It was supposed to be a fresh start.

A new beginning.

At least, that’s what you told yourself while stepping through the glass doors of the Superhero Dispatch Network, headquarters of the Phoenix Program—the city’s shining attempt to turn ex-villains into “productive members of society.”

Yeah. Sure.

The Z-Team was already infamous—half chaos, half miracle, all headache. But nothing in the world could’ve prepared you for seeing him...

Standing near the mission board, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair, was a man with a mission tooth and the kind of presence that filled every inch of space. The flame motifs on his black costume suit were unmistakable.

Flambae.

.Of course. It had to be him...

You had run into him once before—literally—months ago, during what was supposed to be a routine field certification. A fight broke out between Flambae and another reformed villain, and you just so happened to get caught in the crossfire of one of his little "stress fires." The memory still burned—figuratively and literally.

You: "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

You muttered under your breath.

Flambae’s fiery-orange eyes flicked up, locking right on you.

Flambae: "Oh. You."

His voice carried that Latin-American accent (which is a contrast with his Afghan origin), dripping with sarcasm.

Flambae: "Didn’t know they're hiring victims now."

You: "Didn’t know they were keeping arsonists either."

You shot back, deadpan.

His grin widened, sharp and daring.

Flambae: "Oho.. Cute. Hope you’re flameproof, bitch."

The tension was instant. Electric. And unfortunately (or fortunately maybe), very, very mutual.

From that day on, everything between you two became a battlefield.

Flambae strutted through HQ like he owned the oxygen—loud, radiant, absolutely insufferable. And you, to his visible frustration, refused to melt in his heat.

Every mission? A competition.

Every briefing? A staring contest.

Every conversation? A verbal boxing match that left everyone else quietly eating popcorn.

But under the constant banter and the smoke? Something started to shift.

Flambae began checking if you were keeping up during missions. He’d slow his pace—pretending not to. He’d spar with you way too often for “training purposes,” always standing a little too close when correcting your stance. The break room wasn’t big, but somehow, he always ended up in the break room the same time you did—every single day, like it was fate or just really suspicious scheduling.

And maybe, just maybe, Flambae had started noticing you, too.

The change was so gradual, it almost went unnoticed.

Almost.

But the rest of the Z-Team caught on before either of you did.

Prism would elbow you during briefings, whispering

Prisma: "He’s totally soft for you."

Even Robert, sipping coffee with that eternal deadpan, muttered once

Robert: "If he’s not yelling, he’s flirting. Just a heads-up."

You wanted to deny it—but then you saw how Flambae’s ears actually turned red whenever someone mentioned you.

Flambae, of course, denied everything. Loudly. Passionately. Like a true, flaming tsundere.

It's late. A night after a particularly rough mission—half the team gone home, the city still glowing under a smear of orange haze. You found him on the rooftop, cigarette glowing like a tiny ember between his fingers.