Like, at all. Iâve got rhythm when Iâm playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like Iâm dodging bees.â
You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.
You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.
âOkay,â you said, lifting an eyebrow. âSo donât go on the dance floor.â
He blinked. âWhat?â
âStay right here. Dance with me.â
Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasnât sure he heard you right. âAre you⊠serious?â
You nodded, smiling now. âIâll guide you. You donât have to know how. Just follow me.â
He hesitated. And for a second, you thought heâd say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.
His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.
You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.
ââŠand I want you to show meâŠâ
You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.
âOkay,â you said, voice low. âJust match me. Thatâs it.â
Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.
He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. âYouâre really doing this.â
âSo are you.â
And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didnât quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.
With you.
You didnât let go.
And for the life of him, Eddie couldnât understand why.
Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did â like you werenât the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you werenât way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people whoâd never get it.
But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasnât a joke. Like he wasnât just a rumor in black denim.
And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.
You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.
How was this real?
For once, Eddie Munson wasnât putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasnât posturing or mocking or performing.
He was just here.
Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didnât even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing heâd ever done.
The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.
Eddieâs van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didnât care. Neither did he.
He kept glancing at you when he thought you werenât looking. You noticed, but you didnât say anything.
The radio played something softâsome late-night ballad that felt a little too on the noseâbut neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.
When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didnât move at first. Neither did he.
You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. âThanks for the ride.â
He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. âYeah. Of course.â
You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.
âAnd⊠thanks for earlier,â you added, eyes meeting his. âI actually had fun tonight.â
His brows lifted, surprised. âYeah?â
You smiled. âYeah. Like⊠more than Iâve had in a while.â
Eddieâs fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. âThatâs kinda sad,â he teased. âBut Iâll take it.â
You rolled your eyes, but your smile didnât fade.
He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. âYouâre not what I expected,â he said, quietly.
You tilted your head. âGood unexpected?â
He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. âYeah. Definitely.â
You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.
âSee you Monday?â
He grinned. âIâll be the one getting detention.â
You laughed, backing toward your porch.
And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you goâwondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.
Mondayâs cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talkâwho wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.
âI swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, Iâll puke,â one of them groaned.
âI heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,â another snorted.
You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday nightâlit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munsonâs uncertain hands.
âOkay,â said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, âtell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.â
Your stomach did a small flip. âI, uh⊠went outside for some air.â
âThat long?â someone chimed in. âDidnât your date ditch you?â
You shrugged. âYeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.â
Courtney raised an eyebrow. âSo what, you just wandered off?â
You hesitated, then decided to own it.
âI ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.â
The table quieted. You didnât miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.
âWaitâEddie Munson?â said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. âAs in⊠Hellfire Club, Eddie?â
You looked up, steady. âYeah.â
âOh my god,â another said under her breath. âIsnât he like⊠failing half his classes?â
âI heard he might repeat senior year again,â someone else added. âThatâs likeâwhat, his third time?â
You set down your fry and leaned back a little. âSo what?â
That shut them up for a beat.
You looked around the table. âHe was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually⊠fun.â
Courtney blinked at you, like she couldnât quite process it. âYou danced with Eddie Munson?â
You smiled. âYeah. Heâs different than people think.â
They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didnât give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.
You didnât owe them anything else.
And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift againâback to Eddieâs hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way heâd smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.
The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noiseâslamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.
Eddie.
He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.
âWell, if it isnât my favorite prom partner,â he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.
You snorted. âIâm your only prom partner.â
âDetails,â he waved off, turning to walk beside you. âStill the best.â
You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokesâhalf of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.
Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasnât sure how.
He scratched the back of his neck. âSo, uhâŠâ
You raised an eyebrow.
âYou doing anything right now?â
You blinked. âNot really. Why?â
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. âWanna get milkshakes or something?â
You tilted your head, amused. âAre you asking me out?â
âWhat? No!â he said quickly, eyes wide. âI meanânot that youâre notâugh.â He rubbed his face with both hands. âNot like a date date, just, yâknow. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.â
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. âYouâre doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.â
He groaned. âGod, I know.â
You paused for a second. Then smiled.
âYeah. Letâs get milkshakes.â
Eddie blinked. âWaitâreally?â
âReally,â you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. âDo I get to pick the music in your van?â
He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. âAbsolutely not. But you can control the windows.â
Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesnât mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when somethingâor rather, someoneâstepped into his line of vision.
You.
He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, noâthicker than that. Watercolor paper.
You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.
âI, um⊠I made this.â
Eddie looked down.
It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energyâloose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.
âYou painted this?â he asked, dumbfounded.
You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. âI donât know. Itâs dumb. I justâ You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe youâdââ
He stared at you.
You stared at the floor.
âAnyway,â you rushed, already backing up. âYou donât have to keep it or anything. I justâyeah, okay, bye.â
And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.
For a second, Eddie didnât move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.
âWhat the hell was that?â said Gareth.
Jeff leaned over, squinting. âIs that⊠art?â
âHoly crap,â said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. âDid she just give you that? Like, a gift?â
âI think she did,â Eddie murmured.
He was still staring at it. Still stunned.
Because it wasnât just the paintingâthough that alone was cool as hellâit was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.
It was⊠a lot.
Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. âShut up,â he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. âNone of you get it. Itâs called being interesting, you cretins.â
They didnât stop staring.
Gareth leaned over the table. âDude. Seriously. What was that?â
Doug raised an eyebrow. âDid you hex her or something?â
âShut up,â Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.
âYouâve been weird all week,â Jeff pointed out.
Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.
âFine,â he mumbled, keeping his voice low. âIf I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?â
They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.
Eddie leaned forward slightly. âWe danced at prom.â
The table went silent.
âWhat?â Gareth blinked. âWho did?â
âMe and her,â Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. âIt just kind of⊠happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didnât step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.â
âShe asked you to dance?â Jeff repeated, stunned.
Eddie rolled his eyes. âYes, Jeff. Itâs not that hard to believe.â
âItâs justâsheâs, like⊠art club. Social. Normal,â said Doug.
âAnd Iâm a freak,â Eddie finished, not angrilyâjust matter-of-fact. âYeah, yeah. I know. Thatâs the whole thing, right?â
They all exchanged awkward glances.
Eddie softened a little. âWeâve just been talking since then. Thatâs all. Sheâs cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.â
The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.
Jeff nodded slowly. âHuh.â
âDamn,â Gareth muttered. âDid not see that coming.â
Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. âNeither did I.â
But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his kneeârestless in that weird, hopeful way.
Because yeah⊠he didnât see it coming.
Your room looked like a clothing explosion.
Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.
It wasnât a date.
Not officially.
But still.
Eddie had asked you yesterdayâEddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rantsâif you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. Heâd said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then heâd doubled down with, âI mean, I hate malls, theyâre corporate brain rot, but if youâre there too, I guess I wonât spontaneously combust.â
Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and Iâm doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.
So yeah. Maybe it was a date.
You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you caredâbut not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.
A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.
Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.
âSweetie?â
âYeah?â
She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. âThereâs a young man waiting downstairs for you.â
Your heart skipped a beat. âHeâs early?â
She shrugged. âFive minutes. Maybe he was excited.â
You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy â just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasnât every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.
You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.
Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.
âYou didnât tell me you were seeing someone.â
You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. âIâm not. Weâre just⊠hanging out.â
She arched a brow. âUh-huh.â
You rolled your eyes, but smiled. âI mean it.â
âWell,â she said, pushing off the doorframe. âHeâs⊠not what I expected.â
You turned slowly. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âLeather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. Heâs got a⊠rough-around-the-edges thing.â She shrugged. âI didnât peg him as your type.â
You hesitated. âIs that a problem?â
She raised her hands. âNot for me. Just... interesting choice.â
Then, softening, she added, âBut he stood up when I walked in. Called me maâam. And he didnât look at the family photos weird, so⊠heâs alright in my book.â
You blinked. âWow. High praise.â
âIâm just saying,â she smiled. âYou couldâve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.â
You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. âHeâs not like that.â
âIf you say so.â
With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, âDonât leave him waiting too longâhe keeps checking his watch.â
Your heart fluttered.
You gave yourself one last look in the mirrorâquick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your earâand grabbed your bag.
You didnât expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.
And to be fair⊠he didnât.
From the moment you stepped into Starcourtâs fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylightâeyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about âlate-stage capitalismâ like the air itself offended him.
âThis place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,â he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.
You grinned. âYouâre so dramatic.â
âYouâre lucky youâre cute, or Iâd have already burst into flames.â
But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew heâd secretly likeâlike the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.
After that, it all got easier.
He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp âjust because.â At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and thenâwhen he thought you werenât lookingâquietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.
Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencerâs, your arms brushed again.
And this time, he didnât move away.
Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.
You didnât unlink for a while.
When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.
âCâmon,â you said, already tugging at his sleeve. âWe have to. Itâs practically a law.â
âI hate pictures,â he protested.
âToo bad.â
He grumbled, but followed.
The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.
The timer beeped.
First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.
Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.
Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.
Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.
That last one made your stomach flutter.
The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.
âIâm keeping this one,â you said, pointing to the last shot.
âNo way. Thatâs the best one.â He mock-whined. âItâs mine now.â
âSplit it,â you said, already reaching for it. âEven trade.â
So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.
After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.
Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. âOkay, confession,â he said, not looking at you. âThis was kinda fun.â
You smiled. âEven though itâs a capitalist wasteland?â
He grinned. âEspecially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.â
You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.
And you didnât say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:
Something was happening between you.
And it felt really, really good.
The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.
âSo then Brad says he didnât cheat, he just âaccidentallyâ kissed her,â Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. âLike thatâs a thing.â
âClassic,â Angela muttered. âMen are such a disease.â
You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasnât until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.
âOkay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,â she said. âSo. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?â
You paused.
Then smiled. Just a little. âI went to the mall.â
âUgh, I live there,â Angela said. âWith who?â
ââŠEddie.â
Courtney blinked. âEddie Munson?â
Angela dropped her pencil. âSeriously?â
You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. âYeah.â
They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. âAre youâlikeâserious with him?â Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.
You looked down at your sketchbook.
The memory hit you fast and warmâEddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldnât believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.
You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.
âI donât know yet,â you said honestly. âBut⊠maybe.â
Courtney raised a brow. âI mean, heâs kind ofââ
âDifferent,â Angela finished for her. âLike, not who we thought youâd be into.â
You let out a breath, not defensiveâjust tired of that tone.
âHeâs actually really sweet,â you said. âHe listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. Heâs not what you think he is.â
The girls went quiet for a second.
Then Courtney shrugged. âOkay. I mean, if you like him.â
âI do,â you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. âMore than I thought I would.â
Angela cracked a smile. âWell⊠if he breaks your heart, weâre egging his van.â
You laughed. âDeal.â
The library was louder than usualânot in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.
Eddie Munson was in hell.
His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.
This wasnât his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.
And then you walked in.
Like sunlight in a storm.
You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you werenât drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.
âHey,â you said softly.
He exhaled like heâd been holding his breath all day. âHey.â
You glanced at the disaster zone of his tableâcrumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed strawâand smiled.
âRough day?â
Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. âIâm about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.â
You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.
You slid it across the table toward him. âThese are my notes. For science. And history. And⊠okay, maybe I got carried away.â
He blinked. âYouââ
âTheyâre color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, theyâre in the back pocket.â
Eddie just stared at it.
Not because he didnât want it. But because something about it felt⊠personal. Intimate.
No one had ever done something like this for him before.
You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. âI donât know, maybe itâs dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe theyâd help you too.â
He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.
It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. Youâd drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.
He swallowed.
âThis isâŠâ he said quietly, still flipping pages. âThis is incredible.â
You shrugged, trying not to blush. âJust thought you could use a little help.â
Eddie didnât respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.
Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.
He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.
âI swear to god,â he said, voice low and serious, âif you keep being this perfect, Iâm gonna have to make you mine.â
Your heart stuttered.
You blinked, stunnedâbut not in a bad way. Just⊠surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didnât sound like a joke.
You recovered with a half-smile. âYou should probably focus on passing chemistry first.â
âBaby, Iâm failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.â
You laughed, covering your face for a second. âThat doesnât even make sense.â
âItâs emotional science,â he insisted. âWay more complicated.â
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldnât leave your cheeks.
He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.
âThank you,â he said, and he meant it.
âOf course,â you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. âYouâve been helping me too. Just in a different way.â
Eddie tilted his head. âOh yeah? How?â
You looked at him, and this time, didnât hesitate. âYou make me feel like I donât have to hide the weird parts of myself.â
Eddieâs eyes softened.
âIâd riot if you did.â
You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard itâfootsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didnât even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.
âHey!â
You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.
He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.
âEddieâwhatâ?â
âI passed,â he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. âI passed.â
It took you a second to register what he meant. âWaitâlike... everything?â
He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. âEverything. Math, English, scienceâMrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but thatâs still a D! Thatâs still passing!â
You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.
âEddie, thatâs amazing!â
And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.
He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.
âI had to tell you first,â he said, voice muffled in your hair. âI ran here.â
You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.
He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.
âSeriously, I never wouldâve made it without you,â he said. âThose notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulasââ
âThey werenât dumb,â you said, laughing.
âThey were adorable,â he corrected, like it was obvious. âAnd apparently effective.â
His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were closeâcloser than usual. And you saw it flicker across his faceâsomething unspoken, something about to break through.
And then it did.
He kissed you.
No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasnât polished or practicedâit was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything heâd been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldnât believe this was real.
And the thing wasâyou didnât stop him.
You didnât pull away.
You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.
When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.
You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.
ââŠYou didnât plan that, did you?â you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.
Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.
âNot even a little,â he said. âI think I blacked out after I said âI passed.ââ
You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.
He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. âYouâre gonna be so sick of me.â
âI donât think thatâs possible.â
And you didnât even have to think about it.
Because if thisâthis chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boyâwas the reward at the end of every academic achievement?
Youâd tutor him forever.
âEddieâs here,â your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.
You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.
Your dadâs voice followed a beat later from the living room. âTell him to keep it under 60 this time.â
You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. âHe only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.â
âHe was going eighty,â your dad replied.
âIt was downhill,â you said, already headed for the door.
You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. âHe brought flowers. Again.â
You couldnât help the way your smile grew.
When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he wasâleaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.
He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.
And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.
âThere she is,â he said, grinning wide.
You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. âWhatâs the occasion?â
Eddie held out the flowers. âJust celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.â
You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He leaned closer, voice low and smug. âAnd yet⊠here you are.â
You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.
He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. âMâlady.â
âSuch a gentleman,â you muttered, climbing in.
As he circled the van to the driverâs side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.
Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. âSir. Swear Iâll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.â
Your dad just raised an eyebrow.
Eddie slid into the driverâs seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. âHe loves me.â
âKeep telling yourself that,â you said as he started the engine.
âSo,â he said, flicking the stereo on low, âthis theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.â
You laughed and gave him a look. âYou just want to see the DeLorean.â
ââŠOkay, also that.â
He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.
The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playingâa little out of tune, but you didnât mind.
Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.
Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.
And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the worldâ
You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.
The mall was alive with its usual symphonyâchatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theaterâs cool, air-conditioned lobby.
âIâm getting the tickets,â he said, already headed toward the box office.
âAnd Iâm getting snacks,â you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. âDonât fight me on this, Munson.â
He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd youâre predictable.â
When you met back up, he handed you a single stubâheâd already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.
Eddie blinked. âYou got two straws in my Coke?â
You raised an eyebrow. âItâs our Coke now.â
His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.
The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middleâclose enough to feel immersed but far enough that you werenât cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.
He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contactâhe never quite got used to the way you just⊠leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.
âYou comfortable?â he whispered, glancing down.
You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. âPerfect.â
When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happenedâhe whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.
At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didnât move away. Neither did he.
When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didnât say anythingâjust smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.
And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagineâjust for a momentâwhat it might be like to have this forever.
The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.
Neither of you moved.
You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. âThanks for tonight. I had fun.â
He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. âYeah? Me too. That wasâŠâ He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. âThat was a good night.â
You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.
âI meanâgreat night,â he amended, mock-dramatic. âOne for the ages.â
You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. âCome on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?â
Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always didâeven when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.
At the bottom step, you turned to face him.
Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldnât find the words. âI, uh⊠hope this wasnât too boring. You know the mall and a movie isnât exactly my usual scene.â
You shook your head. âI loved it. And⊠I like seeing different sides of you.â
That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.
You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just fullâlike both of you were hoping time would slow down.
âWellâŠâ you started, tilting your head toward the door.
âYeah,â he said. âGuess this isââ
You kissed him.
Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.
When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.
âGoodnight, Eddie,â you whispered.
He blinked, dazed. âGoodnight.â
You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind youâ
âThat was quite the kiss.â
You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.
âDid he trip over the step again?â your dad asked casually. âHe always does that when heâs nervous.â
You groaned. âYou two seriously have nothing better to do?â
Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. âWe like seeing you happy.â
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldnât stop the grin from breaking through.
Because yeah⊠you were happy.
Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expectedâand everything you didnât know you needed.
Itâs loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the worldâs watching. Itâs his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. Itâs messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.
Itâs learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddieâs just⊠gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.
Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for youâyour name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. Itâs him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though heâs definitely itching to fidget. Itâs him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.
Itâs milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. Itâs long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings alongâterriblyâto some over-the-top power ballad.
It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.
He thought he knew how his story would goâmisunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.
Itâs surreal, honestly.
Youâwho used to feel so out of reachâactually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.
Itâs the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like heâs not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.
Like heâs enough.
He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.
Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isnât as cruel as he thought it was.
Itâs not always easy. He still worries heâs not good enough for you, that youâll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.
And heâd burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.
Yeah. Dating you?
Itâs the best damn thing thatâs ever happened to him.
Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)
Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...
Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)
Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.
How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?
Perhaps it wasnât 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 didnât help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herselfâŠ
âI need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few monthsââ
âI think Iâm prepared to handle the jobâs tasks,â she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.
âOh, itâs nothing to do with your skills,â 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.
âJohnny isâŠâ Sueâs eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. âA handful.â 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 sisterâs comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone whoâd 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. âHey, Sueââ his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her.Â
Sue gestured between them. âJohnny, this isââ
âThe temporary assistant,â he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. âIâve heard plenty about you.â His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.
âI hope it was all relevant to the job,â she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness sheâd use in a boardroom. Her tone wasnât cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.
Johnny tilted his head, studying her. âGuess weâll find out.â
She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. âIf thereâs anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, Iâll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.â
âOh, I think weâll be talking plenty,â he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didnât.
âAs much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.â Her nod was crisp, professional.
âPlease, call me Johnny.â
âI prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,â she said evenly. âIt helps maintain clarity.â
âYeah, see, thatâs not going to work for me,â 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 sheâd 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, âThen weâll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.â
Johnnyâs eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. âWell,â he said, leaning back just enough to suggest heâd conceded without actually conceding, âguess Iâll just have to earn the downgrade to âJohnny.ââ
âHighly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jonesâs maternity leave,â she replied, tone even. âHowever, I canât dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.â
âA challenge.â His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. âI like that.â
âOkay, Johnny,â Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. âThatâs enough harassing the poor girl.â
âI reject that. Iâm not harassing.â He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug.Â
âGo.â Sueâs tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.
âLeaving.â He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. âPleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. Iâll see you around.â And with that, heâd left as casually as heâd 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 Tabithaâs send-off to bed rest ahead of her little oneâs 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.
âAlright,â came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. âI return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.â A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. âOh, speaking of sugarâŠâ
Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddlerâs little sneakers bounced against Johnnyâs side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure theyâd just had. Judging by the spark in Johnnyâs eyes, he himself was in a similar state.
âJohnny,â Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.
âWhat?â He grinned, all innocence that didnât fool anyone. âI gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.â
âHowâs my favorite non robotic assistant?â heâs eyes darted to Sueâs regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. âNo offense Tabby,â He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.
âGood afternoon, Mr. Storm,â Sueâs newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time theyâd met.
Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. âYâknow, most people wouldâve cracked by now. Youâre starting to make me nervous.â When she didnât respond to his comment he continued. âGuess Iâll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.â
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. âSee that? He likes you already,â Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. âAnd the kidâs got great instincts.â 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. âInstincts aside, Iâm sure Franklinâs affections are much easier to earn than mine.â
Johnnyâs brows were lifted in a mock challenge. âWeâll see about that.â
Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. âJohnnyâŠâ
âWhat? Iâm just talking,â 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. âWeâve got months, Sweetheart,â he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. âIâm a patient guy.â
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 whoâd just been punched in the taste buds.
Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. âJohnnyââ
He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. âWho drinks this willingly?â he rasped, eyes watering. âThis isnât coffee, itâs punishment in a cup.â
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 sheâd let down the professional act even for a moment.
Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. âYou know,â he said, voice smooth now, âa girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.â 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. âLucky for you, Iâm happy to provide...â
âOut.â Sueâs 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 whoâd long since run out of patience for Johnnyâs 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, âRain check on the Sweetness. Donât think youâre getting out of it. Iâll wear you down eventually.â
He hadnât been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasnât long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.
Three days. Thatâs all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Stormâs 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 elseâs schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis.Â
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 didnât 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.
âMan, you look tense, Doll.â
She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like heâd 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 bossâs younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.
âWay to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,â she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. âIâmââ
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. âNo, no, youâre right,â he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. âI mean, Iâve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,â he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. âGotta say, I like it.â
âNot much in here that lets me know more about you,â he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. âI thought Iâd come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.â He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words mightâve been too much.
She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadnât been teasing. Just⊠genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. âThereâs not much to know,â she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. âJust a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richardâs impossibly packed schedule.â
In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasnât sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didnât 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. Sheâd 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 heâd drank from her cup when heâd assumed it Sueâs.
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 didnât come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just⊠pleased. âDidnât think Iâd get it right?â he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadnât shifted.
She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. âHonestly?â she said, glancing back at him. âNo.â
âWell,â Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. âWhat can I say? Iâm full of surprises.â
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 didnât 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.
âYou know,â he added casually, âyou should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.â
She huffed a small breath through her nose. âIâll bear that in mind.â
Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. âAnyway. Iâm off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.â
She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. âThank you,â she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. âFor the coffee, Mr. Storm.â
He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. âOne of these days,â he tossed over his shoulder, âit better be just Johnny.â And with that, he disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasnât sure she was thrilled to notice.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 didnât 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. âDidnât peg you for a poetry girl.â
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 sheâd 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. âYouâre kidding.â
âWhat, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. âGive me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.â
âI 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.â
He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. âGuilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?â he nodded at the book in her hand. âYou into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?â
âIâm into the classics,â she said, slipping it into her stack.
âWell,â he said, with a half-smile, âguess Iâve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.â
She raised a brow, skeptical. âWhat genre did you have me under?â
He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. âNon-fiction,â he said finally. âSharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.â
She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like heâd just won a bet with himself. âI try to be professional,â she said, mostly to herself.
âAnd youâre great at it,â Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. âBut Iâd like to assume thereâs more to you than lists and calendar reminders.â
Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadnât let herself think about in months. That sheâd built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone elseâs 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. âShouldnât you be at some event?â she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. âShaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?â
He shrugged. âNeeded a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.â
That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. âYou have a therapist?â
âWhy does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?â he laughed. âIâve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind Iâll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.â
She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. âTrade you. You recommend a book Iâll pretend Iâll finish, and Iâll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesnât taste like battery acid in return.â
She eyed the cup with suspicion. âWhat is it?â
âStraight espresso,â he said, lifting it like a dare. âNo sugar, no cream. Iâm branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: itâs not. It's still crime in a cup.â
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 wasnât worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. Sheâd 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 wasnât made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read.Â
Johnny Storm didnât 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 wasnât 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. âThis isnât some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?â
She shook her head, lips twitching. âNot unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.â
Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. âRead Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. Iâm sure itâs good. Thanks for the recommendation.â Then, without missing a beat, âWhich brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.â
She tilted her head. âWhat do you mean, your suggestion for me?â
âIâm 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.â Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasnât strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not⊠whatever this was. It wasnât quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasnât 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, werenât 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 didnât know how not to.
But sheâd 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 didnât 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 sunâs 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. âYouâve read this?â
âIâve attempted to read it,â he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. âDidnât get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something youâd appreciate more than I could.â The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it wasâŠobservant. 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 sheâd picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where heâd 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. âIt seems weird,â she said finally, thumbing the cover. âBut brilliant. The kind of thing Iâd stumble upon.â
He grinned again. âSounds like I provided a better suggestion,.â
She tried not to laugh but didnât 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, âSo. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?â
She blinked. âYouâre seriously going to read it?â
He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. âI said Iâd try. BesidesâŠâ He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. âFeels like the kind of deal you donât back out of.â
She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. âSame time,â she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her bossâs brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing sheâd scold herself for⊠later.Â
He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didnât 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.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 sheâd 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 wasnât 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 mightâve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you Iâd finish it in his cocky handwriting wouldâve fit the narrative sheâd 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 hadnât annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. Heâd written where it seemed to strike his fancy.
She flipped to a random page.
âThis guy's self-pity could power the city grid.â
âDoes Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?â
âThis part⊠hits harder than I wanted it to.â
She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, thereâd 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 werenât. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. Heâd read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And heâd thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines.Â
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 hadnât realized sheâd been asking.
There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on.Â
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 didnât want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasnât 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 didnât 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 didnât know what to do with that kind of sincerity.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 wasnât reading.
âHey,â 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 didnât 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. âSo. Did you finish it?â
It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. âI did.â
A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. âAnd?â
She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. âIt was strange,â she said finally. âDense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.â
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. âSo... you loved it.â
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
She rolled her eyes, but softly. âWhat made you pick it?â
He shrugged. âI remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like itâd match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.â
That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. âYou think I have dramatic energy?â
âI think you build your own world,â he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadnât meant to say it aloud. âOr, you know. Something like that.â
The silence that followed wasnât 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. âI liked the annotations,â she said after a moment. âYou are actually funny when you arenât trying too hard.â
âI canât say I get that a lot,â he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didnât feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadnât named yet and something he wasnât forcing her to.
He gestured toward a nearby display. âOkay. Your turn.â
âFor what?â
âNew picks,â he said. âIâm clearly on a streak. Iâll try not to ruin it.â
She raised an eyebrow. âIs this becoming a regular thing now?â
He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. âOnly if you want it to be.â
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 couldnât 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 didnât read, spines she didnât 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, hadnât 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 sheâd 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 wasnât that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasnât paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm sheâd 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 hadnât 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 hadnât 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 shouldâve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadnât thought about since. She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve.Â
Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. âFrom the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?â
She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. âSue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.â
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. âAsking my sister about me,â he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. âNow thatâs unexpectedly personal.â
âI wasnât asking about you,â she replied, too quickly, too defensively. âShe mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.â Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like sheâd said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.
But he didnât tease her for it. Didnât 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. âWell,â he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, âitâs a good pick. Youâre not wrong, by the way. About space.â
She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. âI used to memorize the constellations,â he continued, more to the book than to her. âCould name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.â
That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didnât 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.
âYou donât think that anymore?â she asked, carefully.
âI think,â he said, glancing up again, âthat 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.â He said it like it wasnât profound. Like it didnât 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, âThatâs why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.â
That made him smile again. âIâll read it,â he said, voice low. âPromise.â She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasnât just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. âAlright,â he said, tucking the book under his arm. âI owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?â
She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. âDealerâs choice.â
âOkay,â he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. âIâll confess, I did some research before today. So this isnât just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I mightâve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.â He didnât 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 wasnât a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone elseâs hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the authorâs voice had been filtered through other intentions.
But this time, she didnât move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasnât 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 someoneâs entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.
âYou called ahead,â she repeated softly, not quite a question.
He shrugged, half-apologetic. âDidnât 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 hadnât expected. âClareâs not one of the poets Iâm largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible than most,â she said.
âYea,â he agreed. âI read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didnât sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just⊠it made sense in a way I didnât expect.â
She blinked. That wasnât 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. âSo you picked this for me,â she said slowly, âbecause⊠it got under your skin?â
âI picked it,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck, âbecause it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe youâd 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 youâd enjoy. You donât seem to like flashy things.â
She didnât answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clareâs name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadnât noticed was locked. Normally, she wouldâve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But heâd gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didnât say thank you. Not because she wasnât grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what heâd 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.
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. Heâd leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didnât 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 Clareâs life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.
She landed on a random poem.
âI am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.â
Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didnât 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 didnât look up right away. Didnât want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he mustâve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.
âThat one stayed with me, too.â
Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didnât smile. Didnât try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasnât 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, âWhy are you doing this?â Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. âThis,â she said again, motioning vaguely between them. âThe books. The effort. Poetry, for Godâs sake. I know youâre not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. Iâm sure you could find much better company for that.â
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. âHonestly?â he said. âIâm not totally sure.â
He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. âBut when Iâm around you,â he continued, slower now, âitâs like I donât have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I donât have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.â
His eyes lifted to hers again. âYou donât look at me like Iâm supposed to prove something. Thatâs⊠rare.â
She didnât speak, but she didnât look away either. âAnd I think thereâs something about you,â he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. âSomething still. Like, thereâs this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I donât exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.â
That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didnât apologize for saying it. âI guess I just like being around that,â he said. âIt feels safe. Real. I donât know. Maybe that sounds selfish.â
âIt doesnât,â she said, almost before he finished.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. âItâs not about impressing you. If it was, Iâd be doing a way worse job, trust me. Iâve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the âcharmingâ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just⊠want to know what itâs like to be seen by someone who doesnât already have an idea of me in their head.â
She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadnât made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sueâs 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 heâd shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.
This version of him â stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone â felt startlingly close to something she hadnât realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didnât ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. âWell,â she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, âyouâve shown me a few sides I didnât expect to experience, Mr. Storm.â
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. âCareful,â he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. âThat almost sounded like a compliment.â
She raised an eyebrow. âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. âItâs already in there.â
She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again.Â
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. âHuh,â Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. âComing down harder now.â
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. âI could walk you home,â he offered, lightly.Â
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. âAre you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?â she asked, deadpan.
He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. âI mean, I wasnât planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.â
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. âFine,â she said, slipping her coat on. âBut if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, Iâm leaving you.â
âNoted,â he said, reaching for his jacket. âSubtle heroism only. Got it.â
They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldnât 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 wasnât 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. âPretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,â he said, casually. Light on the surface.Â
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 hadnât just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. âYou really think Sue would care that much?â she asked, tone deliberately flat.
âOh, sheâd absolutely care,â he said. âShe really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.â
She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didnât 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 didnât 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. âThis is me,â she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.
He stopped with her, but didnât 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 didnât meet his eyes right away.
âYou warm enough now?â he asked, tone light.
She nodded. âMore or less.â
He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, âDidnât want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.â
She huffed a quiet sound that wasnât quite a laugh, but close. âHow noble of you.â
âI have my moments.â
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 didnât quite know how to answer.
âWell,â she said, adjusting the book under her arm. âThanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.â
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, âAnytime.â Stepping back from the stoop, he added, âIâll see you Monday.â
The reminder settled between them. Sueâs schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. Theyâd see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.
âGoodnight, Mr. Storm,â she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didnât 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 hadnât in years.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
She didnât see him on Monday. Not because heâd flaked. Johnny was many things â sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time â but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family.Â
She didnât see him because she never made it to work at all.
Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasnât cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldnât 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 Sueâs gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. âYou need to rest. Youâre not permitted in the office until you feel better. Thatâs an order.â
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 didnât 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 cityâs usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow. Sheâd 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 wasnât. 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 didnât have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didnât 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. Thatâs 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. âI thought I had the wrong window for a second,â 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. âYouâre here?â
âUh... yes? Is that a question?â he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.
âJust... fever,â 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. âWasnât sure I was hallucinating.â
He didnât 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. âOh, doll⊠youâre burning up,â he murmured, brow furrowing.
She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. âBit ironic coming from the Human Torch.â 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.
Johnnyâs hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. âEasy. Iâm not worth laughing to death over, yeah?â
She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. âDo you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?â
Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. âWhat? And ruin the moment? Iâm Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.â
Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. âJust donât fall, Hotshot.â
âOh, I never fall,â he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. âI fly.â 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. âWhatâs in the bag?â
âSupplies,â he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. âSoup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, donât ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.â
âYou really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?â
He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. âSue said you were sick, and when you didnât show up today, I figured Iâd do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.â
âYou broke into my room.â
âI entered with style,â he corrected, âHuge difference.â
She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. âYouâre ridiculous.â
Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. âAnd yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.â She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasnât weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her bossâs 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, Johnnyâs gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasnât 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 hadnât bothered to fix it.
And then⊠the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. âWhoa.â 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 wasnât 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.
âYou⊠uh,â Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. âYou ever think about getting an actual bookcase?â
She blinked. âThe shelves work fine.â
âTheyâre working overtime,â he replied, stepping closer. âYouâre one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.â
Despite herself, she smiled. âTheyâve survived this long.â
âI think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,â he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.
âThatâs only about a third of it,â she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. âIâve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to booksâŠâ
âYeah, I can tell,â Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. âSorry, I shouldnât be making you talk this much. You sound like youâve been gargling gravel.â He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. âBathroom?â he asked, nodding toward it.
She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didnât 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. âAlright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.â
She blinked at him. âYou drew me a bath?â
He shrugged, casual. âBetter you try it while someoneâs here to make sure you donât drown or fall and hurt yourself.â
She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. âWow. Thatâs⊠unexpected.â
âIâm full of surprises, sweetheart.â 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. âIâll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?â 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. âYou can stay,â she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. âBut,â she added, clearing her throat, âno making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. Iâm too fevered to fight back right now.â
He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. âScoutâs honor. Iâll be on my best behavior. And Iâd never mock⊠Mr. Bear,â he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed.Â
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.
âHey Jonathan?â
âYeah?â 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 sheâd offered.
âThank you,â
His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. âAnytime, Doll.â
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 wasnât 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. Heâd lit them. So she wouldnât have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didnât dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didnât 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.Â
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. Heâd found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl. He hadnât noticed her yet.
She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldnât recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. âDidnât burn the place down, did you?â she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.
Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. âThere she is,â he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. âLooking a little more alive.â
She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. âIâd say it smells good, but I currently canât smell much,â she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.
âI didnât screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,â Johnny said.Â
She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. âThank you,â 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 didnât look up. âYou didnât have to stay,â she said eventually.
âI know,â he replied. âDidnât really feel like leaving.â
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 elseâs life. âYou couldâve just dropped the stuff off,â she said.
âYeah, well,â he shrugged, âI donât know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.â
She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. âThis is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sisterâs overglorified secretary.â
Johnny smiled faintly. âI stopped seeing you as just âSueâs assistant.â a long time ago.â
She went still at that. He didnât push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. âThis is good,â she said after a beat, voice low.
âNot much of a cook, but Iâm good at heating things up,â he said. âItâs kind of my thing.â 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 didnât 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. âYouâre soaked,â he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. âItâs going to keep you sick.â
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. Johnnyâs hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didnât meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadnât meant to do it. Like he wasnât sure if heâd crossed a line. She didnât 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. âThanks.â
He only nodded. But he didnât move away. âOur mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,â he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. âSheâd lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.â 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. âSorry,â he said. âI shouldâve asked first.â
She shook her head. âJohnny, itâs okay.â The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.
âYou called me Johnny,â he said, turning more fully toward her now.
âYes,â she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, âbutââ
âNo âMr. Storm.â No âJonathan.â I admit, I kind of thought youâd take that to your grave.â
She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. âBlame the fever.â
He didnât smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. âYou donât have to pretend with me right now. You donât have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.â
Her fingers shifted slightly against his. âYouâre my bossâs brother,â she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines sheâd drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.
âAnd youâre not at work,â Johnny replied, his voice softer than sheâd ever heard it. âYouâre sick, and alone, and Iâm not here because anyone asked me to be. Iâm here because I want to be.â
She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. âI donât⊠let people see me like this,â she admitted.Â
âI noticed,â he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. âI mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,â he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didnât waver.
She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. âI guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, youâd stop looking at me like I wasâŠâ
âWhat?â he asked.
âLike you are right now,â she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.
Johnnyâs brow furrowed slightly. âI donât think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.â
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 didnât respond. Couldnât. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasnât 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 didnât push. He didnât follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didnât 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 didnât 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 couldnât tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.
âAlright,â he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. âMoving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If youâre done with thatâ he nodded to her soup, âIâll take care of it while you go lay back down.â
She blinked. âI canââ
âNope,â he cut in. âYour only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. Iâll handle the rest.â She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like heâd done this before. Like taking care of her wasnât some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. âAlso, I put on something actually worth watching. Whatâs the point of being sick if youâre stuck with the news? You need something comforting.â
She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. âLike what?â
âLike something you enjoy,â 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. âThe Twilight Zone?â
âWhatâs wrong with it?â she asked, glancing over.
âNothing,â he said quickly. âI just wouldnât have guessed you were a Serling girl.â
âItâs my favorite,â she said, voice low but sincere.
Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. âCan I let you in on a secret?â She arched a brow, waiting. âItâs my favorite too.â
A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. âYou are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.â
He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. âIâm 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.â
She gave him a sideways look. âThat does sound like you.â
He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. âI really like that one with the World War I pilot. Yâknow, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.â
Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. âThatâs a good one,â she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. âKind of poetic, actually.â
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 oneâs ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian.Â
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. âYouâre shivering.â
âIâm fine,â she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.
âYouâve got chills,â he said, already sliding closer. âYou should be under like, six blankets right now.â
âIâve got one,â she pointed out, feebly. He didnât 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. âJohnny, donât. I donât want you to get sick.â
He gave a short, soft laugh. âSweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sickâ
âBut stillââ
He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. âHey,â he said, voice low. âLet me take care of you.â
She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didnât. 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 didnât 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 wasnât harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldnât 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. âSee?â he murmured, voice close to her ear.Â
She huffed out a faint laugh. âYouâre very proud of yourself, arenât you?â
âUnbelievably.â
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 Johnnyâs fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions.Â
âYou really donât do this much, do you?â he asked after a quiet minute. She didnât answer right away. âLet people take care of you,â he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.
âI donât really know how,â she admitted. âI got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.â
Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. âI see that.â
âBeing vulnerable,â she added, âit never felt safe. Even when it was.â
There was a beat of quiet between them. âYou donât owe anyone softness,â he said, voice low and even. âBut you deserve to have it. When you want it.â
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. âThanks,â she said, and meant it.
âFor what?â
âFor being much more than I originally thought you were. Youâre, well for a lack of better words, kind.â
Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. âThat might be the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me.â
âDonât get used to it,â she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.
âNoted.â Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didnât 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.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 sheâd left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish âIâm fine, reallyâ 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 Johnnyâs arm around her, steady and warm. He hadnât stayed. At some point, long after sheâd fallen asleep, heâd moved her upstairs to bed. She hadnât even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:
Didnât want to wake you. Get some rest, and Iâll check in later. â Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm
She hadnât told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words werenât easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didnât 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. Sheâd brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out.Â
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 sheâd set the book down. He wasnât polished like the other Romantics. His verses didnât 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 hadnât expected.Â
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 wasnât 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 sheâd 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 heâd pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him andâ
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 didnât want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret.Â
She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadnât 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 â brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm â 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 heâd tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.
And that was the part she couldnât shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didnât 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 wouldnât 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. Thatâs 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 hadnât 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 Sueâs office, still smiling.Â
Saturday needed to hurry up.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 hadnât let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But todayâŠToday, 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 sheâd 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 didnât think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didnât need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasnât a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft.Â
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 donât mind if it rained.
A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasnât 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 withâŠWood. A solid wall of it.
She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasnât 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. âSurprise!â
Her eyes widened. âWhat in the worldâ?â
âI know we said bookstore,â he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, âbut I figured if Iâm going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.â
âMy collection,â she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.
âMy mistake,â 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 heâd just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. âI rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,â he added. âHad 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.â
She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. âYou⊠dragged a whole bookcase to my house?â
âI carried it,â he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. âDidnât trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.â
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. Johnnyâs grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. âI figured if weâre going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.â
She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâve been called worse.â But he didnât 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 heâd really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.
âI love it,â she said quietly. And she meant it.
âI saw it and immediately thought of you,â he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. âNot in a weird way,â he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. âJust⊠it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesnât fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.â
She nodded once, slow. âItâs perfect.â
He didnât 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 sheâd picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than theyâd been in days.
âYou feeling better?â he asked finally.
âGetting there,â she said.
âGood.â He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. âBecause 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 Iâll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.â
She laughed, âI think the bookstoreâs still on the table,â she said, then glanced at the shelf again. âBut maybe we move this first? I donât want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.â
Johnny grinned. âYou mean how classy and well-read you are?â
âI mean how Iâve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.â
He smirked. âIf this is a courtship ritual, Iâm definitely doing it wrong. I shouldâve brought flowers.â
She stepped aside, opening the door wider. âNext time, maybe.â
He arched a brow. âSo youâre saying thereâll be a next time?â
She gave him a mock-serious look. âGet the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.â 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.Â
Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that shouldâve 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 sheâd 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. âWell, well. If it isnât Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?â
She rolled her eyes but couldnât help the faint smile. âI thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.â
âWe did,â he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. âBut it was provisional, and frankly, Iâm reconsidering the terms.â
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. âDo you happen to have much in the way of tools?â
Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. âSparse 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.â
Johnny winced in playful sympathy. âLet me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.â
She raised a brow. âSince when do you fix power tools?â
He glanced over at her, feigning offense. âI do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasnât just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.â
Her lips twitched. âCouldâve fooled me.â
He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. âI actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesnât mean I forgot my mechanics classes.â
She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didnât come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasnât 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, âCome on, donât embarrass me now,â 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 sheâd want it.
Sheâd meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But sheâd 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. âSomething wrong?â he asked, voice soft.
She hesitated, then let out a breath. âJust thinking.â
He nudged her knee gently with his own. âAbout...?â
âYou.â
He turned his head to look at her fully. âWhat about me?â
She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. âI just⊠I was wrong about you. In so many ways.â
There was a pause.âHow so?â he asked quietly.
She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. âYou told me you liked that I didnât 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 Iâd be dealing with. And I donât live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. Youâre a public figure, and people talk.â
He didnât flinch, just listened. âI didnât want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isnât it? You take what youâve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.â
She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. âBut then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didnât have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. Youâve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.â
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.
âI donât think thereâs anything wrong with being careful,â he said. âAnd yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. Iâve done it, too.â
He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. âBut when I said I liked that you didnât have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didnât treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didnât flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.â
She blinked, surprised. âI had a wall up.â
He smiled faintly. âExactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason⊠that was comforting. Honest. You didnât pretend to like me.â
âI didnât know you.â
âAnd now you do?â
A beat. Her voice dropped. âIâm starting to.â
Johnnyâs expression softened, but he didnât push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. âWell⊠I guess itâs my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?â
She didnât 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. âWhy me?â she asked quietly.
He blinked. âWhat do you mean? I feel like I justââ
âNo, not really,â she cut in gently. âYouâve said pieces. But I still canât quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, youâve ended up⊠here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sisterâs assistant.â He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. âAnd before you say it, yes, I am Sueâs assistant. Thatâs how you know me. Thatâs the reason weâve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become⊠familiar? Why keep showing up?â
Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didnât answer right away. âWhen I first met you,â he said slowly, âyou 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.â
She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.
âAnd yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,â he admitted. âThe Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didnât feel like a joke. It felt⊠refreshing.â
His gaze found hers, steadier now. âYou werenât trying to be liked. You werenât 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.â
âLike?â
He smiled faintly. âLike how you hum when youâre trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you donât 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.â Her brows lifted, surprised. âI noticed, because I started caring. And I didnât 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 doesnât let anyone take care of her.â
He paused. âAnd I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell wonât ask. I canât wrap my mind around someone whoâs so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so heâll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.â
The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. âYou make it hard not to care back, you know.â Johnnyâs eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. âI donât even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fireââ
âThree steps,â he said automatically, lips quirking.
She shot him a look, but didnât lose her thread. âAnd 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.â She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. âI guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.â
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 hadnât expected. âDo you have any idea,â he murmured, âhow rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who arenât family. Itâs easier to be that version of myself so people donât go digging.â
She shrugged a little. âYouâre 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. Youâre so much more.â
The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They werenât touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadnât said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. âYou donât have to decide anything today,â he said quietly. âBut if you ever wonder why itâs you, itâs because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.â
Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. âI already decided,â she said. That made him still. âI donât know what it means yet,â she added, voice barely audible, âbut I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.â
He grinned wide and disbelieving. âThat was your moment?â
She gave a soft, shy smile. âYeah. That was it.â
A beat. âCan I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?â
She didnât speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. âIt wouldnât ruin anything,â 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 didnât. When their lips met, it wasnât fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didnât 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 couldnât 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. âYou taste like coffee,â he murmured.
She laughed under her breath. âYou taste like smug satisfaction.â
He grinned, eyes still closed. âCanât help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."
âThat was literally the first thing I ever said to you.â
âExactly.â
She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. âThis is probably a terrible idea.â
He opened his eyes, just barely. âYeah. Probably.â And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.
A few minutes later, theyâd 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.
âDoes Sue know youâre here?â she asked, teasing.
Johnny snorted. âShe knows Iâm with you. Doesnât know exactly whatâs going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but sheâs definitely suspicious.â
âSheâs not wrong.â
âShe is usually right,â 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. âHey Johnny⊠This... whatever this is between us, it doesnât have to be some big, dramatic thing.â
He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. âNo. It doesnât. But itâs something. And Iâm not going to pretend itâs not.â
She nodded once. âGood. Because Iâm done pretending, too.â
There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. âSo... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?â
She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. âPlease donât say âgo steady.ââ
He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. âThatâs not a no,â he murmured.
She smiled, soft and certain. âItâs a yes. Iâd love to let you take me out.â
âPerfect.â He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. âCan we still go to the bookstore?â
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. Theyâd done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, theyâd be pretending they werenât quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was lookingâŠ
âYes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.â
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
One month laterâŠÂ
If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never wouldâve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.
New Yorkâs 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 wasnât 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.Â
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 hadnât 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 âIâm proud of youâ after a long day she hadnât 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 sheâd 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 âdonât-hurt-herâ speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.
âSheâs good for you,â sheâd told Johnny one morning over breakfast. Heâd tried to play it cool, said something like, âDonât start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,â but she could tell how much it meant to him.
And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, âHeâs steadier with you around. Not dull. Just⊠softer.â
That had stayed with her. Softer. Because thatâs how he made her feel, too. He didnât dim things down. He didnât take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like heâd always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didnât 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 sheâd 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 âheadâ 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 didnât 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 hadnât bought. These werenât big declarations. They werenât moving boxes or dramatic speeches.
They were small signs that he wasnât 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 hadnât really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No âso⊠are we dating now?â moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didnât. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words âhere, take this.â 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 âFranklinâ had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into âIâm already outsideâ calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didnât 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. Theyâd slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. Sheâd 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 wasnât that he didnât 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, âNot tonight.â At first, sheâd 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 couldnât lie. It made her fall even harder. He couldâve had anyone. That was never the question. But heâd 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 couldnât 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 didnât mean it wasnât increasingly growing a bit⊠frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnnyâs 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 âGoodnight.â
She wasnât inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasnât simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and heâd 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 wasnât sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasnât like she didnât 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 didnât expect it. That he hadnât made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.
He didnât push. Didnât ask. Didnât turn her desire into an obligation. It felt⊠safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldnât 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 wasnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie heâd 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.
Sheâd 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 sheâd 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. Sheâd snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.
Heâd ruined her. And he didnât even know it. Or maybe⊠maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didnât 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 otherâs 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 didnât allow them to stop.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
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 didnât work.
"Youâre going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "Itâs just a press conference."
"Itâs not just a press conference," sheâd countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "Itâs the first time weâve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesnât go smoothly, Reedâs going to spiral, and the boardâs 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 didnât 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. âYou know,â he drawled, âmost people go home when the sun goes down.â
She didnât look up from her screen. âMost people donât have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.â
âMm.â He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. âWell, most people also donât look this good in computer lighting, so youâve already got a head start.â
âJohnny.â
âJust saying.â He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. âCome home.â
She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. âI canât,â she said quietly. âNot yet. Itâs got to be perfect.â
âItâs already perfect.â His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. âYou know how I know that? Because you wrote it.â
Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. âFlattery doesnât change anything.â
âNo,â he agreed, lips brushing her temple, âbut maybe a little light kidnapping would.â
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 didnât touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. âJohnny, Iâm serious.â
âSo am I,â he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.
And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadnât 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. âYou always do this.â
âDo what?â
âGet close. And then stop. Like weâre both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.â
He didnât deny it. Just watched her. âYou said you wanted slow,â he said softly.
âI said I wanted real,â she replied. âAnd this, us, it is. But that doesnât mean I donât feel things. That I donât want more than justââ She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.
Johnnyâs brow creased. âYou think I donât feel that too?â
âYou never let it show. You always stop.â
He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. âBecause if I donât stop⊠I donât think Iâll be able to.â 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. âI want everything with you. But I didnât want you to think thatâs all I wanted.â
She didnât speak. Couldnât. Because that was it, wasnât it? The thing she couldnât name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadnât been holding back because he didnât feel it. Heâd been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. âYouâre not just some guy Iâm passing time with,â she said quietly. âIâm not here for casual.â
He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just⊠grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. âNeither am I.â 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 didnât pull away.Â
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 didnât pull away.
It wasnât 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 didnât stop her. Didnât deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered âNot tonight.â
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.
âWaitââ he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. âAre we really about to do this in the office?â
She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasnât romantic. Wasnât planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. âNo oneâs here,â she whispered, touching his cheek. âItâs almost midnight. Everyoneâs gone.â
His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasnât moving. Not yet. âI justââ he exhaled, eyes closed. âI donât want this to feel like something itâs not. You deserve⊠more than some desk and low lighting.â
Her voice was soft but firm. âIâm tired of waiting, Johnny.â He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. âDo you really think itâs going to mean less because itâs here? Do you think Iâll look back and regret it? Because I wonât. Itâs not the location that matters.â Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. âItâs you. Being with you is the part that matters.â
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 didnât matter that it wasnât a bed with candles or soft music. It didnât matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.
In fact, the heels were helpful.
Johnny wasnât 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. âGod, I love these little skirts,â he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. âYou have no idea.â
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. âYou're stillââ she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, ââobnoxiously overdressed.â
He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. âYou started it. And I could say the same to you,â
âJohnny.â
âOkay, okay.â
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. âI want this,â she whispered. âI want you.â
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 heâd been holding back for too long and couldnât stand the wait anymore. âYou always look so put-together,â he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. âDrives me crazy.â
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. âYou ruin me. You know that, right?â
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 couldnât hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. âNot exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.â
She rolled her eyes, still grinning. âIâm not laughing at you. Iâm laughing at these pants. Theyâre a crime against movement.â
He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. âTheyâre flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.â
âTheyâre a straightjacket for your legs,â she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. âSeriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?â
Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. âWhat can I say? I make insanity look sexy.â 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. âSee? That wasnât so hard.â
She shot him a look. âIâd argue that it is quite hardâŠâ
His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. âThey always say itâs the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,â 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. âI wear them because I always hope youâll end up taking them off.â
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. âSpeaking of taking things offâŠâ he gestured to her tights.Â
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.Â
"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I wonât lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your officeâŠâ 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. âHmm⊠thatâs an improvement.â
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. âDo you say that to all the women you undress on desks?â
âOnly the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.â 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. âYou always flirt this much when youâre half-naked in someone elseâs workplace?â she managed, fingers threading into his hair.
His grin was pure trouble. âOnly when Iâm with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of meâŠâ 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. âI donât think I can look at this office the same again,â he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.
She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. âYeah me eitherâ
âMind if I try something?â 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.Â
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. âIâve gotta say,â he murmured, voice husky with laughter, âthe skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for meâŠâ
She smiled, lips parting around a breath. âYeah?â
âOh, definitely.â He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. âJust picture it. You laid out across your deskâŠâ 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. âGod,â he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. âYou have no idea what you do to me.â
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 sheâd 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.Â
âYeah much better than just a fantasy,â he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along sheâd gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away.Â
Johnny didnât 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. âWow, thatâs, are youââ
âPlease move,â she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him.Â
âYes Maâam,â and thatâs 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.Â
âOh, Johnny,â she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath sheâd 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.
âYeahâŠâ 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 theyâd shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. Theyâd 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. âJohnnyââ her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. âDonât stop.â
âNot planning on it,â 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. âYou feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.â
She couldnât 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.
âJohnnyââ she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didnât hear her, or didnât care. One more thrust, rough and deep, andâCRACK. 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.
âWell,â Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, âI guess weâre filing this under workplace hazard.â
She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. âYou broke my desk!â
He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. âTechnically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.â
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. âHow am I supposed to explain this to Sue?â
That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. âOkay, please donât mention my sister while Iâm still inside you.â
She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. âRight. Sorry..â
âThank you.â He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. âNow letâs go back to the part where I was making you see stars.â
She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. âPretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.â
His grin widened. âOh? So I am that good.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.â
âI didnât let you,â she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. âYou did that all on your own.â
Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. âExcuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.â
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. âI did not say ravish.â
âYou didnât have to. I read between the lines,â he said with a wink. âHere I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romanticâŠâ
âAnd instead, you went full âraunchy office scandal,â like this was some bad porno,â she deadpanned.
He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like heâd just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. âYou encouraged it. Donât go rewriting history now.â
She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. âGod, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.â
Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. âI can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then Iâll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.â He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. âThe desk was just the⊠prologue.â
She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. âYou better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.â
He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. âNo promises.â
âIâm serious,â she warned, a playful glint in her eye. âItâs an antique.â
âIâll be gentle.â
She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd youâre irresistible,â he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. âNow come on, I wanna do this properly.â
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 â cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button â 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.
âAfter you, Miss Desk Slayer.â 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 thereâs 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. âYou didnât have to come find me tonight.â
He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. âI didnât want to be anywhere else.â
She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. âYou say that now.â
Johnnyâs voice was soft. Softer than sheâd ever heard it. âNo. I mean it. Wherever you are... thatâs where I wanna be.â
Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. âYouâre such a sap.â
âOnly for you,â 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 hadnât let herself admit until now.
summary: when sarah ditches her lifelong best friend for the pogues, rafe lets his soft spot for her shine through and as they get closer, he doesnât know how anyone could ever let her go
SUMMARY â sequel to dear april. as much as bob found a makeshift family among new yorkâs newest heroes, he couldnât help but remember the one person who had always been his hero.
PAIRING â bob reynolds x fem!reader
WARNINGS â mentions of previous substance abuse, bob being silly again, no use of y/n, lowercase intended, povs are switching
A/N â minors dni!! many a'folk (2 people) have asked for a part 2 so here we go, honouring rdr2 (i used one line)
'my dear arthur, you never showed up, and now, after looking at the newspapers i understand why'
it had been a year since bob left for southeast asia when you saw him again â wide-eyed and disoriented â tucked behind assassins and super-soldiers alike on the news.
you werenât the type to keep up with the news anymore. not since youâd made the conscious decision to protect whatever fragile peace youâd managed to scrape together. the world was too heavy, too loud. you used to care; that was until a purple alien snapped half the population out of existence on a random tuesday afternoon. after that, silence became sacred.
you hadnât even meant to land on that channel. you just wanted to unwind with a movie after a long day. but there he was, captured in motion, standing awkwardly among legends. and you couldnât look away.
he looked good â clear-eyed, steady, healthy.
and somehow, that wrecked you more than anything else ever had.
sure, heâd been on the news before. you remembered that time all too well: florida man arrested after attacking civilian while wearing a chicken costume. youâd laughed when you first saw the ridiculous headline, right up until the phone rang and he was on the other end, crying, asking you to pick him up.
this time, he wasnât high. he wasnât rambling. he wasnât alone. this time, he was standing beside heroes.
and not you.
you were happy for him, of course you were. or at least, thatâs what you told yourself. but those people, the ones he stood beside now, didnât look like they had known him long. they hadnât sat through his lowest nights. they hadnât held him through the shakes, or cleaned the blood from his knuckles, or stayed awake for 36 hours straight just to make sure he didnât die in his sleep. and yet, he got better for them.
after all the years you spent trying to help him, carrying him when he couldnât carry himself, he chose to get better for a group of people who kill for a living. it wasnât fair, and you knew how childish that sounded, but fairness had stopped applying to your life a long time ago.
and now, all the feelings youâd buried deep â rage, heartbreak, betrayal â crawled back up from where youâd entombed them. feelings youâd forced down so far you forgot they still lived inside you.
when bob left, you didnât know how to feel. at first, you grieved like someone had died. you cried until your ribs ached and your throat burnt, until it felt like your entire body had been skinned raw by the sorrow. and then came the stillness. that dull, dissociative fog. like you were floating just above your life, watching someone else wear your skin, going through the motions.
that lasted for weeks.
until one morning, you blinked, and you were back in your body again. but everything felt⊠quiet. hollow. not healed, definitely not. just numb.
you tried calling him for weeks, too. every time, it was the same â no ringing, just that cold, mechanical voice: âthe number you have dialled is no longer in service.â then silence. youâd sit with it for a second, hopeful it might suddenly connect, before finally hanging up.
that hurt more than you dared to admit. like a blade slipping between your ribs, turning slow and cruel, just to see how long youâd bleed. leaving for the other side of the world was one thing. but changing his number? cutting off any way for you to reach him? that was something else entirely.
it was cruel, selfish.
his last words haunted you for months. i love you.
words the two of you never really said, at least not like that. not with the weight they carried when he said them. you lost sleep replaying it in your head, over and over, wondering if he meant it or if it was just another goodbye dressed as a confession.
because the love you had for bob wasnât sweet or soft. it was desperate. ugly. it twisted inside you, knotted and fraying, built on years of chaos and heartbreak. you loved him even when you shouldnât have. even when he left you to pick up the pieces he shattered.
maybe thatâs why you stayed so long. maybe love made you blind to how unwell it all was â how often he dragged you under with him and never once tried to help you breathe.
you didnât even realise you were crying until you tasted the familiarness of the salt on your lips. you blinked hard, hurriedly grabbing the remote and switching the tv off, as though that could somehow shut off the ache growing in your chest.
but it was too late. the image was burnt into your mind: bob, truly smiling as he stood beside his teammates, cheering them on from the sidelines. he looked like he belonged there. although he appeared out of place in his corduroy pants and boyish sweater, he seemed to have finally found solid ground to stand on.
there had been a time when you were the one on the sidelines for him. when you were the one giving him soft encouragement, waving from the doorway as he walked into the newest rehab youâd scraped together enough money for. you were the one he leaned on when he was too afraid to face himself.
now he was celebrating victories with strangers, and you were back in your crumbling apartment, crying alone.
there was a time when you allowed yourself to break like this â alone, vulnerable, curled up on your ratty couch or buried beneath your bedsheets, sobbing until your body gave out and sleep took you in its cold, unsatisfying grasp. but youâd since learnt better. or at least convinced yourself you had. the crying never helped. no matter how many tears were spilt, that pit in your gut remained. deep, persistent, and unmistakably carved out by heartbreak.
so you wiped your cheeks with the heel of your hand, dragging your palm down your face as if you could scrape the pain away. you reached for your phone, knowing you shouldnât, but habit and impulse got the better of you. you opened twitter, searching for distraction, maybe even some validation in the chaos of public opinion surrounding the announcement.
john walker as an avenger?? the same guy who murdered an innocent man in the street?? gtfo
isnât that black widowâs sister lmaooo
santa got sick and tired of the ungrateful kids byeee
who tf is that weirdo in the back.
you paused on that last one, hovering over the tweet before finally liking it. petty? absolutely. but after all the years, the damage, the letting go, you figured you were entitled to a little pettiness.
you couldnât say exactly how long youâd been scrolling. all you knew was that when you finally looked up, the sun was setting outside your window, casting everything in that familiar golden haze. it didnât surprise you. this was life now: wake up, go to work, come home, have a drink, and doomscroll until sleep claimed you.
you sighed, thinking about getting up from the couch but finding yourself rooted in place. your body moved on instinct more than anything. when you blinked, returning from a place you had no idea you visited, your finger hovered over a name.
robert reynolds.
what were you thinking? he probably hadnât bothered to reconnect his old number. and even if he had, what were the chances heâd answer? doubts crept in quickly â not just doubts, but facts youâd long accepted. still, some small part of you sparked to life, fragile but persistent. it wasnât much, but it was just enough to push you to tap the call button.
you heard ringing.
that sound alone felt like a miracle, something you hadnât heard in what felt like forever. for a fleeting second, hope continued blooming in your chest. then a voice picked up on the other end.
âwho is this?â
it wasnât him.
you knew bobâs voice. youâd heard it in every version â high, low, broken, angry. this wasnât it. and just like that, the hope drained from you completely.
âoh⊠iâm so sorry. i mustâve called the wrong number.â
you hung up before the stranger could say anything else.
you shouldâve known better. hope like that was childish. he wouldnât have kept that number, not after all this time. not after everything. he probably wouldnât have wanted to talk to you anyway. too much of his past was tied up in you, the worst parts of it. now that he was better, you were just a reminder of everything heâd tried to leave behind.
that was all you were. a memory.
robert reynolds, 7 months later
it had been a month since that dreaded gala â the one where bob spent most of the night trapped in his own head. after the crowd cleared out, all his teammates had gathered in the common area, rehashing the evening, tearing apart the guests with true cruelty. but bob hadnât felt part of it, not really. his mind was elsewhere, still haunted by the woman heâd stared at the entire night. the one he was so sure was you.
the guilt gnawed at him. after everything the two of you had been through, all those years tangled together, he couldnât even recognise you in a crowd. couldnât place the back he had watched walk away from him more times than he could count. he thought he knew you better than he knew himself. but maybe all those hazy highs had clouded his memory more than he realised.
he couldnât recall many good moments with you anymore, just fragments. not of love or joy, but of the in-between. the times when he didnât feel untouchable but didnât feel like he was drowning either.
and during the time heâd lost control and torn through manhattan, he found himself strangely grateful. grateful that his mind hadnât conjured your face for his new friends to see. yelenaâs retelling had been humiliating enough, and the few flashes he remembered â especially that shame room of you â were more than enough for him. only he had seen that. and he wanted to keep it that way. because no matter how much better he was now, he didnât want the people whoâd accepted him to see just how terrible he had once been.
even a month later, bob found his thoughts drifting to you whenever they had the chance. any new idea, any idle moment somehow, you always surfaced. he didnât blame you. you were probably still in florida, living your life, maybe even forgetting he ever existed. it was him who couldnât let go. him who was still stuck in the past.
âearth to bob!â
a hand waved in front of his face, snapping him out of it. that thick russian accent unmistakable.
he blinked, turning toward yelena with a startled expression. âshit â sorry,â he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away. embarrassment flushed through him. he hadnât meant to ignore her; he just genuinely couldnât stop thinking about you. and lately, it was starting to spiral.
âwhatâs going on with you?â yelena asked, tilting her head. âyouâve been⊠somewhere else.â
his first instinct was to lie. brush it off. ânothinâ. iâm fine.â it came easily, automatic, there was no need for him to dump his baggage on her. especially not now, not when she was juggling enough since the avengers announcement. why burden her with old ghosts?
but he also knew her well enough by now to know she wouldnât let it go. she cared. she always pushed, always made room for the people she cared about. because to her, sharing the weight didnât mean weakness; it meant surviving.
so he took a breath, deep and slow, and nodded.
âiâve just⊠been thinking about someone from before.â
she stayed quiet, waiting, giving him the space to open up.
âthere was this girl,â he said, your name barely a whisper on his lips. his gaze dropped to the floor. âshe stuck by me through everything. every fuck-up, every dark moment. she didnât leave, even when i begged her to.â
he looked up again, meeting yelenaâs eyes.
âthought i saw her at that stupid gala last month. got stuck on it the whole night.â
yelenaâs brow furrowed slightly, but before she could say anything, bob added, âand before you start worrying â no, it wasnât some fuckin' hallucination or anything. just some random woman who looked like her.â
she let out a quiet sigh of relief but didnât interrupt.
âanyway,â he said, voice lower now, âi wanna reach out, apologise to her. i just⊠donât know if sheâll listen.â
neither of them spoke for a while. the silence between them was thick, teetering on uncomfortable. bob knew the weight of it sat more heavily on his shoulders. yelena wasnât the one struggling to open up; he was. especially when it came to you. because if he talked about you for too long, the rest would follow, the uglier parts. the truth of who he was when he was with you. and that wasnât something he ever wanted yelena to see.
bob watched her scan the room thoughtfully, as if searching for the right words. it surprised him. she always seemed to know what to say, always sharp, always sure. seeing her hesitate made him want to pull it all back â tell her not to worry, apologise for even bringing you up. but then she spoke.
âi think you should at least try,â yelena said, cutting through his thoughts with quiet certainty.
he frowned, looking down at his hands, fingers nervously twisting against each other. he wanted to try. god, he did. but what if you didnât answer? what if hearing from him just opened old wounds? what if you'd changed your number? he did.
he told himself that cutting you off would numb the guilt of abandoning you, that silence could somehow serve as redemption. but he was wrong. he thought if he let time pass, you'd fade, like ink left too long in the sun. instead, you haunted him. your face followed him through crowds, surfaced in strangers, lingered in dreams. you lived in every quiet.
âand even if she doesnât want to see you again, for whatever reason, i think sheâd appreciate the effort,â yelena continued, her voice softer now. gentler.
bob looked at her, sceptical. âhow do you know?â
she gave a small shrug. âyou left for malaysia, right?â he nodded. âif she follows the news, sheâs probably seen you. one minute, you're gone; the next, you're standing next to earthâs mightiest heroes. that has to raise some questions.â
he didnât respond right away, but she had a point.
you probably were confused. the last time you saw him, he was barely functioning â frail, high, falling apart by the hour. and now? even he was shocked when he saw the news footage, watching himself looking healthier than he had in years. you mustâve been wondering what the fuck happened.
he nodded slowly. âyeah. yeah, youâre right.â
âalways am,â yelena teased, her familiar smirk slipping into place.
she stood, giving his shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze as she passed him. at the door, she glanced back and added with a lightness that almost made him smile, âif you need help writing some grand declaration or heartfelt monologue, you know where to find me.â
bob let out a quiet chuckle as the door clicked shut behind her. and just like that, he was alone again.
the laughter faded quickly, swallowed by the silence that always followed when the noise around him died down. he leaned back into the couch, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. his leg bounced unconsciously â a tell-tale sign he was thinking too much.
the room felt too quiet now, too big. his gaze flicked to the window across the room, where the early evening light spilt in golden and slow. a flicker of memory stirred, the way you used to close the blinds at that exact time of day, saying the light gave you a headache. he was surprised he remembered that at all. most of his time in your apartment had been spent teetering on the edge of consciousness.
he sighed.
what was he doing?
he stood up, paced a little, sat back down. tried distracting himself with his phone, scrolled without seeing anything. realised it wasn't working, and put it back down. your name kept crawling back into his thoughts like a song he couldnât get out of his head.
he ran a hand through his hair and let out another breath, longer this time. then, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached for his phone once again. your number was still etched into his memory like a scar. he typed it in without hesitation and hit call before he could talk himself out of it.
the second he heard the first ring, dread clawed up his throat. this was a mistake. you were going to hate him. scream at him. call him every name he probably deserved. maybe you'd hang up the moment you heard his voice. and truthfully? you were entitled to.
all he had left was a prayer â one whispered to a god he was sure didn't exist, a desperate plea cast into the air that somehow, some way, you'd understand. that youâd hear him, really hear him, and know that this time⊠he was ready.
the line clicked. âhello?â
his heart stilled.
it was you. of course it was you. heâd know your voice anywhere: soft but edged with something sharper, something he once lived in and ran from all at once. his mouth opened, but nothing came. his thoughts scattered like startled birds.
oh, god. this was bad. worse than heâd imagined. he hadnât planned what to say, hadnât thought beyond the call itself. and now, with your voice echoing in his ear, he was paralysed.
âwho is this?â you asked, your tone clipped, impatient. so achingly familiar that it almost made him smile.
he swallowed.
âerm⊠itâs, er, itâs robbie.â
then came the silence. thick. suffocating.
he could hear you breathing â shallow and quick, the rhythm uncannily matching his own. a mirrored panic, a shared ghost between two people who hadnât spoken in what felt like lifetimes.
in that stillness, guilt pressed against his chest like an invasion. this was a mistake. he knew it. he shouldnât have done this. shouldnât have called. you had probably moved on. maybe not fully healed, maybe not whole, but at least moving forward. and here he was again. dragging you backward, back into the tide he had spent so long pulling you under.
he almost hung up. the urge was there, hot and bitter in the back of his throat. he wanted to spare you â wanted to say never mind, forget i called, go back to your peace. but he couldnât, not again. not after all the other times heâd left things half-said, shattered, and bleeding on the floor between you.
so he waited.
waited for your voice like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to the man he was trying to become. if it took a lifetime for you to speak again, heâd sit in that silence. he owed you that much.
then, a soft clearing of your throat. and finally, your voice. âhiâŠâ
just one word, but it carried so much weight. the sharpness he expected wasnât there. what came instead was something gentler, cautious, like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.
âhiâŠâ he echoed, voice equally uncertain, both of you caught in the strange gravity of old ghosts.
he hadnât thought this far ahead. he knew he wanted to apologise, but the words i'm sorry felt heavy, clumsy, unworthy of the damage they were meant to mend. did he ease into it? or tear the scab off in one go?
a pause. then you spoke again. this time stronger, but raw around the edges.
âwhy are you calling? i havenât heard from you in two years.â
the words cut deep, but not as much as the ache behind them. even across the distance, he could feel your hurt, the sting of betrayal still clinging to you like smoke. and the guilt came back like a wave â not the gentle kind that laps at the shore, but the kind that crashes in the open sea, wild and unforgiving, built to drown.
there was always a different kind of guilt when it came to you. not the kind that passed with time or could be shrugged off. no, this was the kind that lived in his bones. the kind that turned in his chest like a storm. he couldnât name it exactly, only that every time he made you cry, every time he disappointed you, it felt like the sky was falling, like something sacred had been broken. and now, he was on the line, trying to pick up the pieces without knowing if he even had the right.
"i miss you. so much." he whispered, already feeling the emotion crawling up on him, voice catching in the back of his throat, "and i â i wanna apologise properly."
he heard the quiet scoff slip from your mouth and winced, because he understood. of course he did. he had walked out of your life two years ago and only now decided it was time to apologise, through a phone call, no less. not in person, just his voice over static, like a poltergeist trying to make peace.
and maybe, in his mind, that had seemed reasonable. you were in another state â or at least, he assumed you were â and he was stationed in what used to be the avengers tower. still, he knew valentina had enough resources that getting on a plane wouldnât have been an issue. he couldâve shown up, looked you in the eye, and owned what he did. but he hadnât. because somewhere deep down, he was still a coward.
you didnât say anything. the silence pressed, thick and unreadable. so he pushed forward. âitâs not gonna mean much, i know that,â he murmured, voice low and heavy. âbut... m'sorry. i knew what i was doin' the whole time. and i still did it anyway.â
a pause.
then your voice, sharp and wounded: âthatâs seriously all you have to say?â
on the other end of the line, you could hardly process what was happening.
seven months ago, you saw bob on the news and nearly fell apart. whatever progress youâd made, or tried to convince yourself youâd made, shattered in an instant. everything youâd built to survive without him crumbled like it was made of sand.
and so, you rebuilt. not through healing, but through denial. you buried everything you felt, shoved it so far down that you forgot what it was like to feel anything at all. you let your life shrink to the bare bones, just the dull rhythm of a nine-to-five that barely paid your bills, just enough to stay afloat while ignoring the hollow space where he used to be.
now here he was, once again threatening to unravel the frail life youâd pieced together without him. maybe he meant well â he said as much â but it was hard to believe that after seven months of silence, after aligning himself with them, now was the moment he chose to reach out.
you hoped he still remembered how you felt about the so-called heroes he now lived among. it was never about powers; you weren't prejudiced. you didnât fear them for what they could do, but for what they believed they had the right to do. the god complex. the ease with which they levelled cities and called it salvation, the way they called themselves heroes with the blood of the innocent still on their boots.
and for bob to not just work with them but to live with them, to call them friends â it stung more than you wanted to admit.
"when i saw you on the news⊠you looked happy. healthy." you paused, swallowing hard, your voice already thinning. "and i know it shouldnât have made me feel the way it did â because god, rob, i am so proud of you â but it... it still hurt."
you heard nothing on the other end. just the hush of his breath. it made the silence louder somehow.
"itâs selfish," you admitted, your voice cracking at the edge. "i know that. but after everything. after all the nights i stayed up, prayin' you'd make it through, after all that fuckin' money i spent on you, every time i tried to help you get clean. it just felt like none of that mattered. like it all meant nothin'."
you pulled your knees up to your chest, curling tighter around the ache building in your ribs.
"because now youâre better, but for them," you went on, more bitterly than youâd intended, "for a group of mercs you barely know. for people who don't know the worst parts of you like i do."
your voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"how do you think that makes me feel?"
and with that, the floodgates fully opened â not just in your words, but in your body, too. you hadn't meant to ramble. but years of grief, restraint, and unspoken heartbreak finally clawed their way out, heavy and breathless, collapsing between you like something sacred and ruined.
a heavy silence settled between the two of you, thick and unmoving, like fog that refused to lift. and now, in the stillness that followed, came the slow ache of guilt. the guilt of having finally laid yourself bare. you had never told him everything, never allowed yourself to unravel like this in front of him. you were always the one listening, never the one speaking.
you didnât think you were allowed to. his pain had always taken up more space, louder, darker, and far more dangerous. that was never his fault. it wasnât that he asked you to stay quiet. you just convinced yourself that your hurt didnât matter as much.
not compared to his.
robert reynolds, age 19
you're surprised you didn't cry when you walked into your apartment and saw the destruction.
you had only recently moved out of your motherâs house and into the small one-bedroom apartment. it wasnât much, but it was yours. yours, and sometimes bob's. it was the first place that felt remotely like safety, like something youâd built for yourself. and you were content, or at least as close to content as life would allow.
so when you opened the door and found every mirror in your home shattered, the air seemed to vanish from your lungs. it was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the fragile sense of peace youâd tried so hard to build.
then you saw him.
bob was in your kitchen, pacing like a man possessed. his fists were raw and bloodied, lips moving rapidly as he muttered to himself, oblivious to the crimson smears on your walls, the glass crunching beneath his shoes.
ârob?â your voice came out softer than you'd intended, cautious. like approaching a wild animal. âis everything okay?â
he jumped at the sound of your voice, whipping around with wide, panicked eyes. he was hyperventilating, chest heaving.
âtheyâre watchinâ me!â he rasped. âthe cops, the psychiatrist â theyâre behind the mirrors. theyâre just waitinâ for me to fuck up so they can haul me in!â
you swallowed hard, stepping forward with trembling hands.
in that moment, you werenât sure how to help him, not really. this was the first time youâd seen him like this, lost in the thick fog of psychosis, and you werenât a trained psychologist. you were just someone who loved him, standing in the wreckage of your apartment, trying to piece him back together with nothing but trembling hands and good intentions.
what were you even supposed to say? were you meant to challenge the delusions? agree with them? redirect? you didnât know the rules. you only knew that whatever he was seeing, whatever he believed â it was real to him. but if there was one thing you were sure of, it was this: panic only fed the fire. so the first step, you figured, was to steady your own voice. quiet the fear clanging around in your chest and try to calm him, even if you had no idea what you were doing.
âno, robbie⊠theyâre not watching you,â you said gently, nodding toward the shards littering the floor. âyou broke them all. see?â
your plan to calm him down unravelled the moment you spoke. he clenched his fists and yelled. loud, frantic, accusing. he said you were lying. that they were watching him. that he was scared.
you stepped forward, slowly, careful not to make it worse. close enough that he could hear your breath if he listened, but not so close that heâd feel crowded. you tried to be still, to be something steady in the chaos. a calm presence he could mirror, if only for a moment.
but you werenât calm. not even close. inside, you were spiralling, panicking in ways you never had before. you just hoped he wouldnât notice the thin glass sheen in your eyes or the quiet tremble threading through your fingers. you hoped he wouldnât see the fear sitting just beneath your skin, because if he did, he would just get worse. and that was something you weren't ready to see.
âif they were watching⊠theyâd be behind the mirrors, right?â you asked gently, voice careful, unsure of how to reach him.
his eyes widened with panic. âwhy canât you see?â he shouted, his voice sharp with desperation. in an instant, he closed the space between you, grabbing your arms with shaking hands, as if clutching you might force understanding into your bones. âtheyâre there, i swear! why wonât you believe me?â
you didnât flinch, even as his grip tightened. you just looked at him â really looked. the fear etched into his face, the wildness in his eyes, the trembling in his body. and then, as if the fight drained from him all at once, he collapsed forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
âplease,â he choked out between sobs. âiâm not lyin'. i swear iâm not.â
you wrapped your arms around him instinctively, one hand gently moving up and down his back. you held him while his body shook against yours, offering the only comfort you could in a moment far too big for either of you. there were no right words, only presence. so you stayed.
and you let him cry because you didn't know what else to do.
robert reynolds, present day
he didnât know how to begin. no words felt right, or strong enough, to bridge the space between what you believed and what he knew to be true.
what you were saying wasnât right, not exactly. you couldnât have known about the serum, about how it sculpted his good and bad days into something monstrous, about how it rewired him in a way that made getting high impossible. but how could he explain that to you now, over a phone line already strained with years of silence?
âno â no, thatâs not what happened,â he said quickly, his voice laced with urgency, but it felt like trying to plug a leak with trembling hands. you wouldnât believe him, not like this.
he closed his eyes. it wasnât enough. none of this would be enough unless he saw you.
heâd panic; he was sure of it. heâd say the wrong thing, trip over his words, and make it worse. but even with that certainty curling in his stomach like a threat, he knew he needed to see you. face-to-face, no barriers, no excuses.
only then could he try to make things right.
"listen, i wanna make it right. i'm in new york, but i can fly out," he said quickly, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "you're still in florida, right?" he clung to the question like a lifeline, to the hope that maybe he could still fix something when all heâd ever known was how to break them.
there was a pause. then your voice came, soft and aching: "no... i'm sorry, robbie. i donât think i can face you. not right now."
and just like that, something inside him caved in.
itâs strange, he thought, how the heart makes no sound when it shatters. not a crack, not a thud â just silence, sudden and swallowing.
SUMMARY â as much as bob found a makeshift family among new yorkâs newest heroes, he couldnât help but remember the one person who had always been his hero.
PAIRING â bob reynolds x fem!reader
WARNINGS â substance abuse (you are responsible for your own media consumption), mentions of parental issues, no use of y/n, lowercase intended, bob being extra silly, barely proofread
A/N â minors dni!! this has deadass been in my drafts for like a month saur here you go x writing this also made me realise that i cannot write fluff for the life of me. (also this is definitely a projection) WHO SAID THAT????
WORD COUNT â 5.9k
dear arthur
'dear april, the only face in the crowd that i know'
bob felt out of place â a ghost in silk and glass â his discomfort threading through the low hum of violins, the delicate clink of crystal, and the murmured conversations of the super-rich who filled the grand hall of the watchtower. above, chandeliers glittered like stolen stardust â too pristine, too symmetrical â unlike real stars.
he lingered in the corner, half in shadow. his tuxedo fit like it had been tailored yesterday, but his hair was rebelliously imperfect, strands curling in ways that defied control. a glass of soda sat forgotten in his left hand while his right fidgeted with the cuff of his blazer â small, nervous movements belying the power beneath his skin.
no one really knew who he was or why he was there. ever since the announcement of the so-called 'new avengers', the press had been relentless in their pursuit of the mystery manâs identity and his purpose among this newly assembled pantheon of saviours. some whisper that heâs the shadow that once loomed over new york, an echo of something vast and dangerous. they wouldnât exactly be incorrect. others speculate heâs here for more personal reasons, tangled in some secret romance. neither theory has been proven. but since when has a lack of evidence ever stopped the press?
so that leaves bob standing alone in the corner, where the occasional cameraman approached, flooding him with a barrage of questions. each time, a flush would rise swiftly to his cheeks â vivid and unmissable â while his body locked up, caught in the glare of curiosity he never asked for. words eluded him, and all he could offer was silence wrapped in discomfort.
he considered slipping out, quietly vanishing from a room where no one would notice he was ever there. he was halfway turned to leave when his gaze caught on you.
your back was to him, posture graceful, head tilted down slightly as you offered a polite laugh at something the uptight billionaire beside you just said. he couldnât see your face, not fully, but it doesnât matter. he knew it was you. heâd recognise you anywhere by the way you carry yourself, by the softness in your shoulders, and by the memory that still lived in his chest like a breath that never left his lungs.
and suddenly, it all rushed back.
a storm of emotion surged to the surface. his skin prickling, his mind racing, his whole body remembering what it spent a millennium trying to forget.
robert reynolds, age 11
heâd met you just a few months back, when you showed up out of nowhere, a new face in his class. at first, he kept his distance. quiet, guarded, and content behind the walls heâd built for himself. but you wouldn't let him stay hidden. somehow, you slipped past his defences, inch by inch, until you were there â in his life, in his space. and as much as he hated it at first, he begrudgingly let you stay.
now, here you were. the two of you stretched out on the grass, the world around you humming with the buzz of summer. the sun blazed high and relentless, draping everything in too much heat, too much light. but regardless, you sat there, laughing and picking at the grass, ignoring the devastation that was the world around you.
âwe shouldnât be sitting out here, rob. y'know with you're sneezin' thing with the grass,â you teased, glancing up at him with that wide, toothy grin that never left your face.
âi know,â he murmured, voice soft, fingers idly plucking at the blades beneath him.
âbut⊠itâs nice out here. quiet.â he felt the familiar tickle building, that inevitable sneeze creeping up. his nose twitched, and his eyes squinted against the sun. robert reynolds was many things, but the one thing that stood out to you was how dramatic he was when he sneezed.
your laughter softened, tapering off as he dragged an arm across his nose, trying to hide the flush creeping over his cheeks. but this wasnât the kind of embarrassment heâd grown used to. not the deep, gnawing shame that settled into his bones, the kind his parents had carved into him over the years. no, this was different. lighter. the kind that stung for a second but left with the breath he let out, like it had permission to pass.
"did you know that you can stop yourself from sneezing if you confuse your brain?" you said after a beat of silence, picking the petals off of a flower you had found.
he laughed gently. "that's bullshit."
"no, seriously!" you giggled. "whenever i need to sneeze, i always just say 'strawberry,' and usually that helps."
he met your gaze, scoffing softly as he rolled his eyes, a hint of sarcasm tugging at his lips. your laughter faded, leaving the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder, watching as the world carried on â strangers passing by, faces lit with easy smiles and unburdened joy.
the silence that settled between you wasnât awkward; it was comfortable. safe. you both let yourselves sink into it, letting the sun warm your skin, letting the moment stretch.
for once, he wasnât glancing over his shoulder, waiting for his fatherâs shadow to catch up. and you werenât carrying the weight of everything waiting for you at home.
here, in this sliver of time, you both just were.
robert reynolds, age 14
"i'm your friend; you know you can tell me anything, right, robbie?" you said softly, your young voice laced with that familiar, almost painfully sweet warmth. the kind heâd unknowingly anchored himself to â something steady in a world that never was.
he sniffled, dragging the too-long sleeve of his hoodie across his nose with a rough wipe.
"yeah... yeah, i know."
he was trying to find the words to tell you that you wouldnât be seeing him at school anymore. even though heâd barely managed a consistent schedule since freshman year began, he still showed up at least once a week. for you.
"i... i'm dropping out," he whispered, finally meeting your eyes. they were sunken, tired in a way no teenager's eyes should be â what little youthful hope he had dimmed at the edges.
"i know how much you believe in school, in... in having a future, and iâmâ" he faltered, voice catching, "iâm sorry. i just... i canât. not anymore."
he stumbled through the words, not because he didnât mean them, but because he did. because he didnât want to disappoint you. in a world he saw as cracked and cruel, you were the one thing that still felt whole. the one flower sprouting in a lifeless meadow.
"oh, robbie..." you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you placed your hands gently over his. your thumb traced slow, soothing circles along the back of his hand, offering comfort without demanding anything in return.
you were young, but not naive. life had forced you to grow up fast. so this moment, this confession, didnât shock you.
you already knew.
heâd never said it out loud, but you saw it in the shadows under his eyes, the sudden drop in his weight, and the sharp edge to his temper when things got too loud, too bright, or too much. the way his hands sometimes shook when he thought no one was looking.
you werenât dumb. and you didnât need him to say it to understand what he was going through.
"youâll still be my best friend though, right?" you asked, your voice small but steady, eyes wide with hope â clinging to something you werenât ready to lose.
he looked at you, tried to mirror that hope, but it cracked somewhere on the way to his expression.
"iâll never stop being your best friend," he whispered, the words trembling, fragile â like he knew they werenât a promise he could keep.
robert reynolds, age 17
he didnât mean to call you. not again. not like this.
but his fingers moved before his brain could catch up, trembling as they hovered over your name. it was always you, buried under his contacts but right at the surface of his desperation. the phone rang. once. twice. three times. and then you answered.
your voice came through soft and sleepy, frayed at the edges but still gentle, like it might break if he pressed too hard. âwhatâs wrong, rob?â
he swallowed hard. his mouth was dry, his head was spinning, and he couldnât feel his feet. everything was wrong. the words came out in a broken rush:
"i⊠i need you to come get me," he said, barely holding himself together. "please."
there was a pause. then, quieter â childlike.
"donât k-know where i am. mâscared."
he said your name. whimpered it, really. as though you were a lifeline.
he could hear the shift in your breathing, the way you pushed the blankets off, and the tired shuffle of movement on your end of the line.
âm'kay... do you think you can send me your location?â
you were trying to keep him focused, grounded, anchored. your voice had that same steadiness it always did when he unravelled. it cut through the static in his head just enough for him to find the right buttons. to fumble open the map. to press send.
he could hear you moving â quiet steps, the rustle of fabric, the creak of an old hallway floor. he knew you shouldnât be doing this. knew youâd been doing it too long. that his wreckage was bleeding into your life, that your care came at a cost.
but he let you come anyway. and even through the fog of his high, that guilt still pierced through. a raw, familiar ache that settled in his gut.
âhow much did you take?â you asked, gently but pointedly.
a sudden rush of anger burnt through him at the question. god, he hated that. he didnât even know why it got under his skin so badly. maybe because it made him feel fragile, like he was some cracked thing you had to handle gently. like he wasnât strong enough to carry his own mess the way everyone else seemed to. or maybe it was worse than that. maybe it was because, deep down, he thought that question was the moment you saw it â really saw it. how far heâd fallen. like if he admitted just how much heâd used, youâd finally do what everyone else had. youâd see him for what he was and walk away.
to be honest, he wouldnât blame you. but the thought of it still terrified him.
âthat's none of your fuckin' business,â he grumbled, tapping the side of his phone in that rhythmic way he did when panic clawed at his chest.
still, you came.
you made him stay on the line even after the conversation ended, and he was grateful. phone pressed to his ear like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he could hear the hum of the city around him â the distant screech of tires, the low, vibrating thud of music from somewhere down the block, and a dog barking behind a chain-link fence.
his legs felt like water. the sidewalk under him was cracked, cold, wet with something he didnât want to think about. he didnât even remember how he got here. his memory splintered somewhere between the second hit and the fifth. everything after that came in flashes: neon lights, a strangerâs laughter, the metal tang of blood in his mouth, maybe his own.
he slumped against the wall of a liquor store that had been closed for hours, knees pulled to his chest. the brick behind him scraped his back through the thin fabric of his hoodie, but he didnât care. at least it hurt. at least it told him he was still in his body, still alive.
his fingers twitched in his lap, sticky with sweat and something darker. he tried to count his breaths. one in, one out. again and again. but the guilt didnât leave. not even when he tried to bury it beneath that numb, floaty nothingness the high gave him.
you were coming. again, in the middle of the night. and he hated himself for that. he hated that this had become a ritual. that you always picked up. that part of him still needed you to. but more than anything, he hated how much he wanted to see you. how just the sound of your voice had cracked open something heâd boarded up years ago.
he curled tighter into himself, head knocking gently against the wall behind him.
minutes passed in a blur â maybe five, maybe twenty. he didnât know. his sense of time had dissolved somewhere in the haze. but then, like an echo out of memory, he saw headlights sweep across the street, slow, and pause.
his breath hitched.
he knew it was you before the car even fully stopped. he could tell by the shape of it, the familiarity of your presence behind the wheel. he hung up the call as the door creaked open, and you stepped out. your hoodie was zipped halfway, your hair was tied back, and your expression was caught somewhere between exhaustion and heartbreak.
you didnât speak right away, just looked at him. and for a moment, neither of you moved. the air between you stretched, thick with silence and the weight of all the things you werenât saying.
then he whispered, â'm sorry.â his voice cracked on it, barely audible. but it was real. it was raw.
it was all he had.
you didnât say anything at first. just sat beside him â close, but not too close â and gently slipped your fingers into his. his hand was cold and trembling, but he didnât pull away. if anything, he leaned into the contact like someone starving, like your touch was the only thing tethering him to something real.
he didnât look at you, but you felt the weight of his need in the way he gripped back, tentative, unsure, but there. a long silence stretched between you. not awkward, but heavy. dense with everything unsaid.
then, quietly, like the words had been waiting at the edge of your throat all night, you spoke.
âi⊠i miss you.â your cadence was soft, always soft, even when the words were sharp.
you swallowed, and he listened as your breath caught somewhere in your chest before you let the rest fall out.
âbut i am so mad at you,â you said, voice shaking with the weight of it. âiâm fucking furious with you. and i need you to understand that you're not the only one being affected by your actions.â
your hand trembled as you pointed between you and him, the space that felt heavier than it should. âthis â us â itâs killing me. just, y'know, slowly chipping away at my sanity. so much so that i should probably stop and take a step back. but i can't."
you let out a brittle, empty chuckle. it broke apart in the air like glass.
âbecause i care about you, robbie. probably too much.â
he turned to look at you, eyes wide somewhere between surprise and shame. there was a guilt in them that ran deep, like he couldnât quite meet your gaze without feeling the weight of everything heâd done. he hated who heâd become. hated that he kept choosing this path, even when it was eating him alive. but the truth was, he couldnât stop.
he was an addict, for god's sake. and no matter how much he wanted it to be different, it wasnât as simple as waking up one day and never touching drugs again. he had tried â god, had he tried. there were nights he showed up at your door trembling with resolve, promising this time was different. that this time it was it. the last time.
you watched him hand over his stash with shaking fingers and watched him stand by as you locked it in a safe he didnât know the combination to. youâd seen him cry and swear and beg for a version of himself that didnât hurt the person he loved.
and still, here you were. still watching him fall.
he was quiet â too quiet â for just a moment too long, searching for something, anything, to say. and when the silence started to suffocate, he grabbed onto the nearest lifeline: empty words dressed up to sound like hope.
"i promise you⊠t-this is the last time. please help me," he said, voice cracking under the weight of his own lie.
maybe on the thinnest surface of his statement, he believed it. clung to the illusion that saying it out loud could make it true. but just beneath that fragile layer lived the truth: unless something in him truly changed, unless he chose it every hour of every day, it wouldnât be the last time. not even close.
you looked at him and shook your head gently, your voice barely above a breath.
âdonât lie to yourself, robbie.â
tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, soft and shimmering. and when he reached for you with that same desperation he always did, you turned away â not out of anger, but to protect something inside yourself.
he watched you fold inward, shielding the most vulnerable parts of you from him.
âplease donât cry,â he whispered, frowning, his voice barely holding together. oh, how he hated seeing you like this. hated even more that it was always himâhis choices, his chaos â that pulled the tears from your eyes.
the two of you sat in heavy silence, the kind that pressed in around the edges and made everything feel suspended. time moved strangely. slowly. his hand hovered for a moment, hesitating before resting lightly on your shoulder tentatively. a small, trembling gesture from someone who never quite knew how to comfort without breaking something else.
your tears fell quietly, steady as rain, and every few seconds youâd lift your sleeve to swipe them away. you didnât sob. you didnât speak. but your silence said everything.
this was it.
youâd made your choice somewhere between the ache in your chest and the exhaustion in your bones. youâd still come when he called. youâd still pick him up from the wreckage. because leaving him behind entirely felt impossible. but you were done trying to save him. done trying to drag your robbie back from wherever heâd gone.
you couldnât keep breaking yourself open hoping it would bring him home.
robert reynolds, age 20
you were climbing the stairs to your apartment, bones aching from a double shift, keys already in hand, when you saw him.
he was slumped against your door. head bowed, chin touching his chest. his shirt was damp, stained with something you didnât want to identify â though part of you already knew.
your breath caught. you didnât stop to think. didnât let yourself. your footsteps quickened as you rushed to him, crouching down and pressing a hand to his shoulder. his skin was clammy, and his body was alarmingly light when you shifted to unlock the door.
you then dragged his limp frame inside, barely getting the door closed behind you before you lowered yourself to the floor, kneeling opposite him.
ârobbie?â
your voice was soft â tentative â but clear enough to reach him if he was anywhere close to conscious. you shifted closer to him, heart in your throat, and gently brushed the sweat-drenched hair from his forehead. it clung to his skin like something trying to hold on, just like you were.
ârobbie, can you hear me?â
there was a tremble in your tone now, masked by steadiness; you were barely holding together. your hand moved lower, cupping the side of his face. his skin was damp and far too cold. your thumb began to trace slow, soothing lines along his cheek, as if your touch could call him back to you â back to himself.
âohâŠâ the sound barely left your mouth, more breath than voice, as your throat tightened, sealing off anything stronger.
a quiet, broken sob slipped out, shaking your chest with the kind of grief that never announces itself but swells all at once. you folded in slightly, arms wrapping around your middle like you were trying to hold yourself together, like you could keep from falling apart if you just pressed hard enough.
your eyes stayed on him. you didnât want them to, but you couldnât look away. he looked so small â his frame thinner than you remembered, shoulders hunched like the weight of his choices was physically dragging him downward.
you shifted, settling between his legs, your temple pressing against the slope of his slumped shoulder. and you let yourself break. you cried for yourself â for the years youâd given to trying to save him, for the money spent bailing him out of cells and signing him into rehabs that never stuck. you cried for the sleepless nights, for all the unanswered calls and texts, and for every time your heart sank when days passed without a word. you cried because you didnât know how to stop caring, even when it kept costing you pieces of yourself.
but you cried for him, too. for the boy who never stood a chance, who was broken down before he even knew how to fight back. for the way the world had failed him, and for the path that led him here. you cried for the guilt you hoped he felt during those desperate, tear-filled calls when he begged you for money, voice shaking as he swore it was the last time, just enough to clear what he owed the dealer. and you cried because no matter how many times he tried, he couldnât outrun it.
you cried for all the nights you held him like this, his body trembling in your arms, his face buried in the curve of your neck as he sobbed, broken and pleading for it to end. begging for the strength to outrun the addiction that clung to him like chains. you cried for the way heâd twitch against you, violent, involuntary, as if even his body was at war with itself. and maybe, in a way, it was.
bob had tried to get clean more times than he could count â and every time, it was because of you. although it was small, down to one person, he had somewhat of a support system. somebody who would be there every time he would utter the words "don't wanna do this no more."
but no matter how close he got, no matter how hard he fought, it always dragged him back under. like it owned him. like it had been waiting for him to stumble.
so this is where he ended up â slumped against your wall, unconscious, his arms dead at his sides.
there was a time when he had a key to your apartment. back when youâd finally scraped together enough to move out of your momâs place into this shitty, falling-apart unit that you tried to convince yourself was home. and it had been for a while. the second youâd moved in, youâd handed him that spare key and told him he could come by whenever, even if you werenât there.
you thought it would give him some kind of safety net.
and it had until the night you came home to find every single mirror in your apartment shattered, shards glittering across the floor like broken promises. bob had been pacing the kitchen, fists bloodied, eyes wild.
âtheyâre watchinâ me! the cops, the psychiatrist â theyâre behind those mirrors. theyâre just waitinâ for me to fuck up so they can haul me in!â
his fingers had latched onto your shoulders, shaking you as if that would make you see it too.
youâd spent more than you could afford replacing those mirrors â because your landlord wouldâve ripped you a new one if you didnâtâ and after that, youâd taken the key back.
and now, looking at him, slumped outside your door â how long had he been out here? how long had he been waiting for you, alone in his wreckage? your sobs had quieted, worn thin, falling into exhausted little whimpers. maybe youâd cried yourself dry over him. maybe there was nothing left to give. but god, you still felt that ache, deep and hollow.
that night, he didnât wake, not once. not until the middle of the next day, when the sun was already high and unforgiving. and even then, he didnât say a word. he just sat there on your couch, hollow-eyed, staring at nothing, like the world outside your walls didnât exist. like you didnât exist.
when he finally stood to leave, his voice barely broke the silence.
âyou canât fix me,â he muttered, and then he was gone.
robert reynolds, before malaysia
âwhat the fuck?â you blurted it out, cutting him off before he could say anything else.
bob sat there in your living room, looking out of place, like he didnât belong in the life youâd been trying to build. heâd waited for you to come home just to tell you this.
he was leaving. southeast asia.
it wasnât something heâd planned, not really. the idea had barely formed in his mind before it felt right. maybe it was the high still fogging his thoughts, or maybe it was the way that part of the world seemed to whisper to him â like maybe, if he went far enough, he could outrun himself.
he told himself that if he left, your life would get better. had to get better. he wasnât blind; he could see the damage he was doing, the way he was wearing you down, piece by piece. chipping away at your body, your spirit, like rot spreading through something that used to be whole.
but as much as he wanted to believe this was for you, deep down he knew it wasnât that selfless. the truth was uglier. he was running. not to save you, but to save himself. because out there, maybe the cops would stop breathing down his neck. maybe he could lose the shrinks who kept labelling him, diagnosing him, shoving advice and coping mechanisms down his throat until he wanted to choke.
out there, maybe he could disappear.
âlistenââ he started, but you cut him off again.
âno. just shut up,â you said, your laugh bitter, hollow.
âhonestly? iâm shocked you even came here to say it to my face. apparently someone's put on their fuckin' big boy pants.â
you were fucking livid.
years. years of being the only one who truly gave a fuck. years of holding him up when he couldnât stand on his own. years of watching him fall apart, again and again, while you let him drain you dry â feeding on your hope like it might save him, only for him to still be starved of it every time. and now, after everything, he was ready to toss it all away for what? some half-assed excuse for a âspiritual retreatâ?
but as furious as you were, you couldnât claim you were surprised. because if there was one brutal thing youâd learnt about bob reynoldsâthe addict bob reynoldsâit was that he was fucking selfish. heâd burn the whole world down if it meant saving himself. heâd leave you in the ashes, no second thought. if southeast asia was where his next fix or fantasy of freedom waited, heâd run, no matter who he had to abandon. even you, the one person who had stayed.
you were furious with yourself in that moment too. furious for all the years youâd given him, years you could never get back. you couldnât have left him â not then, not with the way he clung to you like a drowning man â but you hated that youâd let your world shrink to revolve around him. you had dreams once, to leave florida, to make something of yourself. but here you were: still in florida, stuck in a dead-end 9 to 5, living in an apartment that felt like it could collapse around you at any second, and bob.
âplease, just listen to me!â his voice cracked, louder than it shouldâve been, too desperate.
âi found a retreat there. a place i can actually get better.â the lie tasted bitter the moment it left his mouth, but he let it spill anyway.
he didn't even know why he was lying to you like this; he knew you weren't believing him. to an extent, telling himself that you believed his words was making him feel better. he could feel better about leaving you if you believed he was going to come home better. the same better he knew you'd been searching for in him for years.
but you knew the truth. he wasnât going to come back to you better. hell, deep down, you knew he wasnât going to come back to you at all. and that made it all so much worse. he was going to kill himself over there, whether by choice or by some slow, reckless spiral he couldnât stop.
you told yourself youâd be fine if it came to that. that youâd already done your grieving â grieved the man you used to know, the man you tried so hard to save. but you hadnât mourned this version of him. not yet. not the bob who stood before you now, hollowed out by the weight of his own destruction. even after all the near-deaths, the nights you lay awake, heart pounding as you wondered if heâd make it to morning. you hadnât let yourself mourn him. not this bob.
"okay, fine. go." the words that left your mouth were definitely not the ones he was expecting.
he expected you to at least change his mind. not sit there and beg him, looking up at him through sobs, and beg him never to leave you like this. but definitely not let him go through with this. he was all of a sudden conflicted. now that you had sat there and, without so much as a crack in your voice, let him leave, it stirred an unknown feeling inside of him.
he didnât know what to make of you in that moment. had you stopped caring? had you finally â mercifully â given up on him? that last one, he was almost certain of. and though heâd told you time and time again that there was no fixing him and begged you to stop trying, the thought of you truly letting go hollowed something inside him.
he knew it wasnât fair to wish for your care after pushing it away for so long. but his mind didnât deal in fairness. it twisted love into punishment and turned guilt into longing. that was just how it worked. broken logic in a broken man.
you watched him cross the room, his steps uneven, one hand raking through the tangled mess of his hair, the other twitching at his side. you stayed silent, frozen, as he reached the door. for a moment, he hesitated and turned back to you, eyes dark and tired. and then he muttered the worst thing he couldâve said in that momentâwords that would echo in your head long after he was gone.
"i love you." were his last words as he left your apartment.
robert reynolds, present day
bob barely registered the shoulder that bumped him, snapping him out of the spiral he hadnât realised heâd fallen into. the contact jolted him back to the present: the city noise outside of the ceiling-to-floor windows, the weight of the suit on his back, and the air thick with the stench of the super-rich.
ever since he woke in that vault, dazed and broken, his mind kept circling back to you. to where you might be now. how you were living. he hadnât pictured you here, of all places. not new york, not surrounded by the kind of people who filled the watchtower: self-obsessed giants with more money and power than bob had ever touched. but those thoughts he usually buried. pushed them down so deep they couldnât surface.
only now, that was getting harder. ever since heâd seen you in the void.
one of the shame rooms had conjured a version of the both of you he couldnât forget. the younger him, wild-eyed and furious, screaming at you across some faded living room, convinced you werenât real. convinced youâd been replaced, that your calm was some mask for whatever imposter sat in your skin.
he understood it now. that wasnât calm. that was you, crumbling quietly. suffering at the hands of him, in a way he was too far gone to see.
he wanted to go to you. to pull you aside, to spill out all the apologies heâd rehearsed in his head a thousand times. to tell you he was better now â different, ready â and that maybe, just maybe, you could start again. build something new from the wreckage heâd left behind.
but one question kept him frozen in place, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts: would you even want him back?
he didnât expect you to. not after everything âthe years of damage, the ways heâd let you down, broken you down. and yet, standing there across the room, watching you from a distance, he realised just how deeply he ached for you to find your way into his life again. so he stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on you â hoping, foolishly, that you might turn and meet his gaze. so that you might see him. the robbie that you begged to see for years.
oh.
his heart sank, heavy and hollow, when she turned, and it wasnât you.
heâd been so sure. heâd clung to the shape of her, the familiar curve of a shoulder, and the tilt of a head heâd thought heâd memorised in better days. for one foolish, fleeting moment, heâd let himself believe. but now, all that hope, all that desperate yearning, bled out of him at once, leaving him empty.
and as the woman disappeared into the crowd, as the room all of a sudden felt very claustrophobic, he let his eyes fall to the marbleised floor. because what else could he do? the rest of the night had already played out in his head. heâd stand there, watching you, waiting for your gaze to meet his. when it finally did, heâd probably fall to pieces and beg you to let him back in. and somehow, in the fragile dream he clung to, youâd pick up where you left off. as if no time had passed. as if nothing had shattered between you.
you and bob never really spoke about what simmered beneath the surface, the feelings neither of you dared name. except for his parting words, the ones he threw out like a last-ditch prayer. he didnât even know if youâd ever felt the same. he liked to believe you had. after all, you never left him â not even when heâd begged you to. but then again, bobâs understanding of love was a warped, fragile thing, shaped by parents who broke him down and a string of hollow hookups that traded touches for a fix. he wasnât sure anymore what real love was supposed to look like.
since finding a makeshift family among new yorkâs newest heroes, bob had tried to quiet that gnawing ache of loneliness. how could he feel alone, really? these people had seen him at his lowest, at his most broken, and still they chose to stand by him, to call him one of their own. for that, he was endlessly grateful.
and yet, in that moment, robert reynolds had never felt more alone.
Pairing II â Ex-BSF!Kook!JJ x Kook!Female Reader
Summary â You, JJ, and Rafe have been best friends since birth. But after an unexpected fallout, you all went your separate waysâwith you deciding to leave the island altogether. Now, back for the summer alone, you decide to return to Kildare Watch, the exclusive social hub, and chat anonymously with strangers. However, you discover you're talking to one of your ex-best friends. The problem? You don't know which one.
Content â kook!jj au, sarah and rafe are twins!au, pogues and kooks are the same age!au, childhood friends to strangers/enemies to lovers, love triangle, anonymous chatroom!au
Dedication â @clairesblouse for her wonderful graphics. She has an incredible smau herself, and her graphics are the most awe-striking visuals youâve ever seen. I was definitely inspired by her <3
Navigation â Part 01 | Part 02
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RAFE: you're just going to screw me like everyone else in my life. i know you will. i know you. SARAH: no, because iâm all youâve got. youâre the only family i have left.
you have acceptable anger father issues, i have anger mother issues that people tell me i should give her grace about because she's also a victim of the patriarchy while she upholds patriarchal beliefs and blames women for their assaults and fat shames while being overweight herself, we're not the same