CHARLIE GUIDED JOHNNY TO HIS BEDROOM, HIS STEPS UNSTEADY FROM THE AFTERMATH OF HIS PANIC ATTACK.  His exhaustion was written all over his face, and as she tucked him under the covers, she could feel the weight of his vulnerability in the air. She pulled the blanket up to his chest, pausing for a moment to watch his face in the dim light. In sleep, Johnny Storm looked different—peaceful, almost vulnerable. 

The cocky smirk was gone, replaced by a faint furrow in his brow as if even in unconsciousness, something weighed on him. With a quiet breath, Charlie stepped back, her boots barely making a sound on the hardwood floor as she slipped out of his room.

The door clicked softly behind her, but her thoughts were already racing, circling back to their conversation earlier. Johnny had accused her of pushing people away, and the truth of it stung more than she cared to admit. It wasn't a new observation—she'd heard it before from people who thought they understood her, people who thought they could fix her. But Johnny wasn't like them. He wasn't careful with his words or delicate with his approach. He'd said it bluntly, almost carelessly, like a match thrown into a pile of dry leaves.

But he wasn't wrong.

Pushing people away wasn't just a habit; it was survival. Letting people get too close meant opening herself up to weaknesses, vulnerabilities. It was easier to keep everyone at arm's length, easier to remind herself that she wasn't here to care about Johnny Storm. She was here to keep him alive. That was the job. Not friendship. Not trust. Definitely not... whatever mess of emotions was currently tangling in her chest.

And yet, it wasn't that simple, was it?

Johnny was a lot of things—arrogant, self-absorbed, and spoiled rotten by a lifetime of getting exactly what he wanted. He had a face that could sell cologne or sports cars, and he knew it. He expected people to orbit around him, to laugh at his jokes, to let him get away with everything short of setting the room on fire—sometimes literally. He was a brat. A demanding, entitled brat who could make her head pound after five minutes in the same room.

But he was also more than that. And that's what bothered her most.

She couldn't shake the look in his eyes when she'd told him she didn't care about him—that it was just a job. The way his smile had faltered, how he'd looked away for just a second before masking it with one of his signature grins. It had landed. Hard. And she hadn't expected it to. For all his endless jokes and flashy smiles, Johnny wasn't untouchable. Beneath all the charm and money was someone who hated being brushed aside, someone who was far too used to people walking away once they got tired of him.

She thought back to the guy at the deli who'd ignored him earlier that day. Johnny had played it off, laughing and joking like it hadn't bothered him. But she'd seen the flicker of insecurity cross his face, the way his shoulders had tensed for just a second before he'd plastered on a grin.

Johnny wanted validation, craved it, really—and not just from strangers or fans. And she... she'd just kicked at that bruise without thinking.

Charlie sighed and leaned against the wall outside his door, letting her head fall back with a soft thud. The guilt was a slow, crawling ache in her chest, one she wasn't sure how to soothe. She wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to feel anything other than professional detachment. But Johnny had a way of sneaking past her defenses, slipping through the cracks in her armor without her noticing until it was too late.

He was arrogant, exhausting, and infuriating. But he was also honest, strangely endearing in his persistence, and—God help her—he was starting to matter.

As she stepped out of Johnny's room, the lingering smell of his cologne hitting her skin, but it wasn't enough to numb the thoughts swirling in her mind. She hadn't let anyone in since her first love—a painful memory she refused to let resurface. It had been easier to close off, to focus on work, on the mission. Letting someone in meant risk, and she couldn't afford that kind of weakness.

Her fingertips felt numb as the cocktail from earlier began to hit her harder. Her head grew woozy, and she stumbled, barely catching herself on the wall beside the elevator. The night was quiet, but her mind was loud with old memories and new guilt.

By the time she made it back to Johnny's couch, her body gave in to the overwhelming exhaustion, her thoughts spiraling as she collapsed onto the soft cushions. Her eyes fluttered closed, succumbing to the pull of sleep. For the first time in a long time, Charlie let herself drift, not thinking about the job, not thinking about Johnny, just surrendering to the darkness.

🔥

The room was dark, filled with the soft hum of the wind outside, but in her mind, everything was chaos. Charlie was back there, in the hidden cabin where she had kept Evan safe for weeks. She could feel the weight of the gun in her hand, her pulse racing as she scanned the room, her instincts warning her that something wasn't right.

But it was too late.

The door exploded open, the force sending shards of wood across the floor. In an instant, she saw her—the Widow, her former mentor, a ghost from her past, standing there with cold, lifeless eyes. Evan stood behind her, confusion etched across his face. He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't know who she was—he only knew that he trusted Charlie to keep him safe. But now, she was powerless.

The Widow's voice was calm, terrifyingly steady. "You thought you could save him? This isn't how our world works."

Charlie tried to move, tried to lift the gun, but she couldn't. Her body was paralyzed, as if the very air had turned to cement around her. The Widow turned her gaze toward Evan, her gun raised, aimed directly at his chest.

"No!" Charlie screamed, but her voice was trapped in her throat. She couldn't move. She couldn't save him.

Time slowed as she watched the Widow's finger tighten on the trigger. Evan's eyes met hers, filled with confusion, then fear, and in that split second, she saw him mouth her name.

The shot rang out.

The sound tore through her like a blade—sharp, deafening. She watched in helpless horror as Evan's body jolted backward, the life draining from him in a second. Blood bloomed on his chest, soaking his shirt. He fell to the ground, and the world around her blurred into nothingness, her mind screaming in agony.

"Charlie..." His voice, so soft and fading, echoed in her ears.

She struggled, thrashing against the invisible force that held her in place, desperately trying to reach him. But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't move, couldn't get to him. The cold, suffocating sensation of being trapped washed over her, drowning her in guilt, in sorrow.

And then—

She woke with a jolt, her heart pounding, gasping for breath. Sweat slicked her skin, her fingers gripping the blanket as if she were still fighting against the weight of her nightmare. The sound of the gunshot still echoed in her mind, a phantom pain that twisted her stomach. She blinked, eyes wide, disoriented, trying to ground herself in the present. But the feeling of helplessness lingered, clinging to her like a shadow.

She sat up, her chest heaving, running her trembling hands through her hair. The nightmare always ended like this—with Evan dying, with her powerless to save him. Her breath was shallow, and she tried to focus on the here and now, reminding herself that it was over, that the nightmare was only a memory.

But the sound of the shot—it stayed with her.

Charlie closed her eyes, taking deep, measured breaths, her hand pressing gently against her chest as she tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She had been through this routine so many times before—waking up from the nightmare, the rush of emotions from the past mixing with the present, leaving her feeling vulnerable and raw. But she couldn't let it linger. She couldn't let herself break down. Not today.

Once her breathing steadied, she checked the time on her phone. 7:02 AM. The faint light of morning crept through the curtains, and a knock at the door startled her. Instinctively, Charlie moved cautiously toward it, her fingers brushing the blade hidden at her waist. She peered through the peephole, her muscles tensing. It was just the maid.

Charlie knocked lightly on Johnny's door, hesitating for just a moment before turning the handle and pushing it open a crack. "Johnny?" she called softly, her voice threading carefully into the stillness of the room. The faint morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the space.

He was sprawled across the bed, shirtless and tangled in the sheets, his tousled blond hair sticking out at odd angles. His face, half-buried in a pillow, turned slightly toward her, and his blue eyes—usually sharp with mischief or humor—were bleary and distant.

Johnny grunted in response, squinting at her through the dim light. "What do you want?" he mumbled, his tone sharp and threaded with something colder than his usual lazy annoyance.

Charlie froze for a split second, her hand still resting on the doorknob. His voice had an edge, a hardness she wasn't used to from him—not like this, not directed at her. "Just checking on you," she said evenly, her tone calm and professional, as if his irritation hadn't hit her like a slap across the face. "You seemed off yesterday, and I wanted to make sure—"

"I'm fine," Johnny snapped, cutting her off before she could finish. He flopped onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes, effectively blocking her out. "You've checked. Now you can leave."

Charlie's shoulders tensed, her spine going ramrod straight as she stood there in the doorway. His dismissal shouldn't have stung—it was part of the job, after all—but it did. She was used to him being moody, petulant, and impossible to deal with when things didn't go his way. But this was different. There was something raw in his voice, something that made her hesitate before speaking again.

"You have the Derby today," she reminded him, her voice softer now. "You've been talking about it for weeks. Are you sure you—"

"Canceling it," he muttered into his pillow, his words muffled but still sharp enough to cut through the silence. "Don't feel like going."

Charlie frowned, stepping into the room despite the clear, invisible line Johnny had drawn. Her boots made soft thuds against the hardwood floor as she crossed the threshold, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You're canceling?" she repeated, disbelief threading into her voice. "Johnny, it's the Derby. You've been hyping this up like it's the event of the year. You're just... backing out now?"

He groaned and sat up abruptly, his hair falling into his eyes as he turned to face her. "Are you deaf, Charlie? I said I'm not going, all right? Drop it."

His words were sharp, biting, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence sat heavy in the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning. Johnny turned his face away from her again, his jaw tight and his hands clenched into fists in the sheets.

Charlie felt a flare of anger rise in her chest, but she swallowed it down, keeping her expression carefully blank. "You don't get to shut down on me like this," she said quietly, her voice firm but steady. "If something's wrong, you can talk to me. But snapping at me like I'm the enemy? That's not going to work."

Johnny let out a bitter laugh, a humorless sound that made her stomach twist. "Talk to you? Right. Because you're such an open book, aren't you, Charlie?" He threw her a sharp glance, his blue eyes piercing. "You've made it perfectly clear that you don't care about me—so why the hell would I unload my problems on you?"

The words landed like punches, and Charlie flinched inwardly, though her face remained as still as stone. This was the side of Johnny most people didn't see—the sharpness, the anger, the way he lashed out when his walls started to crack. She recognized it because she'd done the same thing countless times before.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was suffocating, filled with unsaid words and tension so thick it felt like it could choke her. Johnny ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots before letting out a heavy sigh. His shoulders sagged slightly, but he still wouldn't look at her.

Charlie's voice was quieter now, the edges of her earlier sharpness worn down. "You're not as good at pushing people away as you think you are, Storm."

Johnny flinched slightly at her words but said nothing.

She lingered for a heartbeat longer, her gaze softening despite herself. He looked so damn tired—not physically, but emotionally. Like something was eating him alive from the inside out, and he didn't know how to claw his way out of it.

But she couldn't fix that. It wasn't her job to fix Johnny Storm.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "You want me to leave? I'll leave."

She turned on her heel, her boots heavy against the floor as she walked back toward the door. The hallway felt colder than before, and Charlie let out a slow breath as she leaned against the wall, her head tilting back against the smooth plaster. She closed her eyes, her chest tight with frustration, guilt, and something else she couldn't name.

Inside the room, Johnny stayed frozen in place, his head hung low and his fists still clutching the sheets. Her words lingered in the air like smoke—faint but impossible to ignore.In the hallway, she exhaled slowly. His mood swings were intense, but this felt... different. The day before had been hard for him, and maybe she had pushed him too far. Guilt gnawed at her, but she knew better than to let it overwhelm her. He'd always been difficult, but she was still his bodyguard—his safety came first. That was her job.

Maybe a hangover cure would help. Charlie wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. She added some lemon juice, ginger, and a pinch of salt to replenish his electrolytes. It was something she'd done before when Johnny was in one of these moods—small, unspoken acts of care, even when he was too stubborn to ask for it.

By the time she finished, she heard the faint sound of the shower running from his room. He's in the shower.

She wasn't going to wait around awkwardly, but she didn't want to leave without letting him know she was trying to help. So, she scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper she found on the counter:

"Here's something for the hangover. Hope it helps. Take care of yourself."
– C.

Charlie placed the glass of the hangover remedy on his bedside table and neatly folded the note beside it. She stared at it for a moment, wondering if he'd even bother to acknowledge it later. With a quiet sigh, she turned and left the room, the sound of the running water fading as she closed the door gently behind her.

🔥

Charlie made her way back to her lifeless apartment, the weight of the morning still clinging to her like an unwanted shadow. The silence was deafening, each step echoing in the emptiness as she moved through the space that felt more like a shell than a home. The stark walls, the minimalist decor—all of it served as a constant reminder of her isolation. She knew she had to find some comfort, however fleeting it might be.

As she entered her bedroom, she felt an odd mix of melancholy and determination. She pushed the rug aside, revealing the section of tile that concealed her secret. With a practiced motion, she pulled one of the pieces back, exposing the hidden compartment beneath. The small space felt like a treasure chest, and in it lay a piece of her past that she hadn't touched in ages.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached in and pulled out a worn sweater. The fabric was soft, fraying at the edges but still somehow comforting. She held it up to her nose and inhaled deeply, and in an instant, the scent wrapped around her like a warm embrace. It was a familiar fragrance—his scent. It carried with it the memories of lazy afternoons spent wrapped up together, laughter ringing through the air, and whispered secrets shared in the quiet moments. Those memories flooded back, filling her mind with flashes of joy and warmth that seemed so distant now.

But along with that fleeting happiness came a sharp pang of loss, a deep, hollow ache that clawed its way through her chest. The sweetness of the moment was tangled with an unbearable sadness, a cruel reminder that those times—the warmth, the safety, the love—were long gone.

Charlie sank to her knees on the cold hardwood floor, clutching the worn sweater tightly against her chest. The fabric, soft yet frayed in places, felt like a lifeline—a fragile thread tying her to a world she could never return to. She buried her face in the familiar material, her breath hitching as she inhaled its faint scent. It was faded now, dulled by time and too many washes, but there were still traces of him there—something warm, something that made her heart clench painfully in her chest.

For a fleeting second, she let herself believe he was there with her. That if she turned her head just right, she'd see him sitting beside her, elbows on his knees, head tilted in that familiar way of his when he was trying to figure something out. She could almost feel him—the solid weight of his arm around her shoulders, the gentle warmth of his palm resting on the curve of her knee. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could almost hear him laugh, that low, easy sound that used to untangle every knot in her chest.

But it was all just a ghost—an echo of something that once was.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she hugged the sweater tighter, her knuckles white as she clutched the fabric. If only he were here, she thought desperately, the words rattling around her mind like broken glass. If only things had turned out differently.

A wave of longing crashed over her, so sharp and intense it stole her breath. She could almost hear the creak of the old floorboards beneath his feet, feel the way he'd sit down behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She'd give anything—anything—to feel that again, even if just for a moment.

The memories began to unfurl, each one vivid and aching as they played behind her closed eyelids. His laughter, bright and genuine, filling every quiet space. The way his eyes sparkled when he finished a puzzle, that proud little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. How he'd scrunch up his nose at the smell of mushrooms cooking on the stove, his mock outrage making her laugh until her sides ached. The way he'd pull her into his chest after a long day, murmuring something soft against her hair as they swayed in the kitchen to no music at all.

Those moments felt like sunbeams piercing through heavy storm clouds—brief and brilliant, but now distant and untouchable. Each memory was both a balm and a knife, soothing her aching heart while slicing it open all over again.

The sweater became a vessel for her grief, a fragile totem of a love she'd lost, a future stolen before it could ever truly begin. Her tears fell silently, dampening the fabric as she clutched it closer, as though holding it tightly enough might somehow pull him back to her.

Time felt suspended in that tiny apartment. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall was the only reminder that the world outside still turned, still moved forward without him. But in this moment—this fragile, painful, tender moment—she was untethered from time. She was nowhere and everywhere all at once, floating in the delicate balance of memory and longing.

Charlie stayed there on the floor, knees pressed into the cold wood, her face buried in the fabric of the sweater. She let herself grieve, let herself feel every jagged edge of the pain she usually shoved deep down into the dark corners of her mind. And in that raw, unguarded silence, she allowed herself to miss him—to miss the version of herself she'd been when he was alive.

Her heart ached, heavy and hollow, but somewhere beneath the weight of her grief, there was still a flicker of warmth—a fragile ember kept alive by the love they'd shared. Even if he was gone, even if the world had moved on, that ember still glowed faintly in the dark.