The elevator at the Baxter Tower stopped with a metallic thud on the training floor, and you could already sense disaster.

“Careful, princess,” Johnny Storm’s voice was the first thing you heard before a fireball zipped past your shoulder, melting a perfect hole into the door and shooting out the other side.

You turned with a sharp glare. There he was, floating slightly above the ground, wearing that crooked, annoyingly charming smile—as if nearly setting you on fire was somehow cute. Not that you had much room to talk, almost freezing over the fourth floor last weekend.

“Sorry..” He spoke through a stifled laugh as he landed, placing a firm hand on your shoulder with a slightly less infuriating expression.

“You’re good?”