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Johnny Storm doesn’t panic.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
Panic is below him. Panic is for people who are unprepared, people who are vulnerable and can lose—and that simply isn’t him.
He’s Johnny Storm.
Except for the fact that he is panicking. Full blown panic. Because the text on his phone reads:
SOS. EMERGENCY. NOW.
From you.
Your relationship is still relatively new, and despite Johnny being, in Ben’s words, "completely and utterly whipped" , you’ve both been taking it slow. Keeping it private.
Johnny understood the reasoning, of course. For every benefit that came with being in the public eye—and being, well, a superhero —there were just as many ugly, unappetizing drawbacks.
The kind that involved people getting hurt just for being close.
And one of those reasons—the one that sat in the back of his mind, stuffed into that dusty, cobwebbed corner where he kept things that made him feel too much—was the fear that someone might figure out his big secret.
That all it would take to bring Johnny Storm to his knees was you.
He’s not thinking clearly when he leaves the Baxter Building.
He flames on mid-hallway, and shoots through the air, burning bright over the city. He knows the urgency of his movements will cause headlines later, but he doesn’t care.
“Please be okay,” he mutters as he flies. “Please. Please just be a stupid cat or something. Or like...a clogged drain.”
But he knows you. You wouldn’t say emergency unless it was real.
What if you’re hurt? What if you’re scared, or bleeding out on your kitchen floor because of some dumb mistake—and he didn’t move fast enough?
He barely extinguishes the flames as he lands, shoes smoking as he rounds the corner onto your street. A couple stares. A kid points. A teenager tries to stop him. He jogs past them all, muttering apologies, hair still faintly singed.
The worst things are flooding his mind by the time he reaches your apartment, a thin trail of heat curls off his shoulders as he barrels toward the entrance, just as someone reaches the door.
“Hold that—please—!”
An older woman in a quilted vest turns toward him, pausing mid-step. She looks him up and down, and then begins pulling the door shut. Johnny fails to hide his offense as he pushes himself forward.
“Ma’am, I just—can I—sorry, I just need to—”
“Don’t know you,” she says firmly. “Not letting in strangers.”
“I’m not—well, technically I am —but I’m here for my girlfriend.”
At her silence, he adds, “Kinda. It’s new.”
She raises a brow. “So not a girlfriend.”
“I mean, not in the technical sense but—”
She swings her purse at him. “Out! I don’t know you ! You don’t live here.”
“Ow! Okay—please—I’m not—” He ducks the second swing, trying to wedge his shoulder through the narrow gap she’s holding open with her hip. “I’m not here to hurt anyone! I just need to see —ow, okay, okay —”
She starts muttering something about delinquents and city crime as she thwacks him once more. Johnny ducks again, hands half-raised, grateful none of his family is around to witness him getting smacked around by an elderly woman. They would never let him live it down.
“I swear I’m not breaking in!” Johnny protests. “I’m Johnny Storm! ”
She narrows her eyes.
“You know, the Human Torch?” he adds, gesturing wildly. “Fantastic Four? That’s me, on the billboard!” He turns and points outside, where his face—smirking, flaming—stretches three stories high above the city skyline.
She squints at the billboard. “Well. You should’ve led with that.”
He’s still rubbing his arm when she lets him in.
Johnny doesn’t wait for the elevator. He bolts up the stairs two at a time until he’s face to face with your door. He barely skids to a stop outside before banging on it desperately. When there’s no immediate answer, he takes one step back.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, drawing his foot back—
The door swings open.
You blink up at him. “Johnny?”
“Hey,” He exhales sharply, eyes sweeping over you. Your face is not one of panic. “You’re—you’re okay?”
You open your mouth to reply, but behind you, there’s a burst of noise.
“Wait—is that—”
“OH my god —”
“Is that Johnny fucking Storm?!”
Several of your friends spill into the doorway, wide-eyed and gawking.
You go rigid. Then you slam the door shut in their faces, back pressed against it as you turn to Johnny, cheeks burning.
“Sorry.” You breathe out. “Is everything okay?”
“That was kind of my line,” he says, holding up his phone. Your text glows on the screen.
You frown, then pat yourself down, grabbing your own phone from your pocket. You open his contact— named by Johnny himself as hot stuff🔥 —and there it is. Your emergency text.
Your mouth drops. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. They were curious about the new boyfriend, and Rylee got into my phone, and—”
He raises a brow. “Boyfriend?”
“Huh?”
Johnny smirks. “You said they were curious about your new boyfriend .”
“Did I? Maybe you’re hearing things.”
“I don’t think so,” He steps closer, arms slipping around your waist. “You telling people about me, sweetheart?”
Your lips tug into a grin. “Maybe.”
He leans in, just as someone behind the door gasps again.
You both pull back, laughing. Johnny raises a hand—and with one flicker of heat, singes the peephole black.
“Johnny!” you swat his chest. “If that’s damaged, I have to pay—”
He kisses you.
“I think I can cover that,” he murmurs, then leans in again, lips brushing yours. “As your boyfriend.”
Johnny brings you in again, and every frantic piece of him quiets as you melt into his touch.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, breath hitching as you pull back just enough to speak. “If I worried you.”
He starts to shake his head, slow and distracted, because he can’t quite pull himself back into language. He’d rather just keep kissing you until all that panic melts off his skin.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut. His hand traces down your back, a little greedy. A little soft. You’re close and warm and real, and it’s making his thoughts scatter.
“Right. I forgot,” you say, lips tilting into a smile, “Johnny Storm isn’t scared of anything.”
“Well that’s not entirely true,” he says, almost without thinking.
“No?”
Your fingers are in his hair now, brushing the nape of his neck. He shivers. He leans in again—barely resisting the urge to kiss you stupid—and knocks his nose into yours, more gentle this time.
“I’m scared of you.”
Your brows lift. “Me?”
He nods, just a little, his forehead resting against yours. “Yes. You.”
“I’m not scary.”
“On the contrary,” Johnny says. “You’re terrifying.”
“Oh really?”
He nods. “I’ve been through… well, let’s see. Interdimensional wormholes. Space monsters. Literal hell once, I think? And I didn’t even flinch. But you—” he whistles lowly, “—the second I thought something happened to you… it was like I forgot how to breathe. My whole body just… reacted . I've never felt panic like that. Not even close.”
Something in your face softens. “Really?”
“You make me weak,” Johnny admits. “In the worst and best way.”
Your eyes flicker over his face, taking him in. Your fingers thread deeper into his hair. “Good,” you whisper, and then you kiss him—slow, deep, and just as greedy. When you finally pull back, your breath is warm against his lips. “You big ol’ softie.”
“Don’t start that rumor.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” you whisper, teasing. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin your public image by revealing you’re obsessed with me.”
“Well,” he says, as his hands settle further on your hips again. “I’d say being emotionally vulnerable is incredibly hot of me, don’t you think?”
You raise a brow. “That right?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, nosing along your jaw. “Shows range. Depth. Devastating sex appeal. I mean, you’re practically throwing yourself at me right now.”
You laugh. “In your dreams.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — blue eyes darkened, grin crooked. “Every night. In vivid detail.”
Your breath catches despite yourself. “You, Johnny Storm, are insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are,” he says, “Pinned against a wall.”
“A door, actually. And I wouldn’t say pinned, per say .”
“I beg to differ.”
“You do a lot of that? Begging?”
Before he can reply, a voice calls from inside.
“Alright, that’s enough! We need her back before this turns way too R-rated.”
Another friend pipes up with mock-exasperation.
“Yeah, Johnny, save some of that devastating sex appeal for another night.”
You groan, forehead dropping to Johnny’s chest.
“Tell them to go away,” he mutters, arms still around you.
You peel back, mock-apologetic. “Can’t. Duty calls.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I guess I'll just go save the world or whatever. Boring.”
You smile and turn to go back inside your apartment. But just before you close the door, Johnny steps forward and steals one more kiss.
You hover there for a second, voice softer now. “Thank you. For coming for me.”
Johnny raises a brow, tempted to say something cheeky—some immature innuendo that would make you roll your eyes—but you catch the look and laugh first.
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughs at your expression, but soon softens. “I’ll always come for you.”
Now it’s your turn to bite back a laugh, and Johnny relishes in the warmth that glints in your eyes.
Another voice from behind you yells: “Just shut the door on lover boy, already!”
You grin, mouthing a quiet, “Bye,” before the door clicks shut.
Johnny stands there for a moment, staring at the spot where you disappeared. Then he turns to go, tugging his jacket a little tighter around himself as he heads out.
And as he returns home, he thinks of something nearly as terrifying as the way he feels about you:
Ben was right. He is completely and utterly whipped.
And he’s never going to hear the end of it.