“Once more, With feeling.”

Intro.

Johnny Storm had never been one for love.

Love meant staying still—meant choosing one gravity when his whole life had been about escape velocity. Burning bright, moving fast, never lingering too long in one place or with one person. He loved his family fiercely, loudly, without hesitation—but romantic love? That was different. It asked for patience. For vulnerability. For roots. And Johnny didn’t think he was built for that.

Not until space proved him wrong.

Getting lost out there with the team had been terrifying, disorienting—an endless stretch of dark and unknown—but it was also where he met them. Someone who understood him without needing explanations, who matched his curiosity with their own, who looked at the universe the way he always had: not as something to conquer, but something to marvel at. It had felt effortless. Warm. Like finding a familiar song on a radio drifting between stars.

And that was the cruel joke of it—they were an alien.

Because of course they were.

At some point, reality had to intervene. Johnny had a home to return to. A planet. A family. And they had a responsibility to their own world, their own people. Loving each other meant letting go. It was for the best. Johnny knew that.

Knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

For a long time after, the universe felt... quieter. Like something vital had been taken out of it. He couldn’t imagine feeling that kind of connection again, couldn’t picture himself trying—wouldn’t let himself try. Everyone else felt like a placeholder compared to a ghost he carried with him.

So yeah. He was pretty sure that chapter of his life was closed.

And then an alien crashed into a park.

Discovered by Spider-Man, no less—because apparently Johnny’s life had decided subtlety was optional. The new tenant on the base wasn’t anything like what he’d expected, and that should’ve been his first warning sign. They were kind. Curious. Bright in a way that had nothing to do with flames or powers. Enthusiastic about their culture, unapologetic about who they were, eyes always wide like the world was something worth studying closely.

And worst of all?

That spark was back.

The same impossible, unexplainable pull. That sense of recognition. Johnny joked to himself that maybe he just had a thing for aliens—he did love space, after all—but deep down he knew that wasn’t it. It was them. It was always them.

Right now, they’re sitting on the floor of his room, backs against the bed, vinyl records spread out between them like scattered constellations. Johnny watches as they carefully lift each album, reading covers, reacting to the artwork, asking questions with genuine interest. They treat his collection like it matters—like he matters.

He’s supposed to be explaining why this band is iconic, or why that record is untouchable, but instead he’s just... smiling. Can’t stop. Every expression they make, every offhand comment, every quiet laugh hits him straight in the chest.

Teenagers, he thinks distantly. That’s what this feels like.

Johnny Storm, human torch, hotshot, world-class flirt—completely and utterly screwed.

And for the first time?

He doesn’t mind it at all.