Your world was a curated kit of powders and potions, a zippered universe of creams that could mask the soot-smudges left by a Human Torch’s landing. You were the phantom fifth, the one who made the four presentable for a world that wanted its heroes shiny. And Johnny… Johnny was your primary assignment, your greatest challenge, your best-kept secret.

He found you in the makeup room, a sterile space you’d tried to soften with a trailing pothos and a small, salt-rock lamp that cast a warm, pinkish glow against the relentless white. He moved like he flew—all contained momentum and easy grace, sliding into the chair with a sigh that was more performance than fatigue.

“Ready for your close-up, Mr. Storm?” you asked, your voice a practiced neutral. The script was familiar.

“Only if you’re the one holding the camera, sweetheart.” His grin was a flash of sunlight in the artificially lit room. He called you ‘sweetheart’ in front of everyone, a brazen endearment they all dismissed as Johnny being Johnny. Only the two of you knew the weight of it, the private currency of that word.

You clicked the latch of your kit, the sound a tiny, definitive snap in the quiet. The first touch was always the most dangerous. You’d dip your sponge into the foundation, and he’d watch your hands in the mirror, his blue eyes tracking your every move with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. You learned the landscape of his face by heart: the faint sun-lines at the corners of his eyes, the small, pale scar on his jawline from a childhood mishap involving a skateboard and a fire hydrant, the impossible softness of his lower lip.

Today, he was quiet. His stillness was a language you were learning to speak. You smoothed a cream over the faint bruise on his temple, your thumb a gentle pressure.

“Tough day at the office?” you murmured, the question meant only for him.

He caught your wrist. Not hard, but with a suddenness that stole your breath. He turned his head, his nose brushing your inner arm, and he inhaled, as if memorizing the scent of your scented lotion.

“Ben was asking about you,” he said, his voice low, the words a warm puff against your skin. “Said you’ve been turning down his invites for team pizza nights. Thinks you don’t like him.”

Your heart performed a complicated, painful maneuver in your chest. “I like Ben just fine.”

“He thinks you’re avoiding us.” Us. The word hung there, a delicate, dangerous bubble. He wasn’t talking about the team. He was talking about them, as a unit, the entity you were deliberately holding yourself apart from.

You pulled your hand back, the loss of his touch feeling like a chill. “It’s complicated, Johnny.”

“Is it?” He swiveled the chair to face you, his knees bumping against yours, caging you in. The air in the room shifted, grew thick with the unsaid. “Because from where I’m sitting, it feels pretty simple. I’m crazy about you. You’re… well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

He reached out, his fingers touching the hem of your sweater. “My little ghost,” he whispered, a pet name he’d coined in the dark of his apartment, tangled in his sheets. It was meant to be tender, but tonight it felt like an accusation. “You drift in and out of my life, and I’m the only one who can see you.”

This was the fear that kept you up at night: the fear of becoming a footnote in the Johnny Storm legend. What you had was a secret garden, overgrown and wild and beautiful, and you were terrified that sunlight and too many eyes would wither it.

“They’ll look at me differently,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “They’ll look at us differently. I’m the makeup artist. I blend the backgrounds. I don’t… I don’t step into the frame.”

Johnny’s expression softened. He brought his hand up, cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You’re not in the background,” he said, his voice fierce with a conviction that shook you. “You’re the one who puts me back together. You’re the quiet after the noise. You’re the only thing in my life that feels completely real.”