Johnny Storm woke up suspiciously warm.

Not fire-warm. Not heat-of-battle, mid-explosion warm.

This was luxury warmth. Sexy warmth. The kind of warmth that came with tousled sheets, a faint ache in the hips, and the unmistakable scent of victory.

He exhaled, slowly, like a man who had just conquered Everest using only charm, abs, and bad metaphors.

Then he blinked at the ceiling and thought:

I did it. I seduced an actual snow goddess. I am unstoppable. I am a god among men. I should be knighted. Or sainted. Or bronzed.

He turned his head.

There you were, still asleep, half-covered by the sheet you’d refused to let him touch last night until precisely two seconds before ripping it off yourself and saying, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll refrigerate your internal organs.”

He hadn’t told anyone.

Yet.

You were sprawled across his bed like a Grecian statue that hated affection. One pale arm slung across his stomach. One bare leg hooked over his like your body hadn’t spent hours pinned beneath him, wrapped around him, whispering things that would make Sue faint.

Johnny swallowed.

She kissed me, he thought.

That shouldn’t have shocked him, given the things you’d done after. But still—you kissed him first. You’d grabbed his collar and kissed him like you were trying to shut him up permanently.

And it almost worked.

He turned his head again—just to check.

Still naked.

Still next to you.

Still alive.

Barely.

Johnny ran a hand down his face and smiled like the idiot in a romance novel. His hair was a mess. His sheets smelled like her perfume and burnt ozone. There was an icicle lodged in the corner of his nightstand. His thighs still tingled.

This is the best day of my life.

He tried to sit up, but your arm tightened across his torso.

“Don’t move,” you mumbled into his ribs.

Johnny froze. “Y-you’re awake?”

“Unfortunately.”

“…Are we cuddling?”

“No.”

“We’re literally—”

“This is limb containment. Don’t read into it.”

Johnny grinned. “Too late.”

You groaned, rolling over onto your back and throwing an arm over your face.

“God. What have I done.”

He propped himself up on an elbow. “Transcended time. Redefined pleasure. Possibly created a new element. Also—” he paused, letting his fingers trace the curve of your hip under the sheet “—confessed, very poetically, that you’ve been into me this whole time.”

“I must’ve been drunk.”

“You’re immune to alcohol.”

“Then it was a head injury.”

Johnny beamed, impossibly pleased with himself. “You said my name.”

“You begged first.”

“Several times,” he admitted proudly. “Also, you bit me.”

“Because you were talking.”

“And you liked it.”

You sat up, cool and unbothered, the sheet slipping low enough for him to consider writing a sonnet. You stared down at him with all the indifference of a glacier. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything,” he said, eyes wide, shameless. “I’m ruined for other women. I can never date a warm-blooded person again. I need the threat of frostbite. I crave it now.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your gloves on the floor.

Johnny wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder, completely nude and not even pretending to be subtle. “Just admit it. You melted a little.”

You glanced at him. “You combusted three times.”

He pressed a kiss behind your ear. “You liked it.”

Silence.

Then: “Maybe.”

Johnny practically levitated with joy.

You sighed. “If you tell anyone—”

“I’ll deny everything,” he promised solemnly, sliding his hands down your hips. “Scout’s honor.”

“…You were never a scout.”

“Which is why I’m excellent in bed.”