✮⋆˙

Back then, the commute had been forty-five minutes of stolen time. You weren't from the city, and neither was he. When Jisung's family moved to your little suburb right the summer before high school, the two of you ended up becoming the only students to make the trip everyday. After he accidentally knocked you over (and out) on the first day of school, the train became the place where awkward conversations slowly turned into ones you looked forward to daily.

Eight years later, the routine remained mostly the same. His skateboard no longer rattled against the floor beneath your feet. His shoulders had grown broad enough to steal half your seat. Outside the window, old brick storefronts gave way to apartment towers that hadn't existed when you were younger. Familiar intersections disappeared behind glass and steel, while the tracks beneath the carriage sang the very same rhythm it always had.

Neither of you had high school knees anymore. Rather than walk the last mile from the station, you flagged down a taxi.

The city gave way to quieter streets almost immediately. Brick replaced concrete. Flowering dogwoods lined the sidewalks, their petals collecting in gutters and across neatly trimmed lawns. The houses stood shoulder to shoulder, each just different enough from the next to feel loved rather than planned.

When the taxi stopped, your mother was already waiting outside. She waved before either of you had even climbed out.

"My baby!" She wrapped you in a hug before you could finish paying the driver. "It's been too long."

"Hi, Mom." You laughed into her shoulder.

She finally let go only to turn toward Jisung. "And Peter."

Her hug was gentler this time, a little awkward only because he still never quite knew where to put his arms. "It's good to see you."

"You too, Mrs. Y/L/N."

"My goodness." She squeezed one of his arms. "Don't you feel sturdy these days."

Jisung cleared his throat. "I've been working out."

He looked as though he wished the ground would kindly open beneath him. You rescued him. "So...where's Dad?"

Your mother turned toward the house as though the answer were obvious. "It's Saturday. He has golf.”

You frowned. "You told him we were coming, right?”

"Of course I did." She unlocked the front door. "But he already had a tee time."

"Oh." The word left your mouth before you could stop it.

"He said to tell you hello and he might be back in time for dinner."

You nodded. "Right."

Jisung quietly picked up all bags and disappeared upstairs while your mother and you wandered into the unrenovated kitchen.

"Did you two eat?"

"No."

"Good. I'll make brunch."

The refrigerator opened. Eggs appeared. A mixing bowl followed. "How was the drive?"

"We took the train."

Your mother glanced over her shoulder. “I'll never understand why neither of you just buys a car."

You smiled politely. The conversation had become familiar enough to finish itself. "We both take the subway to work."

"I suppose.” She cracked another egg. “And...your teaching job?"

The little pause before teaching was almost imperceptible, but you still heard it.

"It's good." Jisung wandered back downstairs just as you pulled out a stool at the kitchen island. "They actually put me in charge of the spring showcase this year."

"Oh?"

"Every grade performs something for the families." You couldn't help smiling a little. "My first graders are doing a whole production. I’m choreographing it."

"That sounds like a lot of work."

"It is. But it’s fun. The kids are excited.”

Your mother smiled pleasantly as she whisked the batter. "I was so relieved when you got old enough that we didn't have to sit through school performances anymore." She laughed lightly before looking toward Jisung. "Math competitions are much shorter."

You rescinded an invitation that hadn’t even reached your tongue.

"Speaking of work..." she said, brightening again. "Peter, how's Stark?"

Jisung looked up. Immediately, he looked sixteen again. He tucked his hair behind one ear, blinked once too often, and folded his hands together on the countertop. "It's...good."

"'Good?'" Your mother laughed. "You were promoted, weren't you?"

"A little."

"I was telling one of my friends the other day about you." She set the whisk aside, talking with her hands now. "Her future son-in-law works at the Daily Bugle." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Perfectly respectable, of course…but I told her mine works for Stark."

Jisung smiled awkwardly.

"It was only afterwards that I realized I still couldn't explain what you actually do."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's a government project." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm not really allowed to say much."

"Oh, I understand," she said warmly, pouring batter onto the pan. "It's probably complicated. I never know quite how to explain your work to people." She laughed to herself. "Teaching's easy. Everybody knows what a teacher does."

Brunch passed the way it always had. Your mother caught you up on neighbors you'd forgotten, businesses that had changed hands, and stories about your sister that she herself had somehow neglected to mention. Nothing was particularly remarkable, nothing too painful. It simply sounded like home.

As she carried plates to the sink, she glanced over her shoulder.

"I have to pick up a few things for dinner." She smiled at Jisung. "I'm making your favorite, Peter."

His smile erred more towards agony than gratitude.

"You two should walk around for a bit. I'll be about an hour or so."

Neither of you needed convincing.

In a way not so differently than she had hundreds of times before, your mother dropped you off on Main Street before disappearing around the corner.

Spring still hadn't decided what it wanted to be. The sun warmed the pavement while a cool breeze slipped between the buildings often enough to justify keeping your cardigan on. Both of you had your sleeves shoved to your elbows anyway.

Jisung stopped at the crosswalk. Without looking, he reached for your hand. You took it just as automatically.

"Think the bakery's still open?"

You frowned slightly. "It closed when Mr. Avila retired."

His face fell. "Right."

You passed a few more steps. "The bookatore’s gone, too."

"It moved."

"That's not better."

You wandered without much purpose, turning whichever direction looked familiar enough to investigate. Every visit home seemed to erase something else. The florist had become a boutique. The hardware store now sold antiques. The movie theater where half the town had gone on awkward first dates had been turned into angular, ultramodern apartments. Time had been quietly replacing pieces while you weren't looking.

Some places, though, seemed stubbornly immune.

The bell above the convenience store door chimed exactly the same way it had all your life.

"Afternoon," came a familiar voice from somewhere between the aisles.

"Hi, Mr. Kim."

He rounded the corner carrying a box of canned soup before stopping short.

"No." His glasses slid farther down his nose. "Y/n? And Jisung. My goodness."

He set the box aside just to pull you into a careful hug. "I swear every time you come back you've gotten older."

"I hope so,” you squeaked.

He laughed before turning toward Jisung. "And you." He gave him a firm handshake that immediately turned into a playful smack on the arm. "Still making Stark look good?"

Jisung ducked his head. "I...try."

"I'm teasing." Mr. Kim chuckled. "Your mothers never stop talking about you two."

He looked between you for a moment before smiling to himself. "I'm glad you're doing well." His hand rested briefly on your shoulder. "I just wish we could keep you around."

Your smile softened. “Me too."

By the time you stepped back outside, the afternoon had slipped lazily onward. You couldn't make it half a block without someone recognizing one of you. An old neighbor asked whether you still rode the train. A retired teacher wanted to know if your first graders exhausted you like you had her. Someone shouted congratulations across the street for a promotion that had apparently become local news.

It was strange. No one cared about Stark Industries. No one cared about New York. They didn’t see all the ways you had grown and changed, especially recently. They didn’t know what you had come to accept and protect. They only cared that the neighborhood kids had come home.

Eventually you escaped with two slices from the new pizza place and hid beneath the gazebo in the park, safe from the retired ladies who seemed determined to ask when you were giving your mother grandchildren.

Jisung sighed dramatically. "This sucks."

You looked over. "It's pizza."

"This resembles pizza."

You snorted.

Jisung was agitated; he wouldn’t stop. "They got rid of the comic shop."

"That was a while ago."

"They moved the bus stop."

"Again, a long time ago."

"They paved over the skate spot."

You bawked on a sip of your shared Coke. "It was a parking lot."

"It was my parking lot."

You nudged his shoulder. "You sound eighty."

His voice fell. "I miss when everything stayed where I left it."

For a while, you simply took bites of overpriced cardboard in comfortable silence. Children chased one another across the playground. Somewhere behind the trees, a baseball cracked against a bat. The church bells marked another hour. You watched the town continue without either of you.

Your phone buzzed.

Mom: I'm parked by the pharmacy whenever you're ready.

You stood, brushing crumbs from your jeans. "C'mon."

Jisung lingered for one last look around the park before following after you.

Helping your mom cook had always been part of coming home.

You measured. She eyeballed. Jisung hovered somewhere in the middle, offering suggestions that sounded less like recipes and more like engineering proposals.

"What if you heated the pan first, then—"

"No,” your mom would always counter.

"But if you changed the—"

"No."

"I just think—"

"Peter."

He stopped immediately. "Okay."

You bit back a smile.

He'd once attempted to explain the thermodynamics of scrambled eggs to your mother. She had kindly informed him that breakfast had existed long before physics. The inaccuracy of that statement horrified him into silence for hours. Some things never changed.

Your dad wandered in not long after, smelling faintly of fresh-cut grass and sunscreen. He kissed the top of your head, clapped Jisung on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble half a step, then disappeared upstairs to change. That, too, was normal.

Another ordinary part of dinner at your parents' house had been that it was an event. Everyone changed into clean clothes. Everyone sat in the same seats they always had. Your father at the head of the table. Your mother to his right. You to his left because your sister wasn’t there. Jisung beside you. The arrangement sounded more formal than it felt.

Conversation came easily. Your father told stories about his golf game and coworkers neither of you had ever met. Your mother interrupted to correct details she couldn't possibly have witnessed. You laughed at the same jokes you'd heard every holiday for the better part of a decade. Then your father looked toward Jisung.

"So, Peter."

Jisung looked up immediately.

"You golf yet?"

"Once."

"Only once?"

"Mr. Stark invited the team."

Your father gave an approving nod. "Now that's worth showing up for."

"Do you work with him often?" your mother asked.

"Pretty regularly. He oversees our project."

She smiled proudly. "That must be exciting."

Jisung offered the polite smile he'd perfected years ago. "It is."

"Weren't you off this week?" you asked before another question could follow.

He glanced toward you, grateful for the lifeline. "Yeah. Boss's orders."

"You work yourself too hard," your mother said matter-of-factly. "A week off probably did you some good."

Jisung lowered his eyes to his plate. "It's been different."

"I'm sure you've enjoyed some of it," your father chuckled.

"We went out last night." A small smile finally appeared. "And I got to see Minho."

"Oh!" Your mother brightened. "How is he?"

"Busy,” Jisung admitted regretfully.

"Still with EMS?"

"Yeah. He made lead not too long ago. And he's training the new hires now."

"Really." She stirred her potatoes absentmindedly. "I always thought he'd become a doctor."

A brief silence didn’t settle over the table as much it kind of crashed. Even your father hesitated to respond.

"He never wanted to," you said defensively.

"I'm sure he's happy." She looked up with a gentle smile. "I just always thought it was a shame. He was brilliant."

"He still is."

"I know." She nodded. "I just imagined..." She searched for the words. "...all three of you would've ended up as engineers or in grand careers."

Your fork paused.

"You, Peter, Minho..." She smiled fondly. "You were always the smart kids."

"I think I turned out alright." Your voice stayed even miraculously.

"I know you did." She reached for your hand without realizing you'd already pulled it back to your lap. She had to retreat. "You just had such a gift for math."

Before you could answer—

"She still does." The words came so quietly the table nearly missed them. Jisung couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze when you all looked at him.

He cleared his throat. "She's...still really good at it." His ears reddened. "She just uses it differently now as a teacher."

Your mother smiled. "I'm sure she's a wonderful teacher." She truly meant it. "I just wish people appreciated them the way they deserve."

Words failed everyone. Your father, sensing the shift, jumped in with a story about baseball that somehow became a story about one of his coworkers. Jisung nodded politely through all of it despite clearly having no idea who any of the players were.

By dessert, the mood had mostly recovered.

Your father disappeared to fetch slices from the trendy cake shop that had opened downtown while everyone migrated into the living room. Coffee was poured. Cake disappeared surprisingly quickly. The conversation drifted toward holidays.

"You should come home more often," your mother said.

"We're trying," you answered. "Weekends get busy.”

"I suppose." She sighed. "At this rate, we'll hardly see you before Peter's brother gets married."

You kind of shrugged. "Probably."

She looked between the two of you. "Speaking of weddings..."

Your shoulders stiffened. Jisung's hand stopped halfway to his mug. Your leaned back unto the couch.

"You've been together..." she counted silently, "...six years now."

Neither of you answered.

"No pressure." Which, shockingly, sounded exactly like pressure.

"I just..." Her eyes found Jisung. "...don't want you waiting forever."

You looked down, your hands balled up on top of your skirt.

"I know you're both busy." She smiled sadly. "You've already built such a lovely life together."

The room fell completely still. Not a breath was taken.

"I'd just like to see when it officially starts."

“Mom.” Your plate met the coffee table with a sharper sound than you intended.

Her expression changed instantly. "Oh. I didn't mean—"

"I know."

"No, sweetheart, I—"

"I know." You weren't angry. That somehow made it worse.

She looked helplessly toward your father before back at the two of you. "I'm sorry."

Silence lingered. Jisung hadn't moved, had barely breathed. He kept staring into the untouched coffee in his hands, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug as though it were the only thing keeping them from shaking.

Finally, you smiled, small and tired. "It's okay."

And you meant it. Because she'd only said aloud what you wouldn’t.

Jisung wandered back into the room, absently rubbing a towel through his damp hair.

You were exactly where he'd expected to find you: flat on your back, your head hanging over the edge of the bed, legs propped against the wall. Your thinking position when you didn’t want to think anymore.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment. Dinner hadn't exactly gone the way any of you wanted. He wasn't sure if you wanted company.

Eventually, he padded over anyway and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of you, just like he used to after school.

His eyes narrowed. "You're wearing my shirt."

You blinked upside down at him. "No, I'm not." There was a slight edge to your tone.

"You absolutely are."

"I found it in the drawer because I forgot pajamas."

He leaned closer, inspecting the faded graphic across your chest. "I bought that in high school."

You finally sat up with an exaggerated groan. "So?"

"So?"

You pinched the hem between your fingers. "You didn't even like this band."

"I did."

"You became a fan after they stopped being heavy. You were a poser."

He gasped in mock offense before climbing onto the bed.

Immediately, there wasn't enough room. His hip bumped yours - you smacked into the wall with a dull thunk.

He grabbed your arm immediately. "Sorry. I don't remember this bed being so tiny."

You couldn't help but laugh. "It isn't." You shoved him back. "You're just enormous now."

He looked down at himself. "So I did get huge."

You snorted and settled against his shoulder anyway, automatically finding the little gap that still existed between him and the wall. It wasn't much.

Your childhood bedroom hadn't changed since you'd left for college. The walls were still a radiating hot pink beneath faded posters of bands, idols, and YouTubers you hadn't thought about in years. An old shelf leaned slightly beneath the weight of anime figurines, science trophies, and ribbons from competitions neither of you could remember entering. The white furniture you made your dad paint black in middle school still bore years of stickers, doodles, and carved initials. Your mother had never really packed your childhood away.

Jisung's eyes drifted around similarly. "I forgot how much of me is in here."

He wasn't exaggerating. One of his hoodies was folded beside your sweaters. A handful of guitar picks sat in your jewelry dish. There was still a shoebox in the closet with skateboard bearings and spare wheels he'd insisted he'd "pick up next week." His old calculus notebook remained wedged between your textbooks. Even the dinosaur doodle carved into the underside of your desk had his signature.

He knew every squeaky floorboard. Every outlet that only worked if you jiggled the plug. Which drawer stuck. Which window refused to open in winter. He'd never questioned it. Neither had your parents.

"They really just..." he laughed under his breath, “…let me move in."

You rolled your eyes and pitched your voice into a perfect imitation of your mother. "'Peter is so nice.’ ‘Peter is so smart.’ ‘Peter's can stay for dinner.' ‘Peter can sleep over if it's late.'” You smiled. "They loved you."

"I think they just felt bad I kept showing up. I still don't understand why they trusted me."

You cocked your head to side with what little space you had, curious.

"I left at ten almost every day."

"And?”

"It wasn't weird?"

You looked at him like the answer was obvious. "No."

It never had been. Having him there felt as routine as brushing your teeth or eating. You'd simply always expected him to be somewhere nearby.

Aloof musings meant silence settled comfortably between you, maybe for the first time all night. You watched his chest rise and fall. He played with the hem of your shorts. Then—

"Remember when we used to make out?"

You buried your face into his shoulder so quickly he laughed. "Han Jisung."

"What?"

You groaned. "We were embarrassing."

"We even tried to turn kissing into a research project."

You covered his mouth with your hand. "Stop talking."

Jisung’s chuckling made you bob beside him. It was a low, happy sound. His laugh used to be higher.

"You know,” you postered, “we could've just admitted we liked each other."

Jisung considered that for a long moment. "...Nah."

"No?"

"We were scientists."

You guffawed. "We were idiots."

He slipped an arm around your waist and rested it there. “Do you wanna make out?”

“We’re a little too old to be sneaking around behind my parents’ back,” you scoffed.

“We’re old enough that it wouldn’t be.”

Mid rolling your eyes, Jisung swiftly maneuvered you on top of him.

“Whoa!” you said as you balanced on top of him.

He grinned mischievously, pulling you down by the arms to meet his lips.

He kissed you softly and unhurriedly, no ulterior motives. He just wanted you to be close. It was delicate - the way one hand held your arm and the other traced circles against your back.

Your arms wrapped slowly his neck, making him roll over slightly so you so you dropped to your side. He was quick to have you close again, grabbing your waist and pressing you so close you shared a heartbeat. With nowhere else to go, your legs tangled in his like your fingers in his hair.

It was quiet and calm - save for satisfied sighs and hushed giggles. Nothing became desperate, no one longed for more. You two were content with reminiscing through each other.

Finally, you broke away. Jisung was almost reluctant, his round eyes batting in confusion. He searched your face.

“Mom and Dad are still awake,” you whispered.

Somewhere downstairs, you could hear the clinking of cutlery as your parents were loading the dishwasher.

“We’re not going to get in trouble anymore,” Jisung pleaded.

Laughter was your final say. You got comfortable again, pulling blankets over you. Sleepy quiet was beginning to overtake you. The old ceiling fan clicked overhead.

For a while, you simply looked around. What changed or what hadn’t? The posters were still up yet faded. The trophies remained yet gathered dust. The dreams written on sticky notes beside your desk had either come true or quietly adapted into different ones.

Yet somehow the person beside you hadn't. Not really. He still laughed when he shouldn’t have. Still absentmindedly played with your fingers when he thought. Still got embarrassed whenever someone complimented him. Still found his way into your room.

That wasn’t going to change.

𑣲⋆ fri. | sun. ⋆

Her little finger pushed the green button happily. She spoke with gusto. “Ms. Y/L/N’s room. How may I help you?”

Your head snapped up before you ran up from behind teacher table. “Small child,” you said, badly hiding your own amusement, “you can answer the classroom phone - not mine!”

The room erupted in a fit of tiny giggles, their attention way past the two sentences they had to write in their science notebooks.

“Hi! Be careful - there’s an audience,” you said quickly.

“Sorry!” Jisung whispered for some random reason. “I thought you were at lunch.”

The whisper only made the children more curious.

"Is that Mr. Han?"

"Hi, Mr. Han!"

"Ms. Y/L/N's boyfriend!"

A dozen little voices joined in before anyone else could. You raised your hand, giving the well-practiced signal that meant absolute silence or the Skittles are going to your siblings in third grade. Miraculously, it worked.

“We had to switched lunchtimes with fourth grade because they had a field trip. What’s up?”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, still whispering. “Tony called me. He hooked us for a dinner reservation. So, get ready as soon as you get home.”

You had a billion questions and none of the privacy to ask. “Okay,” you said simply. “Thanks for letting me know. I gotta go - we’re in the middle science. Is there anything you wanna say to the kids?”

You almost didn’t move the phone on time as Jisung abandoned the whisper entirely. "CHECK YOUR WORK! DON'T FORGET YOUR PERIODS! LISTEN TO YOUR TEACHER! AND WASH YOUR HANDS!"

The kids couldn’t contain themselves - Jisung had been a celebrity to them all year.

"BYE, MR. HAN!"

"We love you!"

"COME VISIT!"

"I DID MY HOMEWORK!"

You laughed as you pulled the phone toward from your ear again. "I'll talk to you later."

"I love—" He caught himself just in time. "Bye."

You grinned. "Bye."

You all but sprinted out of school the moment dismissal duty ended. You had been looking forward to tonight all week, even before Tony Stark decided to involve himself. It had nagged at you that Jisung finally had guaranteed time off and you spent most of it at work. For once, there was nowhere he had to disappear to, no emergency that could steal him away halfway through dinner. He'd be exactly where he said he'd be.

You nearly stumbled through the apartment door, a little out of breath from hurrying home. Your hair had surrendered to the humidity, your tote bag threatened to slide off your shoulder, and your cheeks were still pink from rushing up the stairs.

The bathroom door opened at almost the exact same moment. Jisung stepped out with a towel slung low around his waist, another draped over his shoulders as he scrubbed at his damp hair. He caught your expression immediately.

"The shower's free," he said with a crooked grin.

You looked anywhere but directly at him. "Good to know."

He laughed quietly. "You ran home."

"I did not." You dropped your bag with an exaggerated sigh and pointed toward the bathroom. "Move."

He stepped aside with an overly gentlemanly flourish. "My lady."

You rolled your eyes as you passed him, though you were smiling before the door had even shut.

You took your time. Not a normal shower - you took an everything shower. Hair mask. Shave. Exfoliate. Four different moisturizers. The expensive shampoo and conditioner you kept saying you'd use sparingly. By the time you emerged over an hour later wrapped in a towel, your skin was warm, your hair smelled like a bakery, and you finally felt like the workweek had washed off with the steam.

Your bedroom looked as though someone had attempted to rob only one side of the closet when you entered. Shirts covered the bed. Pants hung over your desk chair. Three jackets had somehow made it onto the floor. Jisung stood in front of the cheap Ikea mirror wearing slacks and absolutely no confidence. He tugged at the sleeves of a dress shirt before looking at you with genuine distress.

"Why didn't you tell me none of my nice clothes fit anymore?"

Your head tilted to one side. "They do."

"They don't!" He stretched his arms experimentally. "Everything's tight. My shoulders are stuck."

You crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to laugh. "They're not stuck."

"They're compressed."

"They're fitted."

"They're suffocating."

You looked him up and down, amused.

"I think you've just gotten bigger since…you know.”

He folded his arms, his biceps flexing through the material. “Not that much bigger.”

“Well, you were kind of..." You hesitated.

His eyebrows climbed. "Kind of what?"

You pointed vaguely at him. “…you kind of scrawny before.”

He gasped with genuine offense. "I was lean."

"You've just,” your smile softened, “filled out. It’s not a bad thing.” You meant that wholeheartedly

Jisung glanced at his reflection again. “Do I look okay? It’s a really nice place Tony got for us.”

You got up and stood behind him, peering at him through the mirror. His messy, floppy hair, the way his trousers sat at his tiny waist, the shirt he didn’t want to button, and the baffled look on his face - he looked fine.

You patted his chest. “Don’t change. Just iron your clothes. Now leave. It’s my turn to freak out.”

By the time you were both ready, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the buildings, painting the street in warm gold. The dress Felix had insisted you buy swayed at your thighs as you locked the apartment door behind you. Jisung glanced over almost immediately, then looked away just as fast.

"You look nice," he mumbled.

"You've said that like three times already,” you laughed.

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks dusting pink, and quietly accepted defeat. “Just reminding you.”

Together, you wandered out to the sidewalk.

"So," you asked after a minute, "what exactly are we waiting for?"

"Tony said he was sending a car." Jisung checked the street, then his watch. "Unless it's late."

Assigned transportation is approximately one hundred feet away, Geomi informed him.

A long, black sedan rolled silently around the corner. There was no one behind the wheel. You looked at the car. Then at Jisung.

Then back at the car.

Respiratory rate indicates mild apprehension, Geomi observed. The vehicle is under JARVIS control.

Jisung smiled sheepishly. "It's a really nice car."

You stared another second before breaking into a grin. "You know what?" You stepped off the curb. "Sure."

Jisung hurried ahead of you anyway. He reached the door first and pulled it open with an exaggerated flourish, offering a small bow that was just dramatic enough to make you laugh.

“After you.”

You dipped into a matching curtsy. "Why, thank you."

He held the door until you climbed inside, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Some things, superhero or not, were simply nonnegotiable.

If the car had been impressive, it did little to prepare you for where it stopped.

The restaurant sat tucked into the West Village overlooking the Hudson, hidden behind an unassuming brick façade that gave no indication reservations had to be made nearly a year in advance. Inside, everything glowed. Warm amber light reflected off polished walnut and brass. Soft conversation floated beneath quiet jazz while servers somehow appeared the moment anyone even considered needing something.

You and Jisung looked thoroughly underdressed despite spending hours getting ready.

A hostess led you to a table by the windows. "Celebrating anything tonight?" your waiter asked pleasantly as he poured water.

You looked at each other.

"Not really," you answered.

"Actually," Jisung said at the exact same time. His eyes batted, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No, go."

He smiled sheepishly. "I'm on vacation."

The waiter beamed. "Oh! Visiting New York?"

You pressed your lips together, damming a giggle.

"Sort of?”Jisung, bless him, committed to the misunderstanding with all the confidence of someone who had already accepted his fate. "We've...seen a lot this week."

"The city's wonderful in the spring,” the waiter mused.

"It is."

"You two picked a great neighborhood."

"We did."

"Any plans while you're here?"

Jisung looked helplessly at you. You lost the battle with your composure first. By the time the waiter walked away, you were laughing hard enough to wipe tears from your eyes.

"You are terrible at lying." Ironic.

"I wasn't lying."

"You absolutely were."

"I was...omitting."

"That's called lying." That was more truthful.

Dinner arrived one tiny plate at a time. Neither of you could pronounce half the menu, but that only made ordering more entertaining. Every course came with another explanation neither of you entirely understood and another drink you insisted on trying anyway. By dessert, you'd decided that fancy restaurants simply made normal food smaller and adjectives longer.

Neither of you minded. You talked about work, your students, your team, about a new caterpillar incident (not the confused with the old one). Jisung nodded when appropriate and laughed when he was supposed to. He asked questions and added a comment every so often. But mostly...

...he watched you.

The candlelight caught the shimmer in your makeup every time you turned your head. Tiny rhinestones on your hastily applied press-ons flashed whenever your hands punctuated another story. You laughed louder after each drink, your smile growing easier as the week finally loosened its grip on your shoulders.

You were beautiful when you dressed up. You were beautiful when you wore his old T-shirts. You were beautiful grading papers with a flare pen tucked behind your ear. You were beautiful asleep on his chest. The dress had very little to do with it.

"Ji,”you called out.

He suddenly snapped back into reality, fumbling with his glass too.

“You've been staring at me for like..." You glanced at your watch dramatically. "...twenty minutes."

His round eyes blinked. "Have I?"

"Han Jisung.” You folded your arms in faux annoyance.

He smiled into his glass. "I think I just like looking at you."

You looked down at your plate to hide the smile that betrayed you anyway.

Jisung had always been unflinchingly earnest.

As a teenager, that meant he never learned to soften an opinion. He corrected teachers without a second thought, admitted when he hated something, and asked questions everyone else had the sense to keep to themselves.

It also meant he spent an embarrassingly long time believing it was perfectly ordinary to tell one particular friend she looked pretty. Or that she had a nice laugh. Or that he liked when she wore her hair down. Or that he'd thought about something she'd said three weeks ago because it was interesting.

Everyone else figured it out long before he did - he'd been hopelessly gone for you years before he ever thought to call it love.

Everyone except you.

To you, it had all felt perfectly logical. He was your best friend.

Of course he was the first person you wanted to tell when something wonderful happened. Of course he knew every embarrassing story, every terrible grade, every impossible dream before anyone else. Of course he was the one you sought out after class, the one you argued with in the cafeteria, the one who stayed until your parents reminded him it was getting late.

Best friends spent entire afternoons wandering with nowhere to be. Best friends studied until sunrise in silent libraries. Best friends memorized each other's coffee orders and train schedules. Best friends reached for each other's hands without thinking. You never stopped to ask why yours was the only hand he reached for.

Maybe that was why everything that came later hurt so much.

Dinner came to an end far too soon. The check never arrived. Your waiter simply smiled as he cleared the last dessert plate.

"Taken care of."

Neither of you had to ask by whom. “Tony..." Jisung muttered into his napkin.

You laughed. "At least say thank you on Monday."

Instead of calling the car back immediately, you wandered into the West Village. The sidewalks had emptied since dinner. Strings of café lights glowed between brick buildings, and warm conversations spilled through open windows as people lingered over late-night drinks. The Hudson carried a cool breeze inland that finally reminded you it was still only spring. You instinctively drifted closer to Jisung. He smiled to himself before resting a hand against the small of your back.

"Cold?"

"A little."

His thumb rubbed absent circles through your jacket.

"You still get cold?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled, but there was a nervous edge to it. "That's kind of random."

"I know." You stopped at a crosswalk, turning to look at him instead of the traffic light. "But do you?"

He laughed through his nose. "Yeah. I still get cold."

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, accentuating the pink tinge to your cheeks. "You have antifreeze."

"What?"

"You definitely have antifreeze."

"I don’t—I don’t know.”

"You've never proven that?”

"I don't know how I'd even—"

"You never wear jackets anymore,” you said airily.

He opened his mouth, closed it again. "Huh." Your lack of filter when you drank would never not fluster him.

"I get spider videos all the time," you continued matter-of-factly. "Some of them basically hibernate. Some don't mind the cold and have a kind of natural antifreeze. Some die if you put them in a freezer."

"Please stop watching those,” he said in an embarrassed whisper.

You giggled. "I think they're neat."

"I think they're horrifying."

You reached over and intertwined your fingers with his. “I’m just curious. You don't really..." Your voice softened. "...talk about it - or him - much."

About him. About Spider-Man. About what it all felt like.

The two of you slowed as you passed a shop window framed with warm Edison bulbs. For a moment, the glass reflected only the two of you - a version at least.

You hadn't changed all that much since high school. A little older. A little surer of yourself. Shorter hair. Softer edges.

Jisung had changed enough for both of you. He'd long since outgrown the skinny teenager who used to hide inside oversized hoodies. His shoulders filled every jacket now. Old scars caught the light if you knew where to look. Even the bruise fading across his cheek belonged to someone who carried a life you could never quite imagine.

He absently rubbed at it. "I don't really feel cold unless it's below freezing," he admitted after a while. "Heat's worse."

"Worse?"

"I get lethargic.” He shrugged. "Everything slows down."

You nodded as though he'd just explained the forecast. "Okay."

He glanced sideways. "That's it?"

You smiled. "I wasn't trying to study him.” Your fingers squeezed his hand. "I was asking about Jisung."

He just smiled to himself. "I like talking about him better anyway."

Your walk never really found a destination. Every few blocks, one of you would slow to admire a storefront or a dog or some tiny detail of the neighborhood until the conversation wandered somewhere new.

"So," you began, your fingers swinging between his, “what's the heaviest thing you've ever picked up?"

Jisung made a face. "Do you want the technical answer or the answer that's cooler?"

"There are two?"

"There are spreadsheets involved."

You groaned. "The cooler one."

He laughed.

That led to another question. Then another.

How high had he ever climbed?

Did heights still feel high?

How far could he jump?

Why hadn't he gotten taller after the bite?

Could he accidentally stick to people?

Did he ever get dizzy upside down?

Each answer came easier than the last. You asked with the same quiet curiosity you reserved for his work at Stark.

He caught himself blinking too often, smiling too easily. It was...nice. Almost fun.

By the time you found a bench overlooking the river, neither of you noticed how much time had passed. You stayed there long enough for Geomi to quietly summon the car on her own.

Jisung told you how absurdly precise the web-shooters had to be before they would stop jamming. He rambled about adhesive forces like he was defending a doctoral thesis, complete with hand gestures and imaginary diagrams in the air. Somewhere in the middle of explaining jump trajectories, he became distracted by his own train of thought and started wondering aloud whether crosswinds affected him.

You let him. His eyes always lit up a little differently when he forgot he was explaining something impossible.

The ride home was much the same. Questions that turned into stories. Stories that turned into theories. By the time the apartment building came into view, neither of you were talking about Spider-Man anymore. You were just listening to your favorite nerd explain something he loved.

Getting home, you both thanked the JARVIS-operated car far louder than the quiet street warranted.

"Goodnight, JARVIS!"

"Thank you for the ride!"

The sedan pulled away without so much as a honk.

The moment it disappeared around the corner, Jisung turned toward you with a look that should have warned you.

"What?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he slipped one arm behind your knees and the other around your back.

You let out a surprised squeal as your feet left the sidewalk. "Jisung!"

"I've been informed," he announced with exaggerated seriousness as he started toward the apartment building, "that walking is optional."

"You are so embarrassing."

"So are you."

"I can walk!"

"I’m aware."

"Then put me down!”

"No."

You dissolved into laughter, instinctively looping your arms around his neck anyway.

He carried you all the way through the lobby, grinning every time another laugh escaped you. By the time he nudged your apartment door open with his foot, your giggles had begun echoing down the hallway.

Your neighbors, you were fairly certain, had long since accepted that Apartment 4B occasionally forgot other people existed.

Or, at least, they would have to tonight.

You had only just hit the bed before he followed, his imposing body over yours with all the enthusiasm of a madman. His eyes were crazed and his lips were warm and parted in anticipation. The springs of the mattress squeaked in shock on your behalf.

He leaned into you quickly, his hat awkwardly grazing against your skin as he trailed wet, hot open-mouth kisses down your neck and chest. You gasped from your very core. One arm propped him up, the other wandered from the ridden-up hem of your dress up your ribs toward the curve of your breast. His fingers traced the swell eagerly before wrapping around it and thumbing where he could feel a little peak harden.

“Oh, you’re beautiful,” he breathed between his tongue and teeth.

You were already trembling under him. It never took much. You barely managed to take his hat and jacket off, much to his own frustration. He needed to be attached to you; every atom within him just had to be pressed as tightly against you as he could manage. He would swiftly find you again, sinking sharp teeth into soft skin. His breath was hot and shaky as he greedily sucked at your neck, determined to gift you blooming bruises your parents would surely pretend not to see tomorrow. Your fingers slipped into his hair feebly in a vain attempt to slow him down, to catch a break, but he simply took it as an invitation to travel down to your collarbones. You moaned with each bite, addicted to the sting. 

He was already heavy against you. Your hips grinded up to meet his excitement and he gladly slammed his back down towards you. Your dress rode up high on your stomach at this point and offered no resistance, no barrier. You were slick and warm from the short, desperate thrusts of his that collided into you in frantic bursts. The bed already pounded loudly into the floor with no apparent tempo.

“Oh god,” you rasped. “D-don’t stop. Please.”

He wasn’t planning to. The way your spine bowed off the mattress felt he was receiving an offering. His was mouth never left your chest; the sounds he made against you were wet and hungry. They mixed deliciously with each whimper you let slip. He hooked the hand that wasn’t kneading at your breast around one of your legs, so that you could wrap around his waist.

The new angle was torture. His erection dragged heftily over soaked, flimsy fabric; you could feel his thick tip pull at your wet folds. The friction brought tears to your eyes. He kept ramming into your sensitive clit. You tried to satisfy your growing desperation by grinding small, tight circles, your legs steadying yourself, but the way he alternated between attacking your chest and hammering his weighty cock into you had you seeing stars. You couldn’t take much more.

“J-ji,” you gasped. “Stop real quick. S-stop.”

He broke away immediately, his eyes wide and glassy.

“Are you okay?” he asked too quickly, the words tumbling from his puffy lips. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Your heartbeat stole the breath from your lungs. You leaned back on your arms as he stayed knelt over you. “I’m fine. You’re fine. I just—“

He held his breath, his stare never once leaving your face.

“I-I wanna suck you off.”

He sank down almost instantly with a pained laugh, his head falling into your lap. You scratched your fake nails against his scalp as he let out a low, frustrated sound from his throat.

“You scared me,” he whispered.

“So, let me make it up to you.”

You tugged on his hair to lift him and you finally met his lips. He melted into you - all was forgiven. With no time wasted, you crashed in to each other sloppily. His hands tried to find to your waist, but that was when you broke away. He gone already, his pupils were blown and his chest heaving against yours.

You had always preferred to work from your knees. He sat on the edge of the bed expectantly as you prepared yourself. You took off your boots and jacket off, tucked your hair away and positioned yourself between his knees. He swallowed hard watching you. You were so pretty from down there.

You started by running hands over his strong thighs, dragging your nails over the sleek fabric. He bit his lips to keep from moaning from so little. You noticed and laughed softly. When they reached the very top, where you could feel his fat bulge rest heavily, you pushed yourself up instead.

He groaned.

You laughed in his face before kissing his jaw. You left a line of wet kisses as you undid his tie. Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, very literally biting back moans.

It didn’t last for long. You unbuttoned his shirt down to his abs. His breath hitched from how lightly your fingertips grazed him. You took your time admiring his fit, honey-colored chest. You couldn’t stop touching him or the muscles that tortured you from beneath his useless clothes. Eventually, you grew tired of your teasing. You brought your lips to him.

There, a low, guttural sound left him. It emboldened you; you kissed harder. Your hands roamed freely and slowly…

…until they finally found his crotch. Then, you ran a thumb roughly over the tip the that pressed desperately through his trousers. Jisung hissed, his own hands white-knuckled and gripping the sheets behind him.

You giggled between kisses against him. He had been so sweet tonight. It wasn’t the day to keep him waiting for long. You pulled away and sank back down with a coy grin that was misplaced for the what you were about to do.

Slowly, because everything is a little more cumbersome with long nails, you unbuckled his belt. Jisung itched to help to you, but he secretly loved how concentrated you looked, how determined you seemed to ruin him.

At last, you moved on to freeing his poor erection. He had barely been unbuttoned and unzipped before it pushed violently against his boxers. Your silvery giggles resounded deep within his chest as you tugged the waistband down, letting the head peek through. It was so red and sickening sticky from precum.

“I love how big you are,” you sighed. “I’ve always been really lucky, haven’t I?”

A painful groan broke through Jisung. His hands curled into fists to keep himself from grabbing your pretty face and fucking your little mouth raw.

You pretended not to notice how shallow his breaths were. You finished lowering his damp boxers and pants. You double-checked that your hair wouldn’t bother you.

Then, you wrapped a delicate hand around him. He let out a broken moan. Leaning down, you patiently waited for him to finish. He knew he needed to be still and quiet first. Only then did your slick tongue drag slowly up his length, from the base by his balls to his throbbing tip.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice gravelly and bassy. His hand found your hair instinctively. His grip was a lame attempt at caution; he pushed you down slightly, a signal for you to finally take him.

You didn’t for a while. You savored in how long he was, licking passively every inch of him. You also wanted every bit of precut gone first.

Jisung’s fingers twitched in your hair. “Y/n,” he choked. “I don’t think—“

“Hm?” you paused to look him in the eye. You had manners.

“Sh-shit.” He threw his head back to whine petulantly. “I can’t wait.”

The way his voice sounded all strained and high almost had you rutting into the rug under you. With no announcement or flair, you squeezed him harder and took him in. He was so heavy in your mouth and warm, too. It almost hurt your cheeks.

A strangled groan cascaded from him. “Y-yes, yes.” His hand pushed you further into him. “Good girl.”

Your eyelashes fluttered immediately. You let another inch of him slide down, but your pace wasn’t rushed. God no, you needed him to buck shyly into you and whimper each time he didn’t have the guts to go harder.

Even then, he was completely wrecked. “Your mouth—your mouth—“ His words fell apart before they could leave him. You pulled away to laugh, to quip something a little mean, but he didn’t allow it. His fingers clawed at your roots and he pulled you closer until he hit the back of your throat. You choked from the rough movement.

“I can’t—I need—I’m sorry.” He couldn’t even manage a full sentence.

And that drove you insane. You relaxed your mouth and throat and picked up the pace. You took him deeper and sucked messier, spit dribbling down your chin unto his aching balls.

His moans grew louder and louder, his own rhythm choppier and less controlled. He just wanted to feel you mewl around him, to feel how well you let him thrust into your pretty face a little harder each and every time. He unclenched his eyes long enough to watch you - you were flushed with a teary, half-lidded gaze. You were beautiful getting your face fucked.

“Let me,” he panted, “let me cum in your mouth—“

He pleaded, but it was never a question. You didn’t stop and he had no intention of letting you. He rammed a few more times into your tight throat before his body tensed and a choked moan spilled from his just as hard he did into your mouth. It was hard and messy and he kept you close so you could accept all of it. You did so gratefully. You whimpered against him, drinking as much of him as you could. Even when he released himself, you gingerly held his sore cock, licking and sipping every drop. He hissed and whined every time your tongue passed over him, sensitive and overstimulated, but this was your favorite part. He tasted so good and he was so wiggly in your grasp.

It took several seconds for him to even find the energy to slip out of you and fall unto the mattress. You slumped forward right after him, forehead against the bed frame as you caught your breath. You sounded so small and spent from below; it made him shoot up so he could lift you up and lay you down next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he panted. “That was too much.”

“Five minutes,” you croaked. Your eyes were shut tight and your chest heaved with every inhale. Your makeup was ruined.

“What?” He gently guided your chin so he could look you in the face.

“We’re not done,” you said like it was obvious between gasps. “Give me five minutes and we’ll continue.”

He seemed to forget you had gotten better at being Spider-Man’s girlfriend.

𑣲⋆ thurs. | sat. ⋆