Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first week you moved in was… awkward. Not because Johnny made it awkward—if anything, he was trying very hard not to. The problem was that neither of you seemed to know what the rules were supposed to be.

Before the fire, your interactions had always existed within very specific boundaries. Occasional visits to the emergency department, eye contact in the ambulance bay, that sort of stuff. You knew how to talk to Johnny when there was somewhere else you both needed to be.

You did not know how to talk to Johnny when he was standing barefoot in his own kitchen at seven in the morning.

The first morning was probably the worst of it.

You woke up earlier than intended, courtesy of years of hospital shifts and a body that seemed physically incapable of sleeping past a certain hour. For a few moments, you simply stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above you before remembering where you were.

Right.

Your apartment had caught fire.

You were currently living with your firefighter crush.

There was really no normal way to process that information.

By the time you left the spare room, Johnny was already awake. You found him standing in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in one hand and the refrigerator door hanging open in front of him. He looked like he was trying to decide whether there was enough food inside to qualify as groceries.

His head lifted when he heard you approach.

"Morning."

You smiled softly. “Morning.”

God, that smile, he thinks. Then blinks. “I–uh, I made coffee.”

Your gaze shifted toward the coffee maker. "Oh."

"You drink coffee."

"I do."

"I remembered."

The second the words left his mouth, something changed in his expression. It was subtle, but you watched realization dawn behind his eyes as he apparently decided that remembering a person's coffee habit after almost a year of knowing them sounded suspicious.

You stared at him, and he stared back.

Then, "Not in a weird way."

You blinked. "What?"

A brief look of panic crossed his face. "The coffee. Not that I remember things about you. I mean, I do remember things about you, obviously. We've known each other for a while. That's normal. I just meant—"

You couldn't help it.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Johnny."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. That’s very kind of you."

His shoulders immediately relaxed. “Yeah–yes… you’re welcome.”

You reached for a mug before adding, "It would actually be weird if you didn't remember. You see me with a cup of coffee often." 

He took a long sip from his own mug like it might save him from the conversation. The tension that had followed you out of the spare room loosened slightly. 

You poured yourself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The quiet felt different now, like, easier.

"Did you sleep okay?" Johnny eventually asked.

You glanced over. The question sounded casual enough, but there was something beneath it. Genuine concern, maybe.

"Yeah," you answered. "The bed was comfortable."

His shoulders relaxed almost immediately. "Good."

The response came so quickly that you almost smiled again.

It would have been very easy to miss. Most people probably would have. But over the past year, you'd become surprisingly good at recognizing the moments when Johnny cared more than he intended to let on.

“Judging by the fact that you’re not in uniform and it’s currently 7:30 AM, you don’t have work today.” You comment.

He sets his mug down. “Excellent observation, Sherlock.” He says sarcastically. “But no, I don’t have work today. Shift starts tomorrow morning at 8.” He slightly tilts his head to the side. “You?”

“Tomorrow as well.” You respond. 

He claps his hands together. “Alright, that’s settled. I’m all yours today. We should start getting to know each other if we want to live together, roomie.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Okay, roomie. Not to sound ungrateful on my first day staying here, but your fridge is absolutely miserable.”

Johnny looked offended. "My fridge is not miserable."

You pointed toward the open refrigerator. "You have half a carton of milk, frozen vegetables, lucky charms, and a container of takeout that I'm fairly certain has become… sentient."

He glanced toward the fridge, then back at you. "...Okay, maybe a little miserable."

"A little?"

"I've seen worse."

You took another sip of coffee. "When was the last time you went grocery shopping?"

Johnny frowned thoughtfully. That alone was a terrible sign.

"You don't know, do you?"

"I know."

"You absolutely don't."

"It was recent."

"Johnny."

Johnny sighed dramatically and rubbed a hand over his face. "Fine. Maybe it's been a while."

"A while."

"A few weeks."

"You just looked me dead in the eye and lied before breakfast."

His grin appeared immediately. "See? We're getting to know each other already."

You hated how much that made you laugh.

For a moment, the apartment fell quiet again. Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, catching against the countertops and painting soft patches of gold across the floor. It was strangely peaceful. Just you, a cup of coffee, and Johnny standing barefoot in his kitchen arguing about groceries.

The realization felt oddly domestic. Dangerously domestic.

You cleared your throat and pointed toward the fridge again. "We're fixing this."

Johnny blinked. "We?"

"Yes, we. You cannot live like this."

"I've been living like this for years."

"And that's deeply upsetting."

Johnny laughed.

The sound came easily, and something about that surprised you. Maybe because you were used to seeing him in short bursts. A few minutes here, ten minutes there, always between responsibilities.

This was different.

This was what Johnny looked like when he wasn't rushing somewhere.

"You know," he said, grabbing his mug again, "most people wait at least a week before criticizing their host."

"Most people don't store three different flavors of protein as a primary food group." 

That earned another laugh–the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. For some reason, your heart did a small, deeply unhelpful thing at the sight. And damn him, it made you smile as well.

“Alright," Johnny said eventually. "What's the verdict, then?" 

"The verdict?"

"Yeah. Since apparently you've appointed yourself as my nutritional consultant."

You considered him for a moment, then smiled. "We're going grocery shopping."

Johnny groaned immediately. "Oh, come on."

"Nope. You brought a nurse into your home. This is the consequence."

"You say that like I adopted a stray animal."

You looked around the kitchen. "Honestly? The jury's still out."

He chuckles at that.

Ten minutes later, you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of Johnny's car, questioning how exactly the morning had escalated to this point.

You had intended to spend your first day as a temporary roommate unpacking the rest of your belongings and perhaps figuring out whether Johnny owned a single vegetable. Instead, you were being chauffeured to a grocery store because the contents of his refrigerator had personally offended you.

"You're awfully judgmental for someone who's technically homeless right now."

You turned toward him.

"That's a low blow."

"It's a factual blow."

"And yet, still rude."

Johnny grinned and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Just saying. You moved in less than twenty-four hours ago and you're already trying to restructure my lifestyle." 

“Your lifestyle is unfortunately, what I have to live with at the moment, so forgive me for having standards, Johnny.”

"My lifestyle is fine."

"You have three different flavors of protein bars."

"They serve different purposes."

You stared at him.

Johnny kept his eyes on the road, though the grin threatening at the corners of his mouth made it very difficult to take him seriously.

"Go on," you said. "I'm listening."

"The chocolate ones are for after workouts."

"Mhm."

"The peanut butter ones are for work."

"Right."

"And the cookies and cream ones are for emergencies."

You blinked.

"What kind of emergency requires cookies and cream protein bars?"

Johnny thought about it for a second. "An emotional one."

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. The conversation dissolved into comfortable silence after that. Not awkward silence. Not the kind you'd spent most of yesterday stumbling through while trying to figure out where exactly the boundaries of this arrangement were supposed to be.

Just... silence.

The radio played softly in the background while the city moved past outside the windows. A few pedestrians crossed intersections, morning traffic crawled along in neighboring lanes, and sunlight filtered through the windshield, warm against your skin.

You glanced over at Johnny. He looked different outside of work.

Not that you'd never seen him out of uniform before. You had, but… this was different.

There was no fire to put out, no patient waiting for treatment, and no reason either of you had to be anywhere in particular.

For once, Johnny looked completely relaxed.

One hand rested on the steering wheel while the other tapped absently against his thigh in time with whatever song was playing. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run a hand through it a dozen times already that morning.

You looked away before he could catch you staring.

Unfortunately, he caught you anyway. "What?"

“Nothing.”

“That wasn't a nothing look.”

You scoffed. “And what exactly does nothing look like?”

“I don't know, but it definitely isn't that.”

You crossed your arms, and Johnny immediately pointed at you. “See? That's guilt.”

“I have nothing to be guilty about.”

“That's exactly what a guilty person would say.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh and looked out the window. “You're insufferable.”

“Yet you voluntarily got into my car.”

“Temporary lapse in judgment.”

“Interesting. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks a lot like you enjoy spending time with me.”

The words were clearly meant as a joke, but unfortunately, your heart failed to receive that memo. For a split second, neither of you said anything.

Then, his gaze snapped back to the road. “Well,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat. “We're here.”

You looked up, and the grocery store had somehow appeared in front of you.

The moment the automatic doors slid open, Johnny grabbed a shopping cart and immediately surrendered control of it. You narrowed your eyes.

Johnny flashed you a grin and nudged the cart toward you. "You're the one who declared my refrigerator a public health concern. This is your operation now."

"Smart man."

"I know."

It took approximately six minutes for you to realize that Johnny didn't actually grocery shop. Not properly, anyway.

The first warning sign came when he walked straight past multiple aisles without even glancing at them. The second was when he stopped in front of a freezer and looked genuinely pleased with the selection.

"Johnny."

"What?"

You lock your arm with his, dragging him back to the produce section. “We’re not getting anything from there today.”

He lets himself be dragged. “No?”

“No.”

"I work forty-eight hour shifts, it’s convenient!"

"You are aware that vegetables continue existing during those forty-eight hours, right?"

"Allegedly."

The argument continued into the produce section, where Johnny spent several minutes pretending not to know what certain vegetables were. You were ninety percent sure he was doing it specifically to annoy you.

The remaining ten percent genuinely worried you.

"That's a bell pepper."

"I knew that."

"You just called it a colorful vegetable."

"It is a colorful vegetable."

You shook your head and dropped several peppers into the cart anyway. A few aisles later, you noticed Johnny quietly removing one of the items you'd selected and replacing it with a different brand.

You looked up. "What are you doing?"

"This one."

He pointed toward the replacement. "Is better."

"According to who?"

"According to me."

"Very reliable source."

"Thank you." He nods his head, like he’s proud of himself.

"No, that wasn't a compliment."

Johnny ignored that completely.

A little while later, you wandered into the snack aisle while Johnny disappeared somewhere behind you. You barely thought about it, until he reappeared a minute later and dropped something into the cart.

You glanced down, and you saw your favorite brand of gummy candy. Your brows furrowed immediately. "How do you know I like these?"

He shrugged. "You always buy them."

"When?"

"At work."

You blinked. "What?"

"The vending machine."

His attention had already drifted toward a nearby shelf. "Whenever you're having a bad shift."

For a second, you simply stared at him, because you weren't even sure that was true.

Then you thought about it—the overnight shifts, difficult patients, and days when the emergency department felt like it was trying to kill everyone inside it.

And sure enough… the gummy candy, every time.

"You noticed that?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Johnny looked genuinely surprised. "Well, yeah."

Like it was obvious, like of course he'd noticed.

Then, seemingly unaware of the damage he'd just done to your ability to think coherently, he grabbed another item and kept walking. Meanwhile, you stood there for an extra second staring at the candy in your cart.

By the end of week two, you both pretty much established a routine already. 

It wasn’t something either of you had discussed or agreed upon. It had just… happened. Like most things between you lately, it seemed to form in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the moments where neither of you were actively trying to figure out what the correct way to exist around the other was.

Mornings were the easiest part.

Johnny was usually up first, which you suspected was less about discipline and more about firefighter conditioning that had permanently ruined his ability to sleep in. You’d come out of the spare room to the smell of coffee already brewing, the apartment still quiet in that early-hour way that made everything feel softer than it had any right to.

He’d be in the kitchen, half-awake, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand like it was holding him upright more than he was holding it.

Somewhere along the line, you had also started making breakfast. Nothing elaborate, just enough to qualify as food rather than whatever it was Johnny had been surviving on before you arrived. You told yourself it was practical. Efficient, even. If he was going to insist on offering you his spare room indefinitely, the least you could do was prevent him from dying of a diet consisting primarily of protein bars and questionable optimism.

Additionally, there would be lunch packed for him if he was heading to a shift, or something left in the fridge with a note.

He once came out of his room after getting ready, and looked to see you packing up his favorite pasta dish to a glass container. He rushes to the kitchen.

“No way! Is that carbonara? And steak bites? You spoil me.” He reaches his hand out to take the container impatiently, but you swat his hands away.

“Be patient.” You say. Johnny immediately stepped back like he’d been physically reprimanded, crossing his arms instead and leaning against the counter. He started tapping his foot against the hardwood in an exaggerated show of restraint, eyes fixed on the container like it might disappear if he looked away for too long. 

You put the container into a random lunch bag you found from one of his cabinets, adding additional fruits and snacks inside, and you slid it towards him. He instantly grabs the bag and gets ready to head out. “Thank you!” He calls out, putting his shoes in.

Johnny, in return, had developed an annoying habit of checking in. It would usually come at random points in your day.

You chuckled at the text.

That was usually it. Sometimes you'd reply right away, other times you'd forget until much later, only to find another message waiting.

On one occasion, after a particularly difficult shift, you'd stared at that message for a long moment longer than you meant to. Something about the timing of it felt wrong in a way you couldn't quite articulate. Like he had known to ask at exactly the right moment without actually knowing anything at all.

You didn’t reply after that, but you read it twice before putting your phone down.

Johnny’s messages never demanded anything from you. They fit into your day without asking permission.

That day, you did in fact, come home late. The emergency department had been relentless from the moment you'd arrived, and today’s particularly tough cases were enough to knock you down a bit. Maybe not a bit… more like, a lot.

By the time you finally clocked out, your feet hurt, your shoulders ached, and you felt emotionally wrung out in a way that only healthcare seemed capable of accomplishing. The drive back to Johnny's apartment felt longer than usual, and by the time you parked, all you wanted was a shower and several hours of uninterrupted unconsciousness.

You unlocked the front door as quietly as possible.

The apartment was dark. Well, mostly dark.

A warm pool of light spilled from the living room, illuminating part of the hallway, and in that sight, your brows furrowed. Johnny should've been asleep by now.

As you stepped further inside, the source of the light came into view. He was sprawled across the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, a blanket tangled around his legs. The television was still running quietly in the background, though judging by the fact that his eyes were closed, he hadn't been watching it for a while.

You stared at him for a moment, lips quirking up at the sight.

Idiot.

The sound of your bag slipping from your shoulder must've disturbed him. Johnny startled awake immediately, blinking several times before his gaze landed on you.

For a second, he looked disoriented. Then, his expression softened.

"Oh." His voice came out rough from sleep. “You’re home.”

And there it was. That stupid, dangerous feeling in your chest. He hadn't said “you're back”, or “long shift?”, or even “what time is it?”

Just… you’re home. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Go back to bed, Johnny. You need it.” You pad quietly into the spare room, but then you hear scrambling. You looked back to see him sitting straight up, right hand on the pillows like he was about to get up and follow you.

“Where are you going?” He asks, rubbing his eyes.

“To take a shower and go to bed…?” You respond, a bit confused on why he’s asking.

“Oh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I was thinking we could hang out here for a while? You had a bad day and… we bought that pint of ice cream the other day…” He trails off, and you think about it for a moment.

Then, your expression softens, and he feels like he has won the lottery.

“Yeah, I’d love to.” You walk back to the living room quietly, while he gets up and heads towards the fridge to bring the ice cream back.

For a while, neither of you said much.

The television continued playing in the background, though neither of you were paying attention anymore. The movie had become little more than moving colours and occasional noise filling the apartment. Between that and the low hum of the air conditioning, the living room felt strangely peaceful.

You sat curled into one corner of the couch with the ice cream balanced on your lap while Johnny occupied the opposite end. Every now and then, one of you would steal another spoonful from the carton.

It was nice. Dangerously nice.

The kind of nice that made you forget you'd spent most of the day feeling like you were drowning. Eventually, Johnny glanced over.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You knew what he meant immediately.

The shift, the exhaustion. The fact that you'd come home looking like someone had personally drained every ounce of energy from your body.

For a moment, you considered it.

You considered telling him about the patient you'd lost. About the family members who'd stood outside a room waiting for news that never got better. About the helplessness that always seemed to follow you home after days like this.

Instead, you shook your head. "Not tonight."

The words felt heavier than they should have.

Johnny studied you for a second, then simply nodded. "Okay."

Something about that made your shoulders relax.

Maybe because so many people in your life needed things from you. Answers. Decisions. Explanations. And Johnny, for once, wasn't asking for any of them.

The silence returned, but it felt different now. Easier.

You took another spoonful of ice cream. Johnny immediately took one twice the size.

You narrowed your eyes. "Unbelievable."

"What?"

"You took twice as much."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You absolutely do."

"I think you're imagining things."

You huffed out a laugh despite yourself, and Johnny smiled. The sight of it made something loosen inside you.

Maybe that was why the question slipped out. Or maybe you were simply too tired to stop it.

"Do you ever regret it?"

Johnny frowned slightly. "Regret what?"

"The job."

His expression shifted. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to know he was actually thinking about it.

For a few moments, he didn't answer. He leaned back against the couch and stared toward the television, his spoon resting against the edge of the ice cream carton.

"When I was younger," he finally said, "I thought being a firefighter meant you saved everybody."

You looked over, but Johnny was still staring ahead.

"There was never a version of it in my head where you showed up too late. Or where you did everything right and somebody still didn't make it."

His voice remained quiet. Matter-of-fact.

Like he wasn't telling a story so much as admitting something. "I don't regret the job," he continued. "But there are days where I hate that part of it."

You swallowed, because you understood exactly what he meant. "Yeah," you said quietly. 

Then Johnny glanced over. "What about you?"

You laughed softly. Not because anything was funny, but because the answer felt obvious.

"Today?" You shook your head. "Today I would've traded my nursing license for a sandwich and a nap."

He chuckles at that.

"But no," you admitted after a moment. "I don't regret it." 

Johnny hums. “Why’d you become a nurse, anyway? An ER nurse, no less.” He grabs another (huge) spoonful of his ice cream.

“Hm. You first.” You answer, grabbing your own spoonful of ice cream. You glanced up to see him thinking about it, a bit of melted ice cream on his nose as a result of that huge spoonful he took. You quietly chuckled at that, and he noticed.

“What?” 

You pointed towards his nose, and he looked confused. You sigh fondly. “You have–”

You swiped your thumb across the tip of his nose, picking up the melted ice cream before he could react.

"There."

The word came out absentmindedly. The same way you might brush lint off someone's shoulder or fix a crooked collar without thinking twice about it. The television continued playing in the background. Somewhere outside, a car horn sounded in the distance. The air conditioning hummed quietly through the apartment.

And yet all you could focus on was the fact that Johnny was staring at you.

Except now there was something different about it.

His eyes had gone a little wide, like his brain had briefly stopped cooperating with him. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say. The tips of his ears were turning red in a way that was almost immediate, almost unfairly obvious.

Like he hadn't expected you to touch him.

Like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that you had.

His hand tightened faintly around the spoon in his lap, then loosened again, like he didn’t know what to do with it. He shifted once on the couch. Then again. Like suddenly he couldn’t remember how to sit normally.

And still, he didn’t look away from you. Like looking away would make it less real.

"You had ice cream on your nose," you said finally.

Brilliant. Truly, an incredible recovery.

Suddenly, he laughed. A soft laugh at first, before shaking his head and looking down at the carton between you. "Thanks."

The warmth in your face somehow got worse. You immediately buried yourself in another spoonful of ice cream.

Coward.

Beside you, Johnny's smile lingered for a moment before he finally leaned back into the couch again. He clears his throat. "So."

"So."

"You dodged my question."

You pointed your spoon at him. "You haven't answered mine either."

Johnny groaned dramatically. "Fine."

You smiled.

He sighed heavily, as though he were being forced to reveal state secrets rather than explain his career choices.

“I wanted to become a superhero.” He started, and you tilted your head at that. “Superhero?”

"When I was a kid, there was a house fire a few streets away from where we lived." Johnny glanced down at the spoon in his hand.

"I don't remember most of it, honestly. I was young. But I remember standing outside with my sister watching the firefighters work."

His expression softened slightly. "And I remember thinking they looked like superheroes."

You laughed. "Superheroes?"

"I'm serious."

"You wanted the cool outfit."

"The outfit definitely helped."

You rolled your eyes.

Johnny grinned before continuing. "But mostly..." He paused. "I liked that when everybody else was running out, they were running in."

The teasing smile disappeared. Not completely, just enough. "They weren't standing around wondering what to do. They already knew."

You looked at him quietly.

Because suddenly the answer made perfect sense.

Of course Johnny had become a firefighter.

Of course the guy who drove a stranger to the hospital in his own car because waiting wasn't fast enough had chosen a job like that.

Of course the guy who checked whether you'd eaten, whether you'd made it home, whether you were okay, had chosen a job built around helping people.

The realization settled warmly in your chest. "You know," you said after a moment, "that's annoyingly noble."

He looked at you, a confused yet amused expression on his face. "You sound disappointed."

"Because now I can't make fun of your protein bar addiction."

"You were going to do that anyway."

"That's true."

Johnny shook his head, smiling. Then his gaze drifted back toward you. "So your turn."

You looked down at the ice cream carton. It was empty.

You looked up at the clock. It was late. Super late.

“I…” You start, and he looks at you attentively. “...think that that’s a conversation for next time.” 

He groans at that, and you give him a cheeky smile. He meets your eyes, then says, “C’mon! I poured my heart out for you. Please?”

You closed the carton of ice cream, getting up. “I’ll tell you, I promise! Just another day though.” You call out from your way to the kitchen, and Johnny sighs.

“Fine. But I’m waiting! You promised!” He calls out.

The night ended with both of you feeling closer than ever to each other.

Somewhere along the way, your own texts started mirroring his.

Then, later in the night,

By week three and four, living with Johnny had become alarmingly easy. At some point, the arrangement had stopped feeling temporary and started feeling normal.

You no longer hesitated before opening his fridge. He no longer knocked before asking if you wanted coffee. Somewhere along the way, the apartment had developed little routines that neither of you remembered creating.

You made breakfast.

Johnny washed dishes.

You packed lunches.

Johnny complained about the amount of vegetables you kept sneaking into his meals.

Every morning followed roughly the same pattern, and every evening followed roughly the same pattern. Somehow, without either of you realizing it, you had both settled into it.

Which was exactly why it felt so strange when Johnny forgot his lunch.

You had noticed the abandoned lunch bag approximately ten minutes after he'd left the apartment.

The bag sat alone on the kitchen counter, packed neatly with the dish you'd made the night before, a bottle of water, a protein bar he'd inevitably eat first, and some carrot and celery sticks that would probably return home untouched.

You stared at it. Then at the front door, then back at the lunch bag.

A text arrived less than a minute later.

You immediately laughed.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then reappeared.

About twenty minutes later, you were pulling into the station parking lot with Johnny's forgotten lunch sitting in the passenger seat beside you.

The station wasn't particularly busy when you arrived. A few firefighters stood near the apparatus bay talking amongst themselves while others moved equipment around the trucks.

You shifted the car into park and reached for the lunch bag. Before you could get out, your phone buzzed.

Martha.

You smiled automatically. The woman had adopted approximately half the displaced residents after the fire and seemed determined to remain updated on everyone's lives.

The message itself was short.

Your fingers stilled. Three weeks.

You read the message again. Three weeks wasn't bad, you think. Actually, it was good. Better than expected, if anything.

You had your own apartment waiting for you—your own furniture, your own space, your own life. You should have been relieved, but instead, your eyes drifted toward the fire station sitting across the parking lot. Lately, home had started looking suspiciously different.

You stared at the message for another moment before locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket.

Nope. You weren't unpacking that thought today.

Instead, you grabbed Johnny's lunch and climbed out of the car. Three weeks was still a long time. Plenty of time! At least, that's what you told yourself as you headed toward the station doors.

You shut the car door behind you a little more carefully than necessary, like the sound might carry further than it should.

The lunch bag swings lightly in your hand as you start toward the station. Up close, it always felt louder than it looked from the street.

Voices echoed out of the open bay doors. Metal clanged somewhere deeper inside the building. Someone laughed, sharp and easy, like they hadn’t just been up half the night somewhere else in the city putting out fires.

You hesitated for half a second at the threshold, then stepped inside.

The inside of the station always felt like a place that refused to sit still, even when nothing urgent was happening. People moved with purpose even when they weren’t rushing anywhere.

A couple of firefighters glanced your way as you walked in.

Then looked again.

Then, very clearly, looked a third time.

You ignored it and kept going.

“Hey,” one of them called out casually. “You looking for someone?”

You adjusted the lunch bag slightly in your grip. “Yes,” you said. “Johnny Storm.”

That did it. The reaction wasn’t dramatic, but it was immediate.

A few heads turned at once, like you’d said something mildly interesting instead of completely ordinary. One of them exchanged a look with another, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood. “Didn’t last long this time,” he muttered under his breath, not quite quietly enough.

Another snorted. “He’s getting faster.”

You frowned slightly, already feeling like you were missing context you didn’t want.

Before anyone could elaborate on whatever that meant, movement came from deeper inside the station.

Johnny appeared a moment later, still half in motion, like he’d been in the middle of something and decided being elsewhere was suddenly more important.

The second he saw you, his expression shifted. Not surprised, but more like… it softened in a way that didn’t quite match the noise of the station around him.

Like he’d been mid-thought and the sight of you had quietly interrupted it.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter than before, like he was actually glad you were there.

You lifted the bag slightly. “You forgot this.”

His gaze dropped to it, and then back to you almost immediately, like the lunch was secondary.

“I did,” he admitted, nodding once. “I realized it pretty quickly after I left.”

A pause, then a small, almost sheepish exhale. “Wasn’t my most organized morning.”

You gave him a look. “You texted me not to be mad.”

“That was preventative,” he said immediately. “I was trying to get ahead of the situation.”

“By confessing to it in advance?”

“Exactly.”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze for a second, then broke first, huffing a quiet laugh. “Okay, fine,” he added. “I knew I left it. I just also knew I was going to pretend I didn’t for at least ten minutes.”

You shook your head slightly, smiling. “That’s worse.”

“Is it?” he asked, like he was genuinely considering it. He reached for it, but you pulled it back just out of instinct.

Johnny paused, then narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Are you holding my lunch hostage right now?”

“I’m making sure you acknowledge it,” you said.

He nodded seriously. “I acknowledge it. It is… deeply tragic that I left it behind.”

“That’s better.”

You finally handed it over.

He smiled as he took the bag from you. “I would’ve lasted maybe two hours.”

A voice from behind him, one of his friends, cut in immediately. “Two hours? That’s generous.”

Another firefighter leaned against a nearby counter, watching the two of you with open interest.

Johnny didn’t even turn around. “Jones, Don’t start,” he said.

“Oh, we’re starting,” the guy replied, eyes flicking between you and Johnny like something had finally clicked into place. “Wait—this is her, right?”

A second firefighter straightened slightly. “No way.”

The first one pointed lightly in your direction. “This is the nurse.”

Your gaze flicked up slightly, and Johnny exhaled through his nose like this was exactly what he did not want happening.

“Yes,” he said. “This is the nurse.”

You cleared your throat slightly. “Well,” you said, shifting your weight. “Now that I’ve returned your life support system, I should probably—”

“You should stay for a minute,” Johnny interrupted. It wasn’t pushy, just immediate. Like the thought hadn’t needed permission to come out.

You paused, and he gestured vaguely toward the station behind him. “Coffee’s still fresh. I think. No promises on quality, but it exists.”

You hesitated. “…Is this your way of saying thank you?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

A beat. “And also my way of delaying paperwork.”

That made something in your expression shift despite yourself. “…That’s fair,” you said.

Johnny nodded like he’d won something. “Great. Come on.”

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he started walking back inside. Looking over his shoulder only once to make sure you were following.

Johnny doesn’t say much on the walk back inside.

He leads the way like he always does, weaving through the station with practiced ease, greeting people as he passes without really stopping for any of them. You follow a few steps behind him, lunch bag now out of your hands, your presence slipping into the space beside him without needing explanation.

Inside the kitchen area, the noise of the station fades slightly. It’s quieter here, but not silent. There’s always the distant echo of something happening somewhere else in the building.

Johnny drops your bag on the counter and immediately opens a cupboard like he’s proving a point about coffee. You lean against the counter opposite him.

You watch him for a second, then look down at your phone. Martha’s message is still there. You hadn’t really processed it properly yet.

Three weeks.

You turn the screen off again.

Johnny sets a mug down in front of you a moment later. It’s slightly too full, and definitely too strong.

You don’t complain.

He leans back against the counter across from you, arms loosely crossed, watching you in that casual way he does when he thinks you’re not noticing.

You take a sip.

Immediately regret it. “…That’s aggressively bitter,” you say.

Johnny looks pleased with himself. “That’s how you know it works.”

“Oh,” you say, glancing at him. “Martha texted me earlier.”

Johnny looks up immediately. “Yeah?”

You nod once. “Building’s supposed to be done in about three weeks.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear you, but because something in the air shifts so subtly you almost miss it yourself.

His hand, which had been resting loosely on the counter, stills. His expression doesn’t change much, but the energy does.

“Oh,” he says after a beat.

Johnny clears his throat slightly and reaches for the coffee mug like he needs something to do with his hands now. “Three weeks,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Long enough that it starts to feel intentional.

Then he nods once. “Right.”

The silence doesn’t last long. It never really does with Johnny.

He shifts first, like he physically can’t stay still inside it. His fingers tap once against the edge of the counter, then stop, then start again like he’s annoyed at himself for doing it in the first place.

Then he exhales, a little too casually. He looks at you for a second, then away again like he’s choosing the next words carefully and not liking any of the options.

“So after that,” he says, “you just… go back?”

It’s phrased like a normal question. It isn’t. You don’t answer immediately, because the obvious answer is yes. You were staying here because you had to. Because your building was unlivable. Because the situation made sense, even if the circumstances were chaotic.

Three weeks from now, that stops being true.

“I mean,” you say slowly, “yeah.”

Johnny nods once, like he expected that. He shifts his weight back against the counter again, arms folding loosely across his chest, but it looks more like something he’s doing out of habit than comfort.

“Right,” he says.

A beat passes. Then, quieter, like he’s talking more to himself than to you:

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

One night, you were calling with Kathy inside the comfort of your—well, Johnny’s kitchen. You were leaning against the counter with your phone pressed between your ear and shoulder, half-listening to Kathy’s voice on the other end while stirring something you weren’t really paying attention to anymore.

It was late.

Not late enough to feel unusual, but late enough that the city outside had started to quiet down.

“You still alive over there?” Kathy asked first, like she hadn’t just called you to check in on you for the third time this week.

You stirred whatever you were making a little absently. “Barely,” you said. “I think I’ve reached the point where I’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.”

“That’s what happens when you live with a walking disaster,” she replied immediately.

You huffed a quiet laugh.

“He’s not a walking disaster.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, very deliberately:

“…You’re defending him.”

“I’m correcting you.”

“Mhm,” Kathy said, unconvinced. “How’s domestic life then, hm? Are you two sharing a chore chart? Matching mugs? Slow descent into sitcom behavior?”

You rolled your eyes, even though she couldn’t see it. “It’s just temporary,” you said. “I’m staying there until my building gets fixed. That’s it.”

“Right,” Kathy said slowly. “Temporary. In his apartment. With him. Around the clock.”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

Kathy made a sound of triumph. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t,” you warned immediately.

“You’re living with him,” she repeated, like she was tasting the words now. “In his space. Seeing him first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Probably judging his terrible eating habits up close.”

“He doesn’t have terrible eating habits.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

You pressed your lips together. “…Okay, slightly terrible. But I’m helping him!”

“Thank you,” she said. “Progress.”

You sighed, leaning your hip against the counter. “It’s not a big deal, Kathy.”

“It is absolutely a big deal,” she said instantly. “You don’t just move in with a man like that and call it ‘not a big deal.’”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh?” she said, voice sharpening with interest. “Then what is it like?”

You hesitated, and that was your mistake. Kathy caught it immediately. “Oh no,” she said, delighted now. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t hesitate.”

“You did.”

“I was thinking.”

“About him,” she concluded.

You closed your eyes for a second. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m just observing,” she said sweetly. “For accuracy.”

“There’s no accuracy needed.”

“There is,” she said again, firmer now. “Because I have questions.”

“You always have questions.” 

“Correct,” Kathy said, her tone shifting slightly. “My current question is—how is it actually living there?”

You paused a little. “…What?”

“With him,” she clarified. “Is it okay? Like, is he treating you well? Are you comfortable there?”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself. “Kathy.”

“I’m serious,” she said immediately. “I’m not asking in a gossipy way. I’m asking in a ‘do I need to come over there and fight a firefighter’ way.”

“It’s fine,” you said, softer now. “Really. It’s… fine. He’s amazing, Kathy. Seriously, he’s always there whenever I need him, he takes great measures to make me feel comfortable in his own home, and he makes me laugh, like… a lot.” You chuckle to yourself at the last part.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “…You say that like you know him really well,” Kathy said slowly.

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite land as one.

“I do know him,” you said, like it was obvious. “He’s just… He’ll walk in looking like he’s been through hell and then immediately try to joke about it so nobody worries. And he’ll still ask if I’ve eaten, even if he’s the one who looks like he hasn’t slept in a day. It’s just… him.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…Right,” Kathy said, but her tone had shifted. Less teasing now. More careful. “And you’re saying this like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” you insisted gently. “For him.”

There was silence on the line. Not the playful kind anymore, but something more observant. Then Kathy spoke again, quieter. “…You’re talking about him like you care about him a lot.”

That made you pause.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

“I mean,” you said carefully, “I do care about him. Anyone would.”

But even as you said it, it didn’t sound like “anyone.” It sounded like you.

Kathy hummed softly on the other end. And when she spoke again, her voice had changed completely. “Oh,” she said.

Just that. A small, knowing sound, like something had finally clicked into place.

“Oh,” she repeated, slower this time. “No, I get it now.”

You frowned slightly. “Get what?”

But Kathy didn’t answer the question directly. Instead, she let out a quiet, almost amused breath. “You don’t just ‘care about him,’” she said. “You’re in trouble.”

Then her tone shifted slightly, softer but sharper underneath. “…You like him, don’t you?”

You almost dropped the spoon. “What?”

“C’mon, you heard me.” She says with a hint of a smile on her voice.

“I mean, I—no I don’t—”

Before you could finish your sentence, the front door opened. Not gently, but not loudly either. Just… heavy.

Like whoever had walked through it didn’t have the energy to make it sound like anything else. Your eyes flicked toward the hallway before you even fully registered why.

Kathy was still talking, but at this point, you barely heard her. Because the sound of boots on the floor had your attention shifting completely. Slow, tired, dragging.

Johnny appeared in the hallway a second later, and something in your chest dropped immediately.

He looked wrong. Not injured in a clean, manageable way, and definitely not like the usual soot and exhaustion you’d seen before.

This was heavier.

His uniform was a bit off, and his things were thrown awkwardly over one shoulder like it had become too much effort to carry properly. His shirt underneath was darkened in places, hair damp with sweat or water or both. There was a cut along his cheekbone that hadn’t been cleaned yet, and his knuckles looked raw.

But it wasn’t even just that.

It was the way he was standing, like he was still upright out of habit, and you guess that it’s not because he wanted to be.

You straightened instantly. “Kathy,” you said quickly into the phone.

“Wait, I’m not done—”

“I’ll call you back.” You hung up before she could respond.

The silence that followed felt sharp.

Johnny hadn’t fully noticed you yet. He was still in that slow, delayed movement of someone who had just come out of too many hours of chaos and hadn’t fully returned to a place where things were quiet.

Then his eyes lifted, and landed on you. For a second, he didn’t speak. He just… stopped. Like seeing you there anchored him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

“Hey,” he said finally.

Your phone was already forgotten in your hand.

You took a step forward before you even thought about it. “Johnny,” you said.

His shoulders moved slightly, like he was trying to shrug off something invisible. “I’m fine,” he said immediately, even though he clearly wasn’t.

You didn’t answer that.

You were already moving closer, and you could see him more clearly.

The bruising along his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand when he adjusted his grip on his gear. The way he was blinking slower than usual, like his body was asking for rest and he was ignoring it out of stubbornness alone.

“You’re not fine,” you said quietly.

He gave a weak attempt at a smile. “I’ve been worse.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I know,” he muttered.

Another step closer. You stopped in front of him, and neither of you moved. The apartment behind you felt too quiet again.

Then Johnny exhaled, like the act of standing upright had finally caught up with him. His voice dropped slightly. “I didn’t mean to come in looking like this.”

You looked at him properly. At all of it. “You don’t get to choose what you look like after a shift like that,” you said softly.

He slowly nodded. “It was a long forty-eight hours.”

You swallowed. “I can see that.”

And then, finally, you reached for him, carefully. Your hand touched his arm first, like you were checking if he could still stand there without falling apart.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it slightly, like he’d been waiting for permission to stop holding himself up.

You didn’t rush him. You just stayed close enough that he didn’t have to hold himself up alone anymore. “Couch,” you said quietly.

Johnny blinked at you like he needed a second to process the word, then nodded once. “Yeah. Couch sounds good.”

It took a little more effort than either of you admitted to get him moving. Not because he couldn’t walk, but because he was clearly running on whatever was left after everything else had already been used up.

You stayed beside him the whole way, your hand hovering near his arm more than once without actually needing to hold it, like you were ready in case he forgot how to stay upright.

He didn’t, but he did lean slightly closer than necessary anyway.

When he finally sat down, it looked less like a choice and more like something his body had been waiting for all night. Johnny exhaled through his nose, head tipping back against the couch.

You don’t say anything right away. Instead, you disappear into the bathroom and come back with a small first aid kit and a damp cloth, already moving on instinct more than thought.

Johnny opens one eye when you return and groans softly. “Oh no,” he mutters, and you pause, looking at him.

“What?” you ask, and he gestures vaguely at you like it’s obvious. “That look. That’s the ‘I’m about to fix you up like a stray animal’ look.” 

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary before setting the kit down. “You are injured,” you reply flatly.

He hums like that’s a matter of interpretation. “I am decorated,” he corrects, and you exhale through your nose despite yourself. That earns him nothing but you stepping closer anyway.

You sit on the coffee table in front of him, close enough that your knees almost brush his, and for a moment the apartment feels smaller than it did earlier. Not in a bad way. Just… contained. Like everything outside this room has been temporarily shut off.

You start with the cloth first, gently wiping away soot and dried sweat along his cheekbone. He flinches slightly at the contact, but not away from you. Just reacting.

“Sorry,” he mutters automatically.

You don’t even look up when you respond. “You don’t need to apologize.” 

“I know,” he says quietly, after a beat, “it just stings more when it’s someone else doing it.”

That makes your hand slow for half a second before you continue, more careful now. The cut on his cheek is shallow but already sealed at the edges, and you tilt his face slightly without thinking about it too much, just enough to see better.

Johnny goes still immediately, not because he’s told to, but because he’s letting you. 

“Tell me what happened,” you say softly, and he exhales, gaze dropping away from yours as if it’s easier to speak when he isn’t fully looking at you

“Call came in around midday,” he starts, voice rougher than usual. “Electrical fire on the other side of town. Thought it was contained at first. Standard entry, standard response.” 

You continue cleaning as he talks, and he swallows once before continuing. “It wasn’t. By the time we got there it had already spread through a couple of units. The stairwell was compromised, so we had to reroute through the back. Everything took longer than it should’ve.” 

“Held back?” you ask quietly, and he lets out a short, humorless breath. 

“Yeah. Traffic, delayed units, access issues… by the time we got proper entry it was already worse than it should’ve been.”

You clean another small cut along his jaw and lean closer without thinking about it. “That’s why you look like this,” you say, softer now. 

He huffs faintly like he’s trying to turn it into something lighter. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”

You reach for the antiseptic and he notices immediately. 

“Oh no,” he says again, quieter this time, and you don’t even look up. He says your name, almost like pleading not to use that on him even though he knows that you have to.

“This will sting,” you warn him.

“I figured,” he replies, and after a short pause, “go ahead.” 

You hesitate for just a second before applying it, and he inhales sharply through his teeth but doesn’t move away. When you finish, your hands lower slowly, still close enough that you can feel the heat of him lingering in the space between you.

“You should’ve gotten this cleaned at the station,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t want to sit still that long.” 

You finally look at him properly then. “You’re sitting still now.” 

That makes him pause, eyes meeting yours for a moment before he answers, quieter. “That’s different.” 

Something in his expression shifts at that. “It is.”

You don’t respond immediately. You just reach for his hand instead, careful, almost hesitant at first. Johnny looks down at it, then turns his hand slightly so yours fits properly against his. Like it was always supposed to. 

His hand stays in yours longer than it probably needs to.

Neither of you seems interested in correcting that.

The apartment is quiet in a way that feels heavier now that the talking has slowed down, like the space itself is settling around you both. Johnny’s thumb moves once against the side of your hand, small and absent, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You don’t pull away. You don’t think about pulling away.

He exhales slowly, then shifts slightly on the couch, adjusting like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t ache somewhere. It doesn’t really work.

For a moment, he just watches you. Not in a heavy or searching way, just… present. Like he’s grounding himself there without saying it out loud. 

Then, slowly, almost like it isn’t a decision he’s making, Johnny shifts again.

This time he doesn’t just adjust his posture.

He leans.

Not all at once, not dramatically, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours first, like a question his body is asking before his mind can stop it. You barely react, but you do still. And when you don’t pull away, he lets the rest of the movement happen.

His forehead comes to rest against your shoulder.

Light at first.

Then heavier, once he realizes you’re not moving.

It isn’t romantic in the way people usually write it down. It’s not confident or certain or even graceful. It’s tired, unguarded. Johnny lets out a quiet breath against you, almost like he’s been carrying it for hours and just now remembered he could let it go.

“Sorry,” he mutters after a moment, though he doesn’t lift his head.

You shake yours slightly. “You don’t need to apologize,” you say again, softer this time.

“You good?” You ask, and he hums. “Very.”

Then, an idea popped into your head. You release your hand from his, much to Johnny’s dismay, and you rush toward the kitchen. After a quick scan of the cabinets, you open one and grab something. Johnny sits there on the couch, confused and somewhat amused. 

When you return and he sees what you’re holding, he chuckles instantly.

“Cookies and cream protein bar! For emotional emergencies, right?” You pass one to him and open another one for yourself. 

He pats the spot on the couch beside him, and you quickly sit down.

He leans his shoulder against yours, almost carefully, before giving up and just slumping his body onto your side, his head on your shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” He asks quietly, taking a bite of his protein bar after.

“Mhm.” You answer.

He calls out your name then, somewhat like wanting to ask for something.

“What is it?”

“My family’s coming over for dinner this Sunday night.” He says, eyes still closed and head still on your shoulder.

“You want me to leave for a few hours? I can do that.” You reassure him.

He lifts his head up, brows furrowed, looking confused. “What? No. I’m thinking you could just join us.” He says.

You blink. “Me?”

“No, the haunted spirits living inside the apartment.” He says sarcastically, then drops the act. “Of course you, who else?” 

“You want me to meet your family?”

“It’s better than having to kick you out of home for a few hours.” Johnny shrugs. Then after a beat, he adds, “I also… can’t cook that well.”

You groan, leaning against the cushions. “Fine. I’ll be here.”

He lights up at that, and goes back to leaning his shoulder against yours, still smiling. “Great. Yeah, awesome.”

For a moment, it was quiet. The apartment was illuminated in warm lighting, and the only sounds you could hear were the echoes of the city that is always alive beneath you. You think, how could you possibly come back after this?

“Johnny.” You call out his name softly, and for a moment, you thought he was asleep. Until he answered, “Yeah?”

“Are there really haunted spirits in your apartment?” 

He just laughs at that.