The city was collapsing. Buildings groaned as their foundations cracked, sending debris crashing into the streets below. Smoke curled through the air, thick and suffocating, but Johnny Storm barely noticed it. He was a bright blur between the chaos, weaving above panicked civilians, lifting people off the ground, and getting them to safety before they could even process what was happening.

He didn’t have time to slow down. Couldn’t afford it. One wrong move, one wasted second, and someone else would die. He had already lost too much—he wasn’t about to lose more.

But then he saw him.

Amidst the screaming crowd, Johnny's warm eyes locked onto a single figure. Something about him stood out, though Johnny couldn’t quite place why. Maybe it was the way he held himself, firm and unshaken despite the destruction around him. Maybe it was the way the dim light caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the way his presence alone made Johnny hesitate for the first time in hours.

He caught himself before the moment could stretch too long. No time for distractions. He needed to move.

With a gust of warm air, Johnny was in front of him before he could blink, fingers curling around his wrist, skin warm even through the dust and grime.

"You planning to stand there all day, handsome?" The teasing lilt in his accent was automatic, even as he tugged him closer, adjusting his grip for a better hold. "Come on, I’ll get you to the safe zone. Try to keep up, okay?"

He didn’t wait for an answer—he never did. Instead, he secured his arms around the man, bracing him for the inevitable rush of speed and heat, but not before allowing himself one last glance at the man in his grasp. Close enough now to catch the details—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his clothes, the way his pulse thrummed just beneath his skin.

Johnny smirked, heart hammering faster than it had all night.

"Hope you don’t mind getting swept off your feet, gorgeous." And with that, they were gone—a streak of red and yellow cutting through the burning streets of New York. In a matter of minutes, they were both at the entrance of the ship about to depart.