The Baxter Building's private hangar buzzed with pre-mission energy, the kind that made the air feel electric and charged. Reed Richards stood at the center of the chaos, his stretchy arms simultaneously holding blueprints, adjusting his goggles, and pointing at various equipment scattered across the floor. Susan Storm-Richards, his fiancée and the team's invisible force field specialist, was reviewing mission parameters on a holographic display, her blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Ben was already suited up.

And Johnny Storm?

Johnny Storm was currently being physically dragged toward the private jet by a woman who had absolutely zero patience for his theatrics.

"There's nothing colder than your shoulder when you're dragging me along like you do." Johnny whined dramatically, his feet skidding against the polished floor as you maintained your iron grip on his wrist.

"You can walk, you know." you said flatly, not even bothering to look back at him. Your voice carried that particular tone of exasperation that suggested this was far from the first time you'd had this conversation.

"Walking is for people who aren't being manhandled by a gorgeous woman with the grip strength of a vengeful goddess!" Johnny countered, though he made absolutely no effort to actually stand up straight and walk properly. No, he was committed to this bit now. His feet continued to drag, his body going limp like a petulant child being carried out of a toy store. "I'm being dragged, okay? There's a distinction. A very important legal distinction, I think. If I were walking, that would imply I have agency in this situation, and I very clearly do NOT have agency-"

"You have thirty seconds to stop being insufferable before I take away your oxygen."

Johnny's eyes widened, though his theatrical protests didn't stop. "You wouldn't! That's abuse of powers! That's—that's super-powered coercion! I'm pretty sure that violates at least three sections of the Superhuman Accords!"

You finally stopped walking, turning to fix him with a look that could have frozen Hell itself. Johnny, caught off guard by your sudden halt, nearly toppled forward before catching himself. His blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, even the Human Torch felt a chill run down his spine.

Oh, he was in trouble.

He was so, so in trouble.

And he loved every second of it.

"The Superhuman Accords," you repeated slowly, your voice dangerously calm. "are about not using powers to cause harm to civilians or property. They say absolutely nothing about using powers to shut up a colleague who is being intentionally difficult because he wants to go snowboarding instead of stopping a potential catastrophe."

"Snowboarding is important!" Johnny insisted, gesturing wildly with his free hand. "It's a vital part of my mental health regimen! The mountains call to me, baby! The fresh powder-"

"The fresh powder will still be there when we get back."

"Will it, though? Will it really? Snow melts, darling. Snow is a fickle, fleeting thing, much like my attention span, and-"

You let out a long, slow breath through your nose. The air around you shimmered slightly, responding to your irritation. Johnny felt the pressure change in the room, the subtle shift that told him you were very close to using your powers to literally throw him onto the jet.

And honestly? That would be kind of hot.

But before he could voice that particular thought (which he absolutely would have, because he had no filter and even less self-preservation instinct) you spoke again.

"What," you said, enunciating the word with painful precision. "would it take for you to just shut up and get on the god damned jet?"

The question hung in the air between them.

Johnny's brain, which operated at approximately the speed of light when it came to flirting, latched onto the opening like a lifeline.

"Hmm," he hummed, tapping his chin thoughtfully with his free hand. "What would it take? What would it take for the Human Torch to shut up and be a good little superhero?" He pretended to consider it deeply, his lips curving into that infuriatingly handsome smirk that had gotten him into and out of trouble in equal measure. "Well, I suppose… a kiss from you would do just fine."

He expected the eye roll.

He expected the dead-eyed stare that usually followed his more forward comments.

He expected a scathing retort, maybe even a light shove, and then you'd both move on with your day, him nursing his wounded pride and you pretending you weren't at least a little bit amused by his antics.

What he did NOT expect was for you to stare at him with an expression that suggested you were actively calculating the fastest way to murder him and hide the body.

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. The air grew heavy, thick, charged with something that made the hair on Johnny's arms stand on end. He could practically see the gears turning in your head, the part of you that was always strategizing, always planning, always thinking three steps ahead.

And then-

You moved.

Your hand fisted in the front of his shirt, yanking him with a strength that surprised him. His back hit the wall with a solid thump, and before he could even process the sudden change in position, your lips were on his.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn't soft or sweet or any of the things he'd imagined in his more… private moments.

It was fierce. Demanding. A collision of heat and power that left him breathless and dizzy.

And then he flamed on.

It was instinct, pure and simple. The surprise, the shock, the overwhelming rush of finally—it all combined into a burst of fire that erupted from his skin.

But just as quickly as the flames appeared, they vanished.

You'd already killed them, cutting off the oxygen that fed his fire with a thought, leaving him gasping and cold and so utterly wrecked that he couldn't form a single coherent thought.

And then, just like that, it was over.

You released his shirt, stepped back, and turned to continue walking toward the jet without another word.

Johnny remained pressed against the wall, chest heaving, lips still tingling, brain completely short-circuited.

"How-" he started, breathlessly, then stopped. Swallowed hard. "How rude."

His voice came out breathless, shaky, completely at odds with the words he was saying.

"To kiss me like you want it," he continued, pushing himself off the wall and stumbling after you, his legs feeling like they were made of jelly. "How rude! To just- to ambush a guy like that, and then-" He gestured vaguely at his own face, which was currently the color of a ripe tomato. "And then just WALK AWAY? Without even a 'you're welcome'? Without even a 'thanks for the performance, Johnny, your suffering has been noted and appreciated'?"

You didn't respond, didn't even slow down.

But Johnny was grinning now. A huge, impossible smirk that stretched across his face and made him look like the cat that had gotten the cream.

"But I kinda like it anyway," he said, practically skipping to catch up with you, falling into step beside you as if he hadn't just been thoroughly and completely owned. "You know that, right? I kinda really, really liked it."

He leaned in close, his voice dropping to something that was almost intimate. "I could get used to that. Actually, I think I'm already used to it. I think I need it. Daily doses of you kissing me like you want to devour my soul. That's a medical necessity, I'm pretty sure."

You finally glanced at him, one eyebrow raised in that perfect arch of judgment.

"Are you coming on the mission now, or do I need to kiss you again?"

Johnny's eyes went wide.

"WELL I MEAN IF YOU'RE OFFERING-"

"Get on the jet, Storm."

"YES MA'AM RIGHT AWAY MA'AM ABSOLUTELY MA'AM-"

He practically sprinted toward the jet, leaving you standing in the hangar with the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

The private jet that the Fantastic Four used for missions was a marvel of engineering. Reed had designed it himself, of course, and it was equipped with everything from state-of-the-art navigation systems to a fully stocked mini-bar (Johnny's suggestion, very obviously).

Ben was already seated when Johnny bounded up the steps, practically vibrating with barely contained excitement.

"Someone's in a good mood," he observed, a hint of suspicion in his tone. "Did you finally get the lady to talk to you for more than thirty seconds?" he inquired, gesturing towards where you were already seated with Susan with a titlt of his head.

"I have experienced something today that has fundamentally changed me as a person. I am not the same man who walked into this hangar. I have been transformed. Reborn. Baptized in-"

"Please, for the love of god, don't say fire."

"-in the most incredible kiss I have ever experienced in my entire life."

Ben's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, what?"

But Johnny was already moving, practically vibrating with energy as he made his way to where you were sitting, calmly reviewing mission parameters on a tablet. Susan had claimed the seat next to you, and Johnny, being Johnny, saw absolutely no reason why that should stop him from sitting wherever he wanted.

"Excuse me, excuse me, coming throouughh" he sing-songed, literally plopping himself down in the seat right next to you, wedging himself between you and the window with the grace of a golden retriever who had no concept of personal space. "Just gonna sit here, right here, with my favorite person. My absolute favorite. The best person. The most beautiful, talented, powerful-"

"Johnny," you said, not looking up from your tablet, "do you remember what I said about taking away your oxygen?"

"I remember everything you say." he said earnestly, leaning in closer. "I catalog it. I treasure it. I replay it in my head when I can't sleep at night. The way you said 'get on the jet' earlier? Perfection. Poetry. I could listen to you say 'get on the jet' for the rest of my life and die a happy man."

You finally looked up from your tablet, fixing him with that dead-eyed stare that he'd grown to… well, he wouldn't say love, exactly. That would be weird. But he'd grown to appreciate it. It was part of your charm. Like how a cactus was charming because it could pinch you.

"You're sitting on my jacket."

Johnny looked down. He was, in fact, sitting on the edge of your jacket, which had been draped over the seat next to you.

"Oh!" He scrambled to move, picking up the jacket and holding it out to you with an almost reverent expression. "My apologies. Here, let me—"

He made to hand it to you, then paused, bringing the fabric up to his nose and taking a deliberate sniff.

"Johnny." you said, your voice flat.

"Just checking," he said innocently, handing it over. "It smells nice. Like… like the air after a storm. Clean. Fresh. Powerful."

"You're insane."

"Clinically," he agreed cheerfully. "But you already knew that."

Susan watched this exchange from your other side, a hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Ben, seated further back, had a look of complete astonishment on his face, clearly still trying to process what Mr. I'm on Fire had boeasted to him about just mere seconds earlier.

Reed was at the front of the jet, reviewing flight plans with the pilot, but even he had a small smile on his face.

The dynamic between you and Johnny was, quite frankly, one of the team's favorite forms of entertainment.

Johnny leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours in a way that was absolutely intentional. You didn't move away, which he took as a victory. You didn't lean into him either, which he took as a challenge.

"Comfortable?" you asked dryly.

"Extremely," he said, beaming. "This is the best day of my life. And we haven't even done the mission yet."

"We haven't even taken off yet."

"Exactly! Imagine how good it's going to get!"

You shook your head, turning back to your tablet, but Johnny could have sworn he saw the corner of your mouth twitch.

He'd take it.

He'd take any sign that you were softening toward him, even if it was just the barest hint of amusement.

Because Johnny Storm was a patient man when he wanted to be. Well, not really. He was famously impatient about almost everything. But when it came to you, he could wait. He'd wait forever, if that's what it took.

I don't mind if this is gonna take a million days, he thought, watching you as you spoke quietly with Susan, a small smile on your lips as you discussed something that was clearly not mission-related. I know you'll come around to me eventually.

He just had to make sure you kept looking at him like that.

Like he was something worth smiling about.

The mission went smoothly, all things considered.

The interdimensional rift that had opened up over downtown Manhattan was quickly contained—Reed's calculations were, as usual, impeccable—and the team worked together with the kind of synchronized efficiency that came from months of training and fighting side by side.

Johnny had been… surprisingly focused.

Sure, he'd still cracked jokes and made comments that made Susan roll her eyes and Ben grumble, but there was an intensity to him that hadn't been there before. A sharpness. He moved with purpose, covered your back without being asked, and at one point, when a piece of debris came hurtling toward you from an unexpected angle, he'd flamed on and intercepted it without a second thought.

You'd given him a look then. Not your usual dead-eyed stare, but something softer. Something that made his heart do a little flip-flop in his chest.

"Thanks." you'd said, and the single word had hit him harder than any punch ever could.

If you sit back, relax, enjoy my company, he'd thought, watching you as you rejoined the team. My company.

By the time the mission was over and the rift was closed, Johnny was practically floating on cloud nine.

When you got back to The Baxter Building, it's hallways were already quiet, given the hour of arrival most of the team having retreated to their respective quarters to decompress after the mission.

Johnny, however, had other plans.

He'd been waiting for the right moment, watching you move through the common areas with that controlled grace that made his head spin. When you'd finally excused yourself and started heading toward your room, he'd seized his opportunity.

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!"

He caught up to you in the hallway, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors. You turned, and he saw the familiar flash of exasperation in your eyes.

"Johnny, it's late. We just got back from a mission. I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I want to take a shower and go to bed."

"Just gimme a minute-" he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice. "Just one minute. That's all I'm asking."

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest.

"One minute."

Johnny took a breath. He'd rehearsed this a thousand times in his head, but now that the moment was here, all his carefully prepared speeches seemed to evaporate.

So he did the only thing that felt natural.

He dropped to his knees.

"What are you doing?" you demanded, your voice sharp with surprise. "Get up!"

"No!" He looked up at you, and he knew his expression was probably ridiculous—all wide eyes and desperate hope—but he didn't care. "No, I won't get up until you hear me out. I'm on my knees here, okay? Literally. I am using the saying literally, so you must hear me out. It's the law. I'm begging. I'm literally begging. I don't do this for just anyone, you know. I'm a very proud person. I have a reputation. A very carefully cultivated reputation of being cool and unbothered and-"

"Johnny-"

"Just give me a chance!"

The words burst out of him, raw and honest and completely stripped of all his usual bravado.

"I know I'm not what you probably want.." he continued, his voice dropping. "I know I'm… a lot. I'm loud and I'm annoying and I don't think before I speak. I make jokes at the worst possible moments and I can't sit still for more than five minutes and I'm pretty sure I've single-handedly given Sue at least three gray hairs."

You were staring at him now, and he couldn't read your expression at all.

"But I-" He swallowed hard. "I really, really like you. Like, I like you like you. I know that's a dumb way to say it, but it's true. And I know you don't feel the same way, not yet, but I keep hoping that if I just stick around long enough, if I just keep showing up and being annoying and making you want to kill me-"

"I do want to kill you." you said flatly.

"I know! I know, and I love that about you! That's the thing, I love everything about you. The way you roll your eyes at me. The way you threaten to take away my oxygen. The way you pretend you're not even a little bit amused by me even though I know you are, I've seen you almost smile like three times now."

Your expression flickered, just for a moment, and Johnny's heart leaped.

"So please," he said, and he'd never begged for anything in his entire life, but he was begging now. "Please, pleasepleaseplease, just give me a chance. Give us a chance. I don't need forever, I just need… I just need one date. One date, that's all. If it's terrible, if you still hate me after, I'll never bother you again. I promise. I'll get a restraining order against myself if that's what it takes. But just give me-"

"Johnny, stop."

His voice died in his throat. He looked up at you, and for the first time, he saw something other than exasperation or cold indifference in your eyes.

There was… vulnerability. Uncertainty. A flicker of something that looked almost like fear.

"Once you know what my love's gonna feel like-"

"Nothing else will feel right!" he interrupted desperately. "Nothing else will feel right, I know it will, I've known it from the first moment I saw you-"

You took a step back, shaking your head.

"You can feel like—" you tried again.

"Moonbeam ice cream, taking off your blue jeans, dancing at the movies?"

The words came out in a rush, jumbled and desperate and completely ridiculous, but he meant every single one of them.

"'Cause it feels so mystical, magical," he continued, and he knew he was rambling, knew he probably sounded like a complete idiot, but he couldn't stop. "That's how it would feel. That's how you would feel if you just let yourself-"

"I can't."

The words were like a door slamming shut.

You stepped back again, putting more distance between you, and Johnny felt his heart crack just a little bit.

"I can't." you repeated, and your voice was steady, controlled, back to the cool professional he was so used to. "I'm sorry, Johnny. But I can't."

You turned and walked away, and Johnny stayed on his knees in the hallway, watching you disappear around the corner.

But I like it anyway, he thought, pressing his hand to his chest where his heart was pounding a frantic rhythm. I like it anyway, because I think I'm getting closer to you every day. I know you'll come around to me eventually.

He knew it.

Three days later, the Baxter Building hosted a charity gala.

It was the kind of event that Johnny usually thrived at: bright lights, expensive champagne, beautiful people who wanted to rub elbows with the Fantastic Four. He was in his element, working the room with that effortless charm that made him so popular with the press.

But his eyes kept drifting to you.

You were across the room, talking to a group of diplomats who were clearly trying to recruit you for their own agendas. You handled them with practiced ease, your expression polite but distant, and Johnny watched as you gently but firmly shut down their advances without ever raising your voice.

My little hard-to-get baby, he thought, a fond smile tugging at his lips. I wanna give you the world.

He really did.

He wanted to give you everything—the moon, the stars, a thousand snowboarding trips (with you, obviously, he'd teach you how to ride, it would be so romantic), a lifetime of making you smile.

Not saying you gotta chase me, he thought, watching as you extricated yourself from the diplomats and made your way toward the balcony. But I wouldn't mind it.

He waited a few minutes, letting you have some space, before following you outside.

The balcony was quiet, the noise of the gala muffled by the thick glass doors. You were leaning against the railing, looking out at the city lights, and Johnny's breath caught in his throat.

You looked beautiful. You always looked beautiful, but there was something about this moment, the way the moonlight caught your features, that made his chest ache.

"Hey," he said softly, approaching you.

You turned, and he saw the wariness in your eyes.

"Johnny."

He stepped closer, and he knew he probably shouldn't have had those last few glasses of champagne, because his filter was definitely compromised.

"If you gave me just a little bit," he started, his voice low and earnest, "of something we can work it with—"

"No, Johnny."

The words were sharp, cutting through the night air.

But all you do is push me out, he thought as you stepped away from the railing, moving toward the doors.

"Just think about it," he called after you, his voice desperate. "That's all I'm asking. Just think about it!"

But you were already gone, the glass door sliding shut behind you.

Johnny stayed on the balcony for a long time, staring up at the stars.

"But I like it anyways.." he whispered to himself, the words a familiar refrain. "Yeah, I like it anyways."

Just a few hours later and..

"You're hopeless, you know that?"

Susan's voice was amused as she watched Johnny pace back and forth in the common room. It was the day after the gala, and Johnny had been in a state of barely contained agitation ever since.

"I'm not hopeless," he protested. "I'm determined. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes! Hopeless implies that there's no hope. Determined implies that there's hope, but it's going to take work. And I'm willing to put in the work, Sue. I'll put in ALL the work. I'll put in so much work that they'll write songs about my work ethic."

Susan laughed, shaking her head. "You really are gone on her, aren't you?"

"Completely," Johnny admitted, finally stopping his pacing to look at his sister. "Totally. Utterly. I'm a lost cause, Sue. I'm a cautionary tale. I'm the poster child for 'what happens when you fall for someone way too out of your league and then keep falling despite all evidence that it's not going to work out.'"

"You're not out of her league."

"Please. You saw her at the gala last night. She was talking to diplomats and ambassadors and—and people with actual titles. And I was over there, what, trying to figure out how many champagne flutes I could stack on my head?"

"Three," Susan said dryly. "The answer is three."

"Exactly! She's a class act, Sue. She's sophisticated and smart and powerful and she doesn't need my nonsense. She doesn't need anyone's nonsense. She's like… she's like a force of nature. She's the wind itself, and I'm just some idiot who keeps getting blown around by her."

Susan's expression softened. "You really do love her, don't you?"

Johnny was quiet for a moment. Then, quietly: "Yeah. I really do."

"'Cause I think I'm getting closer to her every day," he continued, and his voice was almost wistful. "I know she'll come around to me eventually. I just have to keep trying. I have to keep showing her that I'm serious about this. That it's not just… that it's not just about wanting to get her in bed."

"We know that, Johnny."

"Do you? Because I'm not sure she does. I'm not sure she understands that this is real for me. That she's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. That when I'm on a mission, I'm always looking for her, making sure she's okay. That the thought of something happening to her-"

His voice cracked, and he looked away.

Susan stood up, crossing the room to put a hand on his shoulder.

"She knows, Johnny. She's not stupid. She knows how you feel about her."

"Then why won't she give me a chance?"

"Because she's scared."

Johnny blinked. "Scared? Of what?"

Susan smiled, a little sadly. "Scared of what happens if she lets herself care about someone. Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of getting hurt." She squeezed his shoulder. "You're not the only one who's been burned before, little brother."

Johnny was quiet for a long moment, processing that.

"So what do I do?" he finally asked. "How do I show her that I'm not going to hurt her? That I would never—"

"Keep doing what you're doing," Susan said simply. "Keep showing up. Keep being patient. Keep proving to her that you're in this for the long haul."

"Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."

"I know. But she's worth it, isn't she?"

Johnny thought about you—the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. The way you sometimes softened around Susan when you thought Johnny wasn't paying attention. The way you'd kissed him in that hangar, fierce and demanding, like you'd been holding back for so long and just couldn't anymore.

"Yeah," he said softly. "She's worth it."

It happened three weeks later.

Johnny had been on his best behavior, or at least his version of best behavior. He'd toned down the flirting, replaced the more forward comments with genuine compliments and quiet moments of support. He'd started showing up early to team briefings, had stopped trying to get out of missions, and had even done his own laundry for the first time in years (he'd accidentally turned all his whites pink, but it was the thought that counted).

And slowly, ever so slowly, he'd started to see cracks in your armor.

The way you'd started to hold his gaze a little longer. The way you sometimes almost smiled at his jokes before catching yourself. The way you'd started to lean into his presence rather than pulling away from it.

So when you approached him in the training room one evening, when everyone else had gone home, Johnny's heart started pounding so hard he was sure you could hear it.

"Johnny."

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual, like his entire world wasn't revolving around this single moment. "Hey- what's up?"

You didn't answer right away. You just stood there, looking at him, and Johnny realized with a start that you looked… nervous.

"I've been... thinking.." you finally said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You took a breath. "About what you said. In the hallway. About giving you a chance."

Johnny's heart stopped. Then started again, twice as fast.

"Yeah?"

"Don't make me repeat myself." you said, but there was no heat in it. "But.. I'm saying… I'm saying maybe we could try. Whatever this is. Whatever it's supposed to be." You paused, looking away. "I'm not saying I know how to do this. I'm not saying I'm going to be good at it. I don't… I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to let people in. I've spent so long building these walls, and I don't know how to take them down, and I don't know if I even want to, because what if I take them down and you see what's underneath and you decide—"

"I won't."

The words came out fierce, desperate, and Johnny stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

"I won't," he repeated, his voice softer now. "I know you're scared. I know you think you're going to mess this up or that you're not going to be what I expect. But you don't have to be anything except yourself. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted."

You looked up at him, and for the first time, he saw it: all the vulnerability you'd been hiding behind your walls.

"Once you know what my love's gonna feel like-" you started.

"Nothing else will feel right," he interrupted, and this time, there was no desperation in his voice. Just certainty. "Nothing else will feel right, because I've already felt it. I've felt it every time you looked at me. Every time you rolled your eyes at me. Every time you threatened to take away my oxygen."

A ghost of a smile flickered across your face.

He reached up to cup your face in his hands, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone.

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, hesitantly, you reached up to cover his hands with your own.

"What if I'm not good at this?" you asked quietly. "What if I mess it up?"

"Then we figure it out together," he said simply. "That's what relationships are, right? Two people figuring it out together."

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then, so softly he almost didn't hear it: "Okay."

Johnny's brain short-circuited, his hand falling away from your cheek as his eyes widened in nothing sort of awe.

"Okay?" he repeated, his voice cracking on the word. "Okay as in- okay as in yes? Okay as in you'll actually give me a chance? Okay as in-"

"Don't make me say it again." you said, but you were smiling now. A real smile, the kind that made his heart feel like it was going to explode.

"YES!"

The word burst out of him, loud and triumphant, and before you could react, he was pumping his fist in the air and doing a little victory dance that was absolutely ridiculous but he couldn't help it.

"YES! YES! OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE! I'M GOING TO BE THE BEST BOYFRIEND YOU'VE EVER HAD! I'M GOING TO BE THE BEST BOYFRIEND ANYONE HAS EVER HAD! I'M GOING TO BE SO GOOD AT THIS THAT THEY'RE GOING TO WRITE BOOKS ABOUT IT!"

"Johnny—"

"I'M GOING TO PLAN THE BEST DATES! I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU TO THE BEST RESTAURANTS! I'M GOING TO—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes going wide.

Oh no.

He was flaming on.

The fire erupted from his skin in a burst of excitement, and you immediately raised your hand to extinguish it—

But then you stopped.

Instead, you stepped closer, reaching out to touch his chest. The flames should have burned you, but they didn't. Because you were controlling the oxygen around his skin, creating a bubble of safe air that let you touch him without getting hurt.

"Hi." you said softly, looking up at him.

"Hi.." he breathed, staring down at you.

And then—finally, finally—you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't like the first time. It wasn't fierce or demanding or desperate. It was soft. Sweet. A promise of something more.

Johnny melted into the kiss, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his flames flickering with pure joy.

And when you finally pulled back, you were both smiling.

"So," you said, your voice a little breathless. "That wasn't so bad."

"Bad?" Johnny sputtered, flames finally dying on their own. "That was- that was the best kiss of my entire life! And I've had a lot of kisses, okay? I've had so many kisses, but that one—"

"Don't ruin it." you said, pressing a finger to his lips.

He kissed the tip of your finger.

And when you laughed, aactually laughed, the sound warm and genuine and so beautiful that Johnny felt his heart swell to three times its normal size, he knew.

He knew that this was it.

This was the beginning of something magical.

Something mystical.

Something that would change everything.

And as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close and feeling the steady beat of your heart against his chest, Johnny Storm thought that he had never felt anything so right in his entire life.

Because his love felt so mystical, magical.

The morning after and: "Are you two going to be insufferable now?"

Ben's voice was gruff, but there was a smile tugging at his rocky features as he watched Johnny bounce into the common room, you trailing behind him with a look of long-suffering affection.

"Insufferable?" Johnny repeated, his grin so wide it looked like it hurt. "I'm going to be so much more than insufferable, Ben. I'm going to be unbearable. I'm going to be a menace to society. I'm going to be—"

"Johnny," you said, and he immediately shut up, turning to look at you with the most adoring expression anyone had ever seen.

"Yes, darling? Yes, love of my life? Yes, beautiful, powerful, amazing—"

"Don't be a menace to society."

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," he said seriously. "I'll be a model citizen. I'll be so good that they'll give me a key to the city. I'll be—"

"Just be yourself," you said, and the words were soft. Fond. Full of something that made Johnny's heart do a happy little flip.

"Really?" he asked. "Even my annoying self? Even my loud, obnoxious, never-shuts-up self?"

"Especially that self," you said, reaching out to take his hand. "I've kind of grown attached to that self."

Johnny's face lit up like the sun.

And yes, okay, he may have flamed on again.

But this time, you didn't extinguish it.

Instead, you just smiled and kissed his cheek, letting his warmth wrap around you like a blanket.

And from across the room, Susan watched her brother finally, finally get what he'd been working so hard for, and she couldn't help but smile.

Mystical, magical, she thought, watching the two of you together. That's what this is.

And it's beautiful.

The lab hummed.

Not the urgent, teeth-rattling hum of the Baxter Building's emergency generators kicking online during yet another world-ending crisis. Not the shrill, panicked beeping of sensors tracking an incoming asteroid or a dimensional rift or whatever fresh hell had decided to manifest itself over Manhattan this Tuesday.

No.

This was the good hum.

The gentle, almost melodic whir of the quantum harmonizer Reed had been tinkering with for the past three hours. A small project. A meaningless project, by every conceivable metric. He wasn't trying to reverse-engineer alien technology. He wasn't building a contingency plan for Galactus (though, knowing what he knew about what was coming, perhaps he should have been). He was simply… making something.

A device that could perfectly synchronize the temperature of a cup of coffee to the precise preference of whoever picked it up.

Utterly frivolous.

Completely unnecessary.

And Reed Richards had never been happier.

He stretched, reeeaaaally stretched, his arm elongating across the lab to pluck a resistor off a shelf fifteen feet away without bothering to get up from his stool, and soldered it into place with a satisfied sigh. The low, ambient music drifting from the speaker in the corner (something instrumental, classical-adjacent, the kind of thing Susan pretended to make fun of him for but secretly enjoyed) barely registered. It was just… texture. Background. White noise for the soul.

But the real music came from upstairs.

Footsteps. Rapid, staccato, the unmistakable rhythm of someone being chased through the living room. Then another set of footsteps, heavier, faster, closing in. A screech, your screech, high and delighted and absolutely feral, followed by a crash that made Reed's lips twitch.

"You're so dead!" Johnny's voice, muffled through the floor but still unmistakable, still carrying that particular brand of smug, sing-song arrogance that only he could pull off. "Dead! Deceased! No longer among the living!"

"YOU HAVE TO CATCH ME FIRST, STORM!"

More footsteps. A thump that was probably a couch cushion being deployed as an improvised weapon. A yelp—Johnny's, this time—and then the sound of something clattering across the floorboards.

Reed set down his soldering iron and tilted his head, listening.

He could picture it perfectly without even looking. You, barefoot probably, in those ridiculous fuzzy slippers shaped like shark heads that Susan had bought you for your last birthday, your hair escaping from whatever elaborate braid or bow or glitter-covered scrunchie you'd wrestled it into this morning. Johnny, in his stupidly expensive sneakers that he never bothered to tie, his flames banked low because he knew better than to actually set the carpet on fire (most of the time).

They'd been at it for the better part of an hour now. Chasing. Wrestling. Stealing each other's things, what exactly, Reed didn't know, and frankly, he didn't want to know. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.

He smiled to himself, turning back to his harmonizer.

This was what he wanted.

Not the accolades. Not the Nobel prizes, not the cover of Time magazine, not the endless parade of politicians and generals and well-meaning idiots who wanted to shake his hand and ask him to save the world just one more time, please, Dr. Richards, we know you're busy but-

This.

The chaos above him. The warmth of a home filled with people who loved each other messily, loudly, imperfectly. The knowledge that when he finally trudged upstairs at two in the morning, bleary-eyed and coffee-stained, there would be a plate of leftover pancakes waiting for him in the fridge with a sticky note stuck to the plastic wrap "Eat me, I'm tasty <3" n your loopy, glitter-gel-pen handwriting.

He thought of Franklin, asleep in his nursery three floors up, his tiny chest rising and falling in that impossibly peaceful way that only babies could manage. His son. His son. Some days Reed still couldn't believe it, couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he and Susan had made something so small and perfect and utterly miraculous.

Franklin would grow up with this. The noise. The chaos. The love.

He would have Susan, steady and warm and fierce, the kind of mother who could soothe a tantrum with a single look and also bench-press a tank with her mind. He would have Ben, gruff and gentle, the world's most terrifying uncle, who would teach him how to throw a punch and then immediately panic and offer to buy him a puppy to make up for it. He would have Johnny, who would probably be a terrible influence and an even worse role model but who would absolutely set fire to anyone who ever looked at Franklin wrong.

And he would have you.

His unofficial daughter. His accidental kid. The girl who had stumbled into their lives three years ago: scared, scraped-up, too thin and too alert, flinching at sudden movements and apologizing for everything, even for breathing too loud, and who had somehow, impossibly, bloomed into this.

A ray of sunshine in shark slippers. A whirlwind of glitter and laughter and carefully-followed baking instructions. A teenager who cried at animal commercials and could also generate a telekinetic shield strong enough to stop a speeding car.

Reed's chest ached with something warm and unfamiliar. Affection, he supposed. The kind of deep, bone-tired, utterly contented love that came not from grand gestures or dramatic rescues, but from Saturday morning pancakes and stolen raw batter and the sound of your voice yelling at Johnny to stop putting his feet on the coffee table, you absolute goblin, Sue just cleaned that-

The symphony broke.

Thud.

Not the light, glancing impact of a couch cushion or a pillow. Not the clatter of something small and plastic hitting the floor. This was solid. Heavy. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, of something colliding with something else at a speed that was decidedly not playful.

Reed's hand froze over the harmonizer.

Silence.

Five full seconds of it. No footsteps. No screeching. No laughter. Just the low hum of the lab equipment and the distant sound of traffic from the street below and the sudden, terrible weight of nothing where chaos had been a moment before.

Then-

"JOHNNY STORM!"

Your voice. High and sharp and outraged, cracking on the second word in a way that meant you were either furious or about to cry or possibly both.

Reed was already standing, his stool clattering to the floor behind him.

"Oops—no, wait, wait, get back here!" Johnny's voice, strained now, the smugness replaced by something that sounded dangerously close to panic. More footsteps, faster this time, a chase in reverse. "Wait! Come on! Don't be like that!"

"I'M TELLING REED!"

"NO! PLEASE DON'T! It was an accident! AN ACCIDENT!"

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly through his teeth.

Of course.

Of course.

He could already feel the shape of the next ten minutes forming in his mind like a equation solving itself. Johnny had broken something. Probably something of yours, something you cared about, something with sentimental value, something that would require an elaborate apology and possibly the purchase of a replacement and definitely at least three hours of him playing mediator while the two of you sniped at each other from opposite ends of the couch.

"I hate you!" Your voice, muffled now, like you were running down the hallway toward the stairwell.

"No, you don't!"

"Yes, I do!"

"Well, maybe you do, but just a little! You love me more than you hate me, right?"

"NO!"

"Oh, come on, don't snitch on me! I'll buy you ice cream! A whole cake! Two cakes! Name your price!"

Reed sighed again, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. The fond, familiar exhaustion of a man who had accidentally become a parent to two of the most endearingly feral human beings on the planet.

He loved you.

God help him, he loved you both so much it made his chest hurt.

The door to the lab burst open.

You came through first, a blur of pink and motion, your hair flying behind you like a battle standard. Your arms were crossed over your face, one hand pressed dramatically to your eyes like a silent film actress mid-faint, and you were making a sound—a high, keening, wounded sound—that was probably meant to convey tears but was, to Reed's trained ear, slightly too theatrical to be genuine.

"DAD!" you wailed, and Reed's heart did something complicated in his chest because you'd started calling him that six months ago and it still hadn't gotten old, still made him feel like he'd won a prize he hadn't known he'd been competing for. "DAD, HE-"

"SHE'S A LIAR!" Johnny burst through the door behind you, his hands outstretched, his face flushed, his hair sticking up in twelve different directions. He looked like he'd just run a marathon while simultaneously being attacked by a flock of angry geese. "DON'T BELIEVE HER! WHATEVER SHE SAYS IT'S A LIE! SHE'S A LIAR AND A- AND A SNITCH AND-"

You crashed into Reed's chest.

The impact was solid enough to knock the breath out of him, even with his admittedly forgiving elasticity. Your arms wrapped around his waist, your face pressed into his shirt, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his back like you were drowning and he was the only lifeline in sight.

Reed's arms came up around you automatically, one hand splaying across your back, the other coming to rest on the back of your head. His chin dropped to rest on your crown, and he could smell your shampoo (something fruity, strawberry maybe, or peach) and underneath it, the faint scent of the sugar cookies you'd baked last night.

"It's okay," he murmured, pitching his voice low and soothing, the way he did when Franklin woke up crying in the middle of the night. "ITell me what happened."

He looked up at Johnny over the top of your head.

Johnny stood frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. His hands were still outstretched, frozen mid-grab, and his expression cycled through approximately seventeen different emotions in the span of two seconds: panic, guilt, defiance, more panic, a brief flicker of genuine fear, and then a desperate, pleading sort of please don't be mad that would have been funny under literally any other circumstances.

"He's so mean." you said into Reed's chest, your voice muffled and slightly nasal. "He's so mean, Reed, you don't even understand-"

"I wasn't being mean! It was an accident! I said it was an accident!"

"IT WASN'T!"

"IT WAS!"

Reed held up one hand, and both of you fell silent with the kind of immediate obedience that suggested you'd both realized, simultaneously, that you'd pushed things about as far as you could without incurring Actual Consequences.

He looked down at the top of your head. Your shoulders weren't shaking. Your breathing was slightly elevated, you'd clearly been running, but there was none of the hiccuping, hitching quality that accompanied genuine tears.

Hm.

"Johnny," Reed said, his voice calm and measured and exactly the tone he used when he was about to dismantle someone's argument with the cold, unassailable logic of a man who had solved equations that had stumped geniuses for centuries. "what did you break?"

Johnny's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Nothing."

Reed raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing-" Johnny repeated, more firmly this time, like he could manifest innocence through sheer force of will. "I didn't break anything. She's being dramatic. She's always dramatic. You know how she is. She once cried for forty-five minutes because a pigeon looked at her funny—"

"That pigeon was judging me!" you snapped from your place buried in Reed's chest. "You didn't see the way it looked at me! It was vicious!"

"It was a pigeon!"

"A vicious pigeon!"

Reed sighed. The long, slow, I am surrounded by children sigh that he'd developed approximately six weeks after you'd moved in and that he now deployed on an almost hourly basis.

"Johnny," he said again, "what did you break?"

Johnny's gaze flickered to you, then back to Reed, then to the floor, then to the ceiling, then to the far wall, then back to Reed again. His hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders hunched slightly.

"…Nothing."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar! I once convinced a reporter that my favorite color was periwinkle and that I had a pet ferret named Mr. Whiskers and that I was secretly training for the Olympics in underwater basket weaving!"

"That's not lying, that's just being weird."

"It's art."

Reed turned his attention back to you, still tucked against his chest, still hiding your face. He could feel something warm and damp seeping through the fabric of his shirt, right around where your face was pressed against him.

Warm. Damp.

Tears, maybe?

"Sweetheart," he said softly, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently through your hair, "can you look at me?"

You shook your head, burrowing deeper into his chest.

"Please?"

Another head shake.

Reed's frown deepened. He could feel it now—the warmth spreading, the fabric of his shirt growing increasingly damp. And underneath it, something else. Something coppery.

His stomach dropped.

"Johnny," he said, and his voice was different now, sharper, the easy amusement gone, "what did you break?"

"Nothing!"

"Johnny."

"Nothing, I swear!"

"Is it something of hers?"

"Okay, okay! Look, it's not- it's not a big deal, okay? It's really not. It's just a little—she's fine. She's fine. She's just being a baby about it."

Reed's hands closed gently around your shoulders. You resisted for a moment, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, but he was patient—he could always be patient, had trained himself to be patient over years of waiting for chemical reactions and quantum fluctuations and the slow, beautiful process of discovery—and eventually, reluctantly, you lifted your head.

He looked down at your face.

And then he understood why Johnny had been so desperate to keep him from looking.

Your nose was bleeding.

Not a little—a lot. Blood smeared across your upper lip, dripped down your chin, stained the collar of your pink sweater in a pattern that looked alarmingly like a crime scene. Your eyes were glassy with pain, your lower lip jutted out in a pout that was somehow both genuinely hurt and also deeply, profoundly offended.

"MY NOSE!" you announced, your voice wet and nasal and absolutely dripping with indignation. "He broke my nose, Reed!"

Behind him, Johnny made a sound like a kettle about to boil over.

"IT WAS HER FAULT!" Johnny's voice cracked on the last word, pitching up into something almost comically high. "SHE'S GOT FAST REFLEXES! SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO DODGE MY PUNCH! IT WAS EASY TO DODGE! WHY DIDN'T YOU DODGE!?"

Reed blinked.

He looked at your nose. He looked at Johnny, who had—he noticed now—flamed on slightly, little flickers of orange and gold dancing across his knuckles like he was a human space heater having a minor meltdown. He looked back at your nose. He looked at the blood drying on his own shirt.

"You punched her," he said slowly, "in the face."

"It was an accident!"

"You punched your sister in the face."

"We were playing! We play-fight all the time! She's never- she always dodges! She's got, like, inhumanly fast reflexes, it's literally her whole thing! I didn't think she would just stand there and let me-"

"BECAUSE I DIDN'T EXPECT YOU TO ACTUALLY PUNCH ME, YOU MORON!" You whirled on Johnny, blood still dripping from your nose, your hands balled into fists at your sides. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO PULL YOUR FIST BACK AT THE LAST MOMENT LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO! WHY DIDN'T YOU DO THAT!?"

"BECAUSE I—" Johnny stopped. His mouth opened. Closed. His flames flickered uncertainly. "I… forgot?"

"YOU FORGOT!?"

"I have a lot on my mind!"

"WHAT DO YOU HAVE ON YOUR MIND!? YOU'RE JOHNNY STORM! YOUR BRAIN IS THE SIZE OF A PEA!"

"THAT'S- that's biological essentialism! You can't just—Reed, tell her she can't just-"

"Both of you," Reed said, and his voice was quiet but it cut through their squabbling like a knife through butter, "sit down. Now."

Johnny sat.

You didn't.

You stood there, arms crossed over your chest, blood dripping onto your shark slippers, glaring at Johnny with an expression that suggested you were mentally cataloging approximately four hundred ways to make his life miserable in the coming weeks. Your lower lip was still jutting out, still trembling slightly, and your eyes were still glassy, but you weren't crying. Not really. You were too angry to cry, which, in Reed's experience, was usually a good sign.

He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face up toward the light.

You flinched, just a little, just a tiny hitch in your breathing—and Reed's heart clenched painfully in his chest. He remembered the first time he'd seen that flinch. Three years ago, Susan bringing you through the front door of the Baxter Building, your clothes torn, your face bruised, your eyes wide and dark and full of a fear that no thirteen-year-old should ever have to know.

They were going to kill me, you'd whispered, and Reed had felt something cold and furious settle into his bones, something that had nothing to do with science and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming need to protect this small, scared, impossibly brave girl from everything in the universe that would ever try to hurt her.

He'd failed, apparently. Because here you were, three years later, with a broken nose courtesy of his wife's younger brother.

"Let me see," he murmured, tilting your head from side to side. His fingers were gentle, clinical, the same hands that had disarmed bombs and repaired interdimensional portals and changed Franklin's diapers more times than he could count. "Look up. No, up. There you go."

He could hear Johnny shifting uncomfortably behind him, could practically feel the waves of guilt radiating off the younger man like heat off a summer sidewalk.

"It's not broken," Reed said finally, releasing your chin. "it's bleeding a lot but nosebleeds always look worse than they are, the bone's intact. Just bruised. You'll have a hell of a shiner tomorrow, though."

Your eyes widened. "A black eye?"

"Probably."

"I'm going to have a black eye?" You whirled back toward Johnny, your voice climbing into something approaching a shriek. "JOHNNY! I'M GOING TO HAVE A BLACK EYE! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO COVER UP A BLACK EYE WITH CONCEALER!?"

"I'LL BUY YOU CONCEALER! THE EXPENSIVE KIND! THE KIND THAT COMES IN THE FANCY JAR!"

"I DON'T WANT YOUR FANCY CONCEALER! I WANT MY NOSE TO NOT BE BROKEN!"

"IT'S NOT BROKEN! REED JUST SAID IT'S NOT BROKEN!"

"IT'S PRACTICALLY BROKEN!"

Reed sighed and reached for the first-aid kit he kept in the bottom drawer of his workbench. Gauze, antiseptic wipes, medical tape, and, because he was a practical man who had learned long ago that bribery was sometimes the most effective form of parenting, a small stash of lollipops he kept for exactly this kind of occasion.

He held one out to you.

You looked at it. Looked at him. Looked back at the lollipop.

"Grape?" you asked, your voice small.

"Grape."

You took it with the air of a queen accepting tribute from a lesser kingdom, ripped off the wrapper with your teeth, and shoved the entire thing into your mouth in a manner that was decidedly not queen-like. The purple candy bulged against your cheek, and your expression shifted from outrage to something marginally more placated.

Reed guided you to sit on the edge of his desk, positioning you carefully so your legs dangled over the side and your face was level with his. He wet a piece of gauze with saline solution and began gently wiping the blood from your upper lip, your chin, the delicate skin beneath your nose.

You hissed softly when the gauze touched the bruised area, but you didn't pull away. You just sat there, sucking on your lollipop, watching him with those big, glassy eyes that still, after all this time, made him want to wrap you in blankets and never let anything bad happen to you ever again.

Behind him, Johnny cleared his throat.

"So," Johnny said, his voice carefully casual, "we're good, right? Like, no hard feelings? We're all good?"

Reed didn't turn around. He could feel Johnny's presence behind him: the warmth of him, the nervous energy, the way he was practically vibrating with the need to either apologize or run away or both.

"We are not," Reed said calmly, "all good."

"Okay, but-"

"Johnny."

"Yeah?"

"Be quiet."

Johnny was quiet.

Reed finished cleaning your face and tossed the bloodied gauze into the trash. He tilted your chin again, examining the damage. Slight swelling around the bridge of your nose. A dark bruise already beginning to bloom under your left eye. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, and he pressed a fresh piece of gauze against your nostrils, pinching gently.

"Hold this, sweetheart" he instructed, and you obediently lifted one hand to hold the gauze in place, the lollipop stick still protruding from between your lips.

Only then did Reed turn to face Johnny.

His brother-in-law stood in the middle of the lab like a man awaiting sentencing, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his expression caught somewhere between sheepish and defiant. His flames had banked completely now, leaving him looking almost… normal. Just a twenty-something guy in a rumpled t-shirt and expensive sneakers, looking for all the world like a golden retriever who had just been caught chewing up a pair of designer shoes.

Reed crossed his arms over his chest.

"The last time I checked," he said, his voice mild, "we had a rule about physical altercations in the common areas."

Johnny winced. "I know, but-"

"And I believe that rule was established after the incident with the coffee table."

"The coffee table was already broken! It had a loose leg! I was doing you a favor!"

"The coffee table was an antique."

"It was ugly."

"That's not the point."

Johnny's mouth snapped shut.

Reed let the silence stretch, let Johnny squirm. It was a technique he'd learned from Susan, the power of the pregnant pause, the way that saying nothing at all could be more effective than any lecture. He watched Johnny's face cycle through guilt, defiance, more guilt, and finally, grudging acceptance.

"I didn't mean to hurt her.." Johnny said quietly.

Reed's expression softened, just slightly. "I know."

"I was just… we were playing, and I wasn't thinking, and she usually dodges, and I just-" Johnny ran a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm really, genuinely sorry. I'll do literally anything to make it up to her. I'll buy her a pony. I'll clean her room for a month. I'll-"

"I don't want a pony," you said from the desk, your voice muffled by gauze and lollipop. "Ponies are scary. They have big teeth."

"Okay, not a pony. What do you want? Name it. It's yours."

You pulled the lollipop out of your mouth with a wet pop and pointed it at Johnny like a tiny purple weapon. "I want you to do my chores for two weeks."

"Done."

"And I want the last slice of the cookie cake Sue bought yesterday."

"…Done."

"And I want you to tell me I'm pretty."

Johnny blinked. "But you are pretty."

"I know. I want you to say it."

"You're pretty."

"Say it like you mean it."

"You're pretty."

"Louder."

"YOU'RE PRETTY!"

"And I want you to-"

"okay, that's enough, honey." Reed interrupted, but he was smiling now, the tension draining out of his shoulders. He uncrossed his arms and turned back to you, gently removing the gauze from your nose to check the bleeding. It had stopped. He tossed the gauze aside and tilted your chin again, examining the bruise. "You're going to have a shiner tomorrow. Ice it tonight, keep your head elevated when you sleep. And no more play-fighting for the rest of the week."

"What?" Johnny's voice cracked. "That's not- you can't just-"

"I can," Reed said calmly, "and I am. Both of you. One week. No roughhousing, no chasing, no sneak attacks, no flour-in-the-face incidents. Am I understood?"

You and Johnny exchanged a look. A long, complicated look that seemed to contain an entire conversation's worth of silent communication.

"Fine." you said finally, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Fine." Johnny echoed, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Good." Reed reached out and ruffled your hair, and you leaned into the touch like a cat being scratched behind the ears. "Now both of you go upstairs and-"

The lab door swung open.

Susan Richards stood in the doorway, Franklin balanced on her hip, his tiny fists clutching at the collar of her blouse. He was wearing a onesie covered in little cartoon rocketships and looked, as always, like the most perfect thing Reed had ever seen. Frankie the family pug trotted in behind her, his little claws clicking against the floor, his tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.

Susan took in the scene.

Reed, standing in the middle of the lab with his arms crossed, a large red stain spreading across the front of his grey shirt.

Johnny, standing a few feet away, looking like a man who had just been caught setting something on fire (which, to be fair, was not an uncommon occurrence).

You, sitting on Reed's desk, a grape lollipop in your mouth, the collar of your pink sweater stained red, a wad of gauze clutched in one hand, and a rapidly darkening bruise blooming beneath your left eye.

Franklin gurgled happily and reached out one chubby hand toward the quantum harmonizer.

Susan's eyes narrowed.

"What," she said slowly, in the voice of a woman who had seen too much and was rapidly approaching her limit. "in the great heavens is going on here?"

"IT WAS NOT MY FAULT!" Johnny burst out, his flames flickering back to life in his agitation. "SHE SHOULD HAVE DODGED!"

"I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS SUPPOSED TO DODGE!"

"WE WERE PLAY-FIGHTING! PLAY-FIGHTING INVOLVES DODGING!"

"PLAY-FIGHTING INVOLVES PULLING YOUR PUNCHES, YOU COMBUSTIBLE IMBECILE!"

"I AM NOT- Reed, tell her I'm not-"

"Enough." Susan held up one hand, and both of you fell silent with the kind of immediate, instinctive obedience that came from years of experience with a woman who could turn invisible and throw you through a wall with her mind. She turned to Reed, one eyebrow raised. "Explain."

Reed opened his mouth.

"Johnny punched her in the face." he said.

Susan's expression didn't change. She looked at Johnny. She looked at you. She looked at Franklin, who was now trying to eat Frankie the pug's ear. She looked back at Reed.

"I see," she said. Her voice was very calm. Dangerously calm. The kind of calm that preceded either a very long lecture or a very short temper tantrum, and Reed had learned over the years that it was usually best to let her work through it on her own.

She crossed the room in four long strides, set Franklin in Reed's arms (he took the baby automatically, cradling him against his chest), and crouched down in front of you. Her fingers were gentle as she tilted your face from side to side, examining the bruise, the swelling, the blood still drying on your chin.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

"A little," you admitted, your voice small. "Mostly it's just… annoying. And embarrassing. I look like I got in a fight."

"You did get in a fight."

"A fight I lost."

Susan's lips twitched. "Sweetheart, you have telekinesis. You could have stopped him with your mind."

You blinked. Looked at Johnny. Looked back at Susan.

"…Oh," you said. "I forgot."

"You forgot?" Johnny's voice was incredulous.

"I was surprised! You punched me in the face! It's hard to think straight when someone punches you in the face!"

"You could have thrown me across the room!"

"I didn't think of it!"

"Okay, well, next time, think of it!"

"THERE ISN'T GOING TO BE A NEXT TIME!"

"ENOUGH!" Susan's voice cracked through the room like a whip, and both of you fell silent again. She stood up, brushed off her knees, and turned to face Johnny with her arms crossed over her chest.

Johnny visibly wilted under her gaze.

"Sue," he started, "I can explain-"

"I'm sure you can." Her voice was dry. "You can explain while you're cleaning the kitchen. Both of you. Together. And you're not leaving until every dish is washed, every counter is wiped, and every crumb of that cookie cake you two fought over last night is vacuumed off the floor."

"What?" Johnny's mouth dropped open. "But I didn't even-"

"Johnny."

"…Fine."

"And you." Susan turned to you, and her expression softened slightly. "Ice on that nose every hour. And no using your powers to cheat at your chores."

"I would never." you said, with a dignity somewhat undermined by the lollipop still protruding from your mouth.

Susan's lips twitched again. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, right between your eyes, careful to avoid the bruise. "I love you," she murmured. "Even when you're getting into fistfights with your idiot brother."

"I love you too, Sue." you mumbled around the lollipop.

Susan straightened up and turned to Reed, who was still holding Franklin, still watching the whole scene with an expression of fond exhaustion. Frankie the pug had curled up at his feet and was snoring softly.

"Darling," Susan said. "your shirt is covered in blood."

Reed looked down at himself. The stain had spread across most of his chest now, a dark, rusty red against the grey fabric. Franklin had gotten some on his onesie too, a small smear across one rocket ship.

"I noticed." Reed said.

"Are you going to change?"

"Eventually."

Susan shook her head, but she was smiling. She crossed the room and took Franklin back from him, settling the baby on her hip with the ease of long practice. "I'm going to put this one down for his nap. When I come back, I expect the kitchen to be spotless and the two troublemakers to have made up."

"We're not troublemakers.." Johnny protested.

"You punched your sister in the face."

"It was an accident!"

"Accident or not, she's bleeding." Susan raised her eyebrows. "Troublemakers."

She swept out of the lab, Franklin waving his tiny fists in farewell, Frankie trotting at her heels. The door swung shut behind her, leaving the three of you in the sudden quiet.

Reed looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at the floor. You looked at Reed and pulled the lollipop out of your mouth with a thoughtful expression.

"He's going to be insufferable about the chores." you said.

"I am standing right here."

"I know." You grinned at Johnny, and despite the bruise darkening on your face and the blood still crusted on your chin, you looked like sunshine. Like the same bright, fierce, impossibly resilient girl who had stumbled into their lives three years ago and never left.

Johnny stared at you for a moment. Then his shoulders relaxed, and he huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.

"You're impossible." he said.

"You punched me in the face."

"You're still impossible."

"And you're going to do my chores for two weeks."

"I'm going to help with your chores for two weeks."

"Same thing."

"It is absolutely not the same thing."

Reed watched the two of you bicker, watched the easy rhythm of it, the way you circled each other like planets in orbit, and felt something warm settle into his chest. Something that felt like home.

He thought of Franklin, sleeping upstairs in his nursery. Thought of the life his son would have: surrounded by love, surrounded by chaos, surrounded by people who would fight for him and with him and sometimes, apparently, accidentally punch each other in the face.

It was practice, he supposed. For all of it.

The parenting. The patience. The endless, beautiful, exhausting work of loving people who drove you absolutely insane.

Reed uncrossed his arms and clapped his hands together once, sharp and decisive.

"Alright," he said. "Kitchen. Now. Both of you."

Johnny groaned. You slid off the desk, your shark slippers squeaking against the floor, and made your way toward the door. Johnny followed, still grumbling, still radiating waves of theatrical suffering.

At the door, you paused. Looked back at Reed.

"Hey." you said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For… you know." You gestured vaguely at your face, at the lab, at everything. "For this. For all of it."

Reed's heart clenched.

"Always," he said. "Now go do your chores."

You grinned—a bright, bloody, lollipop-stained grin—and disappeared through the door. Johnny followed, his voice drifting back through the open doorway: "I can't believe you're making me do chores. I'm a victim here. I'm the real victim."

"You punched me in the face."

"I'm a victim, I tell you!"

The door swung shut, cutting off your response, and Reed was alone in the lab.

He stood there for a moment, surrounded by the hum of his equipment and the faint, lingering scent of sugar cookies and blood. His shirt was ruined. His harmonizer was still unfinished. And somewhere upstairs, his wife was putting his son down for a nap while his two older children bickered about whose turn it was to wash the dishes.

He smiled.

It was, after all, a Saturday.

And on Saturdays, you made pancakes.

The fluorescent lights of Vought Tower's marine research wing hummed with their characteristic sterile buzz, a sound that had become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat over the past eight months. You were bent over a stainless steel examination table, your brow furrowed in concentration as you carefully documented the tissue samples from a rescued harbor seal that had been found entangled in fishing nets off the coast of Maine.

Your lab coat was slightly too big, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows to reveal the delicate silver bracelet your grandmother had given you. Your hair was pulled back in a messy but functional ponytail, a few stubborn strands escaping to frame your face. You were so absorbed in your work that you didn't hear the distinctive wet footsteps approaching from behind.

"Whatcha doin'?"

The voice was impossibly close, right next to your ear, and you startled so violently that your pen went skittering across the table. You spun around, hand pressed to your chest, to find Kevin Moskowitz—The Deep—standing approximately three inches from your personal space, his head tilted at that particular angle that made him look like a confused golden retriever.

"Kevin!" You laughed, the sound genuine and warm despite your racing heart. "You scared me half to death. I thought I locked that door."

"I have a key, remember?" he said, dangling the key in his hand before putting it on the desk. His voice had that particular quality it always got around you: slightly higher pitched, slightly breathless, like he was perpetually on the verge of saying something important and forgetting what it was.

"Of course you do," you said, shaking your head with an affectionate smile. "Because knocking on the door like a normal person is apparently beneath you."

Kevin's face split into that goofy, wide grin that made him look approximately twelve years old, despite being a grown man in his thirties. His eyes, those big, earnest, eyes, were fixed on you with an intensity that would have been unsettling coming from anyone else.

"I wanted to see you," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "I was talking to the fish on my room's tank and they said you were down here working late again and I thought- I thought maybe you'd want company? I can be good company. I'm excellent company, actually. I've been told I'm like, top-tier company. Right up there with, you know, penguins. Penguins are great company. Very social creatures. Not that I'm comparing myself to penguins, because I'm obviously a human, but also-" He was rambling now, his words tumbling out faster and faster as he seemed to realize he was making no sense. "I brought you something."

He held out his hand, and you noticed for the first time that he was clutching something in his palm. It was a small, perfect scallop shell, its surface gleaming with an iridescent sheen that caught the fluorescent light and scattered it into rainbows.

"Oh, Kevin!" you breathed, reaching out to take it from him. Your fingers brushed against his, and you watched with fascination as a visible shiver ran through his entire body. "It's beautiful. Where did you get this?"

"Found it," he said, puffing up slightly with pride. "Down in the deep part. The really deep part. Like, deep deep. Where it's all dark and creepy and stuff. I was talking to some anglerfish, they're honestly such gossips, you wouldn't believe, and I saw it just sitting there on the ocean floor and I thought of you."

"You thought of me?" you repeated, turning the shell over in your hands. It really was exquisite, the ridges perfectly formed, the colors shifting from pearl to lavender to deep rose.

"Yeah," he said, and there was something almost vulnerable in his voice now. "I kinda always think of you when I see these type of things, like- pretty things, i mean."

Your heart did a little flutter. It was such a sincere, uncalculated compliment, the kind Kevin gave without even seeming to realize he was giving it. In the months since you'd been assigned to Vought's marine research division, you'd grown increasingly fond of the strange, awkward, deeply insecure man who seemed to have latched onto you with the desperate intensity of a barnacle.

"I'll treasure it," you said, and meant it. "Thank you, Kevin. That's really sweet."

He beamed at you, practically vibrating with pleasure at your approval. Then, as if unable to help himself, he stepped even closer, his body angling toward yours in a way that was almost, but not quite, invasive.

"You know," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I could show you where I found it sometime. Take you down there. It's really beautiful once your eyes adjust to the dark. And I'd keep you safe, obviously. Nothing would hurt you while I'm around. I'd make sure of it. I'd—I'd protect you from everything. Every shark, every giant squid, every-"

"Kevin." you interrupted gently, touching his arm. "That's very sweet, but I'm perfectly happy staying on dry land, thank you. I prefer my marine life safely on the other side of glass."

"Oh," he said, deflating slightly. "Right. Of course. That makes sense. You're a scientist. You like, you know, studying things. Not being in them. In the water, I mean. Not—not being in things. That came out wrong. I meant-"

"I know what you meant, Kevin." you said, laughing again. God, he was ridiculous. Absolutely, completely, utterly ridiculous. And somehow, impossibly endearing.

"You're laughing at me." he said, but there was no accusation in it. If anything, he seemed pleased, as if your laughter was some precious gift he'd managed to earn.

"A little bit," you admitted. "But in a good way. You're just—you're very.. you, Kevin. I like that."

His entire face transformed. It was like watching someone step into sunlight after years in the dark. His eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open slightly, and a deep flush crept up his neck and into his cheeks.

"You like that?" he repeated, his voice cracking on the last word. "You like—you like me?"

"of course I like you, Kevin." you confirmed. "You're one of my favorite people here. You always make me smile."

He made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he might actually cry. His eyes were definitely glistening, and his hands were twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn't quite dare.

"I-" He swallowed hard. "That's—that's really nice. That's really, really nice. You're really nice. You're the nicest person I've ever met. Like, ever. In my whole life. And I've met a lot of people. Some of them were even nice. But not like you. You're like—you're like a sea otter. But prettier. And with better hair. Not that sea otters don't have good hair, they're actually very well-groomed creatures, very meticulous, very-"

"Kevin," you said, gently cutting off his ramble. "Do you want to help me finish cataloging these samples? I could use an extra pair of hands."

"yes!" he said, so quickly and loudly that you actually startled back a step. "I mean- yes. I would love to. Help you. With the things. The—the marine things. That you're doing. With your hands. And your—your brain. Your very smart, very beautiful brain."

He was practically vibrating with barely contained excitement as he scrambled to your side, positioning himself so close that his shoulder brushed against yours every time he moved. He didn't seem to notice (or if he did, he didn't care) and you found yourself smiling down at the top of his head as he peered intently at the samples you'd been working on.

"So these are from the seal?" he asked, his voice taking on a more focused quality. "The one with the net stuff?"

"The one with the net stuff," you confirmed, handing him a pair of gloves. "I'm trying to determine if there's any long-term tissue damage from the entanglement. If the necrosis has spread too far, we might need to-"

"Amputate the flipper," he finished, nodding sagely. "Yeah, I saw that once. Really sad. The seal was really sad. But then it got a cool prosthetic and it was really happy again. It was on a TV show. A nature show. With Morgan Freeman narrating. His voice is so calm. Do you think my voice is calm? I've been trying to make it calmer. More soothing. Like ocean waves. You know, 'whoosh, whoosh.'"

"Your voice is perfect," you chuckled absently, reaching for a pipette. "Don't change a thing."

Kevin went very, very still. When you glanced up, he was staring at you with an expression of such naked adoration that you nearly dropped the pipette.

"I-" he started, then stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "My voice is- you think my voice is-?"

"Perfect," you repeated, smiling at him. "Now hand me that scalpel, would you?"

He handed you the scalpel with shaking hands, and if you'd been paying closer attention, you might have noticed the way he watched your fingers curl around the handle, the way his breath caught in his throat, the way his entire body leaned unconsciously toward yours like a flower turning toward the sun.

But you were focused on your work, and Kevin was content, more than content, ecstatic, to simply bask in your presence, absorbing every detail of you like a sponge in water.

Two weeks later, you found yourself in a different section of the marine research wing, this time working with a consultant from the Oceanographic Institute named Dr. Marcus Webb. He was tall, conventionally handsome, with the kind of easy confidence that came from years of being the smartest person in every room he entered.

He was also, as Kevin had noticed with growing horror, very, very interested in you.

You'd been working together on a project about deep-sea thermal vent ecosystems, a subject you were genuinely passionate about, and Marcus had been impressively knowledgeable and engaging. He'd made you laugh several times and had suggested getting coffee together to "continue the discussion."

None of this escaped Kevin's notice.

He'd been watching from the hallway, he looked like a child looking into a candy store, except instead of candy, the thing he desperately wanted was you. He'd come to find you to show you a particularly interesting piece of coral he'd discovered, only to find you laughing at something Marcus Webb had said.

Something ugly and primal clawed its way up Kevin's throat. It was jealousy. Hot, acidic, all-consuming, and it made him want to do things that would probably get him in a lot of trouble with Homelander and Vought's PR department.

But he couldn't just leave. Leaving meant letting Marcus Webb have unfettered access to you, and that was simply unacceptable. So Kevin did what any reasonable, well-adjusted adult would do in his situation:

He went to find you and insert himself into the conversation.

"Hey!" he called out, his voice carrying that particular whiny quality it always got when he was feeling insecure. "Hey, you! My favorite marine biologist! The prettiest one!"

You looked up, and your face lit up in that warm, genuine smile that made Kevin's knees feel weak. "Kevin! I didn't know you were here."

"I'm always here." he said, and immediately cringed at how desperate that sounded. "I mean- I'm here a lot. Because I like it here. Because of the—the water. And the marine life. And the-" He gestured vaguely in your direction. "And stuff."

Marcus looked at Kevin with the kind of tolerant amusement that made Kevin's blood boil. "The Deep, right? I've seen you on TV. You're the one who talks to fish."

"I don't just talk to them." Kevin said, bristling. "I commune with them. It's a profound connection. Much more significant than—than whatever you're doing, which is probably just, you know, reading about them in books or whatever. Like a normal person. Who doesn't have superpowers. Which is fine. It's totally fine. Nothing wrong with being normal."

"Kevin," you said gently, and just the sound of your voice was enough to soothe some of his frayed edges. "Dr. Webb is actually one of the leading experts on deep-sea thermal vent ecosystems. He's been incredibly helpful with my research."

"l bet he has." Kevin muttered under his breath, then immediately regretted it when you shot him a questioning look.

"Did you need something, Kevin?" you asked, and there was no frustration in your voice,just patience, that infinite patience you seemed to have for him and his particular brand of ridiculousness.

"I-" He'd forgotten. What had he wanted? Something important. Something he needed to show you. Something- "Oh! The coral! I found this amazing coral. It's bioluminescent, and it's really, really beautiful, and I thought you'd want to see it because you like beautiful things, and you like marine things, and you're beautiful, and-" He was rambling again, he could hear himself rambling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, obviously you're not a marine thing, you're a human thing, a very pretty human thing, but you also like marine things, and this is a marine thing, so I thought you'd like-"

"Show me," you said, cutting through his ramble with a warm smile. "I'd love to see it."

You turned to Marcus Webb with a pleasant expression. "I'm sorry, Dr. Webb, but I'm going to have to take a rain check on that coffee. Maybe another time?"

Something bright and triumphant flared in Kevin's chest. You'd turned down Marcus Webb. For him. For him.

"Of course," Marcus said smoothly, but Kevin could see the flash of irritation in his eyes. "Perhaps we could schedule something for next week? I'd love to continue our discussion about the chemosynthetic bacteria."

"We'll see." you said diplomatically, and Kevin had to physically stop himself from doing a victory dance right there right then.

The moment Marcus Webb was out of earshot, Kevin practically collapsed toward you, his voice dropping into a desperate whine. "I don't like him."

"Who, Dr. Webb?" You looked genuinely confused. "He seems perfectly nice."

"He's not nice." Kevin insisted in a hiss, following you like a lost puppy as you gathered your things. "He's- he's got a smug face. And he was looking at you weird. And he touched your arm. I saw him. He touched your arm like three times. That's- that's excessive. That's inappropriate workplace touching. I should report him to HR."

You laughed, and Kevin's heart did that weird flip-flop thing it always did when you laughed. "Kevin, he was just being friendly. He touched my arm twice, and I think one of those times was an accident."

"It wasn't an accident." Kevin grumbled. "It was deliberate. Premeditated. He's got a plan. I know his type. He's one of those—those smooth guys who thinks he can just waltz in and—and—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't bring himself to articulate the fear that had been gnawing at him since he'd seen you laughing with another man.

"Kevin." Your voice was soft, and when he looked up, you were watching him with that gentle, understanding expression that made him feel both completely seen and completely exposed. "Are you jealous?"

"No." he said immediately. "No, I'm not- why would I- I'm not jealous. That's ridiculous. I'm not jealous. I'm just- I'm observant. I notice things. That's all. It's a- a marine thing. Marine creatures notice patterns. It's how we survive. Not that I'm a marine creature. Obviously I'm a human. Mostly. Technically. According to my birth certificate."

"So you are jealous." you repeated, humming.

Kevin deflated like a punctured balloon. "Tch- well, maybe." he admitted in a small voice. "A little. But only because- because he was touching you, and you were laughing, and you looked so pretty when you were laughing, and I wanted to be the one making you laugh, but he was making you laugh, and that's supposed to be my job-"

"Kevin." You stepped closer to him, close enough that he could smell your perfume, something floral and sweet that made his brain go fuzzy. "You make me laugh all the time. You make me smile every single day. You're my favorite person in this entire building, and probably in the whole city."

"Really?" His voice cracked on the word.

"Really." you confirmed. "Now stop being jealous of Dr. Webb and show me this coral you found. I'm genuinely curious."

Kevin nodded, his expression shifting from desperate jealousy to eager puppy in approximately point-three seconds. "It's this way. Come on. It's really amazing. It's got these little tentacles that light up, and when I touched it, it changed colors, which I thought was really cool and you'd probably have a scientific explanation for it because you're so smart-"

He was babbling again, but you didn't seem to mind. You just smiled and followed him, letting him take your hand- oh god, you'd let him take your hand, and lead you through the winding corridors of Vought Tower toward the bioluminescent coral he'd discovered.

Kevin's heart was pounding so hard he was certain you could feel it through his palm, but he didn't let go. He would never let go, he decided. He was going to hold your hand forever, and if anyone tried to take you away from him, he would- he would-

He didn't know what he would do. But it would be impressive, he decided. He would do something very impressive and heroic, and you would look at him with that warm, admiring expression, and he would finally feel like he'd earned the right to bask in your presence.

"You're staring." you said, and Kevin realized with a jolt that he'd been staring at you for the past thirty seconds.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I was just- you're really pretty when the light hits your hair like that. Actually, you're pretty all the time."

"Do you ever run out of things to say?" you asked, but you were smiling, so Kevin counted it as a win.

"Not really," he admitted. "My brain just kind of… goes. Especially when I'm around you. It's like all these thoughts just start happening, and they all want to come out at once, and it's really hard to filter them, which is why I probably sound really stupid a lot of the time, and I'm sorry about that, I just-"

"I don't think you sound stupid," you interrupted gently. "I think you sound like someone who cares deeply about things. That's not a bad thing, Kevin. It's actually quite endearing."

Kevin made a sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a whimper. "Endearing?"

"Very." you confirmed.

And just like that, every ounce of jealousy he'd felt toward Marcus Webb evaporated, replaced by a warm, glowing certainty that you were his, and he was yours, and nothing and no one in the world was ever going to change that.

ℒOGAN ℋOWLETT !!

The first thing you register is the weight of the world pressing down on your lower abdomen, a familiar, crushing agony. You try to curl into a tighter ball, but a low, pained groan escapes your lips before you can stop it.

The door to your room creaks open, but you don't have the strength to look. You just hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps, followed by the unmistakable snikt of claws being sheathed. Logan had been sharpening them in the other room. He must have heard you.

A moment later, the bed dips under his considerable weight, and a massive, warm hand comes to rest on your trembling shoulder. "Hey, kid," he rumbles, his voice a low gravelly whisper that somehow cuts through the fog of pain. "That bad, huh?"

You just whimper in response, tears leaking from your closed eyes. You feel his hand move, gently brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. The calluses on his palm are rough, but his touch is impossibly gentle.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Instead, you hear the soft clink of a glass being set down on your nightstand, followed by the rattle of a pill bottle.

"Jean told me these help," he mutters, sounding almost embarrassed. He gently nudges your shoulder. "C'mon, sit up for a second. Need to get some of this in you."

With a monumental effort, you push yourself up, your face a mask of misery. Logan is watching you with an intensity that makes him look like he’s about to pick a fight with the entire universe. He hands you a glass of water and two little white pills. "There you go. Small sips."

You take the pills, and as you sink back into the pillows, you see him pull a worn, leather jacket from the foot of your bed and drape it over you. It's heavy and smells like him—cigar smoke, whiskey, and something metallic and wild.

"Just rest," he says, settling into the chair by your window, his arms crossed over his chest like a silent, unmovable guard. "I'm not goin' anywhere." The sheer, unwavering presence of him is more comforting than any painkiller. You know, without a doubt, that he would tear the world apart if it meant easing your suffering. He stays in that chair for the rest of the day, silent and watchful, only moving to get you a fresh glass of water or to check if you're still breathing.

𝒲ORST 𝒲OLVERINE !!

You're curled up on the lumpy couch, clutching a pillow to your stomach, trying to will the searing cramps away.

Logan, who was previously complaining about Wade's inability to make a decent pot of coffee, stops mid-sentence. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just sniffs the air in a way that's both animalistic and deeply, deeply weird.

"Jesus, kid," he says, his voice surprisingly soft, devoid of its usual rough edge. "You smell like…" He trails off, a flicker of understanding—and something akin to panic—crossing his face. "Fuck."

He shoots a glare at Wade, who is mid-sentence about the ideal chimichanga-to-filling ratio. "Shut it, Wilson."

Wade opens his mouth to protest, but Logan silences him with a look that could curdle milk. He then turns his attention back to you, slowly approaching the couch as if you were a frightened deer. "Okay. I got this. I got this. Okay."

He kneels in front of the couch, his hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he awkwardly pats your knee. "You need, uh… food? Water? I can make toast. I know how to make toast."

You just groan in response, and he seems to take this as a major mission objective. He stands up abruptly, almost knocking over the coffee table, and starts rummaging through the kitchen with an uncharacteristic sense of purpose. You hear the microwave beep, the tap run, and the sound of something being aggressively torn open. He returns with a warm, damp towel and places it gently on your stomach, and a glass of water.

He sits on the floor, his back against the couch, looking like a grumpy, deeply uncomfortable but fiercely devoted gargoyle. "If that idiot comes anywhere near you, I'm gonna gut him." he mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Now, you just… stay there. And don't you dare die. I don't do funerals."

𝒪LD ℳAN ℒOGAN !!

He’s old, tired, and his body is a map of aches and pains. But when you stumble out of the car, clutching your stomach and looking like a ghost, the years fall away. He doesn't see his own pain, his own exhaustion; he only sees you.

Logan barely makes a sound. He just drops the cigar he was smoking and moves. He grabs you before you can hit the floor, his strong, weathered hands catching you, and then gently placing you into the passenger seat without a word.

You drift in and out of consciousness, the rattling of the old SUV and the hum of the engine the only sounds. When you come to, you're in a motel room. It smells faintly of bleach and stale air, but there's a clean, fresh scent of the blanket he's wrapped you in. The sun is setting, painting the dingy room in a soft orange glow.

Logan is sitting in a chair near the window, watching you. A glass of water and a bottle of pills are on the nightstand.

"Logan... how did I...?"

"You passed out," he says, his voice a rasp. He looks older than usual, the lines on his face deeper. "You need rest, seems like it's a bad one."

He gets up slowly, the joints in his knees popping. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes full of a haunting sadness and something fierce. Love.

He reaches out and carefully, oh so carefully, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You scared me," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't do that again."

He doesn't say much else. He just sits there, a silent sentinel. He holds your hand, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles on your skin. He stays with you all night, a quiet, steady presence in the darkness, a protector who has seen too much to let the one person he has left suffer alone.

𝒲ADE 𝒲ILSON !!

"Cramp-pocalypse now! Operation: Warmth & Snark is a go!"

You groan from your position on the bathroom floor, where you've collapsed after a particularly violent wave of nausea. The door swings open without preamble, and Wade's masked face appears in your line of sight, peering down at you upside down.

"Woah there, mini-me. And I don't mean the awkward clone who was in love with me for a hot second. You look like you've been challenged to a 'who can eat the most ghost peppers' competition and lost. But like, with your soul."

He’s already kneeling beside you, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he helps you sit up. "Chimichanga? No? Terrible idea. My bad. How about the Holy Trinity of Period Care? We've got chocolate, a whole drawer full, don't tell Al. We've got a heat pack that I may or may not have stolen from a hospital- they had it coming. And last, but certainly not least, we have a 12-hour movie marathon featuring the cinematic masterpiece that is Matrix."

He leads you, half-carrying you, back to the couch, where he’s already set up an elaborate nest of blankets and pillows. He tucks you in with an absurd level of care, shoves a heating pad onto your stomach, and presses a bar of dark chocolate into your hand.

"Now, I'm going to talk about all the different plans and angles used in this movie." he declares, hitting play on the movie. "But seriously, you need anything, you just say the word. I'll fight a demon, rob a bank, or even put on pants if that's what it takes." He gestures to his bare legs, a fact you're trying very hard to ignore.

He stays with you, his constant chatter a bizarre but effective distraction. He mutters insults at the characters on screen, offers his own commentary, and periodically pauses to check on you, his masked face tilting with concern. Beneath the relentless sarcasm and fourth-wall-breaking jokes, his protectiveness is fierce and absolute. He’s not just your friend; he’s your unhinged, deeply inappropriate, but completely dedicated guardian.

𝒱ICTOR 𝒞REED !!

It was a mistake to stumble into the penthouse common area. You were feeling faint, the world spinning, and you just wanted to get to your room to collapse. But you didn't make it.

Victor was there, lounging in a chair, looking like a predator at rest. His nostrils flared the second you entered, a subtle shift in his posture the only warning. His eyes, the color of molten gold, snapped to you, taking in your pale face, your hunched posture, the way you were listing to one side.

"Trouble, squirt?" he rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly purr. There was a hint of mockery in it, accompained by the usual quirk of his right eyebrow.

"Just a bad day, that's all." you mumbled, trying to walk past him. You swayed, your vision going white for a second.

He was on his feet in an instant. Before you could fall, you felt powerful arms hook under your knees and shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He wasn't exactly gentle, but he wasn't seeking out to harm you either, it was just that he was enormous compared to a small thing like you and that never ceased to amaze, amuse and unsettle him in equal measures. He was possessive, a predator securing his prey. But his hold was unwavering.

"Stubborn," he growled, carrying you to the massive, plush couch. He placed you down not on the cushions, but in his own lap, his body a wall of heat behind you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

"You're freezing and you smell like pain," he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "I can hear your heart racing."

He knew what was happening. He didn't need to be told. He just held you there, a possessive, frighteningly powerful guard dog. He didn't offer to get you anything, because he wouldn't leave you. Instead, he simply held you, his massive hand resting on your stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your aching muscles. His clawed thumb rubbed slow, steady circles on the fabric of your shirt. "Breathe," he commanded, and his voice was so deep and resonant that you had no choice but to obey. The feeling of being wrapped in his strength was both terrifying and the most secure you'd ever felt.

ℛEMY ℒEBEAU !!

The scent of Cajun spices and something sweet, like beignets, is the first thing that registers through your pain-fogged mind. You're curled up on your bed, a miserable ball of cramps and chills.

"Chère, you look like you're tryin' to climb into your own skin to get away from de pain." Remy's voice, smooth as honey and rich as bourbon, washes over you. He’s perched on the edge of your bed, a steaming cup of tea in his hand, his eyes full of a tenderness he rarely shows the rest of the world.

He offers you the cup. "A special blend. Madame LeBeau's own recipe. Good for what ails you."

You take it, the warmth seeping into your cold hands. You take a sip. It's soothing, with a hint of ginger and honey, and a warmth that spreads from your stomach.

Remy watches you, a small, sad smile on his face. "I know, mon coeur. It's not fair. A beautiful, strong young thing like you shouldn't have to deal with such nonsense."

He reaches out a hand, and with a soft, gentle click of his fingers, a small, glowing ball of pink kinetic energy dances in his palm. It’s not violent, not explosive. It’s soft and warm, like a tiny, glowing sun. "Here," he says, carefully placing it over your stomach, just above the blankets. "My own special heatin' pad. It's safe. Just a little energy to help ease the pain. All my concentration is on keepin' it nice and gentle, just for you."

The warmth is immediate and profound, seeping deep into your muscles and loosening the knots of pain. You let out a shaky breath, the first one that didn't hurt in hours.

Remy smiles, a flash of white teeth. "There she is. Knew you were still in there. Now, you rest. I'm gonna stay right here. I'll tell you a story from the Bayou. About a little girl who could talk to the swamp cats." His voice is a soothing cadence, a gentle melody that carries you away from the pain, weaving a tale of magic and comfort, a reminder that even in your worst moments, you are deeply, utterly loved.

𝒦URT 𝒲AGNER !!

A sharp bamf of sulfurous smoke, and Kurt was there, his tail swishing anxiously behind him. He'd been on his way to the kitchen to get a snack when he saw you from across the hall, doubled over and crying. He'd teleported without a second thought.

"Mein Gott! Fraulein, what is it?" His yellow eyes were wide with distress, his blue face a mask of worry. He knelt beside you, his three-fingered hand hovering near your shoulder, afraid to touch you for fear of hurting you more.

"I'm okay," you tried to say, but it came out as a choked sob. Another cramp hit, and you gasped.

"Oh, no, no, no," he murmured, his voice thick with compassion. "You are not okay. This is not okay."

He carefully, so carefully, scooped you into his arms. He didn't like to see anyone suffer, but you, his precious friend, his little sister in all but blood, it was unbearable. He bamfed again, and suddenly you were in your own room, on your bed.

"I will fix this," he declared, his voice a determined whisper.

He conjured a fluffy, downy blanket and draped it over you. He fetched a glass of water and some pain medication, his movements efficient yet trembling with concern. He then sat on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed, his three-fingered hands clasped in his lap. He began to pray, his voice a soft, melodic whisper in German. It wasn't a plea to a distant God, but a loving, gentle conversation, a request for comfort for you. He didn't leave the room; he stayed by your side, offering his quiet presence and unwavering faith. He was a guardian angel, his very presence a soft, protective light in the darkness of your pain.

𝒮COTT 𝒮UMMERS !!

Scott Summers is a man of strategy and control. He keeps his emotions in check and his plan B is always ready. So when he finds you white-faced and trembling on the living room couch, the carefully constructed walls around his composure start to crack.

"Y/N," he says, his voice sharp with alarm as he drops to his knees in front of you. He takes your face in his hands, tilting it up to look at him. His eyes are hidden behind his ruby quartz visor, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze. "Talk to me. What's going on? Is it another headache? Did something happen?"

You can barely get the words out between your sobs, just "cramps" and "bad".

His expression immediately softens from alarm to a deep, focused concern. He nods, his jaw tight. "Okay. Okay, we can handle this."

For the next hour, Scott becomes a man on a mission. He’s not just caretaking; he’s executing a carefully planned operation. He places a precisely warmed heating pad on your abdomen, its temperature calibrated perfectly to soothe without being too hot. He brings you two specific pain relievers and a glass of water, explaining, "The doctor said these two work well in tandem."

He then disappears into the kitchen and returns with a tray of food: saltine crackers, a small cup of applesauce, and a glass of ginger ale. "Bland foods are best for nausea," he says, his voice matter-of-fact, but his hands are gentle as he helps you sit up.

He sits on the floor next to you, not taking his eyes off you. "Okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. If you need to throw up, just tell me and I'll get the bucket. If you need to go to the bathroom, I'll carry you. If you need to cry, you do it." His voice is steady, a solid anchor in the storm of your pain. "You're going to be fine. I promise you. I'm right here." The pure, unshakeable certainty in his voice is more reassuring than any medicine. He will plan and strategize until you are better, because that’s what he does for the people he loves.

𝒮TEVE ℛOGERS !!

"Miss Y/L/N, you look a little pale. Are you feeling alright?" Steve's voice was always kind, but his blue eyes held a deep well of concern as he looked at you. He'd noticed you'd been quiet all morning, and the slight tremor in your hands as you tried to eat your breakfast hadn't escaped his attention.

You just shook your head, unable to speak without your voice betraying you. The pain was a dull, constant ache, punctuated by sharp, stabbing cramps that made you want to curl into a ball and cry.

"Alright." He didn't push. He simply stood, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "Come with me."

He led you to the common room's comfortable seating area, a place he knew was quiet this time of day. He helped you settle onto the large, soft couch, draping a thick blanket over your legs. "I'll be right back."

He returned shortly with a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a small, soft, plush teddy bear—the one you'd seen on his nightstand once, a kid had given it to him as a gift for saving him. "It's not much," he said, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "But I find it helps to have something to hold onto."

He then took a seat on the floor beside the couch, his back against the cushions. He didn't say much. He just opened his sketchbook and began to draw, his presence a solid, reassuring wall between you and the rest of the world. He was the epitome of a comforting father figure, quiet, steady, and filled with an unshakeable, protective warmth. He was just there, a bastion of unwavering stability you could lean on, his gaze frequently checking on you, a gentle smile encouraging you to rest.

𝒯ONY 𝒮TARK !!

"Friday, status report on our patient in distress."

"Subject shows elevated cortisol levels and reports severe abdominal cramps. Given her age and physiology, I would estimate this is a case of-"

"Don't need the medical details, FRI. Just tell me where we keep the good stuff."

You're curled up in the corner of the lab, watching a holographic display of your latest project spin idly, too tired to work. Tony kicks the door open, his expression one of playful concern. "Heard a little birdy say you're having a rough day." He drops a large, sleek-looking device on the table. "Introducing the Stark Industries Patented Crampinator 3000. It uses micro-vibrations to soothe muscle tension."

He presses a button and the device hums to life. "Put it right where the hurt is. You will be pain-free in no time. If not, I’ll blame the prototype and send a very strongly worded email to the R&D department."

He doesn't leave, of course. He just hovers, pretending to be absorbed in his holograms, but you can feel his attention on you. He’s watching to make sure you're okay.

"FRI, queue up her favorite playlist. And order that pizza she likes. The one with the weird toppings. Just have it delivered." He winks at you. "Doctor's orders. I'm prescribing a strict regimen of terrible movies, unhealthy food, and sarcastic commentary. Get ready for a masterclass in avoidance and deflecting emotions with humor." His genius and his humor are a powerful distraction, and his dedication to your well-being is absolute, even if he shows it through flashy tech and witty banter.

𝒫ETER 𝒫ARKER !!

Peter is the king of awkward, overprotective care. He found you in the middle of a study session, your head down on your desk, a quiet sob escaping your lips. He immediately panics.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no. What's wrong? Is it a project? Did someone say something mean to you? Do I need to have a stern talk with someone? Because I will. I will put on the suit and have a very stern talk. I'm pretty good at stern talks."

You weakly explain, and his face flushes red. "Oh. Oh! Right. Okay. Yeah. Got it. That. Yep. I can handle that." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Step one: locate heating pad. Done. Step two: procure comfort food." He disappears for a second and comes back with a bag of your favorite chips. "It's not the healthiest, but it's what we have."

He gently takes your hand and leads you to the couch, where he wraps you in a blanket, creating a human-sized burrito. "Okay. You stay here. You watch whatever you want. I will be your service human." He pauses. "That's a thing, right? They've got animals doing it, why can't a human do it? i'll do it. I can be that. I'm very good at being a service human. I've been a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man for a decade, I am a professional at service."

He sits beside you, a little too close, but you can tell he's worried. He starts rambling about his day, about the new villain he fought who was "ridiculously themed," about Aunt May's new recipe for meatloaf. He doesn't stop talking, his stories a constant, comfortable stream of noise that distracts you from the pain. He checks on you every few minutes, asking if you need anything, his eyes full of the same gentle, earnest compassion that made him a hero in the first place. He’s your own personal, slightly dorky, fiercely loyal guardian in a red-and-blue onesie.

𝒯HOR 𝒪DINSON !!

"Your pain is a palpable thing, my young friend," Thor rumbled, his brow furrowed with worry. He had found you trying to hide in a corner of the Avengers compound's library, your discomfort written plainly on your face. "I have faced monsters and gods, but I find this foe, this.. unseen, silent enemy, is one I am ill-equipped to battle."

He then knelt before you, the mighty God of Thunder looking utterly humbled and concerned. "In Asgard, we have healers, yes, but for this… this monthly trial, what is it you require?"

He listened with grave attention as you haltingly explained. Then, a determined glint entered his eye. "Then you shall have the finest comforts Midgard has to offer."

He summoned a feast of your favorite foods, not by magic, but by ordering the most extravagant spread from a very confused local deli. He had a fire roaring in the fireplace within minutes, and conjured a veritable mountain of plush furs and pillows around you.

"Drink this," he commanded, handing you a mug of hot, spiced mead that he'd heated with a spark of lightning. "It will warm you from the inside."

He then spent the rest of the day regaling you with tales of his many battles, his voice a comforting, booming rumble, while his hand rested gently on your shoulder, a constant, godly warmth that made you feel safe enough to drift off to sleep.

ℛEED ℛICHARDS !!

"Fascinating," Reed murmured, tilting his head as he looked at the biometric data on his monitor. "The levels of prostaglandins your body is producing are significantly elevated. No wonder you're in such distress." He said it with the clinical detachment of a scientist.

But then he looked at you, really looked at you with your pale face and the tears you were trying to hold back, and his expression softened immediately. "Oh, my dear," he said, his voice losing its clinical edge. "I'm so sorry."

He immediately stopped his little research. "Let's see what we can do to alleviate this."

You just sniffled, managing a nod as your lower lip jutted out in a pout.

"Perhaps some tea?" he offered, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I believe I have a chamomile blend in my office."

He sat with you, his body stretching and bending to accommodate his long limbs in a comfortable position.

𝒥OHNNY 𝒮TORM !!

Johnny Storm is a firecracker. He's loud, cocky, and lives for attention. But when it comes to you, his unspoken little sister, his flame burns solely for your protection and comfort. He found you curled up on a beanbag chair in the common room, looking miserable. He’d been planning to annoy his sister but the sight of you stops him cold.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" he says, his usual bravado completely gone. He plops down on the floor next to you, a concerned frown on his face. "Hey, what's wrong? You look like you're gonna spontaneously combust, and I'm the only one allowed to do that around here."

You explain, and his expression softens. "Oh. Man, that sucks. That really, really sucks." He scratches the back of his head. "Okay, I'm not great at this whole comforting thing. But I'm great at heat." He grins, a little of his old self returning. "Watch this."

He holds out a hand, palm up, and a small, controlled flame flickers to life above his skin. He doesn't let it get too big. "Okay, now, put your hands here," he says, gesturing to the space just above the flame. The heat is perfect, warm and soothing. He then positions his hand near your stomach, acting as a living, breathing heating pad.

"How's that? Nice, right?" He keeps his hand steady, his concentration absolute, a rare sight for the Human Torch. "Anything else? Want me to set something on fire? The toaster? Ben's collection of ugly socks?" He stays with you, his hand a constant source of warmth, his chatter a reassuring hum, his concern genuine and warm. He may be a fiery hothead, but he's also a fiercely loyal and surprisingly gentle brother.

𝒫ETER 𝒬UILL !!

"Okay, so the first thing you need is a good playlist." Peter knelt by your bed, scrolling through his Zune with the gravity of a surgeon. "No, scratch that, the first thing you need is for me to say that this is the worst thing ever and that I'm sorry you're going through this."

He'd found you in your quarters, curled into a tight ball, tears streaming down your face. He'd gotten over his initial awkwardness (mostly) and was now in full 'overprotective older brother' mode.

"Alright, I've got the perfect mix," he declared. "We've got some 'Footloose' for when you need to feel awesome, some 'Come and Get Your Love' for general good vibes, and some 'Starman' because... well, it's beautiful and it makes me think of my mom." He put the earbud in your ear, the music a soft, familiar comfort.

He then proceeded to build a pillow fort around you. He would not rest until you were comfortable. He brought you a bowl of what he called "soup" but was mostly just broth and some kind of alien vegetable. "It's good for you," he insisted, not looking entirely sure.

He then told you the story of how he and Rocket once tried to steal a planet. It was a ridiculous, rambling, and utterly amazing story that made you laugh so hard the cramps subsided for a few blessed moments. He was an idiot, a sweet, goofy, and fiercely protective idiot, and his unwavering presence and his determination to make you smile was the best pain relief he could ever offer.

The air in the mansion’s kitchen was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet, something that clung to the back of Logan’s throat and made his stomach do a slow, lazy roll. He stood in the doorway, a silent observer, a man out of time in more ways than one. His world was one of ash and regret, a future painted in shades of grey where hope was a luxury he’d long since forgotten how to afford. But here, in the warm, sun-drenched kitchen of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters in 1973, there was you.

You were a dream come true.

You were humming. A soft, tuneless melody that seemed to drift from your lips as naturally as breathing. You were bustling around the kitchen, a whirlwind of energy and life. A slightly singed apron was tied over your simple, comfortable clothes, and your hair was escaping from a messy bun, framing your face with wispy tendrils. You were making pancakes. Not just any pancakes, but the kind of chaotic, multi-colored, sprinkle-laden creations that only a person with an unshakable joy could produce.

Logan had been in this time for only a handful of days, his mission a heavy weight on his shoulders. He was supposed to be finding Charles, convincing him to believe, to fight. He was supposed to be a soldier, a weapon aimed at the past to save his future. He’d seen the mansion empty and cold, a monument to a dream that had failed. He’d seen Charles broken and lost. And then, there was you.

He hadn't known you were here. He hadn’t known there was a you, at all. You were not on the present, now future, he came from. But you were a detail, a brilliant, impossible detail that had no place in the grim narrative he carried with him. You were a ghost in his history, a piece of a puzzle that made the whole picture make a different kind of sense.

You were the reason the kitchen didn’t feel like a mausoleum. You were the reason the coffee pot was always on, the reason there were daisies in a cracked vase on the windowsill. You were the bright, shining heart of the place, the thing that had kept the last embers of Charles’s hope from going out completely.

You, a mutant whose power was a rare and beautiful thing, had been a teacher here. Your power was energy, pure and simple. You could manipulate light and warmth, channeling the sun’s rays, or even your own inner vitality, to heal, to soothe, to comfort, and to protect. When you smiled, the room actually seemed to get a little brighter. When you were near, the cold that had taken root in his bones during the long, bleak future he came from began to thaw. You were like an antidepressant, but better. You were like a solar flare given human form, a source of constant, steady, reliable warmth.

Every morning, you’d be the first one awake, the first to greet the day. You’d move through the silent hallways like a ghost of joy, opening curtains, letting the light pour in. You’d sing in the shower, your voice echoing off the tiles, a sweet, pure sound that would reach his room and pull him from the tangle of his nightmares. It was the only alarm clock he needed. You’d make breakfast, always making sure there was enough for him, even if he swore he wasn't hungry. You’d set a place for him at the table, and if he was late, you’d wait, your patience a quiet, powerful force that made his chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

And you had no idea who he was, what he was carrying. You just saw a grumpy, scarred stranger with a permanent scowl and eyes that had seen too much. And you treated him like he belonged.

Someday, he didn't know how, he hopes you'll hear his plea. Maybe in the new future he was trying to rebuild there'd be a place for you, he sure hoped so.

Someday, he hoped, even if he didn't know how, you'd bring your love to him.

“Logan, stop lurking!” you called out, snapping him out of his throughts, not even turning around, your voice light and teasing. “You’re making the shadows jealous. Come and eat. I made enough for a whole pack of wolverines.”

A simple joke. A simple thing. And it hit him right in the chest with the force of a freight train. No one called him a wolverine with such affection. No one had ever made a joke about his nature that wasn’t laced with fear or disgust. You didn’t see the monster. You saw the man, and you didn’t even seem to try.

You were making pancakes because you knew he was hungry. You always knew. You glanced up, catching him in the act of his quiet vigil, and a smile—that smile—bloomed across your face. It was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a storm. It illuminated everything. It illuminated him, chasing away the shadows that were a permanent part of his soul.

“You’re staring again, Logan,” you said, your voice a gentle, teasing lilt that was smoother than the batter you were mixing. “It’s impolite.”

He couldn’t help the low, rumbling chuckle that escaped him. It was a sound he hadn’t made in what felt like years. “Can’t help it, sunshine. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Flatterer.” you chided, but the smile on your face told him you didn’t mind one bit. You were a beacon of pure, unadulterated warmth. 

He shoved off the doorframe, walking into the kitchen like a man approaching a campfire. It felt so warm, so safe. He felt the weight of his adamantium-laced bones, the centuries of pain, the decades of fighting. He was a man forged in battle, a creature of instinct and survival. He was a black hole of trauma. And you were a sun, radiating light and warmth, completely unaware of the celestial body you were pulling into your orbit.

Every night he'd spent in this precious pocket of a time before, he hoped and prayed that you would come his way in the future. A girl to hold in his arms, and further learn the magic of your charms.

You slid a plate piled high with pancakes across the island counter, the syrupy scent filling his senses. He sat on a stool, watching you as you turned back to the stove, flipping another pancake with a flourish. You were so alive. Every movement was an expression of vitality. You were happy to be alive, to be cooking, to be here. It wasn’t a forced cheerfulness; it was a natural state of being. It was as if the light was not something you absorbed, but something you radiated from a core of pure, unquenchable fire.

Yes, he wanted a girl to call his own. He wanted a dream lover, so he wouldn't have to dream alone.

“Charles is having a rough morning,” you informed him, your voice softer now, laced with a gentle concern. “He’s in the library, he’ll come out when he’s ready. He said to tell you that your ‘genius plan’ is just as crazy today as it was yesterday.”

Logan grunted, a flicker of something akin to respect for Charles’s stubbornness. He forked a piece of pancake into his mouth. It was perfect. Fluffy, sweet, and warm. It tasted like something he hadn’t realized he was hungry for. Not just food, but this. This feeling of simple, domestic peace.

He watched you as you poured yourself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter opposite him. Your smile was effortless, and it was directed at him. He felt like a man who had been lost in a blizzard for a century, suddenly stumbling into a warm, safe cabin. He’d been so frozen for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to feel the heat.

Oh, dream lover. Where are you? Where were you in his future, that he had never met you in the grey landscape he came from? With your love, oh, so true, and a hand that he could hold?

“You’re staring.” you snapped him out again, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Just trying to figure you out,” he hummed, his voice a low husk. “How can you be so… happy? All the time?”

Your smile softened, becoming something more reflective. “I’m not happy all the time, Logan. That would be exhausting. But I can’t afford to not be bright. The world is a heavy place. It’s a lot of dark. The kids that used to live here, Charles, Hank… they all need a little light. A little hope.”

“And you just… give it away? For free?”

“Why would I charge?” you asked, genuinely baffled. “That’s what it’s for. To be shared. To be given. What’s the point of having it if you just keep it for yourself?”

It was such a simple concept, so profound in its innocence, that it left him speechless. He was a man who had taken for survival. He had hoarded his anger, his pain, his strength. He never gave anything away. He barely had anything left to give. But you gave everything, freely and without hesitation. You were like a wellspring of hope, and he had been wandering through a desert. He was parched, and he had finally found an oasis.

He wanted to drink you in. He wanted to be the one who got to orbit your warmth. He looked down at his plate, the pancakes a testament to your kindness, and he felt something inside of him unclench. The knot of tension he’d carried in his gut for as long as he could remember loosened just a fraction.

Later that afternoon, he found you in the old library, a book open on your lap. Dust motes danced in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall windows. The scent of old paper and polished wood was a comforting, familiar perfume. You were curled up in a large armchair by the window, the fading light painting you in gold.

He stood in the doorway, watching you. He had spent the rest of the day wandering the mansion, learning its nooks and crannies, trying to find a way to reconcile the ghost of its future with its vibrant, hopeful present. But he kept gravitating back to wherever you were. He was like a compass needle, and you were magnetic north.

“You’re lurking again, Logan.” you hummed, without looking up from your book. “It’s a habit, isn’t it?”

He grunted, stepping into the room. “This place is quiet. A man can think.”

You looked up then, your eyes meeting his. And for a moment, the world seemed to stop. There was a gentle curiosity in your gaze, a lack of judgment that was unnerving and intoxicating all at once. “You seem like a man who does a lot of thinking. And not a lot of talking about it.”

“More’s the pity for anyone who’d have to listen.” he sighed, settling onto the ottoman near your chair. He was closer now. He could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, the gentle curve of your smile.

“Oh, I don’t know.” you said, closing your book and giving him your full attention. “I’m a pretty good listener. Better than our telepathic friend, I might boast. He always knows what you’re going to say before you say it. There’s no mystery.”

“Mystery’s overrated.” he muttered, though he didn’t believe it. You were a mystery. You were the most profound mystery he had ever encountered. A woman who could look at him, see all the scars, all the violence, all the broken pieces, and not flinch. A woman who saw him and didn’t want to fix him, but just wanted to share the sunshine.

In that moment, he knew what the future held for him. He knew that if he failed, he would come back to a version of this world that didn’t have you. He would be going back to a future without this bright, beautiful sun. He would be returning to a universe where he would never know the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your laugh, the taste of your pancakes.

A profound, crushing grief washed over him. It was a pain that dwarfed all the physical agony of his past. It was the pain of knowing he had found his home, his anchor, his sun, and that it was just a dream. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Unless..

Some way, he didn't know how, he brought his love to you.

And so he looked at you, seeing the future he could have.

He was living in that someday. He had found the girl to call his own. You were here, in his arms, in this one moment in time. But it was a borrowed moment. If he wanted you with him, he was going to have to work for it.

But just for a moment, here right now, in the past, he allowed himself to believe in the dream. To hold it close. To let you be his dream lover, just until the dawn.