issa ☆

Which is unfortunately a rare occurrence. You’re busy with your work, firefighters don’t usually go to the ER anyway, he knows that—hell, you guys weren’t even that close. Even when he wants to spend time with you, he doesn’t think that he could just stroll into the emergency room one day and ask you out. Well, maybe he can, but he’s just a bit of a coward at that part. 

You both met a little under a year ago. 

The call itself wasn’t anything special. Small building fire, one victim suffering from smoke inhalation, stable vitals, conscious and talking.

Johnny had carried the woman down three flights of stairs and stayed with her all the way to the hospital, mostly because she refused to let go of his hand. "You're a nice young man," she'd wheezed through the oxygen mask.

"Why thank you, ma’am. Tell everyone for me, please." He gives her his signature grin. 

The ambulance rolled into the emergency department's ambulance bay twenty minutes later.

The doors burst open, and there you were.

"Female, seventy-two," the paramedic began as the stretcher was unloaded. "Smoke inhalation. Alert and oriented. Initial oxygen levels were eighty-nine percent on the scene, now sitting at ninety-six on fifteen liters of non-rebreather."

Johnny barely listened. Because you were moving around the stretcher with the kind of confidence that made the chaos look choreographed.

"Any loss of consciousness?" you asked.

"Negative."

"Cardiac history?"

"Hypertension."

"Allergies?"

The questions came rapid-fire. You were efficient, focused, and…

Pretty.

Wait. Pretty?

Johnny blinked, but the older woman noticed immediately. Maybe she has a knack for these things. "Oh," she said, sounding delighted. "He's staring at the nurse."

“Ma'am," he said.

Your head snapped up. Okay, that’s a handsome man—no, you have a job to do.

"He's been carrying me around all afternoon," she informed you.

"Ma'am."

To his horror, you smiled. "Thank you for bringing her in," you said.

He gives you a crooked smile. “Yeah, yeah… you’re welcome. I mean, it’s my job… yeah.” He nods, like that makes his stumbling any better.

After that interaction, he’d be the first person to volunteer every time one of the firefighters had to go to the emergency room. Not that they go there a lot anyway, but hey, he’d take any chance to get a glimpse of you. 

The first few times, he was convinced you wouldn't even remember him. You worked in an emergency department. Hundreds of patients passed through those doors every week, accompanied by paramedics, police officers, firefighters, and worried family members. There was no reason a nurse would remember one firefighter she'd met on a random Tuesday.

Then, the next time he walked a patient through the ambulance bay, you looked up from your charting and greeted him by name.

Just like that.

The conversation had lasted less than a minute.

A quick hello.

A question about the patient.

A joke about the soot smeared across his jaw.

But Johnny found himself thinking about it for the rest of his shift. After that, seeing you became something he quietly looked forward to.

Sometimes he would catch you during a particularly brutal shift, your hair hastily tied back and exhaustion written plainly across your face. Other times he'd arrive to find you laughing with one of your coworkers, the sound carrying across the department before you noticed him standing there.

You always seemed happy to see him, and over time, the conversations grew longer.

A minute became five.

Five became ten whenever neither of you was being pulled in opposite directions.

He learned that you survived almost entirely on caffeine during night shifts (much to your dismay). You learned that he couldn't cook anything more complicated than pasta without consulting the internet. He learned which vending machine snacks you always bought when you forgot your lunch. You learned that he hated paperwork more than actual fires.

None of it was important information, at least not on paper.

But somehow, every small detail felt significant when it came from you. The problem was that your relationship never seemed to move beyond the walls of the hospital.

You weren't strangers, yet you weren't friends, either.

Not really.

You and Johnny saw each other because your jobs happened to collide every now and then. And yet, every time he left the emergency department, he found himself wondering when he'd see you again.

The answer was always eventually.

A week, maybe two, or even a month. But sooner or later another call would end at the hospital, and he'd find you somewhere beyond those sliding doors.

That certainty made it easy to do nothing.

Today, Johnny strolled into the fire department in the morning and went straight to the kitchen, as usual. When he has to arrive at the station as early as eight, he doesn’t really have the luxury of a dedicated breakfast time in the mornings.

He grabbed some bread and ingredients from the pantry and made a simple sandwich. This one looks particularly good, he thinks. But before he could get a bite to his sandwich, the station tones screamed through the building.

Johnny closed his eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."

Around him, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone immediately sprang into motion.

So much for breakfast.

He wrapped the sandwich in a napkin, shoved it onto the counter, and followed the rest of the crew toward the apparatus bay while dispatch rattled off the address overhead.

To you, twelve hours in the emergency department rarely stayed twelve hours. Someone always needed help, always arrived five minutes before your shift ended, and always crashed at the worst possible moment.

You'd stopped fighting it months ago.

At least today was your day off.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains and painted soft streaks of gold across your bedroom walls, and for a few moments you simply lay there, enjoying the unfamiliar luxury of not having anywhere to be. 

After waking up in the morning, you spent a few blissful minutes doing absolutely nothing. No monitors beeping, no doctors calling your name, just silence. Glorious silence. But eventually, you did have to drag yourself out of bed.

You wandered into the kitchen and started putting together breakfast. Nothing fancy, just enough food to keep you occupied while you figured out how you wanted to spend the rest of your day.

Laundry was probably necessary.

Grocery shopping too.

Also, there was a growing pile of unopened mail sitting on the counter that deserved your attention.

Realistically, you would accomplish none of those things.

Outside, the city was already awake. Cars moved steadily through the streets below, people hurried along the sidewalks, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading away. Exactly the kind of morning you had been looking forward to.

You had just taken another sip of coffee when a loud, piercing alarm cut through the apartment.

Your head snapped up immediately.

For a second, you stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sound to stop.

But of course, it didn't.

The alarm continued to blare through the building in steady intervals, loud enough that you could feel the vibration through the walls.

By the time the second alarm sounded, you were already on your feet.

The apartment door across the hall opened with a loud bang. A moment later, voices drifted in from the corridor. Someone asked if this was another maintenance test. Someone else sounded annoyed enough to ignore it entirely.

You set your coffee down and crossed the apartment toward the front door. The moment you opened it, the faint smell of smoke hit you.

Not strong, not overwhelming.

But unmistakable.

Your stomach tightened. Ah shit, it’s serious.

That was enough to make the decision for you.

You stepped back inside, immediately reaching for your phone, wallet, keys, and the backpack hanging near the entrance. The movements felt automatic, driven by the same instincts that had carried you through countless emergencies at work.

Within two minutes, you were locking your apartment door behind you and making your way toward the stairwell with dozens of other residents.

The atmosphere remained surprisingly calm, and most people looked irritated more than concerned. And yet, the smell of smoke grew stronger with each floor you descended. 

By the time you reached the ground floor and stepped outside, several residents had already gathered in the parking lot.

You turned back toward the building, and only then did you notice the thin stream of dark smoke escaping from one of the upper-floor windows.

“Oh dear, that looks bad.” Your neighbour, Martha, says. She had managed to find you in the sea of people.

You look to your side, to her. “Yeah. I’m hoping everyone’s alright.” You respond.

By the time the fire department arrived on scene, a crowd had already formed outside the apartment complex.

Johnny barely spared them a glance as the truck rolled to a stop, though. His attention was fixed on the building. From a distance, the smoke had looked relatively contained. Up close, it was a different story.

Dark smoke pushed from multiple windows near the center of the structure, thick enough to obscure portions of the upper floors. Every few seconds, fresh plumes poured from the building as if something inside was feeding the fire faster than it could burn through.

"Shit," someone muttered beside him.

Johnny silently agreed.

The moment the emergency vehicle stopped moving, the crew sprang into action. Orders were exchanged, equipment was unloaded, and hose lines were stretched across the pavement. Within moments, the organized chaos that accompanied every structure fire had settled over the scene.

A battalion chief was already speaking with building management.

Police officers worked to keep residents away from the entrance.

Paramedics established a treatment area for anyone suffering from smoke exposure.

Okay, here we go, he thinks. Johnny grabbed his gear and headed toward the command post to receive his assignment.

As he approached, fragments of conversation reached him. Apparently, the fire had originated in one of the lower-floor units, but it had spread beyond the apartment itself. There was concern that flames had extended into wall voids and utility spaces, and that immediately complicated everything.

Apartment fires were difficult enough when the fire remained confined to a single unit. Once flames found their way into the spaces between walls, they could travel through a building without anyone realizing how far they'd gone.

Which meant what looked manageable from the outside often wasn't.

The next hour passed in a blur of heat, smoke, and shouted communication.

Johnny's crew was assigned to assist with interior operations. The work was exhausting even by firefighter standards. Every movement felt heavier beneath layers of protective gear, and the air inside the building remained thick despite the ventilation efforts underway.

At one point, they helped escort an elderly resident down several flights of stairs after she refused to leave without her cat. Later, they were redirected to assist another crew investigating smoke that had begun seeping into apartments far from the original unit.

None of it was unusual. 

By the time Johnny emerged from the building again, sweat clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck and his shoulders ached from carrying equipment up and down stairwells.

He pulled off one glove and accepted a bottle of water from another firefighter before making his way toward the command area for an update.

That was when his attention drifted toward the evacuation zone.

At first, he didn't think anything of it, just another resident standing among the crowd. Then the woman turned slightly, and his brain took a second to catch up.

A second after that, his stomach nearly dropped into his boots.

There was absolutely no way.

For a moment, he simply stared. Out of all the apartment buildings in the city, all the fires he could have responded to. The sight of you sent a jolt of alarm through him before he could think twice about it.

Were you hurt?

Had you been inside when the fire started?

Had you inhaled smoke?

You looked upright, alert, and uninjured, at least from where he was standing. But that did little to settle the sudden knot of concern tightening in his chest.

Your attention remained fixed on the building, completely unaware that he had spotted you.

Before he could stop himself, his feet were already moving.

He wove through the crowd gathered near the edge of the parking lot, barely registering the conversations around him. Your expression was focused in the way he had seen dozens of times inside the emergency department, as if you were mentally assessing the situation rather than simply witnessing it. 

Then you turned your head. The second your eyes landed on him, surprise flickered across your face.

"Johnny?"

He called out your name and stopped in front of you, gaze moving quickly over your face and shoulders as though searching for injuries. "Are you alright?"

You blinked. The question came so quickly that it seemed to catch you off guard. "Yeah," you said. "I'm fine."

Johnny frowned. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Only then did he seem to realize he was still staring. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and took a small step back, trying to recover whatever professionalism he'd abandoned during his walk across the parking lot.

"I just..." He glanced toward the building. "I saw you standing out here and figured you lived in one of the units."

"I do."

The answer was simple enough, but something about hearing it made his stomach sink.

"You got out okay?"

You nodded.

"Good." The response came immediately.

Too immediately, as though he'd been holding his breath waiting to hear it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the scene filled the silence instead. The hiss of water lines being charged, shouted instructions from firefighters, the distant wail of another arriving vehicle. Johnny looked over his shoulder toward the building.

His expression changed slightly, and you noticed it right away. "How bad is it?"

His gaze returned to yours. For a second, he seemed to debate whether he should answer honestly.

That was an answer enough.

Your stomach tightened, and he exhaled slowly.

"It's not great."

You followed his line of sight toward the smoke pouring from the upper floors. The longer the operation continued, the more chaotic the evacuation area became. Suddenly, raised voices cut through the crowd, and several people turned at once.

Near the curb, a man in his sixties slumped heavily against a parked vehicle. At first, it looked as though he had simply sat down.

Then his knees buckled.

Your body reacted before your brain did, and you were already moving by the time someone shouted for a medic. Before you could reach him, the man hit the pavement hard. A small crowd immediately began forming around him.

"Give him space," you called as you pushed forward.

The smell of smoke still clung to his clothing, and his breathing… it sounded wrong. Shallow.

A firefighter dropped to one knee beside him. Johnny.

His eyes widened briefly when he recognized you, but you barely noticed, your attention remained fixed on the patient.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

The man's eyelids fluttered. Okay, so not fully unconscious. Good.

A paramedic arrived moments later, carrying equipment. "We've got two ambulances already transporting," she said quickly as she knelt beside you. "Can you help me out?"

You nodded immediately, and the paramedic began attaching monitoring equipment while you performed a rapid assessment. The patient's skin looked pale beneath the soot staining his face. His pulse was fast, and his breathing remained concerning.

"Smoke inhalation?" you asked.

"Most likely."

The man suddenly started coughing. A harsh, painful sound.

Johnny shifted closer, looking between the both of you. "What do you need?"

"High-flow oxygen." You both answered. Without hesitation, Johnny reached for the equipment beside him.

Within minutes, the patient was receiving oxygen, but his condition still wasn't improving as quickly as you would've liked. The paramedic looked toward the ambulance staging area and swore quietly. Every available transport unit was occupied, and one of the ambulances hadn't even returned from its previous trip yet.

"We need him evaluated at the hospital."

"He needs a blood gas and respiratory assessment," you agreed.

The paramedic looked between you and Johnny, then an idea seemed to occur to her. "You work at Manhattan General, right?"

You nodded.

She turned to Johnny. "Can you drive?"

Johnny stared at her. "That's your question?"

"Can you drive without hitting anybody?"

"Much better."

The paramedic pointed toward the patient. "Good. Because I need this man in an emergency department now, and you're currently the fastest option I've got."

Johnny looked at you, and you looked back at him. For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he shrugged. “Well. This is certainly a first."

The drive to Manhattan General Hospital was surprisingly uneventful. Fortunately, the patient remained conscious for most of the trip. You stayed beside him in the back seat, monitoring his breathing and doing your best to keep him talking while Johnny navigated traffic.

The arrangement felt absurd. A firefighter driving, an emergency room nurse riding in the back, and a smoke inhalation patient occupying the rear seat of what was very obviously not an ambulance.

If anyone asked, you were never admitting this had happened.

By the time the hospital came into view, you were already mentally preparing the report you would give upon arrival. The familiar sight of the emergency department entrance stirred something automatic in your brain.

Johnny pulled to a stop near the ambulance entrance. Before the vehicle had fully settled, you were reaching for the door handle.

"Easy there," Johnny said.

You shot him a look. "Unlike you, some of us spend enough time here to navigate it with our eyes closed."

Johnny scoffed. "I've been here hundreds of times."

"Yeah, but you still have to ask for directions every now and then."

"Only occasionally."

"Sure."

He shook his head. "Alright, that's fair."

The two of you helped the patient inside, and the moment the automatic doors slid open, the controlled chaos of the emergency department washed over you. A nurse glanced up from the triage desk.

Then did a double take. "...Why are you here?"

You didn't slow down. “Long story."

"You're not scheduled."

"Still a long story."

A few heads turned as you passed. Apparently showing up unexpectedly with soot on your clothes was enough to attract attention.

The patient was quickly transferred onto a hospital stretcher, and you immediately slipped back into work mode.

"Male, I would say in his sixties? Smoke exposure from a residential structure fire. Progressive respiratory distress on scene, and oxygen administered prior to transport, but his condition deteriorated during observation."

The receiving physician nodded.

Questions followed, but as always, you answered them automatically.

By the time the report was finished, several members of the emergency department were staring at you with varying levels of concern.

One of your coworkers finally crossed her arms.

"Why are you covered in ash?"

You blinked. Right, the fire. "Apartment building fire," you admitted.

The room fell silent. "Excuse me?" someone asked. "You live there?" another asked.

"Unfortunately."

Several people immediately started talking at once.

Were you okay?

Did you get hurt?

Had you lost anything?

You suddenly regretted saying anything.

One of the nurses pointed toward a chair. "Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Sit."

"I'm literally helping."

"You are literally homeless."

Johnny snorts at that, and you give him a glare. He looks away right after, lips still quirking up.

Eventually, the nurses on the clock dispersed, having to do their jobs anyway. You look up at Johnny. “Hey, you.”

He smiled. “Hello to you too.”

“Thanks for driving us here. You should probably go back now, they need you.” You stand up, crossing your arms.

He hums. “Yeah. Good work with the patient. That was some quick action.” He says, his voice soft. “Does he need anything else?”

You shake your head. “Nope, he’s in good hands. I’ll probably stay here, watch over him for a bit. Nothing much I can do anyway.”

Johnny nods. Then, “Do you need anything?”

“Nah, not for now, no. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll see you around then?” You ask, hopeful.

“Of course.” He nods, and starts to leave. He gives you a tiny wave, and you give him one back. You watch as he drives off, and you let out a deep sigh.

“Who was that?” Someone suddenly says beside you—Kathy, another doctor who you were particularly close to.

You startle at the sudden voice. “Christ, Kathy! Stop doing that. He’s no one.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, this no one is particularly handsome.” 

She waits for your reaction. Then, not being able to hold it, your lips quirk up.

“Ha! I knew it! What’s his name?” She holds you by your shoulders.

“Don’t you have work to do?” You scold, but still smiling.

“Ugh! You’re no fun!”

It wasn’t until nearly two hours into the operation that things began to shift from urgent to uncertain.

The fire itself was still active, but contained enough that the chief was finally able to start thinking beyond suppression and toward damage assessment. That was usually the point where the scene stopped feeling like controlled chaos and started feeling like a long, exhausting problem.

Johnny had just finished rotating out a hose line when one of the lieutenants approached him near the apparatus. “Hey,” the man said, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re the one who brought that patient in earlier, right?”

Johnny frowned, wiping soot from his forearm with the back of his glove. “Yeah.”

“There’s been an update on the residents from the fourth floor. Building management just confirmed structural compromise in the eastern units. Water damage, electrical failure—whole section’s going to be offline for a while.”

Johnny’s attention sharpened immediately, though he didn’t fully know why at first.

The lieutenant continued.

“They’re not clearing the building for re-entry. Not today, and probably not for the next week or two. The Red Cross is getting involved for temporary housing.”

That landed differently. “A week or two,” he repeated quietly.

“Best case,” the lieutenant said. “Worst case, longer.”

Johnny nodded once, though his mind had already drifted. Because in his head, that wasn’t a building update anymore.

It was you.

“Hey, uh, mind if I drive back to the hospital for a bit? Just ten, fifteen minutes? I think I forgot something.” Johnny asks.

The lieutenant looked confused at that, but he looked around, then back at Johnny. “Yeah, we’re alright here for now. Just make sure you come back as soon as possible.”

Johnny nods, and he rushes to drive to Manhattan General Hospital.

By the time he reached you, you were speaking with a patient, your backpack now sitting on the ground beside your feet. You looked tired in a way you hadn’t earlier. Less sharp, more human around the edges, but still very much upright.

When you noticed him approaching, your expression shifted slightly. You frowned. “What are you doing back here? Does anyone else need help?” you said.

“No, no, everyone’s okay for now.” He reassures you. “I just… um…”

There was a pause, brief but loaded with everything neither of you had said since the fire started.

Johnny glanced toward the patient, then back at you. “Mind if I talk to you in private for a second?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” You respond, giving the patient a brief goodbye before walking to a more secluded area of the room.

“They’re saying you might not be able to go back in for a while,” he starts.

You exhaled slowly, like you already knew where this was going. “Yeah, I figured.”

“And you’ve got somewhere to stay?” It came out more direct than he intended.

You blinked at him, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Not really. I’ve got… a backpack and a very strong desire for this to be temporary.”

That should have made it lighter.

It didn’t.

Johnny looked away for a second, jaw tightening as he considered the situation in a way that had nothing to do with firefighting. “You can stay at mine,” he said.

The words came out clean. Immediate, and absolutely no hesitation. Like he’d already decided without telling himself.

You stared at him. “…What?”

“My place,” he repeated, more carefully this time, as if that would make it less insane. “It’s close to the hospital. You’ve got work, and I’ve got a couch. Spare room, technically, but I’ve never used it for anything other than storage.”

That last part sounded like an attempt at credibility. It didn’t help much.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said slowly.

“I know.”

Another pause. Around you, the scene kept moving, but between the two of you, everything had narrowed.

Johnny shifted his weight slightly, suddenly aware of how this sounded and unable to find a version of it that didn’t sound like too much.

“It’s not… I’m not—” he started, then stopped, clearly frustrated with his own sentence. “You don’t have anywhere else right now. And I’m not letting you sleep in a hotel alone for two weeks after your building burned down.”

You studied him for a moment, weighing your options. There was no teasing grin. No easy confidence. No hint that he was offering because he felt obligated or because he thought it was the right thing to do.

He looked genuinely concerned for you. And somehow, that made this infinitely more dangerous.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You'd spent months convincing yourself that whatever existed between the two of you was harmless. Nothing either of you would ever act on.

Then your expression softened just slightly.

“You realize this is a terrible idea. We might not be compatible living with each other and you might hate me forever,” you said, with a smile threatening to form on your face.

Johnny gave a short exhale that might have been a laugh. “Yeah.”

“And you’re still offering.”

“Yeah.” His gaze held yours for a second longer than necessary. 

Then, almost reluctantly, you nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “Just for a little while.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Johnny's face. Relief.

Maybe even happiness. 

It disappeared almost immediately, replaced by an expression that was far more casual than you suspected he actually felt. Inside, he was far from casual. Neither of you could quite ignore the way your pulse had suddenly become much harder to explain.  

Okay, holy shit, this is real. She’s moving into my place—we don’t even know each other that well yet. Maybe this was a bad idea? No, no, it’s not. I get to spend time with her! This is amazing. We’ll get to know each other, and—

“Johnny?” You ask, confused by his sudden blank stare.

“Huh?” He snapped out of his trance. “Yes?”

“You okay?” You furrow your brows in concern.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” Johnny nods reassuringly, and he holds a hand out to you. “Do you have your phone? Mine’s somewhere in the car. I can text you details, and we’ll talk about it.” He shrugs, offering.

You reach into your bag and hand it over to him. He types his number in your phone, and texts himself something silly. He gives it back to you, smiling.

“I, uh… I look forward to it.” You say, and you internally cringe. Look forward to it? What is this, a date?

He smiles sheepishly, exhaling. “Yeah, yeah, me too. I’ll see you later then.”

You nod. “Mhm. Get back safely.”

You both pretty much worked it out seamlessly. There was a list of instructions, a rough time estimate, and a shared understanding that neither of you needed to overcomplicate what was already complicated enough. Johnny told you his address. You told him how long it would take you to get what you needed. Neither of you questioned the arrangement again.

It should have felt strange. But it didn’t, not in the way either of you expected. 

When you finally left the apartment building, it was with a small list of essentials and a tired sense of detachment that came from functioning too long on instinct alone. You moved quickly through the familiar process of retrieving what you could, like medications and toiletries, half of your wardrobe, your laptop, and your work bag that you had apparently left half-open on your counter in your rush to leave that morning.

The apartment itself looked almost unchanged at first glance.

But the smell had already begun to creep in through the hallway, faint but unmistakable, and the sound of distant movement from below reminded you that whatever normal had existed here earlier in the day was no longer available to you.

When you came back down, Johnny was already there.

He had changed out of some of his gear, and he looks… different, this way. You can’t really pin point on what, but one thing’s for sure, he looks equally as handsome as when you saw him for the first time. Or maybe even more handsome, you dare to think.

“You got everything you needed?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “Enough.”

That seemed to be sufficient.

He held out his hand, and you looked at him confused.

“Your bag.” He says. Ever the gentleman.

“Oh. You sure?” You ask.

He rolls his eyes, smiling, hand still out. “Yes, I’m sure. Just give it to me.”

You eventually hand it over to him, and he carries it like nothing. Damn firefighters.

The drive to his place was quieter than the earlier trip to the hospital, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came from two people who were both still mentally catching up to what had already happened.

Occasionally, Johnny would glance at you, as if checking something he could not quite articulate. Each time, you caught it once or twice before he looked away again.

Neither of you commented on it.

By the time he parked, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, and the events of the day felt both recent and strangely distant.

Johnny got out first, walked around the car, and opened your door before you could reach for it yourself.

You looked up at it, then back at him. The building definitely had some questionable design choices.

“Wow.”

Johnny immediately narrowed his eyes. “That sounded sarcastic.”

“It wasn't.”

“It absolutely was.”

“I said one word.”

Johnny pointed toward the building. “For the record, it's a perfectly respectable apartment.”

“Mhm.”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That tone.”

“I don't have a tone.”

“You do.”

“I just got displaced by a fire, Johnny. Maybe I'm emotionally fragile.”

“Convenient excuse.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. It's nice.”

His expression brightened immediately. Then, he added, “You can crash here as long as you need.”

As long as you need.

Not forever, not anything bigger than it had to be.

Just enough room for what this was.

The first hour in Johnny’s apartment passed in a blur of half-unpacking and quiet reassessment.

The building itself was nicer than you had expected.

Not extravagant, but comfortable. The lobby had actual plants that somehow looked alive, and the elevator didn't make any concerning noises on the way up, which already put it ahead of several apartment buildings you'd lived in. 

When Johnny unlocked the door and stepped aside to let you in first, you hesitated for a moment before crossing the threshold. You weren't entirely sure what you had expected.

It was cleaner than you had expected.

Not spotless, exactly, but lived-in in a way that suggested someone who functioned on practicality more than decoration. A couch that had clearly been used for naps rather than guests, then to your right, a stack of mail that had been pushed into a corner rather than ignored completely. And when you walked further inside, there was a kitchen that looked like it had been designed for survival rather than enjoyment.

Your eyes drifted around the room.

There were framed photos on a shelf, a few trophies tucked away near a bookcase. Then, a  blanket thrown haphazardly over one arm of the couch that looked suspiciously well-loved. You smiled at the sight.

It felt like him.

Comfortable, slightly disorganized, and somehow welcoming despite making absolutely no effort to be.

Johnny hovered awkwardly near the doorway while you looked around.

"So?" he asked.

You glanced back at him.

"So what?"

"So, is it terrible?"

You stared. "Johnny."

"What?"

"You live in a building with functioning elevators."

"That's not an answer."

“It's already nicer than my apartment."

His expression brightened immediately. "Really?"

"No."

The smile vanished.

You laughed.

The offended look he gave you was immediate. "Wow."

"I'm kidding."

"You sounded sincere." He scoffs. “Maybe I should take a look at your apartment and judge for myself.”

You smile at that. “Hmm, maybe. Once all this blows over. I’ll give you a tour.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged and continued your inspection.

The living room flowed into the kitchen, which contained exactly what you expected from a man who worked long shifts and survived primarily on convenience.

You opened one cabinet.

Instant noodles.

Another.

Protein bars.

A third.

Oh. More protein bars! And protein… powder?

You slowly turned toward him.

Johnny immediately pointed a finger. "Don't judge me."

"I opened three cabinets."

"Yes."

"And two of them are protein bars."

"They were on sale."

"Johnny."

"They were really on sale."

You shook your head, laughing. “If I get scurvy while living here, I'm suing you."

"That's not how scurvy works."

"You don't know that."

"I absolutely know that."

The conversation dissolved into quiet laughter, and some of the tension you'd both been carrying since the fire eased just slightly.

Johnny gave you space without making a point of it. He showed you where things were, like the bathroom, the spare room, the thermostat that he clearly had opinions about, and then drifted back toward the kitchen as if trying not to hover.

“You can take the room,” he said at one point, nodding toward a door down the hallway. “It’s not much, but the bed’s clean. I changed the sheets last month.”

“Last month,” you repeated.

He shrugged. “It’s usually just storage.”

That explained the slightly chaotic pile of boxes in the corner of the room when you stepped inside. Nothing urgent. Just things that didn’t belong anywhere else yet.

You set your bag down carefully, suddenly aware of how little of your life you had managed to carry with you. Clothes, a few essentials. A version of yourself reduced to what could fit in an emergency evacuation. 

You were halfway through walking out of the room when your body betrayed you slightly.

It wasn’t dramatic, just a subtle shift in balance, a delayed reaction catching up with everything you had been running on since the alarm went off that morning. The exhaustion hit you all at once, like your system had finally decided it was done compensating.

Your hand reached for the doorframe without you fully registering it.

Johnny noticed immediately.

He moved before you could properly correct yourself, one hand coming up instinctively to steady your arm.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked, briefly disoriented. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

The contact should have been nothing. Brief, practical. Something that happened between people all the time without meaning anything beyond balance and physics.

But he didn’t let go right away.

Not immediately.

His grip was careful, steady in a way that felt more intentional than necessary, like he was making sure you were actually grounded before he trusted you to stand on your own again.

You became very aware of the fact that he was close. Close enough that the heat from him cut through the tired chill that had settled into your bones.

“I’ve got you,” he said after a beat, like it had come out automatically.

You looked up at him then.

His expression had shifted. Less distracted now, less caught between places. Focused in a way that wasn’t about the fire anymore.

Just you.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time.

He nodded once, but didn’t immediately move away. For a second, neither of you did. Holding you felt… natural, like there was no question behind it.

Then, as if realizing it at the same time you did, Johnny slowly released your arm.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I know,” he replied, giving you a small smile.

You hesitated, then glanced toward the room again. “I think I’m just going to—”

“Yeah,” he said immediately. Then, after a pause, softer: “Go rest.”

You nodded. This time when you stepped away, nothing stopped you.

But as you closed the door behind you, you could still feel the place where his hand had been on your arm, like your body had bothered to remember it longer than your mind had intended to.

additional notes: anddd that's it for chapter one folks! i had a fun time writing this au. chapter two definitely has more romantic/domestic moments, so stay tuned for it! it might be released sometime this week? i'm a bit busy at the moment, but i do enjoy writing these to kind of wind down in between.

also, please comment if you'd like to be tagged in the next one!

You met Johnny Storm at the tender age of six, when he was just a tiny blond boy with a stupid-looking bowl cut on him that you never fail to make fun of till this day. He really did look ridiculous. It was a bright, sunny day when you first saw him in the local neighborhood park, and you approached him because you were jealous that he had a cool rocketship plushie held in his hands. Ever since then, you clicked instantly, becoming the bestest of friends. If you ask Sue, she would say that Johnny had always liked you since you were both kids. Maybe it was a puppy crush, maybe it was real love, but either way, she’d recognize the sparkle in her brother’s eyes whenever you were there with him. Something that never seemed to dim after all these years either.

Unfortunately, after their mother passed, they had to move away, and you never saw them ever since. 

Almost twenty years later, here you are, an aspiring biologist, being personally called in to work in the Baxter Building by Reed Richards himself. It took a good year to readjust to your current work environment, but it has been worth it. Especially being able to reconnect with the Storm siblings once again.

“Your design model is still compensating too aggressively during high-stress simulations”, you mutter, scrolling through the latest batch of data projected across the holographic screen in front of you. “See? It spikes here.”

Reed adjusts his glasses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the graph. “Hm. you’re right. The emotional variance threshold is overcorrecting.”

“Which means the system’s still prioritizing instinct over learned behavioral patterns.” You sigh.

“It’s a prototype,” Reed says simply.

You let out a snort. “That’s basically saying ‘it barely works.’”

“It works enough.” You can see Reed’s lips quirk up a bit.

The machine sitting in the middle of the lab says otherwise. The Synchronization Index prototype, or as you call it, the compatibility testing machine, looked less like revolutionary technology and more like someone had combined an MRI scanner together with a gaming console. After close to four months of development (even with Reed’s brains), the project was still deeply unfinished. 

The original purpose had been simple enough: improve the team’s coordination during missions by analyzing behavioral compatibility and predictive patterns under stress. The deal was also simple. Reed handles all the computational side of things while you focused on the neurological aspects of it.

Johnny, naturally, called it a soulmate machine.

“It’s not a soulmate machine,” you had told him at least four times this week alone.

The lab doors slid open before Reed could respond, followed immediately by the familiar sound of someone humming dramatically off-key. Johnny strolls into the lab.

“There you are, Stretch,” he says, pointing accusingly at Reed. “I’ve been looking for—”

He stops mid-sentence.

Slowly, his gaze drifts toward the machine in the center of the room. Then toward the holographic screens floating overhead. Then towards you.

“Oh my god,” Johnny breathes. “You finally built the soulmate machine.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, but Reed answers before you can. “It measures adaptive synchronization and predictive behavioral compatibility.”

Johnny stares at him blankly.

“So,” he says carefully, “the soulmate machine.”

“It is not—”

“The soulmate machine,” Johnny repeats firmly.

You cross your arms. “Why are you even here?”

“Doesn’t matter now, it can wait. I’m more interested in this.” Johnny immediately drops into the chair connected to the machine. “Test me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s unfinished.”

“That’s never stopped any of you before.” He’s unfortunately correct.

Johnny leans back further into the chair with the confidence of a man who has never once feared consequences in his entire life. “C’mon. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Both you and Reed look at each other, then at him.

Johnny points between the two of you. “Wow. Okay. Little concerning that you both did that.”

Reed steps toward the console, thoughtful. “Actually, this could be useful.”

You blink. “Reed.”

“We need additional live-response data.”

“With Johnny?”

Johnny gasps dramatically. “I’m an excellent test subject.” 

You sigh, then look at the clock. 3:52 PM. “Well, I have a meeting with the higher-ups from my department.” You look at Reed. “Do what you gotta do, the ball’s in your court now.”

You give a small wave goodbye to Johnny, taking off your lab coat and walking out of the lab. 

The second the lab doors slide shut behind you, Johnny swivels lazily in the chair to look at Reed.

“So,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, “how exactly does the soulmate machine work?”

“It is not a soulmate machine.”

Johnny points at him. “You saying that only makes it sound more like a soulmate machine.”

Reed sighs softly, then gestures toward the neural monitors attached to the chair. “The system analyzes how effectively two individuals function together under varying conditions.”

Johnny grins. “So basically, which of the team I’d survive a road trip with.”

Ignoring him, Reed scans through the available baseline profiles, though most of them are incomplete. Then he pauses. “Hm.”

Johnny immediately narrows his eyes. “That ‘hm’ never means anything good.”

Reed taps something on the console. “You require a baseline comparison subject.”

“Okay?”

Your name sits at the top of the compatibility database, and Johnny straightens in the chair almost immediately. “Oh.”

“The two of you possess nearly two decades worth of history,” Reed explains. “The system also has extensive conversational and behavioral references involving both of you.”

Johnny tries very hard to act normal about that information, but of course he fails immediately.

“Aww,” he says weakly. “We’re scientifically best friends.”

Reed continues typing. “Additionally, your stress-response stabilization patterns consistently improve in her proximity.” 

“Reed.”

“And according to mission analysis, you subconsciously prioritize her positioning during emergency scenarios.”

“Reed.”

“In theory, she is the ideal baseline candidate.”

Johnny stares blankly at the screen for several long seconds.

Then, “…Huh.”

Reed looks at him. “Anything wrong?”

“Nope.” Johnny clears his throat. “No problem. Totally normal amount of information to learn about yourself on a random Tuesday. I’m down, let’s do this.”

Reed presses the final command anyway and the machine hums to life. Blue light flickers across the monitors as the sensors attached to Johnny’s temples begin scanning neural activity. A holographic screen expands overhead, rapidly cycling through data points.

Johnny watches the loading bar with mild suspicion.

“So what happens if the results suck?”

“They likely won’t.”

“Wow,” Johnny says dryly. “Your confidence in me is inspiring.”

“You misunderstand. The system favors familiarity.”

Johnny opens his mouth to respond, but the machine suddenly lets out a sharp chime.

Processing Complete. The holographic display shifts, then, a percentage flashes onto the center screen.

98.9%

The room goes completely silent.

“The previous highest recorded compatibility score,” Reed says slowly, “was ninety-one percent.”

Johnny tears his eyes away from the screen. “And mine is—”

“Ninety-eight point nine.”

“…That feels illegal somehow.”

Reed steps closer to the display, studying the rapidly expanding analysis graphs now populating the screen.

“Fascinating. This level of compatibility is statistically abnormal.”

Johnny’s eyes widened. Statistically abnormal. With you. His brain suddenly begins replaying every interaction he’s had with you over the past year at lightning speed.

The way you automatically know what he needs before he asks for them, the way you know exactly what his different silences mean, the way he always looks for you first whenever he walks into a room, the way being around you somehow makes everything feel—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Johnny slowly sits upright in the chair.

Reed glances at him briefly. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Johnny says immediately.

Reed pauses, and Johnny points dramatically toward the glowing percentage still floating on the screen. “I need to date her.”

“…What?”

“I need to date her,” Johnny repeats, now sounding genuinely alarmed by the realization. “Like, immediately.”

Reed blinks once. “You arrived at that conclusion very quickly.”

“Reed, the science literally said we’re soulmates.”

“It did not say that.”

“It basically did.”

“The machine measures adaptive synchronization.”

Johnny lets out a short laugh. Not because anything’s funny, but mostly because he suddenly feels a little insane.

Of course it’s you.

Of course.

The girl he’s been stupidly in love with since he was young apparently turns out to be his cosmic statistical anomaly too. That honestly tracks. Johnny drags a hand down his face. “You have gotta be kidding me.”

Reed glances up briefly. “Is something wrong?”

“Reed,” Johnny says slowly, “this machine just told me I’ve been wasting my own time for years.”

“That is not what it—”

“Ninety-eight point nine percent,” Johnny repeats. “Do you understand how bad that is for me emotionally?”

Reed considers this. “I don’t think the results are inherently negative.”

“No, see, that’s because you’re happily married.”

Johnny stands abruptly from the chair and starts pacing. He looks at Reed with newfound determination. “I know what I have to do now!” And before Reed could respond, he rushed out of the lab, into the elevator.

The kitchen was quiet and peaceful before Johnny speed-walks inside, tripping over the stairs on his way in. “Ben,” he says urgently.

Ben is halfway through making dinner, and he doesn’t even look up from the stove when Johnny walks in. “You blow somethin’ up?”

“No.”

Ben looks up at Johnny, raising a rocky eyebrow in question. Johnny looks deeply distressed, and he notices this, so he turns the heat down slightly. “Alright. What happened?”

Johnny runs both hands through his hair before pointing accusingly into the air like the compatibility machine personally offended him. He then says your name.

“The stupid compatibility machine thing said me and her are ninety-eight point nine percent compatible.”

Ben blinks once then goes back to stirring the pasta sauce.

“…That all?”

Johnny stares at him. “What do you mean ‘that all’?”

“I mean,” Ben shrugs, “sounds about right.”

“What?”

Ben finally looks at him properly now, expression somewhere between amused and exhausted. “Dude, you’ve been in love with her since before your voice dropped.”

“I have not.” He’s not that obvious, is he? Ben gives him a look, and Johnny immediately folds.

“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “Maybe a little.”

“A little,” Ben repeats flatly.

For a moment, the kitchen falls quiet except for the sound of simmering sauce and Johnny aggressively rethinking the last ten years of his life. Then,

“What do I do?”

Ben blinks. “About what?”

Johnny gestures wildly. “About her!”

Ben stares at him. “…You ask her out.”

Johnny looks bored. “That’s your advice? I was expecting more.”

“That’s usually how datin’ works, yeah.”

“No, but what if she thinks I’m joking?”

Ben’s expression shifts slightly.

Ah, there it is.

Johnny slumps further against the counter now, suddenly looking far less dramatic and far more nervous than before. “I mean, c’mon, Ben,” he says quieter. “Look at me.”

Ben’s lips quirk up a bit. “Unfortunately, I am.”

Johnny lets out a frustrated breath, dragging both hands down his face. “I mean, seriously, Ben. Why would she take me seriously?” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “I’m me.”

Ben snorts. “Yeah. Tragic condition.”

“Hey, I’m serious.” Johnny can’t help it, his lips pull down to a frown.

“I know.”

Johnny leans back against the counter, arms crossed tightly now. “She’s smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. She overthinks everything.” A pause. “What if she thinks I’m just someone who dates for fun and I’m not… serious enough for her?”

Johnny stares down at the countertop as he keeps talking, words coming easier now that he’s started. “I mean, I’ve never exactly given off ‘stable long-term investment’ vibes.” He laughs weakly. “Half the city thinks I’m emotionally allergic to commitment.”

Ben pulls the garlic bread out of the oven before finally speaking.

“Johnny.”

Johnny looks up, seeing Ben setting the tray down carefully. “You know why this is different?”

Johnny shrugs helplessly.

“Because you’re scared.”

Johnny blinks, Ben points at him with the giant oven mitt. “You don’t get scared about girls.”

“That is wildly untrue.”

“No,” Ben says. “You get nervous sometimes. You get awkward sometimes. But scared?” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Johnny doesn’t answer because unfortunately, Ben’s right. He leans back against the counter across from Johnny. “You’ve liked her for so long you forgot there was ever a version of your life without her in it.”

“And if she matters that much to you,” Ben continues, “then act like it.”

Johnny lets out a slow breath. “…How?”

Ben gives him an incredulous look. “By bein’ honest.”

Johnny immediately grimaces. “Again with this terrible advice.”

Ben laughs. “I’m serious.”

“I know, that’s why it’s terrible.”

Ben shakes his head fondly before saying, more gently this time. “If she thinks this is just another thing for you, then you prove it ain’t.”

Johnny takes a few seconds to internalize everything that Ben has said, but then, they both hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. It was Sue, standing there with her cup of tea, giving them both an impressed smile. 

“Aw, you’re finally growing up.” She nods to Johnny. Johnny gives her an unimpressed scowl.

That night, Johnny starts to conjure up every plan that would finally make you realize that he was in love with you.

Well, maybe “conjure up” was too elegant of a phrase. Obsess over was probably more accurate.

The plan was simple. He would tell you how he felt, eventually.

After some preparation.

Maybe a little preparation.

Okay, maybe a lot of preparation.

Because there was a difference between knowing what you wanted to do and actually doing it. Johnny knew he wanted to ask you out, but the problem was that every time he imagined himself saying the words out loud, his brain immediately supplied several horrifying possibilities.

You’re laughing—no, you’re staring. Hm… maybe you’ll just outright say no. Or maybe, just maybe, you saying yes and then asking why it took him almost two decades.

Which was how Johnny arrived at the conclusion that he should start small. You know, ease into it, test the waters and everything.

A concept he had never successfully practiced his entire life.

From the next day onwards, he was absolutely insufferable. He would be everywhere, and while he usually is everywhere you are, this was just on another level.

One day, Johnny appears in your lab sometime after lunch, leaning casually against the doorway. At least, he thinks he looks casual, but in reality, he's been standing there for nearly thirty seconds waiting for you to look up from your tablet.

You don't.

He shifts his weight, and still nothing.

A few more seconds pass before you finally glance up.

"Hey."

The smile you give him is immediate and familiar. Johnny has seen that smile thousands of times over the years, and somehow it still manages to hit him like a truck.

"Hey yourself."

You return your attention to whatever you're working on, but eventually, he clears his throat. "You know, I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

The response comes so quickly that Johnny almost laughs. "See, normally that joke would hurt my feelings."

"Normally?"

"Normally."

You finally set your tablet down and look at him properly. "What do you want?"

"Wow."

"What?"

"Straight to business."

"Johnny."

"Fine, fine." He pushes himself away from the doorway and wanders further into the lab, pretending to inspect one of the monitors nearby. Really, he's just buying himself time, because suddenly the line he'd been planning feels incredibly stupid.

Not that it stopped him.

"I'm admiring the view."

The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You furrow your brows in confusion, then glance over your shoulder toward the large monitor behind you. "The graph?"

Johnny stares. "No."

Your eyes move toward the windows lining the far side of the lab. “Manhattan?"

"No."

You look back at him, and slowly, realization dawns on your face.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

For one glorious second, Johnny thinks he's finally done something right. Then you tilt your head. "That was terrible."

His confidence immediately evaporates. "What?"

"You've used that before."

The accusation is so immediate that Johnny almost chokes. "What? No."

"Johnny."

"Okay, maybe once."

Your eyes narrow.

"More than once."

"I knew it," you say.

"You knew what?"

"You have a system."

Johnny gasps, genuinely offended. "I do not have a system."

"You absolutely have a system."

"I'll have you know my flirting is entirely improvised."

That only makes you laugh harder, which unfortunately, is still the best reaction he's gotten all day. “I’ve known you since we were kids, fireboy. I know how you work.” You point at him with your pointer finger.

Johnny plops down a chair, leaning back and groaning. “Ugh, I was just trying to be… nice.” He finishes lamely with a smile. 

“Or… you want something from me.” You approached him, ruffling his hair to annoy him. He doesn’t try to swat your hand away this time, which makes you raise an eyebrow as he tilts his head of messy hair when you pull away. “Mmm, no, not really.” He says with that lazy smirk of his.

You look at him for a few seconds, and scoff playfully, going back to your work.

A few moments later, he ponders again, trying to come up with another plan. He vaguely remembers Reed telling him that a way to Sue’s heart was with direct compliments. Maybe it’ll work on you too?

That evening, he finds you in one of the common lounges of the building, probably wanting to get out of the lab and work in a newer setting. You’re sitting on the couch reading through some notes handed by your team.

“Hey.”

You wave without looking up. Johnny tilts his head, curious as to what you were doing, and sits right beside you. Maybe a little too close, but you don’t notice, not really. Or maybe you do, he thinks. It’s impossible to tell. He observes you under the warm light of the room.

“I think you’re really pretty.” The words leave his mouth before he can overthink them. You finally look up.

“Aw, thanks.” Then, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You eye him suspiciously, as this behavior was a stark contrast to his usual teasing and provoking.

“What? No! I just wanted to say that.” Johnny grins like he’s proud of himself. He waits, and nothing. No realization, no blushing, no dramatic revelation, just… gratitude. Like he’d told you the weather was nice. 

You return to your notes, and a beat passes. “I think you’re pretty too.” You don't even look up when you say it.

You just continue highlighting something in your document, and Johnny spends the next ten minutes trying to remember how breathing works.

Johnny recites all of his efforts to Sue, and she just laughs at him. Laughs! He gives her an offended, yet desperate look. “What?”

When Sue’s laughter dies down a bit, she begins to give him some advice: be more direct using actions. Actions, okay, he can do that. Absolutely no problem at all.

The first thing Johnny tries is flowers. You look up from your workstation when he walks into the wet lab carrying an enormous bouquet. Your eyes widen.

"Oh wow."

Johnny straightens. Here we go.

"You got flowers."

"Yeah."

"Who's the lucky girl?"

Johnny freezes. "...What?"

You point at the bouquet. "Are these for someone?"

For a brief, horrifying second, Johnny considers lying. But he internally sighs and sucks it up. "They're for you."

"Oh."

His heart immediately starts beating faster when you give him a smile, a genuine smile. The kind he usually loves seeing. Except,

“That’s so sweet.”

Not romantic. Sweet. Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.

You take the flowers. “Thank you.”

Johnny waits.

You place them in a vase, mentioning something about how this wet lab was actually the perfect place to deliver them because it was coincidentally a plant science lab! How nice!

Then you immediately return to your microscope, and the conversation is apparently over.

Johnny leaves the lab ten minutes later feeling like he somehow lost.

The second thing Johnny tries is lunch. Surely lunch is more date-adjacent, right? So when he remembers you mentioning a tiny sandwich shop three neighborhoods away, he immediately flies across Manhattan to get your favorite order.

You blink when he sets the bag on your desk.

"What's this?"

"Lunch."

You give him a grateful look, “Aw, is this you finally repaying me for all I’ve cooked for you?”

What?

Oh, that’s right. You cook for him—a lot. You mentioned that cooking was one of the ways you destress, and you keep making extra food for yourself, so you started cooking up two portions instead. One for you and one for him.

“Uh, yeah..” He chuckles awkwardly.

Then, you look at the logo stuck into the parchment paper. "Wait."

Johnny perks up.

"You remembered my order?"

"Of course I remembered your order."

You look genuinely surprised, and somehow that feels worse. "Johnny," you say carefully, "I told you that one time. Like eight months ago."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"...That's actually kind of impressive. Thanks."

Johnny immediately decides to survive on that compliment for the next week. Okay, so he’s getting it now! Cater to your wants and needs, not just give you things he thinks sound good.

Johnny starts making notes. Like, actual notes. Like he’s conducting a science experiment. In his chicken scratch writing, he writes down all the attempts he did, and what the outcome of it was.

ATTEMPT #5: Complimented hair, and she said thank you. Outcome: inconclusive.

ATTEMPT #7: Brought coffee, and she smiled, promising to grab coffee with me sometime. Outcome: promising.

ATTEMPT #10: Asked if she would ever date a superhero, and she said probably not. Too busy, too dangerous. But she still said it depends. Outcome: devastating.

The first person you mention it to is Sue, mostly because you’ve known her for two decades now, and also because she’s the safest option. Someone you’re able to trust.

Ben would immediately make it weird, Reed would probably start taking notes, and Johnny… well, Johnny is the problem. So Sue it is.

You, Reed, and Sue are scattered around Reed's lab on a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Reed is buried in whatever world-ending project currently occupies his attention, Sue is reviewing mission reports, and you're attempting to organize several weeks worth of research data.

Attempting being the operative word, because Johnny keeps interrupting your thoughts.

You finally let out a frustrated sigh. Across the room, Sue glances up.

"Everything okay?"

You hesitate, but decide to ask her anyway. "Has Johnny been acting strange lately?"

Sue immediately looks interested, which should have been your first warning.

"Strange how?"

You spin your chair around. "I don't know." A lie. You know exactly how, you just don’t know why. You tap your pen against the desk. “He’s been…”

Sue waits.

“Different…”

“Different.”

“Mm. Different.”

Sue's mouth twitches, and you narrow your eyes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The thing where you clearly know something."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Fortunately, Sue respects her brother enough not to air out his feelings about you.

"Liar."

Sue laughs, and you slump back into your chair.

"It's just weird."

"What's weird?"

You gesture vaguely. "He's been showing up everywhere."

Sue hums.

"He keeps bringing me things."

Another hum.

"He complimented me three times yesterday."

Sue raises an eyebrow.

"Only three?"

You throw a pen at her, but she catches it effortlessly with her powers. Of course she does.

"My point is," you continue, "Johnny's always been nice, but this feels… intentional. Like every interaction has an ulterior motive behind it.”

Sue studies you quietly. "What if he's just paying more attention?"

You snort. You seem to do that a lot these days. "Why?"

The question slips out before you can stop it. Why now? Why after all this time? Sue doesn't answer, or maybe she chooses not to. Instead, she returns her attention to the report in front of her. You make a mental note to dig into that later.

Then, you suddenly remembered something. “Hey, Reed. How did it go with the synchronization index results two days ago? You know, the one that Johnny took?”

Reed pauses, but you don’t really seem to notice it. You ask again, absentmindedly. “Who did you use as a baseline comparison? Was it Sue?”

“Uh, no. We used you, actually.”

“Oh, cool! What did Johnny and I get?” You ask with curiosity.

Reed runs a hand through his hair. "So, you know how the highest compatibility score previously recorded was ninety-one percent."

You stare.

"...Okay?"

"Your scores were ninety-eight point nine percent."

The room goes completely silent.

For a moment, you genuinely wonder if you heard him correctly. A strange warmth blooms in your chest. Ninety-eight point nine, you and Johnny. A ridiculous part of you immediately wants to smile, because of course it's Johnny.

Of course the person who knows you best would be Johnny.

But then another thought creeps in.

Slowly, unpleasantly. The timing.

The sudden attention, the compliments, the flowers, the lunches, the flirting, the everything.

Your stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh. That explains everything.

You look away before either Reed or Sue can notice the change in your expression, because suddenly it all makes sense. Johnny took the test, got the score, and he started… trying. Not before, but after. You hate how the realization quickly settles, and how neatly all the pieces fit together. Because for one stupid second, you'd let yourself wonder if maybe…

No. You shut that thought down immediately.

This wasn't romantic, this was Johnny.

Johnny, who turned everything into a competition. Johnny, who chased things because they were exciting. Johnny, who had never looked twice at a finish line he hadn't crossed yet.

Ninety-eight point nine percent. This was a challenge, a goal. You hate how much that possibility bothers you. Maybe because a small, selfish part of you wanted it to mean something else. Wanted all those lingering looks and stupid compliments to be real. Wanted him to choose you because he wanted you.

Not because some machine told him he should.

You force a smile onto your face. "So that's why." You mumble.

Sue's eyes flick toward you, observant and knowing. Unfortunately, you don't look at her long enough to notice. Because by then you've already made up your mind. Whatever this is, it needs to stop.

Before you start hoping for things Johnny Storm was never actually offering.

Johnny realizes there's a problem three days later. Not because you reject him, no, that would’ve been easier. No, the problem is that you're being nice. The kind of nice that creates approximately twelve feet of emotional distance.

"Thanks for the coffee, Johnny."

"Thanks for the meal, Johnny."

"Thanks for helping me carry those samples, Johnny."

By Thursday, Johnny is standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like it personally betrayed him. "This is bad."

Sue barely glances up from her tea, like she already knows what he’s talking about. "How bad?"

"She thanked me."

Sue blinks, and Johnny points dramatically. "Exactly."

"Johnny, most people like being thanked."

"Not like this."

Sue studies him for a moment. "You think she's avoiding you."

"I know she's avoiding me."

"Did she say that?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

Johnny groans. "Because it's her." He throws himself into a chair. "I know her." That was the problem. Johnny knew exactly how you acted when you were annoyed, stressed, happy—everything! And lately? You were acting careful, like somebody trying not to touch a hot stove.

Sue watches him sulk for a moment before finally setting down her mug. "When was the last time you showed interest in something she likes?"

Johnny frowns. "I know things she likes."

"No. I mean actually interested."

"I am interested."

Sue gives him a look. "Johnny."

"Oh." The realization visibly hits him. “You mean… science? I like science, this should be easy.”

Sue stares at him. “No, like… biology. Things that are in her field. Let her know that you care about the things she’s doing, and the fact that you love listening to her. It’ll get her to open up to you more.”

“Sue, you’re a genius!”

Johnny becomes aggressively committed to the bit. He appears in your lab the following Monday wearing glasses.

You stare. "Why are you wearing glasses?"

Johnny immediately touches them. "Oh, these?" He adjusts them casually. Too casually. "Been reading a lot lately."

You narrow your eyes. "Reading."

"Yep."

"What kind of reading?"

Johnny shrugs. "Scientific reading." The answer is so vague that it somehow circles back around to being suspicious. You slowly set your tablet down.

"What scientific reading?"

Johnny freezes. Not because he doesn't know, but because he knows too much. The last three nights have been spent with his face buried in journals while Reed chuckled at him from across the lab. Now his brain is suddenly trying to sort through a ridiculous number of scientific terms at once.

"Cells."

You blink. "Cells."

"Yeah."

A beat.

"There are a lot of those."

Your stare intensifies, and Johnny immediately folds. "Okay, fine. Molecular biology." Now you look genuinely surprised. "Oh."

For the first time all week, Johnny feels like he's accomplished something.

"Why?"

There it is. the question he's been trying desperately to avoid. Why. Because saying because he’s hopelessly in love with you feels a little aggressive for a Monday morning. So instead he says, "I wanted to understand your work better."

The words come out before he can stop them. And for a second, neither of you say anything. Something shifts briefly in your expression, it softens. But at the same second, it disappears.

"Oh."

Johnny's stomach does a weird thing. Because that sounded way more sincere than he'd intended. Which is unfortunate because it was completely true.

You clear your throat. "Well."

You point toward the journal tucked under his arm. "If you're reading that one, chapter four is outdated."

Johnny looks down, then back up. "You've read it?"

You immediately look offended. "Johnny."

"Right. Stupid question."

"Very stupid question."

"You know, I walked directly into that one."

"Yes, you did."

You chuckle, and Johnny feels like his heart is about to burst. “Do you actually wanna learn these things?”

“I mean, yeah!” He nods enthusiastically. Seeing this, you walk over to one of the shelves in the corner of the room. It was quite high up, but you were pretty sure you were able to reach it last time. So you stood on your tip-toes, and tried grabbing the massive textbook sitting on top. 

Johnny immediately comes over. “I can reach that—”

“No. I can do it.” You say as you hold the corner of the book. 

“No, no, really, I can help you.” He says, and he reaches a hand to the same book, but it ends up falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You look at him with an unimpressed look. He purses his lips, hands behind his back now, looking guilty and looking everywhere but your eyes.

You inhale and exhale sharply, but you grabbed the book from the floor anyway, and placed it in front of him. It was a worn down copy of a ‘Campbell’s Biology’ textbook. “This was with me throughout my high school and university days.” You open up a specific chapter.

“If you really want to learn a few things, you’re welcome to come to me any time. I know you’re smart and capable, but if you have too many thoughts sitting in that brain of yours, I’d love to help you sort them out.” You looked back to the book. “I’d start with this part of the textbook.”

Johnny follows your gaze to the page you've opened. The margins are filled with tiny handwritten notes, some written in different colors, accumulated over what looked like years of use. Several sections had been highlighted, and a few pages were dog-eared.

The book practically screamed that it belonged to you. For some reason, that realization settles strangely in his chest.

He'd expected a polite dismissal. Maybe a sarcastic comment about how long this latest phase of his would last. Instead, you'd handed him one of the textbooks that had followed you through high school and university and were now offering to help him through it.

The fact that you seemed completely sincere about it only made the feeling worse.

Or better, he wasn’t entirely sure.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he carefully turns a page. "You're really volunteering to tutor me?"

You glance up from the chapter. "I'm offering to answer questions."

"That sounds suspiciously like tutoring."

"Only because I know you'll have questions."

Johnny lets out a quiet laugh. "Wow. Good to know you have so much faith in me."

"If I get stuck," he continues, trying, and failing to sound casual, "you're not gonna make fun of me, right?"

You look genuinely puzzled. "Why would I do that?" The answer comes so quickly that he almost misses it. As if the idea had never even crossed your mind. Johnny feels something warm settle in his chest.

Because that's just it, isn't it? You never treated him like he was less intelligent than the people around him. You'd always looked at him like he was perfectly capable of keeping up if he wanted to.

"You'd be surprised," he says lightly.

"Johnny."

Your voice softens just enough to make him look up. "I know you're smart."

The statement is delivered so matter-of-factly that it catches him completely off guard. Johnny flashes a grin. "Careful. Keep saying stuff like that and I'm gonna start developing self-esteem."

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Tragic."

"Absolutely devastating."

Johnny shows up in your lab the next morning like he’s been doing it for years.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans into the doorway for a moment, watching you work, then crosses the room and places a small stack of printed pages on the edge of your desk.

You glance at them, then up at him.

“What’s this?”

“Lab notes,” he says.

You blink once. “…From who?”

“Reed.” That at least makes sense.

You pick up the top sheet and scan it quickly. It’s formatted the way Reed likes everything formatted—dense, precise, slightly over-detailed in a way that assumes the reader is already three steps ahead. Still, it’s useful.

You look back up at Johnny. “Why are you delivering these?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was already coming here.”

You study him for a second longer. He looks… normal. Casual, even. Like he’s just passing through. But he’s also watching you closely, like he’s waiting to see whether this counts as helpful or intrusive. “Put them there.”

Johnny does.

For a few minutes, the lab is quiet again except for the usual hum of equipment and the soft rhythm of your pen making contact with paper.

You assume he’ll leave. He doesn’t.

Instead, he drifts further into the room, stopping near one of your benches. He looks around like he’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to exist in that space without an explicit task.

Then, carefully, he picks up a pair of gloves from your supply tray.

“You don’t need those,” you say without looking up.

“I know.”

Another pause, then he puts them back. After a moment, he starts to speak again. “Can I touch the cabinet?”

You don’t look up. “Yes.”

“Cool.”

You hear movement behind you after that. Cabinets opening. The faint clink of containers being shifted. At first, you ignore it. Johnny has always been… present. This is not new. What’s new is the silence. When you turn around again, he’s reorganizing one of your supply shelves. By size, at first glance. Then by category.

Then, after a moment of observation, you realize he’s also separating things by how often you reach for them. The most frequently used items are already drifting toward eye level.

You stop. “…What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he says, without looking at you.

“That’s not helping.”

“It is if I’m right.”

You step closer, arms folding. “You don’t know what I need where.”

Johnny finally looks at you then, one hand still holding a labeled vial. “I think I do.”

The confidence in it makes you pause, not because it’s arrogant, but it sounds… considered. Like he’s been paying attention in a way you didn’t realize required effort.

You glance at the shelf again. It is, inconveniently, better organized than it was before. “…Why?” you ask finally.

Johnny shrugs, setting the vial down carefully. “Because you shouldn’t have to look for things twice in the same day.”

That’s all he says, like it’s not something worth making a big deal out of.

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, then look away first. “Fine,” you say. “But don’t reorganize anything else without asking.”

He smiles a little.

“Bossy.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

A beat.

“…Boss.”

Your lips quirk up just a tiny bit.

A few days after that, you notice something different in your lab. Your bench is already set up when you walk inside. Not partially, but fully set up. The samples are arranged in labeled rows. The pipettes you prefer are already out. Even the centrifuge has been pre-adjusted to the settings you would have chosen yourself, down to the slight calibration you usually account for.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.

“…Reed,” you talk into your communication device, still looking at the bench. “Did you come into my lab this morning?”

A pause. “No,” Reed answers. “Why?”

You glance around, though you already know the answer isn’t going to change. “Someone set up my experiment.”

“That’s unusual,” Reed says, in the tone of someone who is already mentally moving on to five other problems.

Then, mildly, “Is anything missing?”

You look again. Nothing is missing, everything is exactly where it should be.

You turned off your communication device, and that’s when you heard him.

“Morning.”

Johnny is leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, like he didn’t just quietly rearrange your entire workflow before you arrived.

You stare at him. “…Did you do this?”

He looks vaguely pleased with himself. “Maybe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a pretty good one.”

You walk over to your bench, slow and deliberate.

“You prepared my experiment.”

“I set it up,” he corrects. Johnny pushes off the doorframe and walks closer, hands in his pockets like this is all completely normal.

“I remembered what you said last week about wasting time on setup when you could be running data sooner.”

You blink. That was something you said once, in passing, but you hadn’t even been talking to him. “…You remembered that?”

Johnny shrugs. “You were annoyed when you said it.”

You glance at him. “That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s a reason.”

You don’t respond immediately. You exhale through your nose and turn back to the bench. “Don’t make a habit of entering my lab before I do.”

Johnny’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s bracing for a stricter rejection than the one you actually give him. 

“But since you’re here already… you mind helping me out?” You grabbed a spare lab coat and tossed it to him.

He beamed at you like you handed him the keys to the city.

It doesn’t make sense at first. That’s the part you keep coming back to. Johnny Storm doesn’t set up experiments. He doesn’t organize supply shelves. He doesn’t remember small things you said in passing weeks ago and act on them like they mattered.

You sit at your workstation, but your attention keeps drifting back to the bench he prepared.

Everything is already in place. Clean, ordered, functional. Not just “good enough,” but it’s efficient. Annoyingly efficient. You glance at it again. Then, you catch yourself doing it and look back at your screen.

At first, it had been easy to explain away. The compatibility score, the machine, the timing of it all. Ninety-eight point nine percent.

It gave you something neat to hold onto, a reason for sudden behavior that didn’t quite match the version of Johnny Storm you were used to. Because that version made sense. He overdid things and got excited. He moved fast and moved on faster. But somehow… this isn’t that. This has been consistent.

You had told yourself it was all tied to the test, a reaction to being told something about himself that he now wanted to prove or act on. And while that still could be true, it’s just getting harder to fully believe it, because none of this looks like showing off anymore.

You don’t change what you do at first. It’s not obvious, at least not immediately. You just… stand a little closer than usual when he’s talking. Close enough that he notices, but not close enough that it should matter.

Johnny notices anyway because of course, he always notices you.

He’s mid-explanation about something he probably understands better than he’s currently articulating when he pauses for half a second too long, eyes flicking down like he’s just become aware of where he’s standing in space. Then he clears his throat and continues talking.

A little faster this time. You don’t move away.

Later, when he brings you a set of revised lab notes, you take them from him and your fingers brush his hand for a second longer than necessary.

It’s nothing, barely even contact. But Johnny goes still in a way that is immediately noticeable if you’re looking for it.

Which, unfortunately, you are. “Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Then, after a beat, “Yeah. Totally fine.” He smiles like he means it, but… it doesn’t quite land.

You nod and go back to your screen.

The next day, you repeat it on purpose. Not dramatically, just enough to see if yesterday was coincidence.

You lean slightly closer when he’s showing you something on a monitor. Not touching him, just narrowing the space between you and him until he has to decide whether to acknowledge it or ignore it. He chooses neither.

He stops talking for half a second, then resumes with the wrong sentence and has to restart. You file that away quietly.

Interesting.

By the third day, you add something else. A little bit of… sauce, if you will. “You look tired,” you say when he walks in.

Johnny immediately straightens. “I’m not tired.”

“You’re slouching.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re slouching standing.”

“That’s not a thing.”

You tilt your head slightly. “It is for you.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so strained.

Then, you reach out and fix his collar without thinking about it too much. It’s a small adjustment. Barely a touch. Something you’ve done before in passing when he’s been too distracted to notice. Except this time, he does.

He goes completely still. Just… frozen in place like his brain has temporarily stopped accepting new input. Just as soon as you start, you finish adjusting it and step back.

“There,” you say. “Better.”

Johnny nods once. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. That’s—yeah.” He clears his throat. “You’re acting strange.”

“I’m not acting strange.”

A pause.

“You’re acting strange,” he repeats, like that fixes it.

The next scheduled debrief for the development of the Synchronization Index is today. You don’t think much of it when you hear about it.

It comes up in passing, the way most things in Reed’s lab do. Something about recalibration, about running comparative datasets again to stabilize the Synchronization Index after recent adjustments.

Your name is mentioned, briefly, almost absentmindedly.

You barely look up from what you’re doing. “High compatibility,” Reed says, like it’s nothing particularly remarkable.

And it isn’t, not really. The system has been producing results like that more often now, different pairings, different variables. You nod once, as if filing it away in a place that doesn’t require further attention.

“Ninety-four point six percent. Interesting,” you say, and move on. You don’t think about it again.

Not yet. But Johnny hears about it, and of course he makes a huge deal out of it. “Wait,” he says immediately, stopping so abruptly it almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “Back up a second.”

Reed pauses, patient in the way he always is when Johnny is involved.

“You ran her with who?”

“Dr. Scott,” Reed replies.

There’s a short silence.

Johnny’s expression doesn’t change right away, but something in him clearly does. “…Why?”

“Control comparison.” That seems to make things worse.

“No,” Johnny says, too quickly, like the word alone should be enough to undo the situation.

Reed blinks once. “No?”

“That’s not—” Johnny gestures vaguely, as if trying to physically rearrange the concept in the air. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is how it works.”

“No, because the machine doesn’t understand context,” Johnny says, already building momentum.

“It does,” Reed answers calmly.

Johnny ignores him completely. “It must’ve been off,” he decides.

Reed studies him now, more carefully.

“The system?”

“Yes.”

“It produced consistent results.”

Johnny immediately shakes his head. “That just means it was consistently wrong.”

From somewhere behind them, Sue makes a sound that might be a cough or might be laughter she is actively suppressing. Johnny continues pacing lightly now, more animated the longer he talks, as if movement will make the conclusion feel less real.

“It’s probably calibration drift,” he says. “Or environmental interference.”

“You are suggesting the machine is unreliable.”

“I am suggesting,” Johnny says, pointing vaguely as if the argument is already settled, “that the machine is not accounting for real-world variability.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is not.”

Reed does not look convinced.

Johnny exhales, running a hand through his hair, trying again with more urgency. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t make sense.”

Sue finally looks up from her tablet. “What doesn’t make sense?”

Johnny answers immediately. “That.”

Sue tilts her head slightly. “That… what?”

He hesitates, then gestures vaguely again, like the answer is obvious and frustratingly invisible.

“That it would do that.”

Reed watches him carefully now.

“Do what?”

“Be inaccurate.”

Sue leans back slightly in her chair, watching him with an expression that is far too knowing for his comfort. “You don’t like the result,” she says gently.

“That’s not true.”

“It is a little true,” Reed adds.

Johnny turns toward him immediately. “It’s not.”

Reed raises a brow.

Johnny pauses for half a beat, then corrects himself. “It’s… not about liking it.”

Sue hums faintly. “Then what is it about?”

Johnny doesn’t answer right away. There isn’t a clean answer that doesn’t sound like something he is not ready to say out loud, he thinks. Instead, he defaults to what he knows:

“Repeat the test,” he says.

Reed studies him for a long moment.

“Why?”

“To verify consistency,” Johnny replies immediately.

Sue’s expression shifts slightly at that. Not amused anymore, just observant. “That’s not why,” she says again, quieter this time.

Johnny looks at her. For a second, something almost slips through his expression, something that’s… unguarded. Then he shakes it off like it never happened.

“It is why,” he insists, and huffs. He looks back while rolling his eyes, and spots you. He immediately calls out your name and beckons you over.

You smile once you see him, and you walk towards him casually with your hands inside your lab coat pocket. "What?"

Johnny points at you immediately. "Tell Reed the machine is wrong."

You exhale with a smile, looking at his determined face. Determined for what, you don’t know yet. "...Hello to you too."

"Hi. Tell Reed the machine is wrong."

You glance between him and Reed. “What happened to our machine?"

"You got ninety-four point six percent with Dr. Scott."

You wait. "Okay?"

Johnny stares. The fact that you're not immediately alarmed somehow makes him look even more alarmed. "No, not okay."

You laugh. "Why?"

"Because it doesn't make sense. I mean what does the machine think is happening?" Johnny asks, already spiraling. "You guys barely know each other."

You open your mouth, but Johnny keeps going. "You've worked together for, what, eight months?"

"A year and a half."

“That’s not helping,” he mutters immediately.

You study him for a moment. “Helping what?”

Johnny ignores that completely. “It’s not just about time anyway,” he continues. “It’s about context. Shared experience. Patterns. You don’t just build compatibility off proximity and shared work hours.”

“…And what counts as real compatibility?” you ask quietly.

Johnny opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. For the first time, the confidence slips just slightly at the edges, because the answer he almost gives is not scientific at all.

And he knows it.

Johnny is beginning to feel beyond frustrated. He’s done all this and all that, but he just… doesn’t have enough confidence yet. He doesn’t have that one final push to make him brave enough to actually tell you about his feelings. Tonight, he’s pacing in the common room like the floor has personally offended him. Then, he sees a rocky, orange build in front of him. “Ben!”

Ben stops, then sighs. “Whatever it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

Johnny blinks. “I haven’t told you what it is yet…”

Ben finally turns back to face him. He shrugs. “I’ve got an idea.”

Johnny huffs. “Nothing’s working. I don’t know what else to do to get her to come to me.” Johnny drags a hand down his face. “I tried the normal way, didn’t work. I tried the direct way, didn’t work. I tried… whatever I did, and it still didn’t work.”

Ben nods like this is normal information. “Then stop doin’ it.”

Johnny looks at him. “That’s your advice?”

Ben shrugs. “You ever try not runnin’ at a wall?”

Johnny blinks.

“…What does that mean?”

“It means,” Ben says, leaning back, “you keep actin’ like you gotta prove somethin’. Just stop chasin’ it.”

Johnny tilts his head, a bit confused, but somewhat getting it. Bless him. “So I… don’t initiate.”

Ben squints. “If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.”

Johnny nods, already locking in the interpretation. “I don’t initiate.” Johnny had stared at him for a long moment before asking, “And then what?”

Ben had shrugged. “Then she comes to you.”

Which, in hindsight, was not actually advice. It was just a sentence. But Johnny, unfortunately, hears it like a strategy.

The first time, you don’t think much of it.

Johnny not showing up to the lab at the usual time isn’t unheard of. He has missions. He has Reed. He has whatever chaotic schedule comes with being Johnny Storm. So you keep working. You assume he’ll appear later, sliding into the room mid-task like he always does, making some comment about how you look like you haven’t blinked in hours.

But he doesn’t.

Huh, must’ve been super busy today. You think.

The second time it happens, you catch it early enough that it feels worse. You run into him in the hallway outside the lab in the morning, and you see him before he sees you.

When he finally sees you, his expression changes the way it always does, like you’ve become the most natural point of focus in the room. The warmth is there, the familiarity is there, but something underneath it feels restrained, as though it doesn’t quite reach the surface the way it usually does.

“Hey,” he says when you approach.

“Hey,” you reply, automatically matching his tone, because that part hasn’t changed yet.

For a brief moment, it almost feels normal. You ask him if he’s still available later to go get some coffee you’d scheduled together, expecting the usual easy confirmation, maybe a joke about how you’re the only person who tries to make him sit still for breaks.

Instead, Johnny goes quiet for a fraction too long. It’s subtle, not enough to interrupt the rhythm of the conversation outright, but enough that you notice the shift in him as he searches for something to say.

“Yeah,” he starts, then hesitates, and when he continues, it comes out slightly less certain. “Actually, I might have to rain check that.”

“A rain check,” you repeat, because it sounds wrong coming from him.

He nods quickly, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to reinforce it before it can be questioned. “Yeah. Reed’s got me tied up with something. It came up at the last minute.”

There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t sit right. Most importantly, he is not someone who usually steps away from time with you without making it sound like a loss he intends to fix.

You study him for a moment longer, and that’s when you start noticing the details you might have missed otherwise. The way his posture is slightly more controlled than usual, the way his gaze flickers away from yours a fraction too soon, like he is afraid that if he holds it too long, something will slip.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Johnny nods immediately, but there is a delay before the nod settles into something convincing. “Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat that feels like an afterthought he didn’t mean to reveal, he adds, “I’m fine.”

He looks at you properly then, and for a second you see it more clearly. Not distance exactly, and not indifference, but effort. Like he is trying to maintain a version of himself that does not naturally fit the situation he is in.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. When you don’t respond right away, he continues, a little more quickly now, “We’ll reschedule. I’ll let you know.”

By the third, fourth, fifth time, you stop pretending you don’t notice. He still shows up (sometimes), still helps, and still answers when you ask him things. But everything has shifted half a step to the side, like he’s deliberately trying not to occupy the same space in the same way.

Even the jokes change.

They’re still there, just… less immediate. Like he’s letting silence happen before deciding whether to fill it. And worse than that, he starts leaving first. Not in a rude way, but in a careful way, like he’s trying not to overstay something you didn’t realize had a limit. 

It takes you a while to bring it up, mostly because at first you keep convincing yourself there isn’t anything to bring up. People drift a little without it meaning anything deeper than that. Except Johnny doesn’t really “drift.” Not like this.

So when you finally catch him alone in the lab doorway one afternoon, you decide you’re just going to ask. He looks up when you call his name.

“Hey,” he says, like always.

“Hey,” you reply, but you don’t move back to your work this time.

Instead, you just look at him for a second longer than usual, trying to figure out where exactly the shift happened. Johnny notices that immediately. Of course he does.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a little too quickly.

You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “I think something’s changed,” you bring it up.

That makes him pause. “What do you mean?”

You lean back slightly against the edge of the table, folding your arms without really thinking about it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “You’ve just been different lately. You’re around less. You keep rescheduling things. Even when you’re here, it feels like you’re halfway somewhere else.”

You pause, then add, a little more quietly, like you’re afraid that this is the case, “Did I do something?”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. “What? No,” he says immediately, almost horrified by the idea.

But then it fades a little, like the certainty doesn’t hold. “No, it’s not that.”

You watch him carefully now. “Then what is it?”

Johnny opens his mouth, closes it again, and lets out a breath through his nose like he’s trying to decide whether he’s about to say something stupid or something irreversible.

“It’s… advice,” he says eventually.

That makes you blink, looking at him like you’re silently saying ‘are you kidding me?’

“Advice.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once, like that explains everything and also absolutely nothing. “From Ben.”

You stare at him for a second. “…Ben told you to start avoiding me?”

“No,” Johnny says quickly, then corrects himself just as fast. “Not like that. He said I was doing too much. Like I was…” He stops, clearly searching for the wording, then gives up a little. “He said I should stop chasing and just… let things happen.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“And your interpretation of that was to disappear?”

“I thought,” he says, slower, “if I stopped being in your face all the time, you’d have space. And then you’d… come to me.”

That lands in the air between you in a way that makes the room feel quieter than it was a second ago.

“…Come to you?”

He nods once, like he fully hears how bad that sounds now that it’s out loud. “Yeah,” he says, more uncertain now. “That was the idea.”

I shake my head in even more confusion. “What do I need to come to you for?”

“Just… uhhh…” Johnny stands there, confused on how to go on with this.

“Okay, don’t answer that, just… That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you describe out loud,” you say.

Johnny gives you a look. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” For a second, it almost resets into something lighter. But then he goes quiet again, and whatever humor was in his expression fades back into something more unsettled.

“I just didn’t know how else to do it,” he admits.

You take a step closer without really thinking about it. “Do what?” you ask, softer now.

Johnny looks at you, and this time he doesn’t try to joke his way around it.  Instead, he just exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Tell you,” he says quietly. “That I like you. Without messing it up.”

For a second, you don’t say anything.

It isn’t that you don’t understand him. You do. It’s just that your brain takes a moment to process what exactly he just said, because it doesn’t fit neatly into any of the explanations you had been building over the past week.

Johnny watches you carefully while that happens, which only makes it harder to think, because he looks like he’s bracing for impact even though he’s standing completely still.

“I—” he starts, then stops himself almost immediately, shaking his head slightly. “Okay, no, I’m not doing the talking thing right. Just—ignore that. Forget I said it. That was—”

“Johnny,” you interrupt gently, not loud, just enough to pull him back.

He goes quiet again. You take a breath, slower than usual, trying to steady yourself in the way you normally do when something unexpected comes up in the lab.

“So,” you say after a moment, “your plan was to avoid me until I came to you.”

He hesitates. “…Yeah.”

“And that was supposed to help you tell me you like me.”

“Also yes,” he admits, a little miserably.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing experimental results that don’t behave the way they’re supposed to. “That’s not how people work,” you say.

“I know that now,” he says quickly. “I panicked.”

“You’ve been panicking?” you ask.

Johnny lets out a breath that sounds halfway like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Kind of,” he says. “Yeah.”

You glance down briefly, then back at him. “I thought you were… I don’t know,” you admit, a little more honestly than you intended. “Trying to prove something. Or that it was just the test. Or that it was easier to turn it into a challenge than actually… yeah.”

Johnny shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says, firmer now. “No, it wasn’t that.”

He hesitates, then adds, more carefully, “I didn’t start doing any of this because of the test. I started because I was trying not to ruin it.” He looks at you like he needs you to understand that part specifically.

“I’ve known I like you,” he says, a little more quietly now. “For a long time. That’s not new. What’s new is that I actually said it out loud and then immediately realized I have no idea what I’m doing with it.”

Then, almost helplessly, “So I listened to Ben.”

You huff a small laugh at that before you can stop yourself. Johnny shifts slightly, like he’s preparing himself again, but this time it’s not for retreat.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says more simply. “But I think I already kind of did.”

You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “You did something very stupid,” you agree.

He nods immediately.

“Yeah.”

“But,” you add, after a pause, “you didn’t mess it up.”

That makes him look up properly. You exhale, a little softer now. “You just made it more complicated than it needed to be.”

Johnny stares at you for a moment like he’s not entirely sure whether that’s better or worse.

“…Is that fixable?” he asks.

“I mean, it’s not like you burned down my lab or something. Of course it’s fixable.” You say with a smile. That gets a real laugh out of him this time, and something tight inside him finally loosens. 

Then, quieter again, “So… what now?”

You look at him for a second longer than necessary, and this time, instead of overthinking it, you just answer him plainly. “Now you stop avoiding me,” you say. “And we figure it out properly.”

Johnny nods once, absolutely no hesitation this time. “Okay,” he says.

In the warm afternoon light of the building hallway, he starts to lean in, almost instinctively. You do too, but then,

“Wait.”

Johnny pulls back slightly, confused, and a bit worried. “What is it?” He asks in a low voice, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“You did all of that because of the stupid soulmate machine?” You immediately regretted the words that came out of your mouth, because—

“You called it the soulmate machine!” Johnny exclaims, wide eyes and a smile that’s brighter than the sun. 

“Oh my God, no, I—” You start, but he interrupts you.

“Nope! No take backs! You called it the soulmate machine, it is officially named the—”

You kiss him.

Honestly, it isn't even a conscious decision.

One second he's standing there preparing what is undoubtedly going to become the most obnoxious victory speech in recorded history, and the next you're grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down.

The rest of the sentence disappears completely, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Johnny Storm shuts up.

The hallway goes very, very quiet. When you finally pull back, Johnny just stares at you. You stare back.

His brain is clearly attempting to reboot.

"...Did you just kiss me?" he asks.

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Oh my God. No, hold on." He points at you, looking genuinely overwhelmed now. "You kissed me."

"Yes."

"You kissed me."

"Johnny."

"You kissed—"

You place a hand over his mouth.

"You're ruining it."

He makes a deeply offended noise against your palm for approximately two seconds. You release your hand, then the biggest grin you've ever seen appears on his face.

"You like me."

You groan.

"I literally just kissed you."

"I know!" he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. "I'm just making sure we're both on the same page!"

additional notes: thanks for reading till the end!

the title idea was literally inspired by a statistics class that i'm doing in uni atm, the same class that i have finals for in a week...

also, as i've mentioned before i definitely felt disappointed with the end results of this fic but!!! it's my first one in a long time, and it's my first ever in this account. so please stay tuned for more works! i swear i'm planning to write something better for you guys :)