˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“There was a group plotting your assasination, Lady Bunny. Did you expect me to let them live?”

He’s not supposed to call you by that silly moniker he gave you in your youth. If your father ever heard it slip from Lohen’s tongue, you know that he’d immediately cut it out. Lohen was allowed to remain in service to the royal court because of his results, but if it were up to your father, he’d be next to the gallows. You’ve tried as hard as possible to make this evident to Lohen—to tell him how much you fear what may come to pass should the true nature of your relationship be discovered—yet every night, he repeats the same actions.

He presents himself to your quarters, covered in blood or not, and etches every inch of himself into your skin so you’ll never forget him.

“Lohen,” you try to say. When his lips kiss their way up your arm, you again say, “Lohen.”

“Mm?” he answers, voice rumbling against your skin. “Yes, Princess?”

Heat flushes your face when his red eyes flick to yours. Swallowing back your trepidation, you say, “This has gone too far. It’s best if we stop this.”

He stares at you before pressing another warm, wet kiss to your forearm. Your head turns to follow him when he rises to his full height, your heart hammering in your chest. His arm curls around your hips, bringing you right into that blood-stained chestplate of his. With a charming smirk, he says, “That’s one order I’m afraid I can’t obey, Lady Bunny.”

You place your hand to his chest, but you lack the willpower to push him away from you. In the depths of your heart, you know the truth—you’re in love with the Royal Knight of the 5th Regiment, and you’ll never be able to deny it.

His kiss comes gentle, a stark contrast to the blood and violence his appearance entails. You lift your palms to his face, feeling the coarse texture of dried blood, but that doesn’t stop you from pulling him further into you. He tastes like the mint candies he makes for you in his free time, his sole hobby ever since the day you declared them to be your favorite. You melt into that sweet taste and wrap your arms around his neck with a soft moan.

The way his fingers tighten around your hips tells you what he’s thinking. Immediately, you withdraw from his kiss, trying to ward off the impulse you know you both feel. His face is flushed red from one ear to the other, and as he stares at your lips, soft pants fall from his own.

You smile. “You need to bathe.”

Lohen’s eyes flick back to yours. With a grin, he nods.

“You’re bathing with me. Right, milady?”

His playful smile reminds you of how you always played together in your youth, Lohen leading the way as you explored your parents’ royal garden. From that moment on, he swore his fealty to you, and as a lovesick child, you promised him your hand in exchange. You swore to always be there for one another, and were practically inseparable until your royal duties mandated it be so.

You’re nearly of age for marriage. As the sole inheritor of the crown, bachelors from all over the halidom have been scrambling over each other to win your affections. Your father has pushed suitor after suitor onto you, but at the end of every date, they’ve either changed their tune or mysteriously fallen ill. Perhaps your only saving grace in this situation is that your father loathes a weak man, and that Lohen is so adept at handling them.

You know he’s the reason that no suitor has met your father’s expectations yet. But when he holds you in his arms like this, you just don’t care. He’s the only man you see, from your waking moments to when you fall asleep, and you would rather suffer the wrath of the kingdom itself than imagine a life without him.

“I’ll bathe with you,” you say softly. “Will you wash my back for me?”

“If you wash my hair,” he answers. “And I’ll apply all the moisturizer you want afterwards.”

You laugh. “You’ll have to rub it in well this time. And not get distracted when you get to my thighs.”

His eyelids lower slightly, sending a pleasured thrill through your cheeks. In a low, suggestive tone, he says, “I’ll try my hardest, milady…but you’re asking an awfully difficult task of me.”

You giggle, but you take his hand in yours. With you taking the lead this time, you teasingly chirp, “Get distracted, and it’ll be off with your head.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t mind it if you were the one beheading me. Dying at the hands of an angel doesn’t sound too bad.”

You laugh again. Jokes aside, you tell him, “I’m not strong enough to behead you, Lohen.”

“Which is exactly why it would be perfect,” he chirps. “Slow, agonizing, and painful—all at the hands of my fairest lady. What more could your loyal vassal ask for?”

His humor is always so dark and violent, but it never fails to make you laugh. Perhaps that makes you somewhat twisted, but it’s never been something that’s bothered either of you. Of course, the high court would see to it that you spoke nothing of these dark themes when interacting with the other nobles, but with Lohen, you have the freedom to act how you like.

And he loves you for it. Not for your title as Princess, and not for your status in the kingdom. He simply loves you for you.

As soon as you cross into the bathroom, you turn to smile at him. He smiles back, and even though he’s covered in the blood of your enemies, your heart swells with adoration.

Just as he loves you for you, you love Lohen for him. No royal mandate will ever change that.

a/n: lohen is so fun to cook AUs up with... might do some more works in this "universe" in the future! anyway, if you liked what you read, please consider leaving a me a heart! (˶>⩊<˶) ♡ reblogs and comments appreciated! icymi! chai's last lohen post: etched into bone and soul, agbsihp ch. 6 (150+ notes) masterlist

The change in him would be subtle but unmistakable to anyone who knew him well. Lohen could walk into a room with his usual mildly distant expression, not particularly unhappy or irritated, simply looking as though his thoughts were somewhere else, and then he'd spot you.

His eyes would immediately brighten, his entire expression warming into a genuine smile before he'd even realize he'd done it, and he'd naturally make his way toward you. He might interrupt whatever conversation he'd been having just to greet you, or wander over after finishing his current task and ask whether you wanted to train together.

Training would become one of his favorite ways of spending time with you, he'd invite you to spar, teach you a new technique, help correct your stance, or ask you to watch while he practiced. Sometimes he'd deliberately challenge you just to see how much you'd improved, and other times he'd patiently demonstrate the same movement over and over until you finally understood it.

If you were already sitting nearby, he'd simply gravitate toward you between exercises, talking about whatever happened to cross his mind. None of this would strike him as unusual. When someone remarked that he seemed particularly happy whenever you were around, he'd genuinely look confused, because from his perspective he was simply enjoying your company.

He wouldn't understand that the way his expression changed at the sight of you, the way he instinctively searched for you, and the way he kept choosing your company whenever he had free time were signs of something much deeper.

Varka would be the one to finally put the pieces together for him. He'd eventually notice the pattern that Lohen himself remained completely oblivious to, the way his expression transformed whenever you appeared, how often he found reasons to train with you, and how naturally he gravitated toward you whenever you were nearby.

Eventually, after seeing Lohen practically light up when you walked into the training grounds, Varka would casually point it out. "You know you're always looking for her, right?" Lohen would initially dismiss it, genuinely unable to see anything unusual about what he was doing.

But Varka would continue explaining that it wasn't merely that Lohen enjoyed your company and it would leave Lohen unusually quiet.

He'd start thinking back over everything and, for perhaps the first time, actually examine his own behavior. He'd remember entering rooms and searching for you before he'd even realized he was doing it, the way seeing you could immediately brighten his mood, how he'd started looking forward to training sessions specifically because you would be there, and how strangely empty those same sessions felt when you couldn't make it.

The realization wouldn't arrive with some sweeping romantic epiphany. It would be much simpler and much more bewildering, Varka had given him a word for something Lohen had already been doing for months.

He'd stare ahead for a long moment before quietly saying, "You're saying I like her?" Once Varka confirmed it, Lohen would look genuinely stunned, as though someone had just explained a rule of the world he'd somehow never been taught. He'd probably glance toward wherever you happened to be and watch you for a few seconds, noticing the same warmth spreading across his expression that Varka had been talking about. Then he'd slowly run a hand through his hair, half laughing at himself. "So that's what this feeling is?"

From then on, he wouldn't suddenly become dramatically romantic, he'd simply become much more aware of what he'd already been doing. He'd still ask you to train with him, still teach you techniques, still wander over whenever he spotted you, and still smile instinctively whenever you entered a room. The difference would be that now he finally understood why.

── ( 𝒅. ) dottore would be particularly difficult to catch off guard because he would initially refuse to acknowledge that there was anything unusual about the way he treated you. He would regard his attachment as something that could be observed, analyzed, and eventually explained through reason, and for a considerable amount of time, that explanation would be enough for him.

Before realizing he has 'feelings' for you, he'd already be making deliberate accommodations that he would never bother making for anyone else. He'd allow you into laboratories and restricted areas where other people would be turned away without a second thought, tolerate you interrupting his work even when you arrived at the most inconvenient possible moment, and remember seemingly insignificant details about you with an accuracy that bordered on excessive.

He'd know which food you preferred, which subjects made you lose interest, when you were likely to become tired, and exactly how much patience you had for his experiments before you started complaining.

If someone questioned why you were permitted such liberties, he'd dismiss the matter with some clinical explanation about your usefulness or his own preference for your company over that of his colleagues.

Even his time would begin quietly accommodating you. He might postpone an experiment or a meeting because you were expected to visit, leave his laboratory earlier than usual because you had asked him to accompany you somewhere, or arrange his schedule so that you would encounter him during the few hours he was otherwise difficult to reach.

None of this would register as affection to him. He would simply categorize you as an exception, and Dottore was perfectly comfortable with exceptions when they were his to make. The more telling signs would appear in moments when his usual indifference should have taken precedence.

If you were injured, he would immediately notice. If someone endangered you, his attention would sharpen with a frightening immediacy. He would remember every detail surrounding the incident afterward, not because the information was scientifically interesting, but because he couldn't tolerate the possibility of it happening again.

Yet even then, he'd find some rational explanation for his behavior. You were a liability he needed to account for. Your safety affected his work. Your absence would be inconvenient. Your presence was simply preferable. He would keep giving himself increasingly elaborate explanations because admitting that he cared would require him to acknowledge that there was something about you he could not reduce to utility.

The realization would finally come when his own behavior contradicted every explanation he'd constructed. Perhaps he'd be in the middle of an experiment when news reached him that you'd been seriously injured.

Under ordinary circumstances, Dottore would finish what he was doing before allowing himself to be distracted, whatever problem existed could wait until the immediate task was complete. This time, however, he'd simply stop. His hands would go still over the equipment, his eyes lingering on the unfinished experiment for several silent seconds before he set everything aside without calculating the consequences.

He wouldn't even realize how strange the decision was until he was already on his way to you. Once he knew you were safe, the real disturbance would begin. He'd return to his laboratory and find himself staring at the abandoned work, mentally reconstructing what had happened and realizing that, for once, he'd made a decision without weighing its usefulness.

The experiment had simply stopped mattering the moment he'd learned you were hurt. That conclusion would irritate him more than the emotion itself. He'd begin examining the evidence with almost clinical precision, every precaution he'd taken specifically for your safety, every time he'd changed his plans because of you, every detail about you he'd memorized without intending to, every moment when his attention had instinctively shifted toward you even while surrounded by something more important.

Eventually, the pattern would become impossible to dismiss. He'd lean back, stare into the silence of the laboratory. "How inconvenient."

There would be no dramatic panic afterward. Instead, he'd become intensely curious about the realization, almost treating himself as another specimen to be studied. He'd test his own reactions, deliberately placing himself in situations where he could determine whether his behavior toward you was truly different from his behavior toward everyone else.

The answer would remain frustratingly consistent. He would continue insisting that nothing had fundamentally changed, even while becoming more deliberate about keeping you safe and maintaining your place within his life.

He wouldn't suddenly become openly sentimental or affectionate, that would be entirely contrary to his nature. If anything, he'd become more controlled, more attentive, and maybe even more possessive of the time and space you occupied in his world.

The difference would simply be that he now understood the reason behind it. You were no longer merely an interesting exception, a useful presence, or a variable he happened to tolerate. You had become the one variable he could neither explain away nor bring himself to eliminate, and for someone like Dottore, realizing that there was one person capable of becoming genuinely irreplaceable would be more unsettling than admitting he had fallen in love.

── ( 𝒄. ) childe would realize it almost accidentally, long before he ever thought to call it love, he'd already started treating you as someone distinctly more important than everyone else around him.

He'd invite you along whenever he had the opportunity, whether it was something as simple as wandering through the city or something more exciting that gave him an excuse to show off, and he'd turn nearly everything into some kind of game or challenge just to keep you entertained.

He'd constantly look for ways to make you laugh, deliberately exaggerating stories from his missions or pretending that some completely ordinary situation was far more dramatic than it actually was. He'd also develop the habit of bringing things back for you whenever he traveled, not necessarily expensive gifts, but small souvenirs he'd happened to see and immediately think you'd enjoy.

At first, he'd barely notice how often this happened. He'd simply return from a journey, spot something that reminded him of you, and think, you'd like this, before buying it without a second thought.

The difference would become more obvious in the way he treated your presence. Childe was naturally sociable and energetic, comfortable throwing himself into conversations and making friends wherever he went, but with you, there would be an extra degree of attention that he didn't give anyone else.

He'd remember things you'd told him weeks ago, notice immediately when something was bothering you, and instinctively check that you were alright whenever a situation became dangerous. If you were present during one of his fights, his attention would periodically flick toward you even while he was occupied with his opponent, and if you'd been left behind somewhere safe, he'd find himself wondering what you were doing before he'd even finished his mission.

He'd never consider any of this particularly strange. To him, you were simply you, someone he liked having around, someone whose company made even boring days more enjoyable. It wouldn't occur to him that he'd started measuring certain experiences by whether he could share them with you.

He'd return from an 'adventure' wanting to tell you about it first, encounter something amusing and immediately think about how you'd react, or catch himself looking through a crowd simply because some part of him expected to find you there. The thought would remain so ordinary in his mind that he wouldn't question it until one particular day made the pattern impossible to ignore.

The realization would probably hit him after returning from a particularly dangerous assignment, when he'd come back expecting the usual noise and bustle surrounding his arrival. He'd barely have time to step into the area before his eyes began moving through the crowd, searching automatically. He wouldn't even realize he was doing it at first.

His gaze would pass over familiar faces, fellow Fatui members, merchants, strangers, anyone standing nearby, until it finally landed on you. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd already been imagining the way you'd greet him, probably with that warm smile he had apparently grown so accustomed to seeing after every assignment.

But the moment you spotted him, that smile wouldn't come. Instead, your expression would immediately change with concern when you noticed the blood staining his clothes and the signs of a rough fight still visible across him.

You'd hurry toward him, asking whether he was hurt, your hands instinctively checking his arms and shoulders for injuries before he could even properly greet you. Childe would initially try to laugh it off, assuring you that he'd be fine and that most of the blood wasn't even his, but somewhere between your worried questions and the way you kept looking him over, his teasing response would gradually fade.

He'd simply stare at you. The warmth spreading through his chest would catch him completely off guard, almost like a flutter beneath his ribs, and for once he wouldn't have an immediate joke to cover it with.

He'd watch your worried expression, the way your brows had drawn together, the way you were still checking him despite his insistence that he was alright, and something inside him would suddenly feel impossibly light.

You were worried about him. The thought would make him stare at you with an almost bewildered fondness, his usual grin slowly returning as he realized just how much he liked being the person you cared about this deeply.

He'd blink only when you finally caught him staring and asked why he was looking at you like that. For a moment, he'd simply smile, almost dazed by the realization that had settled so naturally into place.

Then he'd laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as everything he'd previously dismissed began connecting at once, all the times he'd searched for you first after returning from an assignment, every souvenir he'd picked up because it reminded him of you, every story he'd wanted to tell you before anyone else, every excuse he'd invented to spend another afternoon together, and every time he'd found himself wondering whether you were safe while he was away.

It suddenly made perfect sense. "Ah." The word would escape quietly before his smile widened. "How'd I not realize this sooner?" He'd probably find the whole realization almost amusing, especially after realizing how long he'd apparently been oblivious.

Yet rather than pulling away from the feeling, he'd simply let himself enjoy it, looking at you with that same soft, fascinated expression while you continued fussing over his injuries.

── ( 𝒘. ) wanderer would resist the realization longer than almost anyone because the very idea of being emotionally attached to someone would irritate him before he ever allowed himself to accept it. Long before he understood what was happening, you would already have become one of the few people capable of bringing out a warmth in him that he himself barely recognized.

It would almost feel like some forgotten part of him had resurfaced whenever he was with you, something softer and strangely content that he would immediately try to bury beneath his usual indifference. You could invite him somewhere as simple as wandering through the city, sitting somewhere quiet, or accompanying you while you talked about something that interested you, and his first response would almost always sound annoyed.

"Do you ever get tired of dragging me around?" Yet he'd still go. He'd complain about the destination, complain about how long you'd been talking, complain when you got distracted by something along the way, but he would never actually leave.

In reality, he'd be paying close attention to everything you said. He'd remember the details of your stories, ask questions when something genuinely caught his interest, and occasionally offer his own opinion before pretending he hadn't been listening that closely.

If you noticed how engaged he was and smiled because he was clearly enjoying himself, he'd immediately become defensive. "What? Don't look at me like that. I'm only listening because you won't stop talking." But he'd remain beside you anyway, sometimes so close that your shoulders nearly brushed, perfectly content to let you fill the silence.

He would especially enjoy the moments when you became animated about something you loved. He'd watch you talk, occasionally interrupting with a dry remark or challenging something you said simply to keep the conversation going, and then act irritated whenever you pointed out that he was clearly enjoying himself.

If you suggested doing something together again another day, he'd roll his eyes and pretend to consider it a nuisance. But he'd remember the suggestion perfectly and, when the day came, would somehow already be waiting for you.

His affection would also begin showing itself through physical closeness in ways that would be almost shocking compared to how he treated everyone else. Wanderer generally wouldn't tolerate unnecessary touching, but with you, the rules would quietly change.

If you were walking too slowly and he wanted you to follow him, he'd simply reach down and take your hand, tugging you along without even thinking about it. If you tried teasing him about it, he'd immediately look away and mutter that it was faster than waiting for you.

He might catch your hand again when crossing a crowded street, pull you closer when he wanted your attention, or casually keep hold of your wrist while leading you somewhere, all while behaving as though none of it were remotely significant. He wouldn't be affectionate in an openly sentimental way, instead, he'd simply become accustomed to having you within reach.

Sitting beside you would feel natural. Walking with your hand in his would feel natural. Listening to you talk for hours would feel natural. And the fact that he was genuinely happy during those moments would be something he stubbornly refused to examine.

The realization would therefore hit him not simply because he protected you, but because he would eventually recognize what being around you did to him. Perhaps you'd invited him somewhere he had initially called boring, only for the two of you to spend hours together talking about whatever happened to come to mind.

At some point, you'd laugh at something he said, and he'd catch himself smiling before immediately trying to hide it. Or perhaps you'd reach for his hand without thinking and he'd instinctively let you take it, realizing only afterward that he hadn't pulled away. Instead, he'd tightened his fingers around yours. That would make him pause. He'd look down at your joined hands, then at you, and something about the quiet familiarity of it would feel strangely profound. He'd remember how often he'd allowed himself to enjoy these moments despite pretending otherwise, how quickly his mood improved when you appeared, how he'd started looking forward to your conversations, and how your absence left a peculiar emptiness that he would never have admitted existed. Most importantly, he'd realize that you brought out a version of him he had almost forgotten existed.

Around you, he could be irritated without being cruel, quiet without being distant, playful without feeling foolish, and genuinely happy without having to explain why. The thought would bother him more than he'd like.

"No." He'd immediately reject whatever conclusion had begun forming, looking away as though the realization itself were an insult. But once he started noticing it, he wouldn't be able to stop. Eventually, he'd click his tongue, fold his arms, and mutter bitterly to himself, "You've got to be kidding me."

The realization would make him defensive, but it wouldn't make him pull away. If anything, he'd become even more attached while pretending otherwise.

── ( 𝒗. ) varka would probably be one of the last people to realize it because, for months, he'd have absolutely no reason to suspect that what he felt for you was anything beyond genuine fondness. He was naturally warm, affectionate, and generous with the people he cared about, so none of his behavior toward you would initially strike him as unusual.

The real problem would be that he simply talks about you constantly. You'd become an almost ridiculous fixture in his conversations, to the point that the Knights would eventually know far more about you than they ever intended to.

Someone could mention a meal they had recently eaten and Varka would immediately remember something you'd once said about that particular dish. He'd return from an expedition with some strange object he'd found along the way and immediately start telling everyone how you'd probably love it, or how you would have laughed at something he'd seen, or how he wished you'd been there to see a particularly beautiful view.

Even when he was hundreds of miles away, you'd somehow find your way into his thoughts. He'd be walking through unfamiliar territory and suddenly wonder what you were doing back in Mondstadt, whether you'd eaten yet, whether you'd enjoyed the weather that day, or whether you'd have liked the place he was currently standing in.

He'd talk about you so naturally that he wouldn't even realize how often your name came up. "She'd love this place," he'd remark while looking over some distant landscape, only to continue talking about you for another ten minutes without noticing he'd completely changed the subject. The Knights would eventually exchange knowing looks whenever it happened. Varka, meanwhile, would remain oblivious. If someone teased him about it, he'd simply laugh. "What? I'm allowed to talk about someone I like," (the other knights would be frustrated how easily he's throwing around those three words).

He'd insist that he was merely fond of your company, yet somehow another story about you would inevitably follow.

His affection would be just as obvious when you were actually nearby. At gatherings, he'd naturally keep you within reach, throwing an arm around your shoulders while talking to someone else or casually drawing you closer whenever the crowd became too dense.

If he noticed you becoming overwhelmed or uncomfortable, he'd quietly shift the conversation so you could participate, introduce you to someone you hadn't met, make sure there was a seat available for you, or bring you something to eat before you ever thought to ask.

He'd notice whether you were getting tired, whether the room was too cold, whether you had been standing for too long, and somehow solve each little problem without making it obvious that he'd been paying attention. None of it would feel particularly romantic to him. He'd simply be taking care of you in the same easy, instinctive way he took care of people he considered important.

Once someone finally pointed out just how often he talked about you, however, Varka would actually stop and think about it. He'd initially laugh, perhaps insisting that everyone was exaggerating, until someone began listing examples.

Varka would gradually fall quiet as he realized they were right. He'd think back to all those expeditions where something beautiful had caught his eye and his first thought had been that you should see it, all the meals where he'd instinctively remembered which portion you'd prefer, and all the gatherings where he'd automatically checked whether you were comfortable before settling himself down.

He'd realize that even when you weren't physically there, some part of his mind was constantly accounting for you. The thought would be almost absurdly simple once he finally saw it. He wouldn't merely enjoy your company, you had become part of the way he experienced the world.

Everything reminded him of you because, somewhere along the way, he'd started wanting you involved in everything he experienced.

Varka would stare into the distance for a moment before slowly rubbing his chin. "Huh." Then, as the realization finally settled, a deep laugh would escape him. "Well, I'll be damned." He'd find the whole thing more amusing than embarrassing, especially when he realized how long everyone else had probably known.

After that, his behavior wouldn't become dramatically different because he'd already been treating you with affection for months.

── ( 𝒌. ) kinich would take much longer to recognize it simply because he wouldn't spend much time examining his own emotions in the first place. Before realizing he was in love with you, he'd already be making countless small adjustments around you without ever thinking of them as affection.

He'd wait for you before leaving somewhere even when there was no practical reason to do so, automatically slow his pace when you fell behind, remember exactly how you preferred to train, and quietly step in whenever you struggled with something without making a point of announcing that he'd noticed.

If you were tired, he'd alter the day's plans without complaint. If you were carrying something awkward, he'd simply take it from you. If you were struggling with a technique, he'd demonstrate it again and correct your stance with the same patient precision he used when teaching anyone else, except he'd somehow always have more time for you.

His version of quality time would be particularly practical and understated, he'd ask you to accompany him on commissions, invite you to train with him, teach you techniques he'd learned, spar with you when you wanted to improve, or let you sit nearby while he prepared his equipment.

He wouldn't need constant conversation to enjoy having you there. Your presence itself would become something he naturally accounted for. Other people would begin noticing long before Kinich did. Mualani, especially, would find it amusing how easily you seemed to slip past the distance Kinich normally maintained with people, while Kachina would notice the quieter details, how he always seemed to know where you were, how he waited for you without mentioning it, and how naturally you could stand beside him without him ever seeming bothered by your proximity.

Kinich wasn't someone who allowed just anyone to become that close to him, which made your place beside him increasingly obvious to everyone watching. He might normally keep conversations brief or prefer doing things alone, yet with you, he'd tolerate you sitting beside him for hours, answer your questions, listen when you talked, and occasionally even start conversations himself.

His acts of service would be just as subtle. He'd check your equipment before a dangerous journey, make sure you had enough supplies, adjust plans if he knew a route would be too difficult for you, or silently position himself on the side closest to whatever posed the greater danger.

He wouldn't call any of it protective. It was simply efficient. At least, that's what he'd tell himself. Even his protectiveness around other people would become increasingly obvious. If someone began acting strangely toward you, standing too close, speaking to you in a way he didn't like, or making you visibly uncomfortable, Kinich's attention would immediately shift.

He wouldn't necessarily confront them outright. Instead, he'd quietly move closer, place himself between you and the other person under some perfectly reasonable excuse, or simply call your name and redirect your attention elsewhere. His expression would remain calm, his voice level, but there would be a subtle firmness to his presence that made it clear he was paying attention.

If Mualani happened to notice, she'd probably find the whole thing hilarious because Kinich would insist he was merely being cautious. "You don't usually do that!" she'd point out. Kinich would simply look at her and dismiss what she said.

The realization would probably come from Ajaw after he'd spent far too long watching all of this happen. Ajaw would eventually become unbearable about it, loudly pointing out every time Kinich changed his plans because you were involved, every time he automatically searched for you in a crowd, and every time he positioned himself nearby when someone made you uncomfortable.

Kinich would ignore him at first, insisting there was nothing unusual about it, but eventually even he would start thinking about the pattern.

He'd eventually pause in the middle of whatever he was doing, staring ahead for several seconds as all those little observations finally connected. "So that's what this is." While Ajaw loudly screamed at the back of his head, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU!!"

There wouldn't be much outward panic, Kinich would simply become unusually quiet, processing the realization with the same patience he applied to everything else. The next time you appeared, however, the difference would be almost imperceptible. His eyes would follow you a little longer, his expression would soften when you approached, and when you sat beside him, he wouldn't merely make room, he'd shift closer without thinking.

Ajaw would immediately notice and start laughing, while Mualani and Kachina would probably exchange knowing looks because, to everyone else, the answer had been obvious for quite some time.

Without meaning to, he'd find himself picturing you standing in front of the mirror, carefully smoothing the fabric over your shoulders before gathering your hair into one hand so you could inspect the back of the dress. The image would appear so vividly that he'd immediately shut it down, clearing his throat under his breath as though scolding himself, "get a grip."

By the time you finally called his name and admitted you couldn't quite reach the zipper, he'd already spent the last several minutes mentally rehearsing a perfectly normal compliment, only to decide every single one sounded awkward. After knocking once and quietly asking if he could come in, he'd ease the door open just enough to step inside before carefully closing it behind him.

The moment his eyes found you, every sentence he'd practiced vanished without a trace. His gaze settled on the elegant dress before lingering for a heartbeat on the way it suited you so effortlessly, making it impossible to tell where the beauty of the gown ended and your own began. "Oh." The word escaped before he could stop it. He blinked once, twice, then immediately rubbed the back of his neck, visibly flustered. "I—wow, you..." His brows furrowed as he struggled to reorganize his thoughts. "No, hold on, I mean," another awkward pause. "The dress looks really nice— uh, by that I mean It looks nice because you're wearing it. Not that the dress isn't nice by itself, it's just..." He sighed, briefly covering his face with one hand. "Can we pretend I didn't say any of that?"

His ears had already turned noticeably red by the time he gestured toward the zipper. Waiting until you lifted your hair over one shoulder, he'd quietly step behind you, taking a noticeably deeper breath before gently taking hold of the tiny metal zipper. Despite the confidence with which he handled weapons or difficult missions, here his movements became almost painstakingly careful.

He drew the zipper upward little by little, making absolutely certain not to catch the fabric or accidentally brush against your skin more than necessary. Once the zipper rested neatly at the top, Lohen instinctively smoothed the fabric across your shoulders before taking a single step back to admire the finished result. The intention lasted all of two seconds.

Almost as though acting on instinct rather than thought, he closed the distance again, slipping his arms comfortably around your waist from behind and drawing you gently against him. His face disappeared into the crook of your neck as he absentmindedly pressed a trail of soft kisses there, completely unfazed by your increasingly amused complaints that he was supposed to step back so the two of you could actually look at the dress.

He merely smiled against your skin, tightening his embrace just enough to keep you from escaping before finally lifting his head to meet your eyes through the mirror. "Sorry," he'd murmur with quiet satisfaction. "I just couldn't help it." His gaze would wander over your reflection once more, the fond smile on his face making it painfully obvious he'd long forgotten about the dress itself. "You look too breathtaking."

The moment you teasingly reminded him that he'd been stumbling over every other word only moments ago, he'd freeze for the briefest second before quietly clearing his throat, his ears immediately betraying him with the faintest shade of red. Rather than dignifying your observation with a response, he'd simply act as though he hadn't heard a single word, wearing an expression of complete innocence that fooled absolutely no one.

Releasing you from his embrace with far more composure than he actually felt, he'd casually reach for the dressing room door and hold it open, waiting for you with one hand in his pocket as though nothing embarrassing had happened whatsoever.

Only when you walked past him with an unmistakably amused smile would he avert his gaze for a moment, muttering a quiet, "We should probably go," before leading the way out, stubbornly maintaining the act of selective hearing for the rest of the evening no matter how many times you brought it up.

── ( 𝒗. ) varka would have absolutely no trouble waiting outside the dressing room, though waiting quietly would be another matter entirely. He'd spend the time chatting with passing attendants, making exaggerated guesses about which dress you'd chosen, and joking that he'd been standing there long enough to earn honorary employment.

Every now and then he'd catch himself wondering which dress you'd settled on after trying on several different ones, remembering the little smile you'd worn whenever you found one you particularly liked.

The anticipation slowly replaced the playful impatience and then he'd wander toward the door, only to stop himself with an amused chuckle before wandering back again, reminding himself that if he peeked, you'd probably never let him hear the end of it. The moment your voice finally called his name and admitted you couldn't quite reach the zipper, however, every bit of that carefree teasing softened into something unexpectedly gentle.

He'd knock once before opening the door just enough to step inside, closing it behind him with surprising care. The second he looked up, he simply... stopped. Whatever witty remark had been sitting on the tip of his tongue disappeared completely. His eyes lingered on you in quiet admiration, a broad, unmistakably lovestruck smile slowly spreading across his face as though he couldn't quite believe the sight in front of him. "Well," he'd breathe with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You're making it awfully difficult to remember why I came in here."

Instead of immediately helping with the zipper, he'd instinctively wander closer until there was barely any distance between the two of you, his hands naturally finding your waist as though they'd always belonged there. Before you could even ask what he was doing, he'd grin and lean down to pepper your forehead, temple, and cheek with several affectionate kisses, laughing every time you whined his name in mock protest.

"Varka!" you'd complain through your laughter, trying to nudge him back. "The zipper." "Hm?" he'd answer with the most innocent smile imaginable before stealing one last quick kiss anyway. "Right. The zipper."

Only then would he finally step behind you, waiting patiently while you gathered your hair over one shoulder before carefully drawing the zipper upward with hands remarkably gentle despite their size.

Once it reached the top, he'd glide his fingers and fix the fabric where it rested against your shoulders before stepping back with both hands planted proudly on his hips, admiring you without the slightest attempt to hide it. "Now that's the woman I'm lucky enough to take out tonight." Without another word, he'd hold out his hand with the same effortless confidence he'd worn since the day the two of you met, already eager to show you off to the rest of the world.

── ( 𝒄. ) childe would've been far more invested in your shopping trip than he ever intended to admit. While waiting outside the dressing room, he'd spend the time making increasingly ridiculous guesses about which dress you'd chosen, confidently declaring he already knew exactly what you'd come out wearing before immediately changing his answer the next minute.

Every now and then he'd wander close enough to ask if you were still alive in there, only to quickly add, "take your time! I'm not rushing you!" after realizing how impatient that probably sounded. He'd even find himself grinning whenever he heard you moving around inside, quietly imagining the excitement on your face if you'd finally found the dress you'd been hoping for.

By the time you finally called his name and admitted you needed help with the zipper, he was already reaching for the handle before catching himself. "Can I come in?" Waiting for your answer, he'd step inside expecting to help for all of ten seconds before leaving again.

Instead, the moment he saw you, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist. He stopped where he stood, his bright blue eyes widening ever so slightly as they slowly wandered over the dress with open admiration. His attention wasn't fixed on any one detail, it was the complete picture before him that stole every coherent thought from his head.

He noticed the way the color complemented you, the way the fabric moved whenever you shifted your weight, the small smile you wore while waiting for his opinion, and how effortlessly the entire dress seemed to belong on you. Without realizing it, he remained standing there in complete silence, smiling to himself like someone who'd forgotten why he'd walked into the room in the first place.

"Wow," he murmured under his breath, almost to himself. "You..." The sentence never continued. He simply kept looking, entirely captivated until your amused voice finally pulled him back to reality. "Ajax." He blinked once before meeting your eyes in the mirror. "Hm?" You laughed softly, pointing over your shoulder. "My zipper. My back's getting cold." Realization struck him all at once. "Right!" He rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed laugh, unable to hide the faint flush creeping across his cheeks. "That's... actually why you called me in here."

Quickly recovering, he'd step behind you, gently asking you to move your hair before carefully taking hold of the zipper. His fingers, so accustomed to wielding blades and bows, became unexpectedly delicate as he slowly drew it upward, making certain not to catch the fabric. Once it rested neatly at the top, he'd smooth the back of the dress almost absentmindedly before taking a small step back to admire his work. The distance lasted only a heartbeat.

As though drawn back without thinking, he'd circle around until he was standing in front of you again, his smile growing softer the longer he looked. His hands would naturally find your waist before one drifted up to gently cup your cheek, tilting your face toward him just enough for him to steal a lingering kiss from your lips.

Even after pulling away, he wouldn't wander very far, his affection quietly overflowing into a few light kisses along your cheek before they inevitably trailed toward your neck. The moment you laughed and gently protested, "Ajax, not here," he'd stop immediately, though not without letting out an exaggerated, playful whine, his forehead dropping lightly against yours as a quiet giggle escaped him. "But you're too pretty," he'd complain dramatically with unmistakable amusement. "How am I supposed to resist when such a beautiful angel is standing right in front of me? You're making this incredibly difficult for me, you know." His gaze would wander over you once more, only for a new realization to slowly settle across his features. The playful smile would falter into exaggerated disbelief before he let out a dramatic sigh, resting his chin briefly atop your head as though mourning his own fate. "Oh, no." When you asked what was wrong, he'd simply look back at your reflection in the mirror, narrowing his eyes with mock suspicion. "I just realized everyone else is going to see you looking like this too." Folding his arms with theatrical indignation, he'd shake his head as though arriving at the most unfortunate conclusion imaginable. "I don't like that very much. They're all going to stare... and honestly, I can't even blame them." A quiet laugh escaped him before he leaned down to steal one last quick kiss from the corner of your lips. "Looks like I'm staying glued to your side tonight. Strictly for security reasons, of course."

He'd insist with the most innocent smile he could manage, though the unmistakable fondness in his eyes made it painfully obvious that his playful jealousy had less to do with protecting you from strangers and far more to do with the fact that, in his admittedly biased opinion, the rest of the room simply didn't deserve the privilege of admiring you the way he did.

── ( 𝒘. ) wanderer would insist from the very beginning that shopping was a waste of time, spending most of the afternoon leaning against whatever wall happened to be closest with his arms folded, looking thoroughly unimpressed by every boutique the two of you stepped into. He'd quietly question why anyone needed to try on five dresses just to choose one, clicking his tongue every time another sales associate cheerfully informed you there was 'one more color' you simply had to see.

Even then, despite all the complaining, he never wandered off. Whenever you disappeared behind the dressing room curtain, his attention would unconsciously drift toward it every few moments before he deliberately forced himself to look elsewhere, pretending to study decorations on the opposite wall or glaring out the nearest window as though he couldn't possibly care less. He'd hear the occasional rustle of fabric from inside and immediately scowl at himself for listening in the first place, silently reminding himself that whatever you were doing in there was none of his business.

By the time your voice finally called his name and admitted you couldn't quite reach the zipper, he'd answer with an exasperated sigh that sounded far more annoyed than he actually was. "You really are troublesome." Even so, he'd still knock once before opening the door, waiting just long enough for you to tell him to come in.

The moment he stepped inside, however, every sarcastic remark vanished. He stopped several paces from the doorway, his expression remaining almost perfectly composed save for the smallest widening of his eyes. His gaze instinctively settled on you before quietly taking in the dress as a whole, the elegant silhouette, the way the color suited you far better than anything he'd expected, and finally the glimpse of your bare back where the unfastened zipper waited.

He looked away almost immediately afterward, clearing his throat with visible irritation toward himself more than anyone else. Several seconds passed before he finally managed to mutter, almost under his breath, "It suits you." The compliment sounded reluctant, as though he'd had to physically drag it out of himself, yet there wasn't a trace of insincerity behind it.

Without another unnecessary word, he'd gesture for you to move your hair over one shoulder before quietly stepping behind you. His hands, so often associated with combat and destruction, became surprisingly careful as they found the tiny metal zipper, drawing it upward in one slow, steady motion while making certain not to catch the delicate fabric.

Once it reached the top, he'd instinctively smooth the material where it rested against your shoulders before immediately pulling his hand away, almost annoyed that he'd fussed over such a small detail without thinking. Taking several measured steps backward, he'd fold his arms once more, intending to leave before the silence became awkward.

Unfortunately for him, the moment you turned toward him with an expectant smile, every intention of making a quick escape disappeared. His gaze lingered again, longer this time, until you finally laughed and asked, "Well?" He clicked his tongue, visibly refusing to admit he'd been staring. "What?"

When you teased that he'd gone unusually quiet, he'd simply scoff, turning his face away in a failed attempt to hide the faint warmth beginning to creep across the tips of his ears. "You're imagining things."

Yet before opening the door, he'd pause with his hand resting against the handle, glance back over his shoulder, and quietly return to you without explanation. Two fingers would gently tilt your chin upward before he placed the briefest kiss against your lips, so quick it almost felt accidental. "Don't read too much into that," he'd mutter immediately afterward, opening the door before you could answer. "And stop smiling like that."

Of course, the fact that he slowed his pace outside the dressing room until you caught up beside him, silently taking the shopping bags from your hands without being asked, made it painfully obvious that his actions had already betrayed every word he'd tried so stubbornly to hide.

── ( 𝒍. ) lyney would have turned the entire shopping trip into an event long before either of you reached the dressing room, even declaring himself your 'official consultant.' Rather than waiting quietly, he'd enthusiastically follow you from rack to rack, offering wildly dramatic opinions about every dress you held up while somehow making even the most ordinary fitting room feel like backstage before a grand performance.

The moment you disappeared behind the curtain with the dress you'd been eyeing for weeks, he'd lean casually against the wall outside, smiling to himself every time he heard you moving around inside. Every few minutes he'd call through the curtain door with another playful remark, asking whether he should prepare himself to witness Fontaine's newest fashion sensation or whether you were secretly planning to emerge disguised as someone else entirely.

Beneath all the teasing, however, he was genuinely excited. He'd caught the little sparkle in your eyes the first time you picked the dress off the rack, and more than anything, he wanted to see that same expression once you finally had it on.

When your voice eventually called for him, admitting you couldn't quite reach the zipper, his grin would soften almost immediately. "Your magician is on his way." Even then, he'd politely knock before opening the door, expecting to step inside, help for a few seconds, and leave. Instead, the instant his eyes found you, he forgot how to move.

His confident stride slowed to a complete stop as quiet admiration replaced every rehearsed joke he'd intended to make. He smply stood there, smiling in silence while his gaze wandered across the dress, noticing every elegant little detail before inevitably settling on your reflection in the mirror.

The sight of you absentmindedly holding your hair over one shoulder while waiting for him somehow felt more captivating than any elaborate stage performance he'd ever witnessed. "Well," he breathed with a soft laugh, shaking his head in quiet surrender. "I suddenly understand why you took so long."

Recovering just enough to remember why you'd invited him inside, Lyney walked over with his usual effortless grace, gently gathering the last loose strands of your hair away from the zipper before carefully fastening it. His fingers moved slowly, not because the zipper was difficult, but because some selfish part of him wanted the quiet moment to last a little longer.

Once the dress was fully closed, he simply admired your reflection through the mirror, smiling with such open affection that it became impossible to mistake what he was thinking. "Magnifique," he'd murmur almost to himself. "I knew you'd be beautiful but... somehow you've still managed to exceed every expectation I had."

When you laughed and accused him of exaggerating, he'd place a hand dramatically over his heart, feigning offense. "Exaggerating? Mon amour, just because I'm a magician doesn't mean I'd lie about something like this!" His attention would drift toward the dressing room door before an entirely new thought crossed his mind.

The playful confidence on his face would slowly melt into exaggerated concern as he looked back at you with an almost mournful sigh. "This is a disaster." At your confused look, he'd gesture helplessly toward the mirror. "Because the moment we walk out there, everyone else gets to see you looking like this too!" A quiet laugh escaped him as he gently offered you his arm. "I suppose I'll survive... though I may spend the rest of the evening reminding everyone that the most breathtaking woman in the room already chose her escort."

Even as the two of you left the dressing room, he'd catch your hand almost absentmindedly, smiling to himself as though he still couldn't quite believe that the person standing beside him, the one wearing the beautiful dress he'd been so eager to see, was the very same person he was lucky enough to call his.

── ( 𝒙. ) xiao would never complain when you suggested shopping together, though it would be painfully obvious from the beginning that he was completely out of his element. The bustling streets, the endless rows of clothing, the cheerful attendants trying to convince you to try 'just one more dress,' none of it particularly interested him.

While you disappeared behind the dressing room curtain, he would quietly take his place outside with his back resting against the wall, arms folded loosely across his chest as he silently watched people come and go. To anyone passing by, he appeared as calm and detached as ever, seemingly indifferent to how much time had passed. In truth, his attention never truly strayed far from the closed door.

Every so often, the faint rustle of fabric from inside would make his gaze drift toward it before he deliberately forced himself to look elsewhere, quietly reminding himself that you deserved privacy. Still, despite centuries of discipline, he couldn't completely stop his thoughts from wandering. He found himself wondering whether you'd found the dress you'd been searching for, whether your eyes had lit up with that quiet happiness he had come to treasure more than any grand display of joy.

That alone was enough to make the wait worthwhile. When your voice finally called his name, asking if he could help with the zipper, he hesitated only briefly before approaching the door. "May I come in?" Receiving your permission, he opened it carefully, making certain not to intrude any more than necessary. The moment he stepped inside, however, he forgot to move.

His golden eyes lifted instinctively toward you, and for several quiet seconds, he simply stood there. The elegant dress, the way it complemented you so naturally, the graceful line of your shoulders where the zipper remained undone, everything came together into a sight so unexpectedly beautiful that even Xiao, who had witnessed landscapes and heavens untouched by mortal eyes, found himself momentarily speechless.

He immediately lowered his gaze again out of respect, though the faint softening around his eyes lingered. "You..." The unfinished word escaped almost involuntarily before he quietly collected himself. "The dress suits you." The compliment was simple, almost understated, yet it carried a sincerity that made it infinitely more precious than any elaborate praise.

Only after a few more moments did Xiao quietly gesture for you to gather your hair over one shoulder. Waiting until you had done so, he stepped behind you with measured movements, careful to leave you enough space that you never felt crowded. His hands, so often stained by battle and accustomed to wielding a polearm with impossible precision, became almost impossibly gentle as they found the tiny metal zipper. Rather than rushing, he guided it upward slowly, ensuring the delicate fabric never snagged while taking great care not to brush against your skin any more than absolutely necessary.

Once it reached the top, he instinctively smoothed the slightest wrinkle where the material rested against your shoulders before immediately withdrawing his hand, almost surprised by the unconscious gesture himself. Taking a step back, he quietly admired the finished result through the mirror without realizing he was doing so.

It wasn't until you turned around and caught him looking that he blinked, the faintest warmth coloring the tips of his ears. "What?" he'd ask, genuinely confused by your amused smile. When you softly pointed out that he'd been staring, he looked away almost at once. "I wasn't." The denial came just a fraction too quickly to sound convincing. A brief silence followed before he sighed very quietly, accepting defeat. "Perhaps... for a moment."

His eyes found yours again, calmer now, carrying a tenderness he rarely allowed anyone else to witness. "You look beautiful." The words were spoken so naturally they sounded less like a compliment and more like a simple truth. Without another unnecessary remark, he extended his hand toward you with quiet hesitation.

The moment your fingers slipped into his, he gently intertwined them with his own before leading you from the dressing room, maintaining that small, reassuring contact for the rest of the afternoon. Xiao had never been particularly skilled with grand romantic gestures, yet the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed across the back of your hand every now.

── ( 𝒂. ) alhaitham would have anticipated from the beginning that a shopping trip involved a considerable amount of waiting, which was precisely why he'd brought a book with him before the two of you had even left home. While you disappeared into the dressing room carrying an armful of dresses, he'd settle comfortably into the nearest chair, crossing one leg over the other as he resumed reading from the exact sentence he'd left off earlier that morning.

Every now and then an enthusiastic shop attendant would attempt to strike up a conversation or ask whether he'd like to look around while he waited, only to receive a polite but unmistakably dismissive, "I'm occupied." Despite how deeply engrossed he appeared, his attention wasn't entirely consumed by the pages before him.

Each time the dressing room curtain shifted or another customer stepped outside to ask for an opinion, his emerald eyes would briefly lift from the book before returning to the text. It was subtle enough that almost nobody would notice, least of all you.

When your voice finally reached him, asking whether he could help with the zipper, he calmly slipped a bookmark between the pages before standing. "Coming." He knocked once before opening the door, allowing you every opportunity to stop him if you weren't ready. The instant he stepped inside, however, his usual rhythm faltered almost imperceptibly.

His gaze settled on you, quietly taking everything in with the same careful observation he devoted to every subject that genuinely captured his interest. He noticed how naturally the color complemented you, the way the dress rested perfectly against your figure, and the elegant simplicity of the exposed zipper waiting between your shoulders.

Unlike many others, he didn't react with dramatic surprise. Instead, he simply looked and kept looking. "An excellent choice," he finally concluded after several thoughtful seconds. "The tailoring is exceptional." Another pause followed as his eyes met yours through the mirror. "It suits you considerably more than the previous one."

Without another word, Alhaitham stepped behind you, waiting until you lifted your hair before carefully taking hold of the zipper. His movements were calm, efficient, and impossibly precise, drawing it upward in one seamless motion before instinctively straightening the fabric where it had shifted during the fitting.

Even after finishing, he remained standing there for another moment, quietly studying your reflection through the mirror with the same analytical focus he'd use while evaluating an ancient manuscript. "Turn once for me," he'd say matter-of-factly. After you obliged, he'd observe the way the fabric moved before giving a small nod of approval, clearly satisfied with his assessment. "The fit is perfect."

When you laughed and reminded him that you were asking your boyfriend rather than the Acting Grand Sage for his opinion, the faintest smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. He stepped forward once more, brushing away an imaginary speck of lint from your shoulder before meeting your gaze through the mirror again. "You're right."

Another deliberate pause stretched between the two of you, just long enough for you to think he'd already finished speaking. "You look very beautiful." The compliment arrived with quiet certainty, entirely free of exaggeration because, to him, embellishment only weakened sincerity.

Taking your shopping bags before you even reached for them yourself, he opened the dressing room door and stood aside, one hand resting lightly against the frame. "Shall we?" he asked, the slightest hint of amusement lingering beneath his otherwise composed expression.

"Unless you've decided that trying on another half-dozen dresses is somehow an efficient use of our afternoon." Yet despite the dry remark, he remained perfectly willing to follow you into whichever boutique you chose next, his book tucked neatly beneath one arm while the other naturally found its place beside you as the two of you continued down the street together.

Even flies find beauty in trash. Your admirer must be a maggot, by the looks of things.

But again: idiots attract more idiots. It's no wonder that you, the greatest idiot of them all, have wound up on the receiving end of some maggot's affections.

He stares at the disgustingly bright envelope—now on the floor—with your name addressed as the recipient. How pathetic, he thinks. (How audacious, the sender, for daring to write your name so clumsily, with all those stupid swirls and all! Are they even literate? This handwriting looks to be atrocious! Does the Akademiya just let anyone in?! Even scum that don't know how to use a pen?!)

Wanderer walks away. Ever so coincidentally, the envelope gets caught in between the heel of his shoe and the ground, and, even more coincidentally, his heel turns, left to right, grinding the paper into the wooden planks of the classroom's floor.

If it wasn't unreadable before, it certainly is unreadable now.

"Excuse me!"

The doors slam open, revealing a haggard figure, clad in scholarly robes, chest heaving up and down as their head turns frantically.

"Has anyone seen a letter? It has a neon yellow envelope, and it's—"

For good measure, the heel of Wanderer's shoes dig deeper into the ground, the envelope still caught in between, crumpled. Wanderer has never once seen such an ugly letter (Neon yellow? he thinks, disturbed. What a tasteless imbecile.) His shoe might have, though.

A couple seconds pass, and the tasteless imbecile's eyes grow wide, vaguely resembling that of a bug's, before approaching Wanderer with a determined look.

"Hat Guy!" the tasteless imbecile exclaims. "Hat Guy, you're stepping on my letter!"

Wanderer looks down, the envelope still caught in between his heel and the ground. What a coincidence. Even more coincidentally, his weight shifts wholly onto that foot, the heel sinking, the paper ripping from the amalgamation of abuse.

"Oh, no!" The maggot gasps. "No, no, no! That's my letter! I wrote it for [Name]!"

Even more coincidentally (there are just so many coincidences in this world, it seems), Wanderer's foot slides forward, and the paper is dragged across the planks, and, out of nowhere, a gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.

"Hat Guy! You did that on purpose!"

"Hah?" Wanderer replies, humorless. "Do you think I have so much free time as to tamper with such a measly thing?"

"You just used your Vision on my letter! And you were stepping on it!"

Wanderer smirks, the expression not reaching his eyes, the cornflower irises devoid of any mirth as an incomplete laugh escapes his lips. What a perfect use, he thinks, using the sickening power of an Archon to destroy that ugly thing. He's really outdone himself this time.

"Why would you do that, huh?! What have I ever done to you?" the imbecile continues, damn near having a conversation with themself.

"How ridiculous," Wanderer remarks plainly, voice devoid of any remorse. "You left it on my desk."

"We don't even have assigned seats!"

"Well," another scholar chimes in, "it's practically assigned. Nobody ever moves from the seat they chose."

Wanderer huffs. Misplaced or not, how could this imbecile even think to leave such an insinuating letter out in the open? Especially with your name scribed onto its front, with such ugly penmanship? If this imbecile really liked you, they would never—Whatever, he thinks, arms crossed, head cocked to the side. This is none of his business.

Idiots attract idiots. Whoever wants you can have you: the most idiotic of them all.

"Oh, [Name]!" the imbecile has the audacity to exclaim, their frustrated expression shifting instantly, as if the feeling of your name on their lips is enough to melt the anger, shaping it into adoration. They turn towards the door, lips enraptured by a smile, racing towards you with their hand held up, waving.

A gust of wind rampages through the classroom. How odd, considering the windows are closed.

Wanderer passes (read: shoves by) the imbecile, his face unreadable, its tell given only by the slight crinkle of his eyes, the way your figure is beheld so tenderly within the pupil of a puppet whose body is incapable of a flush. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, for there is no heart to pump blood towards his limbs, to give his cheeks the blossom of red.

But he looks at you, the beheld, and that is enough.

"About time," he says, arrogant. "I didn't think you could even find your way here."

You just laugh. Wanderer's artificial skin lacks warmth, he knows this, but you laugh and you look at him and the beholder is beheld, and, and the wind subsides, and—

"I'm surprised you even showed up to class at all, Wanderer!"

He scoffs. "I'm not like you."

"That's not true," you reply, pointing at him accusingly, other hand resting on your hip, "your attendance record is just like mine!"

But it's true; Wanderer could never be anything like you.

Because you're lovely.

It's not often that the Chief Justice gets a break.

In this nation full of legislation, it's only natural that its most supreme judge is at work most days, whether it be overseeing trials or sifting through paperwork, there is always a job must be done, and a creature to serve in its place.

Neuvillette has long gotten used to his role, the duty which has been entrusted to him. But, every once in a while, there is a moment of respite, where he is able to look up from the stacks of papers, to turn around, thistle eyes piercing past the panes of the window, the clouds parting to reveal the enormity of the sun, its warmth palpable despite the distance.

The beauty of such light is best appreciated from indoors.

But, he thinks, eyeing the clock, a brief walk would not hurt.

He rises from his seat, gloved hands readjusting the fabric of his cravat, fingers trailing lightly over the desk once he's done, passing by the wooden walls of his office with a steady pace.

At the reception desk, he exchanges pleasantries with Sedene; just as he's ready to depart, however, she jolts up, returning behind the desk before revealing a frilly envelope, its paper adorned by hearts and roses.

"Monsieur Neuvillette," she says, waving the letter. "I wanted to show this to you."

He raises a brow. "What is this, Miss Sedene?"

She points towards the name such romance is addressed to. You.

Neuvillette just blinks, mildly confused. "I do not believe that [Name] works here, nor are they in any position to receive such a letter. They are abroad at the moment, are they not?"

"That's right, Monsieur. I believe the sender made a mistake, but I was unable to catch a glimpse of their face before they left..." she mutters, ears drooping slightly, cradling the letter close.

Neuvillette shakes his head. "Do not worry about it, Miss Sedene. When [Name] returns, you can deliver it to them, then."

Despite telling Sedene not to worry, the letter's existence plagues Neuvillette's mind like some haunting phantom, an itch that can never be scratched.

You have always been driven by wanderlust; no land could ever contain you, and Neuvillette has long made peace with this fact. All that he can do is serve as your landing ground, to greet you at Fontaine's borders when you do—and you always—return.

And when you do return, he will lend you an ear. He will serve you your favorite desserts, he will accompany you on your long walks which you so adore, whether it be in rain or in shattering light.

And when you depart once more, he will see you off at the border, just as when you arrived, and when you arrive again, whenever they may be.

Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. He does not want you to compromise your wanderlust, to shackle yourself to a single place, for your presence to be near his in any capacity that is not founded off of your own desire.

Be free to do whatever it is that you want to do, to go wherever you want to go—and when you return, he will be there. As he's always been.

Every so often, you send him letters from the nations you visit, accompanied by various trinkets which you've collected. Sometimes, you send him rocks, or swabs of sand, or entire shells that must be delivered separately.

Neuvillette gets mildly disturbed whenever you send him something that looks to be made from the cooling of molten lava, as it has happened far too often, and it makes him wonder what in the world it is you're up to.

But that's a story which you will tell him yourself, when the two of you meet again.

Neuvillette is satisfied with the guarantee of reunion. Restraint is familiar to him; being in a position such as his does not give much flexibility for anything else. But he thinks of that frilly letter, addressed to you, adorned by romance.

How straightforward, he muses, remembering the lace roses which trailed all over the envelope, the way your name was its most extravagant aspect.

Neuvillette has made peace with the stutter of his heart, the way rain falls after your departure, the way the sun reveals itself, its radiance forcing his mind to return to the fantastical image of you.

Restraint. Neuvillette has made peace with your absence, and he always thought that reunion was enough. But he thinks of you, and there it is again: the ferocity of desire, the selfishness of his blood, the way dragons hoard treasure, the way gold glimmers.

It's raining.

Neuvillette looks up, bewildered. It was so sunny a second ago. But he looks around, and his fellow pedestrians seek shelter in nearby cafes, or huddle under umbrellas, murmuring about how unexpected this is.

How unexpected indeed.

Neuvillette continues forward, the coolness on his skin, suppressing the bloom of his ears, the way he stares at the last light of the sun before it disappears behind a grey cloud.

He wonders what you're up to right now. The last letter you sent was from Inazuma. You must be far, he thinks.

(Too far.)

But then, a voice.

"Long time no see, Neuvillette!"

His head snaps around, thistle eyes meeting yours, his mouth hanging slightly agape, a droplet of rain racing down from the duct of his eye.

"[Name]," he breathes, walking towards you with as much composure as a creature so hopelessly in love could ever afford to muster. "[Name], it has been so long."

"Right!" you say, wiping a swab of rain from your face. "You look even more miserable than when I last saw you!"

The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.

You truly make him the most miserable thing.

"Anyway, I stopped by the Court to see you, but instead, Sedene handed me a love letter! Isn't that hilarious? I haven't gotten one of these in like, what, a couple hundred years?"

Neuvillette feels something stir within the confines of his ribs.

"Did you read it?"

"I did! It was great!"

Restraint. Neuvillette wants to ask more—he wants to know what you thought of such forwardness, what you thought of such a declaration of love. If he were to do the same, would you receive it with such mirth? Would you accept him, with all his rain, with all his misery?

"I found the sender just before seeing you here, Neuvillette!" you say, patting his shoulder, the reunion palpable. "I had to thank them for such flattery! Oh, but I did have to turn them down. I'm not really one for the immortal-mortal grief, you know? Parting with you is already a lot."

Neuvillette's breath hitches. What about the guarantee of an immortal-immortal match? What about the guarantee of reunion?

"You dislike parting with me?"

You laugh. "Nope, I absolutely love seeing your anguished face whenever I leave, and traveling alone, tasting water from nations, trying to act like I know something when really, there's no difference at all!"

The subtlest of smiles tug at his lips.

"There is a difference. Mondstadt's waters are crisp and pure, while Liyue's waters have an aftertaste, and Inazuma's water possesses a flavor unlike any other."

You elbow him roughly. He doesn't budge from the movement.

"And Fontaine's courts have the best macarons. Onwards, Neuvillette!"

The sun returns.

Neuvillette looks at you and, truly, the radiance is sublime.

There is nothing in this world that comes for free.

"So, name your price," the client says, head tilted to the side, smirking. "I'm confident I can fulfill whatever you demand, Kinich."

"I cannot take this request," Kinich states, readjusting the various bags which dangle from his shoulder, full of fruits from his most recent harvest.

"What?!" the client exclaims, their pompous expression contorting into that of utter disbelief. "It should be simple! I'm only requesting you because I know you can complete it quickly! I'll pay you double your rate, and—"

"Find someone else," Kinich interrupts. "I won't do it."

"What?!" Ajaw exclaims, floating over to the client's side, his shades of green shifting to reds and oranges, his pixelated body spasming up and down as he pouts vehemently. "Come on, man! This is such a good deal! Since when could beggars be choosers, huh, huh?!"

Kinich ignores how Ajaw just likened him to a beggar.

"Why are you rejecting this request?!" the client shouts, hand outstretched, revealing an intricate envelope, adorned by shades of reds and pinks, its romance addressed towards a single recipient. You.

"My reason doesn't matter," Kinich replies.

There are some things in this world that cannot be done, regardless of the cost.

"Don't tell me it's because you have a crush on—" Ajaw starts, but is quickly slapped away by Kinich. The Almighty Dragonlord's figure goes flying out of the atmosphere, plummeting towards the sky, the last of his silhouette dissipating with the twinkle of what looks to be a star.

"Find someone else," Kinich says, again. "I won't do it."

"You'll regret this, Kinich!" the client-no-longer exclaims, sparing one last glare at him before trudging away, love letter still in hand. Kinich returns to his hut without a single thought, hauling his harvest, the weight amounting to nothing, as he mulls over the request.

He's not the type to live with regrets.

But, maybe there is one.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Someone bursts through the door, sauntering through his hut made-for-one, forcing it to shift and fit two. Kinich, unfazed, doesn't even look up from his spot in the corner, rearranging the fruits he had harvested, organizing them with the various containers of jam and breads which he bought the day before.

Silence. Kinich continues sorting through his items, feigning ignorance to the shadow which slowly creeps up on him, the shape shifting to reveal two hands, outstretched, vaguely resembling a pitiful wolf.

Your hands jump onto his shoulders, and Kinich remains as he is: completely unmoved.

"What?!" you say, absolutely flabbergasted. "Why didn't that scare you?"

Kinich looks over his shoulder, taken aback for just a second, your nose almost meeting his, your face so close he can make out each wisp of your lashes, the way you smile, teeth and all. He swallows thickly. He blinks and then he turns back around, breathing slowly, hands fiddling mindlessly with the jars of jam.

That scared him more than your futile attempt at a surprise attack.

"You're loud," is all he says.

"That can't be!"

But it is, Kinich thinks. You're loud. And you talk a lot, and you wear your expressions so evidently on your face. Kinich turns to you, your figure matching his, crouched, hunching over various trinkets and eyeing the jams as if you were some sort of connoisseur.

"And while I was out today, I was at the market, and—"

You're loud.

"There was this guy," you say, eyes scrunched shut, brows furrowing, mind seemingly in deep thought (How uncharacteristic, is all Kinich thinks). "He was like, so awkward with me! And he was like flailing everywhere, and he asked me to dinner, but I told him I already had plans with you, but then he got so nervous, and I was so confused, like, does he want me?"

You're always sharp when it's inconvenient, he thinks.

"It must be my aura, huh?"

Nevermind, Kinich annexes that previous thought.

"Anyway, that was pretty random!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. "But I guess it's to be expected! I'm a catch! But, you know, that's the first confession I've received in a while. I feel like my aura wards people away, or something."

Ajaw returns from purgatory.

"It's not your aura! It's because of Kinich—"

Ajaw is sent hurling into space.

"Oh," you say, watching Ajaw get launched out of the open window. "I was wondering why it was so quiet!"

It wasn't, though, Kinich thinks. How could it be, when you're so loud?

"But anyway," you continue, "I'm looking forward to the meal today, Kinich! I'm your favorite freeloader, I bet!"

There are some things in this world that should be done, regardless of the cost.

Like your loudness, like your slurred words, your random interjections, your sidetracked stories. Some things in this world should be relistened to, should last forever, should happen, again and again. Like your weekly freeloading meals, like your anecdotes, like, like you.

You're loud.

Kinich would listen to you forever if he could.

And, just like that, there'd be no room for regrets.

They say that if you're scared of thunder, it's because you've got something to hide.

Boom!

Wriothesley's hands interlace with one another, his back hunching slightly as he leans forward, lips drawn into a pursed smile, pale eyes devoid of any mirth.

"So..." he starts, your figure submerged within the center of his pupils, head craned downwards, fingers tracing over the intricacies of a misplaced letter, its subjects addressed to you despite landing on his desk.

"Are you moved?" he then asks, not-so discreetly.

Boom!

Wriothesley, in this moment, considers himself to be quite scared of thunder. He's got quite a few things to hide; a handful of those many things involve you.

"Woah," you say, almost amazed, free hand raised to your mouth, eyes wide as you trace over each word. Wriothesley wonders what you're thinking right now—do frilly niceties like this charm you? Perhaps a bouquet of roses will make their way to your door tomorrow. Let's throw in a letter, and a shared cup of tea, too.

"This is pretty impressive," you remark, glancing up, meeting his gaze. Wriothesley never once tears his gaze from yours, the scenery of the city outside paling in comparison to the well-loved features of your face. From the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips, the ridge of your brows—your existence makes a lover of him.

That fact, though not particulary hidden, is a secret that he carries with him, revealed only with each strike of lightning, the thunder that follows thereafter.

"Impressive?" Wriothesley echoes, the hints of a smile finding his face, the expression not quite reaching his eyes, organ still beholding you. "How so, if I may ask?"

"The sender knows I'm a big fan of theater plays," you state, "and also, that I like tea."

Wriothesley snorts. "Those are not things that are well-kept secrets."

You laugh. "I suppose that's true. Still, it's quite cute."

Wriothesley has watched quite a couple theater productions with you. His favorite part is when you debrief him on the plot afterwards, as if he weren't there to witness it himself (he supposes that's half true, though, since half of his experience is witnessing the play through your own reactions).

Also, in case you didn't know, he also likes tea. It seems the two of you have lots in common. How very compatible, if he does say so himself.

Boom!

The sound vaguely mimics the beat of his heart, its enormity enough to shatter his ribs, its vigor pumping blood to the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. It's pouring outside. He wonders how many more secrets he must keep, how long they must stay hidden for, how cruel it is for each strike of thunder to be felt in front of the person who it all belongs to.

His most sacred oath. You.

Boom!

"I think I'll have to decline on this, though," you say, folding the letter back into its quaint envelope, hand now reaching for the teacup, glass raised to your lips.

He stares for a long while.

"I'm surprised," he remarks. "I thought you'd enjoy that sort of thing. Don't most of your plays involve a wondrous love letter?"

You laugh.

"They also involve a mysterious Duke of the North."

Boom!

"Will the Duke of an Underground Prison work?"

"More than that, actually," you say, head tilting to the side, eyes crinkled, your smile incomparable. "It's perfect."

Looks like he has nothing to hide now.

"Care for some dinner tomorrow?" he asks, finger raised to tap on the surface of the wooden table, the action soothing.

"At the Coupon Cafeteria?"

"Your pick. I'll be at your door tomorrow, as the Duke of an Underground Prison."

"I want roses," you say, "and a wondrous love letter."

Wriothesley smiles, its shape vaguely covered by the back of his gloved hand, his devotion revealed only by the ferocious red of his ears.

"Consider it done."

About Future Plans

“My future’s her. That’s all you need to know.”

About His Ring, I

“Asking about my ring, huh? This is a promise ring. Bun’s got the match to it on her left, and I’ve got mine on my right. That way, whenever we hold hands, our rings touch. Not to brag or anything, but it’s kind of an awesome feeling.”

About Differences

“Mm, yeah, I get that all the time. ‘Vice Captain Lohen, you’re so violent and your girlfriend’s so sweet! Did you threaten her into dating you?’ People learned to stop saying the last part after I made up a new special training.”

About Bunny, II

“Hey, Honorary Knight. What’s that? I sound kinda down today? Well, I guess I’m a little bummed. Bun’s obsessed with this fantasy novel, and her favorite author’s doing a book signing in Inazuma. She’s going all that way, just for one signature! And she told me not to request leave, because she wants us to go on vacation this Summer! So I’m stuck here while she’s on her way there, and it’s driving me crazy not knowing if she’s safe or not. (…) Inazuma’s a safe country, you say? Maybe for you and me, but Bun can’t fight, so I’m worried fuckin’ sick. Pardon my French.”

About Fear

“No, she’s not scared of me. Why would she be? (…) Haha! You think I’d ever point a weapon at my girlfriend? I only get rid of the trash that needs cleaning up, and she understands that. Sure, her vision’s basically useless to her, but one good slap from her sets my shit preeetty straight. Man, I sure hope she smacks me around tonight…heh-heh.”

About Sex

“You wanna die, Honorary Knight?"

About His Ring, II

“Why’s it on my pointer finger? Well, that’s ’cause it’s my trigger finger. Whenever I shoot someone, it kinda feels like Bun’s shooting ‘em with me. Haha! It’s super romantic.”

About Pranks

“No, no, no—I don’t poison Bun. I mean, I slip a teensy weensy amount of it into her meals every now and then, just to help her build some tolerance, but I’d never outright poison her. If I’m gonna mess with her, I’ll usually just rage bait her until she starts beating on me. Oh—or I’ll tickle her until she starts crying! She’s so freakin’ cute when she’s in tears like that, heh-heh. (…) Huh? What’s so weird about that?”

About Love

“Yeah, she’s the love of my life. What’s it matter to you, exactly? (…) You…think we’re cute together? Oh, uh…well. Hm. Wasn’t expecting you to say that, honestly. Uh…thanks…I guess? I don’t really, uh…know what to say to that. (...) Huh? Pft—no! No, I’m not embarrassed! No, not at all! A-anyway, I gotta go do paperwork or something, so…! I’ll see you later, Honorary Knight!”

He grumbled to himself as he replayed your conversation in his head, his eyes narrowed into a glare. Leave it to you to get him tangled in some “social outing” that he’d rather die than take part in. Lounging around the lake with those drunk knights sounded like more of a headache than anything, but you, with your “maturity” and “concerns”, had forced him into taking the others up on their invitation. As he mused about how dreadful the evening was going to be, he held a green vial of poison in his hand, flipping it up and down as he watched the toxins slosh in their glass container.

“Lohen,” he heard you say. “Please don’t play with poison at my kitchen table.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, slotting it back into the pocket of his swim trunks. “I forgot. No fun allowed here.”

You laughed. “Don’t be so pouty. I’m coming with you, you know?”

“Huh?” He immediately sat upright, lifting off your table. As he turned to face you, he said, “Since when are you—? Holy, shit.”

His jaw hung low as he gawked at you, his eyes pinned to every inch of your exposed skin. Blinking furiously, Lohen lifted his hands to rub his eyes, concerned for a moment that he had died and ascended to Celestia without realizing it. When your mint-green swimsuit remained and your naked skin accompanied it, he reluctantly tore his eyes from your tits to instead look at your face.

“What?” you asked, your eyes flitting off to the side. “Uh…do I look weird?”

Lohen’s mouth slowly closed. Quietly, he rose from his seat, and even quieter, he closed the distance between you. You were wringing your hands as he did, looking awfully concerned.

“Too much?” you asked with a wince. “I wanted to try something new, but…”

Lohen’s mouth curved into a grin. Leering down at you, he giggled with his teeth dug into his lower lip, a pleasant flush of warmth sinking into his face. You flinched at first, but when he grabbed your hips, you gave him a strained smile.

“I think we’re supposed to meet everyone in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t think you care much about that at all,” he replied. “If you did, you wouldn’t have walked out here looking like this.”

“It’s just a swimsuit,” you laughed.

“Oh, I know, Bun. But you’re the one wearing it.”

When he groped your ass, you giggled more, your hands rising to his chest. He grinned at you, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose brushed yours.

“You’re so hot,” he purred. “I’m not taking you anywhere dressed like this. Other than your bed, I mean.”

“No,” you murmured back. “We talked about how you need to socialize more, didn’t we?”

He pressed his mouth to yours. “We can socialize right here, Bun.”

“That doesn’t really count,” you said, but you let him kiss you again anyway.

“Sure it does. I’ll talk to you all you want, pretty girl.”

“That’s not—.” You let out a soft sound when he squeezed you, your hands curling into his shoulders. “That’s not the kind of socializing I was talking about.”

“But it’s the kind you like,” he murmured. “Isn’t it?”

You let out another laugh, your face hot under his kissing lips. When he gave your ass a playful little swat, your nails dug into his shoulders.

“I guess I don’t mind it,” you said.

“Mhm. Didn’t think you would.”

Lohen walked you backwards, and as your giggles filled the room, you both fell to the bed with a soft thump. He peppered kisses to your cheek as you laughed, your legs hooking around his hips. With a dirty chuckle, he rocked his hips forward, humping against you through his swim trunks. Your fingers slipped into his hair, and with a firm pull, brought his mouth to yours. Lohen laughed into your kiss, giving your lower lip a tender nip before pulling away.

“You look really good in that,” he said, “but I still wanna take it off of you.”

Your laughter made him smile wider. You batted your eyelashes at him, tilting your head ever-so endearingly as you said, “You sure you don’t want to look at it some more?”

“Hm…I like how you think, Bun.” He laid a hand on your thigh, stroking his fingers along your smooth skin. In a low murmur, he asked, “You wanna wear it for me while I fuck you?”

You giggled, your eyelids falling partway over your coy gaze. “Sure. You seem to like the idea.”

He giggled back. “You know me so well.”

“I do. Next time though,” you said, your eyes tracking him as he sat on his knees before you, “we’re going to the lake with the others.”

“Eh. We’ll see about that.” He grinned at you, hooking his thumbs under his waistband. “I think I can convince you otherwise.”

You bit your grinning lower lip, popping your eyebrows. “I don’t know about that. I’m not easily persuaded, Vice Captain."

He brought his swim trunks down far enough to expose himself, and watched your face as your eyes flicked down to it. With a cheeky giggle, he said, “I dunno, Bun. Kinda feels like I’ve already won.”

a/n: i've got a lot of shortfics in my backlog so enjoy another one today! this one's been sitting in my lohen collection for a while so i figured i'd go ahead and post it xD anyway, if you liked what you read, please consider leaving a me a heart! (˶>⩊<˶) ♡ reblogs and comments appreciated! icymi! chai's last lohen post: phantom thieves, sfw lohen drabble, persona 5 au (188 notes) masterlist

Now, his words are so absurd that you can’t help but laugh through the swirling frustration. The ring stays on your finger because you don’t even have the strength to remove it.

Cyno chuckles too, carefully putting his hand on the small of your back to guide you out of the house. You can’t protest, still laughing, as if that was the outlet for your emotions that you needed - too proud and fired up to cry instead. Or maybe it was the cool night air, quenching the fire in your lungs and chilling your heated skin.

“Better?” he asks. You realize he’s patting your back. 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “Better.”

“Now, wanna tell me what that was about?” he asks, and honestly he’d be right to sound more irritated than he does. Because he just sounds confused and concerned instead of angry. 

“I was pissed off,” you admit, “And then you came and started talking about everything that already set me off earlier - and I still haven’t figured anything out. And then you argued back and- yeah.”

“Ah, I see,” he hums as he sits down, patting the space next to him for you to join him. You do. “You know you have a mouth, and you can tell me to shut up instead of starting a fight.”

Some part of you is set ablaze again, but you’ve run out of fuel.

“I know,” you sigh. You sway, drained both physically and emotionally, and lay your head on his shoulder. He just exhales with fond exasperation and leans his head against yours. Your feet dig into the cooling sand. 

“Never take off your ring again,” he tells, orders, you, “Not even when showering. You’ve lost your privileges.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” you chuckle. He nudges your side with his elbow. “And I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven - for now. Just tell me if something’s bothering you next time,” he chides again, “We’ve made a sacred promise to each other. Don’t break it.” 

Your hand settles atop his thigh, soon covered by his palm. The night is slowly growing chilly, but with your body pressed into his side it’s just what you need to let the tension uncoil where it lies waiting inside your body. And slowly you begin to talk as you should’ve done in the first place.

Cyno listens, he asks and leads when you’re getting too worked up and tangled in your own words. Like he promised, you figure it out together. And at the end of the day, when you finally doze off against his shoulder, he picks you up and carries you inside.

Flins

His words die in his throat, he raises his hand as if to stop you, but you’re too far to reach. Physically, at least, he hopes that the feeling of disconnect and distance between your hearts is only an illusion created by the argument that spiraled out of control.

“Please,” he says, voice quiet and calm, “Don’t leave me. Not you.”

You, too, stop. Fingers brush the ring on your finger as you consider what you were about to do. Flins comes closer, slowly, then circles his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. You let him, your resolve to keep arguing your point broken upon hearing his voice.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs into your hair, “That’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed.”

You nod weakly, finally letting your arms fall and wrap around his shoulders too. He doesn’t seem to want to let go anytime soon, and you’re grateful. It doesn’t fix anything, not the sadness radiating off of him, not the mournful silence that settled over the room. Still, for now, to feel his chest expand and press against yours, your breaths syncing, feels healing.

“I’m sorry, Kyryll,” you whisper, turning your face towards his, “I really shouldn’t have done that.”

“There was a time where I’d assume you are leaving me,” he confesses in a low voice, “Nothing would persuade me that you are not.”

You know it well. You’ve been there, after all, every step of the way - from how wary he was about getting close to you, then to at least being open to the idea but still reluctant, knowing he might not see you for weeks or months, all at the whim of the headquarters. But you never meant to stop him, accepting of the fact that duty comes first. And though you’ve pushed through the obstacles, you know well that arguments still take a toll on him, knowing he could be called to leave for a long time at any moment, even before you can make up.

“Let’s sleep on it, alright? We can talk over breakfast,” you suggest, “Or just shelf the argument. It’s not worth… this.”

“Can we do that?” he asks, unsure, “Is that allowed?”

You chuckle, and you think he must smile too, only briefly - the same way he only squeezes you tighter for a moment. 

“We make the rules, don’t we?” you think aloud.

“Then I suggest we make it a rule neither of us tries to take off our ring unless our life depends on it,” he pulls away, looking at you with a strangely serious expression that you didn’t expect, “I declare it a rule. As a compensation for what you’ve done.”

You smile, a little relieved. 

“Of course,” you agree, “So you forgive me? I promise I’ll obey your new rule perfectly.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. 

“Maybe I should confiscate it until I’m sure you’ve learned how to behave,” Flins considers, leaning against you with his full body weight as if lost deep in thought. You struggle to keep both of you upright. 

“People will talk,” you remind him gently, “If you need a public apology, I’m more than willing to give it to you without losing my ring and without being interrogated by every nosy old lady in our vicinity.”

He laughs into your hair but shakes his head. At least he can be reasonable. Finally he pulls away to look at you. The hurt on his face softened but its traces still linger. Somehow it feels reassuring that the centuries of his life have not stripped him of emotion, of care.

“I better hear what a wonderful husband you have next time they see me,” he smiles.

“I always tell them,” you promise, “No husband could compare.”

Illuga

“You don’t hurt people you love just because you get upset,” he whispers, yet somehow his voice sounds louder than it did the whole night. 

You look down, at the back of your hand, at the ring halfway down your finger, and open your mouth before realizing you have no idea what to say. What can you say? When you look up, Illuga looks heartbroken. Angry, too. You see the nervous twitch of his hands, the buzzing, anxious whirlwind of energy inside of him. So it’s not a surprise when he storms out into the night with nothing but his coat and his lantern. 

You sit down, the strength in your knees suddenly gone. Was it really worth it? You frown as you recount the events of the evening. Although you can’t say you’re being very efficient. Your mind stutters whenever you remember how calm he’s been through the whole thing, even though he must’ve been uncomfortable and upset too. You sigh. Hopefully he’ll return soon. As used to it as he is, as strong as he is, nothing is ever certain and the nights are long and dangerous. It hurts to remember how reverent Illuga acts whenever he has to leave on a mission, compared to the cold - although understandable - abandonment just now. 

It’s infuriating that you can’t even follow after him - where would you start your search? No, it’s better to just wait, although you can’t seem to be able to just sit and do nothing. And even walking to the window is better than doing nothing at all. Walking? Running. You see a flash of light. 

The flash is a glow of a lantern, circling, and you pace inside the house, running from window to window, one circle, second one, third - then you crack. 

You barely open the door an inch before Illuga’s there, scowling at you. “What are you doing?”

“Please come inside,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. I was wrong and I shouldn’t have done that.”

He hesitates, but his shoulders drop, the lantern hangs by his side. 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says.

“Thank you,” you whisper, taking a gamble and reaching for his hand. He lets you, smiling softly at the spark of light that bounces off the bands on your intertwined fingers. “If you need air, I can handle it if you stay like this. But I’d love it if we could talk inside.”

He follows after you, even if he slowly pulls his hand back as you reach the kitchen. It hurts, but you suppose it’s fair. 

“I always think of you before every fight,” he confesses, nothing new, but it makes your heart ache, “Who would I return to if you left?”

“That’s not what- I’m sorry,” you sigh again. There’s a painful lump in your throat that you try to ignore. 

“Just remember that if you ever feel like doing it again,” Illuga begs, quietly. 

Of course you won’t. Finally he comes closer, if only because he puts some water on the stove to boil and needs to stand beside you to do so. He lingers even after the task is done, however. His fingers slowly intertwine with yours again despite the silence stretching on. 

You don’t know what to say or do next, all you do is look nervously at him, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk either. So you just help him make the tea and sit down with him to drink it before you retire to bed, together, facing each other, even if no words are exchanged, even if all you do is hold hands. Illuga gives you a small squeeze, a reassurance he’ll be okay, eventually. That’s good enough for you. 

Lohen

Your fingers only graze your ring. The briefest of touch of your fingertips against the band that you never manage to get a grip on. 

Lohen’s already snatched your wrist and is dragging you towards his desk. You’re no match for his strength. He pulls you along like a ragdoll with no regard for your panicked gasp or nails clawing at his glove. In all honesty, you think for a second that it only excites him further. 

He roughly shoves you against the desk, traps you between the surface and his body. His hand shoots out for something while his other holds the hand with your finger steady. Before you can collect yourself and resume protests, you feel the bite of a cold metal close around your skin. Your eyes fly towards what he’s doing. The device is familiar, you’ve seen it used before. You know it can cut through bone like a hot knife through butter.

“You’ve evened the odds,” you say, voice calmer than you feel.

It’s a lie, too. As much as you might value your finger, it’s not comparable to what he’d be losing.

“Do you think that’s what I’m doing?” he growls against your ear. His voice sounds frenzied, smirk loud in his every word. The blade doesn’t cut into your skin. Obviously he’s not being reckless.

“In part,” you hum. As if a bucket of cold water was poured over you, your earlier anger has all but dissipated.

“If I add sliiiightly more pressure you lose the finger-”

“And I’ll never take another husband,” you add with a small smile, “Yes.”

Utterly predictable. You feel him bristle. Naturally he wouldn’t say that, but what is Lohen if not a possessive lover?

“How could I after my first betrayed me in this way?” you continue, “After I was marked irreversibly for my mistake and yet still cast aside?”

Lohen falls silent. Calculating? Surely not. Poison might or might not still be coating his tongue, ready to lash out because after all, he’s been wronged. Perhaps more than you’ve been during your clash, perhaps less than you’re being slighted now. 

“I was about to act on emotions, and it was a disappointing reaction,” you continue, “I apologize. In the heat of the moment I forgot certain rituals are sacred to you as well.”

For a long moment, you’re stuck at an impasse. Eventually, though, he deflates behind you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. 

“You’re no fun,” he grumbles, “And the safety is on.”

Safety? He demonstrates - no matter how strong he pushes, you don’t lose the finger.

“You’re full of surprises,” you sigh, leaning back into him, “I never thought you’d have any use for measures like that.”

He giggles, kissing your cheek. His arms remain tightly wound around you. “I didn’t before. But I have since acquired a liability that needs to be taught a lesson sometimes.”

“Liability? Ouch,” you scoff.

He just shrugs. Though you suppose he’s not exactly wrong - it goes both ways, after all. Liability to each other with your actions, liability to each other due to your position. Even if you doubt anyone would believe they’d get under Lohen’s skin through you or stupid enough to try to threaten his wellbeing to get back at you. 

“Next time, there will be no safety,” he warns suddenly. His voice dropped ten degrees since he last spoke. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“There will be no next time,” you promise, “Regardless of what you just said.”

“Good,” and he’s back to his cheerful self and pecks your cheek, “You learn quickly, that’s why you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes. You did know what you were getting into, though, so you suppose you have no right to complain anyway.

Neuvillette

And suddenly you could hear a pin drop. The world has stopped for a moment in your bedroom, yet it keeps turning without mercy. 

Neuvillette’s eyes are wide, and it’s not just them - his entire body betrays how shaken he feels. His entire line of sight has narrowed to where your ring is held between your fingers instead of being worn on one of them. 

“What does it mean?” he asks, his breathing trembling, voice quiet and unsteady, “What-”

He wants to take a step forward, it almost looks like he’ll fall forward but he doesn’t, instead he forces himself to stay in place. Although trembling, he chooses to stay as if the smallest of his actions might make you leave and leave the ring behind.

Watching him makes you forget your feelings, drained into nothingness. Your own hands start to shake, you, too, start to second guess yourself. More so when you take a step towards him and he draws back, as if he couldn’t fathom anything but a catastrophic scenario. 

“Love, it’s okay,” you whisper, trying to coax him into allowing you to approach him without fear. His eyes finally look up to search your face for something. The second, third, all the following steps are easier. By the time you’re within his reach, the ring is back on your finger, not like it changes anything.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, a pained whisper, “What did you want to say by it?”

You shake your head, slowly erasing the space between you, slotting yourself against his body, embracing him. 

“I’m sorry, mon amour,” you murmur into his shoulder. His hands hover over your body without quite touching you. “I just got so upset I couldn’t think straight.”

Finally - contact. Like you’re the one who needs comfort, and you do - just not as much as the Iudex shivering in your arms. 

“What happened?” he murmurs, “You’ve never done this. I thought we were just discussing an issue.”

You can only sigh fondly.

“This isn’t the court, Neuvillette,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his back, “I need you to hear me out without evidence and without questioning me.”

“I didn’t realize I was upsetting you,” he admits as he pulls you closer, “Not to this extent.”

You know. The intricacies of intimate relationships are still a little lost on him, and that’s fine. That’s fine as long as you’re the one who goes briefly insane. You have no idea what you’d do to placate a dragon should he get stubborn. 

“Did you want to leave? And,” he hesitates, his voice breaking, “Dissolve our marriage?”

“I didn’t,” you reassure him, but you can’t look into his eyes - not with how stubbornly he refuses to let you put distance between you.

“I can’t lose you,” he confesses quietly, “Scream at me. Be angry with me. Talk to me.”

You chuckle. You can’t help it. To make up for the slight, you hug him tighter.

“How could I leave? I’d get soaked,” you mumble. Biting your tongue before you can laugh again, you listen to the indignant sound he makes.

“How can you joke now?” he grumbles. Still holding you a prisoner in his arms, still squeezing you with every single of your movements.

“It’s alright,” you try to reassure him, “I’m not going anywhere. We’re not arguing anymore.”

He hums while clearly not listening much to your words. Maybe your fears were justified, maybe you did bring out the draconic stubbornness in him. Which is fine. It’s fine as long as he wants you to stay instead of insisting you leave.

Tighnari

“Okay - pause, pause,” Tighnari’s demeanor switches in an instant. The moment you see his ears flatten against his head and his tail frozen stiff behind him, you can’t help but feel guilty. You might’ve overreacted, just a little bit. “I see you, I hear you, let’s take a step back.”

He offers you a careful half-smile as he guides you to sit down. For now, he avoids touching you, even though you see the nervous twitch of his fingers, the urge to do so and reassure himself you’re okay. He kneels on the floor in front of you, offering his hands for you to take. You hesitate for a bit, but eventually sigh and slip your hands into his.

“There we go,” he murmurs, “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. Because you truly don’t. Maybe it was everything - the late hour, your empty stomach, him making sense, him breathing wrong, just a cocktail for disaster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think this far ahead.”

He pats your knee.

“I’m sorry too, I pushed too hard,” he sighs, “Still, I’m glad you changed your mind.”

You look down at the ring on your finger and then raise your eyes back to meet his. Giving him a careful smile, you squeeze his hands. You shared the silence, both relieved that your home is back to how it’s supposed to be. Although, some of the tension still remains woven into your shoulders. 

It was so rare, after all. Any kind of an argument with Tighnari, especially a heated one like this. You pull on his arm to make him get up and sit next to you, slipping easily into his hug when he sneaks an arm around your shoulders. He rocks you from side to side, gently, until your heartbeat finally settles. 

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” you finally say, “I don’t think I felt myself taking the ring off at all.”

“I want you to know there’s plenty of sources I could get a really sticky resin from,” he hums, “Don’t make me glue it to your finger.”

You have no idea if his intention was to sound threatening, all you know is that if so, he failed miserably. But that’s also good. Your Tighnari is gentle, after all. Scary only whenever you’re in danger, never towards you.

“Did you mean that?” you ask, “When you said that thing about-”

“No,” he shakes his head, almost as if he doesn’t want to hear his words repeated to him, “I just got a little frustrated too.”

“Hmm, that’s a first,” you joke, “And last, I hope.”

Tighnari laughs too, his ears finally slowly relaxing and unsticking themselves from his skull. His tail lands in your lap like a warm blanket, like yet another appendage that’s supposed to stop you from leaving. 

“But if that was your way of telling me you don’t like the ring-”

“Nari…” you groan, rolling your eyes when he bites his lip to stop himself from laughing again, “But if that’s your way of asking for a vow renewal, I’m not against it.”

“It wasn’t that big of a fight, was it?” he teases, but soon his smile softens, “We can do it - we should do it sometime in the future.”

You nod in agreement. It’s too soon now but just the thought of perhaps exchanging vows again, perhaps even adding another ring to seal those vows, makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. More than that, however, the thought of spending the years leading up to it with Tighnari, and years following after too. 

“I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.

“And I love you,” he returns the gesture. 

The look in his eyes betrays him. He was thinking the same.

Wriothesley

“-oh come on, please don’t do that,” he groans, running his hands over his face. Still, he steps back, giving you the space you needed, that you asked for. He backs himself into the wall, sliding against it until he sits on the floor. 

The room falls silent, safe for the sound of your breathing. You worry your lip between your teeth, allowing yourself time to calm down. Deep inhale, hold, deep exhale. A routine until you feel in control enough to not say anything you’d regret later.

“Wriothesley?” you call out to him. He still sits with his back against the wall, his face is still covered by his hands. “Baby? Look at me?” 

“I’m not looking until you put the ring back on,” he says, and he couldn’t sound more like a kicked dog if he was one.

“How about you put it on me, hm?” you try as you sit down in front of him, nudging your knee against his. 

Finally he lifts his head. You’ve never seen him more miserable than right now, looking at the ring in your palm. He takes your hand, brings it to his lips after picking up the ring and kisses your knuckles one by one. You can only sigh affectionately and run your hand through his hair.

It’s a quick, yet gentle affair, him putting the ring back on your finger. He keeps your other hand hostage, cradling it to his cheek.

“Just tell me next time,” he pleads, “Warn a guy. I don’t know, push me away if I don’t listen. Hit me.”

You sigh. You have a half a mind to take him up on that, just to shut him up before he can come up with any more stupid ideas. 

“I’m not gonna hit you, Wriothesley,” you inform him, “But I would like it if you could listen when I tell you I need space.”

“You were about to leave,” he pouts again, “We promised to never walk away when we’re mad.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” you admit.

“I should’ve listened anyway - we’re even?” he suggests, full of hope. You smile and nod.

“My offense was worse,” you tease, “I’m getting off lightly.”

“You know what, if you’re keeping that ring on your finger I think I can live with not putting you on trial,” Wriothesley leans closer and steals a kiss, “See how nice I am?”

“The nicest,” you roll your eyes. 

He grins, finally more relaxed. Yet you’re not allowed to pull your hand back, still cupping his cheek. He holds your hand there like his life depends on it, contrary to his carefree smile. So you huff and put your hand on his other cheek too, leaning over him when he parts his knees to make space for you.

Icy blue eyes watch you, tempt you to get closer, flicking down to your lips as if you needed more hints. You kiss him slowly, thumbs stroking his cheeks while his hand cups the back of your neck and holds you close, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I’m already in jail for my crime,” you remind him playfully, “Your domain. They won’t let me go without your permission.”

He chuckles too, capturing your lips one more time. He rubs your noses together.

“Not how this works but I could change that,” another kiss, “I should, maybe.”

“There’s no life without you,” you shrug, but you make sure he knows you mean it, not looking away even when the intensity in his gaze threatens to burn you alive. 

You bit your lip so hard, it stings. “Awh, my baby’s lips are bleeding… i’ll help you wipe it off.”

His hands wrap tightly around your wrists, pinning them on top of your head. Lohen’s lips ghost against yours—he pauses before licking your bleeding lips, tasting and savoring them. You flinch, not because it hurts, but because the feeling of his tongue feels good

“That was meant to be a kiss, but oh well.” He kisses weirdly. Lohen chuckles, catching you off guard. “You taste great. Can I have more?”

This was a scenario that you’d experience every time you entered work. And it might be weird—to have an inappropriate yet complex relationship with your Vice Captain, knowing that if the Grandmaster catches you both, it’ll ruin your career. But Lohen adores you too much, willing to pick you over his work. It gets to a point where everyone in your squad is aware that he favours you over everyone. Many think it’s just a crush, a blooming love that’ll end with him confessing his love for you.

They’re unaware that Lohen’s “crush” on you isn’t a puppy crush meant to be treated as a joke. The crush he has on you is so intoxicating and overwhelming. But he doesn’t try to fix it. He lets his desire for you consume him whole because he believes that’s what love is like.

He watches over you every training like a hawk. Anyone daring to walk over to you, iniviting you to spar, or asking for your help, gets interrupted by his mocking comments. You can’t even walk on your own, without him following behind, asking: “Where do you think you’re going?”

And when Lohen helps you train, he’s behind you, pressing his chest against your back. A mischievous glint in his eyes, hands interlocking with yours—he excuses it as, “I’m just guiding you. Your… posture needs fixing. And your aim should be like this, okay?” His other hand finds its way to your hips, caressing them as he whispers instructions to you.

YOU HAVE REACHED THE MAXIMUM LEVEL OF FRIENDSHIP.

𝐄𝐕𝐄 🪽 —— ‎first part of an eater's collection. columbina's ver next <3 then venti's!

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ