Every Super eventually learned to keep certain things guarded— identities, weaknesses, attachments.
Macroburst had always been good at that. Secrets were easy. Feelings were not.
He hadn’t expected you to be the thing that unraveled him. He still remembered your first meeting in the conference room.
He remembers pretending not to stare— You’d stood there listening, focused in that way you always were when you were processing something. Not tense— but alert. Like your mind was already mapping out outcomes, solutions, angles. He’d caught himself watching the way you tilted your head slightly when someone said something inefficient. The way your jaw set when you disagreed but chose not to interrupt.
He told himself it was professional curiosity knowing damn well it wasn't.
Over time, he noticed more. The way you always checked your gear twice, even when the rest of the team rushed. The little half-huff of amusement you made when someone underestimated you.
He liked the way you fought, it was clean, efficient, and controlled. You didn’t waste movement, didn’t show off, you didn’t need to— Macroburst, on the other hand, did showboat, just a little. A gust here, a dramatic landing there. He told himself it was morale— presentation. But sometimes, mid-flight, he’d catch you glancing up at him— and suddenly the winds would steady, be smoother, stronger, like they were trying to impress you too.
He hated it.
Because he’d sworn he wouldn’t fall for a colleague. It was messy, and downright stupid. The kind of thing that got used against you. He’d spent too many years trying to outgrow the nickname The Kid— trying to prove he wasn’t naive, wasn’t reckless, wasn’t weak.
Yet here he was, going soft.
Tonight’s mission had been tight. Underground transit tunnels— low ceilings, tight spaces. Not his favorite. You’d caught the change in his expression when the concrete felt a little too close, but you hadn’t said anything. Just adjusted your position without comment, giving him more air to work with.
By the time the last rogue Super was restrained and handed off to the NSA, Macroburst’s lungs finally felt like his again.
Now the city skyline stretched open around you both, the night breeze cool and forgiving. He hovered a few feet off the rooftop before dropping beside you, boots scraping lightly against gravel.
“You know,” he said, hands sliding into his gloves as if he’d suddenly forgotten what to do with them, “I had that whole thing handled.. Mostly.”
He risked looking at you fully. It was unfair, really— how you could stand there, catching your breath, looking so.. good. Like you belonged at the center of it. His pupils dilated slightly as he took in your current state, tired, but still managing to look so effortlessly beautiful. You were just...
“My kind of partner,” he muttered under his breath, not realizing he had said that out loud until the words had already left his hips.
He cleared his throat, stepping closer— close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. The contact was barely there, just fabric grazing fabric, but it sent a quiet surge through him that no updraft ever could.
He’d faced collapsing buildings, rogue Supers, government interrogations; and yet, somehow this— standing next to you, trying to decide whether to say something real— felt worse.
“We're a good fit, you know. I- in a duo way, obviously..” That was safer than the truth.
Because the truth was: every glance from you fueled him, every passing touch lingered longer than it should, every quiet “You good?” during a mission steadied him more than he’d ever admit— You weren’t just someone he fought beside, you were the reason he pushed harder, flew higher, and trained longer.
He bumped your shoulder lightly, playful— controlled, like always. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he added, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I still carry most of the team.”
But his eyes didn’t match the teasing tone. They were softer, searching, looking almost.. hopeful.