Work Text:
You mentally groaned, the kind of groan that came from deep in the soul. This was not what you envisioned in your future when you agreed to become a personal body guard. You did not sign up to trail behind this man-child all day like you were babysitting a golden retriever with a credit card.
Your eyes scanned the crowd, clocking every fan, every camera flash, every idiot who looked like they might try something stupid. Not that it mattered—Johnny was too busy throwing himself at them anyway. Signing autographs, taking selfies, doing that ridiculous wink he thought was charming. He even squeezed some girl’s boob on the way out like the world was his personal playground.
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw another dimension.
Johnny Cage.
A-list actor.
Hollywood darling.
Menace to society.
What a joke.
He kept moving down the line, doing the whole Johnny Cage Performance™ for his fans—signing whatever they shoved at him, blowing kisses, posing like he was God’s gift to Earthrealm.
Then he caught your stare.
Of course he did.
His eyes lit up like you were the best plot twist of his career, and he threw you a wink paired with a shit-eating grin that made your jaw clench. He looked way too happy to see you, which only made your mood sink further.
You pressed your lips into a thin line, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You weren’t here to fight with him. You weren’t here to flirt with him. You were here to keep his dumb, infuriating self alive.
So you kept scanning the perimeter—actually doing your job—while he basked in worship like the attention addict he was.
Your earpiece crackled.
“Bring Cage inside. He needs to be in position for the press conference.”
You exhaled through your nose, long and tired. “Copy.”
Bracing yourself mentally, emotionally, spiritually, you started walking toward the actor, preparing to pry him away from his fan swarm like removing gum from hair: slow, painful, and undeniably gross.
As you got closer, you caught bits of the conversation he was having with one of his fans. It was… vile. Predictably vile.
“Well, baby doll, maybe one of these days you can be an extra in one of my films… or I’ll make you the love interest—”
You tuned out the rest before your brain rotted. The girl giggled, touching his bicep and batting lashes so aggressively she probably sprained one. Her perfume was so strong you nearly gagged.
You mentally stabbed her in the eye as you reached Johnny and tapped his shoulder—firmly.
He turned, and his grin somehow got bigger.
“Heeeyyy, what’s cookin’, good looking?” he flirted, leaning into it like it was oxygen.
Your expression did not move. Not even a twitch.
In a deadpan, monotone voice, you informed him, “Your presence is required inside. Press conference starts in five. We need to move.”
He did not listen. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he slung an arm over your shoulders like you were on a date.
“Guys, check out my hot bodyguard!” he announced loudly to the line. “Total badass. Kicks ass left and right. Don’t you think?”
You grit your teeth so hard you nearly cracked enamel. If looks could kill, the man would’ve disintegrated on the spot.
“Cage,” you repeated, voice clipped, “your presence is required inside. We must leave now.”
He winked.
You wanted to shove him into traffic.
He stuck out his bottom lip and turned on the pout like his career depended on it.
“Aww, come on. You can’t expect me to leave my loyal fans!” he whined.
“Cage,” you said, very calm and very dangerous, feeling your blood pressure tick upward, “if you do not start walking, I will drag you there myself.”
He bit his lip, peering at you over the top of his sunglasses with mock concern.
“Damn, doll — don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You narrowed your eyes and took a single, deliberate step toward him. For once, the bravado melted away. His grin faltered; his hands shot up in surrender.
“All right, all right,” he called to the crowd, turning on his charm. “Gotta go — my personal bodyguard is gonna kick my ass if I don’t.”
He gave you one last theatrical salute and finally let you guide him toward the building. The fans cheered, none the wiser they’d just witnessed the cleanest manipulation of attention the entertainment world had to offer.
As the two of you walked toward the building, Johnny drifted closer, brushing against your side with absolutely zero shame.
“Damn, babe,” he whispered, low enough for only you to hear, “that was hot. How come you never ordered me around in bed like that?”
You didn’t even grace him with a glance.
He kept talking anyway. Because of course he did.
Being Johnny Cage’s personal bodyguard was exactly as irritating as it looked from the outside. The man never shut up. Ever. He jumped from movie ideas, to audition stories, to bragging about stunts he definitely should not have done without supervision. He flirted with anything that breathed. Half of your job was physically putting yourself between him and his own bad decisions.
What most people didn’t know was that the two of you had actually dated once upon a time.
Shocking, honestly.
Even you sometimes questioned how it happened.
To the public eye, your dynamic looked like nonstop death glares and ice-cold comments. But when there were no cameras, no fans, no spotlight? Johnny Cage had this strange ability to be… almost normal. Charming, even. Attentive. He’d listen. He’d engage. He’d make you laugh in ways you hated admitting.
There was a reason you fell for him.
And a reason it hurt when it all blew up.
He nudged you lightly with his elbow, breaking your thoughts.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said, grinning. “The thing where you pretend you’re not secretly happy to see me.”
You shot him the blandest, coldest look imaginable.
He grinned wider.
“See? You love me.”
You seriously considered tripping him up the steps.
You and Johnny had met when you were first assigned as his bodyguard, and things had been… turbulent ever since.
You hated him at the start. Full stop.
His cockiness?
His gigantic ego?
The way he treated rules like optional suggestions?
Biggest turn-off of all time.
Every time he wound up in some dangerous situation and you had to save his ass, you mocked him relentlessly. Looking down at him over the bridge of your nose became your signature Cage Interaction. The two of you never stopped bickering. Never stopped clashing.
Until the day everything cracked.
You had stormed into his mansion, ready to rip him a new one for being late to a pop-up event. You marched down the hall, already rehearsing your tirade, shoved his bedroom door open—and froze.
Cold.
Johnny Cage sat on the edge of his massive bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. He was shaking. Shoulders trembling. And then—
He sobbed.
Not movie-crying.
Not dramatic-actor-crying.
Real, raw, chest-twisting grief.
It was so jarring you went still, lips parted in shock, unable to process the sight of him like that. Loud, obnoxious, unbreakable Johnny Cage—crumbling.
A few moments passed before you gathered yourself enough to take a cautious step inside.
“…Cage,” you said softly, unsure, almost gentle.
His head snapped up.
He hadn’t heard you enter at all.
His eyes were red, wet, frantic. The second he registered that it was you, he jolted upright like he’d been caught bleeding out.
“A-ah—sorry, sweet cheeks,” he stammered, voice cracking. “Caught me at a bad time. Give me a sec, I’ll— I’ll be right out.”
He turned so fast he nearly tripped, rushing toward the connecting bathroom, wiping his face, trying to pull himself together like he hadn’t just fallen apart in the dark.
You hummed uncertainly, lingering in the middle of his room, unsure whether to leave or wait.
This wasn’t the sight you expected.
But thinking back… maybe it made sense.
Cris had just left him.
Divorced him.
Humiliated him publicly.
The great Johnny Cage—left alone in a too-big mansion with nothing but silence and tabloid headlines.
You’d always assumed he’d bounce back instantly.
Turns out, even Johnny Cage broke.
From that night on, things between you and Johnny began to shift in ways you didn’t expect.
You softened.
Just a little.
You didn’t tear into him as often, didn’t treat him like the gum stuck to your combat boot. You stopped seeing only the spotlight-clown persona and started seeing the man behind it — the one who said sorry too fast, who tried too hard, who wanted someone to actually look at him instead of the image.
In return, Johnny let you in.
Piece by piece.
He showed you what he was like when the cameras weren’t rolling.
The quiet sides.
The surprisingly tender ones.
The thoughtful moments he never let fans see.
You learned each other — deeply, quietly, unexpectedly.
It could’ve been something beautiful.
But life isn’t a fanfiction.
Not even yours.
As Johnny’s fame skyrocketed, so did everything that came with it.
More parties.
More interviews.
More “look at me” moments.
That celebrity hunger for attention — the kind that never stayed satiated for long.
He flirted more.
Sometimes right in front of you, even after you told him you hated it.
He brushed off your warnings, slipped away from security, played up the reckless heartthrob act whenever fans were watching.
The gentle conversations disappeared.
Arguments took their place.
Sharp words instead of soft ones.
Walls where there had once been windows.
And eventually, everything between you crumbled.
The last fight was ugly.
You snapped — truly snapped — and spit out the one thing you knew would hurt him:
“Cris was right to leave you.
You’ll never care about anyone more than you care about your fame.”
You regretted the words the second they left your mouth.
He didn’t give you time to take them back.
The look on his face — the hurt you put there — was the quietest you’d ever seen him. He didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. Didn’t make a scene.
He just shut down.
And then he went silent.
For weeks.
You still did your job — professionally, perfectly — but the distance between you two was impossible to ignore. It settled into the air like smoke, bitter and suffocating.
Where there had once been warmth, banter, strange comfort…
There was nothing but cold space and two people pretending the other didn’t exist.
Eventually, Johnny slid back into his old persona — the one he wore before you ever dated.
America’s heartthrob.
Hollywood’s favorite flirt.
The man who lived for cameras, chaos, and attention.
He started talking to you the way he used to:
Flirting shamelessly, needling at you just to get a rise, poking and prodding until you gave him a death glare… which, admittedly, wasn’t as sharp as it used to be.
Because even if you wanted to hate him the way you once did, you couldn’t.
Not after seeing who he really was underneath the glitter and ego.
So now you existed in this strange middle ground — a weird, fragile balance where you still watched over him with quiet softness, but hid it behind a fortress of stone. And he pretended nothing ever happened between you in public, slipping into his easy charm like the past had never cracked either of you open.
It was infuriating.
Painfully so.
But you kept convincing yourself it was for the best.
Your thoughts were abruptly cut off when Johnny pressed himself against your side, leaning in far too close as he murmured in your ear.
“Damn, sweetheart… you look dangerously good in that uniform,” he purred, flashing one of those practiced, devastating smiles.
You frowned immediately, shoving him back with a soft but firm hand before continuing down the hallway.
He let out a dramatic whine, dragging his feet behind you.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t act like that with meee,” he complained, voice pitched to that annoying whiny charm he knew got under your skin.
You didn’t look back.
If you did, you’d probably strangle him.
Or worse…
You’d smile.
The press conference went about as smoothly as anything involving Johnny Cage could go.
Which meant: chaotic, loud, mildly irritating, but not yet requiring you to physically remove him from the building.
Reporters fired questions nonstop:
“Johnny, tell us about your new movie—”
“Any upcoming projects?”
“Is the fight choreography all practical?”
“Will there be a sequel?”
And every now and then:
“Johnny, who are you dating right now?”
“Any truth to the rumors about you and—”
Questions he expertly dodged with jokes, charm, or blatant misdirection.
He was in his element.
Golden boy, sunglasses glinting, ego shining brighter than the camera lights.
Then it happened.
One reporter didn’t just go off script — she YEETED the script into another timeline.
“Johnny! Johnny!” she shouted above the crowd. “Did you see that your ex-wife Cris just got engaged to up-and-coming actor Benjamin Costales?”
You stiffened instantly.
Every muscle in your body coiled, ready.
Johnny’s smile slipped.
Just for a second.
A micro-second.
But you caught it.
He recovered with that easy, Hollywood grin.
“A-ah… is that so? Well, congratulations to her, I suppose—”
She cut him off.
Like a villain.
“Do you regret breaking up with her? She seems to be doing better off.”
Your hand slid toward the baton holstered at your side.
You were about two seconds from recreating an action scene live on stage.
Johnny blinked, stunned.
His mouth opened just slightly.
“Uh… what?”
You took one step forward.
The other security guards glanced your way, sensing the shift in air pressure around you.
If the reporter said one more thing, you were pretty sure Johnny wouldn’t be the one making tomorrow’s headlines.
“Do you regret breaking up with her?” the reporter repeated slowly, like she wanted to twist the knife. “It seems she’s doing much better with him than she ever did with you.”
The room went corpse-still.
Johnny’s face emptied. No smirk. No charm. No wink. Just… blankness.
Every reporter in the room froze, eyes bouncing between him and the woman who had just nuked her career in real time. You felt your jaw clench so hard it cracked. The only reason you didn’t lunge across the room to drag her out yourself was because you were still pretending to be professional.
Still, you stepped back, hand rising to signal another guard to remove her.
But Johnny spoke first.
“No. I do not.”
His voice was flat. No emotion. No anger. Just truth.
The reporter’s eyes lit up like she’d scored a point, mouth opening—probably to deliver another cheap shot—before Johnny cut across her smoothly, firmly.
“I do not regret the divorce,” he said, and the room held its breath. “Because it led her to a happier path. A better partner. A healthier life.”
The reporter blinked. The room shifted.
Johnny continued.
“And I’m happy for her.” His voice remained steady. “She deserves her happy ending.”
He paused—just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
“What I do regret,” he added quietly, “is failing her as a husband.”
Every camera in the room lowered an inch.
Every mouth shut.
Every head leaned closer.
“I was… not the man she deserved,” he admitted. “Not then. And I’m sorry she had to endure that version of me.”
His eyes never left the reporter.
It wasn’t a glare.
It wasn’t anger.
It was a challenge.
Try me again.
Say one more word.
See what happens.
The woman visibly swallowed and bowed her head.
“O-of course. I apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Cage.”
Johnny didn’t acknowledge her.
Didn’t need to.
He turned back to the crowd, voice cool and done.
“Any other questions?”
No one dared breathe, let alone raise a hand.
“Very well,” he said, throwing up a peace sign. “Thank you for your time. Cage out.”
He stepped off the stage and exited the room, shoulders stiff, the line of his jaw tight enough to crack.
And you followed him—every instinct on high alert, knowing exactly how much that moment cost him, and how close he was to falling apart again.
Johnny walked fast, practically tearing down the hallway toward his break room. His thoughts were a mess, ricocheting off the walls of his skull. The press conference replayed in vicious little flashes he couldn’t shake.
That question.
That name.
It had hit him harder than he expected. A cheap shot. An old wound he thought was long scarred over. He hadn’t really thought about Cris in… gods, forever. Not seriously anyway. The last time her name had even come up—really come up—had been during your breakup.
That memory, unlike the divorce, still hurt.
The truth was, Johnny had healed from what Cris left behind. Time, therapy, and hard lessons had done their job. He understood now why she left. Understood why she couldn’t stay. He didn’t hate her anymore. Didn’t resent her. The pain came back occasionally like a faded bruise, but it wasn’t fresh.
What was still fresh?
You.
He hadn’t gotten over you. Not even close.
He was still in love with you—hopelessly, pathetically, deeply.
Every time he reached for his phone, every time he had a good day or a terrible one, every time he wanted to share something stupid or something personal… his heart reached for you first.
And then reality hit: he didn’t get to do that anymore.
His chest tightened as the memory of your last fight slammed into him like a punch. The yelling. The accusations. The way you said his ego would be the death of him. The way he—stupidly, defensively—threw back insults he didn’t mean. The bitterness, the heat, the way everything spiraled too fast.
But the worst part—the part that haunted him—was your face.
That look you gave him when you spit out that Cris had been right to leave him.
It was like everything you’d ever felt for him had drained out in one second.
Like he disgusted you.
Like you regretted ever touching him, ever trusting him, ever loving him.
It was the only time he’d ever seen you look at him with genuine hurt.
Genuine anger.
Genuine hate.
His heart twisted sharply at the memory, squeezing so painfully he had to stop walking for a moment. He pressed a hand to his chest, willing the ache to settle.
He had tried to outrun it afterward. Tried to bury himself in his old persona—the one made of glitter and ego, the Johnny Cage everyone expected. He acted like nothing happened. Like nothing had been lost.
But today…
That reporter had ripped the scab clean off.
Her question didn’t hurt because of Cris.
It hurt because of you.
Because you were the one he’d failed.
You were the one he couldn’t let go of.
You were the one he still wanted.
And pretending otherwise felt like tearing himself apart.
He reached the break room and all but collapsed into the nearest chair, the breath punched out of him in a rough, uneven exhale. His hands shook as he dragged them through his hair, ruining the perfectly styled look his team had spent twenty minutes fixing. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe—
in,
out,
in,
out—
trying to keep the rising tide of emotion from spilling over.
But his chest was tight. Too tight.
It felt like everything inside him was trying to split open.
A soft knock broke the silence.
“Johnny?” your voice called gently through the door.
His breath hitched.
There it was—exactly what he feared and wanted in equal measure. Your voice was everything he needed in that moment: soft, steady, grounding. And everything he didn’t deserve anymore.
He stayed silent, torn between hoping you would walk away and praying you wouldn’t.
Another pause. Then, quieter:
“I’m coming in.”
The door opened slowly with a soft click.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with that same careful softness you used whenever he was hurting. And there he sat—shoulders hunched, head dipped low, sunglasses masking eyes that weren’t fooling you for a second. Every line of his body was tight, trembling, like he was seconds away from folding in on himself.
You stopped a few feet in front of him, unsure. The space between you was small, but the emotional distance felt impossibly wide.
You drew in a breath.
“…Are you okay?” you asked, voice steady but painfully uncertain.
He didn’t look up.
He only shrugged, the motion small, defeated.
You bit your lip, heart twisting. You didn’t know what the right move was anymore. You didn’t have the right to comfort him the way you used to—pulling him close, running your hand through his hair, whispering reassurances until he could breathe again.
You weren’t his.
You weren’t allowed to touch him like that.
Not anymore.
So you just stood there, helpless, watching the man you once loved try—and fail—to keep himself from breaking.
It hurt.
Gods, it hurt.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” you asked softly, hesitant.
Silence answered you.
Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.
Johnny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. He just sat there, staring at the floor like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. You felt your stomach sink. Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe whatever you once were to him wasn’t enough anymore—
not enough to comfort him,
not enough to reach him,
not enough to matter.
You opened your mouth, ready to apologize and leave him in peace—
“I’m sorry…”
The words were so faint you weren’t sure you heard them right.
“…what?” you asked, blinking.
“I’m… sorry,” he repeated, slightly louder, but just as broken.
Your chest tightened. You weren’t expecting that. You weren’t prepared.
“For what?” you whispered, confused, heart tripping over itself.
He exhaled shakily, removed his sunglasses, and finally looked at you.
And the sight of him nearly took you down.
His eyes were red, lashes wet, emotions sitting raw and open on his face in a way you hadn’t seen since the night you found him shattered on his bed. He looked defeated. Stripped bare. Like he’d run out of places to hide.
“I… not only did I fail her,” he said quietly, voice cracking, “but I failed you too.”
Your breath caught.
“That question at the press—it dragged everything back. Our last fight, the things we said…” He swallowed hard. “And you were right. I let the fame, the ego—everything—get to me. I stopped paying attention to the one real thing I had.”
He took a shaky step toward you.
“You,” he said. “It was you.”
Your heart ached. It physically hurt.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N. I love you. God, I never stopped. I miss you every damn day.” His voice trembled, and he dragged a hand through his hair like he was trying not to fall apart. “I regret everything. The way I acted. The things I threw in your face. I knew I didn’t mean them, but I said them anyway, and I hurt you. I hurt us. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You stood frozen, stunned, helpless as he moved closer, lifting your hands into his and holding them like a lifeline.
“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know I messed everything up. I know I ruined what we had. But I’m begging you—baby, please forgive me.”
His voice broke entirely.
“Please.”
You stood frozen.
Johnny Cage — Hollywood’s golden boy, your infuriating ex, the man who never let the world see him crack — was on his knees in front of you, clutching your wrists like they were the only thing keeping him upright. His forehead pressed into your hands, shoulders trembling with each breath he struggled to swallow.
You couldn’t move.
You couldn’t think.
You could barely breathe.
“I…” The word broke in your throat. “I…”
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. He was supposed to be furious about the reporter. He was supposed to rant, complain, deflect. He was supposed to shove the emotions down and hide behind sarcasm and sunglasses.
He wasn’t supposed to fall apart like this.
Not for you.
Not again.
Your eyes blurred, and only when the warmth hit your cheeks did you realize you were crying. Quiet, aching tears that carried every memory of how much you loved him. How deeply he’d hurt you. How terrified you were of letting him do it again.
“Johnny… why are you doing this?” you whispered, voice trembling. “Why now?”
He lifted his head, eyes red and terrified and so, so earnest.
“Because I love you,” he said, voice breaking on the last word. “Because I can’t let you go. Baby… please. I’m asking for one last chance.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet and pulled you into him, cupping your cheek with a hand that shook. He brushed your tears away with his thumb, gentle in a way that made your chest ache. His forehead pressed against yours, breaths mingling.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice raw. “I want you in my life. No— I need you. I know I screwed up. I know I hurt you. I’m begging you… just one chance to fix it. To fix us.”
Your breath hitched.
“Can you promise…”
Your voice cracked.
He leaned in, listening like every word was sacred.
“Promise me it won’t happen again,” you whispered. “Promise we won’t hurt each other like that anymore. I… I can’t have my heart broken again, Johnny. I can’t survive that twice.”
He shushed you gently, lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.
“I promise,” he whispered. “I swear to you, Y/N. I’ll never let something like that come between us again. You have my word.”
Something inside you gave way.
Broke open.
Finally softened.
“Okay,” you breathed.
Johnny let out a sound — half sob, half relief — and closed the distance between you. The kiss was soft, but heavy with everything he’d left unsaid. His regret. His loneliness. His longing. His love. It poured out of him, raw and trembling, like he’d been holding it back for years.
And you kissed him back, pouring in everything of your own — the hurt, the want, the memories, the tiny fragile hope you thought you’d buried.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads still touching, something inside both of you had shifted. Lightened. Healed.
The wounds weren’t gone.
The past wasn’t erased.
But for the first time in a long time…
you had each other again.
And this time, you were both determined to make it work.