Rebeca W.

“I’m just saying man, how fitting that Graham is hooking up with Delaney’s sloppy seconds.” A guys says, his St. Anthony’s shirt sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Di Laurentis and Logan sure did score with their puck bunnies too.” The other laughs. You listen in on the conversation as you and Allie wait for your drinks. Hannah is currently tucked into Garrett’s side across the bar, neither one of them drinking tonight. Logan and Dean are playing a heated game of pool, not aware of the two St. Anthony’s players that have somehow made themselves welcome in a Briar University bar.

“I’m just saying I’d love to have five minutes alone with one of them, bet they’d forget all about their little boyfriends.” The first guy says, laughing at his own statement. You turn, sneering your nose up at him. You let out a short laugh.

“Oh, please.” You look him up and down. “You don’t look like you could find the clit if it was waving a flashlight at you.” A few people nearby choke on their drinks. The guy looks at you, face red. He’s probably had way too much to drink.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, bitch?” He says, getting in your face. Beside you Allie pales. Little do you know Dean and Logan have stopped their game of pool and are standing by for backup. You don’t so much as flinch.

“You heard me.” You say. A humorless smile tugs at your lips as you fold your arms across your chest.

“Besides, it’s a little pretentious to walk onto our campus and assume you’d ever have a chance with one of us in the first place.” You say glaring up at him.

His jaw tightens.

“Yeah?” He laughs, taking a step closer. “Well, our boy Delaney got your captain’s girl way back in high school.” He shrugs. “You puck bunnies are all the same. Easy little sluts.”

Rage clouds your train of thought and your arm moves on instinct tossing the contents of your cup into the guys face.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” He yells. His next move takes the entire bar off guard. He drops his shoulder slamming you into the bar, hard, deliberate, and most definitely hockey-style. You’re a little stunned, around you the bar erupts in outrage.

“What the fuck!” Allie screeches. Logan is already busting through the crowd trying to get to you. Dean pulls Allie behind him. You regain your balance, hurting like a mother fucker. But that sure as hell isn’t going to stop you. As the guy is rattling something off to his friend you shove him.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Logan chants, grabbing you as the guys arm raises no doubt aiming for you.

“Control your bitch man!” The guy’s friend yells. Dean and Logan share a look. You’re practically vibrating with rage. The guy who shoved you sticks his finger in your face.

“You’ve got a real fuckin’ attitude problem.” He turns to Logan. “She always run that damn mouth?” He asks, eyeing you, a disgusting grin on his face.

“If you were mine, I’d keep that pretty little mouth busy.” He says looking to Logan for his reaction. You feel him tense, his body practically shaking with rage.

“Not worth it man, we’ll kick his ass on the ice tomorrow.” Garrett calls. Hannah is tucked behind him like a baby animal hiding behind their mom. You don’t blame her after everything she’s been through. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, getting him to disengage from the guy.

“Yeah that’s right 22! Walk away!” The guy calls. Logan pauses, his jaw set. He closes his eyes for a second and you can tell he’s debating turning back around, you grab his arm.

“Let’s just go, baby.” You mutter. You feel bad for causing a scene but no way were you going to let some guy talk about your best friends like that.

Loading up in Garrett’s Jeep everyone is a little too quiet for your liking. You know the guys are trying to let Logan simmer down. You sit in the back seat between Dean and Logan, Allie perched on Deans lap. Hannah rides shotgun next to Garrett.

“Are you okay?” Logan asks, turning slightly to look at you. You nod, you’re sure your back is bruised but he doesn’t need to know about that right now.

“I’m fine, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to start anything.” You say, your apology intended for the whole car.

“What did that guy say to you? I’ve never seen you that mad?” Garrett, asks. You bite your lip, before recounting the conversation. Your friends are quiet for a moment.

“Okay, I totally would have thrown my drink in his face too.” Allie says, breaking the silence.

“You could have gotten hurt.” Logan says beside you.

“I’m okay.” You sigh.

“You got checked into a bar.” Logan states. You sigh.

“I know.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it.”

You roll your eyes. Though you doubt he can see it in the darkness of the back of the Jeep. “Logan..” You trail off.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“My back.” You mumble. The entire Jeep goes quiet. Logan angles himself toward you as best as he can in the tightly packed Jeep.

“Your back?” Logan asks.

“It just feels sore.” You say. The Jeep pulls into the drive of the hockey house and as the lights come on Logan’s eyes are scanning your body in concern. Everyone files out of the Jeep and heads for the house.

“Come here.” Logan says, gesturing for you to get out of the Jeep.

“Logan, I’m fi-“ you say but he cuts you off.

“Humor me.” He says as you climb out of the Jeep. He gently guides you into the living room of the house.

He reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt. His brown eyes looking into yours.

“Can I?” He asks, warm fingers gripping your shirt. You nod. He carefully lifts the fabric just enough to expose your lower back. His entire body goes still.

“Fuck…” he mutters.

“What?” You ask, trying to get a glimpse of your back.

Dean walks into the living room, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand.

“Damn.” He says taking a sip. Garrett follows behind him before muttering, “Holy shit.”

“What?” You ask again.

A massive bruise is already spreading across the right side of your lower back, the skin turning an angry mix of purple, blue, and dark red. You can almost make out where the edge of the bar caught you.

Allie winces.

“Y/N…” she says.

“It’s that bad?” You ask. Sure it was a little sore, and you’d planned on taking some advil but surely it couldn’t be that bad already.

Logan gently lets your shirt fall back down, before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should’ve killed him.” He says plainly.

“Logan.” You say.

“I’m serious.” He counters.

“You are absolutely not serious.” You say.

“I should have beat his ass.” Logan says. He lets out a dry laugh.

“John.” You say seriously, snapping his attention back to you. “I’m okay, baby.” You say.

“He put his hands on you.” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“He put his fucking hands on you.” He says. The anger that had been simmering all night suddenly melts into something else entirely. Fear. He steps closer, carefully placing his hands on your hips, avoiding the bruise completely.

“Hey…” You reach up and cup his cheek.

“I’m okay.” You assure him.

“You won’t be tomorrow.” He says.You frown.

“What?” You ask.

“That bruise is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better.” He says. He would know, he was used to getting banged up like that but at least he was the same size as the guys slamming into him. That guy was nearly two of you.

“It already looks pretty bad.” Logan says. Dean whistles from the couch.

“Pretty bad? Honey, that thing is going to look like modern art by morning.” He says.

Despite everything, you laugh. Allie smacks Dean’s arm.

“Read the room, dingus.” She says.

“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.” Dean offers.

“You should get some ice on that.” Garrett offers, moving into the kitchen to grab one of the many gel ice packs the boys kept in the freezer.

Logan nods, taking the ice pack from Garrett.

“I’ll take care of her.” He says. You smile softly as he guides you up the steps to his room, practically your shared room at this point. You change quickly, slipping out of your jeans and top and into one of Logan’s t-shirts. He finally looks at you, his eyes still full of guilt.

“I’m not mad at you.” He clarifies, as you lay down on the bed, wincing as your back hits the soft surface.

“You kind of seem mad.” You reason.

“I’m mad…” He pauses. “Just not at you.” He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m mad because someone thought they could hurt you.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his.

“I’d still do it again.” You say. He groans.

“I know you would.” He says. “Roll onto your belly let me ice your back.” He instructs. You do as he says, hissing slightly when the cold pack hits your back.

“And you’d still love me anyway.” You tease. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Unfortunately.” He says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. You grin.

“Unfortunately?” You ask.

“I was hoping for someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation.” He jokes.

“You got me instead.” You say.

“I sure as hell did.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.” He adds, laying beside you and holding the ice pack in place for you.

“No more bar fights though, okay?” He says with a laugh. You roll your eyes.

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Not a normal laugh either. Not the kind that came from a joke or something stupid on TV. This was louder, sharper—meaner. The kind of laugh that meant Johnny was about to be the punchline.

He didn’t even look up from his watch at first, leaning back in his chair at the kitchen island like he hadn’t just woken up ten minutes ago, hair still a mess, sweater crooked. “If this is about that toaster,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “it wasn’t my fault.”

“It’s not about the toaster,” Ben managed between laughs, which somehow made it worse. He slapped the newspaper down onto the counter in front of Johnny with enough force to make the coffee in his mug ripple. “It’s about you, genius.”

Johnny frowned, finally glancing up. The New York Times sat folded in front of him, the front page already creased from Ben absolutely manhandling it. Nothing unusual there—Reed got featured all the time, Sue even more—but the way Ben was still grinning like he’d just witnessed something life-changing made Johnny suspicious.

Slowly, he reached for it. He didn’t even have to unfold it all the way. His own name was right there.

Of course it was.

Johnny Storm stared at the headline for a long, silent moment, his expression going completely blank as his brain caught up with what he was reading.

Human Torch Adds ‘Public Nuisance’ to Expanding Résumé Following Midtown Incident

There was a beat before Johnny realised what he was looking at. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Across the counter, Ben lost it completely, doubling over as laughter echoed through the kitchen. “Public nuisance,” he repeated, shaking his head. “She got you again.”

Johnny dragged a hand down his face, already scanning the first paragraph with growing disbelief. “This is—this is slander. This is actual slander.”

“Is it?” Ben shot back immediately. “Because it says here you ‘diverted traffic for nearly forty minutes while attempting to land on a moving taxi.’”

Johnny pointed at the paper. “That is not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

“I was trying to stop a robbery.”

“By landing on a taxi?”

“It was a strategic decision.”

Ben didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Uh-huh.”

Johnny groaned, slumping back in his chair as he kept reading, each sentence somehow worse than the last. It wasn’t just that the article was critical— it was that it was detailed. Painfully detailed. There were timestamps. Witness quotes. A photo— he stopped there, squinting at the image printed halfway down the page. “Is that me mid-air?”

Ben leaned over. “Yeah. That’s the one where you almost hit the billboard.”

“I didn’t almost hit it.”

“You’re literally inches away.”

“That’s called precision.”

Ben laughed again, louder this time, and Johnny seriously considered setting the paper on fire out of principle.

But the worst part wasn’t the headline.

It wasn’t the photo.

It wasn’t even the fact that this was the third article about him this week.

It was the byline, it was always the byline.

Your name sat neatly beneath the title, professional and unbothered, like you hadn’t just spent two years making Johnny Storm the most consistent target in New York media.

Johnny exhaled slowly, dropping the paper back onto the counter like it had personally offended him. “She’s got a problem with me.”

Ben raised a brow. “Or—hear me out—you give her a lot to work with.”

“I do not.”

“Johnny.”

“I don’t.”

“Johnny.”

Johnny pointed at him, already defensive. “She never writes like this about you.”

“Because I don’t try to race subway trains for fun.”

“That was one time.”

“Three times.”

“That’s not the point.”

From the doorway, Sue’s voice cut in, calm and far too amused. “She wrote a piece about me last week.”

Johnny turned immediately. “Yeah, and what did it say?”

Sue crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “That I ‘demonstrated exceptional leadership under pressure and prevented further structural damage to Midtown.’”

Johnny stared. Then looked back at the paper. Then back at Sue.

“You see what I mean?” he demanded. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a nice article.”

Sue shrugged, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe you should try demonstrating exceptional leadership.”

“I do demonstrate—” Johnny stopped himself, then gestured vaguely at the newspaper. “This is targeted.”

Ben snorted. “You think the New York Times has a personal vendetta against you?”

“I think she does.”

And that was the problem.

Because Johnny didn’t even know you.

Not really.

Not beyond your name, your articles, and the very specific, very consistent way you seemed to single him out every chance you got.

You wrote about Reed like he was a genius— which, okay fine, he was. You wrote about Sue like she was a hero—which, again, fair. You wrote about Ben like he was the heart of the team—which, annoyingly, also true.

And then there was him.

Johnny Storm.

Reduced, week after week, to headlines that somehow managed to be both brutally honest and embarrassingly accurate.

It wasn’t that you lied, that would’ve been much easier on Johnny’s ego. If anything, the problem was that you didn’t. You noticed everything. Every mistake, every impulsive decision, every moment where he chose flair over logic.

And you wrote it down in clean, sharp sentences that the entire city apparently loved.

Johnny leaned back in his chair again, staring up at the ceiling as Ben’s laughter finally started to die down. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered.

Sue hummed. “It’s actually one of her better ones.”

Johnny shot upright. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it. Everyone reads them.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He dragged his hands through his hair, already annoyed again. “I’m serious. She’s got something against me.”

Sue tilted her head slightly, considering that. “Or,” she said slowly, “maybe you just haven’t given her a reason to write anything else.”

Johnny opened his mouth, paused and then immediately shook his head. “No. Nope. Not happening. I’m not changing how I do things because of some journalist.”

Ben grinned. “Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not.”

Sue just smiled, pushing off the doorway. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”

He watched her walk away, then glanced back down at the newspaper still sitting on the counter.

Your name stared back at him, professional and incredibly annoying.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—

Johnny reached for the paper again just to reread it, to make sure it was as ridiculous as he thought it was.

Which, unfortunately, it was.

And somehow, that only made him more determined to prove you wrong.

The newsroom never really slept.

Even in the early hours of the morning— when most of Manhattan was still dragging itself through coffee and unfinished dreams— the New York Times office hummed with a quiet, relentless energy. Phones rang somewhere in the distance, keyboards clicked in uneven rhythm, and conversations rose and fell in low, constant waves that never quite settled into silence.

You preferred it that way.

Noise meant movement. Movement meant stories. And stories—good ones, the kind that stuck—were the only reason you had fought your way into this building in the first place.

By the time you stepped off the elevator and into the main floor, someone was already calling your name.

“Hey—hey, you’re trending again.”

You didn’t slow down.

“Good morning to you too,” you replied dryly, sliding your bag onto your desk as you set your coffee down beside your laptop.

Your coworker—Daniel, features editor, chronically too enthusiastic before nine a.m.—leaned over the partition with a grin that suggested he had been waiting for you specifically. “No, seriously. It’s everywhere. Someone clipped the taxi photo and now it’s all over.”

You paused mid-motion, one brow lifting slightly. “The Midtown piece?”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “People are calling it ‘the most accurate thing anyone’s ever written about a superhero.’”

A quiet snort came from the desk behind you. “That’s because it is.”

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch Maria—senior columnist, terrifyingly perceptive—lifting her coffee in your direction. “You’re ruthless,” she added, not unkindly.

“I’m correct,” you countered, settling into your chair and opening your laptop. “There’s a difference.”

Daniel laughed. “No, seriously, you’ve got people arguing all over the city now. Some are defending him, well specifically speaking, the Flaming Hearts Fanclub.”

You hummed, already skimming through your emails. “That’s fine. Obviously his fangirls would defend everything he does”

“That’s fine?” he echoed. “You’re not worried you’re, I don’t know, building a public enemy out of a guy who can literally set himself on fire?”

You finally looked up, because wow, the audacity

“Daniel,” you said patiently, “if he didn’t want to be written about, he could stop doing things worth writing about.”

Maria laughed under her breath.

Daniel, however, seemed unconvinced. “Yeah, but—you don’t go that hard on the others.”

That, at least, made you pause.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but just long enough that you became aware of it.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms. “Because the others don’t give me a reason to.”

“Reed literally opened a wormhole over Queens last month.”

“And immediately stabilized it before it caused damage,” you replied.

“Sue leveled half a building during that same incident.”

“And evacuated it first.”

“Ben punched through a subway tunnel.”

“Saving twenty-three people.”

Daniel stared at you and then pointed, accusatory. “And Johnny—”

“—landed on a moving taxi in the middle of rush hour traffic and called it ‘precision,’” you finished.

Maria snorted into her coffee.

Daniel threw his hands up. “Okay, fine. When you put it like that—”

“Because that’s what happened.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve got something against him.”

“I have standards.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

You didn’t respond to that.

Because, technically, he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t that you hated Johnny Storm, not really. You didn’t know him.

Not beyond the patterns you’d observed, the behavior you’d documented, the consistent, frustrating tendency he had to turn every situation into something just slightly more chaotic than it needed to be.

Cocky.

Reckless.

Careless with the kind of attention most people would kill for.

He made for good headlines.

Very good headlines.

And apparently, very popular ones.

Your inbox proved that within seconds. You clicked open a new email, scanning it quickly, then paused.

Read it again.

“…Huh.”

Maria noticed immediately. “What?”

You didn’t answer right away, eyes still on the screen. Then, slowly, you turned your laptop toward her.

Her brows lifted as she read.

Then lifted higher.

“Well,” she said after a moment, clearly impressed. “That’s new.”

Daniel leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse. “What is it?”

Maria glanced at him. “Promotion.”

That got his attention, rolling his chair closer to take a better look at your laptop screen “What?”

You leaned back in your chair again, exhaling softly as the reality of it settled.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected.

You’d been building toward this for a while—long hours, bigger stories, more responsibility—but still.

Seeing it in writing made it real.

“Senior feature writer,” you said, almost casually.

Daniel blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Maria handed the laptop back with a small, approving nod. “That Reed Richards piece did it.”

You knew immediately which one she meant.

The profile. The one you’d spent weeks on, late nights, endless research, interviews, cross-references, digging past the public persona to find something real underneath, hell, you’re probably an astrophysicist at this point from how much you’ve researched.

Apparently, Reed had quoted it during a speech. Apparently, that mattered.

And being an employed person with a life you did not know about that. Until now.

“Well,” Daniel said, shaking his head again, “guess dragging the Human Torch pays off.”

You rolled your eyes, though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “That’s not what—”

“Hey.”

A voice cut through the conversation, too firm and professional to consider it one of the normal journalists.

You turned.

Your editor stood a few desks away, watching you with a look that immediately told you this wasn’t casual.

“Can I see you in my office?”

The newsroom didn’t quiet, exactly, but you felt the shift anyway. The way a few heads turned. The way Daniel’s expression immediately turned curious. Maria just raised a brow.

You stood, smoothing down the sleeve of your blazer. “Of course.”

The walk to his office was short.

Long enough for your brain to start working through possibilities. Promotion follow-up, a new assignment, or you’re probably getting told off for not mentioning his name in an article he had nothing to do with, but of course it would’ve looked great for him.

Before you could fire and cuss yourself out mentally, he closed the door behind you once you stepped inside.

A good sign.

Or a very bad one.

“Have a seat.” He said, pointing at the wooden chair in front of his desk

You did, mentally clocking the tone of his voice and already mentally waving bye-bye to that designer bag you were saving up for.

He didn’t waste time.

“You’ve been doing strong work,” he said, leaning back against his desk, arms crossed. “Consistent. Clean. Engaging. Your Fantastic Four coverage in particular—”

“Performs well,” you finished.

“It does more than perform well,” he corrected. “It pulls numbers most of our senior staff would kill for.”

You held his gaze, waiting for the catch that never came.

He smiled slightly. “That’s why I’m giving you something bigger.”

There it was.

You leaned forward, interest sharpening. “What kind of bigger?”

“A week-long feature.”

You frowned faintly. “On?”

“The Fantastic Four.”

You didn’t really react. At least, not outwardly, because internally, what the fuck?

That was new.

He continued, clearly enjoying this. “We’ve secured exclusive access. Full cooperation. Interviews, observation, day-to-day operations—the works.”

That got your attention. You sat up slightly in your chair, “You’re sending me to the Baxter Building?”

“For a week,” he confirmed. “Starting Monday.”

You stared at him processing whatever you just heard. Because this wasn’t just another article. This was access. Actual, real access. Not secondhand accounts, not witness statements, not public appearances and filtered interviews. This was inside, up close, unfiltered. And you would rather get thrown into the Hudson than turn this down.

“What’s the angle?” you asked.

“Human,” he said simply. “We’ve done the headlines. Now I want the people behind them.”

Your mind was already moving.

“You’re good at reading them,” he added. “Especially Storm.”

You didn’t react to that, but he noticed anyway, “Don’t worry,” he said, almost amused. “I’m not asking you to go easy on him.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” You almost laughed.

He spun in his chair slightly, picking up a paper, “I figured. Just make it honest.”

You stood, already nodding. “I always do.”

He smiled. “I know.”

And as you stepped out of the office, back into the noise of the newsroom, one thought settled in clearly.

you were getting that promotion and for sure getting that bag.

The message arrived just before noon.

Reed saw it first.

Of course he did—because Reed saw everything that even remotely resembled information, opportunity, or the possibility of a new intellectual pursuit. He was halfway through rewriting a set of equations on the glass wall in his lab when H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled in, chirping insistently until Reed finally glanced down at the notification hovering in the corner of the robot’s screen face.

He read it once.

Then twice.

Then, without another word, he erased half the equation with the side of his hand and said, “We should have a meeting.”

Which was how, twenty minutes later, all four of them ended up in one of the Baxter Building’s conference rooms.

Sue sat at the head of the table, tablet in hand, already skimming through the email again. Ben leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking vaguely suspicious but not entirely opposed. Reed stood near the screen, pacing slightly as he reread specific lines out loud under his breath.

Johnny was late.

Naturally.

He strolled in a full minute after everyone else, sunglasses still on despite being inside, and a handful of Lucky Charms. “If this is about the toaster,” he started, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, “I already said I’d replace it.”

Sue didn’t even look up. “It’s not about the toaster.”

“Good,” Johnny muttered, taking another bite. “Because that thing was a fire hazard anyway.”

Ben snorted.

Sue finally glanced up, her expression somewhere between amused and mildly exasperated. “We got an offer.”

Johnny raised a brow. “For what?”

Reed answered without turning around. “An exclusive feature. Week-long coverage. Direct observation, interviews, daily operations.”

Johnny blinked. “In English?”

Sue sighed. “The New York Times wants to do a piece on us.”

That got his attention. He lowered the protein bar slightly. “Us as in… all of us?”

“Yes,” Sue said. “Full team coverage.”

Johnny leaned back in his chair, considering that. “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s actually kinda cool.”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, not bad.”

Reed turned, finally facing them. “It’s a significant opportunity. Their reach is—”

“Massive,” Johnny finished. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been in it. A lot.”

Sue shot him a look but he chose to ignore it.

“So what’s the catch?” Ben asked, ever the skeptic.

Sue tapped her tablet. “A journalist would be on-site for a week. Interviews, observation, day-to-day access. They want something more… personal.”

Reed nodded. “A human perspective.”

Johnny shrugged. “Fine by me. As long as they don’t follow me into the kitchen again. That one guy wrote an entire paragraph about how I ‘hover aimlessly near the fridge.’”

“You do hover aimlessly near the fridge,” Ben said.

“That’s not the point.”

Sue suppressed a smile. “So we’re all good with it?”

There was a brief pause.

Reed nodded immediately. “Yes.”

Ben shrugged. “Sure.”

Johnny leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah, why not. Free publicity.”

Sue nodded once. “Alright, then—”

“Who is it?”

Ben’s voice cut in, casual but curious.

Sue glanced back down at the tablet. “The journalist?”

“Yeah.”

Another tap of the screen. And then she said your name.

The reaction was immediate.

Johnny’s chair screeched violently against the floor as he shot to his feet. “Nope.”

Silence filled the room.

Sue blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Johnny repeated, already shaking his head as he pointed toward the tablet like it had personally offended him. “Absolutely not. Not happening. Hard pass.”

Ben frowned. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Sue straightened slightly. “Johnny—”

“No. No, I’m serious. You can all do it, that’s fine, I support you, love that for you—but I’m out.”

Reed looked genuinely confused. “You can’t be ‘out.’ It’s a team feature.”

“Then consider me… spiritually unavailable.”

Ben stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Johnny threw his hands up. “I’m talking about her,” he said, like that explained everything.

Sue narrowed her eyes. “Johnny.”

“That’s the article woman.”

Recognition clicked immediately.

“Oh,” Ben said, slow and understanding dawning all at once. “Oh, that one.”

“That one?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “She’s not just ‘that one,’ she’s the one. The one who’s been dragging me through the mud for two years.”

Sue crossed her arms. “She’s a respected journalist.”

“She’s a menace.”

“She’s accurate.”

“That’s not the point.”

Ben leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained now. “She did call you a ‘public nuisance’ this morning.”

Johnny pointed at him. “Thank you. Exhibit A.”

“You did land on a moving taxi.”

“It was strategic.”

“Sure it was.”

Sue stepped in before it could spiral further. “Johnny, this is a major opportunity. We can’t just turn it down because—”

“Because she hates me?”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“She absolutely hates me.”

“She criticizes you.”

“Consistently.”

“Because you give her material.”

Johnny stared at her deeply offended.

“Wow,” he said. “Okay. So we’re victim-blaming now.”

Ben choked on a laugh.

Sue pinched the bridge of her nose. “That is not what—”

“She’s going to be here for a week, Sue. A week. Do you have any idea what she’s going to write?”

Reed, ever unhelpful in these situations, spoke up thoughtfully. “If her previous work is any indication, it will likely be thorough, well-researched, and—”

“Devastating,” Johnny cut in.

“—insightful,” Reed finished.

Johnny turned to him. “She once compared me to a golden retriever with superpowers.”

Ben lost it again.

“That was funny,” he managed between laughs.

“It was not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“It was character assassination.”

Sue was trying not to smile now. “Johnny—”

“No. I’m serious. I refuse. I am formally refusing to participate in my own public humiliation.” “You don’t have that authority.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You really don’t.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “This is a terrible idea. A terrible idea. You’re basically inviting her in here to watch me mess up in real time.”

Ben raised a brow. “So… nothing changes?”

Johnny stopped.

Glared at him.

Then pointed again. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Sue stepped forward, voice softening slightly. “Johnny. Look at me.”

He didn’t want to.

That was obvious.

But he did anyway.

“You’re overreacting,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“She’s been targeting me for years.”

“She’s been writing about what you do.”

“There’s a difference.”

Sue tilted her head. “Then prove her wrong.”

That made him pause.

Just for a second.

Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. And then opened it again.

Because the problem wasn’t that you were wrong, that would’ve been easy.The problem was that you weren’t and that made it a hundred times worse for poor Johnny’s ego and public image.

Johnny exhaled sharply, dragging his hands down his face. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered again, quieter this time.

Ben grinned. “This is the best idea we’ve had all week.”

Reed nodded absentmindedly. “Statistically, the engagement metrics alone—”

“I’m not doing it.”

Sue smiled knowingly. “Yes, you are.”

Johnny looked at her.

Then at Ben.

Then at Reed.

Three against one.

Of course.

He groaned unnecessarily long loud and dramatic for an issue so small.

“This is how I die,” he announced, dropping back into his chair. “Not in battle. Not saving the world. No. I’m taken out by a journalist with a grudge and a deadline.”

Ben snorted. “Yeah, real heroic.”

Johnny pointed at him without looking. “When she writes about this, I want it on record that I was against it.”

Sue stood, already gathering her things. “Noted.”

Reed turned back to the screen. “I’ll confirm our acceptance.”

Johnny dropped his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

Somewhere in New York you were probably already preparing your pens and pencils and whatever journalists need to ruin his life.

Monday morning arrived far too quickly. You had been awake before your alarm. That, more than anything, should have been your first clue that this wasn’t just another assignment.

By the time you stood across the street from the Baxter Building, coffee in hand and press badge clipped neatly to your coat, you were already mentally running through the same checklist for the fifth time—questions prepared, recording equipment charged, notes organized, angles mapped out in your head with the kind of precision that had earned you your promotion in the first place.

It was just a story. A big one, yes. A rare one. The kind most journalists would spend years chasing. But still—a story.

You had done this before. Interviews, profiles, high-profile subjects. You did not get nervous.

But still when your eyes flicked up toward the building again, tall, imposing, glass catching the early morning light in a way that made it look almost untouchable.

The Baxter Building wasn’t just another workplace, it was the workplace. The center of some of the most advanced research in the world. The home of the Fantastic Four. The people you had spent the last two years writing about from a distance.

Your grip tightened slightly around your coffee cup, you exhaled and stepped forward.

The entrance was quieter than you expected. No crowd, no reporters, no chaos—just a sleek, controlled space that felt more like a private facility than anything open to the public.

There was no receptionist, of course there wasn’t. Instead, a small panel beside the door lit up the second you approached.

A camera. Watching.

You straightened instinctively, brushing an imaginary crease from your sleeve before leaning slightly toward it.

“Hello,” you said, voice steady despite the faint tension in your chest. You held up your badge, angled so it would be clearly visible. “I’m here from the New York Times. For the—uh—exclusive interview?”

There was a brief pause. Long enough for you to wonder if you’d said it wrong. Long enough for your brain to start overthinking. And then you heard it.

A soft mechanical hum.

A click.

And somewhere deep inside the building, something unlocked.

You stepped back instinctively as the massive doors in front of you began to slide open, revealing a wide, polished interior that felt almost too clean to be real.

Then, something small rolled out to meet you.

You blinked. A robot. Not large or intimidating. Actually… kind of adorable. It paused in front of you, its digital face lighting up with a cheerful expression before emitting a series of soft beeps.

“Hi,” you said automatically.

It beeped again, then turned and paused. And looked back at you just standing there.

You stared at it for half a second before realization clicked. “…Right. Follow you. Got it.”

The robot— the infamous H.E.R.B.I.E., you assumed—let out another approving sound before rolling forward, leading you deeper into the building.

You followed, because at this point, turning around would’ve been insane.

The interior of the Baxter Building was even more impressive up close. Clean lines, open spaces, technology woven seamlessly into every surface. It didn’t feel cold, exactly—just… precise. Intentional. Like everything existed for a reason.

H.E.R.B.I.E. led you straight to a set of elevators that looked far too advanced for the time you were living in, but again, this is the Baxter Building, everything is too advanced. These were glass, offering a full view of the city as the doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

You stepped inside, clutching your bag a little tighter as the robot rolled in beside you. There was no button panel, the doors closed on their own, and then you were moving up very fast, the kind of fast only elevators at the building would have.

The city dropped away beneath you in seconds, the skyline stretching out in every direction. For a brief moment, your focus shifted entirely to the view—Manhattan waking up below, sunlight catching the tops of buildings, traffic already threading through the streets like veins.

You almost forgot why you were here. Almost. Until the elevator slowed and then stopped. The doors slid open and everything changed.

The space you stepped into didn’t feel like a lab, or an office, it felt lived in. A mix of high-tech equipment and something softer—furniture, personal touches, the quiet evidence of people who actually spent time here beyond saving the world.

And they were already there waiting.

You saw Sue first. She stood near the center of the room, posture relaxed but attentive, her presence immediately grounding in a way that matched everything you had ever written about her. Reed stood nearby, already half-focused on something else, his attention split between you and whatever thoughts were currently occupying his mind. Ben leaned casually against the back of a chair, arms crossed, expression curious but not unfriendly.

And then, Johnny Storm. He was there too, standing there next to his sister like he’d been dragged into this against his will—which, if your understanding of his personality was even remotely accurate, he probably had.

For a split second, neither of you moved because recognition was immediate. You obviously knew his face. You had studied it, analyzed it, attached it to headlines and quotes and witness statements. But seeing him in person was… different.

And judging by the way his expression shifted,so was he. Johnny had been mid-thought, mid-complaint, mid whatever internal argument he’d been having about your presence–

And then he looked at you, like really looked. And everything else stopped, because…oh. That was certainly not what he expected. Not even close.

The woman who had spent two years dismantling his reputation in perfectly structured paragraphs was—

Well.

She was standing right there…and she was...

Johnny blinked once...then again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a very unhelpful thought surfaced.

…Zoo wee mama.

He forgot, very briefly, that he hated this, that he had been strongly against this. That you had written approximately forty-seven articles at his expense.

For a moment, the room held its breath. Not in any dramatic, cinematic way—nothing that obvious—but in the subtle shift of attention that happens when something new enters a space that’s usually controlled, predictable. You stood just inside the threshold, bag still slung over your shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the fact that four of the most recognizable people in the world were currently looking at you.

Then Sue stepped forward. She moved first, smiled warm and easy, hand already extended as if this were just another meeting, another normal day. “Hi,” she said, and there was something immediately reassuring about the way she said it. “You must be—”

You introduced yourself, returning the handshake, your tone just as steady as you’d practiced. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” Sue replied. “We’re glad to have you.”

Behind her, Reed nodded absently, like he agreed in theory but was already thinking three steps ahead. “Your work is very thorough,” he added, almost to himself. “I referenced your Richards profile during a symposium last quarter.”

You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to say that out loud.

“I—thank you,” you managed, a little caught off guard despite yourself.

Ben stepped in next, offering his huge rocky hand in a handshake that was somehow both gentle and solid at the same time. “Yeah, don’t mind him,” he said, jerking his head toward Reed. “He reads everything. You do good work.”

“Appreciate it.” You said with a polite smile, shaking his hand.

It was easy. Talking to them, you realized quickly, it was easy, natural, exactly the way you’d imagined.

And then, there was him.

Johnny hadn’t moved from where he was leaning, arms crossed now, watching the whole exchange with an expression that was very clearly trying to be unimpressed and failing just slightly at it. He looked exactly the same, and not at all the same.

The confidence was there, obviously. The easy posture, the careless way he occupied space like it belonged to him. But there was something else underneath it now—something sharper, more aware, like he was studying you.

You met his gaze, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.

Then he started walking towards you slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice carrying that familiar edge you recognized instantly from interviews and offhand comments. “We’ve met.”

Sue didn’t even hesitate. “Johnny—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he continued, stepping forward, a hand lifting in a vague gesture toward you. “This is the—what was it—public nuisance specialist?”

You raised a brow slightly. Ben snorted, Sue closed her eyes for exactly one second. “That’s not—” she started.

“She knows what she did,” Johnny added quickly.

You tilted your head, expression carefully neutral. “I write what I observe.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

There was the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes. You didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened when he noticed.

“Oh my God,” Sue cut in smoothly, stepping between the two of you before it could escalate into whatever this was turning into. “We are not doing this right now.”

Johnny looked offended. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re not saying anything,” she interrupted, her tone still light but firm enough that even he paused. Then she turned back to you, smile snapping back into place like nothing had happened. “Sorry. He’s—”

“I’m right here,” Johnny muttered.

“—excited,” Sue finished, ignoring him completely. “Anyway. We should probably go over how this is going to work.”

You nodded, shifting your bag slightly on your shoulder, slipping easily back into professional mode. “Of course.”

Sue gestured toward the space around you. “You’ll have full access to the building for the week—common areas, labs, observation decks. We’ll coordinate interviews individually, but you’re also welcome to observe day-to-day operations. Nothing is off-limits within reason.”

“Within reason,” Ben echoed.

Johnny scoffed quietly.

Sue shot him a look before continuing. “We just ask for basic boundaries—no recording in restricted research zones without permission, and if anything sensitive comes up, we’ll address it as needed.”

“Understood,” you said, already mentally cataloging everything.

“And we’ll all make time for formal interviews,” she added. “Reed, myself, Ben, and—”

“Public nuisance,” Johnny muttered again.

Sue didn’t even look at him this time. “—Johnny.”

You nodded once, then glanced toward Reed. “If it’s alright, I’d like to start with Dr. Richards.”

Reed lit up immediately. “Yes, that would be efficient,” he said, already turning as if the conversation was over. “There’s a data set I can show you that contextualizes—”

“Great,” Sue said quickly, clearly used to this. “We’ll start there.”

You followed Reed without hesitation, slipping into step beside him as he launched into an explanation that immediately jumped three levels ahead of anything you’d expected.

Behind you, the room shifted again.

Ben leaned back against the table, watching you disappear down the hall before glancing sideways at Johnny.

“Well?”

Johnny didn’t answer, didn't move. He was still staring at the doorway you’d just walked through, expression unreadable for once.

Ben smirked slightly. “Not what you expected, huh?”

Johnny blinked, like he’d just remembered where he was. Then scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean—she’s—whatever. That’s not the point.”

“Sure it’s not.” Ben hummed, knowingly.

“She still hates me.” Johnny said matter-of-factly, even if he himself started not believing that fact.

Ben raised a brow. “You just met her.”

“I didn’t just meet her,” Johnny shot back. “She’s been writing about me for two years.”

“And you’ve been reading every single one,” Ben pointed out.

Johnny opened his mouth.

Paused. “…That’s also not the point.”

Ben laughed under his breath, pushing off the table. “Yeah. You’re in trouble.”

Johnny frowned. “I’m not in trouble.”

Ben just grinned wider.

Meanwhile, two floors up, Reed was already halfway through explaining something about dimensional stress points, and you were nodding along, taking notes, asking questions and probably hearing unnecessary facts about black holes.

The rest of the day went by faster than you expected.

Reed’s lab had that effect on people. One minute you were asking a simple question, and the next you were somehow thirty minutes deep into a conversation about energy fields, dimensional stress, and a machine that definitely should not have been making that noise.

You followed him around for most of the afternoon, notebook in hand, jotting things down as fast as you could while he explained experiment after experiment. Some of it you understood immediately, some of it you had to ask him to repeat twice, and some of it you were pretty sure no one but Reed Richards could fully explain.

Still, it was… good.

Really good.

He didn’t simplify things for you, which you appreciated. He didn’t treat you like you were just there to write something pretty—he actually answered your questions, went into detail, even got a little excited when you followed along.

It made your job easier.

And by the time you finally stepped out of the lab, your brain felt full in the best way possible.

Also tired.

Very tired.

You checked the time and blinked. “Oh.”

Later than you thought, of course. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and headed back toward the main living area, already thinking about how you were going to organize your notes when you got home.

Sue spotted you first. “How was it?” she asked, leaning slightly against the kitchen counter.

“Good,” you said honestly. “A lot. But good.”

Reed, who had followed you out without realizing the conversation had technically ended, nodded. “We only covered a fraction of what would be relevant.”

“That’s fine,” you said. “It’s more than enough for today.”

Ben glanced over from the couch. “You look like you just took a final exam.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “Feels like it.”

Sue smiled a little at that, then straightened. “You should stay for dinner.”

That made you pause. That was nice. Too nice. And also exactly the kind of thing you were trying to avoid. You shook your head lightly. “I appreciate it, but I should—”

“We can’t have a journalist staying over for dinner.”

You didn’t even need to turn your head.

Johnny.

Of course it was Johnny.

You did turn anyway, just in time to see him leaning against the counter again like he hadn’t moved all day, arms crossed, expression doing that thing where he was pretending not to care while very obviously caring.

Sue didn’t even look at him at first. “Johnny,” she said, very calmly.

“What?” he replied, already defensive. “I’m just saying—professional boundaries. You know. Ethics.”

Ben made a sound that was definitely a laugh.

Sue turned slowly. “Ethics?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding like he’d made a strong point. “We shouldn’t influence the press. That’s, like, a thing.”

“It’s dinner,” Sue said.

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

You watched the exchange for a second, one eyebrow lifting slightly before you stepped in.

“I was going to head out anyway,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “I have notes to go through.”

Sue looked back at you, clearly annoyed—but not at you. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” You said quickly.

Johnny opened his mouth again, but you beat him to it. “Goodnight.”

You gave them all a small nod—Reed, who had already half-zoned out again, Ben, who looked like he was trying not to laugh, Sue, who looked like she was two seconds away from committing a crime—

And then Johnny.

You met his eyes for a second. Just long enough to notice that he was already looking at you again.

“…Goodnight, Storm.” Then you turned and walked out before he could say anything else.

The door closed behind you. There was a beat of silence after. And then because what the hell was that–

“Oh my God, what is wrong with you?” Sue didn’t even try to hide it this time, turning around towards her idiot brother who embarrassed her in front of you, a journalist who is quite literally writing about them.

Johnny frowned immediately. “What?”

“What was that?” she asked, turning fully toward him. “Seriously. What was that?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Johnny shrugged, feigning innocence.

“You told her she couldn’t stay for dinner.” Sue looked seriously irritated, her eyes wide from frustration.

“I didn’t tell her,” Johnny argued. “I implied.”

Ben lost it, “IMPLIED?” he repeated, laughing. “You literally said we can’t have a journalist staying over.”

Johnny nodded, holding out his hand towards Ben matter-of-factly, “Yeah, that’s implying.”

“That’s not implying.” Sue crossed her arms. “You embarrassed her.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“She was going to say no anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the point.”

“It’s not.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, already getting annoyed. “She hates me.”

Sue blinked. “…What?”

“She hates me,” he repeated. “Have you read anything she’s written about me?”

Ben snorted again. “Yeah. Front page, actually.”

“She called me a public nuisance.”

“You landed on a taxi.”

“That’s not—” Johnny stopped, then pointed at him. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” Ben shrugged, shaking his head because how stupid can a guy be.

Sue stepped closer, lowering her voice just slightly. “Johnny.”

He looked at her. “What?”

“She doesn’t hate you.” Sue reassured

“Oh she definitely hates me.” Johnny laughed which sounded more like a scoff, crossing his arms again.

“She writes about what you do.” Sue said, "That's what journalists do.”

“She writes about what I do,” Johnny emphasized, pointing at himself. “Not Reed. Not you. Not Ben. Me.”

Ben shrugged. “We don’t give her material.”

Johnny stared at him, then at Sue, then back at Ben. “…I don’t give her material.”

Ben just looked at him, like really looked at him.

Johnny paused. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

Sue sighed, shaking her head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being targeted.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest.”

“You’re being a child.”

Johnny opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then muttered, “She started it.”

Ben leaned back into the couch, grinning. “Oh yeah. You’re done for.”

“I’m not done for.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“She’s gonna be here all week.”

Johnny froze like it was his worst nightmare come to life. “…Don’t remind me.”

Tuesday went… smooth.

Almost suspiciously smooth.

You showed up at the Baxter Building already a little more relaxed than the day before—still professional, still focused, but no longer standing outside psyching yourself up like you were about to take an exam. H.E.R.B.I.E. greeted you again like you were a regular, which felt weirdly nice, and this time the elevator ride didn’t feel like a whole event.

Sue met you first.

And honestly? Exactly what you expected.

Organized, calm, efficient—she walked you through her day like she’d done it a hundred times before, balancing actual leadership responsibilities with the kind of small, human moments most people never saw. You followed her through meetings, watched her coordinate with city officials, and sat in on a call where she somehow managed to sound reassuring and authoritative at the same time.

At one point, she paused mid-conversation, glanced at you, and said, “You can write that down if you want,” like she already knew what you were thinking.

You did.

Of course you did.

By the end of the day, your notes were filled with phrases like measured response, clear communication, and how does she make this look so easy?

Johnny, for the most part, stayed out of your way.

Mostly.

You caught glimpses of him—passing through the room, grabbing something from the kitchen, once leaning over Ben’s shoulder just to comment loudly about something on the TV before disappearing again.

Every time, you felt his eyes on you for half a second too long.

Every time, he didn’t say anything.

Which, somehow, was more noticeable than if he had.

Wednesday was louder.

And by louder, you meant Ben.

Ben didn’t do anything quietly.

Not talking, not walking, not existing.

He walked you through his day with the kind of easy honesty that made your job ridiculously simple. There was no filter, no overthinking—just straight answers, a few jokes, and the occasional “yeah, don’t write that part” which you absolutely wrote down anyway (mentally, at least).

You followed him through a training session, watched him help fix something that had definitely not been built to survive being punched, and somehow ended up sitting with him in the kitchen while he told you a story about a mission that slowly turned into three different stories.

You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you checked the clock.

“See?” Ben said, noticing. “Told you my stuff’s more interesting.”

You smiled a little. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Johnny, again, was… around. He was in the room more on Wednesday.Not really participating, just there, present. Leaning against things, sitting on counters, interrupting exactly twice—once to argue with Ben about something completely unrelated, and once to grab a drink and very obviously not look at you while doing it.

At one point, you caught him watching you write something down.

You didn’t react.

He looked away first.

Thursday was supposed to be his day.

You showed up with that expectation already in place—questions ready, notes organized, a clear plan in your head for how you were going to approach the interview.

And then—

“Yeah, so… he cancelled.”

You blinked.

Sue stood in front of you, arms crossed, expression somewhere between tired and deeply unimpressed.

“…Cancelled,” you repeated.

“Cancelled.” Sue nodded, looking insanely exhausted in the way only an older sister could be.

You glanced around instinctively. “He’s not here?”

“Oh, he’s here,” Ben said from the couch. “He just thinks waxing his car is more important than talking to you.”

You stared at him. “…He cancelled an interview for a car?”

Sue’s smile was tight. “A convertible.”

“Of course it is,” you muttered.

There was a brief pause, and then you nodded once, already adjusting. “Alright. That’s fine. I can—”

“You are not rearranging your schedule because he’s being an idiot,” Sue cut in immediately. “We’ll reschedule.”

“That’s okay,” you said. “I can still use the time.”

Ben perked up. “Oh, you wanna see the ship?”

That got your attention. “…Yes.”

“Thought so.”

And just like that, your Thursday shifted.

Instead of sitting down with Johnny, you spent the afternoon with one of the staff members going through the technical side of the building—systems, structure, and eventually—

The Excelsior.

It was… impressive.

Even by your standards.

You took notes, asked questions, walked through details you definitely weren’t going to understand fully until you rewrote them later, but it gave you something else—context.

Scale.

Perspective.

By the time you wrapped up for the day and went home, you had more than enough material to work with. But there still was a gap shaped suspiciously like Johnny Storm.

The garage was a different story.

“Are you serious right now?”

Johnny didn’t even look up. “What?”

Sue stood in the middle of the garage, hands on her hips, staring at him like she was genuinely reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this moment.

“What do you mean what?” she said. “You cancelled your interview.”

“I postponed it.”

“You cancelled it.”

“I rescheduled.”

“You didn’t reschedule anything.”

Johnny finally glanced up from where he was crouched next to his car, a fiery red convertible with “T0RCH4” on the license plate—cloth in hand, clearly mid-wax. “I’m busy.”

Ben, who had been watching this unfold from the doorway, snorted. “Busy doing what? Giving your car a spa day?”

Johnny pointed at him. “This is maintenance.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is important.”

Sue stared at him. “You cancelled a professional interview to polish your car.”

Johnny shrugged. “Priorities.”

“Your priorities are wrong.”

“My priorities are fine.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

Ben laughed under his breath. “You know she’s writing about this, right?”

Johnny paused, just for a second. Then went right back to what he was doing. “She better not.”

“Oh, she is,” Ben said. “Headline writes itself.”

Johnny frowned. “…It does not.”

Sue crossed her arms again. “You’re doing the interview tomorrow.”

Johnny shook his head. “We’ll see.”

“You’re doing it.”

“We’ll see.”

“Johnny.”

“We’ll see.”

Sue took a step forward.

Johnny immediately straightened. “Okay, okay—fine. I’ll do it.”

“Tomorrow.” Sue pointed.

Johnny’s pants would probably be on fire. “Tomorrow.”

“At a normal time.” Sue insisted, which sounded more like a threat.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not cancelling.”

“I won’t cancel.”

Sue narrowed her eyes. “Swear.”

Johnny hesitated. “…I strongly intend not to cancel.”

Ben lost it loudly in the corner, leaning carefully on one of the sports cars Johnny probably sold his soul for, not to crush it under his weight.

Sue just stared at him, contemplating throwing a wrench at Johnny’s head. “…I’m going to lose my mind.”

Johnny went back to polishing his car like none of this was his problem. Which unfortunately, it was.

Friday was supposed to be easy.

It was your favorite day for a reason—end of the week, brain already halfway checked out, just enough motivation to finish what you started but not enough to care too much about anything new going wrong. Normally, Friday meant wrapping things up, organizing notes, maybe ignoring a problem or two until Monday.

Unfortunately, this Friday came with a very specific problem. His name was Johnny Storm. And, as you had already unfortunately confirmed in person earlier this week, he was very much still blond. Which, in your opinion, was already working against him.

You stood in the Baxter Building lobby, notebook in hand, pen tapping lightly against the page as you checked the time again.

And then again.

Five minutes late.

Not surprising.

Ten minutes late.

Expected, honestly.

You shifted your weight slightly, glancing toward the elevators before looking back down at your notebook. If he was going to be late, you might as well use the time. You flipped to a fresh page, scanning over your questions for the day, then jotting down a quick note in the margin.

Chronic lateness—pattern or personality trait?

You paused.

Then, without really thinking about it, muttered under your nose, “Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, a blond man pulls up.”

“Why’s that?”

You froze for exactly one second. Then slowly turned your head.

Johnny was standing right behind you, not close enough to be weird, just close enough to absolutely have heard that.

Of course he had.

Because apparently that was how your week was going.

He had his hands in his pockets, hair still slightly messy like he hadn’t fully committed to being awake yet, and there was a look on his face that was halfway between amused and offended.

“…How long have you been standing there?” you asked.

“Long enough,” he said easily.

You closed your notebook.

Very calmly.

“Good morning, Storm.”

“Morning,” he replied, still watching you. “You wanna explain that, or should I just assume you’ve got a personal issue with blond people?”

You held his gaze for a second, then shrugged lightly. “Just an observation.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Based on what?”

You glanced at the time again, then back at him. “You’re late.”

“I’m eight minutes late.”

“You’re ten.”

He frowned slightly. “No, I’m not.”

You tilted your head. “You are.”

A pause.

“…Okay, maybe I am.”

“Thank you.”

Johnny watched you for another second, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You wrote that down, didn’t you?”

“Possibly.”

“Wow.”

You slipped your notebook back into your bag. “Are you ready, or should I schedule this for next week?”

“I’m ready,” he said immediately, straightening a little like he’d just remembered he was supposed to be cooperating. “I’ve been ready.”

“I was told you were waxing your car yesterday.”

“That was important.”

“It was not.”

“It was to me.”

You gave him a look.

He ignored it.

“Alright,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the elevators. “What do you wanna know?”

You stepped forward, pressing the call button without hesitation. “Everything.”

Johnny let out a small breath, following you inside once the doors opened. “That’s a lot.”

“That’s the job.”

The elevator started moving. There was a brief silence, only the low jazz was heard through the built-in speakers. But much to your dismay, instead of the saxophone solo you heard Johnny’s voice.

“You really think I’m rock bottom?” He said, feigning a casual look, hands in his pockets but you could clearly tell it was bugging him.

You didn’t even look at him. “I think you’re consistently involved in situations that suggest poor decision-making.”

He finally looked at you confused, “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when it happens repeatedly.”

Johnny leaned back slightly against the glass, watching you now instead of the view. “You’ve been writing about me for two years.”

“Yes.” You nodded.

“And you still think I’m the problem.” Johnny said, again very bothered.

You finally glanced at him. “One of them,” you said.

He blinked, then laughed. Actually laughed.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re brutal.”

“I’m honest.” You said, smoothing your hand over your blazer.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He said, almost mockingly, but it was too early for you to get on his ass.

The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors slid open, and you stepped out first, already pulling your notebook back out. Johnny followed, running a hand through his hair like he was mentally preparing himself. “Alright,” he said, exhaling. “Let’s get this over with.”

You paused and turned slightly. And for the first time that morning, there was the faintest hint of a smile on your face.

“Try not to give me a headline,” you said.

Johnny grinned. “No promises.”

Johnny’s “workshop” was not what you expected.

Which, at this point, was becoming a pattern.

You had gone in fully prepared for chaos—something loud, messy, probably half-broken, maybe a few scorch marks on the walls for dramatic effect. And yes, there were scorch marks. Of course there were. But underneath that, the space was… organized.

Not Reed-level organized, but intentional.

There were tools laid out where they were supposed to be, parts labeled, equipment that looked like it had actually been built and rebuilt more than once. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t careless.

It was his.

Johnny walked ahead of you like he owned the place—which, technically, he did—gesturing vaguely at different stations as you stepped further in. “Alright, so this is where all the important stuff happens.”

You glanced around, already pulling your notebook out. “Define important.”

“Anything I say is important,” he shot back.

You hummed, jotting something down anyway. “Noted.”

He noticed that.

Of course he did.

“Hey—what are you writing?”

“Observations.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s intentional.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes slightly but let it go, turning back to one of the worktables. “Okay, so—this,” he said, tapping a piece of equipment that looked like it had seen better days, “is part of a containment system I’ve been working on. Helps regulate output when things get… intense.”

You paused then looked at him. Then at the device.Then back at him. “…You built this?” You asked, almost disbelieving.

“Yeah.” There was no hesitation from his side. No joking. No exaggeration. Just—yeah.

You stared at it a second longer than you meant to because that? For sure didn’t fit the version of him you’d been writing.

You stepped closer, leaning slightly to get a better look. “How does it work?”

Johnny’s grin came back immediately. “Oh, you wanna know how it works?”

You didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Alright, so—” He shifted beside you, launching into an explanation that was… surprisingly coherent. Not Reed-level, obviously, but clear. Thought out. He walked you through it step by step, pointing things out, explaining what he’d adjusted, what hadn’t worked the first time, what he’d had to fix.

You asked questions, he answered them.

And somewhere in the middle of it you realized something mildly annoying.

He wasn’t dumb. Not even a little.Which, frankly, complicated things. You wrote that down. He noticed again.

“You’re doing that thing.” He wiggled his finger pointing at your notebook.

“What thing?”

“The writing thing. Every time I say something remotely impressive, you write it down like you’re surprised.”

You looked up at him, expression neutral. “I’m documenting.”

“You’re judging.”

“I’m documenting.”

He pointed at your notebook. “Let me see.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s journalism.”

Johnny sighed dramatically but let it go again, moving on. “Come on,” he said after a second, gesturing toward the next area. “I’ll show you the good stuff.”

The “good stuff,” apparently, included him talking about the space mission. That part you paid attention to. Really paid attention to. The way his tone shifted slightly, less joking, more focused. The way he described it—not like a headline, not like a story for the public, but like something he had actually lived through.You didn’t interrupt much.Just enough to keep him going.

“And then,” he finished, leaning back slightly against the table, “we came back, everything went wrong, and—boom. Powers.”

You tapped your pen lightly against the page. “And you immediately decided to set yourself on fire.”

He grinned. “Well, yeah. I had to test it.”

“Of course you did.”

“Also,” he added, pointing at himself, “I am literally the hottest man alive. So it worked out.”

You didn’t even look up this time. “You winked when you said that.”

“I did.”

“I’m writing that down.”

“Don’t write that down.”

“I’m writing it down.”

“Wow.”

He watched you for a second, then shook his head, pushing off the table. “Alright, come on. One more thing.”

You followed him again, this time down a short hallway that led to....Oh. His room.

You paused just slightly at the doorway before stepping in, eyes immediately scanning the space out of habit. It was exactly what you expected, and also not. There was a large bed, obviously, a few scattered clothes that he very clearly hadn’t bothered to pick up, a record player set up near the window, and—

You stopped in your tracks. “…Is that—”

“My portrait?” Johnny said, way too proud.

You stared at it.

Big.

Very big.

A full self-portrait of Johnny Storm. Looking exactly the way he probably thought he looked at all times.

You blinked. “…It’s large.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It counts.”

You shook your head slightly, moving further into the room, your attention shifting to the windows instead.

Panoramic, floor-to-ceiling. Looking directly over the city and the spaceship.

“Excelsior,” Johnny said, stepping up beside you. “Best view in the building.”

You nodded once, taking it in for a second before jotting something down again.

“Wow,” he muttered. “You’re really gonna write about my room, huh?”

“I’m writing about everything.”

“Even the portrait?”

“Especially the portrait.”

“Unbelievable.”

You finished your note, then closed your notebook with a soft snap. “Alright,” you said. “I think that covers the technical side.”

Johnny perked up immediately. “Oh, no, no—now we get to the good part.”

You raised a brow. “Which is?”

He grinned. “Personal exclusive interview,” he said, spreading his arms slightly like he was presenting himself. “The Flaming Hearts fanclub is gonna go crazy for this.”

You stared at him for exactly one second. Then nodded. “Sure.”

Johnny blinked. “…Wait, really?” There was no way you just agreed to it without any questions. That got Johnny wondering if you maybe changed your opinions on him? But that certainly couldn't be right?

“Personal questions,” you clarified, already opening your notebook again.

His grin widened. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

You clicked your pen and looked him dead in the eye. “Johnny Storm.”

“Yeah?” Johnny said, the smug smirk returning to his face, highlighting those smile lines and dimples on his cheeks.

“Why, as a man, are you blond?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Absolute.

Johnny stared at you. His head turned to the right almost unnoticeably but you caught it. “…What?”

You didn’t even blink, seriously waiting for an answer. “I’m serious.”

“That’s your first question?” Johnny said in disbelief, there goes his hope.

“Yes.” You nodded, trying very hard to keep a straight face and not burst out laughing. Truth be told, yes you had everything against blond men, might be a preference, might be trauma from an ex, who knows? But you did love to bully men about it.

“That’s not even—what does that mean?” Johnny actually could not believe anything that was happening right now. What the hell was that question? Was it real or were you just messing with him? Or did you actually hate his hair? He stood there, brows furrowed and hand frozen halfway in the air.

You however, did not budge. “It’s a valid question.”

“It’s not a valid question.”

“It is to me.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, visibly offended now. “I was born like this.”

“Unfortunate.” You said, writing something down in your notebook not even sparing him a glance.

“Unfortunate?” Now Johnny sounded utterly offended. Being blond was his whole thing! He was named “Sexiest Blond Alive” last year, girls swooned, hell even guys did, but now you– a New York Times journalist who has been on his ass for two years now– are hating on him for being blond??

“Yes.” You said, very very casually, but you were actively fighting your giggles that could burst at any moment.

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. “You’ve been holding that in all week, haven’t you?”

You let a small smile creep in, tilting your head slightly, “Maybe.”

“That’s crazy.” Johnny let out a breath and instinctively ran his hand thru his hair, looking as stressed as ever.

You shrugged. “You asked for personal.”

“I didn’t ask for an attack!” He exclaimed, hands in air

“Same thing.”

Johnny laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head as he looked at you again, something in his expression shifting—less defensive now, more… entertained. “Alright,” he said. “My turn.”

You raised a brow.

“You’ve been writing about me for two years,” he continued. “Be honest.”

You waited.

“Am I really that bad?”

You paused just for a second. Honestly you could’ve said the truth, that he wasn’t exactly the problem– well he was most of the time but that’s not the point– it was more of a…fangirl problem. He always kept his image as a ladies’ man, some might even call him a playboy, and that was enough for you to make a conclusion about him. And when his chaotic and stupid acts started to see the light, it just fed the opinion you had on him, which led you to professionally roast him in your articles. So right now, seeing him in real light and not just spotlights, newspapers, television or magazines, he didn’t seem the way you expected him to be like. He was grounded, always helping, invested in his work, cracking jokes to keep his family happy, even if it meant getting scolded or laughed at. Johnny Storm was very different than the public has made him out to be.

“No,” you said.

Johnny blinked genuinely surprised. “…No?”

“No.” You repeated, not an ounce of sarcasm in your tone.

Johnny didn’t move for a second after your answer. He just looked at you, like he was trying to replay the last thirty seconds in his head and figure out where exactly things had gone wrong for him. “…No,” he said slowly, like he didn’t trust what he’d heard. “You said no.”

You nodded once, calm as ever. “I did.”

“And yet,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between you and himself like he was presenting evidence in a case, “every single article you’ve ever written about me makes it sound like I’m one bad decision away from being banned from the state of New York.”

You leaned slightly against the edge of his desk, pen still in hand. “That’s not what I said.”

“It is exactly what you said.”

“I said you have a pattern of questionable decisions.”

“That’s worse,” Johnny said immediately. “That sounds intentional.”

“It is intentional.”

He blinked. “You think I make bad decisions on purpose?”

“I think you don’t think them through.”

Johnny stared at you for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Wow. Okay. So this is just—this is my reputation now. This is what I am to you.”

“You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a character assassination.”

“You asked for honesty.”

He ran a hand through his hair, already pacing a little now, which you were starting to notice he did whenever he got worked up. “Okay, but answer me this—how come every article about Reed is like ‘brilliant mind of our generation,’ Sue’s ‘grace under pressure,’ Ben’s ‘heart of the team’—”

“All accurate,” you said, not even looking up from your notes.

“—and I’m ‘guy who caused a traffic jam and then called it a tactical decision’?”

“You did call it that.”

“Because it was tactical.”

“You were on top of a taxi.”

“I was stopping a robbery.”

“You were also on top of a taxi.”

Johnny stopped pacing and looked at you like he wanted to argue that further, but couldn’t quite find a way around it. “…That’s not the point,” he said finally.

“It is the point.” You let out a breath that suspiciously sounded like a laugh, but Johnny seemed too worked up to notice.

Johnny shook his head, “No, the point is—you only ever write the bad stuff.”

“I write what stands out.”

“So me saving people doesn’t stand out?”

“It does,” you said, finally meeting his eyes again. “But you making it harder than it needs to be also stands out.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly offended but also very aware you weren’t exactly wrong. That seemed to annoy him more. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I do good things.”

“I never said you didn’t.” You said quickly

“You just never write them.”

“I will,” you said simply.

He paused. “You will?”

You clicked your pen, putting it inside your notebook, giving him your full attention, “When they outweigh everything else.”

Johnny frowned. “That’s a terrible system.”

“It’s a very effective one.”

He shook his head like he didn’t even know where to start with that, then suddenly pointed at you again, clearly remembering something important. “Also—what is your issue with blondes?”

You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the shift. “My issue?”

“Yes, your issue,” he said, gesturing at his hair like it was the main topic of the interview now. “You’ve made, like, three comments this week. I’m starting to feel targeted.”

You considered him for a second, then shrugged lightly. “I don’t have anything against blondes.”

He nodded once, immediately relieved. “Okay, good.”

You tilted your head just slightly. “Women.”

He froze. “…I’m sorry?”

“I don’t have anything against blonde women,” you clarified, completely serious. “I have everything against blond men.”

There was a full second of silence. Then another.

Johnny stared at you like you had just personally betrayed him. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “That’s actually insane.”

“It’s a preference.” You shrugged.

“It’s discrimination.” Johnny pointed out.

“It’s observational.” You replied.

“It’s against my entire community,” he added, pointing at himself again like he was representing a larger group. “Do you have any idea how many blond men are out there just trying to live their lives?”

You nodded slowly. “A silent struggle.”

“A real struggle,” he insisted. “We face adversity.”

“Every day.”

“Exactly.”

You held his gaze for a second longer, watching him get more and more serious about something that was very clearly ridiculous—

And then you laughed. Not a polite laugh. Not the small, controlled one you gave in conversations, an actual laugh. Quick, unexpected, and very obviously real.

Johnny stopped mid-sentence like someone had just hit pause on him because that was new.

You hadn’t laughed at him like that all week.

And for a second, he just stood there, watching you, something shifting almost instantly in his expression. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Oh, that counts,” he said.

You shook your head immediately, already trying to recover. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

“You laughed,” he said, like that was all the evidence he needed. “That’s the first real laugh I’ve gotten all week.”

“It was at the situation.”

“I am the situation.”

“That doesn’t make it about you.”

“It literally makes it entirely about me.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking your notebook away. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, leaning back against the desk like he’d just won something, “you laughed.”

You tried not to smile.

You really did. But the corner of your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Johnny caught it immediately. “Oh, yeah,” he added, pointing at you like he was collecting proof. “That too.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Stop.”

“Not happening.”

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was something lighter in your expression now—something that hadn’t been there before.

And Johnny noticed that too.

The knock came right as Johnny was still mid being a pain in the ass about you laughing, which, if you were being honest, was probably for the best.

He paused, head turning toward the door. “Yeah?”

It opened a second later.

Sue stepped in, already mid-thought, like she’d been about to say something before she even fully registered what she was walking into. Then she stopped just enough to take in the scene.

You standing near the desk, arms crossed, notebook tucked under one arm. Johnny leaning against it, looking far too pleased with himself. The general energy of the room—which, if she had to describe it, was… different.

“…Oh,” she said.

You and Johnny both spoke at the same time.

“We’re doing the interview—”

“—she’s just finishing up—”

You both stopped.

Looked at each other.

Then immediately looked away like that hadn’t just happened.

Sue’s eyes moved between the two of you, her expression shifting slightly—not suspicious exactly, but definitely… curious.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Okay.”

Johnny straightened a little, suddenly looking much more cooperative than he had all week. “Yeah, we’re—uh—being productive.”

You nodded once, completely composed again. “We were just wrapping up the personal portion.”

Sue blinked. “Personal portion.”

Johnny opened his mouth.

You spoke over him immediately. “Professional context.”

“Very professional,” Johnny added quickly, nodding.

Sue didn’t look convinced, but she also didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned slightly against the doorframe, crossing her arms in a much more relaxed way than earlier. “Well,” she said, “I actually came to ask if you wanted to stay for dinner.”

You glanced at her.

Then at your watch.

Then back at her.

“I probably shouldn’t,” you started, out of instinct more than anything. “I’ve already—”

“It’s Friday,” Sue cut in gently. “Ben makes pasta.”

There was a brief pause.

Johnny perked up immediately. “Yeah, he does. And he takes it way too seriously.”

“I do not,” Ben’s voice called faintly from somewhere down the hall.

“You absolutely do,” Johnny shot back without missing a beat. “Last week you yelled at me for breathing too close to the sauce.”

“That was because you were breathing too close to the sauce!”

You glanced between them, one brow lifting slightly. “…He yelled at you?”

Johnny nodded, completely serious. “Full volume. Said I was ‘compromising the integrity of the dish.’”

“I was!” Ben called again.

You looked back at Sue, then at your watch. After a second you put your notebook back inside your bag. “Well,” you said, adjusting your bag slightly, “I am technically over my time.”

Sue smiled a little. “Exactly.”

You hesitated for about half a second longer before shrugging lightly. “What’s another hour?”

Johnny looked at you like you had just said something life-changing. “…Wait,” he said. “You’re staying?”

You glanced at him. “For dinner. Not forever.”

“Still counts.”

“It does not count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

Sue exhaled through her nose, already turning toward the door. “Both of you—out. Ben will lose his mind if we’re late.”

Johnny pushed off the desk immediately, gesturing for you to go ahead like he was suddenly very invested in this entire situation. “After you.”

You walked past him without comment. But he fell into step beside you almost immediately. The walk downstairs to the kitchen wasn’t long, but it was… loud.

Ben was already there, exactly where Johnny said he’d be, standing over the stove like it was a high-stakes operation. There were multiple pots going, something simmering, something else being stirred with far too much focus for a regular dinner.

“Don’t touch anything,” Ben said the second Johnny walked in.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always accuse me.”

“Because you always touch things.” Johnny glanced at you, lowering his voice just slightly. “I touched one thing. One time.”

“You flipped the garlic bread,” Ben said without looking away from the stove.

“It needed flipping.”

“It did not need flipping.”

You watched the exchange quietly for a second before stepping a little further into the room, taking in the scene. It was… normal. Nothing planned, nothing scripted, just non-regular people doing regular things on a regular Friday.

Sue moved around easily, grabbing plates, setting things up like this was routine. Reed wandered in at some point, immediately getting distracted by something on the counter that definitely wasn’t meant for him.

But Johnny stayed close. Not obviously, not in a way that would stand out to anyone else. But every time you shifted, he was there. Leaning against the counter near you, reaching for something just as you did, making some comment under his breath that was clearly meant for you and not the room.

At one point, as Ben started plating everything, Johnny leaned slightly closer. “You’re writing about this, aren’t you?”

You didn’t look at him. “Probably.”

“Make sure you mention I was respectful.”

You glanced at him briefly. “You told me I couldn’t stay for dinner on Monday.”

“That was before I knew you’d say yes today.”

“I didn’t say yes to you.”

“You said yes to dinner.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Johnny grinned. “Still counts.”

You shook your head, but there was no real edge to it this time and Johnny noticed that. Which meant, unfortunately for you, he was only getting started.

It's been a month since Johnny stood you up on a date, leaving you at the table feeling confused and angry.

But, you have nothing to do but to move on. Working as the Fantastic Four's assistant requires unwavering focus and dedication. You don't have time to worry about him.

It's no shocker to anyone that you've distanced yourself with Johnny, in contrary to the others.

You walk into the Fantastic Four's establishment with new schedules that you put together for them, considering their hectic lifestyles.

"Thank you." Reed praises, taking his document from you. Susan does the same.

When you get to Ben, you give him the rest of the papers so that you won't have to interact with Johnny.

You politely address Ben before exiting the room.

Ben waits until you leave to speak quietly.

"Sheesh, what did you do to her?"

Johnny carelessly tosses down his paper, knowing exactly what he did.

___________________________________________________

Johnny stares off into space on the living room couch as the others are present. He's placed back into reality when Ben throws a pebble at his forehead.

"What's the matter, toasty? You've been acting weird all day."

"It's nothing."

"It's got to be somethin'. You know who won't even look at you anymore."

"Do I need to give my brother a good whacking?" Susan butts in.

"Maybe a real good one." Ben jokes.

"Alright, just make fun of me." Johnny says, throwing his hands up.

"Really, Johnny. What happened?" Susan asks.

"Well...a month ago, she and I were supposed to go on a date. Then something came up...with us. It was super last minute and I couldn't get to a phone. The mission was so tense and lasted longer than I expected. And she was left sitting there and now... She hates me."

"Have you tried talking to her?" Ben asks.

"You really are a dumb rock, you know that?"

Ben gets up from the other side of the couch, then stands in front of Johnny.

"Say that again, I dare you."

"You. Are. A. Dumbbbb. R-o- c-k." Johnny spaces out his hands with each enunciation.

Ben grabs him and holds him up by his shirt.

"Alright, Ben don't kill him." Susan says, holding back a laugh. "You need a way to grasp her attention. To make her stay."

"Maybe flowers." Reed adds, not even looking up from his crossword.

"I tried. She told me she'd put them at my gravesite."

Ben doesn't even attempt to hold back his laughter.

"Laugh it up, big guy." Johnny sulks.

"Johnny, you can't be soft with her. Sometimes you have to be a bit... assertive as a man."

Johnny tilts his head to hear Ben out.

"You need to tell it like it is, then grab her and kiss her before she can say anything. She's upset because she cares."

"Don't do that, she'll punch you in the face." Susan says.

But Johnny's already made up his mind.

"Yeah... I'm Johnathan Lowell Spencer. I got this... I got this. I won't let her- her pretty face intimidate me."

"Yeah, Johnny you got it." Ben eggs on.

"This is predicted to fail terribly." Reed says.

"Just watch, nerd." Johnny answers cockily.

___________________________________________________

The next day, you approach Johnny's door because you unfortunately have been ordered by Reed to call him in for a last minute meeting.

You take a deep breath, then knock a couple of times.

Johnny's not expecting you, so when he opens the door to you, he short circuits.

"Mister Richards would like everyone to join in the living room for a meeting."

You're already prepared to turn on your heel when Johnny asks you to wait.

"We need to talk." He starts.

"If it is not about work then it is inappropriate, Mister Storm."

"Come on, don't do that." He gets up from his chair. "What happened to calling me Johnny?"

You really want to talk about things, but your pride and hurt won't let you.

"I expect you at the meeting." You cut shortly, walking off before he can say another word.

___________________________________________________

The emergency meeting is quite tense, and even though you're not apart of it, you feel immersed in it.

"We need to figure out a way to stop Earth from facing a horrible fate. I have thought of every possible outcome, every solution I can-"

"I'm not giving up our son!" Susan defies.

"And I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't ever have to happen."

"We can't trust this sleaze to not hurt Franklin. We need to do something now." Ben adds, smacking his hand down on the table once.

"If it comes down to it, I'll do whatever it takes to keep Franklin with us." Johnny cuts through, his resolve serious and grim.

Everyone including you pauses.

"Johnny-" Reed starts.

"No. We're family. I do anything for family."

"Johnny. For now, we do the best we can. Don't do anything desperate." Reed places a hand on his shoulder. "Promise us."

Johnny looks around at his family, and contemplates.

"Okay. I promise."

The quartet begins occupying themselves in their own contributions to the mission.

The short lived meeting has your heart racing.

You can't believe you're finding yourself in front of his door again. You bury your pride to knock on his door. He opens quickly before you can even prepare yourself mentally.

"Is there something else?" He asks. His voice is different from the last time. It's short and clipped.

"No. It's us."

"I thought there was nothing for us to talk about. You've pretty much made up your mind about me."

"Can you really blame me, Johnny?"

"It's not like you ever have any patience to hear me say otherwise."

"What excuse could you possibly have for standing me up that night? For not even bothering to call- and for letting me sit there for an hour, Johnny?"

"I got wrapped up in a mission. I swear it was supposed to take only a few minutes. Then it got worse. I couldn't get to a phone, not even after things were done. I already knew things looked bad for me so I..."

"You ran away. You let me run away."

"I tried making it up to you, I did. But you're so stubborn."

"I don't want apologetic flowers, Johnny. I want your time."

"It hasn't seemed like it for a month."

You swallow the lump in your throat. You aren't sure what to say without this turning into another back and forth.

"Forget any of this ever happened between us, Johnny." You say.

You turn and walk out of his doorway, the sounds of your steps clacking against the floor.

Johnny freezes.

You called him Johnny.

___________________________________________________

The quartet are having an unusually tame dinner after you went home for the night.

Ben looks around at everyone, and decides to break the ice.

"So, Johnny. How's things with your hot date? Did you lay down the bricks?"

"Oh the house is on fire, Rocky. She called me Johnny."

"In that case, I've got the hots for you." Ben chuckles.

"But this is real. This is the Johnny we're talking about."

"So you put your foot down?"

Johnny ponders. "No, actually. We kind of uh. Exchanged words. Kind of mean words-"

"Ah, man when are you going to do less talking and more action-ing?" Ben grumbles.

Susan and Reed watch in amusement.

"You wait and see, Ben. She'll be all over me by tomorrow afternoon."

___________________________________________________

The next morning, you mentally brace yourself to head to the Baxter Building.

You've been hearing distant crushing and crumbling noises, but you disregard it as construction.

You're surprised by the sound of your phone ringing.

"Hello?"

"Hey, are you headed to the building? You usually come in early sometimes."

Johnny.

"My shift isn't due for another three hours, Johnny. If this is another attempt to get me to talk to you, it sure is a shitty one."

"Don't come to work today. Stay home."

Johnny sounds rushed and panicked.

"...Why?"

"I wish I had all the time in the world to explain, but I don't. I'm sorry for everything."

"Johnny, wait-"

The line shuts off. You try calling back.

Nothing.

You know exactly what's happening. You remember the day of the meeting. How determined Johnny was to put himself in the line of fire for his nephew.

You're driven by an unstoppable force within you to venture out and head for Johnny.

"Damn you, Johnny." You mutter to yourself, racing to collect your things and power up your car.

___________________________________________________

When you arrive to the Baxter Building, everything around it is damn near ruined.

Luckily, thanks to Johnny's suit design, the quartet stand out like sore thumbs. Thankfully, you see every member.

"Uh, toasty. Your girlfriend's back." Ben mumbles, making Johnny turn around.

"Mister- Johnny!" You're stomping towards him so hard that your heels are clacking against the pavement. "I thought you died!"

"Well uh, I was about to until this alien woman threw herself into a black hole for me. Sent Galactus's rocky ass back to wherever the hell he came from."

"...Alien woman? You blew me off so you could hang out with an alien woman?!"

"I literally never said that!"

The others feel their exhaustion melt away at the humorous sight of you and Johnny arguing like a grumpy married couple.

"Well- I'm here to work anyway." You lie.

"I told you not to come. You could've been hurt-"

"Well I'm here now." You take his helmet.

"We'll need to relocate at our other establishment across town. For now, we can guarantee the safety of the people." Reed says.

"I have the public statement you all helped me put together. I can speak it to the public. I think you've all earned some rest."

"We would love that, thank you." Susan smiles as Franklin babbles in her arms.

"I think we should give it." Johnny says with a smirk.

"How about I give you a black eye?"

___________________________________________________

Notoriously, you ended up giving the Fantastic Four's statement alongside Johnny (who pretty much never gave you a chance to argue, anyway.)

"Excuse me, ma'am? What can we expect from the Fantastic Four in the near feature?" A reporter asks.

Johnny decides to take the question for you.

"The Fantastic Four will always represent a stable support to the community, on and off screen. We're laying low, but we're not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry, we're running out of time for questions. Thank you all for joining us for the public statement today."

Cameras flash and reporters rally behind you all like flies before you finally get out of their reach.

"We should head back before nerd gets jittery." Johnny says, opening the car door for you.

"For once, you are a gentleman."

___________________________________________________

Returning to their secondary establishment, you see that everyone seems to luckily be in their rooms. After that exhausting situation of dealing with the press, you couldn't imagine having to handle with more tasks being thrown at you.

Johnny puts a finger over his lips, then grabs your wrist gently to pull you to his room.

He quietly closes the door behind him.

"A picture of yourself in this bedroom too? Seriously, Johnny you are an egghead."

Ben's voice rings in Johnny's head.

"You need to tell it like it is, then grab her and kiss her before she can say anything. She's upset because she cares."

"Go out with me." He blurts.

Your brows furrow. "What? You can't just put me through all of that then order me around! Who on Earth do you think you are?"

"I'm Johnny Storm. And you can't talk to me like that."

I hope she doesn't kill me for what I'm about to do.

"You arrogant, selfish, firehead-"

Before you can spew another insult, his hand at the small of your back pulls you in for a kiss that lasts way longer than you expected.

Whatever you were about to sputter at him gets lost in your throat.

"7 o'clock tomorrow night. You, me, and that fancy ass Italian restaurant that everybody's been talking about." He says, staring at you.

You look him over for a bit.

"... Okay."

"Yeah?"

"But Johnny Storm, if there's one thing you should know- if you're going to kiss me like that, you'd better finish what you've started."

Johnny's hair flickers for a split second before he calms himself down.

"Well, who am I to keep a lady waiting?"

It was your grandma’s camera, a gift she gave herself back then. You stole a quick peek at her, only to meet her eyes already twinkling with approval that made you even more excited. She gave you an encouraging nod, and then it happened.

There was pure fascination as you turned on the small device—that you soon realized was too heavy and too big for a five year old to be holding—and pressed the small button that triggered the flash as it captured the whole living room. The result left you in bewilderment. While the photo remained still, the room kept moving. Your cousins were talking, the adults were sharing a drink, kids your age were still running around the house, and the lights were blinking in the same pattern. But you and the photo staring back at you from the camera remained still.

The initial bewilderment changed to awe and that awe grew to something you love: a hobby you spent most of your time doing. And ever since then, working behind the cameras has been your most favorite thing to do. What was once a hobby eventually turned into a program you chose in college and suddenly, it was your whole life.

Because, how amazing it was to see a single photo, but it could tell a lot of different stories at the same time?

Your love for photography also became a part of your extracurricular activities when you became one of the photojournalists of Briar University’s journalism club when you applied during your freshman year. You cover different events ranging from sports, academics, musical showcases, theatrical plays, and even parties Dean and Beau love to throw every now and then. Though, the last one wasn’t the kind of media your journalism adviser would like to see in newspapers or social media accounts, you sure enjoy capturing moments when people are not paying attention. When the world is moving and you have to stand still in the middle of it to savor what is happening and forever store it in your camera.

You found a sense of adoration and beauty in it. It was your very kind of poetry. If for Justin, it was in the way he wrote his songs; if for Allie, it was in the way the stage embraced her talent; if for Hannah, it was in every ounce of emotion and vulnerability she poured in singing; and if for Garrett, it's in the ice rink and the adrenaline it made him feel; for you, it was this—the silent shutter of the camera in a rather loud and fast pacing world.

Because while everyone else was busy living their lives aloud—laughing, fighting, talking—you were observing quietly, hiding behind your camera, the blinding flash of it, the shutter sound it makes, and the continuous click of the small button that captures frame after frame.

It’s not like you hate catching the attention of your audience, or that you hate when people look directly at your lens, or that you hate doing planned photographs. But you learned early on that people change when they know they’re being watched; their posture practiced, their smile instantly too wide, asking if they look a bit much or a bit less, or sometimes, they turn away altogether. But if you stay still enough, if you become a presence that blends with the wind carrying a lens, they will let you do your thing while you let them do theirs without any mask.

And you enjoy it, people enjoy it. The members of journalism praise you for capturing the best moments. The subject of your photos during different events asking for a copy for their own use because it should be posted too outside Briar’s official account and sent to their families and friends. The praise was just a bonus because you loved doing it and you promised yourself that you’ll never let the praises get inside your head.

But most of all, you love how it allows you to admire someone without giving away so much of yourself.

“Job well done, ma’am. Did you take a good shot of me earlier?” You jolted from your seat when Dean unexpectedly appeared from behind you and slung his arm around your shoulders, peeking over at your laptop as you finished transferring files from your camera that you covered earlier during their game and the afterparty at Malone’s.

“Jesus, Di Laurentis! Why can’t you be normal and appear without giving me a fucking heart attack?” Dean laughed as he straightened his posture before getting distracted when he saw himself on the screen of your laptop. “Wait! I like this one! Please, post this one. Allie will love it.”

You’re currently at their place off campus after having a blast at Malone’s. They just won another game against Eastwood and the energy just kept rolling and was brought to the diner until Della literally had to push everyone outside. You didn’t bother going back to the dorms at Bristol’s since Hannah and Allie practically dragged you with them to the house, drunk and ready to call it a night.

Tucker was sleeping peacefully beside you, who kindly offered you his room for the night despite your protests. You knew you won’t be sleeping soon since you still have to edit the raw photos from the game earlier and Tucker deserved to sleep peacefully inside the comfort of his room. But his Mama didn’t raise him like that, he said. Still, from his room, you ended up joining him in the common area where Dean is currently giving you hums and nods of approval of your shots. Logan also told you that you can sleep in his room, you can take his bed and he’ll sleep on the floor. But you can’t stay with him, especially not with your camera and laptop that’s been keeping your secret safe for so long.

“Oh, Logan totally ate here! Look, you captured every single moment of his goal perfectly.” While Dean was still busy assessing your photos, pointing out the best ones and the funny ones, your mind started drifting elsewhere at the mention of his name.

John Logan.

The man with the number 22 on his back whenever he’s on ice, the man carrying the red toolbox whenever he needs to fix things, the man whose arms always wrapped protectively around his sibling’s shoulders, the man who’s always ready to help carry your heavy equipment whenever you have events, and the man who occupied not only the storage of your camera but also the space in your mind ever since you met him almost three years ago.

And it was all because of your camera.

It all started during Briar U’s Freshmen Day and you were busy setting up your camera when someone accidentally took out your entire setup with a stray foam hockey puck—that travels with a frightening speed—straight from the athletic department’s promotional booth.

You had just carefully leveled your tripod on the campus quad, dialing in the settings on your brand-new DSLR you gifted yourself, when a loud, panicked voice yelled not too far from where you were standing, “Heads up!” Before you could even make sense of what’s happening or where the voice even came from, a piece of orange foam smacked directly into your lens hood. The impact wasn't enough to break anything, fortunately, but it sent your tripod spinning. Your eyes widened in panic as your body twisted in the direction of the puck and your camera. Automatically, your hand reached to save the expensive equipment and in an instant, you lunged forward, tripped over your own camera bag, and fell.

When you looked up, a pair of muddy, dirty sneakers and the hem of faded blue jeans met your line of vision. A crease on your forehead immediately formed as you felt your cheeks heating up. But no, it’s not because you were embarrassed, it’s because you were furious. Clearly, whoever that person was who sent your setup flying to the ground with the puck, and you with it, wasn’t being careful.

“Oh, shit! I am so, so sorry. Please tell me you’re alive.” You squinted up into the blinding September sun with your hand trying to cover your eyes, breathing out a sigh of frustration that soon turned into a silent gasp when you got a good look at the person.

Kneeling down in front of you was a guy you thought just fell from your favorite romantic book. His messy and fluffy dark hair swaying like a curtain that frames his face perfectly, his stupidly mesmerizing brown eyes glinting with both amusement and concern, his cheeks are dusted with a hint of flush—from embarrassment or heat of the sun, you’re not entirely certain, and he’s flashing you a smile too easy for the disaster he just caused. 

The camera!

And that snapped you out of your thoughts, gasping and scrambling to your feet to check your DSLR. “Fuck, my camera.”

But before your hand could make contact with the device, the guy quickly but carefully picked up the tripod and handed it to you like the action in itself was an apology. You quickly snatched the equipment from him, rather with force, and meticulously searched the lens with the rest of the parts. When you made sure that the camera wasn't damaged, you turned toward the guy, who’s patiently waiting for you to notice him, and glared. He raised his arms and offered a sheepish smile this time. “Hey, I am really sorry. Garrett, my friend, dared me if I could hit the tree from fifty yards away and I guess, my aim was a little .. off?”

“Right, hockey puck guy. And I guess that makes you a very, very qualified hockey player, yes?” You grumbled sarcastically while rolling your eyes, setting up the tripod once again and expertly fixing the settings, completely ignoring the presence behind you. This earned you a snicker from him and that earned him another sharp glare from you.

“Woah, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan.” He held out his hand, expecting you to give him your name in return like the rest of the girls he met that week. But when you just stared at his hand, annoyance still clear on your face, he only grinned. That’s when he noticed a nametag on your left chest, your name written in a funny font. You noticed him staring at it, which prompted you to cover it with your hands as his grin widened. “So, that is your name. Gorgeous.”

“Okay, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan, you got my name, we made sure my camera is okay, I’ve set it up again, you said sorry, apology accepted, and I have things to do, what else do you want from me?” You didn’t know how your voice reached the booth where Logan came from since you’re sure it was at a normal level, but you heard a blonde guy and a man wearing a pink apron hollering from their booth, “Yeah, Logan, what do you want from her?”. Yet, the moment you raised an eyebrow at them, they immediately closed their mouths and turned their backs on you, while one of them, which you assumed was Garrett, gave you an encouraging thumbs up.

“Ignore them. They are a bunch of kids.” This time, you gave him your full attention. Meaning, he is now at the receiving end of your deathly glare. Logan really finds everything amusing, and he’s wondering if it’s possible to glare at someone with so much passion because that’s what you’re doing now.

“Alright, I do really feel bad for what happened so please, allow me to make up for my terrible aim. That being said, I am officially volunteering to be your personal muse for today and I will abandon my hockey booth just for you. Do you need photos? I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.” And to make his point, he did random poses with the foam hockey puck, with his jersey, and even made faces which contradict being photogenic. This almost made you laugh because he looked ridiculous doing so, but you instantly composed yourself.

“Logan, right? Okay, Logan, I appreciate the poses, but my assignment for today is candid photography and not sports modeling.” You tried to sound uninterested, bored even. However, you noticed how your voice shook when you said his name the second time, your heart suddenly doing weird thumping rhythms against your ribs. There’s no denying that Logan is truly and utterly attractive, but he didn’t need to know what he’s already aware of. 

“Oh, that’s perfect. I can do that.” He insisted and true to his words, he linger in your booth totally abandoning his very own one. The guy who gave you thumbs up earlier, which you correctly guessed as Garrett, even came up and gladly gave Logan the permission to be your personal muse—assistant, actually—for the day. And for the past two hours? You confirmed that Logan both can and can’t do candid things, depending on the situation.

Another two hours passed and this time, it was you going around campus to capture the activities prepared by the students themselves. Logan was just tailing behind you, carrying your equipment while saying hi to the people you and him passed by, which are mostly girls—that you soon learned are called the puck bunnies.

Sometimes, when you have your camera up and ready to take candid shots of the events in your surrounding, Logan’s face would suddenly pop into the frame. That will either draw an exhausted or entertained reaction from you.

There were shots of him where he was being completely normal, photogenic. But most of it? You didn’t even want to describe. The a capella group booth? You did a good job framing everyone in the shot. Except, Logan was suddenly behind one of the alto singers, his hands clasped together and looking at the maestro with so much focus. The cheerleading squad doing stunts in the oval? You captured the timing perfectly when they tossed the cheerleader up in the air and then there’s Logan, who just did a jump shot with both his arms stretched out. Then a photo of their booth, where Tucker is currently giving a masterclass of some sort to the interested student, except, yes, except, Logan is beside his friend acting attentive, but his hand is very busy and very actively doing evil works above Tucker’s head.

When you finally returned to your booth to take a rest and to review your shots, you let out a laugh as Logan handed you a bottle of water that he already had open which you blindly reached for before he gently guided your hand to it. “Alright, ma’am, hydrate yourself first.” 

“Logan, you completely ruined my photos!” You laughed once again, but it’s more delightful this time. Your eyes are still studying the photos, your finger is busy clicking the small button beside the small screen, and you are entirely unaware of your surroundings, already lost in your bubble. 

The sound of your laughter also drew a smile on Logan’s lips, chugging his own bottled water while stealing glances at your face. He couldn’t help but think how natural you are acting toward him. It wasn’t something bad and he wasn’t sure if it’s good either. Maybe he wasn’t just used to this anymore and it’s refreshing. Girls fawn over him because he’s a hockey player, popular, good-looking, an instant boost in their social status, but even after knowing these things the past four hours you’ve spent together, you treat him just the same.

“I mean, look at this! You just made a face while Coach Jensen was lecturing the team earlier!” That brought him back to the present, wiping the side of his mouth as he got reminded of copying their coach while he was just literally behind him.

“Nope, I didn’t ruin anything. I added a new flavor to your techniques.” Logan jokingly corrected and walked the short distance to where you were sitting and peek over your shoulder at the playback screen. The proximity almost made you jump, but you condition yourself to stay calm even though the closeness is slowly making your heart beat rapidly just like what happened earlier. You could smell his cologne, fresh like citrus with a hint of sandalwood and felt his breath fanning beside your cheeks as he spoke, “See? Your shot was so good I looked like an art. Knew it, I belong in the gallery.”

“Nope.” You said, mimicking him, trying your best to stay grounded. “It belongs here in my camera because anyone who sees it will be traumatized.”

“Wow, we just met a few hours ago and here you are hurting my feelings.” A playful chuckle bubbled inside you and was about to throw in another remark but decided to stay silent at the last minute and smiled instead. But Logan took your silence seriously, as he scrambled to sit beside you. He stole your camera from your hand and turned it off, carefully placing it in your bag after capping the lens. And all of a sudden, he seemed so shy under your confused gaze.

“Look, to fully make it up to you, from the foam puck incident to ruining your photos, can I buy you a drink? We can go to Malone’s. What do you say?” You paused and looked intently at his ridiculous, hopeful smile, then at your bag that appeared to be small atop Logan’s lap, and got reminded of the things he did for you today. Even the most unhinged one like photobombing your shots. “Please?”

“Alright, fine.” You sighed in surrender, packing up the rest of your things and watched as Logan rose to his feet with a triumphant fist in the air. “But hey, I was just joking earlier. You didn’t ruin any of my photos. If anything, you made my freshmen day memorable. So, thank you. But! I am gonna have to ask to stay ten feet away from my camera from now on.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fair.” You started walking after asking someone to cover for you for a few hours, with Logan easily falling into step just beside you. And naturally, he took your things from you and carried it himself without even asking you. As if he had done it multiple times in the past even though you only met him today. “But just so you know, the camera loves me. Your camera loves me and you're gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.”

You and Logan reached Malone’s and spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Everything just fell into place in its own way. Fitting, not awkward, comforting, but also thrilling at the same time. And both of you have no idea yet about how right he was about his last statement.

You’re gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.

And sure enough, you spent the next years keeping him in it.

“Hey, you okay?” You snapped your head up toward Dean’s direction and soon realized that you spaced out, his elbow nudging you gently. He’s now holding a glass of water with one hand and the other a bottle of beer. But instead of behind you, he’s now occupied the seat beside you. He passed you the glass of water, in which you said thanks before taking a sip. “Gotta keep you hydrated. Logan will kill me if he learns that I find you awake and didn’t even offer you anything to keep you hydrated.”

“Yeah, he’s very keen on turning me into this online game character, watergirl.” You joked as you keep scrolling, categorizing, and watermarking the photos you’ll soon upload on the university’s website and social media accounts. Making sure that the best ones are chosen carefully while the rest are saved if the students requested for a copy. “How’s Allie, by the way? She was so drunk when we left Malone’s.”

Dean smiled at your question, remembering how he carried Allie earlier and mentioning how they looked like a married couple. “She’s fine. Peacefully sleeping on my bed while reciting random lines from Drunk Shakespeare. I’m scared of her sometimes, you know? She’s—that photo of Tucker is impressive, let me mark this one, can’t miss it—yeah, as I was saying, she’s making me lose my shit with just a smile and that’s fucking terrifying for me and—Logan is so fucking hopeless.”

Surprise etched on your face at the sudden change of topic to Logan. You glanced at Dean and then back at your laptop screen, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Then he pointed at three of the photos and when you observed what’s in it, you immediately understood what he meant.

Photos you took at Malone’s. Photos you took from the entrance with a clear vision of the bar and the small stage at the center. Three photos that appeared to be identical until you saw the shift in Logan’s facial expression. Because in the photo, he was at the side of the stage. At first, he was having a blast and cheering for Tucker; the second one, he was looking over at the bar where you left Hannah and Garrett to spend their time together; and the last one, he got this frown plastered on his face.

Then, it slowly dawned on you.

Dean is also aware of Logan’s one-sided feelings.

“How long have you known?” You silently asked, your voice shaking a little at the end. For the longest time, you thought you’re the only one who knows since everyone seemed to be clueless about it. Logan is really good at hiding his emotions. Before anyone else could figure him out, he’s already way ahead and moved on or at least, he tries to. But your camera, like your own version of a mask to hide yourself and your own feelings, always captures the moments when Logan is looking at Hannah, with or without Garrett.

“Logan’s feelings for you?”

“Yes—what?! Di Laurentis, what the fuck?!” And if that wasn’t enough confusion and surprise for the night, another figure in the form of Tucker appeared from your other side, exhaustion evident in his eyes but he decided that listening and joining in on your conversation with Dean is suddenly very appealing than falling back to his previous slumber.

“Yes, Logan’s feelings for you. Let’s talk about it.” Tucker rubbed at his right eye like a baby, while the other one was blinking at you slowly.

“What—oh, my, you two. Let’s not read too much into my friendship with Logan because he doesn’t have any feelings for me. Not in that way.” Dean and Tucker stared at each other, as if asking themselves if you’re being serious. Then at the same time, they turned to look at you, as if they were asking you the same thing this time.

“Be for real.” The way that they are so in sync almost spook you if it weren’t for the fact that they seemed to know something you don’t. Or that it’s giving you hope and you didn’t want that. Especially if it’s not directly coming from Logan, especially if it could potentially ruin something so precious.

“I’ve known since she first attended our game.” Tucker said, stealing your laptop from your lap to check out the photos himself. He unmarked the photo of him that Dean just saved earlier and chose a funny one of the latter in replacement.

“I've known since day one.” This time, it was yours and Tucker’s turn to look at Dean rather incredulously. He got this proud look on his face as if he just decoded the answer to the country’s greatest national treasure. “What? Come on, Tuck! I’ll understand if our beautiful friend right here doesn’t see it, but haven’t you really noticed the way Logan is always tailing her like a lost puppy ever since they met during Freshmen Day? At this point, he’s become the second shadow of her figure.”

Gears seemed to be twisting and turning inside Tucker’s head as he focused his gaze on you. Your laptop was now left deserted on the center table as he made sense of what Dean just said. “You’re onto something here, D, because I remembered Logan asking if she’s going to cover the first game for that semester.”

“Right? And he never played so well his entire hockey career when he saw her behind our bench taking photos. Dude scored 2 goals and secured our win.”

Dean also pointed out that one event organized by music major students which Logan was too lazy to attend even though Hannah and Garrett asked them to volunteer. Yet, the moment he saw a photo of you with Birdie posted by Jules on The Fifth Line page with the caption, “The artist and her muse?” Logan drove back to the university at an impossible speed and looked for Jules just to say, “Excuse me but I am her first and only muse.”

Tucker also pitched in his observations and before you know it, they are fully discussing your ‘friendship’ with Logan without filter and how you guys are not just friends as if you’re not present in the room with them. You couldn’t deny that they are making a fair point, but as much as you want to believe them, your photos are literally staring back at you. The sequence of Logan’s change of emotions and facial expressions whenever he sees Hannah are too obvious to ignore. And the most shattering part? This is not the only evidence you have, because you got tons of it.

You breathed out a sigh unconsciously as Dean’s and Tucker’s voice faded into distance.

For years, you find comfort in every click of your camera and the way the photos freeze in time. It even got to a point that your camera became an extension of your nervous system. You’ve learned that if you’re anxious, the framing is always slightly tilted to the side; if you’re sad and down, you avoid having humans in your photos because in that way, no stories could be told; and for almost three years that you’re in love, the focus was entirely on Logan.

You had tons of photos of him. Him laughing at a crowded party with Tucker pushing his whole body on the sofa. Him mid-air on the ice, a fierce focus and determination plastered on his face that his head gear couldn’t hide. There was a photo of him sitting on the hood of his car at the beach, a summer getaway with your friends, the sun behind him creating a halo over his head and turning his hair a shade lighter. Your camera bears witness to the feelings you’ve buried and every snap was a quiet confession you never dared to say out loud. So you did the easiest thing—frame him and make him the masterpiece of your own gallery: your heart.

Yet like a double-edged sword, your camera grants you to hide your feelings while it also shows you reality. And that was how you figured it out.

You and some of the journalism club members were spending the night, once again, in your designated office, tweaking raw files, editing online newspaper layout, and writing headlines and captions, immersing yourselves in the comfort it provides. However, there’s something you’ve noticed the past three nights that you’ve been there.

A devastating pattern your photos showed you.

It started with a photo during their game. You stood up from where you were sitting with Allie and Hannah to find a good spot because you noticed that Logan was making a move to score a goal and you didn’t want to miss the moment. And sure enough, he did. You were so proud of that series of shots because you perfectly captured Logan’s winning goal followed by him sending an arrow celebration to the crowd, directly to where Hannah was clapping and screaming in joy.

Once you observed the photo, you pulled up folder after folder, going through your archives as curiosity drove you to check your photos of Logan. 

There was a photo during your group hangout at Malone’s. Garrett was telling a story about his date with Hannah with the latter responding with an angelic laugh. You were directly seated on the same side of the booth with them, pressed against the wall with Logan standing beside them at the aisle. This gave you a perfect view of the couple and unfortunately, Logan’s reaction. There was a soft smile on his lips, but there was something in his eyes that you can’t quite figure out.

Then a bonfire by the lake during Friendsgiving. Logan and Tucker disappeared inside the rented house to get more food and left you sitting with Hannah, Garrett, Allie, and Dean. You thought that the angle from your side was a bit off so you stood up and walked toward a tree not far from them, just enough to frame the bonfire and the two couples acting so lovely. There was the shutter of your camera and Logan’s perfect timing to appear once again, his confused eyes immediately landing on Garrett and Hannah.

Then comes the latest one, a party at Beau’s home. Logan was in the living room talking to Tucker and Birdie, a red cup in his hands that he chugged down in one swing. He looked extremely good under the lights so you raised your camera, adjusting the lens, and ready to freeze the moment when Logan moved. He spun toward the kitchen’s doorway where you left Hannah a moment ago, waiting for Garrett. You noticed that her boyfriend was already standing behind her, and you turned to check the digital preview of your shot just to see Logan already frowning.

You stopped scrolling, you stopped comparing the moments, you closed the folders, bid good night to your fellow journalists, and packed up your things. It was cold outside when you stepped out of the building despite the thick coat you were wearing, but there was nothing colder than the newfound information that made home in your mind. That you weren't the only one hiding behind a lens to cover the fact that you’re hopelessly in love. Because Logan was doing the exact same thing with his own eyes. The only difference was, your camera captured everything—including the fact that he would never see you, because he was too busy watching her while you were looking at him.

And for the first time in years, the comfort you find in every click of your camera became a sound of the slow and quiet breaking of your own heart.

The present only settles once again when you smelled something close to a beef soup and saw that Tucker prepared three cups of instant ramen, which you’re not sure if they are even allowed to eat. Dean carefully handed you your own cup, a bit of smoke escaping the slightly opened lid, and let the heat warm up your hands. And then you realized something, they are still talking about you and Logan.

“Tucker, you are a genius! Because there was one time during—”

“Guys, in case you forgot, which I know you didn’t, I’m still here. And I’m telling you, Logan doesn’t see me that way.” You stared at both of them, fully opening the lid of the ramen and cautiously sipping the hot broth as your friends started doing the same thing. Dean slurped at the noodles, only to regret it right away when he spat it back to his cup. You and Tucker shared a disgusted look, but your friend is too busy eating and too busy thinking to even pay attention to you both.

You thought that the conversation would end there, the three of you sharing a hot, comforting, and much needed midnight snack in the living room. But the universe decided otherwise. Because just when Dean finished his food, a bit red due to the heat with sweat covering his forehead, he blurted out something that made you choke.

“Alright, bestie, let’s say Logan is not totally and utterly and hopelessly and disgustingly in love with you, how are you going to explain the folder in your laptop that said ‘the muse’ with hundreds of Logan’s photos?” It was your turn to get flushed, but you’re sure it wasn’t because of the ramen you’re eating. It wasn’t because it was slightly spicy, no. It’s because they caught you. Your secret.

You could’ve easily denied it, but there’s no way you could’ve hidden the way you froze. Your hand mid-air, the noodles dangling from your fork, your mouth slightly open, and the way your eyes darted around the room, downright ignoring your friends, gave it away. You put down the cup beside your laptop to properly look at Dean and Tucker. There was no judgment in their eyes, the playfulness gone as well. They are just present and gazing at you with understanding. As if telling you that they also know and that your secret is safe with them.

“Well, there’s really no explanation for it. It’s there and you know, Logan isn’t exactly hard to like. And even if there is an explanation, I’m not going to explain it to you, D. Maybe to Tucker, yes.” Dean gasped at your words and clutched at his chest, mouth opened wide in fake offense while Tucker raised his brow at his friend proudly, raising his hand to high-five you.

The night continued on like that. The three of you joking around, throwing banters here and there, you showing them the Logan folder and telling random stories that you’ve witnessed while taking them. Eventually, it became a night of throwbacks as you pulled up your archives and reminisced the past three years you’ve spent with them.

The clock strikes at four AM and all three of you decide that it’s time to sleep. They helped you pack your things and cleaned up the cups of ramen after. Once everything is at their specific places, Tucker told you to go and occupy his room but you only shook your head.

“Tuck, it’s okay. Take your room, I’ll crash at Logan’s. Although maybe my camera and laptop could stay in your room? I mean, I know Logan wouldn’t snoop into my things, I trust him. But yeah, I don’t want to take my chances.” Tucker gave you an ‘Are you sure?’ look, but when he saw that you’re being serious, he nodded and took your things with him. When you turned around to finally go up, you bumped into Dean who got a teasing grin on his lips, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oooh, she’s going to sleep in Logan’s room. Are we going to hear some—” He didn’t get the chance to finish what he was about to say when you elbowed him at his side, walking past him and toward the stairs. You heard him mumbling something to Tucker but the moment he saw you looking, he just smiled and gestured for you to keep going.

Once you all made it on the second floor, you all bid each other good night. Tucker was the first to disappear inside his room still carrying your equipment but not before giving you a hug. “Sorry for prying into your folders. We shouldn’t have opened it since we already know that it’s Logan’s. But promise, we won’t tell him. So proud of you today. Your photos are outstanding, like always.”

You smiled at his words and returned the hug, patting his back in the process and sent him to his room. You were about to do the same until Dean called out for you, his head peeking from behind his door.

“Hey, there’s no denying that you are incredibly good at capturing genuine feelings in your photos. It shows, and I wish I have the same talent. But maybe you’re missing something in Logan's photos? What I meant to say is, just—just try not to hide too much behind your camera, okay? I know you love it and we do too, but don’t forget to live in the moment as well. Good night, bestie!” He already closed his door before you could even ask what he meant, his words replayed in your mind in a loop. You didn’t dare to ponder too much about it, though you might have an idea, because you felt the exhaustion catching up on you and decided to think about it once you have the energy.

The moment you made it inside Logan’s room, you saw him peacefully sleeping under his covers. His bed is enough to fit two people and you could easily sleep beside him, but you decided to choose the safe option. So, you took two blankets from his cabinet, stole one of his pillows, and sat on the floor just beside his bed to look at him once more.

He was hugging a pillow and his body is facing you so you have a clear vision of his face that is illuminated by the moonlight peeking from the window. He looks so beautiful like this. Sleeping so serene without a care in the world. You smiled as you felt your eyelids getting heavier and with one last glance at Logan, you lay down on the floor and turned your back on him, muttering a silent good night—a picture of his calm resting figure the last thing you saved in the space of your mind before you drifted off to sleep.

The smell of Logan’s cologne greeted your senses when you woke up, followed by the comfortable and fluffy feeling beneath your body. You blinked against the morning sun and stretched your arms, becoming aware of the fact that you were buried under a thick, navy-blue comforter rather than the blankets you wrapped around yourself with last night. You were pretty sure that you passed out on the floor. Not unless you crawled all the way up to his bed last night.

Before you could fully process the confusion of how you got up there, the bedroom door slowly opened and Logan’s head appeared, his wide and cautious eyes directly landing on you as if to check if you’re still sleeping. When he saw that you’re already awake, though still a bit out of it, an easy smile graced his lips as he walked in. Then you notice the paper bag he was carrying. The mouth-watering scent registered in your mind and with one look at Logan, you quickly catch on that he bought your favorite food.

“Look who’s alive.” His grin widened when you made space for him on his bed, silently inviting him to sit beside you. He handed you the brown paper bag and helped you with the food, setting the drink on his nightstand after telling you to take a big sip. “Good morning, ma’am. You look good.”

“Yeah? I probably looked like a mess right now, but thank you?” You laughed at his words, taking a bite of your meal. Logan just waved it off and urged you to eat while he scrolled at his phone. “Also, you should really stop calling me ‘ma’am’. Even Dean is calling me that.”

“Well, you are the boss in this dynamic and I’m just happy to follow your lead. And believe me, D is calling you that just to tease you.” Logan replied without even looking at you, still busy using his phone, as if what he just said didn’t hit you in a whole different way. As if you shouldn’t be saying such a thing because it’s obvious, like both of you have already established that a long time ago. But at that moment, for you, he just basically admitted something beyond his words. And suddenly, you were reminded of what Dean told you last night.

Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos.

Try not to hide too much behind your camera.

Don’t forget to live in the moment.

You don’t want to overthink it, you don’t want to make something out of pure observation, you don’t want to give meaning into his words especially after what they mentioned to you last night. You don’t want to believe their words, not when your photos show an entirely opposite thing.

Logan has feelings for you, Tucker and Dean said.

Logan is always looking at Hannah, what your camera captured for you.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to develop any kind of negative feelings toward Hannah. The girl is very kind and she helps you out a lot if you have events and vice versa. She made sure that your ‘Welcome Back to Uni’ video for last year’s semester has good and upbeat music and you were always the one she calls to film her music videos with. You’ve always been present in each other’s lives since Logan introduced you to her and there’s no way you could hate her.

You shake off the thoughts in your head and focus on the present.

Live in the moment.

Logan is still beside you, but you noticed that he’s closer now. His leg is touching yours, his body leaning on you that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. He tilted his head until it landed on your upper arm, a soft sigh escaping his lips at the contact.

The proximity isn’t something new between you and Logan. After hanging out with him a couple times, you’ve learned that he’s rather clingy when he becomes comfortable.

At the hockey house during movie night? He’d plant himself beside you just to pull you against him. Or sometimes, he’d make you his personal pillow and will lay his head on your thighs. Whenever you have university events to cover? He always had his arms around your shoulders when you’re not taking photos, or he’d play with your fingers while you’re checking your images. And even when he’s carrying your equipment, he’d still find a way to stay close to you. At parties? He will always place his warm hands over your hips or waist whenever someone is standing too close for your own comfort. And even if it’s just the two of you, his body will just automatically cling to you like a magnet.

But just because it’s not new doesn’t mean it makes you feel normal. No, you’re far from feeling normal. You even got to a point that you feel like the closeness will be the death of you because your heart rate always spikes up. You seemed calm outside, a relaxed smile on your face, joking around with your friends, but inside? A total chaos. And that’s happening right now.

Logan appears to be unaware of this since he just stole a bite of your breakfast by bringing your hand with the food to his mouth and took a gulp from your beverage that you’ve been drinking. Given, he was the one who bought it and maybe he intends to have it shared, the whole thing just happened so naturally it almost gave you a heart attack. So before it could actually happen, you tried to focus on something else.

“Hey, did you carry me onto your bed?” You cautiously asked, trying to stabilize your voice.

“Yeah. Well, actually, you kinda did it yourself when I was about to. I think you felt my arms because you literally said, ‘Logan, leave me alone’, but still let me guide you toward my bed anyway.” Logan chuckled at the memory as he copied you and you raised your eyebrow at his overexaggerated execution of what happened, a sarcastic smile on your lips. “But no, even if you tell me to leave you, I won’t. The floor is bad for your back so, yeah.”

“Then I guess that deserves a, ‘thank you, Logan’.”

“Always, ma’am.” He shrugged casually, his attention back on his phone even though there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He didn’t dwell on it though, and instead watched the video currently playing on his screen. But not even a minute passed, he locked his phone and glanced up at you. “By the way, where are your camera and laptop? You didn’t leave them in my room so I assumed it was downstairs, but I didn’t find them.”

The question caught you off-guard. You took a moment to let the question hang in the air, diverting your attention to the last of your food. It wasn’t like you’re planning to lie to him or avoid the question altogether. However, lately, Logan is always eager to see your photos of him. But due to the amount of it that you haven’t let him see, it’s getting harder and harder for you to hide the folders. Especially when he borrows your laptop to send himself a copy of the available ones that you allowed him to see, separated from the original transferred file folder. And the rest where he was just the sole focus while the rest of the world blurred behind him? Those, he cannot see just yet.

“Oh, they’re in Tucker’s room. I was supposed to stay there last night since he offered his room but we kinda ended up in the living room with D—”

“I have my room, you can always stay here.” Logan’s eyebrows shot up at the information, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face and he did the thing with his lips that he always does whenever he’s thinking. But before you could read him, he already turned away.

“You know what? I am giving you my full permission to access my room whenever you want to. And before you protest, which I know you will, don’t. From now on, this room is yours now as much as it is mine. That’s why, you should grab your things from Tucker’s room so we can check the photos you took last night—forget it, I’ll go get it myself.”

Logan was about to stand up when you grabbed his arm that was just leaning on you earlier. There was an unsure smile over your lips, not used to this side of Logan. Sure, you’ve seen him talking a lot, but that’s when he’s playing video games or on ice with his teammates. And on other occasions, when he’s reviewing for his exams. But not like this, not in this kind of situation. He almost sounds envious of the fact that your things are staying somewhere else other than his room. But you pushed the thought at the farthest back of your mind and instead, teased him.

“Logan, relax. If you want me to move in with you and be roomies, all you had to do was ask. There’s no need to use the photos as an excuse.” Logan plopped down beside you again, his eyes studying your face to see even a hint of your seriousness in it. He sighed when he saw none, it was just you joking around with him.

“I mean, think about it, it’s not a bad idea. It would be like a work-university-hockey-life balance for me and you can ask me for help or annoy me whenever you want to.” This time, faux confusion swims on your expression as you ponder over his words. 

“I’m not sure I understand. Am I gonna be part of the university and hockey category so you can have professional and unlimited photos of yourself, in exchange of me annoying you—hold up, did you just call me annoying? Excuse me, John Logan?” He laughed out loud at your words, throwing his head back in the process. When his laughters died down, there was an adoration pooling in his eyes that you weren’t prepared to see.

“You’re not annoying.” He softly said. “And my life, you fall in the life category. The whole of it, but only if you want to.”

Your stomach did a violent flip as silence enveloped the room. You didn’t even know how long it stretched out, but you are pretty sure that you just kept staring at each other. The moment was vulnerable and it’s scaring you, especially when Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. The same adoration is still present but now mixed with honesty and yearning.

“Life category, interesting.” You swallowed hard, anchoring yourself to stay calm when you heard that it came out a little breathier than it should. “And you didn’t deny the unlimited photos. In case you haven’t realized the severity of your silent acceptance, that means a lot of storage space in my hard drive. Are you willing to buy me storage space for the whole of it?”

You didn’t know how you managed to say those. Maybe you’ve finally mastered the art of masking it up, of not acknowledging what this might be, of ignoring the insinuations, of accepting that Logan is really just like this and there’s nothing real special about how he treats you.

But Logan’s lip twitched, a fond smile spreading across his lips that reached his eyes as they smiled with him, leaning forward in your direction. “Anything you asked me to, ma’am, you got it.”

“You’re so annoying, Logan. Get out of my face.” 

Logan moved a bit, but his body is still pressed slightly against you. He watched you for a moment as you started cleaning up the paper bag, his smile now softening into something curious. The bubble of vulnerability floating around inside the room a moment ago shifts into a much comfortable state. Like the conversation itself made peace with the two of you, like it understood that whatever occurred isn’t just something that came and passed, but it stayed and will live with the both of you.

“Hey, we’ve been friends for years now and I’m sure I haven’t asked you this, but why did you choose candid photography? Of all styles, why do you love it so much when people are not looking?”

You paused, looking back on the reason on how your love developed for that certain style. Soon, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips and then you realized something. Over the course of three years, aside from the main reason why you kept doing candid photography, Logan unknowingly spent it being your favorite subject and he never knew about it.

Eventually, you let out a sigh, the smile still maintained which didn’t go unnoticed by Logan. “There we go, there’s that smile.”

“It actually started when I was five. When I took a photo of my family while they were busy doing their own things, it was Christmas that time. The world kept spinning, but time froze and so was the moment when I used the camera.” A soft laugh escaped you as you tried to find the right words, your voice dropping just a little.

“And that’s beautiful. Because I learned that they don’t just freeze in time, it holds stories as well. When I asked my mom later on if she remembered what happened, she told me a version different from my uncle. My cousin said she was chasing her cat, my grandma said she was just watching me, my other cousin said she was busy critiquing her mom’s roasted chicken, and my story? I was the one who took the photo and it was so, so beautiful, Logan.”

Logan was just silently listening beside you, studying your every word and making mental notes on how this certain conversation is making you feel. What do you look like, how you talk about it, your hand gestures, and how your face contorts into different expressions. His silence urged you to keep going, the words pouring out.

“Also, people are more honest when they don’t know there’s a camera. Because when they know, they put up a wall. I have nothing against that, I do that too sometimes and I love it when they pose for the camera, I pose for the camera. But candid photography? It captures how people actually look around them. What they’re feeling in that instant and who they are looking at.”

Then suddenly, you were thinking of the photos you had of him. During his hockey games, at parties, at Malone’s, at a group vacation, and a few completely random moments where your camera happens to be with you and you can’t resist taking photos of your surroundings. Logan dwells on your words, still quiet but present.

Then all of a sudden, he took your phone from his nightstand and asked you to open it. He pulled up your gallery and clicked on one of the photos, handing the phone to you.

“Tell me a story then.” And of all the photos that he chose, he chose the one where you guys spent Friendsgiving on the lakehouse. The photo you took where he suddenly appeared from inside the house and directly looked at Hannah. 

“Uhm, suddenly? Well, I remembered Allie complaining that Dean was leaning too close to her and that Garrett was starving and he wanted more of Hannah’s lasagna and Tucker’s turkey.” You purposely skipped out the part where he was visibly seen in the background. You ignored the look he has on his face and focused on the sole subject of the photo, the couples. 

“I’m in the photo too. What’s my story?” You turned to look at Logan, your mouth suddenly dry. You cannot possibly say, “Oh, you’re looking at Hannah, right? And you had this look on your face because you wished you were in Garrett’s place instead.” So, once again, you chose the safe option.

“How could I possibly know? You were too far.” You laughed dismissively and locked your phone, but Logan wasn’t finished.

He didn't say anything for a moment, thinking over his words as he bit his lower lips. He just stared at you, his dark eyes shimmering with courage and searching your face as if what he wanted to say was something that could make or break the moment, as if you are what he wanted to say. The silence grew heavy with unsaid words until Logan opened his mouth.

“I know. You were—” But the harsh buzz of his phone cut him off. He pinched the bridge of his nose at the intruding sound, breathing out heavily as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He cursed at the small device, reading the message before tucking it back inside his jeans.

“Sorry to interrupt our conversation, ma’am. But I have a plumbing business to attend to and apparently, a car that suddenly broke down.” He sighed, collecting the garbage from his bed and the nightstand. He offered you a regretful smile, standing beside his bed, not ready to leave just yet. “Anyway, stay as long as you need if you don’t have classes but shoot me a message if you need a ride back to campus, okay? Make sure to get your things from Tucker too. Remember, my room is yours now.”

“Wait, I thought I’m the boss here? Why are you giving me orders?” He walked toward the door, but stopped right at the threshold at the sound of your teasing voice. He turned back, his gaze locking onto yours one last time, his own tone copying yours.

“You’re still in charge, but even you have house rules to follow. Like, Rule No. 1: You are not allowed to walk back to campus when I’m capable of driving you back there—”

“And I’m also capable of walking, Logan.” The playful glint in his eyes is still present, but it’s softer now. He exhaled, knowing well that you have something to say in return. But he stood his ground and stepped out of his room, only to peek inside once more just to tease you.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot seem to comprehend that statement so I’m still driving you back to campus, alright? See you later.” With a quick wink he threw your way, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone in his bed with your heart hammering against your ribs. And you finally let out the heaviest huffed you breathed out your entire life. The past hour that you’ve spent with him almost felt like a lifetime and you were nearing your death. You silently thanked whoever that was who called him for a job, because if Logan stayed a bit more, you’re not sure what’s going to happen.

You were still recovering from everything when your own phone buzzed between your hands, the notification sending your heart in shock at the unexpected sound. When you’ve calmed down, you check to see what it’s all about.

The notification was from the journalism club group chat. And it’s about the annual exhibition related to media and arts. However, this year’s theme wasn’t about the usual subject. It wasn’t about “what the journalism club covers?” but it’s about “who makes the coverage happen?” The editor-in-chief, Meadow, who is a senior, wanted to shift the attention to the students that keep the Briar university media alive and the adviser approved it.

You opened the link and it directed you to a private document where the complete details of the exhibition laid out. There, in bold letters were BEHIND, the overall theme for the exhibition. You scrolled through the document until you saw the part specifically for photojournalists, the assignments and guidelines carefully listed out.

BEHIND: The Lens.

Each photojournalist must showcase a minimum of 10 (20 at maximum) high resolution and raw images where they were the subject. (Photos taken during an event, party, personal getaway, etc. as long as they are the subject are acceptable.)

It is important that they are carrying their camera, doing their usual task as photojournalist.

Those were some of the important ones that you read. And it said twenty days. You only got twenty days to prepare everything. That includes the photos, the captions, the stories, the editing, the perfect printing, the exhibit setup. You love Briar U, you love your adviser, you love being a journalist and a photographer, but doing everything in twenty days? While also juggling other courses and activities? You thought you might as well just disappear.

You’re already thinking about how you’re collecting the photos. Maybe your fellow photojournalists have stolen photos of you while you’re covering, maybe your friends got a few as well. But it’s a very rare occasion for a photojournalist to be photographed. There’s a reason why you’re the ones carrying the camera and for a moment there, you started stressing out. You’re lucky to get at least five or eight, but ten to twenty? You really hope your friends have some photos, even the blurry ones would suffice.

You were still reading the guidelines when you received a message from Logan.

And that was enough to forget the stress as you started getting ready for the day, the corner of your lips beaming with anticipation. The only thought in your mind is Logan and how he always knows when to appear, even unknowingly.

“They changed the guidelines, guys! Imagine that! And now, they wanted a maximum of twenty photos. Like, how would over a hundred photos fit in the gallery? I only have ten photos at the moment, which met the initial guideline. We only have seven days left. We barely got everything together, Ms. Rodriguez is sick, and at this point, I’m not sure if the exhibit is still feasible at all.” You all but ranted at your friends at the diner, pushing a fry around your plate in which Logan picked up to bring near your lips so you could finally eat. “Stop feeding me, Logan. These fries are just as stressed as I am, they taste so bad.”

Allie and Hannah gave you a sympathetic look, offering you a light squeeze on your shoulder since that was the only thing they could do for now. Three out of your ten photos actually came from them, four were from Tucker, Garrett, and Dean, while the remaining three were from Logan. They have asked around themselves but to no avail, and the stress is slowly eating at you.

That moment, it dawned on you that being a candid photographer means literally blending with the wind because none of your subjects notice you which you don’t mind in many cases, but you do now. Even your friends from journalism don’t have photos of you. Well, they have. But you were not carrying your camera, you were instead posing for theirs. 

“And I mean, I can’t fake it. I can’t just ask you guys to take pictures of me right now because that’ll be unnatural which kills the sole reason why I’m doing this in the first place. Candid is my brand, my trademark.”

Garrett then chimed in, a memory flashing in his mind during your rant. “Wait, I think I have another photo of you during my birthday but it’s in my old phone. I’ll check it later, okay? Can’t promise you it’s good though.”

You almost cried at that, sending Garrett a grateful smile. This made you turn to your friends, the same look on your face, while Logan was still busy feeding you fries from time to time. “Guys, any photo will do at this point as long as I have my camera. It’s not even important now whether I’m checking photos or just simply holding it, I just need the photos because they must be printed by Friday this week and it’s already Tuesday. I swear, I’ll treat all of you to dinner once this is over.”

Hannah shook her head as she reached for your hands, enveloping it with hers as she smiled at you. “Hey, we got this, okay? I’ll double check if I missed anything from our beach trip last summer. You’ll complete the twenty photos, babe, trust me.”

You didn’t know if it was the dread of the upcoming deadline playing with your mind but you saw Hannah throwing Logan a look. But when you glanced at him, he didn’t say anything, he also stopped tending to your fries. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes looking back at Hannah before landing on you for a second longer than usual until he looked down at his phone. You felt the familiar ache in your chest before you turned away from him yourself. He was probably thinking about something else, or someone else. And he didn’t speak anymore for the duration of your stay after that.

Time passed by quickly in the diner as you spent it sending out messages to your friends to help you collate photos for the exhibit. You even got Beau and Dexter to help when they joined your table. And before you know it, all of you call it a day.

By the time you got back to your dorm, with Logan driving you, he still hasn’t said a word. You didn’t know what’s going on or what he was thinking about, but his silence is affecting you. Logan was never this quiet when he’s with you, so you’re not very sure how to approach the situation.

“Thanks for the ride, Logan. Be safe on your way to the house.” You muttered quietly as you unfastened your seatbelt. When he stayed silent, you started to collect your bag and camera between you and him, refusing to look his way. But when you were about to hop out of his truck, he stopped you, his hand reaching out to gently grab your arm. However, even with the contact, he still didn’t say anything. “Logan, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uhm, let me walk you to your room.”

You just nodded in response and waited for him as he parked his car. On your way to your dorm room, that’s when he started asking questions about the exhibit. How many more photos do you need, can’t you really just take new photos, what else is lacking, what kind of photos do you want the audience to see the most for your entry, and the like. You were surprised how attentive he is now compared to when you were at the diner, but you weren’t complaining.

When you reached your room, you offered to invite him inside but he kindly declined and mentioned there’s something important he needs to do tonight. You shook your head in understanding and gestured that he should go back home.

“Thank you, again, for the ride, and for listening to my rants. Message me once you’re back home, okay? Good night, Logan.” You stood there for a moment, waiting for Logan’s response that didn’t come. Instead, he engulfed you with a hug. His warmth quickly spreads throughout your body, your arms automatically wrapping around him.

“Research shows that hugging can reduce stress so let’s stay like this for a moment.”

It was completely random, you thought. But it’s true, you felt yourself melting against Logan as he held you close to him. His arms only tightened on you when you tugged at his sweater, trying to be as close to him as possible. It wasn’t the first hug that you shared, but there’s something about this one that felt different. It felt intimate and not just for the sake of physical contact.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when you loosened your hold on him, pulling a foot away to look at him. “I don’t know how many times I’m gonna say thank you tonight but thank you. That hug really helped a lot.”

Logan gave you a slight tap on your nose as he completely let go, though reluctantly. The silence came back, but it’s much more comfortable now unlike earlier. Logan busied himself by fixing your clothes that wrinkled during the hug and gazed directly at your eyes.

“Don’t stress, okay? I got you. Tonight, allow yourself to relax. You’ll be okay, I promise.” And then he left, right after sending you inside your dorm, after hearing you lock the door, after making sure that you’re safe.

And especially after gracing your forehead with a kiss that he couldn’t help himself to give.

You weren’t sure what to do with what happened.

Logan, who was supposed to like Hannah, just kissed your forehead and just left. He hugged you for who knows how long and then he kissed you. After telling you not to stress and to relax for tonight, he did the exact thing that kept you from doing so. Obviously, you couldn’t relax. You don’t kiss your friend on their forehead. Because that will blur the line between being friends, nothing in the friendship would feel normal after that.

Not unless Logan kisses all his friends to their forehead, you wouldn’t react this way. Well, he did kiss Garrett one time on the same spot but you were playing some drinking game that time. Do the dare, tell the truth, or drink the weird mixture prepared by Tucker. But that was a totally different scenario. See, that’s the thing, Logan doesn’t kiss all his friends that way and he wasn’t definitely playing with you earlier. And that is a territory that you’re trying to understand at two AM in the morning.

You’re currently sitting on the floor of the journalism club office after accepting the fact that sleep is miles away from your reach because of two things. One was obviously because of Logan, and two, you’re still contacting friends about your photos while also brainstorming possible layouts and captions. Ms. Rodriguez allows students to stay for as long as they need in the office. Especially at times like this when everyone is busy preparing for an event. 

A few other members also came to do their assignments. But unlike you, they are actually accomplishing something. You glanced at the door when one of the editorial cartoonists bid good night, wishing the rest of you good luck to finish your tasks. And you hoped that it’d work because you badly needed it.

Puffing out a breath, you put your attention back to your laptop and continued scrolling on your archives. You knew it was no use since the photos were not you, but looking at them brings you comfort. Until you pulled up Logan’s folder.

The Muse.

You clicked at the small icon and patiently waited for it to load. The photos appeared one after another, the pixels forming into clarity. You gasped, the small numbers on the left down corner of your screen still surprising you whenever it stops at a certain amount. You’ll never get used to it, because you know that as long as the lens of your camera catches Logan, you’ll click that small button to capture him. The sequence of his whole existence turning into pages inside your album.

I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.

He mentioned during your first meeting, and did he lie? No, he didn’t. Because keeping his words, he wasn’t just photogenic but he also became your guy. The last years proved that, the present proved that. You just didn’t know how much longer you could keep it in considering the observations of your friends and the way Logan acted the past few days, especially earlier. And you thought to yourself—hiding his photos is one thing, suppressing your feelings is another, and a girl can only do both for a long time.

“Ruin the friendship, babe. He’s a senior, who knows what will happen after graduation?” Meadow suddenly appeared behind you, balancing her laptop with her left hand while the right one was carrying probably her third cup of coffee since 12 AM. “And before you deny it, I’ve seen the way you look at him and the way he looks at you, and I’m telling you, it’s worth ruining the friendship.”

“Meadow, it’s not—” But she’s already backing toward the door, her playful eyes never leaving your form. And before she completely left, she pointed at your phone beside your laptop. “He sent you a message, by the way, but you were too busy looking at his photos. Live in the moment, babe. Good night!”

You didn’t get to respond to her as she briskly went and closed the door, leaving you dumbfounded and realizing that she said the same thing as Dean. Your phone buzzed again, preventing you from thinking over the words. You picked it up to see four messages from Logan.

Curiosity and excitement clouded your mind as you opened your email, thinking that maybe he collected the photos Garrett and Hannah promised to double check for you and a few more from him and the others. When the page loaded, Logan’s mail sat at the top of your inbox which contained a shared drive link with a camera emoji as the title.

When you click the link, you expect to see blurry and casual frame phone snaps. The photo Garrett said was probably bad, the photo from the beach getaway by Hannah, but you saw none of those. Instead, you had to wait a full minute for the folder to fully load.

Your breath caught in your throat as the sheer volume of files flashed before you, each thumbnail beginning to clear.

There are hundreds of them. Hundreds of candid photos of you.

It was all you.

Holding your camera, browsing the photos, capturing others.

You were completely in your element.

And they were all taken by Logan. You confirmed this by seeing the small watermark, JL22, located at the uppermost right corner of the photos. A watermark you helped him design a year ago that you never see him use. But now, you understand. He never intended for it to be seen by other people, it was solely just for you.

You scrolled at the shared folder, your heart hammering against your ribs as if it wanted to jump out. The corner of your eyes started to sting without permission, tears forming the longer you browsed. The photos weren’t accidental nor taken with low-effort, and as someone who has been doing photography, Logan’s angles were so good he might be mistaken as part of the club. The lighting was perfect, the focus was measured, the background fading behind as you stood out.

You’ve taught Logan how to use a camera one time, but you didn’t realize how much attention and effort he put into that day for his photos to turn out this way. They were taken so carefully.

Or maybe because he’s been observing you, he’s been paying attention. That while you were too occupied adjusting your lens, his focus was already on yours.

The tears in your eyes fell one by one but you weren’t sure what the reason was. All you know was you’re overwhelmed, you’re confused, and you really want to talk to Logan about this. Because this completely changed everything. The hug and the kiss? It was just the start, but this? You’re crossing a whole foreign zone in this predicament.

You clicked on the photos and observed each one, remembering the moment and what you were doing—what was your story.

There was a picture of you during an off-campus party, your face half-hidden by your camera as you try to capture Justin and his band. Another photo was you sitting behind Logan’s truck during your beach getaway as you set up your tripod to shoot the sunset, looking for the best angle. And there was a candid shot of you from a random day in the library but this time, you were transferring files, your camera resting safely beside your laptop.

You continued scrolling, too mesmerized to stop. Because at that moment, you felt seen, you felt loved. It feels like Logan learned how to appreciate you and what you do based on how you appreciate the world, and it was destroying your walls—both in good and bad ways.

Until you noticed something. A pattern, again. But it wasn’t the kind that breaks you, it was the kind that showed you another side of the story, Logan’s side of the story. And there was only one way to prove these patterns. You opened the tab containing your own archive, splitting the screen so you have it side-by-side with Logan's shared drive.

The photos you took at Malone’s to celebrate their win, the same night you spent hanging out with Tucker and Dean. Your photo was taken from the entrance and Logan was looking at Hannah and Garrett over at the bar where you left them to hang out. And Logan’s photo was you, laughing and capturing the couple in front of you, right before you left them.

The photo during your group hung out at the same diner. You were pressed against the wall as you pictured the same couple teasing each other. But looking at Logan’s photo, he didn’t even include Hannah and Garrett, he just focused on you while you were still holding your camera.

And there was Friendsgiving by the lake. He was in the background emerging from the lakehouse, confusion obvious on his face. Then you glanced at his version, and the picture was taken inside the house, you were still sitting beside Hannah, preparing to photograph your friends.

Then Beau’s party. Logan was frowning at your photo, looking at the kitchen’s doorway where Garrett stood close behind his girlfriend. But then there was you, perfectly captured by Logan, at the same kitchen doorway where you were showing Hannah something in your camera.

Realization hit you at once. Logan hadn’t been looking at Hannah all this time, he had been looking at where he last saw you, which was usually beside the latter. He wasn’t tracking her movements, he was tracking yours. He wasn’t paying attention to her in ways that you thought, he was paying attention to you. He positions himself in every possible corner of the room to give himself the clearest sight of you—the person holding the camera, the person who’s always engaged behind the lens of her camera that she totally missed the eyes of the person she wanted to catch the most.

Live in the moment. Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos. 

That instant, it occurred to you that the reason he rarely looked at the lens of your camera was because he was too busy trying to catch your eyes. You're too occupied watching Logan and the way he's looking at Hannah, that you missed who he's actually looking at.

Sitting on the floor of the journalism club office, the overwhelming feelings slowly dissipate as your mind clears out. Your heart goes back to its normal rhythm, while your mind is gradually absorbing the new information you’ve found out. Your emotions are still not at its one hundred percent best, but the ache of the last year believing that Logan likes someone else is now being replaced by a cure you didn’t know existed.

A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you stared at the split screen in front of you. Because all along, you thought that you and Logan were in the same heartbreaking situation of being in love with someone you could never have.

Turned out, both of you have been harboring a secret and hopeless love for each other.

You then looked at the printer a few feet away from you, then back at the laptop. You already printed out the first ten, you just have to choose ten more. And after a few careful consideration, you’ve chosen the best ones from his folder, a satisfied smile crossing your lips at the last one.

The night is getting deeper, but you know that Logan is still awake. So, while the printer was doing its job bringing the photos in its form, you took your phone from your bag and messaged him.

The last of your photo was printed out when you heard the entrance door open, Logan’s head peeking behind as he glanced inside the empty office. You smiled at his presence, gesturing for him to come inside as you picked up the final photo to put beside the other ones to dry down.

He didn’t come in right away, he just stood at the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets as a slow and knowing grin spread across his face. He had his eyes locked onto yours, watching you organize the things you used for printing and at the photos hanging just behind you.

His photos.

Logan felt a sense of pride knowing that you were able to complete the twenty photos because of him. He always calls you ma’am, he always says that he’s happy to do whatever you ask him to, but what he doesn't say is that he likes taking care of you. In ways that you allow him, without making you feel like you’re dependent. And this is just one of the ways he shows it. Making himself present, but not hovering.

“You weren’t kidding, those are mine.” He softly said, his voice carrying a gentleness to it that made you look at him. At the same time, he glanced down to meet your gaze. “They’re beautiful.”

For a moment, none of you speak. You just let the silence take over the both of you, his words lingering like a reminder of what’s about to come, of the reason why you messaged him. Both of you understood that it wasn’t just about the ride, but it’s also about the path you’ll navigate after tonight.

“They are, and you were the person behind these photos.” The way you said it went straight to Logan’s heart, because you said it with ease, with normalcy. You sound so proud and it did something to him. “Come in, please. We need to talk.”

Logan walked over, the gap between you disappearing instantly and suddenly, the room felt small. But he didn’t push, he didn’t crowd your space, he just let you take the next step. Just like he always did. He always patiently waits for you, in many ways that you could name. Then you nudged at your laptop so the device was facing him, the screen displayed your folder and his; showing him that both of you kept an archive of each other.

“First of all, thank you. For the photos, it truly helped me complete my entry for the exhibit. You have no idea how grateful I am for these.” You began, your eyes casting toward the ten printed photos that hung in a line above you. You started tracing the outline of yourself and the way Logan made you appear like a main character in his photos, an intimate tug at your lips forming. “And I’m sorry, for not seeing it sooner.”

You exhaled shakily, twisting around to face Logan who’s already looking at you. “When I saw your email, what it contained, your photos, I realized that I relied on my camera too much and what it showed me. Dean was right, there was something missing in your photos. I missed to capture the way you’re looking at me, because I thought you were looking at someone else.”

Logan’s expression softened, it was a subtle change in his eyes but it was enough for you to notice. He was hanging on every word that you’re saying, longing for it to unfold. But being the man that he is, he didn’t say anything, he just let you find the right path through your thoughts.

“Then, it dawned on me that you were not hiding your feelings for someone else—you were not hiding anything at all. It’s always been laid out there for me but I was too scared to ruin what we have. Because what we have is good, Logan. You’ve been such a good friend to me and I can’t ruin that. But looking at my photos, at your photos, I feel like I only captured a fraction of what is actually happening.

“And that it was actually me that has been hiding a lot. Behind my camera, behind the blinding flash of it because it was easier for me. It was easier to look at you when I have my camera because it lets me control how I see things, how I see you. And that’s not fair.”

The admission almost broke Logan’s heart, because in the past three years that he’d known you, this is the first time that he saw you totally break down your walls. Sure, there were the vulnerable times when you allowed yourself to rely on him, to cry in front of him, but he never saw you this way. And he wanted nothing but to tell you that it’s okay, that he doesn’t find it unfair. That he understands because if he were being honest, he didn’t exactly come clean himself. He never actually admitted his feelings for you and he could only hope at that moment that he had done it a long time ago.

“I always say that I love candid photography because there is always a story behind it. But you, you’ve always been my favorite person to picture yet I didn’t exactly give you the chance to tell your side of the story.” Then you took a step forward, there was still space between you but it’s almost nonexistent now. “If you want, I wish to hear every single version of the stories you have through your lens. I’m done telling mine, Logan, I choose to listen this time, I choose to see this time.”

Logan let out a quiet, breathy laugh, keeping his emotions at bay. He doesn’t know whether to slap himself to confirm if this was a dream or just put you in an embrace, in his arms, and hold you for the rest of time. But he stopped himself and moved forward, and he swore he could almost feel your heart beating the same rhythm as his.

“Oh, baby, it wasn’t unfair. You have every right to interpret this however you want, because I didn’t say anything sooner. And I’m sorry too, for making you feel that way.” He said, his tone dropping to a velvet whisper that seemed to absorb the remaining space between you. His hands hovered beside your arms, testing the moment, and when he didn’t see any hint of hesitance on your face, he wrapped his hands around yours. 

“I wished I did things differently, there was no reason for me to keep my feelings a secret. But I believe I was just terrified as you are because you were right, what we have is really good. And I will never be able to handle knowing that I could potentially break what we have because I started seeing you more like a future than a friend.” He confessed, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, staring at the way they fit perfectly together. Like it was sculpted to be that way. You felt your tears build up once again and you looked up to prevent it from falling, your throat constricting as you do so.

Logan drew comforting circles against your skin before his eyes met yours again with a raw and obvious vulnerability, yearning to look at you and to be looked by you. He let go of one of your hands just so he could wipe a stray tear that fell, and eventually, he gently cupped your cheek.

“I cannot go back and change what happened, but I can definitely make up for it starting now. And if you wanna know what I want? I want us. I want what you want and everything that you don’t. I want myself with you, not just for now but for—”

“The whole of it.”

“Yeah, baby, the whole of it. But only if you want to?” You laughed, the glee sound of it echoing in Logan’s mind, taking note of how you looked right now. And while you’ve always been beautiful in his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the way you appeared so breathtaking in his gaze that second.

“John, did you just use the same words you told me a week ago?” His hand that was holding your cheek dropped back to his side as he sheepishly smiled at you, but you saw a depth behind it. He genuinely wanted to know the answer, because that time in his room, you didn’t give a clear response and he understood why. But now, things have changed. You knew that the moment the both of you walked out the journalism office, you’ll no longer be just friends. Your relationship will be more, and that includes making decisions.

“Hey, you didn’t have to say anything now. We have time, love, there’s no rush.” Logan gave your hand a squeeze, a final assurance to his words. But you shook your head, your mind swirling with something else.

“Logan, I spent—we spent a lot of years not saying anything and I don’t want to do that anymore. And this is not us rushing, this is you and me finally choosing us. And I want more of it, I want the whole of it.”

Logan exhaled heavily, like he wasn’t expecting you to say the words he’d been dying to hear. None of you said a word, but the silence was enough to speak for itself as you tugged him closer to your body. Logan’s hands automatically held your hips, while yours wrapped around his neck, drawing him toward your face.

Your foreheads bumped together as your eyes meet, the connection palpable. He didn’t move, he was just waiting again on your next move. But his grip tightened on your body when he felt you gently grab the back of his neck, a hint of coyness on his expression.

“I want it, Logan. I want you.”

And with one pull, the gap completely disappears as your lips connect for a kiss. The hesitation, the holding back, the years you’ve spent watching each other from lens’ reach, all of it evaporated the second your lips met. It was everything both of you have expected and more.

Logan’s tightened grip on your hips moves toward the small of your back, pulling you flush against him as if the proximity wasn’t enough; while his other hand cradled your cheek, guiding your head as he deepened the kiss. You felt everything at once instantly—the yearning, the warmth, how the contentment settled in, how both of your bodies melted into each other.

You pulled back just a little to catch your breath, only to dive back in for another kiss. A low ragged breath escaped Logan and it turned to a quiet rumble against your chest as he started laughing in between kisses.

“Point proven.” Logan’s forehead rests against yours, the smile lay permanent on his lips. His voice is a little rough, but it was laced with affection that touched your heart. He leaned in again, but the kisses this time are lighter, softer, as it lingered and traced down your jawline up to the spot just below your ear, and back to your lips.

You naturally arched into his touch as the kiss grew more desperate, hungrier. His tongue swiped at the top of your lips, as if asking for permission to explore your mouth, and you didn’t hesitate to let him in. Despite the growing passion, both of you made sure to savor the moment. Memorizing the pattern of the kiss, which angle makes Logan heave a breath, and what makes you shiver when his hands explore what he can touch.

He broke the kiss for a second just to gaze at your eyes, a glint you’ve never seen before swimming in them, and buried his head at the junction of your neck to inhale your scent. You still felt him leaving small kisses on your skin, his hands engulfing you in another hug.

“This is per—you’re so perfect.” The admission left you chuckling as you played with the back of his neck, massaging his scalp, while your other hand rubbed at his back. The comfort and solace it brings made Logan sigh in your arms. “I didn’t even want to think how I managed to go on the last years without this. If I had known that it'd feel like this, I would’ve shown you how I feel for you.”

“Well, you never have to think about it now. You got me.”

A few minutes have passed when Logan lets go, glancing around the office as his eyes land on the wall clock, realizing that it’s time to go home. You quickly caught on at the change in his posture and started gathering your things, which Logan took from you right away.

“You ready to go, ma’am?” Logan stretched out his hand your way, waiting for you to clasp your own ones with his. And when you did, he tugged you beside him to lay a peck on your forehead, satisfaction filling his system. “Alright, let’s get you home.”

Once outside, you started locking the doors but Logan stole another scan of your photos from the glass window. Then he caught the last photo you printed out and it made him pause. He didn’t think you’d notice, but he should’ve thought better than to believe you wouldn’t. His expression softened at the realization that you picked out his most favorite photo from his own folder.

It was a perfectly angled and photographed image of you in the hockey house. You were holding your camera toward his direction, your lips curved in a smile as you took a picture of Logan. At that time, you thought he was busy looking at his phone. But that was proven wrong because while you definitely stood out in the picture, Logan was in the background, his reflection clear on the mirror just behind you. A perfect image that showed how the camera works in two ways.

With one last glance, Logan pulled you to walk alongside him, a newfound peace settling in. 

And as you turned a corner going to the parking lot, you looked up just to see Logan already staring back at you. And as much as you don’t want to admit, Dean has always been right all along.

You should live in the moment.

Do not hide behind your camera all the time.

So you’ll not miss what’s happening in front you.

And as you’re nearing his truck, it struck you that while you're busy loving him through the lens of your camera, he's spent the past few years loving you through his very own eyes and you can’t wait to do the same.

BONUS: Exhibit day, opening.

It was supposed to be your week with dad. Just the pair of you. Lois had taken Jon to Toronto to go see her Aunt Hilda, which made you very excited, as you get to have daddy-daughter time. Clark loves you, his only daughter and youngest child. Your everyrthing to him. He knows he hasn't spent much time with you lately but hes trying to! 100%! And he promised you, when Lois and Jon left for their 20 hour road trip, he would spend hours with you having quality time and fun. He even planned a beach trip for the pair of you! The sand, the sea, a nice picnic, watch the sunset, you know, the works.

So imagine your disappointment when he has to fly out of orbit, into space, to address a intergalactic threat. Out of all the times a threat comes, its when you, after maybe 8 months of barely any time with your dad, are alone with him and had a whole week of fun planned.

The transition of sunny, beautiful busy Metropolis to gloomy, dark Gotham is also adding to your disappointment and annoyance. Jon is in Toronto, enjoying himself, probably getting spoiled and cherrished by your mum, whilst your dad has practically left you with thr wolves. Specifically, one 18-year-old wolf with Spotify green eyes, black hair, and a look that could kill. A wolf who also happens to be your brothers best friend.

"Your being incredibly loud." A sharp voice hisses out from the shadows of the bat-cave. You dont turn around. You just sigh and continue eating your apple pie (courtesy of Alfred), still annoyed that your dad left. Your wearing a navy blue oversized hoodie that reaches a few cms under your waistline and has the iconic superman logo on it. Plus some denim jeans. Your back is still facing where the voice came from, as your sitting on an office chair. You spin around to watch Damian step out from behind the massive glowing screens of the Batcomputer. He was half-suit, having just stripped off his cape and cowl after a grueling crazy patrol. His dark hair was a sweaty, messy disaster (a fucking HOTTTT one sjsmsmmdhdosksyessir), and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest.

"Im eating, Damian. Im not even smacking my lips like a barbarian or anything. This cave just has a strong damn echo. And if its bothering you go sit by the big dinosaur thingy." You say, voice dripping with annoyance. You turn back around, not even caring to face his ass anymore.

"It is 3am and nobody, especially not a guest, should be entering the cave! You should be asleep!" Damian says as he grabs the chair and spins it around so your facing him. His green eyes lock onto your own eyes fiercely. "You snuck into here, eating an apple pie! We have rules, Kent. Your intolerable."

"You know what's actually intolerable? The fact that Jon is currently in Toronto, probably eating poutine and getting completely spoiled by my mum. He gets a vacation. My dad gets to punch aliens in the stratosphere. And I get dumped in a damp basement with an eighteen-year-old wolf who clearly doesn't know how to share his space."

You gesture with your pie fork at the giant cave around you. "I was supposed to be on a beach right now, Damian. I had a picnic planned. Sunsets. Actual sunlight. Instead, I'm stuck with you."

The sharp and sarcastic retort you’re expecting from him doesn't come. Instead, Damian stops. His eyes scan your face, tracking the slight downturn of your lips, the genuine frustration in your shoulders and your pretty face. The arrogant assassin posture slowly drains out of him. He doesn't pull back, though. If anything, he leans a fraction of an inch closer, his voice dropping into that quiet, rough voice he uses rarely.

''Your father is a fool. The lanterm corps could've handled it. He is foolish to save a universe that already has other saviors and ignore you."

Your breath hitches and you pause. Gosh you feel your heart race faster. And all of a sudden...you see Damian in a new light. Those eyes...that jawline...his body...the way he looks at you. It drives you crazy all of a sudden.

Damian notices the shift. His eyes notice the sudden flush on your cheeks, the way your fingers grip the armrests of the chair just a little tighter. For a second, his breath hitches too. The tension between you stretches so thin it feels like it’s about to snap. Then, he clears his throat, abruptly straightening up and breaking the spell. He steps back, running a hand through his messy, damp hair, looking anywhere but at you. "It is late," he mutters, his voice sounding a little rougher than usual. "You should not be down here. The cave air is bad for your lungs."

"Right. Yeah. Lungs. Terrible for them, heh..," you blurt out, mentally kicking yourself for sounding like a total idiot. Where did your sarcasm go?!

Damian walks back over to his desk, grabbing his discarded cape. "Go upstairs. And make sure you get some rest." He pauses at the edge of the shadows, his profile looking entirely too cinematic in the dim light. "I will be... reviewing patrol footage. Do not stay up." With one last lingering glance, he slips away into the darker training decks of the cave, leaving you completely alone.

In a rush you go to grab your apple pie and sprint up the manor stairs. As soon as you get in your room you close the door, you flop in your bed. You groan bury your face into a silk pillow. A thought then hits you. One good thing can come out of this. Time with Damian. You blush harder as another 18+ thought reaches you and you shake your head. Because now? Your crushing over your brothers best friend.

4 days later...

Bruce, for all his tactical genius and world-saving detective skills, had the social awareness of a brick wall when it came to teenagers. Clearly feeling a sudden spike of billionaire guilt for leaving his best friend’s daughter trapped in his gloomy house, he had declared it "Movie Night." Which is how you found yourself sitting on a ridiculously plush velvet couch in the manor’s private home theater at eight in the evening.

The thought was sweet, actually. But what ruined it was the fact he chose a old black and white 3 hour film based on architecture. And to make it worse? Je passed out to sleep only 10 minutes into the movie, slumped on the lounge chair across from you. Hes knocked out.

Which left you.

And Damian.

Sitting on the exact same couch in total, suffocating silence.

Ever since last night in the cave, your brain had been running a non stop marathon. You couldn't stop thinking about his eyes, or his jawline, or the roughness of his voice. You had spent the whole day avoiding him, but now, you were trapped. Damian was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, his long legs crossed, staring rigidly at the screen. He was wearing black sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt. No armor. No weapons. Just him looking devastatingly casual and too attractive for your peace of mind.

You shivered subconsciously, as the room is freezing cold. Your wearing a jersey with a white singlet underneath and a pair of shorts. Of course your gonna be somewhat cold. You didnt anticipate it would be this damn freezing.

Without a word, or even looking away from the screen, Damian reached for a thick blanket resting on the back of the sofa. He unrolled it and tossed it over your lap."Thanks," you mumbled, reaching down to adjust it.At the exact same moment, Damian reached down to tuck the edge in. Your hands brushed under the fabric.It was a split-second touch, skin-on-skin, but your heart literally leaped into your throat.

You flinched back like you’d been zapped by Livewire, your face instantly exploding into a furious, burning blush.

Damian froze. He slowly turned his head, his sharp green eyes locking onto your flustered face. In the dim, flickering gray light of the documentary, his gaze felt heavier than usual. He tracked the way your chest was rising and falling, your complete lack of your usual snappy composure.

You desperately needed a defense mechanism. You needed to be sarcastic.

"Uh," you cleared your throat, your voice cracking horribly on the first syllable. You internally screamed. "Great movie, right? Really gripping stuff about... bricks. And arches. Honestly couldnt love it more. Better than titanic thats for sure. Hah."

Damian didn't break eye contact. A slow, incredibly faint smirk began to tug at the corner of his lips—a look of pure, dark amusement. He leaned sideways, resting his arm on the back of the couch and shifting his weight closer to you. The distance between you vanished. "You are not watching the bricks," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous baritone. He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dropping to your lips before flicking back up.

"Are you nervous, Kent?"

Your breath hitched. You glanced desperately at Bruce’s snoring form, then back to the beautiful, arrogant boy practically looming over you. "Me? Nervous around a guy who wears a cape and reeks of sweat and books? My brother's best friend? Never." you whispered back, trying to regain your footing, but your racing pulse was entirely betraying you. Damian’s smirk widened just a fraction, his hand sliding under the blanket to find yours again. This time, he didn't let go. He leans in closer and whispers, "You know, for a Kent...your tolerable."

You swear butterflies are running around in your stomach right now. You bite your bottom lip, a nervous habit, and lean a bit closer to him. Embarrassment and nervousness fades away into something else. You dont know what exactly. "From anyone else id be offended. But from you?? I take it as a compliment. I mean id take anything from you as a compliment." And as fast as the embarrassment went, it came back as you slipped that last sentence out. He doesnt tease you. He grins. And before you can react?

His lips crash against yours. Its not rushed. Not rough. Its soft. Passionate yet sweet. Your eyes widen and your body stiffened...before relaxing and kissing back. After a good few seconds, you pull away and blush. "Wh...I...uh...what...wha...just happened..." yiu stammers out. This man has you whipped.

"You dont know how long I've wanted to do that for. Years, Hayati. Years. All these years of being quiet and I...I couldn't anymore. I love you. I do. You make me soft. You make me want to start smiling and laughing around everyone with all of the small things that you do. I really love you."

Your heart races and you cant even mister up a reply. You try but all that comes out is a whimper and a soft 'mmmh'. You flush up and he chuckles. He leans in and kisses your forehead. You snap out of it and kiss him back, yet again, all embarrassment and shock gone. And just like that your under the blanket, muffling the noises of wet sloppy kisses and whimpers and words of love.

The rest of the days fly too fast for both of your liking. And before you know it its time to go. You and Damian are now a couple basically. Not that Damian ir you would tell anyone out loud anyways. He grabs your bags and walks outside with you as he sees Clark get out of his pickup truck and thank Bruce.

"Hayati make sure you have everything and text me as soon as you exit the manor gates. He zips your bag up tightly and you share a final kiss. As you both exit the manor, Clark runs to you and picks you up and hugs you. "Sweetheart I missed you! Im so so so sorry we couldnt have our time together honestly I will make this up to you–" you cut him off with a soft laugh and squirm out of his arms.

"Dad its fine. Im okay. I had a surprisingly good time. Heh." You thank Bruce and Alfred as you get into the backseat of the pickup truck. Dick, Jason and Tim walk out too as you drive off. You cant help but feel a sudden pang of sadness at having to leave your new boyfriend. But at the same time you know you will see him again.

"Hey. We have a day left for just us. Dont think we can do the beach, but we can have daddy daughter activities at home!" Clark says proudly, to which you smile at.

Because in the end, you do get time with your dad. And a week at the manor has given you something you hope to cherrish forever. Damian Wayne.