The lab is quiet. Late-night quiet. The kind where even the fluorescents hum differently — softer, as though they’ve learned how to eavesdrop.

R_ed had left hours ago, muttering something about “conductivity thresholds” and “bio-emotional correlation via dermal input”. Su_ had raised one eyebrow in warning as you volunteered. Ben had just chuckled behind his mug of protein sludge.

And now you’re here. In the empty training room. With Johnny.

He sits cross-legged on the mat, shirtless, his palms open on his knees, heat radiating in lazy waves from his skin. You can see it in the air — a shimmer, like sunlit water. He’s trying to keep it low. Controlled. But it pulses with every breath. His body has always spoken louder than his mouth — and right now, it's saying “touch me, touch me, touch me.”

You sit across from him and exhale slowly. “Okay. Ground rules. We go slow. I watch your pulse. I name each touch before I do it.”

Johnny grins, golden and reckless. “Should I be taking notes?”

You give him a look. “I’m serious.”

“Sweetheart, I’m trying. It’s just that you saying ‘touch’ while sitting in my lap-level eye line makes it very hard to think professionally.”

You resist the smile pulling at your mouth. He’s impossible. And ridiculous.

The first touch is clinical. Back of your fingers to his forearm. Warm. Dry. Harmless. He doesn’t move, but his breath shortens.

“Baseline,” you murmur, noting the spike on the little monitor attached to his pulse point. “Just skin-to-skin.”

“So... I’m not allowed to moan?”

You glare at him. “Johnny.”

“I’m kidding. I’m good. I’m zen.” He closes his eyes, mock-serene. “I’m a toasted marshmallow of self-restraint.”

You press your fingers to the inside of his wrist next — delicate. Slower. His skin is a live wire. Every inch of him is too much.

“You’re warmer,” you say, softly. “Not unstable. But... rising.”

He opens one eye and smirks. “So are you.”

You snort and shake your head. “Do you ever stop?”

“Only when you ask me to.” That shuts you up.

Because beneath all the smirks and swagger is something real — something sharp-edged and careful and listening. Johnny’s been told his whole life that he’s too much: too hot, too fast, too dangerous. But with you, he’s learning that too much can feel like everything you ever wanted if you just learn how to hold it right.

The third touch is different. Your hand on his chest. Bare. Steady. Just above his heart. You feel it stutter.

You look up. He’s already watching you. Neither of you speaks.

The monitor is blinking faster now, and his skin is flushed, flushed in the way that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with intimacy.

You whisper, “Is it the touch or the intention?”

He answers without hesitation. “It’s you.”

You lean in slightly. His breath hitches. You feel it under your hand. “I thought this was a training session,” you tease, trying to diffuse it.

“It is,” he says. “I’m training not to kiss you when you look at me like that.”

You smile. But you don’t back away. You pull your hand back. He lets out a breath like it physically hurts him. “Okay,” you say, voice steady. “Last test. You ready?”

“What’s the test?”

You don’t answer. You just crawl into his lap — slow, intentional — your knees bracketing his thighs, your palms against his jaw, his chest against yours. Close. So close he can’t think, can’t joke, can’t hide.

“Touch me,” you whisper, “without losing control.”

And for the first time in maybe his whole life —Johnny doesn’t burst into flame. He just holds you. And he glows.