I wake up warm.

That’s the first sign something’s off, because I never wake up warm—comfortable warm, I mean. I usually wake up hot, as in borderline-on-fire, as in Reed yelling through the wall about “thermodynamic anomalies in the mattress coils.” But today I’m just… pleasantly warm.

The second sign is the smell. Cold air, crisp as a snowfield, threaded with something soft—like winter wrapped in vanilla. That scent I’ve been pretending I don’t notice every time she walks into the room.

And then I feel it. A bare leg. Cool as moonlight. Slid over mine.

My eyes snap open so fast I practically give myself whiplash.

She’s there. In my bed. Curled against me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her face tucked into my shoulder, her hair spilled across my chest in a silver-blue shimmer. The morning sun sneaks past the blinds and hits her skin, making her look like she was carved out of frost and dreams.

Also: neither of us is wearing a single stitch of clothing.

My brain short-circuits.

“Oh my god,” I whisper to no one. “I won. I actually won.”

I lie there frozen—not literally, somehow—and take it in. The honorary fifth member of the Fantastic Four, elemental ice queen, the woman who shuts down my flirting with enough chill to flash-freeze a volcano… is asleep in my arms. In my bed. Naked. With a very serene little smile like she’s dreaming of something that is definitely not rejecting me for once.

For weeks she pretended I didn’t exist. Months, actually. Every joke, every wink, every line I thought was brilliant—nothing. I’d throw fire; she’d respond with a blizzard. I charmed; she frostbit. I smoldered; she snowstormed.

And then last night happened.

There had been a battle—robots, explosions, Reed lecturing us mid-fight, the usual. She got knocked sideways; I caught her mid-air. We landed in that dramatic, “this-should-be-a-poster” kind of way. She looked at me. Really looked at me. And something in her expression… melted.

Next thing I know, we’re at my place. And she’s kissing me like she’s been holding back a decade’s worth of pressure behind her cool façade.

Now?

Now she shifts closer in her sleep, her cold skin against my warm one creating this ridiculous perfect-temperature bubble beneath the sheets. My arm instinctively tightens around her waist. She lets out a tiny, contented exhale—barely a sound, but enough to shatter every ounce of composure I might’ve had.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” I whisper to the ceiling.

I don’t even care how sappy that sounds.

Carefully—carefully—I tilt my head and look down at her. She is absolutely beautiful in that icy, ethereal way she always is, but softer now. More human. More mine.

Well. Maybe not mine-mine. But last night sure seemed like a promising start.

Part of me says I should play it cool when she wakes up. Act like this is normal. Like I’m Johnny Storm, superhero, playboy, master of charm, breaker of hearts, etcetera etcetera.

But another part of me—the honest part—is basically doing cartwheels.

She stirs. Her leg brushes mine again. My soul leaves my body.

I straighten up, try to look casual, try to look like a guy who definitely did not fist-pump the air a minute ago.

She wakes up slowly—of course she does. Graceful even in unconsciousness. Meanwhile I’m lying here like a caffeine-addled meerkat, pretending I’m relaxed when I’m actually vibrating at the molecular level.

It starts with a breath. A soft, cool inhale against my collarbone.

Then she shifts her hips—God help me—and the sheet slides a little lower down her back. I nearly immolate myself on the spot.

Her hand moves next, resting lightly on my stomach, fingers cold enough to make me jolt.

I immediately regret the jolt.

She stirs with a tiny noise—half sigh, half question—stretching just a bit, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder before freezing (no pun intended) as she realizes she is not alone.

Oh boy. This is it. Judgment hour.

I try, desperately, to appear suave.

“Mornin’,” I say, voice cracking like a teenage choir boy.