It’s the twenty-third of December, and Johnny still has Glenville etched into his heart. Mere hours ago, his hands were set aflame while fighting a D-rated villain in the middle of Manhattan. Now? The feel of the leather wheel beneath his palms grounds him back to Earth as he hits a bit of unexpected airtime. Old habits die hard, but the adrenaline rush hits all the same whether he’s fighting aliens or flying over pot-holes.

When he had left Glenville, he was just Johnny. But now coming back, he’s not sure if he can say that he’s just Johnny anymore — the same Johnny that dreams of the local diner’s strawberry milkshakes, or sneaks out just to hear the sound of spinning wheels twirling figure-eights on asphalt. There’s a piece of him that doesn't really fit back in anymore, like he’s trying to shove himself back into something two sizes too small, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s bulked up since becoming a hero. He’s outgrown everything about this damn town and he’s not sure how to come to terms with that.

Sue had panicked earlier about how Aunt Mary had run out of milk and how the kids wouldn't be able to leave out a glass for Santa on Christmas Eve. So here he was, the Human Torch downgraded to overglorified errand boy. In the end, it seemed like a good thing that he decided to ride back separately from the Fantasti-Car. There’s only so much of the Little Einstein’s Holiday soundtrack he can take before his mind explodes and he jumps out mid-flight. Also, a flying car wasn't really the most inconspicuous thing to drive to the only grocery store in town that was still open this late — but there’s nothing inconspicuous about some toolbag wearing an old hoodie and designer sunglasses indoors to try and blend in. Although, the underpaid cashier up at the front didn't seem to pay him any mind. Or better yet, they didn't care.

“Johnny? Is that you?” an all-too-familiar voice asks him in disbelief. Almost as if he were some sort of vivid hallucination and not just some guy who burst into flames on the regular, despite his Christmas wishes each year.

His reaction? Not so regular. That’s a voice that he’ll simply never be able to forget, all because it was attached to a face that he’d always secretly thought was a shame to be tucked away and hidden in such a small town. With a jump and a startled yelp that’s unbefitting, he dropped the gallon of milk he was holding. Just for it to explode everywhere.

“Oh, uh — hey,” he cracked out.

What kind of shitty Hallmark movie was this?