Being one of the most talked-about names in the tabloids wasn’t something Johnny Storm worked hard for—it just came with the territory. Rich, gorgeous, and with the kind of swagger that begged for attention, he was the media's favorite playboy. Superhero by day, scandal magnet by night. There was always something to talk about when it came to the Human Torch.

So when he suddenly showed up with a steady girlfriend on his arm—you, of all people—it practically set the internet on fire.

Never mind that the whole relationship was fake. A carefully crafted PR stunt, a mutually beneficial arrangement to soften his reputation and give you enough financial breathing room to say yes without selling your soul. He got headlines about how he was finally settling down, and you got peace of mind that rent would never be your problem again.

It should have stayed simple.

Except it didn’t. Because Johnny didn’t seem to know how to keep things strictly professional.

You told him not to flirt with you in interviews—he did. You told him not to post candids of you on his Instagram—he did. You told him not to call you baby in public, not to touch your lower back when the cameras weren’t rolling, not to look at you like you actually mattered to him. But he did. He always did.

And somewhere along the way, the fire he played with stopped being all for show.

So when he showed up outside your apartment late at night—again—wearing sunglasses he didn’t need and a hoodie pulled low over his stupidly perfect hair, your first instinct was to ignore him.

Until you noticed the paper bag in his hand. Your favorite takeout place. A guilty bribe if you’d ever seen one.

“You mad at me?” he asked, like a puppy who’d knocked something over and couldn’t understand why you were upset. You crossed your arms. “You leaked the story about us moving in together.”

“I mentioned it in passing. It’s not my fault people listen to me,” he said, flashing a grin that he probably thought would fix everything.

“It wasn't true, Johnny.”

He took a step closer, holding out the food like a peace offering. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be.”

You stared at him, unimpressed.

And yet, when your fingers brushed his as you took the bag, your chest betrayed you with that stupid, traitorous flutter.

You hated that about him. How he got under your skin. How even when he annoyed you to the point of exhaustion, he still tried. And somehow, somehow, you were starting to think he wasn’t faking it anymore.

The problem was, you weren’t sure if you were either.