chpt. 2

I nearly drop the milk and my eyes land on the ceiling to floor windows overlooking New York. I live on one of the top floors of a skyscraper. And I hate it.

My husband loves it, of course. Whenever we have guests, he insists on a tour of the house. Flaunting everything, insinuating the amount of money we don't have, thanks to his gambling. It's all for show.

I put the milk safely in the fridge, closing it. I can't believe my eyes. Johnny Storm is flying right outside my home, flames and all. He waves and smiles at me. I wave back an idiot.

My brain starts to work and I quickly head to my husband and I's room. I throw open the balcony sliding door. I practically hang over the railing, seeing Johnny slowly fly to balcony. He lands gracefully a few feet from me. I lick my lips, taking a breath.

He is wearing casual clothes. Jeans, normal shoes, normal shirt and belt. I want to ask questions. So many are flowing through my brain. Shouldn't his clothes have melted by now? How can he withstand the heat? How is it to fly?

"Hi." I stutter instead, dumbfounded.

He smiles, shyly, "Hi." He sticks out his hand, "I'm Johnny Storm."

I smile. I know. "Y/n L/n." I reply.

He looks down for a moment at his shoes, folding his hands in front of him, "I just, uh, wanted to see if you're okay after today. Since you were in danger and all." He says finally.

I smirk, "Do you always visit young, married women on their balconies?"

His head shoots up, "I, uh, I'm, sorry! I didn't mean—"

I bark out laughing, holding my stomach. I don't know the last time I actually laughed. Like belly-laughed.

He grins awkwardly, "I'm okay." I say quietly.

His baby blue eyes scan me quickly, "You don't look fine." He says.

His eyes land on my cheek, my wrist. I'm sure there are bruises already. The silence hangs between us heavily. I swallow, feeling tears burn my eyes. I bite my lip, blinking rapidly.

"I'm fine." I repeat, like it's a programmed chip in my brain. I've forced myself to say those words so many times over the years. To friends, colleagues, family.

Johnny frowns deeply, "I can help—"

"No!" I exclaim. I cup my hands over my mouth. Shut up! Shut. Up! I'll get in trouble the more I talk.

"I'm sorry." I whimper. "I didn't—" He frowns more, shaking his head.

"Sorry for what?" He questions softly.

I stare at him, "You should leave." I say. "Please." I beg.

His eyes widen, "I can help Y/n—"

"No!" I exclaim, "You can't. You... shouldn't concern yourself with—a civilian."

"But I do. Your life—"

"Is meaningless! Yours is better spent saving the world. Not me." I rush out. I then hear our front door open. My body goes cold, my arms numb. Goose bumps spread across my skin. I swallow thickly.

"Y/n! Y/n!" My husband yells. He's drunk.

"I'm fine. Now please, go!" I whisper-yell. I shove Johnny away from me and shove the sliding door closed behind me. I close the curtains, leaving no trace that anyone was here.

I take a slow deep breath, straightening my hair, my dress, before slowly and carefully making my way to the kitchen. I hold my breath at what I'll find. One time he threw an empty beer bottle at me. It nicked my cheek. I had to get stitches and lie to the doctor that I fell.

I've gotten good at that, too. Lying. It's become second nature. Covering up bruises too, so people don't question anything.

I peek around the corner. He's passed out on the sofa, beer in hand, snoring loudly. A sudden nausea overtakes me and I rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. The one time I didn't, it ended with my head in my own vomit and blood running down my temple.

I heave over the toilet bowl, muscles contracting to get the little contents out of my stomach. I flush and wipe my mouth when I'm done. I listen for a while in the bathroom.

I catch myself in the mirror. There is already a red-ish mark forming on my cheek and wrists as well. I'll have to cover it up in the morning.

I hear his footsteps, I'll recognize them anywhere. The bathroom door rattles roughly. I wince.

"Y/n! Open up, you bitch!" He slurs.

I swallow, opening the door and am shoved aside. He bends over the toilet bowl and I hear him wretch.

A few days later.

I sit in front of the television, not really knowing what to do with myself, not really watching either. The interaction with Johnny Storm plays in my mind more times than I want to admit.

My husband is working today and won't be back until late tonight. He's been coming in late after work much later than usual.

I've been at home since he came home drunk, so I didn't have to cover the bruises, or worry about people seeing or asking questions.

I sigh. Until a thought hits me full force. I can go out of my house. Now. I can leave. I don't have to sit here. I gasp at the thought. But I can't do that... can I? He won't notice. He won't. But he will! My hands shake as I start to pace in my kitchen.

Screw this. 

I grab my coat, pulling it on. I stall at the front door. I physically can't open the door. I groan, hitting my head against the wood.

You can do this! You will do this! I just have to be back before his work ends to be safe.

I take a deep breath, and open the door. Relief floods through me as I step outside.