You had been ignoring him for three days. No texts. No glances. Just silence.

Johnny, had never experienced a cold shoulder like this. Not from you.

The first day, he sent your favorite coffee to your lab with a note that said still hot, just like me. You didn’t respond. The second day, he tried to distract you mid-meeting with a message written in flames outside the window: I’m sorry, sweetheart. You shut the blinds.

Now it was the third night, and the entire Baxter Building smelled faintly of roses. You had no idea how he got that many.

You stepped into the common room to find him curled on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, face unusually still. The flicker of his powers lit the room dimly.

“You done with the theatrics?” you asked, voice flat.

He didn’t look up. “I’ll stop when you talk to me again.”