Addylicious

The press pit outside the Baxter Building thrums with noise, a dozen different voices shouting over each other, all trying to get the best soundbite first. Camera flashes burst against your vision like lightning, leaving phantom spots in your eyes.

You hold your notepad steady, microphone clutched tighter than you mean to. The press badge around your neck feels heavier than it should. Your editor’s voice rings in your mind: Stay calm, ask clean questions, don’t let them shake you.

Then the doors open.

The Fantastic Four step out together, and the crowd surges like a tide. Reed Richards leads, shoulders a little hunched as though he wishes he could disappear into a lab instead of facing reporters. Sue Storm is beside him, composed, warm but alert. Ben Grimm lumbers a step behind, trench coat straining at the seams, a wry half-smile already in place.

And Johnny Storm follows, golden boy grin already sparking louder than the cameras that erupt for him.

You steady your breathing. Start with what you rehearsed.

You raise your voice above the chaos. “Dr. Richards—can you walk us through how you stabilized the reactor before it went critical?”

Reed’s head turns sharply at your voice, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. He looks at you as if you’re the only person here—though not in the same way Johnny will. “Yes. Containment was priority one. The gamma resonance was destabilizing the lattice, so I adjusted the dampening field to—” He pauses, sees your pen ready, and simplifies. “We absorbed the excess energy before it breached containment. My team coordinated the rest.”

“Was there a risk of collapse during the recalibration?” you press, surprising even yourself with the follow-up.

He blinks, then nods. “Always. It’s calculated risk. Science usually is.”

He gives you the faintest smile before looking to the next question.

You turn toward Sue, raising your mic. “Ms. Storm—how exactly did your forcefields support that process?”

Her eyes meet yours, and there’s something steadying about the contact. Her voice carries, clear and certain: “We had seconds. I created a buffer around the reactor chamber, but infrastructure was already crumbling. The field kept debris off us and gave Reed time to adjust the system.” She tilts her head slightly. “It’s not glamorous, but sometimes holding the line is all you can do.”

“That’s more than glamorous,” you say before you can stop yourself.

She laughs lightly, and the tension in your chest loosens just a little.

Now Ben. “Mr. Grimm—eyewitnesses said you held up a collapsing support beam while evacuations were still in progress. What was going through your mind in that moment?”

He squints at you like he’s measuring whether or not the question’s a joke. Then he huffs out a laugh, gravelly and warm. “What was goin’ through my mind? ‘Hope my back doesn’t give out.’”

The crowd chuckles, and he tips his head toward you with a smirk. “Truth is, there ain’t much to think about. You see people trapped, you hold the damn thing until they’re out. That’s it. You’d do the same.”

“Not with a support beam,” you manage, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles again, rumbling deep. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Everybody’s stronger than they think.”

You jot the words down, pulse finally beginning to steady. You’re finding a rhythm—question, answer, follow-up.

And then, almost without meaning to, your gaze slips left.

Johnny Storm is leaning against the railing, one hand curled around his sunglasses, the other shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket. He isn’t scanning the crowd. He isn’t waiting for his turn. He’s looking at you.

Not glancing. Not politely acknowledging. Watching.

Your stomach knots instantly. Heat prickles at the back of your neck.

You snap your gaze back to your notes. Pretend to write. Pretend your pulse isn’t tripping over itself. But you can feel it—his attention is heavier than all the cameras combined.

Your earpiece crackles. “Storm. Get him next. Don’t freeze up.”

Of course.

You lift your mic, careful, steady. “Mr. Storm—”

His smirk curves sharp. “Johnny.”

You hesitate, then nod once. “…Johnny. Reports said the fire in the reactor chamber reached almost 2,000 degrees. How did you manage to contain that without destroying the structure around it?”

He straightens, pushing off the railing, eyes never leaving yours. His grin widens, slow and easy. “Fire’s like a limb for me. I think, it moves. The trick isn’t snuffing it out—it’s keeping it right where I want it. Control.”

The way he says control makes the press pool ripple with laughter. Cameras snap. Someone whistles.

Your grip on the mic tightens. “So—it’s instinct?”

Johnny tilts his head, smirk sharpening. “Instinct. Practice. A little natural talent.” His voice drops, just enough that you feel it more than hear it. “But if you really wanna understand it… maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Reporters howl. Ben groans. Sue mutters, “Johnny…” under her breath. Reed doesn’t react at all.

But Johnny doesn’t look away. Not once.

The press conference swells around you, questions flying fast, but you barely hear them. You force your pen across paper, trying to focus. You tell yourself it’s just bravado, just him playing the crowd.

The press conference winds down, Reed thanking everyone briskly before motioning for his team to move inside. Reporters call after them, cameras still flashing, but the Fantastic Four begin to retreat toward the side doors.

Before you can pack up, your earpiece crackles: “Backstage. Johnny Storm wants you in his booth. Now.”

You freeze.

Sue glances your way, almost imperceptibly, and there’s sympathy in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough to make your pulse stutter harder.

Ben notices too. He shakes his head, muttering just loud enough for you to catch “Poor kid. Good luck.”

Reed doesn’t even look up from the device he’s already fiddling with.

And Johnny? He grins like Christmas morning, cocky and thrilled, watching you until the very second the stagehand steps in to guide you off.

The press pit noise fades the deeper you’re led backstage. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and your press badge taps against your chest with every step. A stagehand stops at a door marked Johnny Storm – Private and jerks their head toward it.

“He asked for you. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Then you’re alone.

You hesitate, pulse loud in your ears, before knocking.

“Come in,” his voice calls—smooth, casual, like he already knew you were there.

The booth is dimmer than the floodlit stage, all warm lamp glow and the faint smell of cologne cut with something sharper, almost singed. Johnny Storm sits sprawled on a low couch, jacket tossed aside, posture loose like this room is just another stage for him.

His eyes lift, and that grin spreads instantly. “Reporter of the hour.”

You clear your throat, keeping your notebook close. “You requested me?”

He leans back further, stretching an arm across the couch. “Requested? That makes it sound so official. I just thought you looked like you had more questions.”

“Do I?” you ask carefully.

He shrugs, feigning innocence, though the smirk never fades. “You tell me. You had your eyes on me all night.”

Heat rises to your face before you can stop it. “That’s not— I was taking notes.”

“Right,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Very thorough notes, I’m sure. You didn’t miss a thing.” His eyes flick briefly to your hand on the pen, then back to your face. “Funny, though. Every time I looked up, there you were. Staring right at me.”

“I wasn’t—” You bite the word short, realizing how defensive it sounds.

Johnny grins wider, satisfied. “Relax. I’m not saying I mind. You can look as much as you want.”

The words hang there, half-joke, half-dare.

You shift, pressing the edge of your notebook against your palm. “So this is… still part of the interview?”

“Of course,” he says easily, as if nothing about his tone is strange. “Ask me anything. I’ll behave.” His pause is deliberate, loaded. “Mostly.”

You glance down at your notes, trying to steady yourself, but his voice cuts in again before you can speak.

“You’re good, though,” Johnny adds, almost thoughtfully. “Professional. Didn’t even blush when I called you out in front of everyone. Most people would’ve melted.”

You’re already flushed, though you refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “…I kept it professional.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, studying you. “You sure about that?”

The question isn’t direct. It isn’t even an accusation. But it lands sharp, making your chest tighten.

Johnny just smiles, stretching out lazily like he hasn’t just upended the ground under your feet.

You scribble a note just to give your hands something to do. “Okay… and what was going through your head during the mission? When the storm wall closed in—most people thought it was over.”

Johnny leans back, stretching like a cat. “What was going through my head? Honestly? Don’t fry the team. Sue hates when I scorch her suit.”

You glance up, expecting a punchline, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Confidence never wavers then?” you press.

“Oh, it wavers,” he says easily, his grin lazy, practiced. Then he tilts his head, like he’s weighing something. “Usually when there’s someone watching.”

Your pen stills on the page. “An audience?”

He shrugs, mouth twitching. “Could be. Could be not.”

The pause lingers too long, making your chest tight. You force yourself back into professionalism. “The team—uh—they seem protective of you.”

That earns a laugh, warm and careless. “Protective? They think I’m trouble. Can’t imagine why.” His eyes flicker, quick, toward you—sharp enough to make your stomach drop—before sliding away again.

You can’t tell if he’s daring you to respond or just filling the silence.

“Well,” you say finally, standing before the room swallows you whole, “that should be enough for my notes.”

Johnny tips his head back against the couch, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Already running off? Didn’t even give me a chance to behave.”

Your throat goes dry. “You weren’t behaving.”

“Exactly.” His grin widens, all teeth, but there’s something unreadable in his eyes when he adds, lighter than air: “Catch you later, reporter.”

The words follow you to the door, thin as smoke, impossible to shake.

The backstage hallway feels blessedly cooler after the heat of Johnny’s booth. You exhale, notebook hugged to your chest, already rehearsing how you’ll spin this into a neat little article that hides just how off-balance you feel.

“Excuse me—” A woman in a sharp headset steps into your path, clipboard tucked against her side. Her blazer is covered in stray bits of thread and glitter, like she’s been in a fight with a wardrobe rack. “You’re with the press, right? I need to confirm your outlet before you leave.”

You freeze, caught. “Oh—yes, I’m with—”

She waves a hand distractedly. “We had a nightmare last quarter, some blogger snuck in pretending they were freelance. Nearly leaked Reed’s schematics. You’d think saving the world would come with tighter NDAs.”

Her phone buzzes, she groans, then continues talking—rapid-fire, tangling you up in small details. You nod, smile, answer questions. You’re polite, but your mind drifts.

You can still feel Johnny’s gaze, even now.

He runs a hand through his hair, restless, watching the door close behind you. He meant to be smooth—God, he’s always smooth—but the second you walked out, the room felt too big, too quiet.

He sprawls back, then bolts upright again. Can’t sit still. The echo of your voice is still sharp in his ears, the way you tried so hard to keep it professional while your hands trembled around that notebook. He saw it. Of course he did.

And the way you looked at him—just for a second too long, like you weren’t sure if you hated that he was staring or if you needed him to keep going.

Johnny groans, dragging his palms over his face. “Get it together, man.”

But he can’t. You’re out there somewhere in the hall, probably already forgetting him, probably writing him off as another cocky celebrity with a grin and a god complex. Maybe that’s all he is. But for some reason, it stings tonight.

It stings because for once, it didn’t feel like someone watching Johnny Storm, Human Torch. It felt like someone watching him.

The thought burns hotter than his flames ever could.

“…and if anyone from the costume department gives you trouble, just tell them I cleared it,” the woman is saying, scribbling her signature across your pass. She flashes a harried smile. “Thanks for being patient.”

You manage a nod, clutching your press badge like it might anchor you. You finally turn toward the exit when—

“Hey!”

His voice cuts down the hallway, quick, sharp, too loud in the hush of backstage.

You turn.

Johnny is leaning casually in the doorway of his booth again—except his posture isn’t casual at all. He’s tense, shoulders set, like he’s been waiting.

When your eyes meet, his grin returns, late but deliberate. “You forgot something.

You pause in the hallway, pulse kicking up hard. His voice echoes behind you, confident as ever, but there’s something in the edges of it—something that doesn’t match the grin on his face.

“…Forgot something?” you repeat, your voice steadier than you feel.

Johnny crooks a finger, lazy, like it’s a joke. “C’mon. You’ll see.”

The PR woman who’d been holding you up glances between you and him, eyebrows raised, before making herself scarce. She mutters something about “Storm always pulling this,” and vanishes around the corner.

You’re left alone in the hall, with him.

Johnny waits, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His flame emblem catches the light, glinting like it’s part of him.

You should walk away. You should. Instead, your feet carry you back toward him.

When you step inside the booth again, the air feels even warmer than before. He shuts the door behind you with a soft click, not trapping you exactly—but close.

Johnny gestures to the table. Your pen is sitting there, where you must’ve dropped it.

“That’s it?” you ask, a little breathless.

He shrugs, eyes flicking over you. “Hey, I keep my promises. Said you forgot something.” A pause. His grin sharpens. “Didn’t say it was just the pen.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Johnny steps closer, slow, like he’s testing how much ground he can take before you push back. His voice dips lower, smooth but almost restless. “Funny thing, though. I thought maybe you left in a hurry ‘cause of me. Did I… make it hard to focus?”

The question is delivered lightly, but there’s a flicker underneath it—like he needs the answer more than he wants to admit.

Johnny twirls your pen, flips it between his fingers with lazy precision. “You know,” he says, half-grinning, “people usually drop their stuff in here on purpose. Just an excuse to come back.”

You arch a brow. “That so?”

“Mm-hm. Happens all the time.” He holds the pen out, but doesn’t let go right away when you take it. “Only difference is, I usually wish they wouldn’t.”

Your hand tightens on the pen. “…And with me?”

He leans back against the table, smirk widening. “Oh, I didn’t mind.”

You roll your eyes, turning to slip the pen into your notebook. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Why would I?” His laugh is light, but there’s a flicker beneath it, too quick to pin down. “Most of the time I’m chasing attention. You—” he pauses, mock-thoughtful, “you make me work for it. Kinda refreshing.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head toward you, “you’re still here.”

That lands heavier than you expect. The room feels smaller.

You manage, “I haven’t gotten what I came for yet.”

“Neither have I,” Johnny says, too fast, then adds with a grin, “—a good headline, I mean. Something like ‘Torch Melts Reporter’s Composure.’”

Your lips press tight, fighting the heat in your cheeks. “Not happening.”

“Sure. Not yet.” He says it like a joke, but his eyes linger, steady, like he’s gambling you’ll hear the truth under the tease.

The silence stretches. He pushes off the table finally, giving you a little space, though his grin never fades.

“Don’t lose that pen again,” he says, softer now, almost sincere. “I might not give it back twice.”

Your hand lingers on the door, ready to push through, when his voice cuts in:

“Wait.”

You glance back. Johnny isn’t lounging this time. He’s standing straighter, shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them not to give him away.

“I got a question for you,” he says.

You raise a brow. “What kind of question?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away. “When I was… messing with you back there. Did it feel like I was serious? Or just running my mouth like usual?”

You blink, thrown. That’s not the kind of question you expected from him.

“…Why are you asking?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

For a second, he tries to grin, to brush it off. But your eyes on him hold him there, pinning him open. The smirk falters.

“Because,” he admits, voice low, rough at the edges, “I can’t tell if I scared you off. And the idea of you walking out of here thinking I was just—joking?” He shakes his head. “That’s killing me.”

The honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten.

You take a slow step closer. “So you weren’t joking?”

He swallows hard, laugh breaking on the way out. “God, no. Not with you. Not for a second.”

The air shifts. His shoulders tense, restless, like he’s seconds from combusting. “I don’t usually… I’m not usually like this. But you—” He exhales, frustrated, desperate. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t even know you yet. It’s pathetic.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t speak.

Johnny takes one more step, heat radiating from him, voice cracking into something raw:

“Please. Tell me I’m not crazy for this. Tell me you feel it too. Just—give me something to hold onto.”

The words hang between you, begging without disguise, his usual armor stripped bare.

Your throat feels dry, but you manage to steady your voice. “You want me to admit I feel it too?”

Johnny nods quickly, almost too eager. “Yeah. Please.”

You study him for a beat, his restless stance, the flicker of heat in his eyes. And then—because he’s been smug and slippery all night—you let the corner of your mouth tilt.

“Why should I?”

The question lands like a spark in dry grass.

Johnny blinks, thrown. “What?”

“Why should I tell you that?” you press, letting your tone stay cool, teasing. “Give me a reason.”

For once, he doesn’t have a quip ready. His grin falters, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “Because—” His breath hitches, and then it comes spilling out, rawer than he means. “Because I’ve been losing my mind since the second I saw you. Because I can’t stop looking at you, and I don’t even care if it’s obvious. Because—” He drags a hand through his hair, laughing helplessly. “God, I sound pathetic. But it’s true.”

You tilt your head, unflinching. “That’s not a reason. That’s just… wanting.”

He steps closer, close enough that the air itself feels charged. His voice drops, rough and pleading. “Isn’t that enough? I’ll make it enough. Just—don’t walk out of here and pretend you didn’t feel this. Please.”

There’s no grin left now, no shield. Just Johnny Storm, practically begging.

And you—still holding the door, still steady—leave him hanging, the fire of his want licking hotter for every second you don’t answer.

Your palm presses down on the handle, the faint click echoing in the charged silence.

Johnny’s eyes drop to it, panic flickering across his face before snapping back to you. You let your smirk sharpen.

“If you can get it before the door’s open,” you murmur, voice smooth and deliberate, “then it’s yours.”

For a split second he just stares—like he’s caught in a trap and knows it. Then he breaks.

“God, you’re killing me,” he breathes, and he surges forward.

His hand slams flat against the door above yours, holding it closed, his other hand finding your jaw in a clumsy, trembling grip. He doesn’t give you time to laugh at him, doesn’t even give himself time to think—he crashes his mouth to yours like a man starved.

And for all the bravado he’s shown tonight, the kiss betrays him. He’s shaking, desperate, pouring himself into it like this is the one thing he’s been begging for without saying out loud. His knees nearly buckle; you feel the weight of him leaning just enough that you know he’d stumble if he didn’t hold onto you.

When he finally drags his lips away, his breath is ragged, forehead pressing to yours as if he needs the contact to stay upright. His laugh comes out broken, needy.

“You win,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I’m pathetic. I’d beg a thousand times over if it means I get that again.”

Your fingers linger on the door handle, heart hammering, cheeks burning from the kiss. You’re flustered—flustered like crazy—but you can’t help the teasing curl at the corner of your lips.

“Well… that was… pathetic,” you murmur, voice catching slightly, eyes glinting with mischief and something more—yearning. “…But impressive.”

Johnny’s jaw tightens, a blush spreading across his face. His usual cocky grin is gone, replaced with something shy, unsure, vulnerable. He shifts his weight, legs wobbling slightly, and for once tonight, he doesn’t know what to say.

You smirk faintly, chest still racing, watching him unravel just a little, all the while feeling the pull yourself—wanting more, but savoring this moment.

And there he stands, shy, caught off guard, waiting for you to decide what comes next.

The sight gives you a sudden burst of confidence. You step closer, tilting his chin up with a gentle finger, letting your gaze lock on his. “I’ll be interviewing you four again tomorrow,” you say, voice low, teasing, but threaded with that same yearning.

Then, just to push him over the edge, you press a quick, soft peck to his lips.

Johnny freezes, a whine slipping past his lips so quiet you barely catch it, but it makes your chest skip a beat.

First post kinda nervous,, made this while this song was playing in my headphones, so.. optional to listen if you want to while reading👩‍🦲

The first time it happens, you’re late for work.

The subway you usually take is shut down, so you’re cutting through Midtown when a villain decides the Baxter Building is the perfect place to make a statement. Sirens wail, people scatter, and you—being you—trip over your own bag strap and end up smack in the middle of the chaos.

Glass rains down, and then steel. You freeze, staring at the falling slab, a scream caught in your throat.

A boulder-sized hand sweeps you up like you weigh nothing. The world tilts, and when you blink, you’re tucked against a chest made of orange rock.

Ben Grimm grunts, setting you down once the dust clears.

“Jeez, you tryin’ to audition for Flat Stanley or somethin’?”

“I—w-what?” you stammer, coughing on dust.

“Big ol’ slab like that? You’d be flatter than a pancake. An’ I don’t mean the good kinda pancake.” He waves a massive hand toward the chaos. “Next time, move the tuchus when the buildin’ starts fallin’, eh?”

You nod furiously, cheeks blazing. “Th-thank you.”

He points a finger at you like a teacher scolding a kid. “Just be careful, get far away from the building.” And with that, he lumbers back into battle, shaking his head like he can’t believe you.

The second time, you swear the universe is laughing at you.

A charity walk across one of the damaged overpasses seemed safe enough—until the pavement gave way beneath you. The street below is dizzyingly far, and your stomach lurches as your feet slip.

You don’t even have time to scream before a giant hand clamps around your wrist.

“Geez,” Ben grunts, hauling you up like you weigh nothing. “Don’t tell me it’s you again.”

Your face burns as he sets you on solid ground, steadying you with a massive hand on your shoulder. “I-I didn't mean— you remember me???”

“Yeah, I know. Nobody means to almost go splat.” His brow furrows, but there’s the faintest twitch of a smile in his gravelly features. “You oughta buy a lottery ticket. Surprised I ain’t caught ya fallin’ outta bed yet.”

You laugh nervously, clutching your bag like a life raft. Before you can respond, Reed calls for him, and he lumbers off. But you swear you feel his eyes linger on you a moment too long.

The third time, you’re just trying to deposit your paycheck.

The line is long, the AC is busted, and your nerves are already stretched thin when masked men storm in, waving guns and yelling for everyone to hit the floor. You freeze, heart pounding, until one of them shoves you forward to kneel closer to the vault.

You think you’re about to faint—until the wall explodes.

Ben stomps in through the dust, bullets pinging harmlessly off his hide. He rips the guns out of the robbers’ hands like toys.

“Alright, boys, playtime’s over,” he growls. “Yer scarin’ the tellers.”

Then he spots you. His rocky brow furrows.

“You again?!”

You flush, covering your face. “I-I don’t—this isn’t—I didn’t plan this!”

“Sure ya didn’t.” He positions his bulk in front of you, shielding you as shots ricochet harmlessly off his back. “What’d ya do, walk around with a ‘Kidnap Me’ sign taped on ya? You’re makin’ my job way too easy.”

The robbers scatter as quickly as they came. Ben turns, crouching a little.

“You okay? You ain’t allergic to, like, safety, are ya?”

You groan. “I swear I’m normal.”

“Ha! Normal, huh? You’re startin’ to look like my sidekick.” He pauses, mock-serious. “You want me to get ya a cape?”

The fourth time, it’s the earthquake.

The ground heaves, cracks splitting down the street. You lose your balance and scream as you slide toward a jagged fissure.

Then—you’re caught. Again. Ben’s grip on your hands is steady as steel, his boots planted firm as the earth quakes around you.

“Don’t worry, gotcha,” he grunts, hauling you up with one arm.

You collapse onto the sidewalk, shaking. “I—I can’t believe this keeps happening.”

He crouches down so you’re eye-level, arms resting on his knees.

“Y’know, I’m startin’ to think it ain’t bad luck. Might be somethin’ else.”

“Like what?” you ask nervously.

“Like fate. Either that, or the universe is playin’ a prank on me.” He points at you with a stone finger. “If it’s the second one, you better cut it out.”

You cover your face, laughing despite the tremor in your chest. “I’m not cursed!”

“Coulda fooled me.” But his tone softens. “Still—beats savin’ Johnny from his own dumb stunts. I’ll take you any day.”

Your stomach flips. You’re not sure what to say, and he doesn’t push—just lingers a moment longer before Johnny calls his watch and you watch him roll his eyes.

The fifth time feels like the punchline to a joke.

You’re walking home with groceries when someone yanks your purse and bolts. You yelp—but the thief doesn’t get far. He’s plucked clean off the ground, legs kicking helplessly, dangling in the massive grip of none other than Ben Grimm.

“Seriously?” Ben deadpans, setting your purse back on your arm. “At this point, I’m startin’ to wonder if ya hired me.”

You flush. “I-I didn’t—”

“Relax. I’m kiddin’.” He hands your purse back carefully. “But seriously, kid, you’re startin’ to make me wonder if I should be billin’ ya.”

“I… I think I owe you lunch, at least.” You blurt it out before nerves stop you. “Pizza? My treat?”

Ben squints, suspicious. “Where at?”

“There’s this place on Yancy Street. Been goin’ since college. Best pizza in New York.”

His rocky ears go red. He mutters under his breath, “…Yancy Street, huh. sure, let’s go.”

The pizza parlor is cozy, warm, noisy. You slide into a booth, and Ben… doesn’t. Not easily, anyway.

The seat groans as he wedges himself in, muttering, “Booths weren’t built with me in mind. Feel like I’m sittin’ in a dollhouse.”

You giggle. “We could’ve sat outside—”

“Nah. I’m here now. If I fit, I sit.” He folds his arms across his massive chest, trying to look casual, though he can’t stop sneaking glances at you.

When the waitress drops off pizza, he eyes it like a challenge. He picks up a slice—tiny in his massive hand—and takes a bite the size of half the slice.

“You’re really not gonna fold it?” you tease.

“Fold it? What am I, an amateur? Pizza’s meant to be eaten, not origami’d.”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke on your soda. He grins—small, but real.

“You got a good laugh,” he mutters, almost too quiet. Then, louder: “Better than the screamin’, anyway.”

You duck your head, shy. “I’m not always screaming…”

“Eh, it’s the only other sound I heard outta ya, so it’s pretty cute.”

Your face burns. You’re not sure if he meant to say it, but he doesn’t take it back.

The night air is cooler when you step out together, stomachs full of pizza. You clutch your bag tighter, still shy.

Ben lumbers beside you, hands shoved in his coat pockets. “So… you gettin’ home okay? Or should I expect a six-time rescue tonight?”

You laugh nervously. “I-I’ll try not to fall into any more cracks.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, kid. World’s biggest city, and somehow, it’s always you.” He glances at you, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “...Not that I’m complainin’.”

Your heart skips. You almost trip, but catch yourself this time. He notices anyway and smirks.

“See? Progress.”

You walk the rest of the way together in companionable silence. When you reach your building, you hesitate. “Thank you. For… everything. Not just the rescues. For accepting the pizza, too.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t mention it. Maybe we’ll… y’know. Do it again. Without the life-or-death part.”

Your smile is small but sure. “I’d like that.”