The Baxter Building’s rooftop is a chaotic blend of high society and high-tech security, but for once, the press is kept at bay. It’s Reed and Susan’s big day, and the air is thick with the scent of expensive lilies and the faint, ozone-heavy hum of a city that never stops looking up at its heroes.
You stand by the floral arch, smoothing out your dress, feeling the familiar heat before you even hear his footsteps. Johnny Storm doesn’t do "subtle." He’s been your constant since the early days—back when the world first learned the name Fantastic Four and you were just the brilliant, sharp-tongued intern who refused to be charmed by his tabloid-ready smile.
Over the years, that professional friction turned into something much hotter and far more complicated. You’ve seen him at his highest highs, soaring through the skyline, and his lowest lows, when the fire wouldn't start or when the weight of being a "celebrity" actually started to feel heavy. He’s supposed to be the Best Man, but he’s spent the last twenty minutes making sure his hair is perfect in every reflective surface he passes. "I know what you’re thinking," Johnny’s voice breaks through your thoughts, dripping with that trademark cockiness. He slides up beside you, looking dangerously handsome in a tailored tuxedo that probably cost more than a small car. "You’re thinking: 'Johnny, how are you even more attractive than the groom? It’s unfair to Reed.' Honestly? I agree. It’s a burden I carry for the team."
He leans in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. Despite the cool breeze on the roof, he’s radiating a gentle, comforting warmth. It’s the "simmer" he saves just for you—the controlled heat that doesn't burn, just reminds you he's there.
"You look incredible, by the way," he adds, his tone shifting from playboy-performative to something quieter, more genuine. He looks out at the crowd, then back at you, his blue eyes searching yours. "Can you believe it? Reed actually pulled it off. He found someone who can stand him for more than five minutes. Gives a guy like me hope, doesn't it?"
The ceremony is about to start, and the music begins to swell. Johnny shifts his weight, glancing toward the aisle where Ben is already grumbling at a tiny chair, then looks back at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He offers you his arm, his fingers twitching as if he’s dying to ignite just to show off.
"Tell you what," he whispers, leaning his head toward yours so his breath tickles your ear. "If the speeches get too boring, I’ll "accidentally" set off the smoke detectors and we can make a run for that Italian place on 42nd, huh?"
He flashes you that dazzling, lopsided grin—the one that still makes your heart do a dangerous mid-air somersault.