Chapter Text
The air was perfect tonight, clear and cold enough to bite a little at the edges, the kind of night that made the city feel alive in a way it never quite managed during the day. The traffic hummed far below, headlights streaking through intersections, people moving in little clusters that looked impossibly small from this high up.
It was the kind of night that made everything feel easy.
Spider-Man arced between buildings with practiced ease, weblines snapping tight and releasing in a smooth rhythm, his body moving more on instinct than thought as a streak of fire kept pace beside him. The glow of it flickered across glass and steel, he was close enough that Peter could feel the warmth radiating off of him, it was distracting in a way that Peter tried not to think too hard about.
It was easier to move like this when Johnny was there, it turned the whole night into something warm and loud, it made everything worth the effort.
“C’mon, Storm,” he called over the rush of wind, already laughing. “You’re seriously getting smoked right now.”
Johnny’s flames glowed a brilliant orange as he raced alongside him. He twisted in the air to glare at him, fire trailing from his hands and feet in bright, uneven ribbons. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I would never kid about something this embarrassing for you.”
Spider-Man shot another web and launched himself higher, flipping neatly over the edge of a rooftop.
“Should I slow down?” he added. “I can slow down if you need me to.”
Johnny barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, that’s cute.”
“You’re losing and I’m not even trying,” Peter called, swinging ahead of him.
“Oh, you’re trying,” Johnny shot back immediately. “You just don’t want to admit this is your top speed.”
Peter snorted, landing briefly on the side of a building before sprinting forward along the vertical glass before he kicked off again just because he knew Johnny hated when he showed off.
“Wow,” he said, glancing back at him, “that almost sounded convincing.”
Johnny flared brighter as heat washed across Spider-Man’s side, he surged forward. “Keep running your mouth, bug boy.”
“I’m not running my mouth,” He said, grinning under the mask as he swung after him. “I’m running laps around you.”
He gained on him again, his momentum building. The city opened up ahead, the skyline dipping just enough to give them a clear stretch of air. “Alright,” Spider-Man called, voice carrying over the wind, “race you to Battery Park.”
Johnny didn’t even hesitate. “You’re on.”
Spider-Man laughed, already firing another webline and launching himself forward. The shift was immediate, the playfulness of the night had turned competitive in a heartbeat. He pushed harder, longer swings, tighter turns, cutting corners wherever he could. Johnny’s flames roared brighter as he shot ahead in a streak of fiery light, then dipped low just to force Spidey to adjust.
He compensated automatically, muscle memory kicking in. He angled for a better line hold and fired.
Nothing.
There was a soft, wrong click from his webshooter.
He blinked, confused more than anything else at first. His body kept moving, the swing already committed but the line never came. For a split second his mind just… didn’t catch up.
“wait-”
He jerked his wrist again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
The arc of his swing collapsed.
The city tilted sharply beneath him as gravity took over, the drop hitting all at once. Air rushed past his ears loud and disorienting as his stomach lurching, ground surged closer.
“Okay! okay-”
He twisted midair bringing his other arm up, already firing his other webshooter. This one worked, latching onto the side of a building at a bad angle, it was far too low, too sharp.
When the tension hit the line it immediately lost its grip.
“Shit!”
He dropped again.
This time there was no time for recovery, no time to fix it and no way to redirect. The ground rushed up fast enough to steal the breath from his lungs, his body locking instinctively as he tried to brace for an impact he wasn’t going to survive.
“SPIDEY!”
Fire tore through the air as Johnny came in fast, too fast, his panic overriding everything else. He didn’t slow, didn’t think, didn’t pull the flames back like he normally would. He just dove.
Twenty feet from the ground, he caught him, his hand locked around Peter’s forearm.
Spider-Man screamed the second he made contact, the heat unbearable against his skin. His body jerked violently as Johnny’s flames burned straight through the suit. The fabric didn’t stand a chance, it blackened and melted instantly, fusing to his skin as the heat sank deeper, past the surface, past anything that could register the as pain.
Johnny’s stomach dropped.
He killed the flames immediately, the fire snuffing out in a panicked collapse as he shifted his grip, angeling them toward the sidewalk.
“Shit, shit, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,”
They hit the ground harder than intended, Johnny stumbling on the landing but managing to keep Peter upright.
For a second, everything went too still.
Spider-Man sagged in his grip, barely holding himself up, his breathing was uneven and shallow, like he couldn’t quite get enough air in. His whole body trembled, it wasn’t subtle, this was full-body shaking that he couldn’t seem to control.
Spots swam in his vision dark and flickering at the edges, the world tilting slightly out of place.
Johnny didn’t notice, he was too focused on the arm.
“Hey! Hey! look at me,” Johnny said, voice already edging into panic. His hands hovered, unsure where it was safe to touch before settling at his shoulders. “We need to get that looked at, okay? Reed can fix it, he can- he can fix anything, we just,”
Spider-Man shook his head, it was small, his body kept trembling. He forced himself upright, pulling just enough out of Johnny’s grip to stand on his own.
“I’m fine,” he said but it came out wrong, thin, strained, like he was pushing it through clenched teeth.
Johnny stared at him. “You’re not-”
“I said I’m fine.”
Spider-Man took a step back.
The movement was unsteady, his balance off just enough that it was obvious something was wrong. The adrenaline was the only thing holding him together at this point.
Johnny stepped forward automatically. “Hey- don’t- just come with me, alright? We’ll go to the Baxter Building, it’s not far, Reed-”
“No.”
Spider-Man’s voice cut sharper this time.
He took another step back, then another, putting space between them even as his vision swam and the ground shifted under his feet.
“I’ve got it,” he said, already turning slightly away. “It’s just a burn,”
“Just a,” Johnny’s voice broke a little. “That’s not just anything, you’re shaking, you can barely-”
“Johnny.”
That stopped him.
Spider-Man didn’t look at him, he couldn’t. His head stayed turned just enough to avoid it, his breathing still uneven, his body still trembling despite the effort to hold it together.
“…I’m sorry.”
Before Johnny could react, Spidey flicked his wrist. A web shot out of his good webshooter cleanly and snapped around Johnny’s ankles pinning his feet to the pavement.
Johnny blinked, startled. “What… hey!”
Spider-Man was already moving. He fired another webline upward, the angle off just slightly, his aim not as steady as it should’ve been. He yanked himself up hard, the motion awkward, unbalanced.
And slammed into the side of the building.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his body going rigid for a split second before he forced himself to keep moving. He didn’t stop, didn’t look down, didn’t give Johnny a chance to catch up.
He climbed.
It wasn’t smooth, not like usual. Slower, one arm compensating for the other as he pulled himself up the rest of the way, disappearing over the edge of the rooftop above.
Johnny was left on the sidewalk, feet still stuck, staring up after him.
Peter didn’t make it far before the shaking got worse. It crept in fast once he was out of Johnny’s line of sight, once he didn’t have to pretend he was fine anymore. His footing slipped on the rooftop, his balance off just enough that he had to catch himself against the ledge.
The adrenaline was still there, loud and burning in his system but it was fading fast. It mixed with the heavy drag of deep unsettling fear. His healing factor dragged behind it all trying to keep up, to do something about the damage, but even that felt… off. Overwhelmed.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, voice thin. “Okay, just- just move.”
He forced himself forward, each step felt wrong, his body didn’t want to cooperate, his coordination slipping in small ways that were far too dangerous for a roof top. The city blurred at the edges, lights smearing together as his vision struggled to keep up. He didn’t swing this time, not really, it was just short uneven pulls, trying to keep himself moving.
He dropped down onto another rooftop harder than he meant to, his knees buckling slightly on impact, he caught himself with his good arm, breath hitching, then pushed forward again.
The backpack.
He’d stashed it earlier, the routine of a normal patrol.
Peter staggered toward where he’d left it, vision swimming as he scanned for it. For a second, he didn’t see it at all, panic flaring sharp and suddenly he saw it, tucked behind a vent exactly where he left it.
He grabbed it, slinging it over his shoulder with his good arm and kept moving.
The hospital wasn’t far.
That was the only thought he held onto.
Not far. Just get there.
He dropped down into the alley behind the ER harder than he meant to, crumpling to his kness on the landing. He caught himself against the wall, shoulder slamming into brick, and forced himself back up off the ground, breathing hard.
Everything felt too loud, his heartbeat pounded in his ears, his vision narrowing in and out, darkness crept in at the edges. His arm, he couldn’t really feel it, the edges of the burn were agony but the worst of it was completely numb.
“Okay,” he said to him, quieter this time as he tried to convince himself to keep going. “Okay. Suit. Off.”
He dropped the bag to the ground and started pulling the suit free.
It was harder than it should’ve been, his hands not cooperating, fingers clumsy as he peeled the fabric away from his shoulder, his torso.
Then he got to his arm.
Peter stopped.
For a second, he just stared. The fabric wasn’t just stuck, it was fused, melted into his skin. The center of the burn was blackened, hardened, the shape unmistakable once his brain caught up, a handprint, burned straight through.
Johnny’s hand.
“…okay,” he breathed.
His chest rose and fell too fast, breaths coming in short, uneven bursts as he stared at it, really seeing it for the first time.
For a second he didn’t move, his stomach rolled as the extent of the wound became apparent.
Then, he took a sharp inhale and yanked.
The fabric didn’t come away clean.
It tore.
A wet horrible sound filled the narrow space as the suit ripped free, taking pieces of his skin with it. His body jerked with the force of it, a strangled noise catching in his throat, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t, he ripped the rest of it off in quick, brutal motions, not giving himself time to think about it.
By the time it was done, his vision was tunneled and his breathing even more uneven.
He didn’t look at it, he knew if he did he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
He shoved the ruined suit into the bag with a shaking hand, forcing it down, zipping it halfway before giving up. His fingers fumbled with the clothes next dragging them on as fast as he could, t-shirt and shorts, nothing fancy he needed to move.
He was uncoordinated and almost lost his balance twice, catching himself against the wall each time, his head spinning harder with every second.
The bag stayed where it was, he couldn’t carry it in; he knew he couldn’t risk it being in the hospital with him.
Peter pushed himself upright, swaying slightly, then forced his legs to move.
One step.
Then another.
The alley seemed to last forever. The lights above the ER entrance blurred together, too bright against the dark.
Almost there.
Just-
A few more-
His foot caught on nothing.
Peter stumbled forward, his body pitching hard as his vision went completely white for a second. The ground rushed up-
He made it maybe two steps from the door before his knees gave out completely.
The last thing he registered was the sound of it, the dull impact of his body hitting concrete, the distant echo of voices somewhere nearby calling out for help.
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah, yeah, but barely I think he’s in shock.”
“Get a stretcher! now!”
Hands moved around him, urgent and practiced. Someone checked his pulse, someone else pushed the door open, voices overlapping in bursts of controlled chaos.
“Severe burns, oh god look at his arm-”
“Jesus, how long has he been out here?”
“Doesn’t matter, move-”
The world rushed back in pieces, bright lights, sharp voices, the sudden jostle of movement as they moved him, Peter only catching bits and pieces as he wavers in and out.
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah, he is-” the voice sharp, loud, “Hey, hey, can you hear me?”
Peter didn’t answer.
Another voice leaned in closer. “Hey. Stay with me, alright? Open your eyes for me.”
Peter tried. His lashes fluttered, his chest hitching as the world snapped back into place for half a second, the voices too loud, movement too fast, too much light, before he knew what happened it all started to blur again.
The tone shifted, not panicked, but confused, like something about it didn’t line up with what they’d expected to see.
“It’s,” someone hesitated, then said it anyway, quieter, “it’s shaped like a hand.”
“Burn pattern’s too defined,” another voice said, more clinical but just as unsettled. “Full contact, it’s deep. Really deep.”
“Okay, cover it. Don’t mess with it.”
Something settled lightly over his arm, they were careful not to press but even through the haze, his body reacted, a sharp uneven inhale, his shoulders tensing for a second before going slack again.
“Let’s move.”
Peter made a faint sound, barely there.
“BP’s dropping.”
“Get fluids ready.”
“Call the burn team!”
His eyes opened once more, just a sliver before everything finally went black.
Waking up felt different, it was slow and heavy, like he was dragging himself up through something thick, his thoughts lagging behind his body, each piece of awareness clicking into place. His limbs felt weighed down, his chest rising and falling slowly. His mouth was dry, his tongue stuck slightly when he tried to swallow. It didn’t help much. Everything still felt wrong and sluggish like his body had decided to move at half-speed.
Peter blinked his vision swimming for a moment before it settled. The room came into focus gradually, the muted lighting and pale walls. He could hear the steady beep and whir of medical equipment off to his right the steady presence of medical equipment somewhere just out of frame. It didn’t take long for the memory to start creeping back in, not all at once, but enough to make his stomach turn.
Then his eyes shifted and landed on someone sitting beside the bed, it took a second to register and another to recognize him.
“Ned?” His voice came out rough, quiet, like he had to fight himself to get it out.
Ned straightened immediately, like he’d been half waiting for that exact moment, relief flashed across his face so quickly it almost looked like surprise.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
Peter frowned slightly, still trying to catch up, his thoughts moving just a little too slow to keep up with the conversation he’d started.
“How did you-” He paused, swallowing again, wincing faintly at how little it helped. “How did you know I was here?”
Ned let out a breath, something between a quiet laugh and lingering nerves. He shifted forward in his chair resting his arms on his knees. “They found your wallet,” he said. “Called me off that little emergency contact card I put in there, remember?”
Peter blinked at him, the memory slotting into place with a dull sort of realization.
Right.
That.
“Guess that… worked,” he muttered, his voice still not quite steady.
“Yeah,” Ned said, his voice low and tight. “Peter… what happened?”
The question landed heavier than it should have, hanging in the air between them.
“They said-” Ned hesitated, his expression shifting like he was trying to figure out how to say it without making it worse. “They said it’s a fourth-degree burn.”
Peter went still. For a moment, the words didn’t fully register. They just existed, flat and disconnected like they hadn’t quite found their place yet. His brain stalled out like it was trying to deny the words that he had just heard.
“Fourth…” he repeated, faintly.
He hadn’t known that.
He’d known it was bad, obviously. He’d seen it, felt enough of it to know something was seriously wrong but hearing it said like that gave it a weight it hadn’t had before. A finality.
Fourth-degree.
His gaze dropped without him meaning to, drawn to where his arm lay propped and wrapped in thick bandaging. It was elevated slightly, supported in a way that made it look… separate from the rest of him.
He couldn’t feel most of it.
That was the part that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
There was pressure, a distant awareness that something was there, but the center of it, the worst of it, was just… gone, no pain or sensation. Around it, though, there was still something, a dull persistent sting at the edges, muted by whatever they’d given him but still there if he focused too hard.
“…oh,” Peter said quietly.
Ned watched him closely, his expression tightening just slightly. “You didn’t know?”
Peter shook his head, the motion small and automatic.
“No,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “I just-”
He stopped, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere he couldn’t quite reach. The memory came back sharper this time. The fall. The heat. Johnny’s hand closing around his arm.
Peter swallowed, his throat tightening for a different reason now. “I knew it was bad,” he finished, softer.
Silence settled between them, not empty, just heavy.
Ned leaned back a little, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. “Yeah,” he said, not unkind.
He didn’t finish.
Peter let out a slow breath, staring at the bandages for a second longer before forcing his gaze back up. The reality of it sat there now fully formed, pressing in from all sides.
Fourth-degree.
Not something that would heal overnight, even with his enhanced healing he was pretty sure this was going to take awhile.
His fingers twitched faintly against the sheets, for a second, he thought about asking, how bad it really was, what that actually meant, how much of it he’d lost, but the questions didn’t make it out.
Because part of him knew he couldn’t handle that right now.
Ned was still watching him, like he was waiting for something, some kind of reaction, maybe. Something bigger than this quiet, contained stillness.
“…I’m okay,” Peter said finally, the words were automatic and while they didn’t feel true it was easier than getting into it.
Ned didn’t look convinced. He shifted in his chair, his gaze fixed on Peter like he was trying to line up pieces.
“Peter,” he said, quieter this time, but more insistent. “What really happened?”
Peter didn’t answer right away. The question hung between them, heavier now because it had already been asked, because this wasn’t curiosity anymore, it was Ned pushing past the surface answer and asking for the truth.
Ned hesitated, then added, “They said the burn… it looked like a hand.”
Peter’s shoulders tightened, just a fraction but it was enough. His gaze slipped away immediately, like the room had suddenly become too much. For a second, he just focused on breathing, like that might steady something that had already started to unravel.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, eyes drifting up to the ceiling instead of meeting Ned’s.
“I fell,” he said.
It sounded thin.
Ned frowned. “That doesn’t explain burns.”
Peter’s jaw tightened.
“…Johnny caught me,” he said.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Ned went still, the realization clicking into place almost instantly. He didn’t need more than that, his expression changed in that quiet, subtle way but it became clear he understood exactly what Peter meant. “…oh,” he said, softer now.
Peter didn’t look at him.
He just stayed where he was staring at the ceiling like if he didn’t move, didn’t engage, it wouldn’t settle any deeper than it already had.
Ned leaned back slowly, processing, hands pressing against his eyes.
“Did he bring you here?” he asked after a second.
Peter shook his head slightly. “No.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter, almost reluctant, “I… webbed him to the sidewalk.”
Ned blinked. For a second, he just stared at him like he was waiting for Peter to explain.
“You-” he stopped, exhaling sharply as he leaned back again. “Peter.”
There was a mix of disbelief and irritation in it now, the concern still there but edged with something sharper.
“You webbed him to the sidewalk?” he repeated.
Peter’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I didn’t have time to argue,” he muttered.
“That’s not-” Ned cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly trying to keep his voice down and failing just a little. “He could have helped you.”
Peter didn’t respond.
He stayed still, gaze fixed upward like engaging would take more energy than he had.
Ned watched him for a second, frustration settling in more fully now, didn’t quite outweigh the worry.
“You left him there,” Ned said.
“He was fine,” he said, a little too quickly.
Ned stared at him for a second longer, like he was trying to decide how hard to push and whether Peter would actually meet him halfway if he did.
“Peter,” he said finally, quieter now but more serious, “he’s not fine.”
Peter’s jaw tightened at that, a small reaction that he couldn’t quite hide. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, like the faint cracks in the paint were suddenly the most important thing in the room.
“He grabbed you while he was on fire,” Ned continued, his voice steady but firmer now. “You don’t think he’s just gonna… what? walk that off?”
Peter didn’t answer.
Because he could see it.
Johnny stuck there on the sidewalk, the webbing holding him in place while everything caught up to him all at once, the moment where panic would’ve settled in, where realization would’ve hit harder than anything else, the way he would’ve replayed it, again and again, trying to find the exact second it went wrong.
Peter’s fingers curled slightly into the sheets beneath them, the movement small but tense, like his body was holding onto something his mind was trying not to.
“Then he’ll deal with it,” Peter said finally. His voice came out flat and final, like he’d already decided how this was going to go and didn’t want to consider anything else.
Ned blinked at him, thrown for half a second by how easily he said it. “That’s not-”
“I didn’t give him a choice,” Peter cut in. The words came sharper than he meant them to, his chest rose a little too quickly after, breath catching just slightly, like even saying that made his chest hurt.
Ned went quiet.
He leaned back slowly in his chair, studying Peter in that way he always did when something wasn’t adding up. “…you didn’t want him to see it,” Ned said after a moment.
It wasn’t really a question.
Peter didn’t confirm it or deny it. He just stayed where he was, eyes fixed upward, his expression tightening just slightly at the edges like he was holding everything in.
The silence stretched.
Because if he let himself think about it, really think about it…
The misfire. The click that shouldn’t have happened. The split second where he didn’t react fast enough, didn’t adjust, didn’t fix it like he normally would. The way the second webline had snapped. The fall.
He should’ve checked his fluid.
The thought hit hard, immediate and unforgiving.
He always checked his fluid.
It was basic. Routine. The kind of thing he didn’t skip, didn’t forget, except this time he had. Or he’d assumed, or gotten distracted, he couldn’t really recall what it was now.
He should’ve reacted faster.
Should’ve compensated.
Should’ve paid attention.
His fingers tightened further into the sheets, the fabric bunching slightly in his grip as his chest rose a little too sharply again.
And then-
Johnny.
The way he’d come in without thinking like he always did. No hesitation or pause, just instinct.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting to keep the tears behind his eyes.
He’d seen the look on his face. Just for a moment, right before everything went wrong.
Panic.
Now Johnny was out there with that, alone, knowing what he had done but not the outcome.
Peter’s throat tightened further, something sharp and aching settling deep in his chest.
He’d had a crush on him since he was fifteen.
It wasn’t something he said out loud, not even to Ned—not like that. But it had always been there, quiet and constant, tucked somewhere he didn’t let himself linger on too much. It had been easier that way. Safer.
Johnny was… Johnny.
Bright. Loud. Untouchable in a way Peter had never quite been able to reach.
And now—
Now this was what he’d given him.
Guilt.
Peter dragged in a slow breath that didn’t quite steady him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t let Johnny carry this, replay it, blame himself for something that wasn’t—
Peter’s jaw tightened.
It wasn’t Johnny’s fault.
It couldn’t be.
“I should’ve checked my web fluid,” Peter said quietly.
The words came out before he could stop them, low and rough, like they’d been sitting there waiting.
Ned frowned slightly. “What?”
“I didn’t check it before I went out,” Peter continued, still staring at the ceiling. “One of them ran dry. That’s why I fell.”
Saying it out loud made it worse somehow. Made it real in a way that sat heavier in his chest.
“I should’ve caught it,” he added, softer now. “I should’ve—reacted faster.”
Ned watched him for a second, his expression shifting, something softer breaking through the frustration.
“Pete—”
“He didn’t know,” Peter went on, his voice tightening at the edges. “He was trying to help. He—”
He stopped, his throat closing up for a second.
“He reacted,” he finished instead, quieter.
Ned’s expression softened further, understanding settling in now.
“…and you don’t want him to feel guilty,” he said.
Peter didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The silence said enough.
Because the idea of Johnny carrying that—of looking at him like that, like he’d done something unforgivable—
Peter couldn’t handle that.
He couldn’t be the reason Johnny looked like that.
His eyes burned slightly, the pressure building in a way he couldn’t quite control, his vision blurring just at the edges. He blinked hard, once, then again, forcing it back, forcing everything back.
“I’m fine,” he said again, quieter this time, it didn’t sound convincing but it was the only thing he had.
He’s liked Johnny more than he should for a while now. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like something new and had settled into a quiet, constant part of his life, something he wanted but knew he could never have. Easy to ignore most days, or at least easier than thinking too hard about what it actually meant. Ned knew, in that vague irritatingly perceptive way he had, enough to tease him, but not enough to understand how far it went. Not enough to know how much space Johnny took up in his head when he wasn’t trying to push it out.
Johnny was just… Johnny.
Too bright to ignore, too easy to be around, the kind of person who filled every space he stepped into without trying, who made everything feel louder and warmer just by being there. Being around him always made Peter’s heart stutter, it made the worst days.
“I should’ve caught it,” he added, quieter now. “I should’ve… reacted faster.”
Ned watched him for a moment, the frustration in his expression easing just slightly. “Pete-”
“It’s not his fault,” Peter said quickly, it came out sharper than he meant it to. His gaze flickered briefly, not quite meeting Ned’s but not avoiding him entirely either like he didn’t have the energy to fully commit to either option.
“He didn’t know,” Peter went on, his voice tightening slightly as he tried to keep it even. “He was just- he was trying to help.” The words trailed off there, unable to continue the thought, like finishing it would push it too far into something he wasn’t ready to deal with.
Ned went quiet again. He leaned back a little in his chair, studying Peter more closely now, the way he did when he was putting something together piece by piece. The frustration hadn’t disappeared but it had shifted, softened by understanding.
“…you don’t want him to feel guilty,” he said after a second.
Peter didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The silence stretched between them, just long enough to make it clear.
Ned exhaled quietly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, his expression settling into something that looked frustratingly understanding.
“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself.
Peter’s eyes burned faintly, the pressure building in a way he couldn’t quite control. He blinked hard, once, then again, forcing it back before it could turn into something worse. His throat tightened, his chest rising a little unevenly as he tried to steady his breathing without making it obvious.
Because the alternative, actually letting it hit, letting himself think about what Johnny might be feeling right now, wasn’t something he could handle.