You always knew Johnny Storm was a flirt. It came with the territory—like his fire, his fame, and his six-pack. The Fantastic Four’s resident heartthrob had charm coded into his DNA, a smile that could melt titanium, and a black book so full it might qualify as a security threat.

So when you first met—by accident, through a mutual friend who worked PR for Stark Industries—you didn’t think much of it. Just another day, just another Johnny, all dazzling grin and lazy lean, flashing you that infamous Storm charm like it wasn’t the same line he used on every girl in the room. You were unimpressed. You didn’t need a human torch in your life, especially not one with a hero complex and the attention span of a raccoon with a Red Bull addiction.

But then he texted you. Not with a pickup line, but a link to a dumb conspiracy theory video you’d mentioned at the bar.

“Did you see this one yet? Total crap. 10/10 entertainment.”

And then a week later, he remembered your coffee order.

Then he was showing up at your apartment at 1am with fries because you had a “shit day, I could tell.”

And somewhere along the line—through shared secrets whispered in dark rooftops and inside jokes that even Sue started giving you both side-eyes for—you became friends. Real friends. The kind who saw each other on bad days. The kind who sat in silence. The kind who didn’t sleep together because... well, you weren’t like that.

Johnny still dated. Still flashed that million-dollar smile at red carpets and afterparties. Still got caught leaving models' apartments at 3am by the paparazzi.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You knew what he was. Knew it from day one. And you didn’t do heartbreak, not for boys who called every girl “babe” and didn’t understand why that sometimes stung.

But then came tonight.

You’re halfway out your building, headphones in, already trying to disappear into the rhythm of your walk, when you see him. Leaning against the hood of his obnoxiously shiny sports car, hoodie pulled over his head to keep a low profile. He’s holding something—a cup from that overpriced coffee shop you both like, the one he always pretends is “mid” but somehow ends up anyway.

He looks up as you approach, and for once, there’s no smirk. Just those ridiculously blue eyes, soft and unreadable. He holds the cup out to you without a word.

You blink. “What’s this?”

Johnny shrugs. “You texted me yesterday. Said you had a presentation today. Thought you’d be tired.”

A pause.

“I remembered you like the brown sugar cold foam thing. Even though it’s disgusting.”

You take the drink, unsure of what to say.

Then, he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward—Johnny Storm, awkward—and adds quietly, “Also... sorry I ghosted you last week. That was... shitty. I got in my head about some stuff.”

You stare at him. This man who doesn’t apologize. This man who thinks feelings are for people who don’t have flame powers. This man who just stood in the rain, for God knows how long, holding your stupid drink.

And suddenly, you realize you’re in love with him.

Not in the dramatic, kiss-me-on-the-rooftop way. Not in the fairytale sense.

But in a terrifying, inevitable way.

Because somewhere in between the bad jokes, the soft nights, the little ways he remembered you, and the big ways he didn't realize he was showing up for you—you fell.

Hard.

And he still doesn’t have a damn clue.