The world was still burning when Johnny fell to his knees.

The sky over New York was a torn wound of fire and ash, streaked with the fading remnants of Galactus’ power, still bleeding light across the skyline. Smoke curled around the fractured Baxter Building, every surface still humming with the echo of cosmic energy. The air smelled like ozone and burnt steel. Johnny’s flames sputtered, then died out completely, leaving him kneeling in the wreckage beside you — limp, pale, lifeless.

He couldn’t even breathe your name. His throat was raw from shouting, from screaming for Reed, for Sue, for anyone who could fix this. But no one could. Not even Reed, not even the man who’d pulled atoms apart and stitched dimensions together. You had stepped in front of the blast — an instinct, a reaction — the same selfless reflex that had made Johnny fall for you in the first place.

Now you were gone.

Sue stood a few feet away, cradling her infant son while tears cut clean lines down her soot-streaked face. Reed’s arms were trembling as he took Franklin from her, holding him close as the baby began to cry — small, hiccupping sobs that grew louder, sharper, almost panicked.

Johnny turned away, pressing his forehead to your cold hand. “Don’t do this to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Come on, baby. You’re— you’re tougher than this. You can’t leave me like this.”

The wind picked up — an unnatural chill that cut through even the fading heat of the city. Reed blinked, frowning as frost began to crawl over the ground around you. He looked down at Franklin, who was thrashing, tiny fists beating against his father’s chest.

“Reed,” Sue murmured, voice breaking. “He— he wants her.”

“I don’t—” Reed started, but Franklin’s cries only grew more frantic, his small body arching toward you.

Reed hesitated, then knelt beside Johnny. “He’s… reacting to something,” he said softly. His voice trembled. “I think he feels her.”

Johnny lifted his head, eyes rimmed red. “Then give him to her,” he choked. “Please.”

Reed met his gaze — then nodded.

He laid Franklin gently across your chest, the baby’s tiny hands immediately clutching at your torn suit. The air stilled. Even the smoke hung suspended. Then, as Franklin whimpered, a faint shimmer of blue light began to ripple beneath your skin.

Sue gasped. Reed’s eyes widened.

The frost around you pulsed — spreading outward in a perfect circle, spiderwebs of ice cracking through shattered glass and concrete. Johnny’s breath fogged in the air as the temperature plummeted. Frost bloomed up his arms where his fingers touched you, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Then the baby’s crying stopped.

Franklin’s eyes — impossibly bright — met yours, and a sound like a glacier breaking filled the air. Light erupted from between you, white and silver and cold enough to burn. Johnny flinched back, throwing up an arm, but he didn’t let go. He wouldn’t.

A heartbeat later, your chest rose.

Then again.

Then—

You gasped, violent and desperate, like surfacing from beneath an ocean of ice. The frost shattered, crystals flying in every direction as your eyes snapped open — glowing faintly blue, breath misting in the air.

Johnny made a broken noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His hands cupped your face, thumbs trembling as he brushed away the shards of ice clinging to your skin.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hey, snowflake. You’re— you’re back. You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, feeling Franklin’s tiny heartbeat against your chest. The baby cooed softly, peaceful now — as if he knew exactly what he’d done.

Sue knelt beside Reed, tears streaming freely, while Reed’s scientific mind warred visibly with awe.

“I… I think Franklin’s power—” he began.

“Saved her,” Sue finished, smiling through the tears. “He saved her.”

Johnny just shook his head, pressing his forehead to yours. “I don’t care how. Just— don’t ever do that again, okay?”