You’re already half pissed at him before your boots hit the roof.

It’s not a real mission. Just a patrol shift, just a perimeter run, just one of those quiet hours where the city hums under your skin and the sky turns soft with dusk. You’re tired, you’re sweaty, and you had not enough sleep.

And then he says it. “You wanna know what I’m feeling? Catch me first.”

You turn. “Johnny—”

Too late.

He’s airborne, laughing, heat trailing behind him like a comet’s tail, flame curling around his ankles as he rises over the edge of the building and disappears into the Manhattan night.

You mutter a curse. Adjust your grip. And run.

He’s always faster than he should be. Not just because of the powers — though god, the powers — but because he enjoys it. The game of it. The way the wind rushes past him like applause. The thrill of being chased, not for his destruction, but for his attention. He was built for this — not war, not science — but for motion. For fire. For joy.

You catch glimpses of him as you sprint across the next rooftop. A flare of light. A shadow cutting between buildings. The faint echo of his voice somewhere above: “Getting slow, sweetheart!”

You leap the alleyway, barely make the landing, hiss through your teeth. “Keep talking,” you call, “and I’ll slow-roast you in your sleep.”

He laughs again, and it cracks something open in you — not rage, not frustration. Just this feeling, this unbearable fullness of affection, pressed up against the back of your teeth.

He’s waiting for you on the rooftop of a closed flower shop, crouched low, flame simmering just around his fingertips. His grin is lazy, dangerous. His curls are wind-mussed, and there’s sweat at his temples.

“I was gonna keep going,” he says, breathless. “But then I thought — maybe I want you to catch me.”

You roll your eyes. You’re flushed, panting, adrenaline still singing in your bloodstream. Your hair is a mess, your gloves are scuffed, and your knee probably took the worst of that second jump — but you don’t care.

You walk toward him, slow and deliberate. “I don’t play games I can’t win,” you murmur.

He straightens, watches you, chest rising fast beneath his shirt. “Then ask me.”

“What?”

He takes a step closer. “You caught me. Ask me what you want.”

You stare at him, pulse beating hard behind your ears. So you say it. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

The rooftop is suddenly too quiet. The wind moves through the air vents like breath. The city pulses far below, indifferent. And Johnny —the one who never shuts up, never stops moving — just looks at you.

His voice is rough when he finally answers. “Because I didn’t want to do it too soon and scare you off.”