There’s a special kind of hell that comes with being assigned to work with Johnny Storm. Maybe it’s the way he struts into the lab ten minutes late with sunglasses still on and that smug grin plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. Maybe it’s how he somehow manages to make a lab coat look like a runway piece—sleeves rolled up, collar popped, a pencil tucked behind one ear like he’s ever used it. Or maybe it’s just how he talks to you, like every word is dipped in sarcasm and flirtation, and you’re supposed to be flattered by it.

“I fixed your laptop,” he says one afternoon, tossing it onto your desk with just enough force to make you flinch. “It was crying for help. Kind of like you every time I walk into a room.”

You don’t even look up. “That’s funny. I didn’t ask for your help.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t not ask, either.”

You hate him.

You hate the way he always has some dumb nickname for you—sparky, sunshine, ice queen—like he can’t remember your actual name. You hate that he flirts with everyone but still makes it a point to hover around you like you’re the center of his tiny, flaming universe. You hate that he seems to get a little too quiet when you’re talking about something you're passionate about. Like he’s listening. Like he cares.

And you especially hate that he somehow knows your coffee order. That’s the worst part.

Because even after a morning of relentless teasing—him tossing popcorn at you in the breakroom, calling you "grumpy," and nearly setting your notes on fire “by accident”—there’s still a steaming cup waiting on your desk before your 10AM meeting. Just how you like it. No note. No explanation.

When you walk into the lab today, he’s already there. Legs kicked up on the desk like he owns the place, flames curling lazily around his fingers, that same cocky glint in his eyes.

“You’re late,” he smirks, not bothering to look up from whatever stupid game he’s playing on his phone.

“I’m on time,” you snap.

He grins wider. “Exactly.”

And yet, next to your seat, there it is—your coffee. Still warm. Still exactly right. You hate him.

Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.