#fakeboyfriend

There’s a letter wedged under your door when you get home—again. The chunky black print reads Storm, and you barely resist the urge to roll your eyes as you crouch to scoop it up. 

“Third time this week,” you mutter to yourself, peeling off your jacket as you step into your apartment. “And it’s only Wednesday.” 

You toss your keys into the bowl by the door and glance out your window. Across the street, the third-floor loft opposite yours glows with warm light. Of course it does. Johnny Storm keeps the place lit like it’s always golden hour—even if it’s 10 p.m. and raining. 

Your phone buzzes. 

Sue Storm: He still hasn’t sorted his mailbox out? 

You: He thinks it’s the mailman’s fault. I think it’s his entire personality. 

You laugh softly at your own message and grab the letter, tucking it under your arm. No doubt it’s another magazine he probably forgot he subscribed to. Last week, it was GQ and a bill for $346. This week, it’s something thicker. Government-looking. 

You should probably be annoyed. But deep down, there’s a rhythm to this by now. A strange, familiar beat to your odd friendship with Johnny Storm—your best friend’s reckless younger brother who, up until a month ago, you were sure would never outgrow his frat-boy energy. Now? 

Now he glows. Literally. 

The elevator in your building is still broken (as usual), so you hike up the stairs of the building across the street, rain still dampening your hair. You buzz his door twice. 

It swings open a second later. 

Johnny stands there shirtless, towel slung low around his waist, steam wafting behind him like he’s walking out of a damn romance novel. His hair curls damply over his forehead, and a cocky smile curls on his lips the moment he sees you. 

“Oh hey, neighbor,” he drawls, voice all gravel and warmth. “Come to return more love letters?” 

You hold the envelope up and push past him, brushing water off your coat. 

“No, just your government correspondence. Possibly something about setting things on fire in a public park,” you tease. “Or, I don’t know—your glowing fingertips.” 

He lifts his hand and flexes his fingers. The tips do flicker faintly orange before fading. You’ve gotten used to it. Or you’re pretending you have. 

Johnny sighs dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a public menace. But a charming one.” 

“You’re lucky your sister loves you,” you say, tossing the envelope on his kitchen counter and turning to leave. 

“Wait—” he calls after you, and there’s something quieter in his tone this time. “You doing anything Friday night?” 

You pause, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Why?” 

“Because if I end up getting sued by the city,” he says, that grin returning like clockwork, “I might need moral support. Or bail money. Or... someone to bring snacks.” 

You roll your eyes but laugh anyway. 

“God, you’re exhausting,” you say over your shoulder, stepping back out into the hallway. 

“Don’t pretend you’re not charmed,” Johnny calls after you, and you swear you can hear the smile in his voice as the door clicks shut. 

You're halfway down the stairs before you let your smile fully break. You’re not supposed to think about him like this. He’s Johnny — Sue’s little brother, the human personification of a golden retriever with a lighter and no supervision. You’ve known him since college breaks when he’d crash Sue’s apartment and drink all the milk. He used to be this loud, annoyingly attractive kid with no filter and even less accountability. 

And now? He’s still loud. Still annoyingly attractive. But there’s something under the surface now, like his fire has finally found shape. You’d never say it aloud, but post-accident Johnny is... different. Quieter, sometimes. Restless in ways he tries to joke through. 

You tell yourself the only reason you’re thinking about him at all is because you’re bored and not dating anyone. That’s all. That, and maybe the way he looked at you tonight lingered a second too long. 

You try not to think about it. About the weight in his gaze, like he saw something in you no one else had noticed yet. You’d laughed it off, shrugged the whole night off, like always. That’s what you do with Johnny Storm. You tease, he pushes, you roll your eyes, he smirks — it’s been the same pattern for years. 

But tonight something feels… different. 

Back in your apartment, you toss your coat over the back of a chair and collapse onto your couch, rubbing at your eyes. The TV flickers with a half-muted cooking show you’re not watching. Rain ticks gently against the windowpanes. It’s late, but you’re wired. 

And that’s when your phone buzzes. 

Again. 

You don’t have to look to know who it is. You’ve memorized the pattern by now: two texts spaced thirty seconds apart, always when he’s bored, drunk, or just lonely enough to remember you were once someone he held onto a little too tight. 

EX: Hey… You up? 

Then: 

 EX: Thought about you today. Wish things had gone different. 

You stare at the screen. 

Wish things had gone different? 

Yeah. You wish that too — specifically, that you’d seen through his charming lies sooner. That you hadn’t wasted two years trying to become smaller, quieter, easier to love. That you hadn’t let him convince you that you were lucky to be chosen, instead of someone who deserves more. 

You type something. Delete it. Throw your phone across the couch with a groan and flop back dramatically. 

Ten seconds later, you sit back up and grab it again. 

Because if he keeps texting you like this, he’s not going to stop. Not unless he thinks you’ve moved on. And what better way to shut him down than with a distraction that would make him lose his mind? 

A distraction with an annoyingly beautiful face and a flirty streak ten miles long. 

You bite your lip. 

You shouldn't. 

You definitely shouldn't. 

So obviously, you do. 

You type quickly: 

You: Hey. You around? Can I come back over for a sec? 

The reply comes thirty seconds later: 

Johnny Storm: Miss me already? Door’s open, babe. 

You roll your eyes — of course he’d say something like that — and grab your hoodie. 

Johnny’s apartment is exactly the same as you left it ten minutes ago: warm, a little cluttered. He’s sprawled on the couch in grey sweats and a threadbare college hoodie, hair flopping boyishly over his forehead. 

He looks up with a lazy grin. “Round two? That was fast.” 

You don’t sit down. You pace instead, hands in your hoodie sleeves, energy buzzing beneath your skin. 

He watches you, a little more serious now. “Hey. What’s going on?” 

You stop. Face him. The words come out faster than you plan. 

“My ex won’t stop texting me.” 

His brow lifts. “The finance guy with the receding hairline?” 

You blink. “How do you—” 

Johnny shrugs. “Sue talks.” 

Fair. You sigh and sit on the edge of the armrest, staring at your knees. 

“He keeps texting me. Saying he misses me. That he regrets how things ended. That we should grab coffee. I think… I think he just wants to feel like he could still have me if he wanted to.” 

Johnny’s jaw tenses. “And do you?” 

You look up sharply. “Do I what?” 

“Want him to have you.” 

Your breath catches, just a little. “No. God, no.” 

There’s a pause. 

“So what do you need?” he asks, gentler now. 

You twist your hands in your sleeves. “I need him to back off. To think I’ve moved on. That I’m with someone who’s the opposite of him. Who’d never make me feel small.” 

You look up. 

And Johnny’s watching you the way he did earlier — like you’re more than just the girl across the hall. Like he’s listening in a way nobody else does. 

Then, you say it. 

“I need you to fake date me.” 

He blinks. 

You rush to explain. “Just for a bit. Just to scare him off. I’ll post a picture or two, maybe let it slip to mutuals. You don’t have to do anything real. You’re already flirty enough, and Sue knows you well enough that it won’t seem totally fake. It’ll be easy. We’ll fake it until he gets bored and disappears.” 

Johnny leans back against the couch, expression unreadable. 

“Fake date you.” 

“Exactly.” 

A beat. 

“You want me to pretend I’m crazy about you,” he says slowly, “when I’ve been doing that for years.” 

Your heart flips. 

He doesn’t take it back, you bury what he just said deep and continue. 

He just stares at you with a challenge in his eyes — like he’s daring you to admit you knew all along. 

You scoff, mostly to keep yourself from melting. “You’re ridiculous.” 

He smirks. “So you’ve mentioned.” 

“This wouldn’t be anything serious,” you add, holding your ground. “You’d just play the part.” 

“Oh, I can play the part,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. “The question is: can you?” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You think I can’t handle it?” 

“I think I’ve been under your skin for years and you’re only just realizing it.” 

Your mouth opens. Shuts. You hate that he’s right. You hate it more that he knows he’s right. 

He stands up, steps toward you until there’s barely a breath of space between you. And then he grins — cocky and golden, the Johnny you’ve always known. 

“Well?” he says. “Do we shake on it? Kiss on it? Blood pact?” 

You roll your eyes but laugh anyway. 

Johnny steps back a little, giving you space like he knows you need to steady yourself. The teasing fades just enough for the room to settle again. He drags a hand through his hair and exhales, then gestures toward the couch. 

“Alright. Operation: Make Your Ex Jealous,” he says. “Let’s plan this.” 

You flop down onto the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” 

“Hey, you came to me.” 

“You’re the only person I know who can convincingly look like someone I’d rebound with.” 

“Was that a compliment or a cry for help?” 

You smirk. “Little of both.” 

He snorts, but opens his phone and pulls up Instagram. “Okay, what’s his deal? What gets under his skin?” 

“Patrick?” You lean your head back. “He’s the kind of guy who needs to feel like he ‘won.’ Like he moved on first. And he’s always compared himself to people like you.” 

Johnny blinks. “People like me?” 

“Loud. Charismatic. Always the center of attention without trying.” 

He looks over at you. “And?” 

“And… reckless. A little chaotic. Exactly the kind of guy he’d assume I couldn’t handle.” 

Johnny raises an eyebrow. “So we want him to think you can handle me.” 

“Exactly.” 

He nods, tapping on his phone. “So what’s the move? Subtle posts? A soft launch? Or do we go full PDA in front of mutuals and burn his fragile ego to the ground?” 

You smile despite yourself. “I’m thinking something in between. We don’t want it to look staged. Just believable enough that he knows he doesn’t stand a chance anymore.” 

“Okay.” Johnny shifts toward you, more serious now. “What’s he still watching? Instagram stories? Your grid?” 

“Probably both. He’s still got me muted, but I know he checks from his alt account.” 

Johnny whistles. “That’s healthy.” 

“Welcome to dating in the 2020s.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, then: “What if we post something casual tomorrow? Not you and me looking together, but like… you’re here, I’m in the background, there’s something unspoken.” 

You glance at him, impressed. “You’ve done this before.” 

He smirks. “I’ve been someone’s fake boyfriend before.” 

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?” 

“Long story. She was trying to get her landlord to fix the heating. I played the overprotective husband. We got free rent for two months.” 

You shake your head with a half-smile. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” 

“I’m very persuasive,” he says solemnly. “Anyway, we can start with something low-key. Maybe brunch tomorrow?” 

You pause. “With Sue?” 

He shrugs. “Why not? If she sees us acting couple-y, it’ll get around. She’s basically a walking group chat.” 

You chew on your lip, thinking. “I could post a story. Just a picture of a coffee mug and, like, your hand or something.” 

“Or my hoodie on you.” 

You glance at him. 

He’s not being flirty. Not now. He’s just… planning. Efficient. Helpful. 

Which is somehow worse. 

Because if he’s not flirting, then why is your heart doing this weird fluttering thing? 

You push the thought away. 

“Alright,” you say. “Brunch. A story. Something just vague enough to stir the pot.” 

Johnny nods, tapping notes into his phone. “We should probably hang out for a bit beforehand. You need to be comfortable with me touching you.” 

You give him a flat look. 

“I mean casual touching,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “Like—arm around the shoulder, hand on your back. Not, like… that.” 

You try not to laugh. “God, this is going to be a disaster.” 

“Nah,” he says, standing and stretching with a loud yawn. “We’ll crush it. Tomorrow, 11 a.m.? I’ll text Sue and tell her we’re coming.” 

“You’re scarily good at this.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

You glance at your phone. Another text from Patrick — “Still thinking about you. We should catch up sometime.” 

You lock the screen. 

Johnny sees the shift in your face. “You alright?” 

You nod. “I will be.” 

He tilts his head. “You’re not doing this just to get back at him, are you?” 

You pause. 

“No,” you admit. “It’s not about getting him back. I just want to stop feeling like I’m still in orbit around him.” 

Johnny’s voice is soft. “Then we’ll pull you out of it.” 

You meet his eyes. There’s no smirk this time. No teasing. 

Just quiet certainty. 

You feel your chest tighten. Not in a bad way. 

And that’s when he grins again, suddenly back to normal. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to be someone’s romantic weapon of mass destruction.” 

You’ve read the last text from Patrick three times now, and each time it makes your stomach twist a little tighter. 

Still thinking about you. We should catch up sometime. 

You hate how casually cruel it is. Like he’s checking the weather. Like your time together wasn’t a storm he made you walk through barefoot. 

You toss your phone face down on your bed and look at yourself in the mirror. 

This isn’t about him. Not anymore. 

This is about you taking control of the narrative. 

And maybe, just maybe, about what happens when you let someone like Johnny Storm step into the picture — someone who was never supposed to matter this much. 

You grab a sweater — soft, slouchy, off-the-shoulder. Something that could be read as effortless… or intimate. You pull your hair back, simple but styled. Natural makeup. Glossy lips. 

You pause. 

Then, almost impulsively, you grab the hoodie Johnny gave you last time he crashed on your couch after a night out. It still smells faintly like him — smoke and citrus and something warm. You tug it on over your sweater. Oversized. Familiar. Disarmingly convincing. 

You look at yourself one more time. 

It’s not armor. But it’s something close. 

Johnny’s door opens before you even knock. 

He leans in the doorway, brushing crumbs off his T-shirt. “You’re early.” 

You step in. “You’re still eating crackers in your doorway. We all have our coping mechanisms.” 

He shuts the door behind you, grinning. “Yours is dressing like you just woke up in my bed?” 

You give him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s strategic.” 

He eyes the hoodie, then you, then the hoodie again. “Well. I have to say. You wear me well.” 

“Johnny.” 

“Right. Sorry. Focused.” 

You take a breath and scan the space — still as chaotic and lived-in as always, but it feels less like a frat boy’s den now, more like a space someone is genuinely trying to settle in. You notice a book half-read on the kitchen counter. A candle burning on the windowsill. Little things. Unexpected things. 

He tosses you a cereal bar. “Fuel up. Sue’s expecting us in, like, twenty.” 

You catch it mid-air. “You told her we were coming?” 

He shrugs. “Told her I had ‘company.’ She filled in the blanks.” 

You blink. “What blanks?” 

He raises a brow. “You, wearing my hoodie. Me, looking smug. The rest writes itself.” 

You groan and sit on the arm of the couch. “This better work.” 

Johnny plops down beside you, unusually quiet for a beat. 

“You nervous?” 

You shrug. “A little. I know it’s not real, but part of me still feels like I’m walking into enemy territory.” 

He watches you for a moment. “Just remember why we’re doing this. It’s not for him.” 

You glance at him. “I know.” 

“We go in, we act close. Like we’ve been seeing each other quietly. I’ll laugh at your jokes, you can pretend you think I’m charming—” 

“I always pretend that.” 

“See? You’re a natural.” 

You both smile, but there’s a current under it — something unspoken, like you’re both hovering on the edge of a line neither of you fully expected to walk. 

You stand, brushing off your jeans. “Let’s go cause some chaos.” 

He grabs his keys and follows you out, pausing as you both reach the front steps. 

Then, casually, he slips his hand into yours. 

You freeze. 

He doesn’t look at you — just keeps walking, hand warm, grip relaxed, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not the first time. Like it won’t be the last. 

And somehow, that’s what makes it so much worse. 

Or maybe better. 

You haven’t decided yet. 

You and Johnny walk hand-in-hand down the street, a soft breeze tugging at your hair and the hem of his hoodie on your frame. You try to focus on the plan: act comfortable, stay close, subtle touches, believable glances. Just enough to be convincing. 

But the problem is—it’s already too easy. 

Johnny doesn’t act like someone pretending. His thumb rubs absent circles into the back of your hand as you walk. He holds doors open without smirking. He doesn’t tease or flirt—not like he normally does. He just walks beside you, quiet and warm and steady. Like this isn’t a game. 

And maybe that’s what’s throwing you. 

Sue’s already waiting when you arrive. You spot her at the corner table of the café, hair pulled up, sunglasses perched on her head like she’s starring in a low-budget detective drama. She stands when she sees you, her face lighting up—then flickering in a very specific way when her eyes land on your joined hands. 

“Oh,” she says, voice full of restrained curiosity. “You two came together.” 

Johnny grins. “Yeah. We’ve been spending some time together... for a while now” 

You’re shocked by how normal he sounds. Confident. Settled. 

Sue turns to you, mouth twitching. “Did he bribe you? Or lose a bet?” 

You let out a soft laugh, letting go of Johnny’s hand as you slide into your seat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Johnny takes the seat next to you, not across from you. Bold. Strategic. Perfectly calculated. 

Sue raises one brow behind her iced coffee but doesn’t press. Not yet. She’s too good at the long game. 

“So,” she says slowly. “Anything new?” 

You feel Johnny’s knee brush yours under the table. Just enough pressure to say I've got you. 

You reach for your menu. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

Sue hums like she doesn’t believe you for a second. “Interesting.” 

The conversation drifts into casual territory—her work, something about Reed’s latest meltdown over disappearing lab equipment, gossip from a friend’s baby shower—but every so often, her eyes flick to Johnny, to you, to the hoodie you’re still wearing. 

And then the door jingles. 

Your stomach drops the second you hear the voice. 

“Hey—do they do oat milk here?” 

You don’t need to look. You know it. The cadence. The lazy tone. The half-laugh like he’s asking the barista for a favor he doesn’t deserve. 

Patrick. 

You freeze. Your blood goes cold. 

Johnny must sense it because his posture shifts subtly beside you. One of his hands drifts under the table, finding your thigh and resting there gently. Grounding you. Quietly protective. 

You don’t dare turn around. You stare straight ahead at your untouched mimosa and try not to breathe like your past just walked in and sat down five feet away. 

But Patrick sees you before you can hide. 

“Well,” he says, and your name sounds smug on his tongue. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

You force your gaze up. 

Patrick stands there, iced coffee in hand, an uncomfortable grin tugging at his mouth. His hair is longer than it was. He’s wearing that beige button-down you once told him he looked good in. He looks exactly like the version of himself you finally outgrew. 

You blink slowly. “Brunch,” you say. “It’s a Friday tradition.” 

Patrick’s eyes flick to Johnny. 

Then to the way Johnny’s sitting—leaned into you, his hand still resting on your leg beneath the table. 

Then, very obviously, to the hoodie you’re wearing. 

His jaw tics. 

“Oh,” Patrick says, masking surprise with condescension. “Didn’t know you two were… a thing.” 

“And here I was thinking you’d be laying low after everything,” Patrick says smoothly. “Guess not.” 

Johnny doesn’t give you a chance to respond. 

“She’s been doing great,” Johnny says, a bit too brightly. “We both have.” 

Patrick’s eyebrows rise. “We?” 

“Yeah,” Johnny says, stretching one arm across the back of your chair, clearly staking ground. “You remember me. The hot one.” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling, but Patrick's face hardens. 

“Right,” Patrick says. “The reckless one with the… fire thing.” 

Johnny grins. “Still more reliable than a guy who ghosted her for three days before deciding he ‘wasn’t sure about the relationship.’” 

Patrick’s smile tightens, looking down at you “Didn’t realize you were keeping score.” 

“She wasn’t,” Johnny snaps “But you made it really easy.” 

The table goes quiet for a beat, tension thick as steam from the espresso machine. 

Sue raises an eyebrow, clearly ready to throw hands or hot coffee — whichever lands first. 

Patrick’s eyes flick down to your hand, to the rings you’re wearing — specifically the one you’d hastily shoved on this morning to look “emotionally thriving.” 

“I see you’ve moved on,” he says, voice now brittle. “Pretty fast, don’t you think?” 

“Actually,” Johnny interjects smoothly, “we’ve been together a while.” 

You glance at him, startled. 

Patrick frowns. “Seriously?” 

“She didn’t want to rub it in your face,” Johnny says with a shrug. “But since you’re here, I guess it’s not rubbing anymore.” 

Sue snorts into her mimosa. 

Patrick folds his arms. “And this isn’t just some—what, rebound?” 

You straighten in your seat, voice cold now. “No, Patrick. You were the rebound. You just stuck around too long.” 

He stares at you, jaw flexing. 

“She’s happy now,” Johnny says, calm and final. “You don’t get to poke holes in that just because you’re miserable.” 

Patrick’s face twists with something unreadable. He glances at Sue like she might rescue him, but she raises both brows and sips her drink. 

“I didn’t come here to cause a scene,” he mutters. 

“Then maybe go before you do,” you say, blinking away the heat behind your eyes. 

Patrick opens his mouth like he’s going to say something — a dig, a plea, something slimy — but he must think better of it. Instead, he just huffs out a bitter laugh and turns away, walking out of the café with his hands jammed in his pockets. 

You feel your throat tighten, but you nod. You lean in slightly. Let the world think whatever it wants. And then he walks off to the patio like he didn’t just detonate a mine in your chest. 

The silence that follows is thick. 

Johnny turns to you gently. “You okay?” 

You blink fast. You don’t want to cry—not here, not now. “I’m fine.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand from your leg to your hand, gripping it quietly, giving you space to feel whatever you need to. 

Sue sips her coffee and sighs. “So. That’s what this is about.” 

You look at her sharply. 

She shrugs. “I’m not mad. Just mildly annoyed that I wasn’t looped in sooner.” 

You open your mouth to explain—but she waves you off. 

“No, no, don’t explain now. I’m letting it slide because A: he sucks, and B: I haven’t seen Johnny this calm since the incident that shall not be named involving the rooftop and the flaming barbecue tongs.” 

Johnny chokes on his water. 

You laugh, relieved, tension finally breaking. 

“Thanks, Sue.” 

“Anytime,” she says, standing to flag the waitress. “Now let’s get pancakes. And next time you do something wild like fake dating, maybe don’t pick someone with better cheekbones than you. It’s distracting.” 

You roll your eyes. 

But when you glance at Johnny, he’s watching you with something careful in his eyes. 

Not playful. Not smug. 

Just there. 

And you think: maybe this stopped being fake the second he reached for your hand. 

The city outside is soft with the kind of quiet that only comes after a long day. Streetlights flicker through Johnny’s apartment windows, casting gold against the dark wood floors and messy scatter of takeout boxes. There’s a half-drunk bottle of wine on the coffee table. A folded blanket on the arm of the couch. Music playing low from his speaker—jazz again, but slower this time, softer, as if it knows you both need the space to breathe. 

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, Johnny sprawled in the other. Neither of you has really spoken since you got back from brunch. The plan had gone off perfectly. Sue had side-eyed her way through the entire meal, and Patrick had absolutely taken the bait. But somehow, instead of the rush of satisfaction you expected, all you feel is… heavy. 

Tired. 

Johnny made hot chocolate, you sip it quietly. It’s a little too sweet. You don’t mind. 

Johnny clears his throat beside you. “You ever think maybe we overdid it?” 

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?” 

“The way we were acting. At brunch.” 

You shrug. “I thought we were subtle.” 

“You were subtle.” He looks over at you with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was incredible.” 

That earns him a small laugh. He smiles at the sound, then sinks deeper into the cushions. 

But the silence doesn’t stay easy. It stretches again. Something unsaid hangs in the space between you. 

You look at him sideways. 

“Johnny,” you murmur. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re really... different lately.” 

He shifts a little, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. 

“Since the cosmic storm, you mean?” 

You nod, watching him carefully. 

He looks down, rubs the back of his neck, voice quieter now. “It changes things. Not just the fire part. I feel like I’m always on, y’know? Even when I’m off. People expect me to be this larger-than-life thing, and when I’m not, it’s like... disappointing.” 

You blink, taken off guard by the honesty. The vulnerability of it. You’ve seen Johnny flirt, joke, deflect — but not this. 

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ around me,” you say, voice softer now. “You never did.” 

Johnny lets out a low laugh. Not his usual golden-boy laugh, but something more hollow. 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he mutters. 

Your brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He pushes himself up, suddenly restless. Tosses the last bite of pizza into the box a little too forcefully and paces to the far side of the room, hands in his hair like he’s trying to shake something loose. 

“You never liked me,” he says, not looking at you. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. Every time I came around Sue, you’d roll your eyes or sigh like I was just this burden you had to put up with. The annoying little brother. The screw-up. The joke.” 

You feel something sharp twist in your chest. “Johnny…” 

He waves a hand. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to backpedal. I get it. You’re smart, and serious, and have your shit together. And I was the loud one who flirted with anything that moved and barely made it through school. You didn’t see me until I started glowing.” 

You stand, slowly, your mug still warm in your hand. “That’s not true.” 

He finally turns to look at you, eyes a little too bright. 

“Oh, come on. You practically made it your mission to remind me how immature I was every time I so much as breathed too loud around you.” 

“Because you were immature!” you snap, voice rising without your permission. “You lit things on fire for fun and you slept through your sister’s birthday brunch!” 

“I didn’t sleep through it. I was hungover. That’s very different.” 

“Not to Sue!” 

The room falls into silence again, this time jagged and hot. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight. 

You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “God, why do you always do this?” 

“Do what?” 

“Push me until I say something I don’t mean.” 

He squares his shoulders. “What if you do mean it?” 

“I don’t.” 

“You sure about that?” 

You step toward him, closer than you should be, and feel the heat rolling off him. Not his mutation—him. 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re infuriating.” 

“Good.” 

“Great.” 

You’re both breathing hard now. Staring each other down. Too close. The space between you sparks. 

Then, softer—wounded: 

“You always look at me like I’m a mess you can’t fix.” 

The words hit deeper than they should. 

“I don’t want to fix you,” you say, your voice cracking a little. “I just… I wanted to stop caring when you didn’t.” 

Johnny flinches. “You think I didn’t care?” 

“You flirted with everything that moved and turned everything into a joke,” you shoot back, eyes burning. “And I thought—if I stayed away, if I just kept it together, I could stop thinking about you.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment. His voice, when it comes, is rougher. Lower. 

“And did it work?” 

You shake your head. “No. Obviously not.” 

The silence thickens. The whole apartment feels like it’s holding its breath. 

He takes one careful step toward you. “You know… I never flirted with you.” 

You scoff. “Yeah. I noticed.” 

“Wanna know why?” 

You swallow. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.” 

He stops in front of you, eyes searching yours. “Because with you… if I flirted and it didn’t work—I don’t think I’d recover from it.” 

You blink, startled. Your breath catches. 

He steps forward again, closer now. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him, humming beneath his skin like it’s aching to be released. 

“You think I wasn’t paying attention,” he says. “But I was. I saw the way you covered your mouth when you laughed. How you always looked out for Sue, even when she didn’t ask. How you only let your guard down when you thought no one was watching.” 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “You were watching?” 

He nods. “I was always watching.” 

Your hands tremble a little, still holding your mug. You set it down on the table beside you, slowly. 

You don’t know what to do. Or say. Or how to react.  Because this?  This doesn’t feel like a joke.  This doesn’t feel like Johnny being Johnny.  This feels like the moment the mask finally cracked — and something real slipped through. 

Your heart beats faster. 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him in waves, and not just because he literally runs at a higher temperature now. This is something else. Something almost magnetic. 

Your voice is soft. Uncertain. 

“Was that… were you… are you saying you—” 

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales sharply, like he’s been holding something in for years and finally let a little too much of it out. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to say all that. Not like that.” 

You blink at him. “But you meant it.” 

He meets your eyes then. Really meets them. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I did.” 

You suddenly feel like the floor under you is less stable. Like you’ve been walking a tightrope and didn’t realize how high up you were until you looked down. 

This wasn’t part of the plan. 

Fake-dating Johnny was supposed to make your ex jealous. It was supposed to be harmless. Controlled. 

But nothing about this feels controlled now. 

And you’re not sure if you’re terrified of falling… or if you’ve already started. 

You step back, instinctively, needing space to think. To breathe. His eyes flicker with something—hurt?—but he doesn’t move. 

“I just… I didn’t know you saw me like that,” you say. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he replies. “You always seemed like you had me figured out. The flirty guy. The walking disaster. I didn’t think you’d ever take me seriously.” 

You swallow hard. “I didn’t think you took anything seriously.” 

He gives a sad little smile. “That was the point.” 

Silence again. This time, not angry. Just full. Weighty. 

You sit down slowly, perching on the edge of the couch, fingers twisting in the hem of your sleeve. 

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit. 

Johnny nods, standing awkwardly in the center of the room like he doesn’t know where to put himself. “You don’t have to do anything. I just… couldn’t not say it anymore.” 

He’s retreating now — pulling back, retreating into defense mechanisms and half-shrugs. Back into Johnny Storm, Human Torch, golden boy with a grin and a punchline. 

But you’ve seen too much now to unsee it. 

You’ve seen the fire and the fear. The way he looked at you when Patrick showed up. The way he stepped in like it was instinct. Like it wasn’t pretend. Like it had never been pretend. 

You speak again, barely above a whisper. “You really never flirted with me.” 

He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “You were the only one I was actually scared to.” 

The confession hangs there between you, suspended and bright like an ember in the dark. 

He turns then, heading toward the kitchen, probably to bury himself in something — cleaning, distraction, anything to defuse the moment. 

You watch him go. 

And you realize something, in the quiet that follows: this wasn’t a mistake. Not from him. And maybe not from you either. 

Because deep down, even now, with everything spinning out from under you…  You don’t want to stop him. 

You just don’t know how to start. 

So instead, you ask the only thing that feels safe: 

“Do you want to sit down?” 

Johnny pauses mid-step. Turns back, surprised. “What?” 

You pat the cushion next to you — not teasing. Just open. 

“Just for a bit,” you say. “We don’t have to figure it out right now.” 

He hesitates. Then slowly — carefully — he walks back across the room and sits beside you, not too close this time. Like he’s giving you space to breathe. 

But you feel the gravity of him again, even from here. 

This time, he doesn’t say anything clever. 

This time, neither of you does. 

You just sit in the quiet, in the soft flicker of lamplight and low jazz, and let the moment settle between you. Unfinished. Unspoken. Real. 

You’re not sure how long you sit like that—side by side on the couch, the hush of the apartment pressing in around you. The lamp glows soft in the corner. The last of the hot chocolate sits cold on the table. The air still feels like it crackles, but neither of you speaks. 

It should be awkward.  But somehow, it isn’t. 

Johnny’s arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. He’s staring at the window, jaw relaxed for once, like letting the truth out earlier let him breathe properly for the first time in a while. 

You glance sideways at him. “You ever do this before?” 

He blinks. “What? Fake date someone to mess with their ex?” 

You smile faintly. “No. I mean… let someone see you like that.” 

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. 

“Not really. I guess I thought… if people didn’t see the real me, they couldn’t reject it.” 

You nod, looking down at your hands. “I get that.” 

He turns to you. “Yeah?” 

You let out a slow breath. “I think that’s why I kept you at a distance. Not just because you were annoying—” 

“Thanks,” he deadpans. 

“—but because it was easier to box you in as the guy who didn’t take anything seriously. It made it safer to… not feel anything.” 

His gaze softens. “But you did.” 

You glance at him, cheeks heating. “Apparently.” 

Johnny smiles. A small one. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just real. 

“I didn’t know what to expect when we started this,” he says. “I figured we’d mess with Patrick’s head a little, have some laughs. I didn’t think it’d—” He stops himself. 

“Didn’t think it’d what?” you ask. 

He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think it’d make me feel like this.” 

You blink. “Like what?” 

He hesitates, then says it: “Like maybe it stopped being fake around the time you put my hoodie on.” 

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to. But your heart’s doing somersaults in your chest. 

He looks down at his hands. “I’m not good at this. The honest thing. It’s not really in my wheelhouse.” 

“You’re doing okay,” you say gently. 

“Yeah?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

The silence stretches again, but it’s warmer now. Like a pause between verses, not a goodbye. 

Breaking the silence, not quite looking at him, “Can I ask you something?” 

He turns his head slightly. “Yeah?” 

You hesitate, then go for it. “Can I… stay here tonight?” 

He blinks. “Here?” 

You nod quickly. “I just… I don’t really want to go home right now. I know it’s stupid. It’s just—Patrick’s been texting again, and the thought of being in that apartment alone just… it feels wrong tonight.” 

You can hear your own voice start to falter. You hate it. 

“I can crash on the couch if you want,” you add quickly. “Or I’ll take the floor. I don’t care. I just don’t want to be alone.” 

Johnny’s quiet for a second. Then he shakes his head. 

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he says softly. “You can have the bed.” 

You frown. “Johnny—” 

“I’ll take the couch.” He flashes a small smile. “It’s seen worse.” 

You feel your shoulders relax a little, the pressure in your chest easing. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. 

He stands, grabbing a spare pillow and blanket from a nearby basket. You watch him work in silence, folding and fluffing with a surprising tenderness for someone who once set a toaster on fire just to see if he could. 

You follow him down the short hallway toward the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, flicks the switch on, then glances at you. 

“It’s not much,” he says. “There’s laundry on the chair and I think the sheets smell like my cologne.” 

“That’s fine.” 

He nods, then lingers a second too long like he’s about to say something more—but doesn’t. Instead, he just hands you the pillow. 

“You good?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

You step into the room, but turn at the last second. 

“Hey,” you say, stopping him in the doorway. 

He meets your eyes. 

“I meant what I said earlier too. About seeing you differently now.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, really looks. Like he’s trying to burn the moment into memory. 

Then, softly: “Okay.” 

You close the door behind you, heart thudding too fast. The room smells like him — warmth and spice and something a little sweet, something undeniably Johnny. You pull the blanket around you and lie back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

The truth of it presses gently against your ribs: you feel safer here than you have in a long time. 

You don’t know if this is the start of something, or the moment something finally cracked open. 

But when you close your eyes, you’re still thinking about the way he looked at you in the doorway.  And how, just maybe, he’s been waiting for you to stay all along. 

The room is dark now. 

You’re curled up under Johnny’s blanket, one arm tucked beneath your pillow, your back facing the door. The sheets are warm, soft, slightly tangled from where you’ve shifted, but sleep won’t come. Your mind is too full—of brunch, of Patrick, of everything Johnny said before and after. 

Of the look in his eyes when he offered you his bed like it was nothing, like it was everything. 

Your heart thuds in your chest, slow and uneven. You shift, let out a soft breath, and close your eyes even though you’re wide awake. 

Then you hear it—footsteps just beyond the door. Light ones. 

The door creaks open slowly. You don’t move. 

“Hey,” Johnny whispers, his voice low and careful. “You okay?” 

You don’t answer. Not because you can’t—but because you don’t know how. So you pretend. 

Still. Quiet. Breathing steady. 

A pause. 

Then, the door eases shut again, soft as a secret. 

You expect him to go back to the couch. Instead, there’s a faint rustle, and then his voice, muffled and low. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s on the phone. 

“Sue?”  A beat.  “No, sorry. I know it’s late.”  Another pause. Then a sigh. “Yeah. She’s here. She’s in my bed.” 

Your eyes snap open, though your body stays perfectly still. 

“I didn’t plan for this,” he says, and he sounds exhausted. Not physically—emotionally. Like someone who’s been carrying something too heavy for too long. “I was just helping her with the Patrick thing. Fake-dating. You know.” 

There’s a silence, and you can almost hear Sue’s voice on the other end. Soft but pointed. The way she always gets when she’s seeing right through him. 

“No, I didn’t do anything,” Johnny says, a little sharper. “She asked to stay. I gave her my bed.” 

Another pause. A faint, self-deprecating laugh. 

“Yeah, I know. That’s what I’m saying. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.” 

Your breath catches. You don’t move. 

“I thought I could just ride it out, y’know? Be the guy she needed for the week, help her get under Patrick’s skin, maybe annoy her a little.”  A quiet laugh, soft and fond. “Classic me, right?” 

You hear him shift his weight. A creak from the couch. 

“But she’s not just Sue’s best friend anymore. She’s... her. She’s this sharp, stubborn, infuriating person who makes me want to be better. Even when she’s calling me out, she makes me feel—seen.” 

Something twists deep in your chest. 

“She’s asleep in my bed right now and I’m out here like an idiot, hoping she’s dreaming about me. Isn’t that pathetic?” 

Sue must be saying something, but you can’t hear it. Johnny chuckles, a low and tired sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I’m screwed.” 

There’s a long pause. Then quieter, rougher: 

“She’ll go back to her place tomorrow. Probably won’t think this meant anything. It’s just the plan to her. Still part of the act.” 

Your fingers curl into the sheets. 

“I just didn’t expect it to get real for me so fast,” he admits. 

Silence. The call must end, or maybe he just stops talking. You hear the soft thunk of his phone being set down, then nothing but the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. 

He doesn’t come back to check on you again. 

And you don’t sleep. 

You lie there, eyes wide open in the dark, heartbeat loud in your ears, body still and aching with everything you’ve just heard. 

He thinks you’re still pretending.  He thinks he’s alone in this.  And you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that. 

The city is still asleep when you quietly swing your legs off Johnny’s bed and press your feet to the cool floorboards. Your phone screen says it’s just past 5 a.m. — the sky outside still that pre-dawn grey-blue, when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. 

You move slowly, cautiously, the way you used to sneak out of sleepovers as a kid. Except this time, you’re not trying to avoid someone’s mom. 

You’re trying to avoid him. 

The blanket falls from your shoulders as you stand. You fold it without thinking, neat and careful, your fingers fidgeting like they need something to do. Something normal. Like folding a blanket will distract you from the storm swirling in your chest. 

You don’t know what you’re doing. Why you’re leaving. You just… can’t stay. 

You can still hear his voice in your head — that soft, cracked confession to Sue on the couch. 

“She’ll go back to her place tomorrow. Probably won’t think this meant anything.” 

Your heart twists, hard. 

You want to scream at how wrong he is. You want to go out there, grab him by the face, and tell him it meant everything.  But you don’t.  Because now you’re scared too. 

Scared that this whole thing — this spiral from fake to real — wasn’t fair. To him. To you. That maybe you pulled him into something he didn’t ask for, not really. That maybe you were just selfish, desperate for comfort in the fallout of Patrick, and Johnny had been caught in the crossfire. 

And yet… he hadn’t run. He’d stayed. 

That’s what makes it worse. 

You push the door open slowly and step into the dim living room. Johnny’s curled up on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs, one arm tucked beneath his head. His mouth is parted just slightly. His brow is smooth. He looks peaceful. Soft, even. 

You want to kiss him.  God, you want to kiss him. 

Instead, you move carefully across the room, aiming for the door. 

You make it halfway. 

Then— 

The floor creaks. 

You freeze. 

“…Your leaving?” 

You close your eyes. Damn it. 

You turn slowly to find Johnny sitting up on the couch, rubbing sleep from his face, his hair a wild mess and his voice rough from sleep. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say quietly. 

“You didn’t,” he lies, blinking at you. “You were really gonna sneak out?” 

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you mutter. 

He stands up, blanket slipping off him, arms crossed over his chest. “Then what was that? You’ve got your shoes in your hand like you're about to crawl out the window.” 

You fold your arms too, suddenly defensive. “I was just trying to avoid a scene.” 

“Well, congrats,” he says flatly. “Nailed it.” 

You exhale, frustrated. “I didn’t want to make this worse, Johnny.” 

“Worse?” he repeats, stepping forward. “You think this is worse? Leaving without a word? After everything yesterday — after everything I said—” 

“I heard what you said.” 

He freezes. “You heard me?” 

“On the phone. With Sue.” 

His mouth opens and closes again. He looks like you just punched him in the chest. “So what — you heard me say I liked you and decided that was your cue to bolt?” 

“It’s not that simple—” 

“Yes, it is!” His voice rises. “It is that simple. I told Sue I was falling for you, and instead of talking to me about it, you tried to disappear.” 

“I didn’t know what else to do!” you snap, throwing your hands up. “I panicked, okay? I wasn’t supposed to feel any of this either!” 

Johnny’s eyes burn into you. “Then why are you acting like this is some huge mistake?” 

“Because it wasn’t supposed to get this far!” you shout back. “This was meant to be a joke. A plan. A stupid fake relationship to make Patrick jealous and now—” Your voice cracks. “Now I feel like I used you.” 

His expression softens for a fraction of a second, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. 

“You didn’t use me,” he says. 

“You’re sure about that?” 

“Yes.” He steps forward again. “You didn’t use me. I volunteered. I wanted to help. I wanted to be around you. I didn’t care what excuse we used.” 

You shake your head, eyes burning. “It wasn’t fair to you.” 

“What’s not fair,” Johnny growls, “is that you got scared and decided I couldn’t handle how you felt.” 

You blink. “That’s not—” 

“You assumed,” he cuts in. “You assumed this meant more to me than it did to you. Like I’m the idiot who caught feelings while you stayed detached. But you’re not detached. You’re terrified.” 

You stare at him, stunned. “Screw you.” 

“Isn’t that easier?” he shoots back. “Being mad at me so you don’t have to admit this is real?” 

“I’m not mad because I’m scared, I’m mad because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” 

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” he says, stepping even closer, his voice low and sharp. “I’m talking about the way you looked at me at brunch. I’m talking about the way you didn’t move when I touched your hand. I’m talking about the fact that you stayed.” 

You’re breathing hard now, chest rising and falling. 

“I stayed,” you say, quieter but no less furious, “because for the first time in weeks, I felt safe.” 

Johnny flinches. 

“And now?” he asks, softer now. 

“Now I feel like I’m in too deep.” 

He swallows. “Good.” 

You frown. “What?” 

He steps into your space, gaze intense. “Good. Because same. I’ve been in deep since you called me that night, crying about Patrick. Since I saw you in my hoodie. Since you kissed me on the cheek and made it feel like my entire brain short-circuited.” 

You’re shaking. Maybe from adrenaline. Maybe from everything you’ve kept inside finally cracking open. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you murmur. 

“And you’re a pain in the ass,” he fires back, voice low. 

You stare at each other for a moment, breath tangled, hearts pounding, barely a breath between you. 

And then— 

It happens. 

You grab his shirt. He cups your jaw. And your mouths crash together like a wave finally breaking. 

It’s messy. Desperate. Like neither of you knows how to go slow now that the wall is down. His hands slide into your hair, your fingers curl into his chest. The kiss is heat and frustration and hope and finally, all wrapped into one. 

You pull back just enough to breathe. 

“I’m not going to leave..” you whisper, lips brushing his. 

His eyes search yours. “Good.” 

He kisses you again, slower this time. Sweeter. And it feels like something settling into place. 

When he finally rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, the tension is gone. Replaced with something terrifying and brand new. 

Honesty. 

Realness.