❝ the mad ones ❞

You don’t see the flash so much as feel it—heat skimming your cheek, a warm palm braced over the space where your shoulder would have met a taxi door that swung open without warning. Your coffee sloshes, your bag thumps your hip, and the city keeps breathing around you like it didn’t watch your life almost become latte art on the pavement.

“Dooring civilians is a no-no,” says the man attached to the hand. He smells faintly like struck matches and sugar. “Hi. Johnny Storm. Resident public safety device and your very temporary traffic cone.”

You look at his hand before you look at his face. It’s steady and gentle on your shoulder, heat banked. You step out of the danger zone and he lifts it, all polite, like he remembers from some PR seminar that people are not props.

“Thanks,” you say, neutral as the sky. You check the time—eight minutes to pre-rounds—and start walking again. The hospital is four blocks away, your scrubs are clean only because you slept in a T-shirt on your couch like a goblin, and your badge keeps catching on the strap of your bag. You don’t have time for the Human Torch.

He jogs to keep up, half a grin curving his mouth. In person he looks exactly like he looks on screens and also nothing like it. Honey-brown eyes, ridiculous lashes, curls that have ideas of their own. A navy bomber jacket and a confidence that could power the grid. “You okay?”

“I’m late,” you say.

“That’s my cue to get out of your way,” he says cheerfully, failing to get out of your way by exactly one stride. “But, uh, quick question. When someone saves you and your coffee in one heroic move, do they at least get your name? So I can brag accurately?”

“You want to brag about catching a taxi door?” You flick a glance at him. “Aim higher.”

He laughs, sudden and delighted, like you’ve thrown him a new toy. “I’m very good at aiming higher. You should see me with skyscrapers.”

“Hard pass.” The crosswalk chirps. You hit the button like maybe today the city will care. “And it’s Y/N.”

He says it back like he’s checking the pronunciation of something sacred. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He looks like he might say something else, so you cut it off with a look you’ve perfected in the last six months of medical training: please stop talking, people die at my job and I would like to keep them alive.

He lifts his palms, mock-surrender, and actually drops back. “Break a leg,” he calls instead, as you beat the light. “But not literally. That’s your department.”

You don’t turn. You do, against your will, smile into your coffee lid where no one can see.

You tell yourself you won’t see him again, because your life is a series of corridors and hard choices, and his is…not. You tell yourself this when you change into your white coat and your attending says your name like an alert; when the electronic medical record logs you out in the middle of an order set; when a toddler eats a sticker and you learn what calm feels like in a room where three adults are panicking.

You stop telling yourself that around 12:03 p.m., when a shadow lengthens across the sidewalk outside the hospital entrance and a familiar voice, softer now, says, “Is the latte cart on strike or are you personally boycotting happiness?”

He’s leaning against the low wall with a cup and a bag in his hands. He wears sunglasses the exact color of his ego and removes them like he might be a decent person. The steam curls up from the lid. Your stomach remembers it is a separate being and makes a noise.

“Peace offering,” he says, offering the bag. “I guessed with the drink. If it’s wrong, I’ll drink it and pretend I meant to.”

You take the bag because your hands take things without asking you. Inside is a breakfast sandwich, still warm. You hold up the cup, squint at the scribble. “Cardamom chai?”

His grin gets brighter but not bigger. “Lucky guess.”

“Lucky would be correct charting on the first try,” you say, but you take a sip and your shoulders drop. “This is dangerously close to acceptable.”

“I’ll aim for barely passable next time,” he says solemnly. “I don’t want to spoil you.”

“You already tried to spoil me with a near-death experience,” you say, and his laugh this time is embarrassed around the edges. You don’t expect that.

“Fair point.” He tips his chin toward the glass doors. “Is this a bad place to loiter? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Everything gets me in trouble,” you say. “Sitting on a bench is the least of my problems.”

He sits when you sit, like he’s taking instructions from your posture. For five minutes, you eat and he doesn’t talk. He watches the street, greets a passerby who recognizes him with a nod that says I’m at work but so are you, let’s be normal together. When your pager bleats, he stands, quick. “Go be a superhero,” he says. “I’ll handle the bench.”

“You’re not a bench guy,” you tell him, stuffing the last bite into your mouth as you stand. “You’re a rooftop guy.”

“Who says I can’t expand my brand?” he calls after you, and when you glance back, he’s giving a thumbs-up to an elderly man who’s giving him a very slow thumbs-up in return.

After that, he becomes…a fixture. You don’t know how it happens. You start seeing him the way you start hearing a song everywhere once you notice it. Not every day—your life doesn’t allow for every day—but often enough that your colleagues make faces in the elevator.

“You’re trending,” says Maya, the other intern who shares your locker and occasionally your snacks. “I saw a photo of you on some superhero fan account. Storm looks like he wants to marry your coffee.”

“He wants to marry attention,” you say, upping your ponytail. “I’m a long line in his religion.”

Maya cackles. “Well, Pastor Storm is persistent. He brought you soup last night.”

“It was terrible,” you say, remembering the way he grimaced and admitted Reed made it. “I ate it to prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That I’m stronger than I look.”

From then on, the soup is replaced by sandwiches and the kind of protein bars you buy when you’re trying to convince your stomach you respect it. He learns your schedule like he’s mapping a weather pattern—never inside, never where you work, but just out of the blast radius, warming the air with the kind of talk that requires nothing from you if you have nothing to give.

Sometimes he brings Franklin, a tiny disaster in sneakers with a gap-toothed smile and a dinosaur backpack. “This is the nice doctor lady,” Franklin announces the first time, hands on hips like a foreman. “She gives stickers and she speaks to me like I’m not a potato.”

“I have all the time in the world for non-potatoes,” you tell him, solemn, and hand him a tiger sticker because you are not above bribery. Johnny watches like you’ve cured something incurable, his mouth soft.

Sometimes Sue swings through the lobby with the efficiency of a person who could run a country and calmly comments, “You have very good posture for someone who lives here.” Sometimes Ben sits on the bench and tells Johnny horribly earnest dad jokes until you laugh and deny you laughed. Sometimes Reed stops by just long enough to ask if you’ve read a paper about thermal regulation in the ICU and then leaves before you can lie.

Johnny, always, stays as long as you allow and no longer. He walks you to the corner and never past it unless you ask. He warms his palm just enough to thaw your fingers when the wind knifes off the river. He tells you stories that are small and stupid on purpose, and you find yourself storing them for later, like little heat packs in your coat.

Neutral, you tell yourself. Neutral is safe. You keep it there because you know how to do hard things, and not giving your heart to a man whose job is to almost die in public qualifies.

The Monday that unthreads you starts ordinary. Morning rounds, an attending who raises one eyebrow and says “convince me,” an ICU consult that leaves the shape of its monitors inside your eyelids. Your patient is forty-seven with a complication no textbook prepared you for, and you spend all day and the hours after hoping stubbornness counts as medicine.

It doesn’t, not always. You know this, but knowing and holding it are different verbs.

When it’s over, you walk until you’re not walking anymore. You don’t plan to end up on the bench outside the hospital. It’s just where your legs put you after you’ve washed your hands for the fourth time and spoken to a family and looked at your notes like a thing you could fix if you found the right pen. You sit. You put your face in your hands. You mean to take three breaths and go back to being a person.

The door hisses. A weight settles at arm’s length. A paper rustles, then doesn’t. You don’t look up.

“If you say ‘bad day?’ in a sing-song,” you say into your palms, voice hoarse, “I’m going to set you on fire.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Johnny says, quiet like you’ve never heard him, not even at midnight on his most careful nights. “You don’t have to talk. I can just be here.”

He is. For a while, the city is a sound machine—buses kneading the avenue, someone arguing gently about takeout on speakerphone, the heater exhaling above the doors. You cry in the small, contained way you learned as a kid when you didn’t want anyone to notice; it feels childish and necessary.

He doesn’t touch you. He watches your breathing like a lifeguard watches the surface of a pool. Only when you sniff and laugh at yourself, ridiculous and broken in the same breath, does he speak.

“Did anyone tell you to go home?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I have notes,” you say. It sounds pathetic even to you. “And I said I would—” You swallow. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to you,” he says, not arguing the point, honoring it. “Can I…can I say something dumb?”

“You usually do.”

He huffs, like you’ve given him his footing back for a second. “Right. Okay. I fly into buildings that are trying to kill me. Sometimes I win. Sometimes I don’t. It took me a long time to understand that losing isn’t always a moral failure.” He tips his head as if he’s asking permission to say the next words. “Sometimes the job is just being there so they don’t go alone. Sometimes the job is being a hand that holds steady when everything else is noise.”

You want to argue. You also want very badly to stop arguing with the universe for one minute.

“It still hurts,” you say.

“Yeah.” He stares at the curb. His voice goes rough at the edges, like a match that didn’t quite catch. “It’s supposed to. It means you were there.”

You let that sit. He shifts, finally, closer by inches, not enough to ghost your boundary lines, just enough that if you moved your hand you could find his. You do, without deciding to first. His palm is warm the way campfires are warm when you sit close enough to feel your skin remember itself.

“I’m not going to do the thing where I tell you you’re incredible and strong and perfect,” he says, smile tucked into the words so they don’t bruise. “You’re human. You’re exhausted. You did your best and it still sucked. It’s allowed to suck. But if it helps at all, you are one of the most…stubbornly good people I’ve ever seen. And I know a couple of them.”

“Name them,” you say, watery, because it’s muscle memory, because he’s offering you banter like a handhold on a cliff and you take it.

“My sister. She can make a plan out of smoke. My best friend; he once carried a car.” He taps his chest with his free hand. “A guy whose powers are basically ‘fire, but polite.’ And you.”

You stare at him. He ducks his head like he’s aware he’s just bared more than skin.

“Also,” he adds, softer, “I know I keep floating around your life like a balloon that forgot the party ended, but I’m not here for the bit. I like seeing you. I want you to know that you’re not alone, even if I’m just the idiot in a bomber jacket who stands outside your building with a bagel like a golden retriever.”

“Franklin did call you a golden retriever,” you say, and your voice breaks on retriever and you hate it less than you thought you would. He grins, relieved.

“He did. I aspire to earn the title.” He nudges the paper bag you hadn’t registered was there until now. “I brought you a bagel, by the way. And a protein bar. I also replaced Reed’s soup with food made by humans.”

You answer with something like a laugh. He squeezes your hand just once, a punctuation mark.

“Can I take you home?” he asks, cautious, almost formal. “Or to wherever they keep interns who pretend they don’t need sleep.”

“I have to write,” you say, the last tether to the version of yourself that believes if you just keep moving, nothing can catch you. Then: “Will you walk me to the bus stop? I’ll…sit in the back and type. Fall asleep on the keys. Live the dream.”

“I’ve had worse dreams.” He stands and waits, like he does, until you do. He doesn’t let go of your hand until you do. He looks up at the hospital like a person who knows he is not its hero and respects it. “For the record,” he says as you start toward the corner, “you’re allowed to text me ridiculous things at 3 a.m. about cafeteria food. You’re also allowed to text me meaningful things at 3 a.m. about anything. I’m up a lot. Fire insomnia.”

“Is that a clinical term?” you ask.

“Yup. Reed invented it.”

On the bus, you write two notes that matter and three that don’t. You do, in fact, fall asleep on your keyboard and wake to a message from a new contact—Storm, tragically—telling you not to read and walk. You hate that it makes you do that silent smiling thing you’d make fun of in anyone else.

The days after tip, slow. You don’t wake up a different person. You don’t suddenly fling your arms around Johnny and declare an end to your careful neutrality. But you start to notice things you hadn’t let yourself notice. The way he listens like he’s storing what you say in a place that can’t burn. The way he looks when he’s not on—quieter, yes, but also steadier. The jokes that deflate his own ego on purpose. The small, boring kindnesses: making sure your water bottle is full, sitting with Ben while he waits for scans, telling Reed to stop doing science at you when your eyes are at half-mast.

You also notice him sometimes at a distance—on a rooftop two buildings over, a bright streak that slows to land beside firefighters and becomes a man handing them equipment like he has done this exact choreography a thousand times. You watch him come back to earth like a person who chooses it on purpose. You don’t tell him you watch. He doesn’t tell you he knows.

One late Saturday afternoon, Sue texts you, which would be alarming if she hadn’t made you put her number in your phone with the instruction If my brother overwhelms you, I will weaponize motherhood. She says they’re planting sunflowers and Franklin has declared that you are in charge of Tall. You read it in a supply closet between a dressing change and a chart and find yourself smiling at a mop.

You go to the Baxter with shampoo in your hair because you nap-showered like a raccoon. Johnny meets you in the lobby like he’s catching a plane—fast steps, but he reins himself in hard enough to skid when he reaches you. “Hi,” he says, and it’s simple, not performative. You hand him a Tupperware of cookies because you were raised by people who believe in feeding whoever feeds you.

“Do not incinerate these with your eyes,” you tell him as the elevator doors close.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “I’ll use gentle heat. Like a summer evening.”

The roof is a spill of planters and string lights and wind chimes made out of beakers. Ben waves you over to a row of stubborn tomato plants and mutters about trellises. Reed hands you a trowel and tries not to explain photosynthesis. Sue kisses your cheek, then Franklin sticks twelve sunflower seeds in your palm and announces you the Queen of Tall.

You kneel with Franklin in the loam and listen to him explain how seeds are like secret letters to the sky. Johnny stands a little away, watching you with that look you’ve tried not to give a name. He looks less like a comet today and more like a good thing that stayed.

“You’re staring,” you tell him without looking, because you can feel it like warmth on your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s my new hobby. I’m trying to limit it to socially acceptable times.”

“Does that include when I’m elbow-deep in dirt?”

“Especially,” he says, and it’s so affectionate and so unadorned that you almost drop a seed. He clears his throat, tries to make it a joke. “It’s a very compelling elbow.”

“You’re a menace.”

“A certified one,” he says, and pokes the edge of your shoe with his. You don’t move away.

He doesn’t try anything on the roof. He is the person he promised: patient. At one point he brushes a smudge of soil from the corner of your mouth with his thumb and then flinches at his own audacity. You catch his wrist, pull his hand away, but you don’t put distance in your eyes. He exhales like he just got something right.

When you leave, he walks you to the subway and leans against a lamppost like a cliché made tolerable by sincerity. “Text me when you get home,” he says.

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you say because it’s a habit now, because the ground under your feet is changing and you want one more day of control.

“I know,” he says, easy. “Text me anyway, Doctor Y/N.”

You text him. You always do.

The next week is a blur of night shifts and a field trip to a satellite clinic and a meeting that could have been an email. You don’t see him for three days and find the outline of him in the empty spaces—bench at noon, lamppost at seven. You hate missing him and also don’t. It feels like missing water when you didn’t know you were thirsty.

Thursday night, the sky goes ugly in a way that means something is wrong somewhere. The ER murmurs around you like a beehive. There’s a news flash on a mounted TV about a warehouse fire in the piers district and your stomach does a thing, which you tell yourself is a normal thing for a person who lives in this city and knows people who run toward danger for a living. You tell yourself a lot of things.

At 2 a.m., the automatic doors wheeze and he’s there, singed curls, soot on his cheekbone, bomber jacket over a t-shirt with a ragged hole where heat got ambitious. He looks…fine, mostly. You only know it’s not entirely true because his hand is tucked wrong against his side and people who aren’t in pain don’t cradle themselves like something broke in the language between bones.

“Hey,” he says, too casual even for him. “I got into a fight with a ceiling.”

You’re moving before you decide to. “Triage is—”

“I’m okay,” he says quickly, glancing at you like he understands you, like he knows exactly which switch is about to flip. “Tiny burns. I thought—” He stops, searches your face. “I thought if I showed up here, it wouldn’t be weird to ask you to tell me I’m okay.”

It’s not weird. It’s the opposite. You take him to an empty curtained bay and make him sit. You wash your hands, glove up, try not to give yourself away with your eyes.

“Shirt,” you say, and when he arches a brow, eyebrows already scorched, you glare. “Up, not off. This is a hospital, not your PR campaign.”

He smirks, but obeys, lifting enough that you can see the angled scorch lines on his side and the tender red of the small second-degree burn that’s going to make him mad tomorrow. You clean and cool and dress it while he stares at the ceiling tile like a treasury of secrets. He winces once and pretends he didn’t. You don’t call him on it. You shouldn’t be allowed to want to kiss someone and also tell them to stop lying to you about pain in the same breath.

“You’re fine,” you tell him, voice firmer than you feel. “You’ll live.”

“You sure? Because the last person who put a Band-Aid on me told me I needed to drink more water.” He looks down at you like your focus is a place he wants to live. “Thank you.”

You secure the tape, step back, and only then realize your hands are shaking. He sees it. He always sees things you don’t think you’re showing.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice goes soft like the hospital went quiet around you. “I’m okay.”

“I know.” You swallow. “I just—” You don’t have a tidy sentence, so you don’t pretend. You look at him, at the soot on his cheek, at the breath in his chest that you would, if you could, protect with both hands. “I don’t like not knowing.”

“Me neither,” he says. “Which is embarrassing for a guy whose job is one long shrug emoji.”

You snort and then you’re almost laughing, which is absurd at 2 a.m. in a curtained bay with a celebrity whose superpower is also a personality test. He sits up, careful of the dressing, and doesn’t reach for you. You are the one who reaches. It surprises you both—your palm finding his jaw, your thumb smudging away ash. His eyes catch on yours and do not move.

“This is maybe a terrible idea,” he says, and his mouth curves like a prayer. “Because my track record with impulse control is not what my sister would call exemplary. But, Y/N…” He inhales, gentle like not to spook an animal. “I like you. Not the fireworks way—okay, yes, that too—but the other way. The boring, showing up, I remember your favorite snack and your least favorite attending and I would like the privilege of being the person you text when your day is both good and awful way. I—” He tips his head into your hand, the tiniest pressure. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ll keep being in your orbit regardless. But if there’s a version of your life where I get to be more than the guy on the bench…can I take you on a date when you sleep next? An actual one. With food not purchased in a lobby.”

You stare at him, and all the neutral you’ve been building like a wall softens like clay in sun. You think of his hand, warm and steady on that awful Monday when you needed exactly that and nothing else. You think of Franklin’s sunflower, now a thin green miracle reaching, stubborn and sure. You think of how every time you looked up lately, he was exactly where you’d left him, waiting, not pushing, making space for you to breathe.

“Johnny,” you say, and his name tastes like heat and something you didn’t know you missed. “Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay like—”

“Like yes. A date.” You swallow. “And also…yes to the other parts. The boring parts. Especially the boring parts.”

He grins, slow and stunned like the sun coming up behind a building. Carefully—oh, he is so careful—he leans in. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, giving you every out even as he tips toward you. “Unless—”

You kiss him. You’re the one who does it, because you don’t want him to have to ask twice, because you don’t want to be the person who learned how to be stone and forgot how to be skin. It is not fireworks, not at first. It is a warm, steady light. It is his hand finding your waist like he’s been practicing gentleness at home. It is the way he exhales into your mouth like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

Somewhere far away, someone pages someone. The ER hums. In here, you and he exist in a pocket of heat that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with choice.

When you pull back, there’s soot on your lip and he wipes it with his thumb, smiling like he can’t help himself.

“Hi,” he says with an idiotic whisper-laugh, forehead barely touching yours. “I’m Johnny. I save coffee and sometimes people, and I’m very good at holding benches accountable. I also like you a frankly humiliating amount.”

“Hi,” you say, feeling ridiculous and very alive. “I’m Y/N. I’m late for charting and early for a life I didn’t plan on.”

“I can live with that,” he says, and kisses you again, quick, like a yes stamped twice.

The date waits until your next free evening, which is a joke the universe tells you by making you free exactly one Tuesday you thought you wouldn’t be. He picks you up outside the hospital like a teenager who got his license yesterday and plays it cool by opening your door. He takes you somewhere that has cloth napkins and dim lights and a waiter who does not look like they’re moonlighting as a superhero. Sue texts to say Don’t set the tablecloth on fire; Reed texts a diagram of fire-retardant polymers; Ben texts a thumbs-up emoji and then six hotdog emojis for no comprehensible reason. You turn your phone face down and watch Johnny watch you like he’s at his favorite show.

You talk. About dumb things—your mutual hatred of cafeteria chicken, his disastrous attempt to make pancakes with Franklin who added seventeen blueberries and a lego—and about not dumb things—how he learned to come back to earth after flying for a living, how you learned to walk into rooms you’re not ready for and leave them anyway.

He walks you home. He stands on your stoop with his hands in his pockets like he’s nineteen and the night is a possibility. He kisses you like he means to keep doing this forever and also like forever scares him if he says it out loud. He laughs against your mouth when your neighbor’s cat screams at a pigeon like it discovered religion.

He does not come upstairs because you say you have rounds early and he says there is nothing on earth cooler than kissing you on a stoop and going home like a gentleman. He texts you when he’s back at the Baxter: made it without getting arrested for excessive handsomeness. sue says hi. franklin says did you tell her she’s the Queen of Tall. ben says i need to learn how to use my phone better.

The next weeks are a collage you want to frame. Lunches on that bench you almost baptized with your tears where he brings you sandwiches and you bring him stories and you both bring each other a steadiness that surprises you every time. Evenings on the Baxter roof where Franklin’s sunflower gets taller and taller and Johnny does that thing where he makes the air warm just enough for your bare arms and you pretend you don’t notice that you nestle closer to him the minute the sun drops. A Friday where your shift ends early and he picks you up and you fall asleep in his car and wake with his jacket over you and a note on your knee that says i’m inside for two minutes getting you fries, do not move, i love you, (kidding. unless.)

You don’t say I love you in a neon way. It sneaks up in little civilian phrases. Did you eat. Text me when you’re home. I left my hoodie in your apartment on purpose. It curdles into something solid one evening when you see him on TV doing the thing with the fire and the impossible, and instead of the pinch of fear you’ve been carrying like a talisman, you feel something like—pride. Not in his power. In his gentleness after. In the way he walks back through the sliding doors of your world and doesn’t ask you to clap.

When you ask him how he handles the public part—the noise, the opinions—he shrugs like he’s practiced being okay. “I used to chase it,” he says, honest in the way that makes your ribs ache. “It felt like proof. Now—I don’t know. Now it feels like weather. It’s there. I check it before I leave the house. I bring a jacket. I don’t worship the sky.”

“Do you bring a jacket because I stole your bomber?”

“You did not steal it; I placed it on your shoulders like a gentleman.” He kisses your forehead. “If it helps, I did steal your heart, so we’re even.”

“You’re impossible,” you say, but it’s fond and unafraid. He kisses you again like he knows.

The night he meets you outside after a truly stupid shift where everything that could be stupid was stupid, he does not say a single joke until you do. He just opens his arms and you go into them like you were always meant to. He warms his palms low on your back. He smells like clean cotton and a little like smoke and a lot like home.

“Consider this an intervention,” he murmurs into your hair. “You need sleep. And a human who will make you toast.”

“You can’t be trusted with toast.”

“I have grown,” he says, deadly serious. “I have evolved. I am a responsible heat source.”

“Prove it.”

He does, in your kitchen, carefully, watching the toast like it’s a temperamental patient. He butters it within an inch of its life and hands you the plate like an offering.

“See?” He beams, absurd and beautiful.

“I’m going to tell the internet you said that.”

He leans against your counter. “They already know.”

You eat toast at your counter like you’re old. He puts his head on your shoulder like he’s eighteen. You both laugh about something dumb Franklin said until you’re crying again, this time from relief, the earlier tears rewritten by the kind this life occasionally gives out as a prize.

Later, when you fall asleep on your couch and wake up in your bed with your shoes off and a note on your nightstand that says had to run out, emergency at the lab (reed tried to invent cereal that doesn’t get soggy; we all suffered), text me when you wake up—when you wake you text him and he answers in three seconds with a photo of Franklin wearing a colander and a label that says HEAD OF SECURITY—you let yourself stare at the ceiling and feel the fact of it: you did not mean to do this with your life, but you are a person who keeps showing up. And now you belong to someone else who does too.

A month after the bench, the sunflower opens. Franklin drags you over by the hand like he has discovered a planet. Johnny stands behind you, chin on your shoulder, and says in your ear, “Nice work, Queen of Tall.”

“You watered it when I forgot,” you say.

“Team effort.”

“Ben yelled at it for not respecting gravity,” Reed calls from a planter box.

“It listened!” Ben rumbles. “It knows what’s good for it.”

Sue smiles at you over a tray of seedlings like she’s been pretending not to know the ending of a book she’s read. Franklin leans his head against your hip and carefully, very carefully, Johnny slips his fingers through yours.

You lace yours back without looking. He kisses your temple like a secret. The city sweeps and rumbles and argues below and you think, suddenly, that from up here everything looks less like a fight and more like a conversation that started before you were born and will keep going without you. It makes you feel—peaceful. It makes you feel like maybe being human is a power after all.

You turn your face and he is right there, eyes soft, smile tucked into the corner where he keeps his sincerity. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. You kiss him. The sunflower tilts like a nosy neighbor. Franklin whoops. Ben pretends to avert his eyes and does not. Reed says something about photosynthetic symbolism and Sue shushes him.

You pull back and put your forehead to Johnny’s, the sky a bowl of good light above you. “Hi,” you say, because sometimes the oldest words are the right ones.

“Hi,” he says back, grinning against your mouth. “I’m your boyfriend now. It’s very serious.”

“It’s medically inadvisable,” you say. “Fire hazard.”

“I’ll be careful,” he whispers. “With all of it.”

He is. In the days after, in the weeks, he is careful and he is bright and he is absolute menace and he is patient in ways that make you want to sit down on floors and be grateful. You are still exhausted, still stubborn, still you. You don’t stop losing. He doesn’t stop flying. But when you sit on that bench now—on good days and bad—his hand finds yours like a decision you keep making. He warms your fingers. You cool his burn. You become boring together in the most miraculous way.

On a rainy Tuesday that belongs to no one, he shows up with an umbrella so big it makes you both look ridiculous and two cups of chai. He tips it over you so the rain slides away like it was never meant to touch you. You look up at him, at the way his curls get damp around his temples, at the way he is looking back like he still can’t believe you are a person who chose him.

“Storm?” you say.

“Doctor?” he says.

You stand on your toes and kiss him in the rain under a stupidly big umbrella with a city that finally, finally gave you something it didn’t immediately try to take back. He kisses you like yes, like thank you, like he will be here at the bench and the rooftop and the doorway to your day until you tell him to go, and maybe even after, because love, as it turns out, is a kind of gravity, too.

And you think: maybe this was the plan all along. Not written in a chart. Written in hands. Written in warmth. Written in the ordinary miracle of someone showing up when they don’t have to and refusing to go when you’re afraid to ask them to stay.

“Hey,” he murmurs, smiling into the corner of your mouth. “Want me to make you toast later?”

“You’re never allowed to stop,” you say, and you mean the toast and everything else, and he nods with that ridiculous earnestness that has become your favorite thing. He squeezes your fingers once, a punctuation mark you now recognize by heart.

“Copy that,” he says. “Slow burn, forever.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. zipped into view the moment you stepped out, whirring cheerfully with blinking lights and enthusiastic beeps that filled the hallway like confetti. You laughed and crouched down slightly, holding out your hand as the robot spun in a delighted little circle. “Hello, H.E.R.B.I.E., you miss me already?” You grinned, giving the top of his head an affectionate tap.

Before you could ask about the others, a familiar figure emerged from around the corner in a whirlwind of motion. Reed Richards looked like he'd just walked out of a scientific hurricane, shirt slightly wrinkled, tie askew, and hair in the kind of tousled state only existential stress could cause. “Oh, thank goodness.” He breathed, already halfway across the hall and closing the distance with long, purposeful strides.

In a rare show of affection, he wrapped you into a brief but firm hug, clinging like a man about to board a rocket. “Jeez, Reed,” You chuckled, stepping back as he released you. “Don’t you look thrilled for date night.” His expression twisted with half a smile and half a wince as he ran a hand down his face, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt like it was suffocating him. Behind him, H.E.R.B.I.E. let out a low, sympathetic beep.

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded a lot like a plea to the universe. “Johnny.” That was all you needed. One name, and the entire situation became crystal clear. Your best friend was a whirlwind of chaotic energy, and wherever he went, trouble wasn’t far behind, usually smiling, charming, and completely unapologetic.

Almost as if summoned by name, or more likely because he had been eavesdropping, Johnny Storm burst into the room like a one-man parade. “There’s my favorite girl!” He announced, arms already open wide. Before you could react, he was scooping you up in a familiar, dizzying spin, his laughter rumbling against your ear. You couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped you, the sound bubbling up like it always did around him, effortless, easy.

Only when he seemed satisfied with the display of affection did he finally set you back down, but even then, his hands lingered on your waist like he hadn’t quite decided to let you go. You didn't exactly mind. When the room stopped spinning, you looked up, and instantly regretted it. God, he looked good. Too good. A maroon bomber jacket was thrown over a white tee, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows with casual flair, displaying his veiny forearms that never failed to make your mouth water.

His blonde hair, annoyingly perfect as always, caught the light just enough to look sun-kissed, and those blue eyes sparkled with mischief, like he was already planning his next stunt. Behind him, Reed cleared his throat meaningfully. Johnny glanced over his shoulder with a grin that was all innocence and zero guilt, as if he hadn’t just been encouraging a toddler to weaponize household objects moments prior.

“Causing trouble already?” You asked, folding your arms with mock sternness and one raised brow. “Me? Never.” He winked, oozing charm, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him completely. At last, his hands dropped from your waist, and even that small absence left your skin tingling. You tried to focus as he dashed off, already on a mission to corral the minefield of toys strewn across the living room floor.

You watched as he picked up a stuffed alien by one leg, then a miniature drum, and then immediately dropped both to make a siren noise with a plastic fire truck. Unsurprisingly, the room was destined to be chaos again the moment Franklin reentered it, but Johnny was at least pretending to tidy up, which was worth something. “How do you deal with him?” Reed asked, sounding as exhausted as he looked.

He stood there taking in the sight of his brother-in-law playing with his son's toys, rubbing at his temple with the air of a man who knew he’d never truly be free of the chaos. You offered a shrug, casual but fond. “Years of practice. He grows on you, eventually.” You didn’t even have to look to know Johnny had heard you. A dramatic gasp echoed behind you, followed by the sound of him stumbling backward as if wounded.

“Hey! I can hear you!” He cried, one hand over his heart like you’d mortally offended him. Grinning, you stuck your tongue out at him like the mature adult that you were. Before Johnny could retaliate, probably with a pillow launched in your direction or another lecture about how everyone secretly loved him, a small blur shot around the corner like a pint-sized comet.

“Y/N!” You turned just in time, crouching down with open arms as Franklin launched himself at you. His tiny body slammed into your chest, and you caught him easily, steadying the both of you with a laugh. “Whoa, careful there, sweetheart.” You chuckled, pulling him in tight. His little hands curled around your neck as if he hadn't seen you in years, and you pressed your face into his soft hair.

“My goodness,” You whispered, leaning back to take a better look at him. “You have got to stop growing.” You showered his chubby cheeks in kisses, laughing as he giggled uncontrollably, little legs kicking in excitement. The sound lit something up in you, pure, uncomplicated joy, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded out. All that mattered was the warmth of Franklin’s hug and the sound of his happiness echoing off the walls.

Which is why, you didn’t notice Johnny had stopped moving. Across the room, he stood frozen mid-step, a toy truck dangling forgotten from one hand. His usual smirk had softened into something quieter, eyes fixed on you and Franklin like he was watching a dream he hadn’t dared name. There was something in his expression, something fond, unguarded, maybe even a little stunned. For once, Johnny Storm was speechless.

“Y/N, hello darling.” Susan’s voice broke through the chorus of giggles still echoing in the room. You glanced up to find her walking in with effortless grace, powder blue dress nipped at the waist, pearl earrings, blonde hair pinned up in soft curls. Even when wrangling genius husbands and precocious toddlers, Susan Storm somehow made it look easy. You shifted Franklin on your hip, his arms still looped loosely around your neck as you rose to greet her.

“Hi, Sue, you look gorgeous.” You grinned, wrapping one arm around her in a warm hug. “Thank you.” She returned the smile, her eyes softening as she squeezed your hand with that calm, nurturing energy only she could exude. Her gaze drifted to Franklin, then flicked briefly toward Johnny, who was now pretending to inspect the bookshelf but had clearly not stopped watching you since you walked in.

A knowing glimmer sparkled in her eyes, but she let it pass with only a subtle lift of her brow. “Are you sure this isn’t an inconvenience?” She asked gently, though the hesitation in her voice told you she already felt guilty. “I know watching a toddler on a Friday night isn’t exactly ideal.” You scoffed before she could finish the thought, pulling Franklin a little closer. His sleepy weight pressed against you like he belonged there.

“He’s my godson, there’s really nowhere else I’d rather be.” You replied easily, brushing a bit of hair from Franklin’s forehead before placing a loving kiss on his forehead. “Get outta here, lovebirds.” Johnny chimed in, slipping an arm over your shoulders with the casual ease of someone who’d been doing it since childhood. His other hand waved dramatically toward the door. “Franklin’s in fantastic hands.”

You rolled your eyes, snorting at the awful pun. “Really?” You muttered under your breath, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. He grinned, utterly unapologetic, and leaned a little more of his weight against you like he had no intention of moving anytime soon. “Both children will be in one piece when you two come back.” You promised, giving Johnny a pointed side glance.

Susan let out a quiet chuckle, her eyes flicking toward her brother, clearly amused. “We won’t be out too late,” She assured again, though her tone had softened, more relaxed now. “If he gets fussy, there are snacks in the kitchen, and his bedtime is around eight.” Reed reappeared from the hallway, his composure mostly restored, tie straightened, coat neatly draped over one arm.

With his usual efficiency, he helped Susan into her coat, adjusting the shoulders with a care that made you momentarily forget he was the world’s most distracted genius. Before leaving, Susan turned one last time, her gaze resting on you and Franklin, and just briefly, on the way Johnny’s arm still lingered around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing idle patterns against your upper arm.

She mouthed one final thank you, before slipping through the front door with Reed in tow. The soft click of the latch left behind a hush that settled over the room, which left just you, Franklin, and Johnny. “So,” He drawled, quirking a brow, blue eyes fixed on you. “You, me, and one dangerously powerful toddler. What could possibly go wrong?” You smirked. “Everything.” And somehow, you were looking forward to every second of it.

As predicted, the moment you set Franklin down, he making a beeline straight for the living room. Without hesitation, he scooped up as many toy cars as his tiny arms could manage, cradling them to his chest like precious cargo. He dropped to his knees with all the focused determination of a world-class engineer, lining up the miniature vehicles in a meticulous row alongside the winding, high-tech racetrack Reed had crafted in the lab.

Johnny wasted no time. He vaulted over the back of the couch like a kid on Christmas morning, skidding into place beside Franklin on the rug. Within seconds, he was deep in the throes of an imaginary race, arms outstretched, making high-pitched engine noises, mimicking tight turns, screeching tires, and dramatic crashes. At one point, he even narrated the race in a terrible British accent, which made Franklin laugh so hard he rolled backward into a pile of pillows.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, unable to wipe the smile off your face. Watching Johnny with Franklin was unfair in every way. He looked too good like this, lit up from the inside out, eyes crinkled with laughter, hair slightly mussed from all the movement. Your ovaries were overwhelmed with joy, hormones, and entirely inappropriate thoughts that you had absolutely no business entertaining while a two-year-old was in the room.

To distract yourself, you busied yourself in the kitchen. The warm light over the counter glowed like amber as you set out apple slices, crackers, and a juice box, arranging them on a plate shaped like a cartoon spaceship. But, toddlers are nothing if not delightfully unpredictable. “Uncle Johnny’s loud.” Franklin announced from the floor before trotting over to you, toy car still clutched in one hand. “Book now, pwease.”

With zero resistance, you scooped him up and headed for the couch, already grabbing the well-worn copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar from where it laid on the coffee table. Franklin nestled into your side like he belonged there, head on your shoulder, thumb in his mouth. You flipped open the book, voice gentle as you began to read. Or at least, you tried to read.

You stumbled over words you’d read a hundred times before, tongue tripping more than you’d like to admit, not because of Franklin, who was happily turning pages too soon, but because Johnny was watching you. His gaze hadn’t left you since you sat down, blue eyes softened with something too warm, too intense for casual friendship. You refused to meet his eyes, cheeks burning hotter than any of his fire tricks.

After dinner, Franklin was back to racing around with his cars. Only now, he wanted you and Johnny to play too. Which is how you ended up cross-legged on the living room floor again, mid-race chaos, with Franklin assigning you very serious car duties, like “crash dis one” and “make dis one fly.” Johnny, of course, took it way too far.

He zoomed his car off the edge of the coffee table with a dramatic explosion noise, tossed Franklin gently in the air, which earned him a fierce scolding glare from you, and then proudly unveiled a mini Johnny Storm action figure from one of the toy bins. You groaned, the moment it crackled to life with a mechanical, over-enthusiastic: 'FLAME ON!'

“Bet you didn’t think I’d let this masterpiece go out of production.” Johnny puffed his chest out like he’d won a Nobel Prize. “It talks? “Why on Earth does it talk?” You deadpanned. “Because it's genius,” He stated matter-of-factly, holding the tiny figure like it was sacred. “And because the world needs more me.” You opened your mouth to disagree, but Franklin grabbed the figure from his hand and hugged it to his chest like it was made of gold.

"Uncle Johnny, cool!" Johnny beamed, smiling from ear to ear. “See? The people agree.” You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw another dimension. You wanted to argue, saying Franklin was clearly biased, but the truth was, watching him, with Franklin curled up against you and laughter echoing around the room, you couldn’t remember the last time your heart had felt this full.

Seeing as Johnny had playtime thoroughly covered, complete with dramatic reenactments and the occasional sound barrier being broken, you took the opportunity to slip away and handle the aftermath of dinner. The dishes weren’t going to wash themselves, and frankly, you needed a few minutes to cool down. Watching Johnny be good with Franklin, be soft, had your heart doing things that felt mildly illegal.

You stepped into the kitchen just as H.E.R.B.I.E. glided up beside you, silently offering the now-empty plate Franklin had used for his macaroni masterpiece. With a fond smile and a quiet thank you, you reached for it, and that’s when all hell decided to break loose. “OW! Buddy, not the hair!” Johnny’s voice cut through the room, followed by a shrill, high-pitched wail that had every maternal instinct in your body firing at once.

You sprinted the short distance from the kitchen to the living room, nearly slipping on one of Franklin’s rogue race cars. The scene that met you was peak disaster, Johnny was crouched on the floor, a frazzled mess with a toy still in one hand and Franklin squirming in his arms, red-faced and wailing. Johnny’s blue eyes snapped up the moment he heard your footsteps. His expression was a mix of panic and guilt.

“Give him to me.” Your voice was calm, instinctive, even as your arms reached out without hesitation. The moment Franklin caught sight of you, he lunged like a rocket, practically leaping into your embrace. You caught him easily, cradling his small frame against your chest. His sobs were still jagged and hiccupy, but they began to slow as you rocked him gently from side to side, your fingers drawing soft, rhythmic circles against his back.

His little fists clung to your shirt like lifelines, breath hitching in that pitiful post-cry rhythm that tugged at every heartstring you had. You murmured soft nonsense into his hair, words that didn’t matter so much as the tone, reassuring, steady, warm. Gradually, the tension left his body, replaced by that heavy-limbed drowsiness that always followed a toddler meltdown.

Over Franklin’s head, your gaze drifted to the wall clock, it read 7:58 PM. Of course, his body knew. Right on cue, the crash before bedtime. “Can you finish cleaning up?” You murmured, glancing over to Johnny, who was still sitting there, looking like he’d just been emotionally sideswiped. “I’m going to try and get him settled for bed.” Johnny nodded, standing quickly, carefully. As he stepped closer, he placed a gentle kiss on Franklin’s tousled head.

Then, his hand came to rest on your shoulder, warm and grounding, fingers giving the faintest squeeze as he brushed past you and disappeared into the kitchen. The touch lingered even after he was gone. And for a second, just a second, you let yourself close your eyes and breathe in the moment, Franklin's weight against you, the quiet settling over the room, and the echo of Johnny's tenderness still trailing behind him.

As you disappeared down the hallway, cradling a drowsy Franklin against your chest, Johnny let out the breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. It left him in a slow, uneven exhale, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, not because of exhaustion, but because watching you like that wrecked him in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. The sight of you, arms wrapped protectively around Franklin, murmuring in that soft voice that made even the toddler’s screams quiet down.

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen island, elbows on the counter, scrubbing a hand over his face as if it might shake off the feeling tightening in his ribcage. God, he was so screwed. It wasn’t just the way you looked tonight, though, yeah, that was enough to short-circuit him on a good day. The soft, lived-in familiarity of your smile, the way you rolled your eyes when he got too cocky, the gentle way you brushed Franklin’s hair back like you’d done it a thousand times before.

It wasn’t new. The feelings had been there for a while now, growing in quiet corners between inside jokes and late-night calls, rooted in the unshakable way you just got him. But this? Tonight? Watching you soothe his nephew like it was the most natural thing in the world, while he just stood there helpless, hair askew, ego bruised by a toddler? Yeah. That cracked something open.

Johnny leaned back, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer to his emotional ineptitude was hidden in the plaster. He wasn’t good at this part, the messy, vulnerable, heart-in-his-throat stuff. Flirting, he could do blindfolded. Grand gestures? Easy. But feelings that mattered? Feelings that made his pulse stutter and his brain go fuzzy and his mouth forget how to be clever? That was harder.

But no matter how loud his heart got, there was one thing louder: the fear of ruining everything. You were his best friend. The constant in his chaos. You just got him, ego, flaws, fire and all. And the thought of letting these feelings consume him, of risking what you already had for something that might never work out? That terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he said something, did something, and it changed the way you looked at him? What if the easy laughter and casual touches turned awkward? What if he lost you? He looked toward the hallway where you'd disappeared, the quiet hum of your footsteps still echoing faintly in his ears. You’d taken Franklin like he was yours. Like you belonged here, in the middle of this family chaos, perfectly slotted into a space you hadn’t even asked to fill.

And somehow, everything felt quieter with you in it. He glanced toward the sink, eyes landing on the half-finished dishes, but his mind was still on you. Your hand on his shoulder. The way you didn’t flinch when things got messy. The way Franklin launched himself into your arms like it was instinct. Johnny rested his chin in his palm, staring at nothing in particular, lips curving just a little despite himself.

He was in love with you. Completely, stupidly, irrevocably in love with you. And the most ridiculous part? You probably had no idea. So he did what he always did. He swallowed it. Pushed it down, tucked it behind a grin and a joke and a wink. He’d take the way you looked at him now, fond and familiar, over losing you entirely. Even if it meant sitting here in the quiet, heart full of things he didn’t know how to say.

“Finally got him down.” You sighed, stepping back into the kitchen with your shoulders drooping slightly, weariness and warmth both lingering in your expression. You set the baby monitor on the kitchen island with a quiet clink, the soft static crackle filling the space just enough to remind you he was still only a room away. Johnny blinked, snapping out of whatever tangled thoughts he’d been drowning in.

“Sit.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, already rising from his chair. One hand brushed the small of your back, a fleeting touch, but enough to make your breath catch. He pulled out the chair next to his, guiding you into it with a casual attentiveness that never failed to send a zoo of butterflies stampeding through your stomach. You dropped into the seat with a sigh that was part exhaustion, part resignation. “But the dishes—”

“Herbert and I got it.” He interrupted smoothly, shooting a smirk toward H.E.R.B.I.E., who rolled up at just the right moment with mechanical precision. Johnny bumped fists with the robot, taking a bowl from his outstretched arm. You raised your hands in mock surrender, lips curling into a tired smile as you leaned back against the chair. Your eyes followed Johnny as he casually peeled off his bomber jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair.

Without it, he was all forearms and muscle, the short sleeves of his t-shirt hugging the defined curve of his biceps and the broad stretch of his chest like it had been designed with malicious intent. You glanced away quickly before your gaze betrayed you, but not fast enough to stop your face from flushing. You could feel the warmth blooming at your cheeks and cursed him, silently, lovingly, for existing so effortlessly.

The room fell into a quiet rhythm: H.E.R.B.I.E.'s faint whirring, the occasional clink of dishes, the lullaby-soft hush of a house winding down for the night. Then Johnny’s voice broke through, soft and unguarded. “You know…” He began, fingers still lingering on the edge of the countertop, but his eyes now fully on you. “You’re going to make an amazing mom one day.” The words landed with more weight than you expected. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it.

Not as a joke. Not as some offhand compliment. It came out quiet, earnest, a whisper of a truth he couldn’t stop himself from saying aloud. Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first. For a beat too long, you stared at him, trying to read what was hidden behind the usual mischief. There was no mask this time. No smirk. Just Johnny, bare and sincere in a way he rarely let himself be. You smiled, small and surprised, a flutter stirring in your chest. “You think?”

He shrugged, but the smile he wore was warm enough to melt through any doubt. “I know.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, heart full and aching in a way you hadn’t expected. That look in his eyes, bright, a little reverent, maybe even something closer to love, it made the air feel too thick, too still. You wondered if he felt it too. That quiet hum between you, the one that had been there for years but now felt impossible to ignore.

And then, without even trying, the words fell from his mouth as if he’d been fed a truth serum. “I think about it a lot, honestly. More specifically, you being the mother of my children." Your breath hitched. Time slowed. Even H.E.R.B.I.E., bless him, seemed to sense the gravity of what had just been released into the room and rolled discreetly out of the kitchen. Johnny stood frozen, one hand clenched around the dishcloth, knuckles white, eyes wide.

Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but now that it was out, he couldn’t take it back. And frankly, he didn’t want to. A nervous laugh escaped him, breathless and uneven. “Shit, that sounds way more intense when it’s not just in my head.” You turned to face him fully, your heart beating so fast you were sure he could hear it echoing in the silence. “I mean it.” He added quickly, voice dropping, sincerity bleeding through every word.

“It’s not just some passing thought I get when I see you with Franklin, or when you laugh, or when you fall asleep during movie nights and drool on my shoulder.” You made a quiet noise of protest, heat blooming across your cheeks. He grinned softly at that, but it faltered just as quickly, replaced by something more hesitant. “I try to ignore it, y'know?” His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the dish towel, eyes focused on the counter like it might help him stay grounded.

“Because I didn’t want to mess this up. You and me... we’re good. We work. And I kept thinking, if I opened my mouth, I’d ruin it all. That I’d lose you.” His eyes finally met yours again, open, uncertain, completely unguarded. “But lately? It’s like... I can’t not feel it anymore. It’s everywhere. You're everywhere. Every time I look at you, I think about what it’d be like to wake up next to you. To build something real. I think about how natural it feels when you're here, like you're already part of the family.”

His hand hovered near yours on the counter, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat between your fingers. “I’m tired of pretending it’s not there. Tired of pretending I don’t—” The words caught on his tongue. “Tired of pretending that I don’t love you, Y/N.” And there it was. Simple. Raw. Undeniably real. The air between you felt electric, charged with everything that had been buried under years of stolen glances, long talks, missed chances, and the quiet kind of love that grows too strong to ignore.

"Oh, fuck it." Before you could react and before he could talk himself out of it, Johnny rounded the kitchen island with a kind of reckless purpose, his restraint unraveling in real time. And then, he was there. He surged forward, big hands finding your waist, as his lips crashed against yours. Your eyes flew open, shocked by the force of it, by the sheer heat, but your body answered before your brain could catch up, instinct overriding reason.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his t-shirt as you kissed him back, years of pent-up tension igniting like gasoline meeting flame. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you flush against him as his mouth moved hungrily against yours. When his tongue pushed past your lips and brushed against yours, a soft moan slipped out of you before you could stop it, swallowed by his mouth like it was the very thing he’d been starving for.

You felt him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips and sending another wave of heat straight down your spine. His hands roamed, one sliding up your back, the other briefly gripping your hip before pulling you impossibly closer, like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe this was really happening. Your hands had a mind of their own, smoothing up the planes of his chest, over his shoulders, fingertips trailing across the warm skin of his neck and into his hair.

He shuddered beneath your touch, deepening the kiss like he never wanted to come up for air. It was messy. Intense. Every press of his mouth against yours was filled with every stolen glance, every suppressed feeling, every unsaid word that had sat between you like a live wire for years. When he finally did pull back, breathless and wide-eyed, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and so was his.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” He breathed out, voice low and wrecked with emotion, his forehead pressing gently to yours. His thumbs stroked your hips, like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started. You nodded, still catching your breath, eyes searching his face for anything, regret, hesitation, but there was none. “I thought I was dreaming,” You whispered. “I’ve been in love with you since I can remember.”

The words, settled over your skin like a warm blanket, uncomplicated, long-overdue, and unmistakably true. “Say it again.” He begged, voice hoarse, like he needed the sound of it more than air. Like your confession might be the only thing tethering him to reality. “I love you, Johnny.” That did it. He surged forward again, but this time there was no urgency, no crashing wave of desperation, just reverence.

His lips met yours with a gentleness that threatened to undo you entirely. No rush, only the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone as his mouth moved against yours, patient and aching, as though he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips and the rhythm of your sighs. Your hands curled around his wrists, anchoring yourself to him as he kissed you like it was sacred.

His breath hitched slightly when your fingers threaded back through his hair, but he didn't press further, didn’t deepen the kiss like before. This was about worship. Like he'd spent years imagining this, and now that he had it, he wanted to slow time down and savor every second. When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes remained closed, like he was afraid they’d snap open and find it had all vanished.

You couldn't stop the airy laugh that left you lips. "You've seriously thought about me as the mother of your children?" You raised a brow, hand absentmindedly tracing the veins of his forearm you ogled more than you'd like to admit. "Baby, seeing the way you act with Franklin always gets me all hot and bothered. Anything you do really." He stated matter-of-factly, smirk breaking out onto his face. You rolled your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you.

"Why do you ask, want to practice?" Johnny huskily murmured in your ear, his breath hot and intoxicating as it fanned across your skin. The low rasp of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, awakening something dormant and long-suppressed. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive curve of your neck before pressing a deliberately slow, kiss just beneath your jaw. The heat of it bloomed across your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and your breath hitched involuntarily.

Years of unspoken desire and stolen glances rushed to the surface, threatening to unravel your composure. As much as you wanted to surrender, to drown in the fantasy you had nursed for so long, a quiet voice inside pulled you back. You placed a gentle but firm hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. The tension between you crackled, heavy with want, but you pushed him back, just enough to create distance, not rejection.

"Not with the two-year-old were supposed to be watching less than ten feet away." Johnny pulled back with a dramatic groan, his expression pure betrayal. You watched as his eyes had darkened considerably, but they still sparkled as he opened his mouth to throw out another flirty one-liner your way, only to be cut off by a familiar, high-pitched wail echoing from the baby monitor that made both of you freeze.

“Traitor.” He muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tiny screen like it had done it on purpose. You placed one more chaste kiss to his heated cheek, patting his chest sympathetically, before you were already on your feet, chuckling as you padded toward the hallway. He followed with reluctant steps, grumbling under his breath but unable to stop glancing at you with that soft, besotted look he probably didn’t even realize he was wearing.

Later that night, when Susan and Reed returned to the Baxter Building, they were met with an unfamiliar but very welcome sound: silence. Brows furrowed, Susan kicked off her heels and made a beeline toward Franklin’s room, her mom instincts already stirring. Her heart skipped as she peeked into the dimly lit nursery, only to find the crib empty. “Reed?” Her voice was barely a whisper, nerves creeping up her spine.

“Hold on.” Reed called quietly from down the hall, standing in front of Johnny’s bedroom with the door slightly ajar, light from the hallway spilling just enough to illuminate what was inside. Susan joined him, brows raised in silent question. He merely tilted his head toward the crack in the door. Inside, Franklin lay curled on your chest, tiny hand fisted in your shirt, lips slightly parted in sleep. Your head rested against Johnny’s shoulder, your breathing steady and deep.

Johnny’s arms wrapped around both of you, one across your waist, the other lightly covering Franklin’s back in a protective cocoon. Susan exhaled slowly, something warm blooming in her chest. “Looks like you were right.” Susan’s smile was nothing short of smug as she crossed her arms. “I’m always right.” She quipped, fully planning to tease both of you relentlessly at breakfast. But for now, she simply stood there, soaking in the quiet proof of what she’d suspected all along.

Holiday advertisements were playing on practically every channel as you flipped through the stations on the TV, different snippets of Life Day music being cut short with each press of the remote. It’s not that you were tired of the holidays or that you disliked them, but right now everything was a constant reminder of the fact that you wouldn’t have anyone to spend them with this year. Your sister and her family would be spending the holidays at a soccer tournament for your nephew, so you didn’t really envy her, but it still meant that you would be spending Life Day completely alone for the first time. 

An infomercial for a fancy kind of chiller was lighting up the screen as you turned back to check on Omega. Hunched over the kitchen table with homework spread out in front of you, she was hard at work. You worked at the school she attended (though you didn’t usually see her at all during the day), so you drove her home in the afternoons and made sure she didn’t accidentally set the house on fire until her dad got home from work. 

“You almost done over there?” you asked, a smile on your face. This evening, Hunter had told you that he would be home a little later than usual, so you had a small surprise for Omega. 

“Just two more math problems!” she called back, still focused intently on the papers in front of her. “I already did my social studies homework.” 

You hummed in response as you turned your attention back to the TV, not wanting to bother her while she was still working. Despite the fact that it was a Friday and she technically didn’t have to finish everything, you had heard stories in the past of forgotten projects and her rushing to get everything done before bed on Sunday night, which you weren’t looking to facilitate. 

A few moments later though, you were getting up from Hunter’s (incredibly comfortable) armchair and pulling a folder out of your bag. “Since it’s gonna be us this evening, I thought we could order a pizza and then make some Life Day cookies,” you said, watching Omega’s face light up at the idea. 

“Yes!” Omega said, running over and throwing her arms around you as you pulled out a cookie recipe. “Can we get the tooka shaped pizza from Dex’s?” 

“Of course!” You said, returning her hug. You knew that Hunter tried his best to be there for her, but the fact that he was a single dad certainly made things a little more difficult. He had confided in you that he picked up some overtime to make sure he could get the best Life Day gifts for Omega, but she didn’t know that, and you could tell she was probably feeling a little sad that she didn’t see him as much.

A little while later, after the two of you were done tearing into your adorably shaped dinner, ingredients for cookies were being removed from cabinets as you asked Omega about her plans for Life Day. 

“My uncles are going to come over and we’ll have a big dinner,” she said. “I think next weekend my dad and I are going to put up the decorations.” 

“That’s great,” you said. “Do you know what you’re going to get your dad and uncles yet?” 

Omega shook her head. “I don’t, and I don’t think the holiday market at school will have things they’d want.” 

You laughed; she was certainly right about that statement. The school holiday market, which was great for getting kids used to handling money and making a budget based on how many people they had to buy gifts for, was not the best place to look for meaningful presents. “I’m sure your dad and uncles would appreciate anything, as long as it came from you.” 

You weren’t lying about that. Living next door to Hunter and Omega for the past five years meant that you were also close with her uncles and even some of her extended family, and many a summer night had been spent sitting around the fire pit in their backyard, drinking with Hunter and his brothers as Omega hung out with her friends on the swingset. You knew for a fact that even if she handed them a pile of painted bantha shit, Tech, Wrecker, Echo, and even Crosshair would smile and pretend she had gifted them a priceless artifact. 

“I know,” she said, placing her measuring cup in the container of sugar and starting to scoop out what the recipe required. “But I still want to get them something nice.” 

“Why don’t you ask your dad to take you out shopping?” you asked. “He’s spent enough time with his brothers to help you pick something out.” 

Omega nodded. “That’s a good idea.” 

“And if you want, I can help you out when it comes to shopping for your dad,” you said. “I don’t even know what I’m going to get him anyway.” 

Your statement was not one you considered to be scandalous or abnormal, but Omega stopped what she was doing to stare incredulously in your direction. “Why are you getting my dad a gift?” 

The real answer was considerably more complicated, but you didn’t dare get into that with a middle schooler as you stood in the center of her kitchen. “Because we’re friends,” you said. “I got him and your uncles something last year, why would this year be any different?” 

“Oh,” was Omega’s response, and the way she latched onto your words certainly struck you as odd. There was no way she picked up on your feelings for her father, you had done so well hiding them from everyone (yourself included, since you didn’t even realize you liked Hunter until a little over a year ago). “I forgot how long we’ve known you.” 

“That’s okay, sometimes I do the same thing,” you said, a smile on your face. “You can make it up to me by telling me what your dad might want for Life Day though.” 

The young girl paused before speaking. “There is this caf machine he’s been looking at,” she said. “But I think it’s pretty expensive.” 

You nodded as Omega tried to remember the name of the machine, but it just wasn’t coming to her. “Don’t worry about it,” you said. “If he talks about it again, let me know and we can look for it when we go shopping. If you still want to go shopping with me of course.” Omega nodded brightly, and the conversation trailed off as things began to require your full attention. 

Hunter walked in the door about an hour later, and the house was alight with laughter as the two of you rolled out cookies and dipped them in sprinkles and sugar before placing them on baking sheets. The moment she noticed her dad, Omega dropped her rolling pin and ran over to tackle him in a hug, effectively covering him in flour as it transferred from her clothes. 

“Hey Megs!” Hunter said, happily returning his daughter’s powdery hug. “Having fun?” 

“We’re making cookies!”

“I can tell,” he said, gaze meeting yours as he surveyed his (now very messy) kitchen. 

“We’re almost done,” you said warmly, holding up the last dough ball that has yet to be shaped. “Do you want to do the honors?” 

 Hunter nodded, walking over to you (after a quick detour to the sink, where Omega made him wash his hands) and taking the rolling pin from where it had been discarded before, and with a little bit of help, the last cookie took shape. 

Once the kitchen had been cleaned and the cookies lay cooling, it was just you and Hunter. “Thank you for doing this with her,” he said sincerely. “I know she can tell I’ve been gone longer than usual.” 

You nodded. “She doesn’t blame you, but I think she worries.” 

“I know,” Hunter sighed. “Maker, I wish things were easier.”

“You’re definitely not alone with that sentiment.” 

“I have the week after Life Day off, I think I’m going to see if she wants to do anything special.”

“That’s a good idea,” you said. “I know things get busy as you’re planning everything for the holiday.” 

Hunter nodded. “Yeah. At least you only host half the time.” 

“And this year I don’t have to do anything,” you said, continuing when Hunter shot you a quizzical look. “My sister and her family are going to a soccer tournament over break, so I’ll have the day to myself.” 

“You should come over here,” was his immediate response, followed by a rushed “only if you want to.” 

“Please, you know I enjoy spending time with your family,” you laughed. “I don’t want to be any trouble though, if things are already planned.” 

Now it was his turn to scoff. “You could never be a bother,” he said. “I promise.” 

“Then I’ll be there,” you said. 

The smile he gave you in response nearly stopped your heart right then and there. Now your gift for him definitely had to be perfect. 

***

The rotations until Life Day were slipping away faster than Hunter could have ever expected, and it still felt like he hadn’t even started preparing. There was still so much to shop for, plan for, and don’t even get him started on the pile of gifts for his daughter slowly accumulating in the trunk of his car and the back of his closet (that would all need to be wrapped when she wasn’t around to peek at them). 

It was something of a relief when you offered to take Omega shopping for Life Day presents one weekend, because that meant he could recruit his brothers to help out in other ways and he didn’t have to worry about Omega walking in and seeing any of her gifts.

Tech and Crosshair were in charge of gift wrapping, and they operated like a well-oiled machine as they sat on the floor in the living room, tinsel, bows and patterned rolls of paper spread all within arm’s reach. The mountain of presents had been pulled from their hiding places, and it appears that Hunter may have gone a little overboard this year when shopping for Omega. 

Echo and Wrecker were in charge of the menu and the grocery list for Life Day dinner, and Hunter could hear the playful bickering between the two as they squabbled over how many side dishes they should have and whether or not three dessert options was too much (Wrecker believed there should be at least five options, a sentiment Hunter did not disagree with, if he was being honest). 

His job out of all this was looking at the gifts already purchased and making a list of people he still needed to shop for, along with making sure the gifts they had for Omega’s teachers were done. Omega would (hopefully) be returning from her outing today with presents purchased for all her uncles, but that still meant Hunter had to buy something for them, as well as for a few other friends. He had just finished the list of people he would need to shop for when he heard Crosshair’s voice over his shoulder. 

“I expected that we’d be low on the list of priorities, but your girlfriend? That’s just mean.” 

Hunter, his mind still running through a list of all the people he knew in an effort to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anyone, looked up at him with confusion. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

Crosshair raised his eyebrows, and everyone else in the house stopped what they were doing to stare at Hunter, because they knew exactly where this conversation was heading. “Really? Where’s your kid right now?” 

“She’s with-” Hunter started to respond before catching on to his brother’s implication. “How many times do I have to tell you that we’re not together?” 

“You could be, if you just asked her out already. Honestly, if you keep at this pace Omega will have bought a house of her own before you even think about making a move.” 

A heaving sigh left Hunter’s mouth. “First of all, I don’t like her in that way.”

Before he could continue his statement, the house erupted with laughter (a reaction that Hunter did not appreciate). “Give it up Hunter,” Echo said as he looked up from the menu he was penning. “Omega practically calls her mom and you get a stupid look on your face whenever you mention her.” 

As much as he would have liked to continue denying his feelings to protect his pride, Hunter had to admit that his brothers were right. He had been absolutely smitten from the first moment he met you five years ago. You had knocked on their door to introduce yourself, with homemade muffins in your hands and a smile on your face, and he had almost forgotten how to talk. As the years went by and you got closer and closer to him and his daughter, it had become increasingly more difficult to ignore the attraction he felt. “Fine, you di’kuts are right,” he said. “But she doesn’t feel the same way, and I’m not going to ruin the positive relationship she has with Omega. Besides, I can’t afford an actual babysitter.” 

“Omega is more than capable of spending the afternoons by herself, and she could take the bus home after school,” Tech said. “Also, you are decidedly incorrect about her not feeling the same way.” 

“Guys-” 

“It’s true!” Wrecker boomed. “We’ve spent enough time with her at your summer barbecues to catch how she looks at you.”

“And now she’s coming to Life Day dinner,” Crosshair said. “Face it Hunter, you’re in love.”

“I invited her because she didn’t have anywhere else to go!” 

“Two things can be true at the same time,” Tech said. 

“Maybe you could say something on Life Day,” Wrecker cut in. “What are you going to get her?” 

There was a significant pause before Hunter responded, his voice much quieter than it had been before. “I don’t know.” 

Hunter loved his brothers, he truly did. But right now, as they rattled off endless suggestions of things he could get you, he wanted to be anywhere else but here at the moment. 

The feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket provided a welcome distraction, and he looked down to see your name on the screen. Omega and I are going out to lunch and then we’ll be home, you’ve got about an hour left to finish wrapping her gifts, the text message read. 

Thanks for the heads up, he texted back. I’ll make sure things are all cleaned up by then. 

No matter how hard he tried to hide the smile that crossed his face, it was an impossible feat, as was getting his brothers to stop teasing him and get back to work, since they really didn’t have much time to get everything done. 

He still needed to think about a gift for you, and time was certainly running out. Trying to ignore the way his brain wandered towards easy daydreams was another unattainable goal, and he couldn’t help but play through all different scenarios in his head of you and him, hearts and souls intertwined in domestic bliss. 

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, his brothers were right. Five years was long enough, he just needed to find the courage to actually tell you how he felt without chickening out, and maybe this Life Day he would prove successful. 

***

Hunter’s home was less than a minute walk for you, but your heart was racing as you stepped up to the front door, as if you had run a marathon on the way. But the homemade cake you had brought was balanced precariously atop the gifts in your hands, and a single misstep could have spelled imminent disaster.

Thankfully, the door opened before you had finished ascending the porch stairs, and Hunter immediately pulled the cake from the top of the gift stack. “Need any other help?” he asked.

“No, but thank you,” you breathed, stepping inside and immediately walking through to the living room. Once the presents in your arms were deposited safely next to the tree, you were nearly tackled in a hug. 

“Happy Life Day!” Omega said brightly, arms tight around your middle. 

“Happy Life Day to you too,” you said, unable to keep a goofy smile from appearing on your face. Despite the fact that you didn’t live here, something about this space, and especially these people, felt like home in a way you could never truly articulate. 

When Omega finally let you go, you turned to Hunter. “Am I the first one here?” Even though you lived next door, you would have thought someone else would be here by now, especially since you arrived a little late (trying to close your own door with the gifts and cake was quite a challenge, but you managed). 

Hunter nodded. “The others aren’t supposed to be here for another half hour,” he said. “Omega wanted to give you your gift as early as possible.” 

You looked back at Omega, who was practically vibrating with excitement. “Well, I can’t leave her waiting any longer, can I?” 

After being directed to the couch, you watched Hunter sit down on the armchair across the room with a smile on his face. As Omega brought over a small box wrapped in tooka-patterned paper, you jokingly shook it, feeling something heavy rustle around. As you tore open the paper and opened the box, your eyes widened. 

Glittering in the light of the tree across the room were two crystalline statues of your favorite animal. You had spent many hours doodling with Omega when she was younger at her kitchen table, and it was clear that this gift was her idea, as she had seen enough of your attempts at drawing these to know they were your favorite. “I love them,” you said sincerely, placing the statues on the couch side table before sweeping her up in a hug. “Do you want to open your gift now?” you asked, and her eyes lit up. 

Hunter watched in amusement as you walked over to the tree and presented Omega’s two gifts to her. She was much less gentle with the wrapping than you were, but that didn’t really matter. “Wow!” she said as she realized what it was, eyes wide as she took in the present, a high-quality set of paints, paintbrushes, and a pack of canvases, since she talked all the time about how much she enjoyed painting in art class. 

Hunter opened his mouth, probably to prompt his daughter to say thank you, but she beat him to it, wrapping you in a hug once more and babbling excitedly about what she’s going to paint with her new supplies. 

When she finally let you go, you got up from the couch and stepped over towards the tree, where you picked up a large box and presented it to Hunter. His eyes widened. “For me?” 

“Yes!” you said. “Omega helped me pick it out, so technically it’s from both of us.” 

He took the box from you. “It’s heavy.”

You watched with bated breath as he ripped open the paper, a smile crossing his face as he realized what it was. “Omega spilled the beans about you wanting a new caf machine,” you said. “And I’ll admit, we did get a slightly better model than the one you have now.” 

“That’s an understatement,” he said, staring at the graphics on the box that outlined all the different things this machine could do. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“I wanted to,” you said, and the two of you locked eyes for a moment. There was so much you wanted to tell him, but you didn’t exactly want to do it with an audience.

“Thank you,” he said warmly, putting the box down to get up from his chair. He moved to hug you, but his daughter beat him to it. You had hugged Omega so many times today that part of your mind wished Hunter was the one to wrap your arms around you, but you tried to push those thoughts away. 

After the moment had ended, you immediately moved to grab the used wrapping paper from the floor, and Omega took off somewhere else in the house, excitedly talking about how she couldn’t wait for her uncles to arrive. 

You and Hunter worked like you could read each others’ minds, something you only noticed when you realized that you had wordlessly begun setting out hors d'oeuvres on the table in preparation for the rest of the family to arrive. Maker, things just felt so right here, with him, so much so that you never wanted to leave.  

“Hey,” Hunter’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You didn’t open all your gifts yet.” 

You looked at him with a confused look on your face. “But-” 

He shook his head. “We- I have one more thing for you.” 

You took note of the way he corrected himself, watching as he left the kitchen and returned with a small box in his hands. It was completely silent as you tore open the paper and popped open the jewelry box to reveal a simple necklace, your first initial hanging from a silver chain. 

“I didn’t know what to get you, and then my brothers got in my head about making sure I got something good, so-”

“Hunter,” you said softly, cutting off his rambling. “I love it.” 

He breathed an obvious sigh of relief, and you gently put the box down on the counter before moving towards him, throwing your arms around him and breathing in his scent. He returned the hug, and you felt as though you might die right here and now. You had hugged Hunter before, but they had always been quick goodbyes and polite greetings, never something like his. 

As you moved to pull away, he gripped your side a little tighter. “Wait,” he said, voice soft. Your faces were much closer than they had ever been before, and you wondered if he could hear the way your heart was beating faster than usual. 

“What is it?” you breathed.

“Can I kiss you?” 

Despite having daydreamed about him saying those words to you multiple times since you met, it took a few seconds for you to register that they were actually leaving his lips at this moment. “Yes,” you responded, allowing him to close the gap between you. 

Kissing Hunter was like coming upon an oasis in the desert, the feeling of his lips on yours suddenly becoming a desperate need. If you were dreaming, you never wanted to wake up. One of your hands moved to his hair as his tightened around your waist, every ounce of passion that both of you had been keeping locked away finally bubbling to the forefront. 

The sound of excited shrieking was what finally detached your lips from each other, and you both turned to see Omega standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a smile on her face. “Does this mean I can call you mom?” she asked, looking expectantly at you. 

Hunter shifted where he stood. “Omega-” 

But before he could say anything, you jumped in. “If you promise not to say anything to your uncles, yes.” 

She nodded excitedly and ran up to the two of you for a hug before mumbling something about giving you space, leaving the room as empty as it had been a minute ago.

“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping,” you said quickly. “If you don’t want her to call me that I can tell her I was mistaken.” 

“I was about to tell her that it was your decision,” he said warmly. “I don’t want you to think that just because we kissed I was expecting anything more.” 

“What if I wanted something more?” you asked. “Hunter, I’ve cared about you for so long now I barely even noticed my feelings until a year ago. But there’s no mistaking how I feel anymore, and I want you to know how much I love you.” 

He pulled you into another hug. “I think I fell in love with you the moment we met,” he said. “My brothers have been bugging me about you for longer than I want to admit.” 

You laughed, only imagining the types of teasing he has endured over the last few years. “Then let’s go for it.” 

Hunter responded by leaning down to kiss you again, and you certainly weren’t complaining. 

The next thing to grab your attention was the sound of the doorbell ringing, and you pulled away from Hunter (who, swear to Maker, emitted something of a whine as he lost contact with your lips). “How long do you think it’s going to take Omega to spill the beans?” you whispered as you heard her footsteps through the house, no doubt moving to open the door for whichever of her uncles had arrived first. 

“Seconds, probably,” he whispered back.

You laughed. “Come on, let’s go see who it is.” 

“Do we have to?” 

Playfully swatting his shoulder as his face morphed into a pout, you nodded before pulling away from his touch.

You greeted Crosshair with a bright smile and a polite hug, and he didn’t say anything about knowing what had just transpired between you and his brother moments before, so there was a small sliver of hope that Omega had been able to keep your secret. 

However, the moment you sat down on the couch with a plate of snacks, you could feel your phone buzz in your pocket, and a text from Crosshair to both you and Hunter reflected on the home screen. 

Have a good makeout session? 

Before you could think about what to say, a response from Hunter followed. 

Did Omega tell you?

Crosshair, who was sitting on the armchair as Omega rooted around under the tree for his gift, just smiled as he typed back. 

She didn’t have to, one look at your hair told me everything I needed to know.

Hunter quickly tried to tame his hair where your hands had mussed it, and Crosshair just watched with an amused smile. As the doorbell rang once more and Omega ran to greet the next arrival, a sincere smile appeared on his face. “Congrats you two.” 

“Thanks,” you said sincerely. “We finally figured things out.” 

As Hunter sat down on the couch next to you and intertwined your fingers with his, you realized that you couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect Life Day, and you would never again have to consider spending the holiday alone.

- the end -