When you hear his dresser drawers repeatedly opening and closing, you know you won’t be seeing him anytime soon. That’s the sound of frustration—the sound of a dozen shirts being peeled over his head and tossed on the floor. You know this routine, too.

Vernon always justifies the mess by saying none of them looked right.

You always fire back that there’s no way a dude who owns eight of the same plain white t-shirt should keep running into the same issue.

And most of the time—not every time, but most—you always laugh as Vernon grabs you around the waist and presses you against the dresser. As he leans in close, skin still warmed through from his shower, and says some shit like, “You think you’re funny, huh?” in a low, hoarse tone—almost teasing but not quite—before his lips find the pulse point on your neck and render you incapable of thought.

Some nights, you take the bruises he left behind out the door with you as the two of you meet up with your people or his, your friend groups so intertwined by now you weren’t sure where one ended and the other began. Some nights, he leaves them as a parting gift at the door as he goes one way and you go the other. And then there are the nights you wear no reminders of him at all, though they’ve become far less frequent. Nights like tonight.

It’s not a thing.

Whether or not he’s etched into your skin, it’s all the same to you. To him. The marks he sucks into the column of your throat are the work of a vagrant. Vernon is free to come and go as he pleases, just as you are, neither of you willing to put a collar around the neck of whatever it is you’ve got going on. Because it’s fun. Because it’s mutually beneficial. Because it’s an easy outlet and it’s casual, even when Vernon goes down on you like a man starved and refuses to relent until you’re nearly catatonic and he no longer recognizes the sound of his name in your mouth.

Because it’s not a thing.

And because it’s not a thing, you pay no mind to the way Vernon looks at you—brows knit together, just barely visible through the crack in the door—as you pass by on the way to the bathroom to take a shower of your own. You pay no mind to the uncapped bottle of cologne he left on the counter and forgot to put back. You pay no mind when his playlist fades into something more sensual—you can barely hear it over the water, anyway—and you pay no mind when you reach for and wrap yourself in a towel that smells like Vernon because it doesn’t smell any different than it usually does. You pay no mind when you pass by his bedroom again and his door is shut in the same way you pay no mind when you grab the first clean shirt you find and slip it over your head.

On nights like this, you have a routine of your own, too.

Some arthouse film on the living room TV in a language you don’t understand, subtitles ignored so they don’t distract you from doomscrolling your social media feeds until your brain feels ready to leak out of your ears. Tonight, you queue up Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless. And you know Vernon will complain all the way out the door because it’s been at the top of his to-watch list for ages, Letterboxd review primed and ready, but you can’t shake the feeling that something about tonight feels different, that a strange energy has settled over the apartment you and him share, so maybe you’re feeling a little petty.

Maybe you’re feeling inclined to play with fire, just to see if you get burned.

So you toss a blanket over the back of the couch and start your doomscrolling early, nose buried in your phone as you make your way to the kitchen. Vernon had given you an endless amount of shit for your Diet Coke habit—fridge cigs, he called them—so you’d made the switch to seltzer. They’re a subpar and depressing substitute, truth be told, but bad habits wouldn’t be bad if they were easy to kick. As you reach for a can of strawberry watermelon, you scroll through your Instagram feed. Seokmin and his girlfriend are in Tokyo Disney. You double-tap the post. Seungcheol has posted a carousel of shirtless gym selfies. Snorting, you comment a single thumbs-down emoji with one hand as the other sets the can on the counter and absentmindedly works to pop the tab. You’re halfway through reading the plethora of thirst comments on Mingyu’s latest post when—

“Need help?”

You startle, phone tumbling to the floor. Without thinking, you bend over to retrieve it. Once you’re upright and turned ninety degrees, you’re met with the sight of your roommate. He’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, toned arms crossed over yet another white t-shirt. As his eyes roam over your body, a heat settles in the pit of your stomach. Vernon looks at you often, but you can’t remember the last time he looked at you like this: hyperfocused and intense, like it’d take a bullet between the eyes to get him to look anywhere else—and even then he’d keep trying. Still staring, he presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek before running it along his bottom lip. Sinks his white teeth into it.

Somewhere in the hazy recesses of your mind, you remember you aren’t wearing any underwear. That you’d thrown the shirt over your head and called it good enough, expecting to have the apartment to yourself until the early hours of the morning. That when you bent over to grab your phone, Vernon must’ve seen everything and that’s why he’s looking at you with such fervent hunger. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but suddenly you feel embarrassed and self-conscious; embarrassed and a little stupid. Warmth floods your cheeks. You reach for the hem of your t-shirt, but your attempts to pull it down, to cover you just a little bit more, are in vain.

Not that it matters. Vernon erases the distance between you in a few short steps, swatting your hands away and replacing them with his own. Fabric bunched tightly in his grip, he uses the leverage to pull you flush against him, mouth finding yours before you even have a chance to think—to protest or push him away, to ask what he’s doing. But you wouldn’t do any of that, would you? You’re under his spell, entranced by the sharp gasp of relief when his tongue slips into your mouth and meets yours. When he walks you backwards and traps you against the counter, making you feel all of him. When your hands tangle in his hair and tug in the way you know he likes and he hikes your thigh around his waist, pressing in closer, too frenzied to care about the cheap laminate digging into the small of your back.

You cant your hips forward and roll them against the bulge in Vernon’s sweatpants. Distantly, you wonder where the fuck he was going to wear sweatpants to, but the sound he makes is so desperate and shattered it nearly brings you to your knees. Which you drop to without thought, emboldened by the breathless way Vernon swears and mutters your name as you look up at him from the floor, eyes wide and lips pouty, projecting an innocence you don’t possess. Hands on the back of his thighs, you pull him closer; he swears again as he stumbles, grabbing the counter for balance. One hand moves to the top of your head and guides your face to the juncture of his hip, right next to his hard cock that now strains against the restraints of the fabric.

You breathe, open-mouthed, and smile to yourself when his cock twitches from the warmth it provides. Makes you want to ruin him. Makes you want to stick out your tongue and run it along the length of him, soaking through and ruining his clothes, and that gives you pause. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, nuzzling your face against his cock.

Vernon tries to shake his head. Aborts the attempt halfway in lieu of untying his sweats and pushing them down his thighs. His hands shake as he returns them to the counter; returns to looming over you, making space for nothing except him. “Baby, please,” he urges. “Need your mou—”

You ignore him. Run your thumb over the spot on his briefs where the precum soaked through just to watch his cock twitch again. His entire body shudders. “Where were you going?” you ask again, tone making it clear this is a give-and-take; that he’s not going to get what he wants until he answers.

“Shit, I—I had a date.”

You’re unprepared for the way your stomach drops. How foolish and cheap you feel being on your knees for a man who was on his way out the door to fuck someone else. The split-second of panic, because Vernon’s gone on a hundred dates and it’s never felt like this before. It’s not supposed to. And Vernon notices—notices the way you go stock-still and the way your breath hitches as it gets stuck in your throat—and you can’t have that. You can’t let this become a discussion. Can’t let whatever this is between you be given a name, because then it’s real. Then it means something. Then it’s a thing.

It’s dizzying how quickly you push these feelings to the side and pivot, returning to your original plan, allowing your mind to go blank as you sink into the chemistry between the two of you, the constant thrum of energy. As you stick out your tongue and flatten it against the underside of his clothed cock. As you suck and lick and act like you’re entirely unfazed as you reach for his waistband. As you let Vernon roll his hips against your face as you slowly undress him, seeking friction, seeking more, more, always more; let the whimpers that bite at the back of his teeth make you brave as you ask, “Mm, were you gonna fuck her?” and don’t give him time to respond before you take him into your mouth.

Vernon looks down. Sees the way your lips stretch around his cock, the spit pooling at the corners, and the sound that erupts from him is pure, animalistic desire. It drives you crazy. He drives you crazy. Has you reaching between your legs as you feel yourself growing wetter by the second. You swipe your fingers through your folds. Use whatever wetness you find there to slick up the length of Vernon’s cock you have yet to swallow, managing to keep your pace steady even though his next moan is guttural and sends a shock of lightning straight to your pussy; even though you want him mindless with pleasure.

Your knees scrape against the tile as you shift. You can’t help but smile, knowing they’ll bruise.

Looks like you’ll be wearing a reminder of him after all.

Vernon’s cock hits the back of your throat, his entire body shuddering once more as you gag and cough, throat muscles tightening around him and nearly spelling his undoing. Noises continue to spill out of him—ones you’ve never heard him make before—and he’s too far gone to hold them back. Oh my fuck—shit, baby, I can’t— as his hands fly to your face, trying to pull you off of him, trying desperately not to come, but it only makes the suction more overwhelming. He’s mindless, just like you wanted him to be, but it’s not enough. Something about Vernon makes you insatiable, so you double your efforts, making lewd sounds of your own as you somehow take him deeper, nose coming to rest in the dark thatch of hair just above his cock. He makes you greedy, so you place one of his hands on the top of your head and let him take what he wants; let him throw his head back and fuck your throat as tears streak your face.

His balls tighten, drawing closer to his body, and as much as you love this—love the weight of his cock on your tongue and the taste of his precum, all salt and something undeniably Vernon—you need to feel him fall apart because of you. Need to feel his hands still, body going taut as he spills down your throat. Need him to smear his cum on your lips as he slowly draws his cock out of your mouth, and when he pulls you to standing and grabs you by the back of your neck with trembling hands, you need him to taste himself as he kisses you so fiercely it steals the breath from your lungs and leaves you gasping.

But you should’ve known Vernon wasn’t going to do any of that. Should’ve known he’d have plans of his own.

Vernon does pull you to standing. Does smear your lips with precum as he pulls out, but he doesn’t kiss it away. Instead, he gathers it with the edge of his thumb and presses his digit into your mouth, against the flat of your tongue. His eyes flutter closed as you suction your swollen lips around it and hum in satisfaction; as you make a show of savoring the taste of both his skin and his cum. Vernon leans in close, teeth nipping at the lobe of your ear, and your body breaks out in goosebumps as he says, “You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” in that hoarse, fucked-out tone you’ve become so familiar with.

How crazy? you want to ask. Crazier than her—whoever the fuck you’re supposed to go meet? Whoever it is I’m keeping you from?

Isn’t that answer enough, though? Doesn’t it speak for itself that Vernon is here with you, in the cramped kitchen of the apartment you share, clearly not in a rush to do anything except lift you onto the counter and bury his face between your legs? As his lips suction around your clit and you writhe, rolling your hips against his hot mouth, haven’t you already won a game you didn’t know you were playing?

Still—it’s sadistic, this need to know. So you tangle your hands in his hair and grip it tight at the roots, swearing when Vernon throws your leg over his shoulder and spits on your pussy before pressing two fingers deep, and ask, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Vernon scoffs. Sinks his teeth into the inside of your thigh and eases the sting with his tongue. “I did,” he concedes, “until I saw you in my t-shirt with no fuckin’ panties on.”

Oh, you gasp. Another rush of heat licks up your spine, and you’re thankful when Vernon goes back to licking and sucking at your cunt, so good it has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, sparing you the embarrassment of a response. Your chest heaves. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire, like you’ve been consumed by white-hot electricity as an orgasm begins to spark, starting in your toes before it settles in the pit of your stomach. You cry out. One hand scrambles for purchase, desperately searching for anything to hold onto, anything that can ground you, while the other grips Vernon’s hair tighter and attempts to push him away.

It’s too much, too overwhelming, but he’s relentless. Forces your legs back open when they try to clamp shut around his head. Teases your hole with a third finger just to hear you whine before he changes his mind and presses the two already deep in your pussy against your G-spot. Your entire body seizes. Your vision grows staticky around the edges. You know you’re saying something, that noises and words are spilling from your lips in an endless stream of psychobabble, but all you can hear is the obscene squelch coming from between your legs. Mouth otherwise occupied, all Vernon can do is groan against your cunt, relishing in the rewards of his labor, and the vibrations—

“Shit,” you whine, so far gone that your own voice sounds foreign. “Shit, shit—Vernon, I’m gonna—”

He pulls away just enough to say, “Yeah, you fuckin’ are.” You can feel your pussy spasming around his fingers as you hurtle closer to the edge. Vernon presses them more insistently against your front wall. Your hips take on a mind of their own, grinding down on his fingers hysterically as you grow more frantic, more desperate to come. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps. “Just let go, I got you. Yeah, give it to me, baby, I got you. Wanna see you come all over my fuckin’ fingers, wanna taste it.” You release your grasp on his hair and skim your hand beneath your shirt, fingers tweaking and pinching at your nipples. Vernon nearly loses his mind when he sees it. “Goddamn, what the fuck, you’re so—” The sound he makes is downright tortured. “Need you to come right fucking now.” It’s the last thing you hear before Vernon puts his mouth back to work.

And you do.

Your orgasm slams into you like a tidal wave. It bowls you over, pulls you beneath the surface with its force and intensity, makes you feel like you’re drowning. Your whole body tenses, muscles contracting and releasing just like the tide. Vernon’s hands are steady on your thighs as he reminds you to breathe, warm as the aftershocks wrack your body and leave you trembling, resolute as they push his underwear and sweatpants the rest of the way off his legs and onto the kitchen floor, and restrained as he begins to stroke his cock.

Despite the part of Vernon that doesn’t mind being watched—that gets a sick little thrill out of it; that comes to life and blossoms beneath your gaze—you try not to stare, but it doesn’t matter. Something about the way Vernon touches himself leaves you entranced: the way his brows crease, as if the slow, languid strokes are agonizing rather than blissful; the way his kiss-swollen lips part and his quiet groans are breathy and staccato; the way he’s wholly unashamed of being on display when it’s you that’s watching.

When you finally manage to tear your eyes away, you find him looking back, wearing that indecipherable look again.

Being eaten out on your kitchen counter leaves little room for self-consciousness, but you find yourself slowly closing your legs, sitting up hesitantly. “What?” you ask, reaching for your face, subconsciously searching for anything that might be amiss. You find nothing. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

All that fills the silence is the sound of blood rushing through your ears. It lingers a second longer before Vernon tilts his head to the side. “You know it’s only you, right?”

“What?” you ask again, voice barely above a whisper.

He takes a step closer, back in your field of orbit, your gravitational pull, once more. Steps close enough to run his hand up your thigh and part your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. All the while, he never stops touching himself, and he’s close enough that you feel the back and forth of every stroke on your own skin. But if you were expecting Vernon to elaborate, he leaves you disappointed. Uses his mouth to kiss you instead; to lick into your mouth and impart your sweetness onto your tongue. Just like you wear the blemishes he leaves behind, he wears your taste, and it leaves you feeling crazed. Delirious. Has you moaning into his mouth and trying to swallow him whole. Has you wrapping your legs around his waist, voice ruined from the abuse your throat had taken as you say, “Fuck me, fuck me, right here, Vernon, please, just like this—”

Vernon’s hand stills as he throws his head back and swears. Mutters your name so severely you can’t tell if it’s meant to be a prayer or if he’s taking it in vain. But this, too, is rendered inconsequential when he reaches for a condom and rolls it down his length; when his hands, tacky from sweat and precum, wrap around your hips and pull you closer to the edge of the counter; when your ass hangs over just enough for him to line himself up and sink inch after inch of his cock into your tight heat.

“Fuuuck,” he groans. He pauses when he bottoms out, giving himself a second to breathe—almost as if he can’t remember how to; like his lungs are functioning manually. And when he starts moving again, he does so slowly, breathing harshly through his nose every time he rolls his hips. His hands flex. Jaw clenches. His skin glistens with sweat from the exertion of holding himself back, of not busting into the condom immediately. “How do you—god, how does it feel better every fucking time?”

You don’t know; you don’t know anything right now, mind having gone blank at the stretch and overwhelming fullness of him, how oversensitive you are from your first orgasm. From this angle, Vernon is so close to nailing your G-spot with every thrust. You shift, trying to adjust so that he can, selfish and starved  for every ounce of pleasure he’s capable of giving, but there’s only so much space, only so much you can do with the height difference. Still, it’s not enough. You slip a hand between your legs and Vernon’s eyes go wide at the sight of you rubbing circles into your clit. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he fucks into you just that little bit faster, that little bit harder, trying to give you what you want.

Vernon leans in closer. Presses his lips to the spot just beneath your ear, over your jaw, the corner of your mouth before he kisses you properly, tongue sliding over yours as he swallows every sound you make. He kisses you until you’re dizzy; until you’re drunk with need. He kisses you until he can feel the erratic pounding of your heart through every breath you share.

“You need more, don’t you, baby?”

And then you’re left aching and empty when he abruptly pulls out and secures your legs around his waist, palms moving to the meat of your ass, his grip firm as he lifts you again. You think he’s going to fuck you right there on the floor, take you from behind until your knees are skinned and raw; instead, Vernon carries you over the threshold into the living room. Has barely made it five steps before he has you pressed against the wall, his hard cock trapped uselessly against his stomach as he ruts against your hip, your thigh, whatever provides enough friction.

A broken moan makes your toes curl. You dig your nails into the skin of his back and he shudders, breath labored and ragged as he says, “Shit, yeah, love it when you mark me up.” His hands grip you tighter, dimple the skin of your ass, press you further into the wall as he crowds against you, still rutting, hips rolling at a mindless, subconscious pace. “Love when I can feel you on me for days.” This admission comes out as a growl—like he’s offended by its honesty, hates that it’s true.

Ultimately, it’s another statement you aren’t able to question. Vernon keeps moving. Carries you from the wall to the couch, bending you over the back of it, burying your face in the cushion. Warm hands ghost beneath your shirt and down the length of your back. He kisses every knot and all the spaces in between, and digs his thumbs into the dimples at the base of your spine. His teeth nip playfully at one asscheek; you can feel his smile when you squeal and jerk in his hold. And then he must look up, must see what’s on the television, because he goes stock-still. Before you can ask if everything is okay, Vernon says, “Dude, what the fuck? You were gonna watch Breathless without me?”

You hear the crack of his hand against your ass before you feel it.

You’re left momentarily stunned by the impact, sharp and sudden. What begins as a startled gasp trails off into a low, drawn-out moan, but it’s your turn to smile. A private smirk just for you for having read him like a book—pages yellowed and well-worn from repeated use, all of your favorite lines memorized. “Oh no,” you tease, wiggling your ass for added effect, “am I in trouble?”

Vernon laughs; a quick huff of breath through his nose. He moves one of his thumbs lower, from the small of your back to the rim of your asshole, and in your head you can see the way he tongues the inside of his cheek, his focused stare. There’s no pressure. He doesn’t push. Just traces slow, maddening circles against the puckered skin. He only pauses to ask, “Mm, d’you wanna be?” And then you hear him gather the spit in his mouth, feel the warmth of it trickle over your rim, and when he resumes his torture the glide is flawless.

You deepen the arch in your back, hoping it’s enough to lure him in. “I want you to fuck me,” comes your tart response, suddenly bold. “Wanna come again.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “Greedy today, huh?” Increases the pressure of his thumb. It’s still not enough to breach your hole, but it is enough to have you imagining the possibilities, mind spinning at a mercurial pace as it ponders the what-ifs. How it’d feel if he fingered you open and fucked you there. If the taboo nature of it alone could get you off. “When have I ever not given you what you wanted?”

“Right now,” you snark.

Vernon laughs again as he says, “You’re such a fucking brat,” but it does the trick. Gets him moving. He pulls your cheeks apart and spits again, using his free hand to gather and mix it with the mess that still lingers between your legs. Presses two fingers back inside your pussy to make sure you’re wet enough, that it won’t hurt, and rolls his hips once, cock fitting between your folds, to coat himself in your slick. “Ready, baby?” he murmurs.

You nod. As if there was even the slightest possibility of you answering any other way.

You’re still a little swollen, still sensitive, but Vernon takes his time. Fucks you open slowly and savors it. Even though he was just inside you, there’s still a slight burn to the stretch that has you breathing steady and measured through your nose. It grows sharper as he quickens his pace—not punishing, but relentless. Every roll of his hips urges you forward with nowhere to go; has you cursing Vernon choosing this couch, because each movement sends yours crashing into the unforgiving frame, hardwood biting at your skin even through the fabric.

Another set of bruises to wear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he grits out. His hands are everywhere now, grabbing at whatever he can find, the fabric of his shirt bunched tightly in his grip. Probably ruined, you think, but neither of you seem to care. You’ll wear it like this, too far beyond its original shape to be salvaged, neckline outstretched and hanging off one shoulder, and you’ll remember the way Vernon fucked you in the kitchen, against the couch. You’ll remember the way he looked at you, the way you couldn’t figure out what it meant, and “You know it’s only you, right?” You’ll remember what film you meant to watch and that you never got a chance to drink your seltzer. Or maybe you’ll have gone back to Diet Coke by then, uncaring of Vernon’s playful jabs.

Despite your best efforts, this has been a thing for a long time.

“Fuck,” you swear as the realization dawns on you.

Vernon misinterprets it. His voice is tense and husky as he says, “Yeah, baby? Just like this?” and wraps an arm around you, fingers finding your clit easily. You’re putty in his arms, helpless to do anything but take it—his cock, the orgasm that’s steadily building, the veil that’s lifted and exposed the extent of your feelings.

This wasn’t meant to happen. The first time had been a major lapse in judgment. Both of you had agreed on that—that, coincidentally, the two of you had been extremely horny at the same time and that it couldn’t happen again because rent was too goddamn high anywhere else and you didn’t want to risk it becoming complicated and weird. The second time you conveniently blamed on leaving Joshua’s birthday slash New Years party tipsy, drunk less on the alcohol you’d drank and more on the stupid stick and poke tattoos you and Vernon had given each other on Joshua’s kitchen floor—the ones that still looked like shit when you woke up in his bed the next morning and fucked him for the third time.

Every time after that? Well, you have no excuse or explanation for those yet.

Naturally, there’s a part of you that panics, that still feels a little stupid and cheap when you remember Vernon was meant to be on a date. Was meant to spend the night with someone else—someone he clearly liked enough to wear his expensive cologne and fuss over which shirt to wear and swap out his goin out playlist for the more sensual one.

But that part of you is quieted by his presence. The fact that he’s here with you; that it’s you he calls baby, you that’s making him lose his mind, you that tells him to sit on the couch so you can ride him, you that he obeys without question.

As you straddle his waist, you spare a second to take him in, admire him: the freckles that form constellations on his cheeks and across his nose; the blond streaks of hair he’d insisted you bleach for him after he came home with a mullet; the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, as if he can’t figure out why you aren’t kissing him, so you do. You lean forward and cup his face in your hands, thumbs coming to rest against those high cheekbones that drive you crazy, and press your lips to his. Vernon gasps into your mouth, caught off guard by the softness of it, and places a hand on your throat—not squeezing, not choking; just as a means to anchor himself.

It’s you that pulls away first, hands moving to the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. Vernon stops you with a very firm, “Absolutely not. That stays on.”

You roll your eyes, face growing hot at how hard your pussy clenches at his words, their implication. Vernon hisses when you grab his cock and lift your hips, lining it up with your entrance. Both of you moan when you begin to lower yourself onto his cock, inch after delicious inch filling you for the third time tonight. “Didn’t take you for the possessive type,” you tease, somehow managing to maintain your composure as you take him to the hilt, so deep you grow winded; so deep it feels like your breath has been punched from your lungs.

“I don’t—god.” He grits his teeth, throwing his head back and baring the long line of his neck. “Don’t give a fuck what you take me for.”

Another smile you keep for yourself. “Aw, babe, that’s so cute,” you coo, knowing that if your condescension doesn’t send him spiraling further, the way you circle your hips—the way each roll has him pressing perfectly against your front wall—will. “Don’t pretend. It’s only me, right?” You lean back, hands moving to his thighs for balance as you parrot his words back to him. Your hips begin to move up and down, pace seamless as you fuck yourself along the length of his cock.

Vernon can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands, what they’re meant to do. They flex uselessly at his sides, tendons moving like snakes beneath the skin. Color ruddies his cheeks. A bead of sweat rolls from his hairline down his temple and you chase it with your tongue. A litany of curses tumble from his mouth and devolve into gibberish on every downstroke; at how obscene it sounds every time your ass hits his lap, tacky from the slick mess between your legs, wet skin slapping against wet skin.

He’s balancing on a knife’s edge; on the brink of losing the last threads of control.

So you quicken your pace, your cunt clenching and fluttering around him as you lean forward and kiss him messily, more teeth than tongue. As you snake a hand between your bodies and touch yourself, tracing nonsensical patterns against your clit, desperate to bring yourself to orgasm alongside him. “Shit, shit,” Vernon whines, hands finally moving to grip at your hips as he plants his feet and meets your body with harsh, sloppy thrusts. “This perfect fucking pussy. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come—”

“Close.” You choke on the word, fingers working your clit so quickly you’re not sure if you said it at all or if it was only in your head. Stars dot your vision as your orgasm builds at a blinding speed; as the string in your core grows more and more taut—as it exceeds its tensile strength. Heat pools in your belly, Vernon’s balls draw tighter to his body, and all that’s left to do is brace yourself for the inevitable snap.

And when it happens—

Everything goes white as the world explodes around you. You sob as your second orgasm hits, more powerful and violent than the first; as it picks you up and tosses you into the eye of the storm like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re weightless. With a loud moan, Vernon follows after you, spilling into the condom with a shout. He falls forward, body folding in on itself as your pussy clenches around him like a vice. Breathless, he swears again and again, nearly intelligible, as you milk him dry and leave his spent cock twitching from the onslaught. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing when the pleasure slowly starts to border on oversensitivity, and tries to pull out. Rendered entirely boneless by your orgasm, you’re unable to do anything other than let him move you as he sees fit.

Vernon laughs softly at this. Presses a fond kiss to your forehead that almost feels out of place after what just transpired and asks, “You gonna make it?”

“Fuck off.” He laughs a little harder, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your sweat-slick skin. You groan into his shoulder, slowly coming back to life as the adrenaline begins to wear off. A terrible ache settles into every square inch of your body and you groan again. “Ew, why do you sound so normal right now? God, everything is sore and I feel like I was transported to another plane of existence.”

“I’m not; my fucking back is killing me. We’re officially too old to fuck like this—missionary in a bed with a proper mattress only from now on.” You scoff as you reach blindly for one of the couch pillows, muttering an oh my god, shut up as you tell him to put it behind his back. He does as you say, adjusting so he’s laying horizontally, and pulls you against him. “I’m also not… normal,” he admits after a beat.

“I know.” You lift your head enough to press your lips against the space just above his heart—where your ear had just been and you listened as it beat wildly against his ribs. You rest your chin against his chest. “No one that’s seen Shrek 2 as many times as you have is normal.”

His face contorts with offense. “Dickhead. I meant about you. Haven’t been for a long time.” Sighs when your fingertips start to trace amorphous shapes into his skin. “Feels nice.”

“You said you were on your way to a date.”

“It wasn’t anything serious.” You feel yourself frown, knowing your reluctance to take Vernon at his word is showing plain as day and that he picks up on it immediately. “I promise. Chan met someone a few weeks ago who’s way out of his league. Somehow he managed to get her to agree to a date and—you know Chan—he fucking panicked at the thought of being alone with her and said some stupid shit about it being a double-date.”

You gasp in mock surprise. “And you bailed? It’s gonna make him look bad that you no-showed.”

“Nah. This fucking idiot was gonna take her to Divino.”

You hum. “Ah. I’m assuming Gyu was bartending tonight?”

“Yup—shift ended at eleven. Even Chan is smart enough to pivot; I’m sure he was fine.”

“Mm, true. Kim Mingyu’s not a bad consolation prize,” you concede, shrieking when Vernon tickles your sides. “Wait, hold up—you’re telling me you were supposed to go on a double-date at the same swanky cocktail bar Mingyu works at because, quote-unquote, ‘the MILFs tip crazy style,’ and you were gonna wear a white tee and sweatpants?”

“Hey!” he interjects.

“Vernon, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Yo, leave me alone, I didn’t wanna go!”

“New rule: you need to wear jeans at least when you take me out.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “When?”

you don't know what drew you outside tonight, but jeonghan does.

it's an unnaturally cold, dark night, and you shiver as you pull your coat tighter around you. your warm breath manifests as a small puff of air in front of you, and you silently think to yourself about how crazy you must be to want to take a stroll at this time of night.

jeonghan can hear your heartbeat from a mile away, and so he isn't surprised when you turn the corner and come face to face with him. you bump straight into his firm chest, frozen for a split second before you realize what you've just done. then, you're backing away from him so fast you're tripping over your own two feet.

"don't worry." his voice is eerily soft, velvet against your ears as he smiles softly at you. it's a small smile, only the corner of his lips kicking up in acknowledgement. "you're not going to knock me over, angel."

your heart beats so loud you swear you can't hear your own voice, laughing nervously instead of allowing words to fall from your lips. he's so beautiful, you think to yourself, studying the way his skin seems to glitter under the moonlight, and how sharp his features are against the pitch black night.

"i didn't mean to run into you." the words finally come after what feels like an eternity of staring at jeonghan like he's fallen from the sky right in front of your own eyes. "i wasn't paying attention to my surroundings, and i was cold, and—"

when jeonghan chuckles, it's so low and careening that it makes your stomach flutter. "angel, all is well. i'm in one piece, aren't i?"

the tease makes you a little less tense, but way more nervous. his calm voice is intoxicating in a way that makes you want to follow him to your death. jeonghan sees the way your pupils dilate when you meet his gaze, and he takes a step closer, knowing you're too enraptured to step away.

"would you keep me company tonight?"

the question is absurd, and both of you know it—you bumped into him only moments ago, and now you're overwhelmed with the unnatural desire to kiss him. keeping him company suddenly doesn't sound out of the question.

you don't even feel the need to speak the word, only nodding with a lump in your throat as jeonghan takes your hand. he's shockingly cold, and he watches the realiziation sink into your bones.

"you're a vampire," you say the statement more like a question, and jeonghan nods once, smiling with teeth for the first time tonight. the pearly white canines seem to stare at you, but you don't feel fear.

a calm that you can't seem to explain washes over you when you meet his eyes again, and you let him lead you down the cold street. it's silent, save for the slight breeze and muffled conversations from inside the tiny apartments lining the streets.

when you arrive at jeonghan's home, you're surprised at how quaint it is. it isn't flashy or loud, and the smell of lemongrass is the first thing to meet you when the door opens.

jeonghan silently takes your coat from your body, and you let him, shoulders loosening as his hands brush over them. hanging the coat on the coat rack, he leads you upstairs to his room silently, opening the door and letting you in first.

it's beautiful in it's own unique way, and jeonghan watches you inspect the facets of the room. he notices the way your eyes flick to and from his own, quietly admiring his living space. "i like it."

"do you?" he echoes, stepping over the threshold and letting out a small breath.

"i do. it fits who you are perfectly." you say aloud. jeonghan can hear the tiny hitch in your breath when you realize what you just said makes no sense, and you quickly add, "i mean, i don't really know you yet. i just...i can't explain it well. i just sense it fits you."

"hmm," jeonghan's hum is weighty as you find yourself taking a seat on his bed. jeonghan is eerily quiet as he moves around the room, slipping his shoes off and taking the hanging piece of jewelry from around his neck before he gestures to your shoes. "you can take those off, if you'd like."

you slip your shoes off without a second thought, body instantly turning to his as he sits down beside you. the mattress dips under jeonghan's weight, but he doesn't react, dark eyes on you as he studies you.

"why did you come home with me so eagerly? you did not know what was waiting for you here." jeonghan asks, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "i could have brought you here to kill you, angel." his eyes seem to darken even further at that sentence, but you can't seem to feel fear in that moment.

all you do is shake your head, shrugging a few moments later as you answer him. "i trust you. i don't know how, or why, but i trust you."

that makes jeonghan feel a pang of something he hasn't felt in a thousand years. admiration.

"i'm glad you do." jeonghan smiles, full lips curving into the small smile that lured you in the first place. you find yourself moving closer to him, and jeonghan doesn't dare move, holding your gaze as if too scared to look away.

"may i kiss you?"

the question is asked so reverently you're surprised to feel tears spring to your eyes, and you can't find it in yourself to say no as you nod.

it starts out softly. jeonghan's lips are on your in a split second, pale hand intertwined in your hair as he hums against your lips, pleased. you're melting into his touch as if it's all you've dreamed of, sighing in pleasure as jeonghan softly nips at your bottom lip.

he's so delicate he doesn't draw blood, and you're pleasantly surprised, swinging your arms around his neck and pulling him down into the bedsheets.

jeonghan sighs, the sound breathy and rich at the same time as he inhales sharply. his hands are soft against you as he cups your cheek, pulling away moments later with glossy lips and a reverence behind his shaded eyes.

"thank you, angel." jeonghan's voice is so vulnerable it makes your heart clench, and all you do is nod, pulling him down for one more quick kiss. he smiles against you before pulling away again, careful to not land on top of you as he falls to your left.

you're sprawled out on the bed when you turn your head to look at him, and you're surprised to see he's already staring at you.

"it feels like it has been a thousand years since i've kissed someone like that," he laughs, but the sound is empty as he continues. "one forgets how much one craves intimacy until they get a taste of if after what feels like an eternity of being starved of it."

you reach out to cup jeonghan's cheek, feeling the smooth coldness of it against your palm as you whisper, "i'm here. you don't have to be starved of it anymore."

jeonghan's smile is filled with more emotion than he can put into words, and so you don't force him to speak, simply moving closer to him and wrapping your arms around his own. leaning your head on his shoulder, you let out a small sigh, one that jeonghan feels deep inside of him.

and for the first time in what feels like millennia, jeonghan can close his eyes and feel him start to drift away.

"Sooo, what did you think?"

Jeonghan turns to look at you as he pushes the heavy wooden door open, a slight grin spreading across his lips as he rolls his eyes, the look quickly extinguished by the blinding afternoon sun hitting him in the face like a grenade. You both squeeze your eyes shut; fumbling around in your bag for a moment, your fingers graze across the sleek acetate of your sunglasses, hurriedly retrieving them and shoving them onto your face. Blinking your eyes open, you can see Jeonghan again through the brown-tinted lenses, also having donned his shades. You've only been in New Mexico for one day, but you learned immediately that the desert sun is harsh and unforgiving; your skin tingles in its glare, the arid summer heat doing nothing to cool you down.

"It was pretty cool," he answers nonchalantly. You give him a light shove, nearly pushing him off the sidewalk.

"Hey!" he protests.

"'Pretty cool' my ass," you smirk. "I practically had to drag you out of the dinosaur exhibit."

"Okay," he concedes with a chuckle. "It was super duper really cool. Happy?"

"That's better," you reply smugly. "And you wanted to skip Albuquerque altogether!"

"All I said is we could've made it to the Grand Canyon in one go!"

"Sure, but where's the fun in that?" you grin.

He shrugs. "I'd just never been on a road trip before. I thought it would be boring."

"But I've proven you wrong?" you inquire hopefully.

"Technically it was Cars," he smirks, prompting you to whack him playfully in the arm.

"You and that fucking movie, I swear to god…"

"It's a good movie!!!" he insists. "It inspired me to visit the Southwest!"

"Oh my god, whatever," you grumble.

Jeonghan's face softens with a smile. He wraps his arm around you waist, pulling you in and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

"But there's no one I'd rather road trip with than you, babe."

Crossing the parking lot you arrive back to your boyfriend's 1995 Ford Taurus; its red paint is slightly dulled with age — a bit faded after 12 years of exposure to the elements — but today it seems to shine bright as new in the radiating summer sun. As soon as Jeonghan unlocks the vehicle you open the passenger-side door, only to immediately be hit with a stifling wall of dense heat.

"Blech," is your immediate reaction, your face contorting into a grimace at the unpleasant sensation. "I thought people were joking when they said cars can get as hot as ovens."

"Yeouch!" Jeonghan exclaims, rapidly pulling his hand off the top of the car he had grabbed without thinking. "How do people live with this heat every day??"

After letting some of the steaming air escape, the two of you reluctantly climb into the car's boiling interior. The backs of your thighs sting against the hot vinyl seat; you shift around awkwardly for a minute before you acclimate to the temperature. Jeonghan starts the car and the AC vents roar to life, blasting more hot air directly onto you. He quickly rolls down all four windows, the heat from outside feeling somehow cooler relative to the inside the car despite there being no breeze.

"Uh oh," Jeonghan says, staring at the dashboard. You peer over to see what he's looking at, frowning when you spot that the yellow check engine light is on.

"That wasn't there before, was it?"

"Nope," he replies, also frowning. "It's probably nothing, but…"

He thinks for a minute, then shuts the car off. He pulls the lever to pop the hood open, then opening his door again.

"I'm just gonna take a look real quick."

He hops out of the car and you watch as he walks to the front of the vehicle. He grabs the hood to open it, but quickly yanks his hand off, shouting out a string of curses at the searing hot metal. He tries again, more carefully this time, sticking his fingers under the hood and giving it a swift push. Your view of Jeonghan is now obstructed; you wait for him to come back, but he's out there for several minutes.

"Do you need help?" you call out the window.

"I think I got it," he calls back. "But thanks babe."

You hear him tinkering with something for a moment, then the hood shuts. Jeonghan walks back to the car, hopping in and turning the ignition. You both stare at the dashboard, but the check engine light does not reappear.

"Oh thank god," he says with a sigh of relief.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing, actually," he answers with a shrug. "Hopefully it was just a glitch."

You pull up the portable GPS navigator as Jeonghan takes off from the museum parking lot, typing in your destination as he heads back to the highway.

"We're finally gonna be driving on Route 66!" you announce excitedly. Despite Jeonghan's insistence that the movie Cars was the sole reason for this vacation, you've always wanted to take a road trip down the historic highway. As Jeonghan heads onto the entrance ramp the iconic Route 66 sign on the side of the road comes into view. You wish you would have thought to take a picture, but your digital camera is buried somewhere in your bag, and the camera on your flip phone isn't the greatest. Next time we see one, you make a mental note to yourself.

Jeonghan accelerates as he merges onto the highway, also smiling at the sight of the bold 66 on the route marker. He reaches over, taking hold of your hand and squeezing it tight.

"Grand Canyon, here we come."

It is peak golden hour when you stop at a small gas station to refuel. The current state of the desert sky is absolutely breathtaking, its palette more vibrant than any you've ever seen before; neon pinks, deep oranges, bold blues, and majestic purples paint the heavens — dreamy and picturesque in all their natural wonder.

Jeonghan parks the car at one of the pumps, shutting the engine off and reaching for his wallet.

"I'll start filling up then go grab us some snacks," he tells you. "You want anything in particular?"

"Surprise me."

As he starts pumping the gas, you rummage through your bag, feeling around until your hand closes on your camera. You hop out of the car; Jeonghan gives you an inquisitive look, but you just show him the camera in your hand.

"The sky is amazing," you tell him. "I gotta get a picture of this."

He smiles. "It is amazing, isn't it?"

You do your best to photograph the incredible scenery as Jeonghan pops inside the store, but although the previews on the small digital screen are beautiful they don't do it proper justice. As you wrap up you hear the click of the gas pump shutting off; walking back to the car, you place the pump back and screw the gas cap back on the tank. The air is still hot, but with the sun setting things have cooled off slightly now, the relief from the blazing sunlight making it feel almost pleasant out.

A minute later you spot Jeonghan returning from the store, carrying a heavy-looking plastic bag filled with goodies.

"Damn, did you buy the whole store?" you ask teasingly as he approaches the car.

He shrugs. "Figured it'd be better to have extra snacks than not enough snacks."

"True," you smile.

"Got you your favorite, though," he says, pulling a bottle of Diet Coke and a pack of Sour Skittles from the bag and handing them to you.

"Fuck yeah," you grin, giving him a kiss on the cheek as you happily accept the sweet treats. "Thanks babe, you're the best."

He gives you a soft smile. "Anything for you, my love."

"Here," you say to him, gesturing for hm to hand you the keys. "Let me drive. You've been driving this whole time."

"I'm okay—" he starts, going to open the driver-side door, but you snatch the keys out oof his hand anyway.

"I insist. You deserve a break."

"Okay," he concedes. "But I get the aux cord."

"Sure," you agree. "As long as you don't fucking play 'Life is a Highway' again."

"Hater," he teases, a wide grin spreading across his face as he gets into the passenger seat.

"I'm NOT a hater," you reply as you get in the car too, taking your seat behind the wheel. "It's a fine song, I just don't want to hear it a million times."

"It's a great song," he corrects you. "And we've only listened to it twice, thank you."

"Whatever," you roll your eyes, but you just laugh.

You take off down the desert road again, driving into the stunning sunset as you leave the gas station in the rear view mirror. At this point, there's not much out here — you're well in between towns now, the flat land around you seemingly stretching endlessly in every direction. You even spot a few tumbleweeds rolling alongside the two-land road, a phenomenon you didn't know was actually real until today. But despite the barren landscape, you find the open road to be calming, welcoming even; you can drive for miles without seeing another car, but the quiet serenity feels peaceful. You never expected to enjoy the desert this much, especially as a life-long city-dweller, but there is a certain charm to its beauty that is unlike anything you've ever experienced before.

You drive for about 30 minutes before you hear the unmistakable guitar riff of that god-forsaken Rascal Flatts song.

"Jeonghan, I swear to god."

"It wasn't me!" he insists. "My iPod is on shuffle!"

"Riiight."

"But since it came on…"

He reaches for the volume knob, but you slap his hand away.

"I'll let you listen to it at a normal volume."

"Okay, okay," he agrees, but even out of the corner of your eye you can see a slight smirk lighting up his face.

You're not even halfway through the song when the car suddenly hits a big bump.

"Whoa!" you yelp, hoping it wasn't anything too serious, but immediately the car starts to rattle and shake. You brake, quickly pulling over into the dusty dirt just off the side of the road. You and Jeonghan look at each other, nervous, but not panicking just yet.

"What the hell was that??"

"I don't know," he replies, hopping out of the vehicle. You put the car into park and join him, but as soon as you get out and shut the door you see the problem: your front tire is busted. There's a huge gash along its side, with a sizeable scrap of metal jutting out from the rubber.

"Oh."

Jeonghan comes over, his face dropping as soon as he sees the issue.

"Well," he says calmly. "That fucking sucks."

"You can say that again."

You both stand there in silence staring at it for a moment, trying to process the situation at hand.

"Well," Jeonghan finally says, reaching into the car to pop the trunk and walking over to it. "At least I know how to change a tire… sort of. I should have the toolkit in my trun—"

He freezes as soon as he lifts the lid, staring blankly into the trunk.

"Oh no," he mumbles under his breath.

"Do you not have the toolkit?"

He slowly shakes his head. "Worse."

You step over to join him at the trunk. Peering in, you see each of your packed bags, a small toolkit, a few old crumpled receipts, and an empty wheel well where a spare tire should be.

"Um," you start quietly. "Where's the spare?"

Jeonghan shuts the trunk, hanging his head as he leans over the car.

"That was the spare."

"What?" you ask, genuinely confused. "What do you mea— oh."

You've both just had the same terrible, stupid realization: six months ago when Jeonghan's sister borrowed his car she got a flat tire. The spare in the trunk she had to use was a full-sized one, meaning Jeonghan could drive around on it for a good while without needing to get a proper tire re-installed. He fully intended to do it sooner rather than later — but half a year has passed now, and he had forgotten about it completely.

You feel a bit guilty, because you did know about it — but apparently, you also entirely forgot.

"Oh my god," you groan as the reality of the situation starts to sink in. "We're stuck in the fucking desert, aren't we."

"I cannot believe I completely forgot about the tire," Jeonghan laments, holding his forehead in his hands. "You idiot!!!"

"You are not an idiot," you reassure him. "I forgot too. If anything, that makes us both idiots."

That pulls a chuckle out of Jeonghan. "Gee, thanks babe."

You step over to him, wrapping your arms around him and leaning into his shoulder. He sighs, relaxing slightly as he takes you in his arms.

"What now?" you ask, feeling much calmer at the moment than you would expect. You're sure you'll start freaking out eventually, but you're saving that for later.

"I guess call a tow service?" he answers, sounding uncertain at the idea. "But it's not like we have a phone number for one, especially not out here…"

"Do they even send tow trucks out to the middle of nowhere?" you wonder.

"I mean, maybe? It would certainly take a while though."

"What about… 911? I know it's not really an emergency, but maybe they can help?"

"We could try the non-emergency line," he suggests.

He pulls out his cell phone, flipping it open to dial 311, but he grimaces at the small screen.

"No signal," he sighs. "Let me try anyway."

He tries to make the call, but the line just beeps for a few seconds before the call ends. You pull out your phone, trying the number as well, but you also aren't getting any service out here.

"Dammit," you grumble. "What the fuck are we supposed to do??"

"I guess we could try to hitchhike to somewhere we can make a call?"

Your head snaps up, looking at your boyfriend like he's lost his mind.

"Are you crazy?! That sounds like a great way to get murdered."

"I mean, I don't love the idea of it," he agrees. "But I don't really know if we have any other options."

As much as you hate it, he's right. You're stranded, and you need help — even if it is from a complete stranger.

You bury your hands in your face for a second, letting out a disgruntled groan, but then you shake it off.

"Well, I guess we have to wait for somebody to even drive by in the first place," you say, peering both ways down the highway — but each direction is void of life as far as you can see, the endless empty road simply disappearing into to the horizon without a trace of another human.

"I guess so," Jeonghan agrees. You then see an idea pop into his mind, marked by the mischievous look in his eyes.

"Wanna fool around in the backseat?"

"What the fuck?!" you laugh. That was the last thing you expected him to say right now, but you're honestly not even too surprised by it.

"You're insane."

"Yeah, because you drive me insane," he says sweetly, prompting you to lightly thump him in the chest. "What?!" he asks, pretending like he's not full of shit.

"Jeonghan, you were already insane before I even met you."

He gives you a sly smile. "Touché. Anyway, c'mon, let's make out," he says as he grabs your hand, pulling you toward the backseat door as he opens it.

"Are you seriously horny right now?"

"Only a little!" he insists. "I just want to kiss my pretty girlfriend, is that so much of a crime?"

"Oh whatever," you roll your eyes, but you smile, getting into the backseat anyway. "But we can't get too carried away — we have to keep an eye out for other cars passing by."

"Aye aye, captain," he salutes you, excitedly crawling into the backseat after you and shutting the door behind him. He reaches for the crank and gives it a few rotations, rolling down the window slightly. "Don't want it to get too hot in here," he explains smugly, giving you a wink.

He grabs ahold of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and drawing you into him as he plants a slow kiss upon your lips. Despite the anxieties of being stuck in the middle of the fucking desert with no spare tire and no cell signal, Jeonghan is a really good kisser — which is a perfect distraction from the issue at hand. The kiss starts gentle, innocent; but before long both of you are grasping at each other, hands finding their way inside shirts, completely disregarding the layer of sweat you've each been drenched in all day that never was able to dissipate in the sweltering New Mexico heat. His tongue finds its way into your mouth, and the kissing turns more feverish by the moment, his hand grasping the side of your head as his lips tug ceaselessly at yours. Eventually his hand begins to drift down your torso, lingering at your breasts for a minute, before reaching between your legs and touching you over your jean shorts.

"Babe, we have to watch for cars—" you remind him, but your words are cut short by his fingers beginning to apply pressure against your clit.

"Don't worry baby, I'm watching, I promise."

His fingers dance up to the button, undoing it and slowly pulling your zipper down.

"Besides, it's getting dark — we'll see any headlights from a mile away."

"I suppose you're right," you smile sweetly, but your jaw drops slightly open as he glides his fingers beneath your underwear and drags them between your folds.

"Hey," you protest half-heartedly, but your hips begin to rock slowly against his hand.

"Hay is for horses," he replies, kissing you on the apple of your cheek as he slips his fingers into your pussy, making you let out a gasp.

"Oh you're wet," he smirks.

"Shut up," you mumble, spreading your thighs as he begins to work them in and out of your cunt.

"No, it's cute!" he insists. "I love that you fold the moment I start touching you."

"So you're saying I'm pathetic."

"Of course not," he answers sincerely, leaning in and murmuring softly into your ear. "You're my perfect little princess."

His hand starts to move faster, pulsing in and out of your cunt that is only getting wetter by the second. You start to hum, your eyelids fluttering shut with pleasure as he fucks you, your hums turning into whines and your whines turning into moans, the sound filling the car as Jeonghan gets you off.

"Fuck," you whine, squirming against the seat. "That's so good…"

"That's it, baby, let it all go."

"Don't stop," you plead. "I'm so close."

"Go on baby, cum for me."

He fucks his fingers into you, maintaining the perfect pace that quickly has you unraveling at the seams. You cry out as your orgasm overtakes you, your legs trembling as you cum on Jeonghan's fingers.

"Good girl," he praises, watching you release as the overwhelming pleasure floods through your whole body. You ride out your high, head fallen back onto the top of the seat; you start to come down, giggling as you grab Jeonghan's arm with both your hands. His fingers stop, but they remain inside you as he gives you a soft kiss on the lips.

"Wow," you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. Slowly he retrieves his hand from your shorts; you're staring off into space a bit when you notice a faint dot of light appear in the rearview mirror.

"Car," you say, perking your head up. Jeonghan notices it too; you turn around in tandem, spotting the approaching light coming from behind that is still well in the distance. You look at each other, relieved but still slightly nervous at the prospect of having to hitchhike.

"Should we flag them down?" you ask. Jeonghan nods.

"It's getting late — I don't want to be out here all night. I think we should at least try."

With that he pops his fingers into your mouth, catching you off guard. You let out a laugh, the sound muffled, but you suck on them for a moment, cleaning up your own mess.

"Thank you," Jeonghan says teasingly, wiping the excess off on his shirt before opening the door. You follow, stepping out into the night air that has cooled off significantly now that the sun has set. Standing there, you watch as the approaching car draws near, the headlights getting brighter and brighter — too bright, almost.

"Um, I don't think that's a car," you say as the vehicle gets closer. The lights are too bright for either of you to really tell, but you're pretty sure what you're seeing is a very large truck. Sure enough, as it comes into view you see that it is in fact an 18-wheeler.

"They're not gonna stop, right?" Jeonghan wonders aloud.

"I… don't know."

"Well, one way to find out."

As the big rig closes in Jeonghan begins to wave at it. A loud double honk makes you jump; the truck zooms past you, causing a surge of wind that picks up the sand and dirt and sends it swirling in the air around you. You shield your eyes, turning around as the truck drives away. You've just about lost hope until you notice the red brake lights — the truck slows, pulling to a stop well ahead of you. It's lights begin to flash as you see a figure exit the cab; you wrap your arm around Jeonghan's, holding onto him nervously as the driver starts walking toward you. It's not quite completely dark out yet, but from this distance you can really only make out the silhouette of a very tall but stocky man lumbering down the side of the road. As he comes into view you see a tough looking gray-haired man, probably in his 50s, sporting a thick handlebar mustache and equally-thick furrowed brows. He wears a plaid shirt that seems to only be buttoned halfway, faded denim jeans, big brown boots, and a blue cap covering his unkempt shoulder-length hair. He looks like the kind of guy you don't want to cross, and you're starting to wonder if flagging him down was a mistake — but as he approaches his hardened face turns into a smile.

"Looks like the two of you are in quite a pickle here, aren't ya?" he says with a southern drawl, looking at the busted tire on Jeonghan's car. He leans over, hands resting on his belt as he inspects the piece of metal jutting out of the wheel. "How the hell did y'all manage this?"

He stands back up, facing you again. "Y'all ain't got a spare, I presume?"

"No, that uh, that was the spare," Jeonghan answers, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Well, shit," the truck driver responds. "That's no good. Y'all got help on the way yet?"

"No, neither of us have cell service," you answer.

"Yup, them cellular phones are pretty useless out here," he nods. "I'm afraid I ain't much help with the tire here, but I'm happy to give y'all a ride to the next pay phone."

Jeonghan glances over at you. Of all the strangers who could've shown up, this man seems nice enough, and he really doesn't seem like he has any interest in murdering you.

"That would be amazing," you answer him politely. "Thank you so much."

"Eh, don't mention it," he replies, waving his hand. "Ain't the first time I've had to do this, and I'm certain it ain't gonna be the last either. Grab y'all's things now, and we'll be off."

Jeonghan retrieves the bags from the trunk while you roll up the windows and lock the car, saying a silent prayer that nobody is going to break in and steal it. The man heads off back toward the truck, and the two of you follow after him. You can't really see much of the truck as you walk toward it, due to its bright flashing red lights obscuring your view, but as you approach it you notice a strange odor in the air. You've never been on a farm before, but if you had to guess, it smells exactly the way you think a barn would smell. When you get right up on the truck you're able to make out small, open-air windows up near the top of the trailer, and as you pass by a sudden huffing sound coming from the inside the trailer makes you and Jeonghan both jump.

"Horses," Jim says casually as you reach the cab, nodding his head toward the trailer. "Don't mind the smell." He swiftly grabs your bags from you, tossing them into the open passenger door as if they weighed nothing.

"Afraid there's only one passenger seat," he tells you. "Hope y'all don't mind sharin'."

You climb up the high step into the cab with some difficulty, Jeonghan behind you giving you a helpful boost. He climbs in after you, scooting into the other half of the one available seat. You awkwardly try to situate yourselves comfortably, to no avail; eventually you give up, and you end up half-sitting in Jeonghan's lap, his arm wrapped around you to help prevent you from falling off. The driver hops into the truck with ease, shifting into gear and taking off down the dark road. You peek in the rear view mirror, watching as Jeonghan's car turns into a red speck in the growing distance, and then disappears in the night altogether.

"Name's Jim, by the way," the driver pipes up. "And who might you two be?"

"I'm Jeonghan and this is y/n," Jeonghan answers.

"Pleasure to meet you, Jeonghan and y/n," he nods. "What brings y'all out to this stretch of desert, if y'all don't mind my askin'?"

"We're driving to the Grand Canyon," you tell him.

"Figures," he replies matter-of-factly. "That is the main attraction 'round these parts, after all. Not much else out here but nature. Anyways, there's a gas station 'bout 20 miles down the road — I'll drop y'all off there."

Jim falls silent after that — you didn't take him to be the chatty type, after all; the only sounds that remain are the old classic rock tunes playing from the stereo, the volume just loud enough for you to hear the music over the loud humming of the truck's engine as Jim floors it down the open road. The speed combined with the height and size of the truck worries you slightly, but you figure it's better to get where you're going sooner rather than later. You rest your head on Jeonghan's shoulder, staring out the window as you silently tell yourself everything is going to be okay.

About twenty minutes later, a well-lit area just off the road comes into view. You and Jeonghan both perk up, looking at each other with cautious optimism as what appears to be a trucker's rest stop comes into view. Jim doesn't slow down, and as you approach the exit road splitting off from the highway he speeds right past it. You and Jeonghan give each other a nervous glance.

"We aren't stopping here?" Jeonghan asks, looking over to Jim.

"Nope," he replies as the truck barrels on. "The next one. We can't stop here."

"Why not?" Jeonghan asks cautiously. Jim lets out a huff of a laugh.

"Man who runs it has it out for me," he answers. "He thinks I stole a bunch of money from him."

"Why does he think that?"

Jim glances over at the two of you, giving you a sly grin that reveals a silver tooth in his mouth.

"Probably because I stole a bunch of money from him."

He notices you and Jeonghan tensing up slightly, but he just shakes his head and chuckles.

"Next gas station is 'bout 10 miles from here," he tells you. "I know the owner. I'll drop y'all there."

As promised, you arrive at a gas station shortly — if it can even be called that. There's only two pumps, each looking outdated by several decades, and the attached shop is tiny and run-down. If you had driven past it on your own, you probably would've assumed it wasn't even open. Jim parks in the road, as the station is nowhere large enough to accommodate an 18-wheeler. You exit the vehicle, Jeonghan right behind you, lugging your bags out of the cab. Hesitantly, you head toward the small shop, a faded sign bearing the words GENERAL STORE welcoming you to the otherwise unwelcoming establishment. You hear the crunch of Jim's boots against the dirt as he walks over with you, seemingly keeping his distance. Suddenly, a gangly-looking man in a cowboy hat emerges from around the back, wielding a shotgun. You jump, grabbing onto Jeonghan as you start to retreat, but the man only points the gun directly at Jim.

"You gotta lot of nerve comin' round here, Jim," the man sneers at the driver, but Jim just grins.

"Nice to see you too, Billy."

"Who's the kids?" Billy asks him, cocking his head toward you.

"Car broke down 'bout 20 miles back, flat tire 'n no spare. Brought 'em here to use your payphone."

Billy peers over to you and Jeonghan, studying your wide-eyed, fearful faces for a moment before he lowers the gun, grumbling something under his breath.

"Payphone ain't workin'," he says, turning to you and Jeonghan. "But if it's a spare tire y'all need I can help."

You turn to Jeonghan, and you can tell he's thinking the same thing — you didn't particularly trust Jim, and you find Billy even less trustworthy. But again, what choice do you have?

"That would be great," Jeonghan tells Billy politely.

"Wonderful. Now, you best be on your way," he scowls to Jim. Jim tips his cap at him, turning to face you.

"Best of luck to y'all," he tells you. "Billy here's a real piece of work, but you're in good hands."

You find that hard to believe, but you thank him for the ride anyway.

"My pleasure," he says politely, turning and walking back to his truck.

Billy sighs loudly, but he rolls his eyes, beckoning the two of you to follow as he heads around to the back of the store. You watch as Jim and his horses take off, wondering again if this was a huge mistake and if you're going to get murdered after all, but the truck drives away, and now you're stuck in this tiny gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Following Billy he leads you to a small garage, where an old pickup truck is parked. Stacks of tires and various car parts lay cluttered around the yard; Billy looks around, grabbing a couple tires and tossing them into the truck bed, along with a large tool kit.

"I should be able to fix your tire predicament for ya," he says. "If not… well, we'll figure somethin' out."

He opens the passenger door for you; the truck is small, featuring one bench-style seat in the cab. Jeonghan takes the middle, and you slide in after him. Billy hops in the truck and starts it up, the engine making some less-than-favorable sounds as it roars to life, but he shifts into reverse and takes off, heading back down the highway the way you came.

He drives in silence, making no effort at conversation nor turning the radio on. Its awkward, but you're honestly too tired to even care at this point. You lean into Jeonghan again, resting your head against his as he takes hold of your hand, lacing your fingers together. The road trip that started out wonderfully has turned out disastrously, but you haven't lost hope yet. If you have to be stuck in this nightmarish predicament with anyone, you're glad it's with him.

You're starting to nod off, being lulled to sleep by the quiet ambience of the desolate highway, when Jeonghan suddenly perks up.

"There's our car!" he tells Billy, pointing to the red vehicle parked on the side of the road right where you left it. Billy makes a u-turn, pulling up right behind Jeonghan's car. Without a word he hops out, getting to work immediately. The old, busted tire comes off within minutes, discarded into the back of Billy's truck as he heaves the new spare out of the bed and rolls it over to the car. You watch anxiously as he works, but sooner than you expect he has the tire fully installed into place.

"That should do it," he tells you in a gruff voice, rising to his feet and wiping his hands on his dingy jeans.

"Thank you so much!" Jeonghan tells him excitedly as you both inspect the tire, but it looks good as new. "Um… how much do we owe you?"

"Don't worry 'bout it," he waves his hand at you. He gathers his tools, walking back to his truck.

"There's a motel about 8 miles past the gas station," he tells you over his shoulder as he tosses the toolkit back into the truck bed. "If Margie's workin' tell her I sent ya."

With that, he gets in his truck and drives away.

You fling yourself around Jeonghan, startling him slightly as you squeeze him tightly in your arms — but he just laughs, embracing you back and giving you a kiss on the head.

"That could have been so much worse, oh my god," you say, a huge wave of relief washing over you.

"Cheers to not getting murdered!" he laughs. You pull your head back, staring at him with a big beaming grin.

"Let's get to that motel," he says, kissing you on the lips several times.

"Are you seriously horny again?!" you giggle.

"Yup," he answers, grinning proudly as he playfully smacks you on the ass. "And I'm gonna make sweet, sweet love to my girlfriend all night about it."

"Oh my god," you laugh, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't excited about it too.

You get in the car, Jeonghan in the driver's seat this time. He turns the car on, the AC from earlier suddenly blasting in your faces as you scramble to turn it down. You see him plugging his iPod into the aux cable, scrolling through its library before he selects a song with a grin on his face. The intro to "Life is a Highway" starts blaring from the speakers as he puts the car into drive and take off; you roll your eyes, but after the day you've had, and with the joyous look on his face as he sets off into the night again, you can't even be mad about it.

taglist: @miniseokminnies @kyeomiis @hannieween @smiileflower 

@hanniebub @luvseungcheol @escoupsue @shininghoshstar @coupsv 

✦•┈๑⋅… 1 …·๑┈•✦

You had been scrolling apps aimlessly when your friend asked how dating was going. 

You shrugged. “Fine,” you’d mumbled. 

‘Fine’ was more like a deflection, not an adjective. It was meant to end the conversation, not spur it the fuck along. 

“You’ve got to find someone,” came Rei’s voice - she was so certain. 

You rolled your eyes. “I really don’t, though.”

“Okay, but you’ll be the sad, lonely one learning how to Heimlich yourself,” she muttered, with a judging glance. 

“I’m never watching 30 Rock with you again,” you groaned, and chucked a pillow at her. 

You really hated dating apps. They were so impersonal. Plus all the stats said there were way more women on them anyway - like the chances of matching were so low to begin with. 

Besides, you weren’t exactly throbbing for some dude who’d just leave crumbs everywhere, and make extra garbage, and have meat sweats mid-fuck. 

Maybe you could ask your dealer out, you thought - that’d shut Rei up, surely, you guessed. 

Anyway, you weren’t wading into fucking Bumble, or Hinge, or any of the other spaces again. 

If you were going to meet a guy, it’d be irl, thank you very much. 

˚⟡˖ ࣪

Rei was a good friend. And a mostly fine roommate. 

She was less great when it came to things like not setting off the fire alarm when she forgot toast. 

She was even worse when she was stoned and forgot that the bread even existed and wandered off to find saltwater taffy in her desk drawer. 

So it wasn’t shocking that the fire alarm went off, waking you with its insistent PING-pinging sounds. 

You bolted up and out of bed, running downstairs to find smoke billowing from under the kitchen door - fuck, fuck - this was bad, you thought as you pushed the door and went in. 

At least it was localized. Just two tiny infernos in the oven. 

You made it to the kitchen in time to shut everything off. 

However, you didn’t make it in time to stop your security company from contacting emergency services. 

And now you were stood on your front lawn, trying to explain to a fire…person that yes, the fire was, in fact, out. 

You were in a very unsexy robe, terry cloth with big ol’ stripes, feet jammed into your massive yellow snow boots because those were the shoes in the hall closet of death, and a baseball cap tossed on to hide your bed head when the fire truck appeared. 

You were absolutely fucking mortified. Because it was two pieces of toast! But you also couldn’t really do anything but handle it since Rei was happily passed out. 

Fucking twat, you’d determined, lovingly, when you checked on her. 

The fire department, though, you played every stupid card you could to explain about your friend the terrible cook. 

At 2:15 AM. 

On a Tuesday. 

The main guy seemed to accept the idea of two dumb females. 

Of course he would. 

The guy next to him, though, he was younger and seemed to be taking it all in with a slight smirk.

He had a look like: (1) he didn’t believe you anymore than he could throw you regarding the idea that you’re-just-dumb, and (2) he kept glancing at your baseball cap like it was genuinely laughable. 

It was distracting - who was he to judge your hat?

You kept looking to the side, registering the smirk from the peanut gallery. 

So what if you noticed that the peanut gallery had gorgeous lips, and large eyes that flicked from your cap to your face - he wasn’t eyeing your tits, at any rate. 

The main guy huffed. Hard. Something about a report to file and wandered off. 

You apologized profusely, pointing to the remnants of the burned toast on the front lawn as evidence that the fire was definitely OUT. 

You’d flung both pieces out the kitchen window with total abandon. 

Fucking toast. 

You were lucky not to be getting a citation. But there was some fine for a false alarm and response. You’d be checking the mail for that. 

What an absolute fucking headache. 

You sighed, muttering a small ‘thanks’ to the firefighters for their time. The second guy, Mr. Peanut, was still smirking. 

You couldn’t help it when you met his gaze - he was really fucking fine. You’d finally looked since his boss was stomping away. 

“What?” You asked quickly, genuinely wondering what was so funny.

“That hat,” he pointed, “kind of an insane choice, no?” He asked, voice low and sweet. 

Oh, he was cute. And had one of those voices. Fuck. 

You were quick to pull it off and see it was one from your home city - The Mets. 

You were firmly in Dodgers land. You rolled your eyes and jammed it back on your head. “It’s called fashion, lance corporal —“

He snorted. “Fire Captain,” he corrected gently. 

“Yeah, well, Fire Captain, I don’t even keep up with any teams,” you trailed off. 

He smiled, a cute smile. “No? Maybe you should try a game sometime,” he suggested, voice soft. 

You eyed him - he was definitely fit, tall, handsome. Definitely not staring out at you from your phone screen. 

“That an offer?” You’d blurted it before you could even think. 

He smiled, teeth showing. Really fucking cute. He glanced over his shoulder and then gave a small nod. “Just uh,” he glanced back, “you know, call the station, not 9-1-1, ask for Captain Choi?”

You found yourself nodding. 

✦•┈๑⋅… 2 …·๑┈•✦

“So, did she call?” Mingyu asked. He was sitting across from Seungcheol and already halfway through his food somehow.

They’d barely sat down - and already with the question.

Seungcheol groaned. “Stop asking,” he muttered, digging into his chili and regretting that he’d told Mingyu anything. “And stop blabbing about it.” He shook his head, knowing his friend was a loudmouth. Unintentionally, usually, but still.

Besides, he didn’t want to talk about the girl in the Mets hat. And he didn’t want everyone in the station to know. All he needed was Soonyoung to find out…then the gc.

He just wanted to eat his lunch.

His shift was almost over, and then he had two days off to crash and game and - shit - pick up dry cleaning because one of their friends had the nerve to get married and he needed a suit.

Fuck - he’d definitely forgotten the wedding thing…maybe because of the girl in the Mets hat. It wasn’t the only false alarm they’d gotten in the last few days, but watching her walk out every version of ‘I’m-just-a-girl’ was entertaining, especially when she’d given him a new rank and title.

He’d not mentioned that part. He knew Mingyu, and ‘Lance Corporal Choi’ would have become a nickname way too quickly - he’d have to be reassigned to a station on the East Coast for it to maybe end.

Why he’d even told Mingyu at all was a mystery - Mingyu was too positive to share things like that with.

Besides, Seungcheol hadn’t given her his number because he was on duty and responding to a call, and that would definitely have looked weird. Plus, she was totally out of his league.

Someone living in Echo Park was not calling him.

He’d already made peace with that fact.

Now he just needed Mingyu to do the same.

“Look,” he started as he ate, “be more helpful and ask me whether I picked up my suit for the wedding thing, okay?”

“Did you?” Mingyu asked flatly.

“No - I mean like ask me tomorrow when I’m off.”

“So be your reminder?” Mingyu asked, brows arched.

Seungcheol shrugged. “More helpful than asking me about whether some random girl calls the station,” Seungcheol said as he ate.

Mingyu sighed. “Dude - save these requests for Mets Girl, or - just hear me out - there are these things on your phone called apps…and there’s one called ‘reminders’ – boom – mind-blowing shit, right?” Mingyu asked with an annoyingly condescending smirk.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes and gave Mingyu the finger. “Such a prick,” he mumbled as he finished his lunch and started to leave the table.

“But a prick with a date to Jeonghan’s wedding,” Mingyu added, still smirking…like a prick.

Suddenly, Seungcheol was glad they were on alternating shifts because it was that kind of comment that really annoyed him. What did it matter if he went stag? His life wasn’t over because he hadn’t asked anyone.

Still, their shifts weren’t completely alternating.

On a normal day, he’d be looking forward to when they were back on the same rotation. He’d almost always rather be on shift with Mingyu than not. Not that he didn’t trust anyone else, but he and Mingyu had known each other since training. And even if he trusted everyone, he always trusted Mingyu a little bit more.

Which made it even more irksome that Mingyu cared about his dating life. And brought it up. And had filled out multiple dating profiles for Seungcheol.

Seungcheol had checked the Hinge profile once and was surprised to find that he apparently enjoyed rock climbing on the weekends. He hadn’t even bothered to change it because he’d never use the app, so what did it matter if all the details were bogus?

˚⟡˖ ࣪

The problem was the texts he woke up to on Thursday morning. He was off and lying in bed at home.

[k.mingyu]

𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚍𝚍𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 fire captain 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚍𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎

Staring at the texts, still blinking away sleep - he typed something about ‘stop bothering me’ and deleted it. He just wasn’t sure Mingyu was serious.

[seungcheol]

dude it’s early

[k.mingyu]

i waited told her to call back fri. bcs that’s ur next shift

[seungcheol] surrprised u didn’t give her my number

[k.mingyu]

on duty or i woould have 10000% u need a date

Groaning loudly enough to get an odd look from Kkuma, Seungcheol flopped back against his pillows, muttering ‘sorry’ in the direction of her basket.

Still, he did not need a date. He needed to drop off dry cleaning and buy some food besides cereal…those were needs.

He also had to make sure that suit still fit - at least the wedding was still six weeks away…besides, how was he supposed to know that she would actually call him?

Lying there, in the privacy of his own apartment, he could admit that she was really cute that night too.

She’d looked gently insane. And really good too.

The entire outfit was madness - he’d had to stare at her hat to keep a straight face - and the Mets too, what a shit team - and the toast on the lawn - just these two beyond crispy little briquettes because, of course, throw them on the lawn…during an LA summer. Nothing bad could come from that.

Remembering the way she turned to him to ask, “what?” only made him snort.

[seungcheol]

did she rlly call

[k.mingyu]

yes srsly i wouldn’t joke abt a grl ur a hermit

[seungcheol]

we can’t all be u

And fuck everything with a pulse, Seungcheol thought with a grin. Mingyu was known to attract every sort of girl and then struggle to say anything but ‘yes.’ Which made for great stories around the station…

[k.mingyu]

duh u just ignore when ppl like u or freak out n do nothing

Seungcheol scowled. He didn’t freak out. Nothing was sort of accurate - he usually didn’t make a lot of moves. And he wasn’t going to argue with hermit - half of the reasons he went out were to take Kkuma on walks or for other Kkuma-related things. And when he was on duty, he left her with the little old lady upstairs, Mrs. Lee - so he basically left his house to walk his dog or to visit someone else’s grandma who watched his dog…

Actually, the more he thought, the more he knew that Mrs. Lee probably knew more about him than his last girlfriend had…she knew what he did for a living, his schedule (she had a printed copy that he updated monthly), where he was from, where his family was from, his favorite dishes, that he didn’t like things too spicy…maybe he did have a date for Jeonghan’s wedding.

She did often refer to him as a ‘nice young man.’

He rolled onto his stomach to hide the way he was laughing at the idea, which wasn’t actually that bad of an idea - he knew her family didn’t visit her very often, and old people seemed to enjoy weddings…plus, Mingyu would shit a brick.

He buried his face in his pillow.

He was on his second nap of the morning. He’d been up early to walk Kkuma and pick up some milk from the bodega.

And then he’d come home and passed out for a bit…and woke up for a bit…maybe Mingyu had texted at a normal time…he didn’t know.

But apparently, on Friday, there would be a call. He yawned and flopped onto his back, deciding that he should maybe try to be positive.

He heard Kkuma’s collar jingle and then the sounds of her padding over to circle the stairs she didn’t like.

The joy of a studio apartment with a loft for the “bedroom” was that his bed wasn’t technically in his living room - it was over the kitchen and had enough room for him to sit up without whacking his head, but it was only accessible by way of these weird, wiry little spiral stairs that Kkuma never seemed to trust.

He’d realized the mistake quickly when she was a puppy, and he’d basically lived on his sofa to avoid Kkuma whining.

And now, he knew she probably wanted him up, or at least on the sofa where she could jump up too.

Little doggie demands were definitely something that he regularly gave in to, and he wasn’t embarrassed about that. Sitting up and running a hand through his hair, his mind lingered because…she’d actually called him.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

Besides the obvious fire emergency that wasn’t actually. You were in the middle of a fairly shit-show week.

Also, you weren’t sure if you were really meant to call the local fire station or not - you had looked it up during your commute, though. Fire station number 20.

And then you’d seen him in the station’s photos and immediately locked your phone like he would somehow cosmically know you’d searched for him.

But the embarrassment was real.

He’d seen you after you’d raided the closet that literally existed to absorb all the crap you and Rei collected and couldn’t be asked to actually put away when one of you cleaned - just throw it in the closet…and look like you fell into a pile of old tat just in time to meet a cute guy.

Sitting in your cubicle Tuesday morning, staring down at your first coffee of the day, you decided that closet had to be addressed.

You were less certain about calling him, though. Because it wasn’t even him, exactly; it was a station…if it was like calling your office, there was a receptionist and a phone tree and…you didn’t love the idea.

Especially if it wasn’t serious.

Stirring your coffee, you considered if his saying to call and who to ask for constituted seriousness of purpose. Luckily, your inbox started its normal explosion, which distracted you totally until you left the office at 2:23 PM to grab the burrito you’d ordered.

You were a regular at the place, even though it was standing room only for eating. You were pretty sure that standing only meant they didn’t have to offer a bathroom to customers. Which was fine; you could stand and watch people milling around the plaza that led to Angel’s Flight, which you kind of loved. The little orange and black rail-ish car that you sometimes walked to and rode up and down just to be out of the office.

It was like $1.50 for some level of sanity.

Just like your burrito. And standing and staring at something besides your computer or the office’s ceiling or the gray fabric of your cubicle’s walls.

You unlocked your phone, and it immediately showed you where you’d left off - seeing Fire Captain Choi’s face (and others, of course) next to a giant number 20.

The burrito made you feel more confident that you weren’t disturbing the particles of the universe by reading the caption and seeing that it was actually “Fire Captain Seungcheol Choi.”

And now you knew his first name.

But still not whether he was actually expecting you to call.

Which was a silly thought - you knew you - you’d call.

You just needed the correct level of burrito to settle your stomach. You had called guys before.

Just pre-apps…and usually it was a text about class or something.

Shit. What did you do before apps?

You clicked around to find the number for the station, and noticed that there was a Yelp! page… which was wild to see since it was a public service…not a donut shop. Still, you poked around the main webpage hoping that there were different lines, like for an operator or something, but no - just the one number to call.

But you’d finished your burrito, and you had a client call to prep for, anyway.

You could only hope that it would keep…and not be too weird.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

Wednesday was an early day.

You started checking emails before you were out of bed to see what might have happened overnight - nothing that was literally immediate. So you’d gotten up, found a quick YouTube yoga session, grabbed a shower but not your hair - dry shampoo would work for another day…and then you’d grabbed a yogurt, a granola bar, and a protein shake for breakfast and a little wheel of cheese and some nuts for a snack…otherwise, you would stress eat ALL of the BBQ flavored chips in the breakroom.

You might still.

You got to the office by 7:45 AM and were only minimally sweaty.

You ate at your desk.

And no burrito time because there were changes that someone wanted to the formatting of all the tables and charts…so you ordered a green bowl and the de-stress green drink and a ginger shot in the group order that the admin had started.

You knew the ginger shot well - it was vile, but it did wake you up.

It was one of those days where even going to the bathroom felt timed. Not in a visible way, but going always risked that that would be exactly when someone would ‘not be able to find you.’ Because bodily functions ceased to exist if there was a deliverable, somehow. At least in the minds of your colleagues, anyway.

And then there was dinner - a team dinner to celebrate another job ending. You’d thought you could slip out of it, but no - it was planned - someone had flown in…therefore, an Irish goodbye was not the fuck happening.

You lingered at your desk a bit so you could at least Uber to the restaurant on your own. And for once, you loved LA traffic because it gave you a solid twenty-five minutes of quiet.

Or it would have…if you hadn’t started talking to your driver.

But he was nice in that way that was endearing and easily approachable, and when you started off by asking if you could get his opinion, he was locked in like you’d known one another since childhood.

By the time you were getting your first drink, you’d been told emphatically to call that fire station!

You’d almost done it in the Uber, but his app had pinged for a pickup. He’d wished you good luck, though.

And anyway, at least you’d talked to someone about it. And they thought it was a genuine offer, partially because “man was at work, and he still dropped his name. MAMA come on.”

Did it maybe confirm your own thoughts? Yes.

But that was okay.

And once you’d had two cocktails, you slipped out to the balcony and dialed the number.

You listened to the first ring, and before there could even be a second one - “Fire Station 20, Specialist Kim speaking.”

The voice was so quick and abrupt. “Uh, hi - sorry, someone told me to call? And now that feels slightly weird…” Your voice trailed off, and you definitely wanted to hang up.

There was barely a pause. “Seungcheol - he’s not on shift, but I’ll tell him that the Mets Girl called - he’s back on Friday, and I feel like he’s got a pile of paperwork, so call like early when he’ll be in the office.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh at the informational deluge. “That’s extremely specific—”

“I know, but I’m not a fan of missed connections, so Friday, like 0800 - solid chance that he’ll be the only person in the office then, too.”

You nodded, still smiling. “Okay, Friday - thanks.”

And the call ended - not with a nasally operator or a phone tree debacle - just very specific directions from someone who knew Seungcheol.

It was maybe less nerve-inducing to know that apparently he had told someone that you were going to call…still, there was Thursday to get through.

And then the actual call.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

Thursday dragged at a literal sloth’s pace. But uphill. So maybe it was just a human pace, but going up an extremely steep incline…the nuance did not matter.

The day was a fucking slog until you were in your car and experiencing zero traffic because it was like 1:00 AM - it was technically Friday.

It was technically Friday, and all you wanted to do was pass out under a rock without wifi or cell signal for the next three days.

But while you were sitting at a tremendously long red light on West Sunset, you remembered that you were supposed to call Seungcheol…today. 0800 according to the voice who’d answered the call.

You weren’t sure if you could think of a less sexy scenario - a scheduled call with a member of the male species after other members of that species had given you endless tedious fucking notes on your report section, including that the shadow they’d requested for their tables was slightly larger than what they preferred…it was the kind of thing that made you consider physical violence.

But, no, you’d made it through. And you’d be revived by 0800.

You exhaled a long, slow breath and stared at the stupid red light, willing it to CHANGE.

And once it finally did - you made it home, parked. And autopiloted yourself to your room. You didn’t even change for bed or pull the duvet down - you just face planted.

Sleep was good.

But your 6:00 AM alarm was bad. Still, you sat up somehow, blinking into existence and hoping a shower would get your brain online.

You were in the office by 7:45 AM - again.

And you left to get breakfast - and to call.

You felt like being on the plaza near a coffee shop was better than your normal choice of hiding in the stairwell.

The call was still scary - that whole one ring and ANSWER thing, which was probably great when the caller had an actual emergency. Maybe he would let it ring twice, though - maybe?

You jammed your headphones in and tapped to dial.

One ring. Literally.

“Fire station 20, Captain Choi speaking.”

It was so crisp - he sounded rested, even - how dare he. “Um, right, hi,” you croaked - you weren’t a wizened crone of anything, scout’s honor. You squeezed your eyes closed. “I’m - uh - I’m the false-alarm-burnt-toast-Mets-hat-girl, and I don’t know if you were serious about my calling or not…” Your voice trailed off into the fucking ether.

You could feel the pause - he was definitely deciding something. “I - yeah, I was, actually.”

Nodding, you opened your eyes to see the little bee sanctuary things you usually sat near. “This is maybe early, but when I called before, umm—”

“Mingyu told you I’d be in the office?”

“Yes - that - that’s the one.”

He was quiet for a moment. “So - I forgot that every call that comes in is recorded for training—”

You laughed. “Of course they are.”

“But if you happen to have Instagram?”

“Definitely, I am a member of this century - what should I be looking for?” You were trying to keep it together.

“It’s - basically my name…”

“Ah, a creative,” you mumbled, glad you were wearing headphones and could swap to the app and search.

“I know it’s - I spent time choosing where to add the period.”

You smiled and ran a hand through your hair. “Uh-huh - okay, so I’m guessing you were also creative with the profile picture that is clearly you?”

“Umhm, that’s - that’s me,” his voice cracked slightly. “This is terrible - this is like fourth date territory.”

You laughed then. “I think it’s perfect. No notes.”

He did at least have it set to private. You hit ‘follow’ and saw the almost immediate add.

You clicked into the messages and typed quickly.

“Testing?” he asked, reading out your message like it needed scrutiny.

“Exactly - testing.”

You watched the bubble pop up - ‘10-4’.

You smiled. “Good, 10-4.”

Another message popped up - ‘rlly srry this is complicated.’

“It’s fine - it’s silly, not catastrophic,” you mumbled.

“So we can plan?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so, and for the record, and for the benefit of the Yelp page I happened to see - five out of five stars - all questions were answered - you were extremely obliging and knowledgeable at all times - I felt like this was just a really safe space for me...”

“That’s—” again the pause in his voice. “That’s great - I’m glad to hear that - if we can be of any further service—”

“No, no - super productive chat, thanks so much.”

And you ended the call and covered your mouth with a hand to hide the tiny screech that came from how insane the last, approximately, three minutes of your life had been.

You’d just given him a five-star rating in case there was like a review of recording and called it a safe space. What the fuck was your life, anyway?

✦•┈๑⋅… 3 …·๑┈•✦

He was on a two-day shift. And it was on day two that Mingyu came in to cover for someone who’d gotten sick.

He’d been so close to not having to give any details in person.

But there Mingyu was at roll-call…waiting, smiling, like a fucking shark…and Seungcheol’s dating life was the blood in the water. For once, he was glad he would be out inspecting buildings for the day.

Which only postponed the inevitable.

So a day of walking around a building site, sweating and miserable, checking for tiny fire code issues, and knowing Mingyu would still be there.

It was something, though - he could try to condense everything down while he sat in the back and stared blankly at a page of code in stupid, tiny font that made him feel like he needed his vision checked. Or maybe he could just talk about the phone call, not the extended cut of what planning looked like so far. Mingyu did not need to know that Seungcheol’d figured out that text bricks from you were normal and something like an emoji and one word were your version of “death.” And Mingyu never needed to know that Seungcheol liked your messages and thought it was cute when you used the goofy in-app features like the gift box message thing. Even he was embarrassed that he enjoyed it, and he had practically zero game. He should’ve been attempting to be cool.

But it felt pointless somehow like you already sort of knew that he was possibly a dork on some level. And didn’t seem to care. So technically a win, since judging by your Insta…you were hot. And probably not dorky since you went skiing and went to brunch with actual people and willingly stood in group pictures.

He didn’t go skiing. He went to brunch when Mingyu dragged him along. He avoided photos…mostly. He was…fit…he posted gym selfies. Which you had gone through and spam-liked over the weekend at 2 AM. He hadn’t asked for details about that - he just stared at the notifications when he woke up. You’d hearted every single one. Even lying in bed, he’d felt how warm his cheeks had gotten - it hadn’t mattered that he posted thirst traps - it mattered that you’d looked at every thirst trap and tapped the ‘heart’ icon. And that you knew roughly what he looked like under all the fire gear. That was a prime reason he’d set his account to private - people noticing things, when he was generally pretty modest. It wasn’t like he wasn’t noticing you…he was just quiet about it.

Still, he had to avoid telling Mingyu things.

Maybe if the date went well, then he would share? No, that didn’t sound like him.

Besides, he’d searched you in general and saw your firm profile…and your LinkedIn and all the stuff that read like it was from another planet. It wasn’t bad to see, but he wondered if maybe he’d seem boring. Boring and dorky. Even if he was fit - those were maybe strikes against anything besides a few dates…maybe one hookup. He wasn’t like Mingyu - he couldn’t just flatly be positive - he needed to manage his expectations, even if messaging you was fun - he didn’t know what it would be like in person.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

You still weren’t fully certain how you’d found yourself sitting next to Fire Captain Choi Seungcheol in the stands at a Dodgers game. Besides luck and that he possibly had questionable standards.

They weren’t playing the Mets. 

Regardless, when he texted details a few days before, he’d not so subtly suggested a different hat - something about trying to fit in. 

You’d glowered at the screen - your face scrunching because you weren’t that obtuse. Besides, you didn’t even like baseball. Fit in, though? You’d fit in alright. Like it was even a challenge to begin with and not just something silly he’d said. You’d rolled your eyes at yourself as you got ready. You really knew how to take the bait and run with it…at least he’d know that part. And only mildly at your expense.

Because you had gone slightly insane borrowing a jersey from a co-worker. A classic away jersey, too, apparently, according to Greg, who sat in a different cubicle cluster. You weren’t fucking around. 

Seungcheol had still smirked at you when he saw you. “Cute,” he’d muttered, walking you to his Jeep. 

You had the slight urge to give him the finger…instead, you just rolled your eyes and shook your head because, in your own weird way, you’d tried to do exactly what he’d suggested…fit in.

And maybe you let him open your door for you.

It was a little high school. 

But also a little cute since you did have to climb onto the side step. But mostly because he seemed kind of earnest about it - not like it was ironic door opening or he wanted to touch your ass. More like this was just the thing to do.

He had a Jeep-Jeep - all white…and your knowledge ended there. It was one of the ones that looked outdoorsy and had rubber ducks across the dashboard, filling the front window. You wanted to poke a duck, but had no clue what they meant - gang symbols for all you knew. Therefore, no clue if it was rude or playful to touch. But there was one pink one that you had the urge to hurl out the window when you were on West Sunset. 

Instead, you busied yourself staring out the window and glancing at him while he was driving - you’d done some light insta stalking. And maybe some photo liking…but he definitely posted thirst traps. 

Gym selfie thirst traps, too. 

Rei had caught you ogling in the kitchen and classified him as ‘Damnnn - if you don’t fuck, I swear.’ You’d laughed, of course, even if you felt just a little flustered. 

Because he was maybe, unquestionably sexy…a word you weren’t super fond of, but you still kept finding yourself scrolling idly through his photos for the last few days…weeks? years? Who knew anymore… 

You’d been in bed the night before, scrolling, and you wondered if you’d ever been this interested in a man’s pecs before.

No. clearly.

You’d sighed loudly into the dark. 

“He’s sexy,” you’d huffed to yourself, flopping around until you found the right position and the cool spot under your pillow. “He’s stupidly sexy.”

Still, it was a little difficult to reconcile the thirst traps where he was flexing to show his arms, cap pulled low over his eyes, and the guy next to you in the car toggling around for music that didn’t sound like it was part of a gym playlist. 

So much trap rap…and EDM, and you kind of respected both - it was more his own reaction to the situation that was entertaining.

His need to hit skip quickly and repeatedly was palpable.

You tried not to grin since the cosmos and his phone seemed to be set on embarrassing him. 

You wanted to tease him. Or at least wrestle the aux cord from him for his own good. 

He’d finally settled for just turning it off when Cyndi Lauper started playing. 

Time after time, indeed, you thought with a snort. 

“Cute,” you muttered, staring out the window, smiling hard, trying to let him save face and almost succeeding. 

But after a few minutes, you turned and grabbed the aux cord, plugging it into your phone and playing what you considered ‘music for company’, aka not the 8 Mile soundtrack, which you were certain lurked in his saves. 

You weren’t embarrassed by house music, though. And you enjoyed the knowing smile that crossed his face - something like ‘of course,’ clearly populating his brain. 

˚⟡˖ ࣪

You were glad it was at least a night game. The temps would drop to something tolerable. LA heat could be brutal, after all. 

The problem was - you hated baseball. 

It was so boring.

The games you went to as a kid were basically you and a cousin running riot around the stadium - or just leaving and grabbing the train to do something better. 

But this was a date that you initiated, to be fair, and the seats were good, as in not absolute nosebleeds. 

You were close to the dugout, actually. You could hear the bat crack the ball now and then. But it wasn’t like soccer with fan chants, and it definitely wasn’t like football with everyone pounding everyone else. It was like sitting in another era…where talkies were all the rage and the radio was maybe leading young girls down a path of immorality. You pinched your arm to keep from laughing at the bizarre mental tableau you were building. 

And seeing Seungcheol in civilian wear was almost awkward. You had just assumed he only appeared in compression shirts and officers’ slacks 24/7, waiting for a call. But no. Jeans, a t-shirt that was not as revealing as his gymwear, plus he was wearing an oversized button-down over his t-shirt (unbuttoned, at least), and a cap that was just the right amount of worn-in. He looked like the actual fan. 

While you looked like you were cosplaying as a rabid fan. 

He looked like he was watching with interest.

And you looked like you were practicing as an extra for a zombie movie - glassy eyes and minimal movement.  

Which was something…you gave him a sideways glance, knowing it would just confirm that ‘yes - that was his jawline’…and wasn’t it kind of amazing? Yes, you answered silently.

But the silence couldn’t last.

“So, are you one of those guys who's annoyed if I ask questions about the game?” You had to ask - sitting in total quiet on a date was too bizarre.

He turned, brows scrunched like he’d heard the question and was confused why he was being asked it. “No.”

Nodding, you watched the batter approaching home plate. “Okay - the batter - is he any good?”

Seungcheol shrugged. “He’s okay, I think,” he mumbled.

“You think?” you asked, skepticism dripping.

He cleared his throat. “I like watching because it’s fun - I don’t go all in on stats and stuff…”

You gasped and pushed his shoulder lightly. “But you know enough to dunk on my Mets hat?”

He nodded, turning to look at you again, eyes wide with certainty. “Yes - they suck - full stop.”

You giggled at the intensity. “But you don’t know stats…”

“Even the most casual of casual fans would know they suck.”

“Mmhm, coming from a casual fan…” you muttered.

He shook his head. “I’m not that casual.”

You sighed and glanced at the Jumbotron as it flashed stats and cut to the field. You’d literally never listened to anything at a game as a kid, except the heckling - that was fun. You knew what a home run was…that was technically something.

“So, can I ask something?” he asked, voice light and interrupting the stampede of your own thoughts.

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s a date - questions are sort of the point,” you added.

“You wondered if you could ask sports questions?”

You huffed. “Yeah, because experience tells me men don’t like being bothered during their sport watching.”

“Date rules don’t trump sport watching in your world?”

You paused to consider and finally shook your head. “No, if anything it means sit back and prepare to be ignored for like two hours.”

“Wait - timeout - you’re telling me that your experience is being ignored on dates like this, and you were like ‘let’s go to a game’?” he asked, a small grin appearing.

Oh, no - he couldn’t be making mental leaps like whatever he was. “Okay, before you start thinking some boy thing—”

“What are boy things?” he interrupted.

You groaned. “You know, just like before you start telling yourself I was just so into you I’ll sit through a miserable activity or some similar macho nonsense—”

“You are literally sitting and dressed seriously for a thing you don’t like.”

You pursed your lips. “Be that as it may - okay - just accept that I may have a weird competitive streak at times that outruns anything else, and you were so smug—”

“I wasn’t smug - I was on duty—”

“Umhm, and judging how I dressed in a panic. And mentioning that I should fit in…”

He laughed. “I – yeah, fine, the yellow snow boots were something…and wearing that hat would be so random…”

You crossed your arms in a faux-sulk. “I love those boots - they’re technically Moon Boots, by the way, which are very cool. And I already explained the hat…”

He nodded, glancing at you, clearly smiling as he examined your state. “Fine, if we’re saying embarrassing things—”

“I’m not embarrassed about my footwear…”

He smirked. “Can I say my thing?”

You nodded, pressing a finger to your lips like you were in Kindergarten and needed to prove you’d be quiet.

He gave a soft shake of his head. “I didn’t really think the date would get this far,” he said, voice flat.

You felt your brows scrunch. “Wait - far as in?” You had to clarify.

He shrugged again. “I sort of thought you would cancel, well, no, actually I didn’t think you would call…”

Your brows went up.

“Why?” you asked, voice a little sharp.

He hummed, gaze flicking back to the game. “You seem a little out of my lane, I guess,” he mumbled. 

Your brows scrunched together. “How?”

He looked back at the game for a moment. “Your LinkedIn reads very intensely, I guess,” he said with a small laugh. 

You immediately felt heat in your face - you hadn’t even considered stalking LinkedIn. But you fully knew how your profile sounded…very accolade-heavy, and then there was your job that sounded oh-so-serious and was basically bullshit that you hated waking up for. 

You nodded. “Right,” you mumbled, chewing your lip lightly, “sounds like the online stalking was mutual, then?” 

“Seems like it…I just didn’t ‘heart’ things.”

You felt the way your head jerked at that and forced yourself to stare straight ahead. So what if you had hearted things?

A quiet settled between you and him. Not awkward silence, exactly. More like the normal quiet that sometimes comes in a conversation. You felt his knee brush yours - you watched for a moment to see if he pulled away…one Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…you couldn’t help glancing every few seconds to see if it was still happening - the actual feeling of denim against your skin wasn’t enough - you needed the visual.

The silence didn’t last.

“So, besides thinking I’m smug, why come to a game you don’t like?” He asked, glancing at you, knee still touching yours. 

You flushed - you needed to say something real. “Uh, honestly?”

“Yes, ideally.”

You grinned. “Right - ideally - uh, because I met you in person…and apps are so weird, so I decided I’d only talk to someone if I met them in the wild - plus you didn’t seem offended by me, generally, which is always a plus….”

He hummed again. The sound was soft, like he was registering the response for its quality. 

“Apps are weird,” he agreed.

You nodded. “Right? Like, who wants to type a brick about themselves?”

“Everyone I work with,” he admitted.

You glanced with interest. “You?”

You watched the slight pink appear higher on his cheeks. “Not by choice,” he offered, looking away quickly. 

You grinned, immediately opening your phone to do recon…post-recon, you wondered to yourself. 

He was easy to find. You started to read his bio, but he was also sitting next to you. You bit your lip lightly, navigating around to your own profile, which you’d never completed.

An idea came to you, and you clicked into the questionnaire. “Okay, so instead of me creeping on what I feel like was perhaps a group effort for you,” you mumbled, glancing to see the way he was pointedly staring at the game, “maybe we go through some of the insane questions on my unfinished profile?” you offered, almost sounding excited. 

It was at least distracting. And you found out that he really liked his job and that he lived in the fire station when he was on call. “Really? Don’t you miss your bed, though?” you’d leaned slightly closer, like it was the literal most interesting fact in the world. 

He’d glanced at you and rolled his eyes. “Yes - sometimes, but it’s not bad,” he added.

You nodded, humming. “So what else do you do when you’re there?”

“Test stuff, repair things, go to meetings…” he glanced at you then as if to ask if he needed to go on.

“Do you commute?”

“Umhm.”

“Right.” You glanced at his knee that was still touching yours.

You didn’t really pay attention to the game. And even he didn’t seem to want to sit through the double-triple-heptagonal overtime. You’d followed him out of the stands and ended up looping your arm through his as you walked through the milling groups of people waiting for the bathrooms or picking up food. You’d squeezed closer to him whenever you felt like you might collide with some oncoming person.

And then you were finally in the massive parking lot, arm still looped through his as you walked to his parking space.

You were mostly glad to be out of the ballpark. You sighed when you were back in his car, almost happy to see the ducks staring at you in greeting. 

You still didn’t poke them. 

You listened to the car start, feeling the ambient heat wrestle with the first waves of the AC. “I liked the Cyndi Lauper,” you mumbled, staring out the window at some guy with face paint. 

“Who doesn’t?” He asked, getting situated. 

You were still watching the face-painter. “Lunatics?” you mused.

The ride home was easy. 

It was late - traffic was almost nothing. 

And then you were parked in the driveway. You would have normally popped out of a guy’s car so fast. 

But you didn’t.

You stayed in the seat, feeling the weird liminal space of being in his Jeep - you were outside but also not...

“What’s with the ducks?” You couldn’t keep it in. 

He glanced at them. “Uh, kind of a dumb Jeep thing - you see someone else, and you leave a duck and collect the ones people leave you.” He answered. 

You stared for a moment. “That’s so…wholesome,” you sighed, turning to look at him. 

He nodded, reaching to poke a duck back into its proper place. 

You waited for him to turn back to you again. One-banana, two-banana, you counted internally. 

“Seungcheol,” you whispered like his name was some secret phrase.

He looked. “Hmm?”

“Could we like maybe go out again?” you asked, gently nudging the duck butt of the pink duck.

He watched you for a moment, his intense baby-cow eyes on you, and nodded. “Yeah,” he confirmed. 

You pursed your lips, pausing for the drama. “Like soon, maybe?”

“Should I bother trying to be cool and wait like two days or whatever to answer?” He asked, a smile building. 

You tilted your head. “Please be joking,” you muttered. 

He smiled - fucking dimples that did weird things to your brain appearing on cue. “Yeah, I’m—”

You cut him off, leaning across the console to kiss him. 

It could have been quick. But you’d been thinking about it since the third inning. 

His lips were warm - your fingers and hand pressed gently to his cheek. You weren’t expecting him to deepen it, to nip lightly at your lower lip - you breathed harder when he did, leaning closer, opening for him. Your fingers tangled in his short black hair - his hand came to your jaw, guiding you, tracing along the side of your neck and down to the center of your collarbones, until you needed to breathe, anyway. 

You didn’t exactly want to stop. 

You swallowed hard and gave his hair a gentle tug and got rewarded with a smirk and the reappearance of his dimples. You wanted to climb into the back seat…so high school of you.

You bit your tongue gently, deciding this shouldn’t be that - not yet, anyway.

“Message me?” you asked, as you gently poked his left dimple.

“Yeah.” It was so simple - the way he gazed at you as he answered, his voice breathy - the way he didn’t push for more, even though you hadn’t let go, even though his fingers were still tracing just under your collarbone, teasing the neckline of the jersey. 

You pressed the bridge of your nose to his, letting your lips barely graze his before you pulled back and shifted back to your own seat.

And then you had to get out. Because staying would have been a weird choice.

You were almost inside when you stopped to wave to him - then you slipped inside, messaging him as you walked upstairs.

[y/n]

ur sweet and it was fun

[y/n]

let me kno u get home pls

[choi.s]

home now it was fun ttyl?

[y/n]

you better i know where u wrk

[choi.s]

another threat?

[y/n]

maybe first one worked out pretty well 💅 andd it would be fun to see you come down a pole…

✦•┈๑⋅… 4 …·๑┈•✦

Cleaning the mess hall was not Seungcheol’s favorite, but it meant he could keep thinking about his date without Mingyu’s interjections. Not that they were terrible, exactly. He just wanted it to be in his brain for a little while longer - just him with the details of how good you looked in a jersey - the most bored super fan in the world. He had to pause wiping down a table and force the smile that was forming into something more neutral.

He couldn’t walk around looking happy - someone would notice. It wasn’t just Mingyu who tried to set him up. Soonyoung had once stared at him from across the table at lunch and suggested his own sister…the same sister who assumed any calls from Soonyoung were butt-dials.

He needed to look stern. He tried thinking about something serious…a graph? Graphs were usually serious…and boring. Graphs didn’t leave their knees touching his. Graphs would not have put up with any of that - graphs would have clutched pearls and called him ‘forward’…you hadn’t, though. You’d pressed your knee slightly to his…your knees were nice too, and your legs…he should be thanking whoever invented shorts.

“Dude!”

Seungcheol turned around. “What? Sorry…”

Mingyu grinned and pushed Soonyoung’s arm. “Told you - he finally ended his drought.”

“No, he looks spaced out and dopey even when he hasn’t gotten laid,” Soonyoung said, voice matter-of-fact.

Seungcheol glared at Mingyu for a moment…he’d clearly told Soonyoung. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the fact that there had been a date. Mingyu was taller, but that had never really stopped Seungcheol from tackling him before or putting him in a hold that would make him tap out.

Mingyu held up his hands. “He noticed the follow on Insta - I was under duress - I swear,” he said it as he was slowly moving to stand behind Soonyoung. Like Soonie was a serious block.

Seungcheol started to circle the table. Mingyu jumped slightly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Who else did you accidentally tell?”

“No one…basically,” Mingyu reassured, walking backwards, putting a long table between himself and Seungcheol.

Seungcheol shook his head, not accepting that little ‘basically’ Mingyu added.

“Jeonghan knows - he thinks you have a plus one,” Soonyoung said, stepping out of Seungcheol’s way.

Seungcheol’s eyes widened. “The fuck?”

Mingyu shrugged. “It just…we were in chat, and everyone noticed the hot girl follow—” and then Mingyu was running.

Seungcheol scrunched his face. “I know where you sleep!”

Mingyu flipped him off as he kept going. Seungcheol rolled his eyes. “He better fucking run home.”

He turned to find Soonyoung still there. “Okay, but for real, inquiring minds and all…” Soonyoung said with a crazy forced smile…like that was convincing anyone.

Seungcheol shook his head. “No. Fuck off - aren’t you supposed to be washing something?”

“Did it. Wrote a book about it. Sorry, but Mingyu told us about the toast and the hat and—”

“So, he ran his mouth? I don’t have to corroborate any of it. In fact, you all - we’re not friends for the rest of shift - I’m the captain on duty - fuck off somewhere.” He crossed his arms and did his best ‘eat shit’ face.

And Soonyoung just walked closer until he reached up and squished Seungcheol’s cheeks. “I know that works on the recruits, but seriously,” he squished Seungcheol’s cheek harder, “I’ve known you too long for it to really have the same effect. Besides, you’ll spill the beans eventually and be annoyingly cute and shit - so fine, I’ve got an audiobook...” he said it like it was the biggest fucking deal to be listening to some murder mystery while he vacuumed.

But he did finally stop squishing Seungcheol’s cheeks like the most intense eomma on the planet. “There’s a second date, though, right?”

Seungcheol just stared in response, eyebrow arched in annoyance because Soonie couldn’t actually be fishing for fucking details. Apparently, some things still worked on Soonyoung since he backed away then. “I’ll just assume the stony face means ‘yes’…” he declared as he walked away.

Seungcheol didn’t care, but he checked the gc. Why was all his shit somehow always in there, he wondered, scrolling…fucking Mingyu.

He slept off and on that night - no emergencies, at least - and left for home the next morning. He’d mostly not talked to his friends until the 0800 shift swap. But he also knew it was kind of dumb to be mad at them when they were just happy for him - happy idiots. He’d finally broken when they were playing pool against each other. He hadn’t told them about knees touching or anything, but he’d admitted that there had been a kiss. And it was like being attacked by two oversized dogs with way too many questions about what kind of kiss it was. What was the pressure like? How long did it lasttt? Where were your hands?!

Fucking idiots. His idiots.

He was sitting in the parking lot now, though. Costco. His own version of a zombie apocalypse…too crowded, everyone for themselves, shoving, crying…nightmare stuff.

He felt his phone buzz…you. You, whose day was just starting. You who looked really sexy in shorts and a jersey and had definitely made out with him…still talking to him…the same him who’d still been hard about the makeout when he’d gotten home after the game. He’d had the briefest, tiniest urge to send you a dick pic after the game and something about it being your fault.

Why did he feel like you would be down for a dick pic? Constant flow of messages? But you hated online dating…but you didn’t seem to hate him. And he still wasn’t sure what that kind of photo would do. He’d snapped a bathroom selfie the day before, after lifting…shirt up, abs and arms. He smirked, knowing you were hating work at that very moment…his thumb hovered over the photo…you’d literally liked every single thirst trap…this was thirstier?

Then the message popped up.

[y/n]

so jealous ur at costco during the day

He snorted, closing his eyes, letting it really sink in that you were talking about his Costco run. He leaned forward, letting his forehead rest on the steering wheel. He was going to send a thirst trap to someone who wanted to talk about Costco…No. Shit. He couldn’t, right?

[choi.s]

u mean the most calustrophic store on earth?

[y/n]

gots to love it

[choi.s]

i don’t tho dread it is more accurate

[y/n]

that’s the beauty stock up

[choi.s]

i have like one closet

[y/n]

just be more efficient

[choi.s]

is this where i say smth dumb abt efficiency and get to see u again

[y/n]

you dun have to say anything dumb i already asked

[choi.s]

right u keep doing that

[y/n]

be faster next time

[choi.s]

what’s faster for u asking for a thrid date now

[y/n]

i do like like a schedule

[choi.s]

dinner?

[y/n]

when second date or third

[choi.s]

when says grl w worst schedule ever 2nd

[y/n]

when asks grl who will try very hard to make it work even if slightly dead

[choi.s]

tell me when works

[y/n]

thurs??

[choi.s]

yes

[y/n]

ayeeee sweet - date 2 dinner consisting of 1 dead grl & 1 pretty boy

[choi.s]

date 3

[y/n]

let me check

[choi.s]

srsly?

[y/n]

i mean...yeah

˚⟡˖ ࣪

He’d made it through Costco and back home. He shoved the cold things in his fridge quickly, and went upstairs to get Kkuma. He didn’t like to be late picking her up after his shifts. Mrs. Lee was already way too nice for keeping Kkuma as often as she did - she was practically a second home for the little white fuzz ball.

Precious white fuzz ball, he corrected himself as he caught his hand on the bannister leading to the second floor, smooth wood gliding under his hand.

He knew Mrs. Lee loved her “Kkuma time.” She even took Kkuma to the dog groomer sometimes - she’d gifted Kkuma a rain jacket for walks and little knitted doggie sweaters when the weather started to shift - “she needs some extra warmth.” Which, they all went along with the bow clips Seungcheol bought to keep Kkuma’s bangs out of her eyes...he winced at the door - he maybe did too much as a dog-Dad.

He knocked on the heavy wooden door - not his normal ‘official’ knuckle rapping, the soft, polite knocks of a neighbor. He appreciated the sound of knocking against old wood, though - it was one of the nice things about living in a building from like the 1920s. Wooden doors and noisy pipes and weirdly good layouts.

The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Lee, already up, awake, and dressed, wearing a massive sun visor that made her have to literally tilt her head fully skyward to see him.

“Seungcheol - we’re going for walkies now, you go home and rest,” she said in that clipped way that always made him smile.

“I’m home, though - I can take her.” He didn’t reach for Kkuma’s lead. He knew when he wasn’t going to win with Mrs. Lee. He still made his attempts, though.

“Ah, we already decided, walkies now, and then after some dilly-dally time in the park, we’ll find Dad, right, Kkuma?” She disappeared completely from his view as she looked down to confer with Seungcheol’s very pampered dog. He nodded to the visor as Mrs. Lee continued cooing over Kkuma, knowing Mrs. Lee and Kkuma would do the half-mile to the park on Golden Ave. and do some route through on the trails he could never exactly replicate on his own, much to Kkuma’s chagrin.

He still felt like he was imposing. “What if I go with you?”

The visor was suddenly up, and Mrs. Lee was staring at him with concern. “Don’t you need sleep? Besides, we have fun.”

“I know - I know, but I like the park too…” And he already felt bad for being late, even if this was his shopping day. He tried to stick to his schedule.

She seemed to weigh whether he actually liked the park and finally nodded. “Okay. Fine. We’ll have girls time another morning.”

And then they were off at the particular breakneck pace that only LA county crosswalk signals managed to slow. It was brisk as fuck. And she nudged him whenever he started to check his phone when they were stalled at a street corner.

“This is walkies time - check your phone at home - you know, where there are not idiot drivers who pay no attention to pedestrians - you’ll be a pancake, and then it will just be me and Kkuma.”

He nodded and smiled and put his phone away. “Sorry,” he mumbled, catching up to her.

She hit his arm when he started to reach for his phone again at the next crosswalk - he knew your messages would pile up - he’d have to back-read…

“So who is she?” Mrs. Lee asked, voice full of certainty.

“It could be a he…” he didn’t know why he’d said that.

“Maybe, but I’ve only heard about ‘shes’ so far.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I – am I that obvious?”

“I like to think I know you somewhat, but you do get twitchy with your phone when there’s someone - and you’re extra twitchy - is it serious?”

She was worse than Mingyu and Soonyoung. He would take ‘describe the pressure of the kiss’ for $800 now. “Uh, I don’t know, actually - we’ve only been on one date so far…”

“But you’re still talking away? How many days ago was the date?”

“Almost a week.” He hadn’t even had to think about it.

She looked up at him with her knowing smile. “You like this one.”

He couldn’t lie - he didn’t need to. “I do—”

“But you’re thinking some silly thing that probably has never even crossed her mind?” she asked, interrupting any qualifiers Seungcheol might have given.

He could have rolled his eyes, but that would be rude…and Mrs. Lee probably had a point. They were already crossing into the park. “She just has a different kind of job,” he said it like it was a question - he wasn’t even sure exactly what his hang-up was at this point.

“What is she?” She barely paused before answering her own question. “A stripper? They make money, too…”

He laughed, covering his mouth quickly. “No - no…like corporate stuff.”

“Oh, she makes good money then?” she asked, rubbing her thumb against her fingers like someone from a film talking about ‘moola.’

“Probably.” He could only guess. He didn’t even know what number of dates were required for things like finances to be discussed.

“Good for her. What’s the problem? You make money, she makes money, buy a nice place and fill it with babies, then I can spoil them and Kkuma.”

“I don’t think we’re that far along—”

“You never know, maybe she’s already decided. I decided before my husband - he was like you, dumb ideas about things - I fixed that, though. We were married for 42 happy years,” she said it with a soft sigh and a smile.

Seungcheol grinned, fully certain that Mrs. Lee had fixed every problem that had come her way. Besides, he’d had dinner with her before, and he’d seen all the photos of the happy couple that decorated the apartment. “Things can happen, though,” he mumbled.

She shrugged. “Maybe, but you should be confident - you’re a nice boy - you keep a nice place - you have a job that keeps you in shape…those things matter more than you think.”

He shrugged, toeing the grass. “I met her because her fire alarm went off,” he admitted, glancing at the small figure next to him.

“Was it her fault?”

“Her roommate’s cooking experiment,” he said, remembering the toast.

“Sounds like she’s the responsible one, then.”

He hadn’t even thought about that. No, he’d been debating whether a gym selfie was right…he hummed.

“She asked me out.” He could feel the slight tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“She wasn’t messing about then.”

He smiled. “We went to see the Dodgers, and she doesn’t even like baseball,” he said with a smile and shake of his head.

“Hmm, she’ll go do something she doesn’t like to spend time with you - doesn’t sound so bad so far.”

“She said not to think that—”

“That means you should.” Mrs. Lee patted his arm. “And she won’t disappear because you take time to go on walkies with Kkuma – you know how I know?” She looked up at him again and made a vague swirling motion with her hand like she was plucking the answer from behind his ear - for the drama, he knew. “Because your phone keeps making that little buzz-BUZZ sound, even I can hear it - you’ll go home to 30 messages,” she said with a smile, patting his arm again.

“It could be work,” he mumbled.

“They’d call.”

✦•┈๑⋅… 5 …·๑┈•✦

It was Thursday. You’d made it. You’d made it through most of the day anyway. And you hadn’t cancelled your date. Which was…you were a little concerned. Not because you didn’t want to go. You really, really did. It was literally what you kept reminding yourself of, that and triple-checking your messages that it was definitely today and not some other Thursday.

It was more like the idea of going home to locate an outfit that wasn’t a set of matching PJs was starting to feel less and less doable. You’d even had one of the gross ginger root shots - vile, by the way. And only semi-effective. You tried to shake it off - it was tapas! Tapas didn’t call for three hours of hair and makeup…and Seungcheol didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be looking for that on a Thursday night anyway.

You couldn’t look like shit.

But jeans were probably fine. And you were leaving on time, even if you had to sneak out, which you didn’t think you’d need to, but you did take a few trips to hide in the stairwell when you thought someone might be approaching to ask for something extra. You left your sweater on your chair, though - the universal for ‘she’s still here - check back.’

You were currently on a stairwell sojourn, drinking a coffee from the break room and trying to mentally picture what non-work clothes were clean…and cute. There were jeans, and maybe an oversized rugby shirt? That was more chill vibes…less ‘I’ve had 32 shots of espresso so far this week.’ Your heart rate was basically the same as a hummingbird’s. You had this cute top that wrapped somehow, but that was giving like spring day or something. You looked up the restaurant again - it was cute and a little more sleek. Jeans and a blue Oxford shirt - white undershirt…shoes? You mentally swiped left on several pairs…you had these mules you’d been wanting to wear, so maybe those. And your hair was in good shape, so some touch-ups to your makeup and a quick wardrobe change were probably all you needed.

You were taking the metro anyway. You were not staring down any level of traffic. He had the day off. He’d offered to meet somewhere near you, but you hadn’t wanted that - you’d already done the date that was nearer to you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line - what if the date was very near him, you wondered. Would it be weird? Would he say if it were…you had no idea. You were meeting at his apartment and walking to the restaurant. Maybe it was time to see if you were already going to be disappointing for him? Rip off that particular band-aid earlier instead of trying to hold out and appear cool…

You hit dial and waited…there were more rings than normal. It was an Instagram call, though. The things people generally assumed were mistakes because they were. “Hi?” Ugh, his voice - so hot.

“Hi,” you said, checking over the railing to see if anyone else had popped in.

“We should swap numbers,” he said abruptly.

You smiled. “Yeah, it does feel a little fake, right?”

“A little…but what’s up?”

You hummed. “I’m that transparent, huh - uhhh,” you sighed and glanced around at the weird gray and orange walls. “Can I ask a favor?”

“You can ask anything…”

You felt the stupid grin that created. “Right, I can - um, tonight, could we maybe do take-away and just like hang out?” You scrunched your eyes closed, waiting to see if there was some massive sigh of annoyance. You were so used to the massive, long sighs.

“You mean not go out?”

“Yeah…that.” You held your breath slightly.

“So no loud people and no standing in line…”

You brightened slightly - he didn’t sound disappointed. “Umhm.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

You smiled, laughing softly. “You’d rather stay in?”

“Almost always.”

You were still grinning. “Cute.”

“Usually I get ‘boring,’ but I’ll take ‘cute.’ Do you want me to meet you at the metro stop? I could place the order from there…”

You leaned against the wall, grinning harder somehow - of course, he would meet you at your stop - that was simply what one did in Seungcheol-world. “Yeah, that – that would be really nice,” you answered, voice softer.

There was a soft pause. “So good day?”

You scrunched your face. “Okay day,” you muttered, picking at your sleeve.

“‘Okay’ isn’t bad, though, right?”

“Right.”

Another beat of quiet, just him on the other end of the line, and you in the stairwell.

“Tell me when the metro does the loop at Downtown?”

It started to sink in - he was really going to meet you, like be waiting for you. “I will.”

“Good.”

Another small beat that you could have counted in banana increments but didn’t.

“Byeee.”

“Bye.”

You ended the call and groaned - he was lucky you hadn’t said ‘bye’ like five more times. You watched his message bubble pop up…and his actual number appear. You shook your head softly - disbelief washing through your brain that he was still sweet. Changes like not going out had been major issues before. It was nice that it wasn’t. Really, really, really, infinity times nice. And you’d still wear the same basic outfit - maybe the rugby shirt was back in the running, though.

You added his number and messaged him so he had yours. He was right that it felt less fake to have actually - finally - exchanged numbers. You watched the little heart react appear on your number. Had you maybe made his day by not wanting to go out? Maybe you’d finally found an introvert…you did tend to look at MBTIs on apps…and always pick the ‘E’ types, even though you were always annoyed when they were constantly ‘E’-ing. Maybe you needed an ‘I’ - maybe you were an ‘I.’ You searched for a quick MBTI quiz as you walked back to your desk.

No reason you couldn’t check.

˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪

You’d managed to leave at exactly 5:00 PM. And traffic was…whatever. It was more when you got home and needed to change that things became a little annoying. You knew roughly what you wanted to wear, like you had it narrowed - it was just a quick change. Except no, it wasn’t because Rei was in a mood to follow you around like a lost puppy from the moment you entered the house.

“Do you really have to go out?” she whined.

You’d found your jeans - now the shirt debate - rugby shirt or Oxford shirt…one had, well, no, they both had some buttons. And you were largely ignoring your roommate. She whined often, if not daily, about something. To your mind, it was maybe that she literally lived the kind of charmed life that was practically a satire of itself. And really, by ‘charmed’ you meant her Dad was richer than ‘as fuck’ could even start to describe. Which was fine mostly - you’d been roommates since your first year of college - year two had just meant that she invited you to live off campus at ‘one of’ her Dad’s places and you paid practically nothing. It’d been amazing because you had just a little bit more than nothing as a student - so it mathed.

It had mathed less and less since then. Especially on a night like this.

“Yes, I want to go, so chill out.” You’d already pulled on a white cropped tank top and your jeans of choice before she’d even barged in…you had also maybe taken a moment to pick cuter panties and a semi-matching bralette, which were details you could and possibly would take to your grave.

“Oh, come on - didn’t you already do the nasty? Why go all the way to Long Beach? It can’t be that good,” she said, her voice husky enough in that almost movie star way that came so close to making it feel like cute banter from a friend, instead of something totally asinine.

You rounded on her. “The nasty? Are you 13? And a boy?”

She shrugged. “For real, come onnn, stay in - I have weed and drinks, and there’s a million Love Island episodes…I reelly should have gotten that call back,” she concluded, doing the thing where she started dragging out her vowels weirdly to sound ‘posh’ before she flopped onto your bed.

You were fairly certain she hadn’t gotten the call back because she’d gone to the casting call not just with a hangover, but still literally drunk. Even Love Island casting had limits, apparently. Or just an insurance issue.

“Look, I just think that it was a laugh and now you should come back to normal life - stay in or go out with me because there is a party tonight and it’s supposed to be like everyone - EVERYone - is going - so you should go too…” she was still lying on your bed, messing with your duvet.

“What so I can be your boring friend in the corner?” That sounded harsher than you wanted, but you also really wanted to figure out your shirt problem…the Oxford looked good, almost sexy because you could control the number of buttons...

“You’re not boring - not that boring, anyway - but you’re my wing…girl, come onnn, don’t make me go alone,” she pleaded again.

You shook your head. “I’m busy tonight.” You were busy almost every night, actually. She’d never seemed to notice that.

“No, you’re heading off towards a night of additional boredom for some reason I can’t work out.”

You were going with the Oxford shirt with a white tank underneath - you headed to the bathroom, touched up your makeup, brushed your teeth…anything else? You stared around. Nothing. Still nothing. Shirt could go on now. No danger of getting stuff on it…

You walked out from the bathroom, grabbed your shirt and bag and decided quickly on some light pink Doc Martens because…walking - fuck - you needed cute socks - you sighed…grabbed some white socks with a cherry pattern, cuffed the hems of your jeans so you didn’t look like a - whatever the fuck - you didn’t care - you needed to catch the metro, not edit your internal monologue.

You stood up and found Rei slightly too close to you. This was getting fucking bonkers.

“Look - I don’t know how to tell you this,” you said it almost gently, as you grabbed her hands and held them like you reelly gave a shit in the moment - she was technically an old friend. “I like him - so stop being mean, and call someone else, okay? Love you, but seriously, I am busy,” you said it all in your best client service tone and with roughly the same forced smile.

And then you walked out.

She definitely followed you and continued like you had barely spoken. Wasn’t she the one who wanted you to start dating? You were out the door - it didn’t matter.

But you downloaded an apartment finder app as you found a spot on the metro car. It was probably time to think about finding your own place - not just time, more akin to long overdue.

You swiped around the map looking for places that looked interesting - none of the giant all-inclusive places - that was definitely not you…you wanted something that felt like it had some history, at least. Or just didn’t look like a cube of cubes, maybe?

Seungcheol had sent some menus that you swapped to. He recommended any of the places, leaving it up to you. You saw a curry and felt your mouth water slightly…he was serious, right?

You messaged for a few minutes about an order at the Curry House. And you figured out that he was serious - he did like it - just nothing super spicy for him.

A fact which you filed away as you heard the bing-bong for Downtown and messaged ‘at downtown.’ And feeling slightly shit…but you left that out. If you waited until you weren’t tired or weren’t stressed, you’d basically be a nun before you could see him again.

Still, it wasn’t the most auspicious start.

˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪

But you hadn’t wanted some Insta-perfect night, anyway. Kind of the opposite.

Plus, when you glanced out the window and saw him literally waiting, it was - you couldn’t help the dopey grin your face was suddenly arranging itself into…at least he was also wearing jeans and this like knit sweater that was like the nice boy version of his gym shirts. And you were thinking of all the thirst traps…seriously, his upper body, generally, was enough to send you spiraling, but why did his jeans show off his ass so well?…you wondered if it was too soon to touch it. 

Probably.

Probably too soon to reveal that side of yourself…the absolute horn-dog side.

Besides, he was waiting. And didn’t look impatient or annoyed. You almost waved like a loon but tamped it down. It wasn’t like you’d traveled the world or been to war and only conversed via letters from the literal trenches…it’d been like a week. Even if he was looking kind of extra gorgeous by just showing up.

You worked your way towards the doors of the train car and walked out quickly in case any tourists had the idea to stampede. You walked to him, giving a small wave as you crossed your arms against the gentle wind that had started to pick up. He had his phone open, ready to order, just like he’d said.

You made it to him. “Hey,” you offered, still trying to control the stupid grin that wanted to take over your face - why was he so - whatever he was, you wondered as you noticed the wind barely tossing his hair. Thank the sky gods you were still at least wearing sunglasses and preserving some semblance of calm as you watched the insane display that Mother Nature was putting on for you. At least until he leaned in and kissed your cheek quickly before returning your ‘hey’ as he leaned away.

You smiled then. It was – exactly what you needed. You moved closer and looped your arm through his like you had when you’d been leaving the game the last time. “So was that like how you greet your Grandma and I should ignore it or—”

“No, it was like I – it felt right?” he asked, the slightest glint of concern somewhere deep in his eyes.

You nodded and squeezed his upper arm. “So which way is food?” you asked, voice soft - you leaned on his shoulder, confirming the kiss was right…because leaning on him also felt right.

It wasn’t a long walk. Maybe ten minutes. Which was just enough time for Seungcheol to decide that it was better if his arm was around your waist and that kissing you quickly on the temple while waiting for the lights at crosswalks to change was completely normal.

They were small kisses. Chaste pecks that meant you kept smiling and everything else from the day seemed like it had happened in another lifetime. You’d taken the metro and exited into some new territory not previously known, and there was still curry.

The line was quick.

But you still leaned on his shoulder, wondering slightly if you were about to have curry and maybe pick up where you’d left off? Not a bad idea…or maybe eat delicious curry and poke around his bathroom and then make out like horny teens once you established that he knew what Q-tips were - so many tantalizing options. You were spoiled for choice.

Besides, the walk back to his place was a bit calmer - you were heading away from other people, plus he had precious cargo now…curry and butter chicken and daal. None of that stopped your hand finding his free one - your fingers lacing easily with his as you walked a bit faster, which only made him laugh because ‘you don’t know the building.’ Which…fair. You didn’t. 

“So tell me if I’m hot or cold,” you offered, walking past a crosswalk near an apartment complex, feeling him pull you back.

“Freezing cold,” he said with a smile, pulling your hand closer to his side as he watched for the light to change.

You groaned. “So where is it?”

“Close - like the next block, but it’s a shorter building—”

“Oh, shorter?” You couldn’t help being curious. Almost no one talked about being in a shorter building.

He nodded. “There’s ivy and stuff,” he added.

“In LA?”

He was still staring at the light, and you were staring at him, watching the smile that teased the corner of his mouth. “Well, in Long Beach there’s ivy,” he clarified, tearing his eyes away from the light for a moment, his smirk definitely teasing.

You had the urge to bite his shoulder in retaliation. Instead, you squeezed his hand and started off across the street at a faster pace the moment the light changed. It was one hundred percent faster than you had any business going. But you had two things to look for, though - it was shorter, and there was ivy - it’d stick out like a sort of big green thumb.

And it did…in the best way. 

You paused when you found it, staring at the short brick building with the surprising cornices and the almost completely ivy-covered front…it even trailed to one side.  It was just sandwiched between these two boring concrete blobs. And it had this massive wooden main door, and balconies that included fire escapes…it wasn’t what you’d imagined at all. You’d kind of assumed something cube-y - guys usually went with cube-y…past guys, old guys, not-Seungcheol-guys. They all liked the cube, especially when the cube had a basketball court listed as an amenity. This place, though, was the kind of place you loved finding, not just leftover from another era, but that someone had bothered to keep. 

You were possibly enthralled. He had to pull your hand to get you moving again. 

“Come on,” he mumbled, leading you down the side of the building to a set of covered side entrances with a privacy gate. You tried to imagine what search prompt he entered into which app to find this place. You’d seen guesthouses, cube apartments, and absolutely nothing was this interesting.

He managed to get you inside, which was maybe a mistake - in that once your shoes were off, you padded around behind him, staring at everything, especially a large Shinchan plush that peeked out from the edge of what looked like a loft. You glanced at it as you passed by to go to the kitchen with him…you would find out why the Shinchan seemed to be hiding. But also, how did a studio have a small kitchen, a full bathroom, and a washer and dryer at the back? 

Otherwise, the standouts were the very gorgeous cognac brown leather sofa in the main room, the use of lamps instead of the Big Light™, and the fact that there was hardwood throughout that was somehow highlighted by the rug choices - saturated colors on a sort of warm pecan floor. It was coherent - and there were hand towels and soap dispensers. It was like a functioning human occupied the space and had tastes and preferences.

Brave new world, indeed. 

You used the bathroom just to admire the fact that the soap dispenser had soap in it…but it also made the Shinchan more appealing. Because Seungcheol had only gestured to the loft and said it was the bedroom…but why was Shinchan out of the way, you wondered as you breathed in the lavender hand soap before rinsing and drying your hands. You stayed for a moment and checked out the small collection of face things and some cologne and one small framed piece of art that reminded you of something sort of like graffiti…and then you left before it was clear you were an absolute snoop of the highest order.

But the entire apartment was certainly planting a little hopeful seed in your mind that you could find a place - maybe you just needed to ask the person who’d managed to find this little gem…he was literally standing next to you, unpacking curry and asking whether you wanted a bowl or a plate.

“You have both?” you asked, not even trying to hide your smirk. 

He rolled his eyes. “Are you also going to be shocked when I have actual silverware and not just a drawer of leftover takeaway spoons and forks?”

You nodded. “Naturally - I’ll fall over if you have glassware, too.”

He shook his head, smiling and reaching for a cupboard to open it - water glasses, juice glasses, and mugs - oh my! 

You laughed at the display. “Oh, Choi Seungcheol, you know how to make a girl weak,” you mumbled and kissed his cheek. You were surprised when he turned, his lips catching yours gently - gently for a moment - gently until you felt his arm around your waist and the kiss deepening. He pulled away so slowly. 

“All my pots and pans have their original lids, too,” he whispered, voice low, the slightest waggle of his brows. 

“So sexy,” you answered, finally taking a bowl from him and helping yourself to the lovely curry and rice and naan that looked like it might reset your biological age to childhood.

You ate in the living room at the table in front of the sofa.  

It was comfortable and easy. And the music he picked was markedly different - he’d asked about music vaguely a few days before and got you to admit that you did like jazz.

You stared at the phone for a moment, wondering what else he’d gently wangled out of you…the sneaky sneak. It was another tally under the column of ‘he is sexy,’ though…and maybe even went under the column of ‘he likes me.’

“So how was the metro?” 

You hummed. “Normal, but my standards are at sea level - as long as I’m not driving, it’s acceptable.”

“So it could have smelled like the inside of a gym bag?”

“I’d still take it…” you admitted, voice flat. 

“But plates and bowls?”

You winced. “Look, I’ve found myself in places where a spork would have been a delight?”

“Hence avoiding apps?”

“Precisely why I avoid apps…and anyone my roommate suggests - I’ve learned - that’s almost always for the bit,” you mumbled.

“Really?”

You nodded, glancing at him. “You know, don’t you have one of those friends who like 80% of their existence is so they can have a story to tell?”

He watched you with slightly wide eyes. “No.”

You pushed his shoulder. “Bully for you - seriously, no one who commits too hard to some bullshit?” you asked, clarifying, and sipping your beer.

You could see the crack starting to form as he mentally flipped through some friendship Rolodex. “Yeah, okay, okay…I wouldn’t live with any of them, though.”

“No?”

He shook his head emphatically and popped more chicken into his mouth.

You nodded. “Probably smart. It was fine before, but I think I should maybe branch out,” you said, swiping curry up with your naan. 

“Like move?” he asked, glancing at you.  

“Yeah…like it’s her Dad’s, so you know, cheap rent, but I don’t want to put out toast fires anymore.”

He scrunched his brows. “Please say you don’t have more toast on your lawn…”

You smiled. “No - you would have heard.”

He sighed and leaned back against the sofa, his head tipping back onto the seat for a moment. He groaned, rubbing his stomach for a moment and finally leaning up, glancing at you.

“That good?”

He nodded. “Perfect…”

You grinned and went back to your own food and your sour beer because he’d remembered that you liked sours. And when he picked up some beer, he apparently saw them…and now you had special sour beer sitting in his fridge.

You turned. “So what about you? Your day?”

He shrugged. “Mostly quiet,” he answered with a sigh. 

Glancing again, you wondered if it was really that quiet. 

He smiled. “Sometimes everything is quiet - shifts are quiet besides normal dumb things.”

Of course you rounded on that. “Normal dumb things?” 

He grinned. “I helped Soonyoung film a dance challenge…”

Everything stopped for a moment so you could locate the dance challenge and confirm that Seungcheol was not visible in the video. 

“Disappointed?”

“No, it would have been cute, though…another side to you, and all that,” you said, locking your phone and putting it away. 

“I don’t think competent dancing is one of the sides,” he murmured, still leaning against the sofa.

You were almost finished eating. “I didn’t say you needed to be competent—”

“No, but to me, definitely required,” he said, voice soft. 

It was quiet for a moment.

“But, for you, quiet and silly things mean a good day - nothing serious?”

He hummed. “Yeah, all quiet is the best case.”

It was weird to think about the number of times something was referred to as a ‘fire drill’ in your office, all because Ted or Kevin or whoever was just really shit at client communications. And it was also weird to think that someone you knew actively did something risky for work. You didn’t especially want to think about it…instead, you leaned on the sofa and smoothed his bangs off his forehead. He really, genuinely, had annoyingly clear skin - you weren’t sure you could even spot a pore.

“You’re like safe, though, right?”

His eyes barely opened. “Worried?”

You glanced away for a moment before finding his gaze again. “Apparently,” you murmured, your fingers tracing along his jaw.

“Just assume dance videos unless…I say it’s not dance videos - or admin - there’s always admin,” he sighed.

You leaned against him, then, letting the quiet come back. You had no idea when your brain had decided that worrying for Seungcheol was an active thing running in the background. But you’d said it, so it must be.

˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪

You helped with carrying things back to the kitchen. You dawdled, going to the bathroom to check your hair for a few minutes before you made your way back through the small kitchen to the main room. Seungcheol was on the sofa - you paused for a moment in the hallway, noticing the back of his neck…what if you kissed him there in passing? He’d kissed you already…you tilted your head, considering and decided the angle wasn’t right. Annoying.

So you walked back out to the living room, to your sour beer, and your…Seungcheol, flicking through movies to watch. 

You dropped next to him, happily feeling the sofa and the way it held you. There was a blanket and throw pillows. You ignored them in favor of his arm sliding around your waist and pulling you close, so you could lean against him, your cheek against his chest. You let your arm snake around his waist.

“So why is Shinchan hiding?” you asked.

“Hmm?” he glanced down at you from the projected screen.

You pointed up towards the loft. “Shinchan?”

His eyes followed your finger. “It’s nothing.”

You sighed. “Definitely something then.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“No,” he said flatly.

You grinned at the ‘no,’ your fingers tracing along his side, feeling the smooth muscle under the buttery soft knit fabric. “Totally embarrassed,” you mumbled, nuzzling closer against his chest.

“No - he - it doesn’t go with stuff,” he mumbled.

You couldn’t help smiling, feeling like you’d won, just a bit.

Shinchan definitely went with things…

You let your fingers trace up until you felt his ribs - you could hear the longer pauses on various movie trailers. You bit your lower lip gently.

There were only two small lamps on because movies…

“Seungcheol,” you murmured.

He hummed again.

“What if you found lo-fi or something?” you asked - voice truly, hand on heart, innocent as the driven snow, as you glanced up at him.

There was a pause. “Why?” he asked, looking down at you, gaze focused like he was sizing you up.

You shrugged. “Long day,” you whispered - your bottom lip barely catching between your teeth.

He hummed, but it was a lower tone this time. “Long day?” he echoed.

You nodded, letting your fingers shift and splay over his stomach. “So long…”

You watched him swallow and glance quickly at the screen, changing apps and scrolling for maybe three seconds before there was some vaporwave aesthetic moving screen saver and lo-fi playing.

You giggled when you felt your back hit the sofa.

And the way his lips immediately went to your throat, kissing and sucking gently, then licking and biting his way lower. You hummed, enjoying that he might have been thinking about this exact kind of moment. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you moaned softly - your fingers catching in his hair, pulling gently when he slid the collar of your shirt to the side and placed a line of wet kisses along your clavicle. You pulled his hair roughly, wanting his lips on yours. He leaned up with a soft moan, lips finding yours, biting gently, deepening it. Your hand slid down the neck of his shirt, your nails barely making little half moons against his skin as he licked into you. You felt his hand tracing along your thigh - you rolled your hips up against his…

And then his phone beeped.

He leaned up quickly, checking it. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“What’s wrong?”

He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “I need to walk Kkuma.”

Your brows went up, still uncertain. “Kkuma?”

“My dog – she’s with my neighbor,” he said with a groan.

You smiled. “Seriously?”

You could see the pink blooming higher on his cheeks.

“I just - I wasn’t sure how you’d feel…maybe she’d be too much,” he said with a shrug.

You hummed and reached up, smoothing the mess that you’d both made of his hair. “It’s okay - you hid Shinchan, too,” you said with a grin. “Poor Seungcheol,” you murmured, letting your fingers trace along his jaw. “So thoughtful and handsome,” you added.

His hand caught yours gently, kissing the backs of your fingers before he sat up. He glanced at you with a smile. “Maybe I just wanted to fuck,” he said with a shrug.

You giggled - like he could be that nonchalant - the man who had accidentally played Cyndi Lauper in his desperate bid to not reveal his gym playlist. “Still handsome - still 99.9% sweet, and, I guess, 0.1% fuck boi,” you corrected.

He shook his head. “Just the 0.1%…okay - she’s upstairs.”

You nodded, sitting up, finger combing your hair. “Can I come?”

“Yeah,” he said, standing and fixing his shirt - he offered you a hand, pulling you up. You let him straighten your shirt and look you over. “Do I look like - you know?” he asked.

You smiled and neatened his collar. “No, you basically look like you had dinner and sort of watched a film.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪

You followed him through the building and up the back stairs. He stopped outside a second-floor apartment, knocking lightly. You heard some noise from inside, and then the door swung open to reveal a petite, older woman with amazingly iron-gray hair. She wore a pink floral dressing gown with silver slippers and was accompanied by a small white dog that wasn’t even barking. You could hear the TV playing - you recognized it…Love Island.

“Seungcheol?” she asked, voice a whisper.

“I came to see if she needs a walk,” he said quietly.

“Ah, we went after dinner, but probably - she can come back, though - we’re watching our show.”

“It’s okay,” he glanced at you, looking sheepish. “I probably shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Kkuma staying isn’t a bother. Anyway, introduce us,” she said it with a voice that knew what the next part was and wanted to get to it.

You smiled and walked forward to be introduced, first to Mrs. Lee and then to Kkuma. Mrs. Lee smiled and asked how dinner was. “Amazing,” you answered.

She nodded like she hadn’t expected any other answer. “Good, now go on walkies - I’ll pause the show until you're back.”

You grinned. How could you not?

She picked up Kkuma and handed her to you, while Seungcheol was handed the lead and bags and hand sanitizer. Kkuma was immediately the cutest lump of fluff - with these silly long bangs and big boba eyes. You couldn’t help hugging her gently - she was so warm and cozy like she’d just come from a lap when she was half asleep.

You followed Seungcheol outside with her and held her while he attached her lead to her collar.

He stared for a moment.

“What?” you asked.

“You have to put her down,” he said.

“Oh,” you pouted and sat her down. It felt rude. She glanced up at you like she agreed with the sentiment. “Sorry,” you mumbled to Kkuma.

He shook his head. “No, not you too - she’s already a baby.”

“Is that so bad?”

He watched you for a moment. “We were fully doing things…and stopped - she’s massively babied.”

You grinned and put your arm through his. “She’s so cute, though.”

“She’s watching Love Island with Mrs. Lee…”

“I know,” you yawned and leaned on his shoulder. “I wonder if it’s a good episode?”

You walked with them around the block twice - the first time was apparently for sniffing and the second time was for peeing on what seemed to be a very specific shrub, which would have made you laugh if you weren’t feeling so tired. You hadn’t especially thought about the part where you went home…or you had, but that was ages ago when you were also looking for apartments. A million years before curry and the good sour beers…

You followed him back in to return Kkuma to Mrs. Lee. Apparently, she had genuinely paused the show waiting for Kkuma to come back. And then you walked back to Seungcheol’s, leaning against his back while you waited for him to unlock his door.

“Want to stay?” he asked, closing the door.

You’d taken your shoes off. It wasn’t your plan. Even if you hadn’t thought as specifically about leaving, you had planned generally to leave, and checked a timetable at some point and snapped a screenshot. You glanced around, looking for some logic to appear and suggest a barrier…

“You’re tired - borrow some clothes, take a shower. I’m off tomorrow, too, so I can drive you back in the morning.”

You finally looked at him. He was leaning against the wall near the door, watching you.

You remembered that you had definitely been doing things with him…you nodded. “It’s a work-from-home day, so I can still do the metro—”

“Or I can get breakfast for you and drop you off after, and then maybe you’ll have a less shitty day.”

“I said it was mostly okay…”

“Right, from the stairwell.”

You shrugged. “It’s the easiest break spot.”

He shook his head. “Just come on - come ogle the fact that I have a clean bathtub…”

“There’s a full bathtub?” How had he found this place? 

“You didn’t check?” he asked, glancing suspiciously over his shoulder. 

“I’m not opening shower curtains…” There were boundaries, plus horror movies told you that’s where the dead bodies were, anyway.

“Umhm…”

He ushered you along as he did things, grabbing clothes for you, turning on the taps. You had the feeling that if things were further along, he would have showered with you or at least stayed around to talk…but they weren’t. 

So you were left alone to sniff his soaps and shampoo like an absolute toiletry pervert. None were overtly ‘boy’ scented…nothing tagged ‘spring’ or ‘mountain’ or ‘blood spurt’ or ‘it’s just grappling - no homo.’ Instead, he had something minty from a brand you knew - there actually were other sides to him, despite his suggesting there weren’t…at least not dance-y sides. There was definitely the side that had made this purchasing decision, though, for instance…

He showered after you. Meanwhile, you sat on the sofa, toweling your hair, and pondering when you’d actually become this tired. At least you would see Shinchan, you thought with a wry smile. And you didn’t mind that you’d gone with him to walk Kkuma…you’d literally forgotten how tired you were somehow. Weirdo boy magic - that was the only explanation.

Maybe horniness, too…

“Come on,” he said from somewhere near your side. You nodded and got up, following along. He’d loaned you a washed soft t-shirt and sweats. You went first up the stairs, noticing how tight the spiral was - it was slightly disorienting. There was room to avoid hitting your head in the loft space, though. You weren’t that short, but even Seungcheol didn’t seem in danger of bumping his head.

You waited while he put towels over the pillows. He was going to sleep with damp hair too. “Want Shinchan?” he asked.

You smiled, shaking your head. “Just you,” you said from behind your hand as you yawned.

He nodded, moving closer, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you close. You were already drifting.

You heard the soft ‘could have cancelled,’ as he nuzzled close.

That brought you back - your brows scrunching as you turned around. “Cancelled? Why?” you asked.

“You’re tired - a bad week? Those are reasonable things to say.”

You watched him for a moment, wondering what he was thinking. “That’s the kind of thing I say to people when I don’t want to see them,” you said, smoothing his hair. “I wanted to see you - I had a nice time, like really nice,” you whispered, kissing his cheek before turning back over and pulling his arm around you while you snuggled closer.

˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪

fic navigation: master list ↩️ | ▶️ part 1 | ⏩ part 2 | ⏩ epilogue

a/n: okay fr i hope you enjoyed this - it's my first like multi-big brick fics on tumblr and i really hope you had fun with these two ^^

♡ 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝

p.s. i kind of want a mingyu follow-up piece where he finds the right person LOL

read more here mingyu m.list | seungcheol m.list | general m.list

"No, you don't get it. One-night stands are the best!" Seungkwan declares while adding too much sugar to his iced americano. Your eyes flicker to his boyfriend, who's sitting next to him, and Vernon doesn't even bat an eye while his arm stays wrapped securely around Boo's waist. "No attachments, no mess or awkward small talk. You get what you're after, they get to nut, and then they lock the door on their way out to whatever Uber or taxi that waits to take them home. You probably don't even need to remember their first name!"

At that, your eyebrows raise even higher, and the incredulous snort you let out makes your eyes roll sarcastically. "Why does this feel like you're about to become my pimp?"

Seungkwan's eyes sparkle as his cheeks tint with color, and you're realizing every quickly that your friend was insane.

The first person Seungkwan pushes to you is someone from his marketing class. Dokyeom, or DK for short, is a ray of sunshine and flowers. Seungkwan tells you this would be considered you "dipping your toes in the water to feel the temperature before diving in", and you're briefly wondering if he's determined to make you a whore as he flips his phone to you so you can see a picture of DK that he sneakily took last week.

He ignores your narrowed eyes with a little wave of his hands. "Everyone deserves a 'ho phase.' Now be nice, DK's my partner until the end of the quarter, and he's actually a sweetheart."

Seungkwan is annoyingly right about DK. He's a sweetheart by default who arrives at your apartment door right at 7 pm on the dot. He's got a beautiful smile and a nervous shake in his hands when he hands you a bouquet with a little, "This is for you." He's the perfect gentleman who opens every door for you as you two go on a date at this cute ice cream shop, and he actually asks you questions about yourself and listens. You're not nervous the entire time you spend with him, and you're pretty sure that's why you do what Seungkwan says and "dip your toes in the water." Your best friend is insane.

When DK walks you back to your apartment door, you don't allow yourself to hesitate when asking him if he would like to join you for a nightcap. Your hand grabs his while leading him inside your apartment, and it's you who ends up making the first move to kiss.

You don't know when you last kissed someone who wasn't your ex, and the feeling is foreign but refreshing. Dokyeom's hands settle on your hips, and your lips deepen the kiss until you hear a little hitch in his breath. The sound alone builds a soft heat in your lower stomach, and you realize belatedly that you would like to hear it again.

Your ex was quiet, boring, and vanilla when it came to sex. There was hardly any foreplay unless it was you giving him head, and it was like it was a chore that ended once he got to nut - so when you feel Dokyeom shiver as your fingers twist in his hair, you're feeling pleasantly warm all over. This, this is what you were missing.

Both of you barely separate from the kiss as you two stumble backwards to your living room, and you're already eagerly pawing at his clothes while your tongue licks over his, determined to hear what other noises he can make for you. You can barely register that the noises were words that he was saying until you're chasing after his lips when he pulls back a little to catch his breath. "Are you sure?"

Fuck, Dokyeom is such a sweetheart, and you're only able to nod in response before pushing him back onto your couch as you straddle his lap shortly after. "Yeah, m'sure." You murmur, and your lips find his again while his hardening cock presses up against your panty-covered pussy just right.

You take your time just to kiss him while rolling your hips forward, rocking against his hard cock, until your mind is dizzy and Dokyeom's eyes are swirling with need. It doesn't take long before he's helping you shove his jeans down low enough to free his aching cock, and only then do you sit back to take a moment.

Dokyeom looks so pretty with disheveled hair, glossy eyes, and kiss-bitten lips. His cock is long and flushed at the tip, and even though it doesn't have a lot of girth, your cunt still drools at the prospect of it filling you in a few minutes.

"Do you have-" Your hand is reaching for his cock before you can finish your sentence, and when your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him from the base to the tip, Dokyeom lets out a small hiccuped whine from the back of his throat. His head lolls back, and his hooded eyes stare up at you dizzily before he understands what you're asking.

"Oh! Yeah, let me uh," he's fumbling to reach into his front pocket, his cheeks flushed as he pulls his wallet out and slips out a shiny foil wrapper. He opens it with ease, taking the condom out just as you swipe your thumb over his tip, and the action nearly makes him drop the rubber. When he finally rolls it down his length with a sheepish smile, your pussy throbs with anticipation.

With one hand, Dokyeom holds your waist as his other hand guides his cock to your entrance; his eyebrows are pinched in concentration as you pull your panties to the side, and when you lower yourself until the tip of his cock breaches past your first set of gummy rings, you think: finally.

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and even though technically Dokyeom's actually the one under you, you feel like this is your first step in moving forward. Your gummy walls pulsate, sucking Dokyeom's cock deeper inside, and you watch with fascination as his jaw drops in pleasure. The moment your ass meets his thighs, and the tip of his cock kisses the back of your cunt in greeting, you're realizing just how lame your ex was. You don't even give Dokyeom a chance to grab your waist to anchor himself before you're leaning up on your knees and then sliding back down on his cock with a breathy moan.

Your hands rest on his chest, pushing him further back onto your couch, and you take over control, setting a pace that makes you squeeze around his shaft each time you take him to the hilt. At this point, if you're being honest, you're taking what you want and riding Dokyeom with a mean swirl to your hips, chasing after something you don't know. The feelings you had ignored in favor of saying "you're fine" and "didn't care that you wasted two years on someone" come to the surface, ugly and gnawing at your chest, and you use the negative emotions to bounce faster, your eyes closing to fight back the heat behind your eyelids.

You don't want to think about it; you don't want to think.

Instead, you focus on the way Dokyeom's groaning underneath you, the way his thighs flex under your ass, and the way his fingers dig into your waist to help your movements. Your thighs burn with exertion, but your pace never falters because you can feel him twitching inside you, and you know he's close, and it makes you double your efforts.

You figure the moment he cums, you can give him a sweet kiss in thanks, send him on his way, and finish yourself off alone with your vibrator. That's usually how you had to do it with your ex, and so old habits die hard for you as you swirl your hips, nudging Dokyeom closer to the edge with needy moans and praise.

But what you forget is that Dokyeom's not your ex. That this is a new era for you, and that moment comes to you when Dokyeom moves one of his hands off your waist to press his thumb to your sensitive clit.

Your eyes fly open and catch his with surprise as he gives you a fucked-out smile in response. He presses more firmly into your bundle of nerves as your hips stutter, and when he starts stroking the puffy nub at a fast pace, you choke on your cry as your knees tighten around his hips. "That's it, cum for me. Wanna feel you fall apart."

You never thought hearing those words would trigger you, but it does, and it should be embarrassing that you're shocked when you cum just like he asks. You don't have time to warn him as your hips buck wildly, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he takes over for you. He never lets up, bouncing you on his lap as he rubs your clit. He makes you tremble, fucking you through your high, before he finds his orgasm once you slump into him.

He keeps you seated on his lap, holding you close while his balls twitch against your ass. He spills into the condom with a low groan, and you're kissing him again sloppily. You kiss him in thanks, still in shock as something cracks open in your chest. And Seungkwan is again, annoyingly right, because not even an hour later, you feel a little lighter, a little happier as you wave goodbye to DK. You don't feel guilty as you watch him hop into his taxi to go home, and you're already excited to be in your single era as you crawl into bed satisfied, ready to take back the light you didn't know was dimmed until now.

You don't tell Seungkwan he's right about rebounds. You also don't tell him you saved Dokyeom's number in your phone in case of emergencies. You know one-night stands are usually just for one night, but you've also never orgasmed on a cock that wasn't a dildo, so you figure if desperate times come, at least you had someone to ring for a booty call.

"You're really not going to tell me anything?" Seungkwan scoffs as you sit cross-legged on the floor of his apartment. You're eyeing the seven letters in front of you, ignoring Seungkwan's pout as you try to think of the next word you want to spell out on the Scrabble board sitting on the coffee table.

You, him, and Vernon are in the first round of Scrabble, and you're currently winning. "You're just trying to distract me; it's not my fault you're in last place."

Boo pouts again and looks to his boyfriend for comfort, but Vernon nods in agreement with you, making Seungkwan grumble, sulking. "I tried asking DK, but he wouldn't say anything. Something about not kissing and telling." Seungkwan's eyes narrow on you, assessing as you put down letters to spell joker, and Vernon dutifully writes on a notepad how many points you tallied from it. "So, I know you at least kissed him, but how am I supposed to be a good friend if you don't give me anything to go off of?"

Vernon adds to a word already on the board, and suddenly flap turned into flapjack.

Seungkwan lets out an exasperated sigh and throws down his letter carelessly - he knows he's going to lose against you or his boyfriend, so he uses the 'k' vertically to spell kite. "Can you at least tell me you're still open to jump back into the dating pool?"

At this, you look at Seungkwan and nod your head. It's a simple confirmation, but it gets your friend from slumping forward to sitting up straight again. He claps his hands in triumph, already having ten different people flash across his mind before Vernon speaks up.

"I know a guy, really great, if you're interested."

He doesn't say it needs to be a hookup, just if you want a nice date; he knows a guy, and again, you wonder if your friends think you have no game.

The guy Vernon knows happens to be one of the most popular guys on campus.

Mingyu was the golden boy; he got along with everyone, students, staff- he was a sweetheart. He volunteered in his free time, was top ten in his classes, and was part of the rugby team. In all purposes and tenses, he was perfect.

He was also a walking contradiction.

Mingyu was a big man, buff with muscles, lethal with charming looks, and flinching with a sheepish grin as he dropped the spoon he was holding accidentally into your kitchen sink. If anyone told you that Mingyu would be in your kitchen on a Friday night, wearing your pink apron, and making you cupcakes, you would have laughed in their face - but here you were.

You sat on the barstool at the kitchen counter, watching with a raised eyebrow as Mingyu used your kitchen like he'd been here for years. You had figured when he texted you earlier in the week asking you out, he'd take you to a frat party or invite you to a game, but you were pleasantly surprised that he'd kept it so intimate.

"Are you sure I can't help?" You asked, and Mingyu flashed you a smile, shaking his head.

"No, they're almost done. About fifteen minutes to cool, and then we need to add frosting." You watch as Mingyu takes off the pink apron, hanging it up where he found it before he pulls you closer to him by your chair. The action makes your head a little foggy, and you blink up at Mingyu to clear your thoughts as he leans his hip against the counter. "Did I tell you you're beautiful?" He pairs the compliment with a brush of his hand over your thigh, and you can't help but wonder when the last time you heard a compliment like that was. It feels good, and you can feel your fingers tighten on the armrest of your chair.

"Mm, and does that line work on everyone you try it on?" You tease. You're happy when Mingyu gives you a playful smile, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't move his hand off your thigh, warming it with a stroke of his fingers instead.

"You tell me." Those three little words make you remember the fun of flirting, and you wonder what Vernon told Mingyu about you - if Mingyu knows there are no expectations, that you're figuring everything out on a whim.

Speaking of a whim - your eyes flicker down to Mingyu's lips; you think about your ex, about DK, and then you're thinking fuck it, and you pull Mingyu in by his shirt. When Mingyu's lips crash into yours, he doesn't hesitate to deepen the kiss. His tongue rolls over your bottom lip, coaxing you to melt into him with a low groan.

The cupcakes are completely forgotten the moment Mingyu lifts you with ease, and you're moaning at the strength he has to pick you up like it's nothing. He sets you on top of your kitchen counter, taking his place between your legs, and works a trail of kisses down your neck just as he pulls your ass onto the edge of the countertop so you can feel his cock straining in his jeans for you.

The feeling of his denim jeans rubbing against you has you gasping with flushed cheeks, and you don't think you could get more turned on until he's sinking onto his knees. The big 6"2 man dares to flip your skirt up, his mouth panting over your soaked panties like you were actually the dessert for tonight, and you can't help but open your legs a little wider to give him better access. You need this, and before you can give yourself a chance to overthink it, you help Mingyu slide your panties down your legs, exposing your weeping cunt to him.

Mingyu groans like you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen, and your legs shake a little as he places a kiss on your inner knee. He uses his large hands to hook your legs over his shoulders, and before he can get any closer, your nerves win over, and you stutter out a "you don't have to-" before you can stop yourself.

Fuck your ex. You cringe as the words settle over you both, and you catch Mingyu blink in confusion for a moment while his mouth is mere inches from where you want it most. Barely a minute passes before Mingyu lets out a soft laugh, his smile dazzling as he looks up at you. The tiled floor of your kitchen bites into his knees, but his grip on your thighs only gets tighter as he gives you a look. "Baby, I've wanted to since the minute Vernon gave me your number."

That's all the warning he gives you before his tongue laps up your sodden slit, gathering all your sweet slick on his taste buds and making both you and him moan in unison. You had forgotten how good it felt to be eaten out, and Mingyu drinks you like you're water, like he can't get enough, and you're left scrambling to hold onto anything you can as he shakes his head between your thighs, trying to reach deeper.

One of your hands clutches onto the back of his head, and the other holds onto the countertop as your mouth falls open. You can feel every suck, slurp, and lick of his tongue, and your eyes roll back when his nose drags over your clit at the same time.

Unabashedly, he pulls every moan out of you like you don't have a volume control, and it's dirty how it mixes with the obscenely wet noises his mouth makes when making out with your cunt. You don't get time to feel bad for your neighbors, the poor thin walls of your apartment doing absolutely nothing to muffle your noises, before you're bucking your hips and crying out as you orgasm.

Mingyu is amazing at letting you ride it out, letting you hold his head still as you roll your hips until you're sensitive to the touch, and then you're hazily kissing him back when he stands back up with a satisfied grin. You can taste yourself on his lips, and your cunt throbs blissfully as he pulls back to lick the rest of your slick that stains the lower half of his face with a hum.

He forces you to relax and catch your breath as he goes back to frosting the cupcakes like he didn't just make your legs feel like jello, and once they're finished, he doesn't stop you from returning the favor. He leans back against the counter while you pull his cock from his boxers. His jeans pool at his ankles, and your mouth swallows his cock until his lungs shake to breathe properly.

You suck, bobbing your head, taking him deeper, enjoying the way his thighs tremble under your hands while your tongue massages the veins on the underside of his shaft.

When he cums, you swallow it all, relishing the ache in your jaw as you both pant to catch your breath.

Mingyu leaves your apartment with a quick peck on your lips, and at least four cupcakes in a to-go box. It's honestly weird how easy it all is for you, watching Mingyu slip into a taxi as you wet your lips with your tongue. You're so lost in your thoughts you barely hear the door to your left opening up before your eyes lock onto warm brown ones.

Seungcheol's hair is wet like he just got out of the shower, and his cheeks darken almost immediately when you catch him stepping out of his apartment. You barely get a glimpse of the anime posters hung up on his living room wall before you tilt your head to look at him again.

Seungcheol has been your neighbor a little longer than you've dated your ex, and the moment you saw him, you knew he was a nerd; he wore anime t-shirts like they were going out of style, had a weekly DND game with a few of his friends at his apartment every Thursday night, and the whole time you knew him, not once did you ever see a girl go into his apartment. You were pretty sure his routine consisted of going to the gym and going to classes, and that was it. So seeing him in the hallway genuinely made you freeze.

A moment of silence lingered awkwardly, and passively you noted he looked good in those grey sweatpants before you gave him a friendly smile in greeting. "Would you like a cupcake?"

After Mingyu, your life gets a little busy. You pick up extra shifts at work, focus on your classes, and ignore Seungkwan's text about some guy named Jun. You try to keep yourself occupied, taking a moment to figure out how to be alone and remember what makes you happy as the semester comes to an end.

You see Seungcheol a lot more than you did before. Usually it's in passing, him heading out as you come home from work or when he picks up his mail and rides an elevator with you as you bring home groceries for yourself.

You learn he's just as nerdy as you thought he was. It seems Seungcheol can't help but blurt random facts at you when you find yourself alone with him. His special expertise is anything, really. He tells you about the migration of some sharks randomly when you step onto the elevator with him for the first time. He blurts it like he can't contain the information any longer, and you find it cute the way his ears burn red all the way down his neck.

You find out Seungcheol is studying mechanical engineering, and that his eyes light up when you ask him to tell you more about it. You won't admit that your eyes glaze over a little bit when he gets too technical, but you still really enjoy the way he speaks so passionately about it. You honestly find him really attractive for it, and maybe that's why when you come home late on Saturday night, you find yourself digging out your trusted and favorited dildo to let out some steam.

You don't even mean to think about your neighbor like that. You were just so exhausted and pent-up, and you didn't want to reach out to DK or Mingyu or whoever else Seungkwan was determined to pimp you out to; you just wanted to cum.

So that's what you tried to do. You took in slow breaths, closing your eyes and focusing on the hum of your vibrator as you slowly slid it down your stomach.

But your mind wouldn't shut off, bouncing between the last few classes you had before break started and the fact that your boss asked if you would come in early Wednesday. Not surprisingly, this doesn't make you relax, and your body fidgets as you dip the head of the vibrating dildo between your folds, teasing your clit for stimulation.

Your thighs shake from the stimulus, and you let out a sigh as you try to redirect your thoughts.

Your mind flashes to a smut scene you had read in a book the other day, and your legs spread open a little wider. Your mind flashes to DK, and a smile curves on your lips before moving on to Mingyu, imagining his head between your thighs. You can feel your stomach getting warmer at the thought, and the imaginary knot in your tummy twists as you swirl your dildo lower, collecting your arousal on the toy before rubbing it back up to your clit.

Your breaths grow deeper, and your head tilts back as the vibrating noises resonate through your bedroom. Your moans come out somewhat quieter, mixing in with the wet, slick noises of your pussy, and suddenly you're imagining deep brown eyes. A dimple smile of your neighbor appears in your head, and you imagine how he'd smile over you as he settles between your open thighs.

Your gasp comes out sharper at that, and you press your toy firmer against your bundle of nerves, his name falling from your lips louder than expected.

You think about how Seungcheol's blush probably spreads down to his chest when he's worked up, how he'd look at you like you hung the stars in the night sky yourself, and your pussy weeps for him. You wonder if you'd had to guide him to what makes you feel good, if he'd stutter from his lack of experience, and when you're just about to reach your climax, your ex's face flashes across your mind and your orgasm is gone within the second.

You groan in frustration, squeezing your legs together, and you truly contemplate buying an Etsy witch online to place a curse because this is unfair.

In anger, you swiftly turned the toy off, tossing it to the side where it stayed at the foot of your bed as you let out another groan. Fuck me.

And then the doorbell rang.

"I can't catch a break," you huffed and hastily tied a robe around yourself. You were naked underneath, and you didn't think as you stomped your way to your front door. "Yeah?" You asked, swinging the door open enough to reveal the same warm brown eyes that had you slicked between your thighs not too long ago.

Seungcheol stood before you as he did back when Mingyu left your place weeks ago. He was freshly showered, with water droplets slowly falling from the ends of his hair; they rolled down his neck and momentarily distracted you from the way he was looking at you, and you belatedly realized that your house robe hardly covered you.

Your robe falls just above your upper thighs, barely covering your ass, and if you leaned forward, you'd be giving him enough material for his spank bank to last him a good while. Fuck, you hope he can't smell the fact you almost used him to cum a few minutes ago. You shook the thought away and plastered a friendly, neighborly smile on your face as you greeted him. "Oh, is there something you need?"

You watched a little flush appear on his cheeks, his gaze flitting down your body, lingering on your cleavage before meeting your eyes again. "I was, uh," Seungcheol's brain lags for a second, and you're able to see his pupils dilate as whatever he came over to tell you is quickly shoved away in favor of boldly stepping inside your apartment. Seungcheol's frame fills your doorway almost completely, and you're acutely aware of how his fingers twitch at his sides as he speaks up again. "The walls are thin."

What? Your brain struggles to process what it means before Seungcheol takes another step inside, but this time he makes sure the door shuts behind him, leaving you alone in the apartment with him. "I'm sorry?" Your voice comes out a little breathless, like the room knew something was going to happen, and your eyes flicker down to his plump lips distractedly.

Seungcheol's smile comes out a little amused, his tongue wetting his bottom lip as he nods his head quietly. He takes another step, this time eliminating a lot of space between you two, and the heat that radiates from him warms you all the way down to your toes. "Yeah, did you know that?" He asks, and you have to tilt your head up to keep eye contact. "The walls are thin here, and that means I can hear you. Did you know we share a bedroom wall?"

Your stomach flutters when you realize what he's implying, and your cheeks burn with the answer. "Oh-"

Seungcheol's head tilts, and his smile shows the dimple you'd been missing as he hums. "I've had to listen to your ex leave you unsatisfied for two years. Then you had me listen to that first rebound; you didn't even leave your bedroom, just stayed right there in the living room." Your heart squeezes when he clicks his tongue with a scoff, shaking his head like he was scolding you. He had heard everything, and your thighs squeeze together for relief. "Then you were with that other guy, fuck the way you cried out; I had to take a shower with your pretty cries swirling in my head."

Oh, you're wet, dripping down your thighs as you listen to him, and your mind reels with the image of him in the shower, fucking his hand to the thought of you. You wonder if, when you had caught him outside as you watched Mingyu leave, he had gone outside on purpose to see you. The thought turns you on, and your breath hitches when his hands pull you in by the waist while his head lowers.

His lips ghost over yours, teasing you, and your eyelashes flutter as he murmurs, "When's it going to be my turn, hmm?"

That's all you need to hear before you're crashing your lips against his. You had thought Seungcheol would be shy, lacking in experience, but the way he lifted you, kissing you like it was his last, proved otherwise.

He doesn't need to pull away from the kiss to lead you into your bedroom; your layout is the mirrored version of his, and before you can process what was happening, he was already tossing you onto your bed. Your robe falls open from the movement, and Seungcheol gets the pretty view of you completely naked underneath him as he climbs onto the bed after you. "My final straw was when you cried out my name ten minutes ago." He hums, and his hands slide up your thighs, spreading your legs wider for him to settle between them. "If you're going to say my name, Baby, I want a front row view. Better yet, let me do all the work."

He gives you another dazzling smile and a wink before he's kissing you again. He takes charge, coaxing your mouth open so he can explore with his tongue while his hands map out every curve of your body, and it's overwhelming in the best way. Your body reacts to his naturally, and your back arches as his hands squeeze your breasts earnestly, pinching your nipples with enough pressure to make your hips buck up into his.

"You're so sensitive, aren't ya-" His lips skim down your neck, trailing lower until his lips suck one of your nipples into his warm mouth, and it makes your pussy weep in delight. You feel his tongue swirl, wetting your breast with his saliva as he moves to the other one, giving it the same treatment as one of his hands slides down to grab under your knee. He lifts it to give him more room to move, and his hips roll to grind his hard cock against your cunt, creating a delicious friction between the fabric of his sweats and your puffy clit. "I've waited for this for so long - mmph - wanted you since you moved in."

Your gasps become more frequent as he talks, scrambling your thoughts, and then his teeth bite into the swell of your breast hard enough to leave a mark, and your cunt squeezes around nothing pathetically. "Cheol! Oh fuck," your jaw drops, and Seungcheol's diligently making a path down your body, keeping your legs open with his broad shoulders.

You briefly wonder why it took you this long to see Seungcheol was right in front of you. You had always had a liking towards him, and you can't help but think of all the time you wasted. How you got it all wrong, about your ex, about what you deserve, about what was right in front of you. Your heart squeezes, and Seungcheol's fingers pinch under your thigh to get your attention back on him. "Don't do that. Don't run off into your head; focus on me. I want your eyes on me."

And he means that. His eyes stare into yours as he spreads your wet folds apart, and his breath fans over your sensitive cunt as he makes sure you're watching. When his tongue flattens over your pretty pussy, you know you're in trouble because he groans like you're the sweetest thing, and it makes him dive in deeper, dragging his tongue all the way up to your clit with another low groan.

He swirls the little nub with messy circles, sucking on it until you twist your fingers in his hair and he eats you out like it's more for him than it's for you. His pupils dilate, and his fingers dig into your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders as he laps, sucks, and slurps your sweet slick with fervor. He makes a mess out of you, focusing on your clit until your thighs are squeezing his head in mercy.

When he has you dripping with your arousal, the tip of his tongue flicks your clit while his fingers sink into your entrance with ease. You take two of his fingers with hardly any resistance, and the stretch of his digits has your tummy flip as he curls them up, searching for the one spot that'll make you see white.

He knows he's found it when your eyes roll back, and your mouth drops open stupidly. Your legs try to close as his fingertips rub into it, hitting it with each thrust of his hand, and it's too much when he adds another finger. The knot in your stomach twists with each jab, and he's watching your tongue stick out like those hentais he liked to watch as he sucks on your clit at the same time.

You've never felt this type of heat in your stomach before, and you don't think as you try to push him off of you. "Wait- wait, I think I have to pee." You cry out, and your cheeks flush as he keeps you pinned with one hand, working you over faster. He's seen this scene before, where the girl says that, and if he's right, he knows he shouldn't stop.

And he proves it as your eyes cross and your body locks up suddenly while you gurgle out a long whine. Your pussy slurps his fingers in pulses as you gush, spraying like a little geyser as he fucks you through it without slowing down.

Your slick comes in waves as he leans back, watching you soak his hand and the bed underneath you with a cocky smirk, and you even squirt up onto his t-shirt, clutching onto his arm as your hips twitch. It's the hottest thing he's ever gotten to witness; it's way better than the porn he's masturbated to, and he doesn't waste time tossing his shirt over his head and shoving his sweatpants down right after he's fucked you through your first orgasm.

You're still trembling when Seungcheol manhandles your legs up to your chest, and your vision is too blurry to realize he's naked. His cock is hard, red at the tip, and throbbing with need. Precum dribbles from the head of his cock, dripping onto your tummy as he leans over you and waits until your eyes focus on him when he gives you another smile.

"I knew you were a messy baby, squirted all over. You did so good for me, but I'm going to need you to do it again, okay?"

Your ears ring, and you must be dumb because what does he mean? You didn't squirt? You don't know how to. But you can feel your slick dripping down your ass, and the bedsheets are sticking to your skin, and your eyes blink up at Seungcheol in astonishment.

He fucking made you squirt.

Your pussy flutters, and Seungcheol's leaning over you again while reaching for his discarded sweats. He pulls a condom from one of the pockets, tearing it open before rolling the rubber down his thick shaft. You feel delirious and almost want to tell him to leave it off, but you know it's your brain all foggy from your last orgasm. Maybe next time.

When Seungcheol sits back on his knees, he's got your legs spread open and his cock heavy in his hand as he drags it up your sodden slit. "You're so pretty," he murmurs, and you're feeling the pressure of his cock before it's sinking into you. Your puffy folds part for his rotund tip, and he makes your gummy walls stretch deliciously to take the first few inches inside your warm cunt before he eases back and then in again.

He's big. Not just in length, but girth as well, and the heaviness of him has you clawing to hold onto something. Your nails scratch into your bedsheets, holding onto them as he raises your ass off the bed, using gravity to plug you to the base of his cock in one full swoop. When his hips meet your ass, you feel like he's in your lungs, and it must be true because all the air leaves from your lips in a wrecked moan.

All your thoughts disappear from your pretty head, and your pussy flutters around his length, trying to get used to the stretch while he leans down to kiss your breasts again. He doesn't move until you're twitching underneath him, squeezing him like you wanted him deeper, and he's more than happy to give you what you want.

The first slam of his hips rocks you and the bed, and your moans get punched out of you as the head of his cock knocks into your cervix with a heavy thump. Seungcheol is all you can see, all you can feel, and your brain turns off as a familiar buzzing resonates through the air. Your dildo, once forgotten at the foot of your bed, appears in your eyesight, dangling from Seungcheol's left hand, and your pussy squelches obscenely as he bottoms out again.

"Was this what you were using when you were thinking of me?" Seungcheol asks, and your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth. You watch as he teases the vibrating dildo across your stomach, making your breath hitch as he continues to grind into you with a mean precision. But then he's leaning back on his knees, keeping your ass in his lap and off the bed, as he brings the toy lower.

You're going to be ruined.

"Cheol- ah, please-" You're not sure what you're pleading for, but Seungcheol's eyes are hooded, swirling with hunger, and the moment he dips your dildo past your puffy folds to kiss your sensitive clit, you're putty in his hands. The vibrations make your whole body twitch, and your pussy clamps down on Seungcheol's cock, milking him for more as your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. "Oh fuck!"

Seungcheol coos in wonderment, taking in the way your back arches and his cock jumps inside you, threatening to end this all right now from how gorgeous you look underneath him - but Seungcheol's waited too long for this, so he presses the toy more firmly, circling your clitoris while he rocks shallowly inside your sweet pussy. You feel like heaven, and he's determined to make you cum again before he does.

And thankfully, it's not that hard to get you there.

After your first intense orgasm, you're unbelievably wet, soaking his condom covered cock in your juices, and making each rock of his hips easier than the last. It's lewd the way your pussy squelches with each tap his tip knocks into your g-spot like it's nothing, and you unravel within minutes. Your jaw drops wide open as you hold onto his wrist; he's been keeping the toy consistently buzzing on your pretty pussy, bringing you closer to the edge faster than ever before.

You cum silently. Your breath leaves your lungs with a sharp gasp, and your body tenses as he watches your eyes roll back as you squirt for the second time. Your legs shake as you fall apart underneath him, and Seungcheol cums shortly after you do - groaning lowly as his cock fills the condom up with his warm seed.

When he finally slips from between your legs, you watch him disappear into your bathroom, and you're left reeling from what just happened. Seungcheol had not only been the opposite of what you had thought he'd be, but then, unbeknownst to him, had ruined you for anyone else in one single night. You blink stupidly up at your ceiling, and Seungcheol returns with a wet towel, his smile sheepish as he cleaned you up the best he could.

"I don't know if you're still rebounding, or dating, or what-" Seungcheol murmured, and your eyes met his, noticing the familiar pink dusting the tops of his ears as he tossed the dirty towel into your laundry basket. "But if I haven't made it clear enough, I'm an option. I want to be your option."

You blink, your heart skipping a beat at his admission, and your hand reaches for his. "Stay?"

대박 - you made it to the end!

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‘Baby,’ Jeonghan’s arms were up now, reaching towards your busy figure, rag in hand, rustling the dust off of the bookshelves. 

‘Hannie.' Upon hearing the sternness decorating his favourite nickname, he flopped further into the cushions lazily.

Today was spring cleaning day — time to refresh the apartment for the warmth of the summer, the long days and humid nights, busy schedules and sticky bodies. 

To be completely fair to your sulky boyfriend, he had done some jobs. He’d sifted through heinous amounts of PR packages, emptied his side of your shared wardrobe ready for summer clothes, and he even scrubbed at the entire bathroom. 

But not without his very distracting and very regressive habits, a routine of procrastination masked as affection — relentless moaning that he needed a kiss after every single job and after four rounds of glum noises from your boyfriend, you’d oblige. Then, rather greedily, might you add, he’d urge for a hug.

This is where you always went wrong, helplessly yielding to his glistening eyes and upturned smile, which only allowed Jeonghan to rapidly sweep you up in an all-consuming movement that trapped your body in an enamouring embrace. 

Under any other circumstances, you’d enjoy every moment of your boyfriend’s clinginess, especially when it was so rare. But the cuddles and kisses had stretched a house clean that should’ve taken a day into a three-day extravaganza.

Therefore, to end his tempting wrath, he had been banished to the sofa until you’d ticked off dusting from the ever-growing list.

The quiet hum of a Red Velvet song wafted through the TV as your boyfriend supervised your cleaning, huffing and puffing dramatically with each swipe of the cloth against the wood. 

‘You don’t love me, right?’ There was a rustle of softened padding, and you could only assume Jeonghan had thrown his body down onto the sofa in a big, dramatic motion. 

‘I love you very much, Hannie,’ You replied, refusing to face your boyfriend, as you used every piece of willpower you harboured to withhold from folding to your extra sulky, extra cute and extra dramatic boyfriend. 

With a big swipe, dust flew into the air, dancing up your nostrils and tickling small sneezes from you. 

‘Baby,’ Jeonghan stood, his voice lacking the sullen tone and instead, concern penetrating through the words — but you raised your hand, still sneezing a colony of dust out of your system as you signalled for him to pause. 

‘I’m okay!’ You urged, shaking your head and turning towards Jeonghan, who cocked an eyebrow at you. Even as you rapidly blinked dust from your eyes and fanned it pathetically away from you, it was still riveting your nostrils.

‘Let me help you, baby,’ He said, but you shook your head vigorously. ‘Please?’ 

‘No no, you’ll distract me more,’ You told him, recovery from the sneeze attack allowing you to catch your breath for a moment. 

Only a very minuscule part of Jeonghan actually had the intention to help; really, he was bored of being confined to the sofa and yearned for any excuse to get your undivided attention.

‘I won’t, I promise.’ He lied pathetically, and there was even a peek of a smile quirking on the corner of his lips that you saw straight through. 

‘I can read you like a book, Yoon.’ You popped your hip, sharply eyeing him as his expression was twisted into a mixture of feigned offence and cockiness. ‘Verbal support from over there.’ 

‘God, I love it when you call me by my surname,’ he said, falling back onto the sofa in a manspread, head falling onto the back cushions as if it were hung in pleasure. 

The sight of your boyfriend forced you to blink — his figure almost erotic when he sat like that, neck exposed, shoulder-length dark hair framing his defined cheekbones, thighs toned, tanned and open.

‘It’ll be your surname soon.’ He muttered, his eyes watching you closely as blush crawled up your face and you snapped your body back towards the dusty, neglected bookshelf. 

‘Shut it, Yoon.’ You replied, and the cocky smirk that infiltrated his features could practically be heard in his small, hearty laugh. 

Staying true to your wish, Jeonghan remained glued to the sofa, keeping his whining to a minimum as he curated a playlist of songs for you to clean to. 

‘Honey, how long until it’s sofa time?’ He asked, and it was timid, with no hint of teasing or sulking, just pure sweetness that caresses your heartstrings. 

‘Last shelf, baby.’ You answered, clambering onto a wooden chair to reach the absolute top of the bookshelves. 

If you turned around, you knew Jeonghan would be watching every movement with a disapproving look, shaking his head at the varnished wooden chair and tutting at your very slippery but very comfortable fluffy socks. 

And he really pondered: should he abide by your strict rules for him to remain on the sofa, confined like a puppy in a cage, or should he be a good boyfriend and ensure that if you slipped, the ground would not find you — his arms would.

Like an answer to his internal conflict, the pad of your foot slid an inch unexpectedly, making you grip the bookshelf in an attempt to steady yourself, but like it was his calling, Jeonghan had already shot across the room, strong fingers holding your waist for stability.

‘Sweetheart, you’re a liability.’ Jeonghan rasped, and his big espresso-brown eyes stared up at you, glazed over with something that landed between adoration and satisfaction. 

‘You were supposed to stay on the sofa.’ You pouted, reaching the furthest corner. Jeonghan followed your movements skilfully, not allowing his hands to leave your waist for a split-second. 

‘I’d be a bad boyfriend if I let you slip.’ Jeonghan said, and you couldn’t argue with that. With a small hum, you nodded, leaning onto the ball of one foot and stretching as far as you possibly could. 

Silently, Jeonghan allowed you to finish, the victory line so close he could practically already feel your hands wrapping around him. Lightly smoothing the pads of his fingertips over your waist, tracing the curve of your spine as it twisted with your movement, he sighed contentedly. 

‘Voila!’ You spun, almost toppling off the chair in the process as Jeonghan smoothly slid his arms around your thighs, sweeping you up in one movement, which had a high-pitched squeal escaping your mouth. ‘Hannie!’ 

‘About time.’ His chocolatey orbs levelled with yours, and he smiled with cocky satisfaction before dipping to plant a sweet kiss on your lips. 

As always, his lips are warm and plush against yours, kissing with rehearsed expertise that only comes from years of kissing the same person. 

It’s blissful how much his lips spark sweet endorphins to pump through you, dragging your fingers through his long hair as he begins to pepper small kisses all over your face.

‘Baby,’ you giggled at the tickle of his lips as he manoeuvred your bodies to the sofa, his kisses not halting until every inch of skin had been showered in affection, loud hearty laughs sprouting from your throat with each skin of his mouth against you. 

Landing on his lap, Jeonghan cocooned your body into his with a hook of his chin on your shoulder, flattening his palms against the dips of your hips as he just feels you, feels the warm skin beneath him, feels the weight of your body on his lap, feels the tickle of your hair as it wisps by his nose. 

‘Mmmm.’ A sound of contentment rumbled in his throat as he breathed you in, fluttering his eyelids shut in pure fulfilment, the feeling of your muscles relaxing underneath him like the cherry on top. 

‘Let’s watch a movie,’ You mumbled into his hair, voice dipping to a tired husk that only Jeonghan’s arms can coax out of you. 

The effect your boyfriend had on you was head-spinning, his touch melting every rational part of your brain and morphing it into a love machine especially built for him.

‘Okay baby, my choice.’ Your boyfriend agreed with a cheeky remark, running his fingers through the curled ends of your hair, the sensation stirring goosebumps along your skin. 

At his statement, you nudge him lightly with your fingertip, poking his side in that way that made him squirm and almost buck you off of him. 

‘Yah!’ He whined, gripping the spot you’d burrowed your finger into like he was cradling a bullet wound and not a brief poke. 

With an awful attempt at concealing your cheeky look, tongue poking at the inside of your cheek as you met his wounded expression, a giggle threatened to erupt from you. 

Your boyfriend looked too cute with a pout on his face, pink lips jutted out to display a pathetic pout, cheeks puffed out like he was threatening a strong exhale, gentle eyes big and doe in their fixed stare. 

‘You are so adorable,’ you told him with a smile, your heart practically racing up your throat. ‘Maybe I should poke you more.’ 

Wiggling your slender fingers toward him, his expression sharpened like it was calculating exactly how to escape this situation —  would he chuck you off, sprinting into the hallway, or would he attempt to poke you first? 

Instead, in a flurry of unpredictable movement, he’d flipped you onto your back, skin meeting the plush of the cushions as he pinned you underneath him. 

For a second, your eyes flicker downwards, raking along his body temptingly slow; however, before you can tug his lips down to yours, his hands are on you. 

But it’s not pleasure that blooms, it’s chaos. Because Jeonghan was tickling you — finding that spot above your hip that forced almost violent squirms out of you, his legs on either side of your thighs subjecting you to his wrath. 

Uncontrollable laughter leapt out of you in a muddled mess, body desperately attempting to escape his skilful fingers, yet he’s stronger, a wide grin bunching his cheeks and turning his eyes into joyful crescents as he succeeded in his mischief. 

‘Jeonghan!’ You shouted, but the name is twisted into a half-laugh, half-exclamation that gets swallowed by a desperate inhale. ‘Baby! Please!’

For a split second, he halts, looking down at you. From an outsider's point of view, the scene was almost erotic: boyfriend straddling you, his hands trailing your body and you, breathless and panting, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

But the illusion was shattered with his words. ‘My choice of film or more tickles.’ 

‘This feels like blackmail, Mr Yoon.’ You raised an eyebrow at the man above you, reaching for his wrists as if it would stop his tickles. 

‘Maybe it is Mrs Yoon.’ He flirted overzealously, wiggling his eyebrows at the prospective title. 

‘Now this feels like emotional manipulation, get off.’ Rolling your eyes playfully, he slid off of you and carefully pulled you into him, planting a tender kiss on the top of your head.

The rest of your lives could be spent on this sofa, lounging amongst one another without a second thought, in a tangle of limbs and sweet touches. There was no other place you felt so content apart from in Jeonghan’s arms, lazing together on a spring day. 

‘I love you.’ You muttered against his shoulder, cheek pressed into the curve as your eyes followed his choice of film. 

Silently, he peppered a light kiss onto your parting, ‘I love you.’ 

There was something strangely comforting about hearing other people through paper-thin apartment walls.

The sound of someone dragging groceries across the hallway. The distant hum of a television from two floors below. Laughter echoing from somewhere down the corridor at two in the morning because apparently, unlike you, some people in New York actually had functioning sleep schedules.

The elevator dinged as you stepped inside, your backpack hanging off one shoulder and an iced coffee clutched in your hand. Your morning lecture had been canceled, which meant that, for the first time in weeks, you could actually go back to your apartment and catch up on sleep.

Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot between them. The doors slid back open.

Peter Parker stepped inside.

You had seen him around enough times to know that he lived on your floor, only a few doors away from yours. You also knew that he was probably around your age, spent an alarming amount of time outside at ungodly hours, and had a habit of looking like he hadn’t slept in three business days.

You didn’t know much else. Mostly because Peter Parker was impossible to talk to.

“Hey.”

Peter looked up from the floor, startled for some reason, before offering a small nod. “Hey.”

The elevator doors closed.

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Early morning?”

Peter glanced down at the watch on his wrist as if he’d somehow forgotten what time it was.

“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

You smiled. “You look exhausted.”

He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t supposed to be an insult.”

“No, I know.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but the smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

By now, you’d gotten used to it.

It wasn’t that Peter was rude. In fact, whenever you ran into him in the hallway or outside the building, he always smiled politely and held doors open for people. He just never stayed long enough for a conversation.

The elevator stopped on your floor. You stepped out first, Peter following close behind.

“You know,” you said, turning toward him as both of you walked down the hallway, “one of these days, I’m actually going to get more than two sentences out of you.”

Peter nearly dropped the keys he was trying to fish out of his pocket. “What?”

You laughed. “I’m serious. We’ve lived on the same floor for, like, months now, and somehow I still know absolutely nothing about you.”

He finally found his keys, although judging by the way he almost dropped them again, the victory was short-lived.

“Maybe I’m just boring.”

You stopped in front of your apartment door and frowned. “I don’t think boring people come home at four in the morning.”

Peter froze for a split second.

You immediately regretted saying it. “Oh my God, that sounded creepy. I’m not keeping track of your schedule, I swear. The walls are just really thin.”

To your surprise, Peter laughed. Like, actually laughed. “No, it’s okay.”

For the first time since you’d met him, he looked relaxed.

And then, just as quickly as the moment appeared, it vanished.

“Well…” he said quietly, turning back toward his apartment. “I’ll see you around.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared behind his door.

~~~~~

The next few weeks went exactly the same way.

You’d run into Peter in the elevator. You’d try to make conversation. He’d answer politely. Then he’d retreat back into whatever corner of his life he kept hidden from everyone else.

It became a routine.

“Long day again?”

Peter, standing in the elevator at midnight with dark circles under his eyes and a suspicious tear in the sleeve of his hoodie, blinked at you.

“You have no idea.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s concerning.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that comment.”

“Thanks.”

For some reason, despite how painfully awkward he could be, you found yourself looking forward to those tiny interactions.

Maybe it was because Peter was one of the only people in the building who was around your age.

Maybe it was because you recognized loneliness when you saw it.

Or maybe it was because every now and then, when he thought you weren’t looking, you’d catch glimpses of someone different beneath all those walls he’d built around himself.

Like the night you came back from the library carrying way too many books and nearly dropped all of them in the lobby.

Peter had somehow appeared out of nowhere. “Whoa, here.”

Before you could protest, he’d already grabbed half the stack from your arms.

“Thanks.”

“You know they make backpacks for a reason, right?”

You scoffed. “I have a backpack.”

Peter looked down at the single notebook sticking out of it.

“That’s impressive.”

“Oh, don’t judge me, Parker.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m silently criticizing your organizational skills.”

You laughed, pressing the elevator button. “Wow. So you can talk.”

Peter looked away, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.

The elevator doors opened.

As the two of you stepped inside, you glanced at him. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Having a conversation.”

Peter leaned his head against the elevator wall, looking exhausted. “You make it sound easier than it is.”

The elevator stopped. Peter handed your books back.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

“Anytime.”

You hesitated before speaking again. “Hey, um… if you ever need anything…”

Peter looked up.

“I mean, we’re neighbors, right? So… sugar, coffee, someone to complain about school to—”

He smiled, smaller this time. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You grinned. “Good.”

“I’ll see you around,” he said.

~~~~~

He wasn’t even supposed to be here, but Peter found himself standing across from Ned on the subway.

Ned was carrying two bags filled with drinks and snacks, occasionally checking his phone and smiling to himself. Peter had spotted him by complete accident, and before he could stop himself, he’d followed him onto the train.

He knew it was stupid.

Four years had passed since Doctor Strange’s spell. Four years since the world had forgotten Peter Parker.

And yet, here he was, trailing his former best friend through New York like some creep who couldn’t let go of the past.

Unfortunately, Peter couldn’t. Not when that past was all he had left.

The train finally came to a stop, and Peter followed Ned from a distance as he made his way toward an apartment building in Brooklyn. By the time Peter reached the top floor, music and laughter were already spilling out into the hallway.

A party.

Peter stood outside the door for a moment, staring at the crowd inside. He should leave.

He really, really should leave.

Instead, he gripped the bouquet of flowers that he’d bought as an excuse tightly.

“Housewarming gift,” he muttered to himself, staring at the bouquet. “Totally normal.”

He entered the room, blending in easily amongst the crowd of people he’d never seen before.

The apartment was filled with people, conversations overlapping with music coming from the speakers in the corner. It felt warm and alive in a way that Peter’s own apartment hadn’t felt in years.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Pinned to the wall beside a room was an entire collection of newspaper clippings, blurry photos, and handwritten notes—all centered around Spider-Man.

Peter slowly walked closer.

Pictures from different sightings. Articles about unexplained events around the city. Strings connecting random details that shouldn’t have made sense to anyone else.

And yet his former best friend had put them together.

“You believe in all this stuff too?”

Peter turned around to find Ned standing beside him, holding a drink.

Peter looked back at the wall. “Oh, hey. You made all of this?”

Ned shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s weird, but ever since I was a kid, I’ve always felt like… I don’t know, like Spider-Man means something to me.”

Peter felt his chest tighten.

Ned laughed awkwardly. “Sounds crazy, right?”

“No,” Peter replied quietly. “Not crazy.”

For a brief moment, Peter allowed himself to imagine what life would’ve been like if things had been different. If the spell had never happened. If he could’ve stood beside Ned and laughed about all of this instead of pretending to be a stranger.

But reality had a way of pulling him back.

Across the room, Peter spotted MJ walking towards them. For a moment, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Peter watched her slowly, holding out the bouquet. “Housewarming flowers.”

MJ blinked in surprise before taking them from his hands. “Oh, wow. Thanks.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Do you two know each other or…?” MJ’s brows furrowed, eyeing Peter and Ned.

Peter chuckled nervously. “Oh, uhm. Not exactly. I’m Mayne—Maynard.”

“Nice to meet you, Maynard. I’m gonna put these in water.” She smiled politely, thanked him again, and disappeared into the kitchen to put the flowers in water.

Peter watched her go.

Then he saw him.

A guy standing beside the sink, smiling as MJ walked over to him. She nudged his shoulder playfully, and the guy wrapped an arm around her waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Peter immediately looked away.

He had spent four years telling himself that he’d made the right choice. That letting them go had been worth it because they were safe.

But standing in the middle of that apartment, surrounded by people who used to know him, Peter couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d truly let them go—or if he’d simply been left behind.

Suddenly, the room felt too small. Too loud.

Without saying goodbye to anyone, Peter quickly slipped out of the apartment and made his way back onto the streets of New York.

The city was alive around him—cars honking, people laughing, music pouring from open windows—but Peter barely registered any of it. His mind was still back in that apartment, replaying every smile, every laugh, every reminder of the life he’d lost.

He leaped across buildings. By the time he reached his neighborhood, the pain in his wrist had started again.

At first, it was only a dull ache. Then it spread up his arm like fire.

Peter stopped abruptly, grabbing onto the nearest wall as he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Not now,” he muttered.

The pain only grew worse.

He pulled his sleeve back just enough to see the distended veins on his wrists.

His breathing quickened.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Panicking, Peter rushed toward his apartment building, nearly tripping over his own feet as he fumbled for his keys. The pain had become unbearable by the time he stumbled through his front door.

On the other side of the wall, you were sitting at your desk, absentmindedly reading through your notes when you heard something crash.

At first, you ignored it.

Peter was a strange guy. For all you knew, he’d dropped a lamp.

Then came another noise.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled your headphones off. “Peter?”

You were just about to put your headphones back on when a scream echoed through the wall.

Not the kind of scream someone lets out after stubbing their toe.

A scream of pain.

You shot up from your chair so fast that it nearly toppled over.

For a moment, you stood frozen in the middle of your apartment, trying to convince yourself that you’d imagined it.

Then you heard it again.

Without another thought, you ran for the door. You didn’t even bother putting on your shoes.

The scream echoed through the hallway again, louder this time, and whatever hesitation you had vanished the moment you reached Peter’s door.

“Peter?!”

You knocked once.

No answer.

“Peter, are you okay?!”

Silence.

You pressed your ear against the door, trying to make sense of the sounds coming from the other side. Something crashed into a wall, followed by what sounded like muffled groaning.

Your heart dropped.

You grabbed the doorknob, fully expecting it to be locked. Instead, the door swung open.

The first thing that hit you was the mess.

Peter’s apartment, which you’d never actually seen before, looked like a tornado had torn through it. Papers were scattered across the floor, tools and wires hung from the ceiling, and pieces of machinery sat abandoned on tables in the corner. It was nothing like you had imagined.

And then there were the webs.

They stretched across the walls, clinging to lamps and cabinets, covering entire sections of the room as though a giant spider had made the apartment its nest.

You stopped in the doorway, unable to process what you were looking at. “What the hell…?”

Another groan pulled your attention toward the living room.

“Peter?”

You rushed forward, carefully stepping over broken pieces of metal and strands of webbing stuck to the floor. It wasn’t until you rounded the corner that you finally saw him.

Peter was collapsed beside the couch, one hand gripping his wrist so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His breathing was uneven, and more strands of webbing slowly releasing from his arm.

For a few seconds, you simply stood there, frozen.

Nothing about this made sense.

The webs. The machines. The strange red-and-blue fabric crumpled beside the couch.

Your eyes darted back to the fabric.

A mask. A Spider-Man mask.

You stared at it, then back at Peter, then back at the mask again.

Your brain was trying to connect the dots.

There was absolutely no way.

And yet, as you looked around the apartment, surrounded by webs and gadgets and the unmistakable suit lying only a few feet away, there was no other explanation.

“Oh my god.”

Peter shifted slightly at the sound of your voice. His eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first before eventually landing on you. For a split second, confusion crossed his face.

Then came realization.

You watched the panic wash over him almost instantly.

“Y/n—” His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.

You immediately knelt beside him. “Peter, what is happening? Are you hurt? Do I need to call someone?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly. “No, don’t—don’t call anyone.”

“Peter, you’re literally lying on the floor!”

“I said don’t call anyone.” The harshness in his voice caught both of you off guard.

Peter shut his eyes, taking a shaky breath as if he regretted snapping at you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Just… don’t.”

You looked down at the hand clutching his wrist.

Your gaze drifted toward the mask again. The bruises that always seemed to appear out of nowhere. The nights he came home at impossible hours. The way he always looked exhausted.

Every weird thing about Peter suddenly made perfect sense.

Your mouth went dry. “Peter…”

He already knew what you were about to ask. You could see it in his expression. He turned his head away, staring blankly at the ceiling.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

“You’re Spider-Man?”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it either.

The silence was answer enough. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Despite everything, Peter actually let out a weak laugh.

It lasted all of two seconds before another wave of pain shot through his arm. He doubled over, gripping his wrist again.

“Peter—”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re obviously not okay!”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re covered in webs!”

Peter opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but whatever he was about to say never came out. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut.

“Peter?”

No response.

“Peter!”

You grabbed his shoulder, shaking him gently.

Nothing.

Your eyes widened. “Hey, don’t do this right now.”

You glanced around the apartment, completely lost. You had absolutely no idea what the hell you were supposed to do in this situation.

Normal people didn’t have emergency plans for when their neighbor turned out to be Spider-Man and passed out on the floor.

After a few moments of panicking, you managed to drag a blanket off the couch and awkwardly pull it over him. It wasn’t much, but it was better than leaving him on the cold floor.

Then, after what felt like ten straight minutes of struggling, you somehow managed to move him onto the couch.

By the time you collapsed into the armchair across from him, you were exhausted.

You glanced over at him again, watching his chest rise and fall.

“You’re seriously Spider-Man,” you whispered to yourself. Within minutes, exhaustion finally caught up with you too.

The armchair wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, but after the night you’d just had, you didn’t really care.

As sleep slowly overtook you, one last thought crossed your mind.

Tomorrow morning was going to be a disaster.

~~~~~

The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was that his wrist didn’t hurt anymore.

For a few blissful seconds, he simply lay there, staring at the unfamiliar angle of his living room ceiling, too exhausted to think about why he was on the couch instead of his bed. Then, slowly, the events of the night before came rushing back to him.

Peter shot upright so fast that he nearly fell off the couch.

His eyes darted around the room in a panic. The apartment was still covered in webs. His suit was laying openly on his working table. One of his web-shooters was dangling from a lamp.

And there you were. Curled up in the armchair across from him, your head resting against the side cushion, you were still asleep.

Peter stared at you in horror. You were actually here. In his apartment.

After everything you’d seen.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, dragging both hands down his face. “Okay, okay, okay…”

He stood up from the couch and immediately got a strand of web stuck to his hoodie.

“Seriously?” The frustration in his voice was apparently enough to wake you.

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, and for a moment, you simply blinked at the room around you, still half-asleep.

Then you saw Peter standing in the middle of the apartment, trying to untangle himself from his own webs.

You sat up so quickly that Peter froze. He looked like he’d rather jump out the window than have this conversation. You honestly weren’t doing much better.

“You’re awake,” you finally said.

Peter glanced down at the floor. “Yeah.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

An awkward silence settled between the two of you.

You looked around the apartment. In the daylight, the whole place somehow looked even more ridiculous. You looked back at Peter.

He was still avoiding your eyes.

“So…” you began carefully.

Peter visibly tensed. “So?”

You gestured vaguely to literally everything around you.

“Do you maybe want to explain…” You paused, looking up at the web-covered ceiling. “…all of this?”

Peter let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You blinked. “Peter, you passed out on your living room floor.”

“I know.”

“You were screaming.”

“I know.”

“There are webs on your refrigerator.”

“I know.”

You stared at him for a moment before letting out an incredulous laugh. “Okay, wow. We’re really glossing over the fact that you’re Spider-Man, huh?”

Peter finally looked up.

The panic in his expression from the night before was gone, replaced by something quieter. “I was kind of hoping you’d think you imagined it.”

You snorted. “Yeah, because giant spider webs covering your apartment are a perfectly normal hallucination.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Peter’s mouth despite himself.

You studied him for a moment, suddenly realizing that he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. The dark circles under his eyes were still there, and now that you thought about it, so was the same expression you’d seen on his face every time he stepped into the elevator.

You leaned back against the chair. “You’re Spider-Man.”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah.”

It was the first time he’d admitted it out loud in years.

“You know,” you said, “this actually explains a lot.”

Peter frowned. “Like what?”

“The bruises.”

“I walk into things.”

“You absolutely do not walk into things.”

“I could.”

“Peter, normal people don’t come home at dawn with cuts on their face.”

Peter shrugged. “New York is weird.”

You stared at him. “Did Spider-Man just try to convince me that New York is weird?”

“I think Spider-Man would know.” He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how to continue. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone about this.”

You blinked. “Who exactly am I supposed to tell? ‘Hey, guys, by the way, my neighbor is secretly Spider-Man’? People would think I’ve lost my mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, Y/n, I—”

“You really think I’d tell someone?”

Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You sighed, standing up from the chair.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with…” You gestured toward his wrist. “Whatever happened last night. And I definitely don’t understand why your apartment looks like a spider nest. But I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Peter looked unconvinced.

You crossed your arms. “Besides, keeping secrets apparently isn’t exactly new territory for us.”

That made him pause.

You immediately regretted saying it.

Peter seemed to understand exactly what you meant because he quietly looked away. “I’m sorry.”

The words caught you off guard. “What?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the floor.

“For lying.”

You frowned. “You didn’t really lie.”

“I kind of did.”

“You just left out the part where you spend your nights swinging around New York.”

Peter let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah.”

You hesitated before speaking again. “Can I ask you something?”

He looked up.

“Why do you always push people away?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it. Immediately, you wanted to take it back.

Peter froze. “Y/n—”

“No, no, forget I asked that. You don’t have to answer.”

Peter stayed quiet for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly, he said, “It’s safer that way.”

You frowned. “Safer for who?”

Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward the window, his expression distant.

You opened your mouth to ask another question, but Peter suddenly stood up. “I should clean this up.”

You looked up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, I was actually wondering how you planned on explaining the fact that your entire apartment looks like an outdated Halloween decoration.”

Peter laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

You smiled, relieved that the tension had eased, if only a little.

As you made your way toward the front door, you stopped and turned back around. “Hey, Peter?”

He looked up from the mess of webs tangled around his coffee table. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment before saying, “For what it’s worth, knowing that you’re Spider-Man doesn’t really change anything.”

Peter stared at you.

You shrugged. “You’re still the weird guy who lives next door.”

For the first time that morning, Peter smiled.

“Wow,” he said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You grinned, opening the door. “And maybe next time you decide to pass out dramatically, try not to do it alone.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but you caught the smile he was trying to hide. “Noted.”

You nodded once before stepping into the hallway.

~~~~~

The next few days were, without a doubt, the weirdest days of your life.

Not because you had assignments piling up or because you had somehow managed to survive on instant noodles and iced coffee for three consecutive days. No, the weirdest part was that your next-door neighbor—the same guy who once spent an entire elevator ride pretending to be fascinated by the floor numbers to avoid small talk—was Spider-Man.

You had barely stepped out of your apartment when Peter’s door swung open at the exact same moment. The two of you froze, staring at each other from opposite ends of the hallway.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey.”

An awkward silence followed.

Usually, this was the part where you’d ask him about his day and he’d mumble something before disappearing into the elevator. But things were different now. You knew why he came home at impossible hours. You knew why he always had bruises on his knuckles and dark circles under his eyes.

“So…” you began, falling into step beside him as the two of you walked toward the elevator. “Did you get all the webs cleaned up?”

Peter glanced at you, horrified. “You said you weren’t going to bring that up.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You absolutely implied it.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped inside together.

“I’m just saying, if I found out my neighbor was secretly Spider-Man and then immediately discovered that his apartment looked like a spider’s house, I’d be a little disappointed.”

Peter let out an exasperated sigh. “Please never call it that again.”

“No promises.”

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and the two of you stepped out into the lobby.

“Well,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “good luck saving New York today.”

Peter nearly tripped over his own feet.

You stared at him. “Did Spider-Man just almost fall because of a joke?”

“I didn’t almost fall.”

“You absolutely almost fell.”

“I stepped weird.” Peter rolled his eyes, though you could see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know, you’re surprisingly annoying.”

“Thank you. I’ve worked very hard to achieve that.”

“I can tell.”

You grinned triumphantly. “See? That was practically a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It definitely was.”

Peter shook his head, muttering something under his breath as the two of you stepped outside. The morning air was cold, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, just as you were about to head in the opposite direction, you heard Peter clear his throat.

“Hey, Y/n?”

You turned around. “Yeah?”

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at the sidewalk. “I just…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “Thanks. For not freaking out.”

You blinked.

“Peter, I did freak out.”

Peter laughed softly. “You did.”

Your smile softened. “You know, you don’t always have to deal with things by yourself.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Peter’s expression changed almost instantly.

You wanted to push further. You wanted to ask him why he always looked so sad whenever he thought nobody was paying attention, why he insisted on carrying everything alone, why he acted like letting people get close to him was the worst thing in the world.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

~~~~~

For the next week, things settled into something that neither of you knew how to define.

You still ran into each other in the hallway before you left for class. Peter still came home at absurd hours with new bruises that he insisted were “nothing.” You still made fun of him for having the social skills of a brick wall.

The only difference was that now, whenever he disappeared halfway through a conversation or showed up looking like he’d just fought for his life, you actually knew why.

Well, partially.

Because despite the fact that you’d discovered his biggest secret, Peter Parker was still, somehow, the most secretive person you had ever met.

It was almost midnight when you found him sitting on the fire escape outside your apartment building.

You had just gotten back from the cafe after spending six straight hours pretending to understand a lecture that absolutely nobody understood, and the only thing on your mind was sleep.

That was, until you looked up and saw Peter sitting one floor above you, elbows resting on his knees.

For a moment, you considered pretending you hadn’t seen him.

Then again, this was Peter. If you didn’t start the conversation, there was a ninety-percent chance that he’d sit there in silence for another hour before disappearing back into his apartment.

“Please tell me you’re not brooding up there.”

Peter looked down, startled. “I’m not brooding.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re sitting alone on a fire escape in the middle of the night, staring dramatically into the distance.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“That’s exactly what a person who’s brooding would say.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but you caught the smile that flashed across his face.

“You coming up or are you just going to insult me from down there?”

You blinked. “Was that an invitation?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, it’s already weird.”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head as you climbed up the stairs and sat beside him.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

Below, New York buzzed with life. Cars moved through the streets, people spilled out of restaurants, and somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed through the city.

You leaned back against the brick wall behind you.

“I used to think New York would feel bigger.”

Peter frowned. “Bigger?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Before I moved here, I thought it’d be this huge, exciting place where I’d constantly be meeting people and doing cool things.”

“And?”

You let out a laugh. “And now I spend most of my nights crying over assignments and eating instant noodles.”

Peter snorted. “Sounds about right.”

You nudged his shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

You stared out at the city lights. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought it’d be easier.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “Easier to do what?”

“To be alone.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You immediately looked away, embarrassed by how honest you’d just been.

“That sounded sadder than I meant it to.”

Peter didn’t laugh.

Instead, he looked down at his hands, almost like he was thinking about whether or not to say something. “You get used to it.”

You turned toward him. “Being alone?”

He nodded.

“No offense, Parker, but you don’t exactly sound convincing.”

That earned a small smile from him, but it disappeared almost immediately.

“You don’t get used to it,” he admitted quietly. “You just learn how to deal with it.”

The way he said it made your chest ache. “Is that why you push people away?”

Peter let out a breath, his eyes fixed on the street below.

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

He was silent for so long that you thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Have you ever made a decision that you knew was right, but you hated yourself for it anyway?”

You frowned.

Peter laughed bitterly to himself. “Forget it. That’s a stupid question.”

“No, it’s not.”

He glanced at you, surprised by how quickly you’d answered.

You shifted slightly, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “I think people do that all the time.”

Peter looked away again. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You weren’t sure what came over you, but before you could stop yourself, you asked, “Did it have something to do with someone?”

The question hung in the air between you.

Peter froze. And immediately, you regretted asking.

“You don’t have to answer that,” you said quickly. “Sorry, that was way too personal—”

“It did.”

Your voice caught in your throat.

Peter wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the skyline, somewhere far away.

“Her name’s MJ. We used to be… close.”

The understatement almost made you laugh. “Close?”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. She’s very special to me.”

You didn’t push. You could tell just from the way he was speaking, that this wasn’t a story he told often.

“There was this guy too,” he continued. “Ned. My best friend.”

Then Peter leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sky.

“A few years ago, something happened. Something really bad. And the only way to fix it was…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “The only way to fix it was to make everyone forget who Peter Parker was.”

You stared at him.

“What?”

He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.

“Yeah. Crazy, right?”

You didn’t know what to say.

Because suddenly, everything made sense.

“Wait.” You turned toward him. “You mean they literally don’t remember you?”

Peter shook his head. “No.”

“Not even MJ and Ned?”

“No.”

You stared at him, completely speechless. “Peter…”

He shrugged, like he was talking about the weather instead of the most heartbreaking thing you’d ever heard.

“It was my choice.”

“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

The words escaped before you could think twice.

Peter’s expression softened. Then he let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You’re the first person who’s said that.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s always about how I saved the world or how I did the right thing.” He looked down at his hands. “Nobody ever talks about what it cost.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. For the first time, you understood.

Peter Parker hadn’t isolated himself because he wanted to. He’d isolated himself because he genuinely believed that loving people meant losing them.

You reached over and gently nudged his shoulder.

“Well, I think what you did was incredibly selfless.”

Peter smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“But I also think you’re an idiot.”

He turned to you so fast that you almost laughed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

“I’m serious.” You sat up straighter. “You keep acting like the solution to everything is to shut people out.”

“Because people get hurt.”

“People get hurt regardless, Peter.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you didn’t let him.

“You think pushing everyone away protects them, but all it’s doing is making you miserable.”

Peter stared at you.

“And before you say anything, yes, I know that’s hypocritical coming from the girl who spent the first three months in New York eating canned goods alone in her apartment.”

That got a laugh out of him.

“I’m serious, though.” You smiled softly.

The two of you sat there for what felt like forever, the noise of the city filling the silence between you.

“You know, when we first met, I thought you were way too friendly.”

You gasped dramatically. “Way too friendly?”

“You kept talking to me in the elevator.”

“God forbid someone tries to have a conversation with their neighbor.”

“I thought there had to be some ulterior motive.”

You laughed. “And now?”

Peter looked at you. “Now I think you just hate awkward silences.”

You smiled. “You’re half right.”

“And the other half?”

You hesitated before answering. “I saw someone who looked lonely.”

Peter’s expression changed instantly. The teasing smile disappeared, replaced by something softer.

Because the truth was, you’d been right all along.

He was lonely.

You simply sat beside each other, watching the lights of New York flicker in the distance. Somewhere below, taxis disappeared into traffic, distant sirens echoed through the streets, and the summer air carried the sound of laughter from people walking home.

For the first time in a long time, Peter didn’t feel like he was carrying the weight of the city by himself.

Beside him, you absentmindedly rested your chin on your knees, staring out at the skyline.

“Do you ever stop thinking?” you asked quietly.

Peter let out a small laugh. “Not really.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

You smiled sympathetically. “Well, I think you deserve a break every once in a while. Fighting off bad people every other day isn’t healthy.”

Peter glanced over at you, about to make some self-deprecating joke, when suddenly, something felt… wrong.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His expression immediately changed.

You frowned. “Peter?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes darted toward the street below, instinct taking over before his mind could catch up. There was no obvious danger—just passing cars, people crossing the road, cyclists weaving through traffic.

And yet, every nerve in his body was screaming at him that someone was watching.

“Peter?” You followed his gaze, confused as he abruptly stood from the fire escape. “What is it?”

“I…” Peter scanned the street, his heartbeat picking up. “I don’t know.”

Down below, parked across the street, a dark car sat between two taxis. Through the windshield, he could barely make out the silhouette of someone sitting in the back seat, their face hidden by the reflection of the city lights.

For a split second, Peter thought he saw the figure turn toward him.

Then the engine started. The car pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the traffic before Peter could get a better look.

He remained frozen, staring after it.

“Did you see someone?” you asked, standing beside him.

Peter hesitated. “I think so.”

“You think so?”

He shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t know. It just felt like…” He stopped himself.

Like someone had been watching him.

You glanced down at the now-empty street before looking back at Peter.

“Maybe it’s just your superhero paranoia.”

Peter let out a breathless laugh, though the uneasy feeling in his chest refused to disappear.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still staring into the distance. “Maybe.”

~~~~~

It was barely nine in the morning when you opened your apartment door and nearly ran face-first into him.

Peter stumbled backward, a paper bag clutched awkwardly in his hands. “Oh—sorry.”

You blinked. “Are you just permanently stationed outside my apartment now, or…?”

“What? No.” Peter looked genuinely horrified. “I was just—I wasn’t—”

You crossed your arms, trying to suppress a smile as he completely lost the ability to form coherent sentences. “Relax, Parker. I’m kidding.”

He let out a relieved sigh. “You really need to stop doing that.”

“And deprive myself of the joy of watching Spider-Man panic? Absolutely not.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Only then did you notice the coffee cup sticking out of the paper bag. You narrowed your eyes.

“…Is that coffee?”

Peter immediately looked down at the bag as if he’d forgotten he was holding it in the first place. “Uh, yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And why are you standing outside my apartment at nine in the morning holding coffee?”

Peter stared at you for a few seconds, clearly debating whether or not he could still escape this conversation.

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You said you had an exam today.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You know that?”

The second the words left your mouth, Peter looked like he regretted everything. “I just—I overheard you talking on the phone in the hallway last night.”

“Oh, so you’re spying on me.”

“I’m not! I have heightened senses, you know?”

You laughed, reaching for the coffee he was still awkwardly holding hostage. “Well, thank you.”

He shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the floor. “I figured you’d need it.”

You looked down at the cup before glancing back up at him. “Okay, this is actually really sweet.”

Peter almost choked. “What?”

“I’m complimenting you.”

“You’ve spent the last week bullying me.”

“I tease you because it’s funny. Completely different.”

Peter shook his head, mumbling something under his breath as he started walking toward the elevator.

You immediately followed him. “Oh, no. You don’t get to do something nice and then escape before I properly thank you.”

“Pretty sure I do.”

“You absolutely do not.”

The elevator doors opened, and the two of you stepped inside.

“Did you sleep at all?”

Peter leaned against the wall. “A little.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What?”

“That’s a lie.”

He glanced over at you. “How would you know?”

“Because you look like you fought a bear.”

“You’re judgemental.”

“Answer the question.”

Peter sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “There was some stuff going on downtown.”

“Some stuff?”

“Yeah.”

You stared at him. “You’re literally Spider-Man. ‘Some stuff’ could mean anything from stopping a robbery to fighting an alien invasion.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s only happened once.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Twice, maybe.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”

“Imagine how I feel.”

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped into the lobby.

Outside, New York was already awake. People hurried down the sidewalks, taxis filled the streets, and somewhere in the distance, someone was yelling at a delivery truck.

You took a sip of your coffee. “Okay, serious question.”

Peter looked over.

“How do you balance all of this?”

He frowned. “Balance what?”

“You know…” You gestured vaguely. “Spider-Man stuff. Life.”

Peter laughed softly. “I don’t.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

You stopped walking. “What do you mean, you don’t?”

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets. “I mean exactly what I said.”

For the first time that morning, the teasing tone disappeared from his voice.

“Half the time, I’m in front of my desk, fixing my suit. The other half, I’m too exhausted to focus on anything.” He shrugged. “I’ve kind of accepted that I’m bad at balancing things.”

You frowned. “That’s not healthy.”

Peter opened his mouth, prepared with another joke, but stopped when he noticed the look on your face.

You were actually worried.

Peter looked away first.

“You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to take care of yourself too.”

He let out a quiet laugh.

“Funny. You sound exactly like my aunt May.”

The moment the words left his mouth, his expression changed. The smile disappeared.

“Oh.” Your voice softened. “Peter…”

“It’s okay.”

You weren’t sure whether to say something or pretend that the conversation hadn’t just shifted into dangerous territory.

Before you could decide, Peter shook his head and forced a smile. “Anyway, good luck on your exam.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Nice try.”

“What?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?”

“Very obviously.”

Peter laughed, stepping backward onto the sidewalk. “Seriously, though. Good luck.”

You stared at him for a moment before sighing in defeat.

“Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

Peter smiled. “We’ll see.”

You pointed at him accusingly. “No, don’t ‘we’ll see’ me, Parker.”

He laughed and started walking backward down the street. “Go ace your exam, sweetheart.”

The second the nickname left his mouth, both of you froze.

Peter looked just as surprised as you did.

Your eyes widened. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”

Peter stopped walking. “I—”

“You did!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did!”

He buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “Oh, this is never leaving my memory.”

“Can we all agree to pretend that never happened?”

“Absolutely not.”

Peter groaned as you laughed, continuing your walk toward campus.

He shook his head, turning to leave in the opposite direction, but even from several feet away, you could still see the embarrassed smile on his face.

~~~~~

You tried not to think too much as you walked home from campus that evening, convincing yourself that he was probably just busy with superhero things. It wasn’t unusual for him to vanish for hours at a time.

Still, there was an uneasy feeling in your chest that you couldn’t explain.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the sun had already disappeared behind the skyline, painting New York in shades of orange and blue. You stepped into the lobby, fishing your keys out of your bag and nearly jumped when you saw Peter standing completely still in front of the elevators.

“Jesus Christ, Parker.”

He turned around so quickly that you almost took a step back.

For a moment, he just stared at you.

“Peter?”

He blinked a few times, as if he were forcing himself back into reality.

“Oh. Hey.”

You frowned.

“Hey? That’s all you have to say after ignoring me all day?”

“I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“Peter, I sent you three texts.”

“You sent me three memes.”

“They were funny memes.”

Peter let out a distracted laugh, but something was off.

He looked more exhausted than usual. His hoodie was damp from the rain, his hair was a mess, and there was a fresh cut just above his eyebrow.

You immediately noticed. “You’re hurt.”

“What? No.”

“You literally have blood on your face.”

Peter instinctively touched his eyebrow before dropping his hand. “It’s nothing.”

You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone whose entire job is saving people, you’re really bad at taking care of yourself.”

Peter looked away, jaw tightening.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, but neither of you moved.

“Peter?”

He swallowed hard before finally speaking. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching you?”

The question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “For the past few days, everywhere I go, I keep feeling like there’s…” He hesitated. “Like there’s someone there.”

You frowned. “Someone following you?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you actually seen anyone?”

Peter thought back to the fire escape. To the dark car disappearing into traffic before he could get a good look at it.

“Not really.”

You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice. “Peter, are you sure you’re okay?”

He opened his mouth to answer—

“Behind you.”

The voice wasn’t yours.

Peter froze.

His head snapped toward the lobby entrance, but there was nobody there except an elderly man struggling with grocery bags.

“What?” you asked.

Peter stared at the doors, his heartbeat suddenly pounding in his ears.

The old man looked up.

“You’re easier to find than you think, Peter.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. The voice wasn’t the old man’s. It was someone else’s, speaking through him.

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by confusion as the man adjusted his glasses and continued walking.

“Peter?”

He turned back toward you, panic flashing across his face.

“Did you hear that?”

You blinked. “Hear what?”

Before Peter could answer, a woman stepped into the lobby, talking on the phone as she walked past the two of you.

“Everyone has a weakness.”

Peter stiffened.

The woman stopped walking.

Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “You know that better than anyone.”

The air left Peter’s lungs. “What the hell…”

“Peter?” You grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t answer. Because now, all around the lobby, people had started looking at him.

One by one, they turned toward him.

And they all smiled.

“You lost your aunt.”

“You lost your friends.”

“You lost the girl you loved.”

The voices overlapped, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Peter stumbled backward, his breathing becoming uneven.

“You found someone new.”

Peter’s eyes immediately darted toward you.

“So that’s why you’ve been smiling lately.”

Your grip on his arm tightened. “Peter, you’re scaring me.”

Instantly, every face in the lobby returned to normal.

Peter stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Peter, talk to me.”

He looked at you, but it was obvious that he wasn’t really seeing you. His mind was somewhere else, replaying the words over and over again.

You found someone new.

“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

“What?”

Peter grabbed your wrist.

The sudden movement startled you.

“You can’t stay here tonight.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Pack a bag.”

“Peter, slow down—”

“I’m serious.”

“What’s going on?”

He looked around the lobby one last time, searching for any sign that whoever had done this was still watching.

“I think someone’s trying to get to me.”

You stared at him.

“And I think…” His voice cracked slightly as he looked back at you. “I think they know about you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you shook your head. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Neither do I.”

Peter finally had something left to lose again.

And whoever was out there had just figured that out.

~~~~~

By the time Peter finally explained what was happening, the two of you were already halfway across New York.

Well “explained” was a generous term.

According to Peter, there was someone out there who could somehow speak through other people, someone who had spent the last few days following him, taunting him, and apparently taking a concerning interest in the fact that he’d started spending time with you.

According to you, that sounded completely insane. “You realize how crazy this sounds, right?”

Peter tightened his grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Trust me, I know.”

“No, because from my perspective, I went from studying for finals to being shoved into a car by Spider-Man because some random woman might be stalking us.”

“I’m not shoving you anywhere.”

“You practically dragged me out of the apartment.”

“You had, like, five minutes to pack.”

“Exactly.”

Peter let out an exhausted sigh.

The city lights reflected against the windshield as silence settled between you for a moment. You glanced over at him, finally getting a good look at his expression.

He looked terrified.

You looked away, staring out the window. “Who is she?”

Peter hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know her name?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

“Yeah, and believe it or not, I don’t actually know every single person in New York.”

You rolled your eyes, but the joke barely landed. It was obvious that his mind was somewhere else entirely.

The city slowly disappeared behind you, replaced by quieter streets and the dark outline of the harbor. After another few minutes, Peter pulled into a small dock.

You stepped out of the car and immediately froze.

Floating a few feet away from the pier was what looked like a tiny house sitting on top of a boat.

“Where are we?”

“It’s safer than the apartment.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Peter ignored you, already walking toward the dock.

“Peter!”

“I’m serious, Y/n.”

You quietly followed him down the dock.

The house itself was small, warm lights spilling out from the windows onto the water. Peter knocked twice before the door swung open, revealing a man who looked like he’d been expecting him.

The man’s eyes immediately landed on you. Then they shifted back to Peter.

“…You brought company.”

Peter sighed. “Frank, not now.”

“Oh, it’s definitely now.”

“Frank.”

You watched as Frank crossed his arms, trying to suppress an amused smile.

“So, let me get this straight.” He pointed between the two of you. “The world is apparently ending, and this is who you decided to bring to my place?”

“She’s my neighbor.”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Peter groaned. “Can you please not do this right now?”

“I’m just asking questions.”

You bit back a laugh as Peter shot Frank the most exhausted look you’d ever seen.

Frank stepped aside, letting the two of you inside before he disappeared into the kitchen.

“So,” he called out, “you want tea? Coffee? Emotional support?”

Peter buried his face in his hands. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m sensing coffee for the kid and emotional support for Spider-Man.”

You snorted.

Peter glared at both of you.

An hour later, after Frank had finally stopped making fun of him, the three of you sat around the tiny dining table.

Well, technically, Frank was sitting.

Peter had spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth.

“Peter, you’re making me dizzy.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re stomping.”

He ignored you.

Frank looked up from his coffee. “Kid, sit down before you wear a hole through my floor.”

Peter stopped pacing, but only because his phone buzzed.

He immediately grabbed it, eyes scanning the screen.

Nothing. Just a news notification.

You watched as he exhaled, disappointed. “You’ve checked your phone seventeen times in the last ten minutes.”

Peter frowned. “No, I haven’t.”

“You absolutely have.”

Frank looked between the two of you. “You guys do realize that you’re acting like a married couple, right?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Peter looked ready to throw himself into the ocean. “We are not acting like a married couple.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Frank.” Peter stood up so abruptly that his chair nearly fell over. “I need some air.”

Without another word, he stepped outside onto the dock.

You hesitated for a moment before quietly following him. The night air was colder now, carrying the scent of the ocean and the distant sounds of the city.

You walked up beside him, leaning against the railing.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, you asked, “How bad is it?”

Peter didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know.”

You looked down at the dark sky in front. “You really think she want to hurt me?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what she want.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

For the first time that night, Peter looked at you. The fear in his eyes caught you off guard.

“I can’t let anything happen to you.”

The words came out so quickly that it almost sounded like he’d been holding them in for hours.

You stared at him.

“I mean it.” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I spent years convincing myself that being alone was the only way to keep people safe, and then you came along and suddenly—”

He stopped himself.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Suddenly, he had something to lose again.

The silence stretched between you.

You took a step closer. “Peter, look at me.”

He did.

“I’m scared too.”

His expression softened.

“But you don’t get to decide things for me.”

Peter frowned. “What?”

“You keep acting like you have to carry everyone else’s pain by yourself, like it’s your responsibility to decide who gets hurt and who doesn’t.” You shook your head. “But that’s not fair.”

“Y/n—”

“No, listen to me.” Your voice softened. “I know you’re trying to protect me. I know that. But I’m here because I chose to be here.”

Peter looked away. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He stepped forward and gently squeezed your hand. Just for a second. Just long enough for both of you to freeze.

Peter pulled away almost immediately, looking just as shocked as you felt.

“I should go.”

And before you could respond, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving you standing alone, watching the only person you’d ever trusted with your heart swing back toward a city that never stopped needing him.

~~~~~

The first thing Peter noticed was the silence.

It was wrong.

His suit was torn near the shoulder, bruises bloomed across his ribs, and every muscle in his body ached as he limped down the dock toward Frank’s home. The morning had blurred together into a mess of adrenaline and panic: tracking Jean across the city, realizing she had taken control of the Hulk, barely escaping the destruction that followed, and worse was that Jean managed to escape.

The lights inside the houseboat were still on.

Peter frowned. “Frank?”

No answer.

He climbed the last few steps and pushed the door open. “Frank, I’m back—”

The words died in his throat.

The living room was a disaster.

A chair had been knocked onto its side. One of the lamps lay shattered on the floor, glass scattered across the wood. Your backpack was gone.

And Frank was unconscious on the ground.

Peter’s heart stopped. “Frank!”

He dropped to his knees beside him, shaking his shoulder.

“Frank, hey, wake up. Come on, come on—”

Frank groaned, slowly opening his eyes. “Kid…?”

Peter let out a breath of relief, but it lasted less than a second. “Where’s Y/n?”

Frank blinked, still disoriented.

“She…” He winced, trying to sit up. “She was here.”

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean, ‘was here’?”

Frank looked around the room as though trying to piece everything together. “There was someone at the door. I thought it was you.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “No.”

Frank swallowed hard. “Next thing I knew, she was acting strange. Said she had to go home.”

Peter stood up so fast that the room spun around him. “No, no, no—”

“Hey—”

“No.”

He was already reaching for his phone, hands shaking so violently that he nearly dropped it.

Twenty-three missed calls.

And then a message.

Sent ten minutes ago.

From you.

hey :) im back at the apartment. can you come over? we should talk.

Peter stared at the screen. Every instinct in his body screamed at him that something was wrong. You never used smiley faces.

Frank had managed to sit up now, watching Peter’s expression darken. “What’s going on?”

Peter was already backing toward the door. “She’s not there.”

Frank frowned. “What?”

“That’s not her.”

The realization hit him all at once.

Jean hadn’t been captured.

And while Peter had been busy trying to save the city, she’d gone after the one person he had been trying to protect.

~~~~~

The city became nothing but streaks of light as Peter swung through the night.

His breathing was ragged beneath the mask, every thought in his head collapsing into one singular fear.

You.

Every second felt like an eternity. Every red light, every building, every street corner seemed to move too slowly.

Please be okay.

He landed outside the apartment building so hard that several people on the sidewalk screamed and jumped back.

He sprinted through the lobby, ignoring the confused stares around him as he practically launched himself into the stairwell.

The elevator would take too long. By the time he reached your floor, his lungs were burning.

The hallway was empty. Your apartment door was slightly open.

Peter’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Y/n?”

No answer.

He stepped inside cautiously. The lights were off except for the glow of the city spilling through the windows. The apartment was silent.

“Y/n?” Then he saw you.

Standing by the window. Your back was turned toward him, your silhouette framed by the lights of the city below.

Relief crashed over him so quickly that his knees nearly gave out. “Oh my God.”

You slowly turned around.

For a brief moment, everything seemed normal.

“Peter.” The sound of your voice almost made him collapse.

He took a step forward. “Are you okay? Frank said that you left and then you texted me and I—”

“I’m okay.” Something about your tone made him stop.

It was your voice. But it didn’t sound like you.

Too empty.

Peter’s entire body tensed. “Y/n…”

“You’re worried.” You tilted your head slightly.

Peter took another cautious step. “Come away from the window.”

A smile spread across your face.

Except it wasn’t your smile.

“No.”

The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

Peter’s heart sank. “Jean.”

Your smile widened. “There he is.”

Peter felt sick. “Get out of her head.”

“Oh, Peter.” Jean’s voice echoed through your lips. “You’re making this far too easy.”

Peter couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You were standing much too close to the edge.

“Whatever you want, this has nothing to do with her.”

Jean laughed. “Nothing to do with her?”

Your body turned slightly, glancing out at the city below.

“You spent years convincing yourself that isolation would protect the people you love.” Jean’s voice softened. “And then she smiled at you in an elevator.”

Peter’s chest tightened. “Stop.”

“You let her in.”

“Stop talking.”

“You gave yourself something to lose.”

“Jean, stop!”

For the first time, something flickered in your expression.

For a split second, Peter saw you.

Really saw you.

Terrified. “Peter?”

The fear in your voice was unmistakably yours. Peter immediately stepped forward. “Y/n, listen to me. I’m right here.”

Your eyes darted around the room frantically. “W-what’s happening?”

Then your expression changed again.

Jean was back. And this time, she was smiling.

“Tell me, Peter.” You took a step backward. Right onto the ledge. “How many people can Spider-Man save before he finally fails?”

Peter’s blood ran cold. “No.”

“How many times can Peter Parker lose the people he loves before he breaks?”

“Jean, don’t do this.”

For the first time all night, Jean’s voice lost its mocking tone.

“I just want you to understand.” Instead, she sounded almost sad.

And then you fell.

“Y/N!”

Peter didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t hesitate. He ran.

The window shattered behind him as he launched himself into the open air, diving after you as the city lights blurred together beneath him.

Wind roared in your ears. For a moment, there was nothing.

Then suddenly—consciousness.

You blinked. And realized you were falling.

The scream that tore from your throat was filled with pure terror. “Peter!”

You couldn’t breathe. The ground was getting closer. And then strong arms wrapped around you.

You collided against Peter’s chest as he wrapped his body around yours and shot a web into the nearest building, swinging both of you away from the street below.

You clung to him instantly, shaking so violently that you could barely form words.

“Oh my god—oh my god—”

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Peter’s voice was panicked too.

One hand held the web. The other was wrapped so tightly around you that it almost hurt.

You buried your face against his shoulder, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“I don’t—I don’t know what happened—”

“I know.”

“I was in the boat and then—and then—”

“I know.” Peter’s voice cracked.

Because for one horrifying moment, he hadn’t known if he’d make it in time.

And as he held you against him, thirty stories above New York City, Peter Parker made himself a promise.

Whatever happened next, whatever it took, he would never let you go again.

~~~~~

The rooftop was silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing and the distant hum of New York below.

Peter still hadn’t let go of you.

Not since he’d caught you.

Not since he’d felt your fingers clutch desperately at his suit thirty stories above the ground.

You sat beside him now, shoulders pressed together, both of you staring at the skyline as the first hints of sunrise painted the clouds orange.

Neither of you knew what to say.

Because how were you supposed to act normal after something like that?

“Peter…”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m sorry.”

You frowned. “Why do you keep apologizing?”

“Because I should’ve protected you.”

“You did protect me.”

“No.” He shook his head, his voice cracking. “I was supposed to keep this from happening in the first place.”

You turned toward him. “Hey, that’s impossible.”

He laughed bitterly, staring down at his hands. “Yeah, well, I’ve spent the last four years trying to do the impossible.”

The words hung between you.

You watched him quietly, noticing the way his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of everything he carried.

“You know that’s not your fault, right?” you whispered.

Peter finally looked at you. The expression on his face almost broke your heart.

“After May… after MJ and Ned…” He swallowed hard. “I promised myself that I would never do this again.”

“Do what?”

Peter let out a shaky breath. “Care.”

You felt your heart stop.

“Because every single person I’ve ever loved…” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I’ve lost them somehow.”

“Peter—”

“And then you showed up.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

“You kept talking to me in elevators when I clearly didn’t want to talk. You kept making fun of me. You kept showing up with coffee and stupid jokes, and…” He looked at you, eyes shining in the early morning light. “Somehow, you made me forget what it felt like to be alone.”

You couldn’t speak.

“I tried to stay away from you.” He shook his head. “I really did.”

Your eyes welled with tears.

“But every time you smiled at me, every time you waited for me to come home, every time you sat next to me on that fire escape…” He laughed weakly. “It just got harder.”

The silence between you became unbearable.

And then Peter whispered the words he’d spent months trying not to feel.

“I love you.”

The world seemed to stop. Peter immediately looked away, almost like he regretted saying it.

“I know it’s selfish,” he continued quickly. “And maybe I shouldn’t have said anything because everything in my life is complicated and dangerous and honestly, I don’t even know what tomorrow looks like, but when I saw you falling—”

His voice broke.

“When I saw you falling, the only thing I could think was that I never told you.”

Peter let out a shaky breath, staring at the city because he couldn’t bear to look at your reaction.

“I love you,” he whispered again. “And that’s the scariest thing that’s happened to me in years.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you reached for his hand.

Peter looked down, almost surprised to find your fingers intertwined with his.

“Peter Parker,” you whispered, squeezing his hand, “you are such an idiot.”

He blinked. “That’s not exactly the response I was expecting.”

You laughed and shook your head. “Because I’ve been in love with you since before I even knew you were Spider-Man.”

Peter just stared.

“You brought me coffee before my exams, sat with me when I was lonely, and somehow made me feel at home in a city that never felt like mine.” You smiled softly. “I didn’t fall in love with Spider-Man.”

You stepped a little closer.

“I fell in love with the awkward guy from the elevator.”

Peter’s eyes immediately filled with tears.

And for the first time since the spell, since May, since losing everyone he’d ever loved, Peter allowed himself to believe that maybe losing people wasn’t the only ending he deserved.

He laughed shakily, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You have terrible taste in men.”

It's debilitating. He feels so familiar. Like a memory so strong that you can smell the fresh crayons from elementary school without having touched a box of them in the last several years. Or maybe it's more of a muted blur trying restlessly to revive itself. Watching your younger self in the mirror, head bobbing side to side as you feel that humming in your chest even all these years later. When did being seven happen fifteen years ago?

Didn't you know him then? At seven? It's so convincing to go along with the idea that you did. If your brain didn't scream otherwise, you'd go along with the thought. But why is your mind so against it?

His confession is crumpled in your hands, thumb smoothing over the wrinkles and regrets folded into the pages. It stings, or burns, or… ignites something in your person.

"I'm so sorry…" His cheeks are pink, but his eyes can't leave yours. Do you remember? He can't commit to that risk. 

He's fully masked, fully guarded, standing across from you and trying his best to come up with something to say. He's had years to consider this conversation. He's replayed it countless times, but it always ends the same. Now that it's happening, now that it's not just a show of puppetry with the strings tied to the ends of hisfingers, there's something more real at stake. 

"No, don't apologize." Your reassurance is quick but comes out in a whisper. 

Maybe Peter's a fool for letting hope wash in, for focusing on your immediate response rather than the lack of conviction behind it, but he can't help himself. How many times had he passed your place, hoping you'd lock eyes like some clandestine meeting and just… know? And now you're here, just a few feet away and looking right past the Spider-Man mask and straight into his soul. It almost feels like fate. 

He's a fool that can't look away, but you're just as much a fool that can't stop seeking.

It's beyond niceties. Confrontation of the letter says something. You didn't awkwardly pretend to never have read it, or offer up a pitiful apology and wish him a good day as you backed out. You're here. Eyes turning glassy, head tilting in some faint recognition—he knows it. 

His middle finger taps rhythmically against his thumb, taking the invitation to a conversation. "I should have told you."

It's a hidden apology, an admission of doing something wrong. And it is wrong. Him pulling a trigger that you didn't even know existed, making a call that you had no clue was on the table of possibilities. Entirely unpredictable, and completely unfair. And it just aches.

You swallow, trying to solve the puzzle. "Why didn't you?"

He watches you for a moment. The temptation to run is faint, the need to curl up into a ball and cry is overwhelming. This isn't how it was supposed to be but it's been his own hands making this bed. Avoid the moon all you want, but he'd end up lying in that bed in the end. 

"I didn't know how," he admits.

"You wrote a letter," you hold the paper up. "You could've read it to me. You could've reintroduced yourself, or mailed it, or… or sent a fucking carrier pigeon, I don't know!"

Frustration cracks your ribs open, lungs shaking in a broken breath. Are you mad? It doesn't feel like anger. It's almost indescribable, an adjective on the tip of your tongue but you just can't spit it out. It tastes aged and ruined.

Whatever it is, he lets you feel it. He lets himself falter, taking a step back to shadow himself in his shame. Sinking into a depth within his mind where he knows that he'd be digging his own grave the same way he'd made his bed. Where he thinks he deserves to be, but you aren't so sure.

"I'm sorry," you murmur and set his confession letter on the table. "I'm just trying to understand this."

"No, please say whatever you feel." His voice is stronger when defending you than it was for himself. "It was wrong— it is wrong. I shouldn't have kept it from you, and I can't imagine how it must feel."

In theory, you know that his words should anger you. That you didn't owe him any utterance of an apology and that he should be groveling at your feet. In practice, you can tell he's already paid every price imaginable for his actions. You don't want revenge, you just want to fill in that blank page in your memories. 

The memories scrawled on those pages are meant to be yours, but he can tell that you don't own them anymore. He sees the desperate search that your mind has been on to somehow plug these memories back into your hard drive. It's exhausting. Something is always wrong about it. 

Peter wonders what it was like for you. If he was standing here, face revealed, would it bring back any memory? Right now, even with the mask on, are your memories of him gone entirely? Or filled in with something that never really happened? Stress is written so plainly on your face, he doesn't pry. You rub your fingers into your temples to try and self soothe, but it's a failed attempt. 

His fingers twitch, wanting reach out and try to do it for you. He knows better. His palm flattens against his thigh.

For whatever reason, you recognize his distress too. Without a face, without words, without reason. You know him. Of course, all of New York thinks they know Spider-Man. 

His attempts to put himself in your shoes, to encourage you to call him out with a vengeance. It's a little ironic after having kept the secret for four years, but he still welcomes you with open arms even if it means accepting harsh words. You see the way he has to keep his hand to himself, the way that he wants to take care of you because it's just in his nature. 

"Take off the mask." You say it more like a demand than request.

"I can't—" he pauses. 

Can't what? You already knew his name, it's in the first line of his letter to you. But his face is much different. What if it brings light to the shaded parts of your past? Both fear and excitement feast on the idea of that. 

"I think I deserve to see the face that wrote me this." Your finger taps the pages on the table. Body feeling weighted like when emerging from water, you force yourself to stand. "To see who would deny me my own memories, who would make such a huge decision for me."

"I wasn't trying to…" Peter's defense falls flat. How can he keep denying? "Does it matter? What I look like?"

"Matters enough for you to hide it." You take a small step forward, hand still on those pages.

His chest falls. You're right. Thinking on it, this is part of why he has avoided you. He has a way of intertwining right into whatever string of reasons you sent his way. Always has.

"It was magic, even if you see me you won't remember." He tries to defend his cause anyway.

You shake your head, "I never said I want to remember, I said I want to see who did this." 

"Right." His voice is hardly audible.

You deserve the dignity of knowing, he knows it. Of having a face to pin to the hole inside your head. A visual of who to blame, who to point fingers to. And he deserves the consequence of secrecy. Doesn't mean it didn't sting when you rejected the idea of remembering.

Just as he knows the sun will rise in the east each morning, he knows he will reveal himself to you again. Hesitance feels like some form of self pity. The thing is, he hasn't been the only victim to the avoidance and he can't fathom hurting you any more than he already has.

Gloved fingers rise to his neck, peeling up the fabric of his mask with a movement that he'll label as caution instead of reluctance. It'll meaning nothing, his mind offers. It will change nothing.

Your eyes are carefully kept on his form, capturing each bit of evidence possible. A freckle on his neck, short brown hair poking out from the back, a nose that looked like it had been broken one times too many. Brown eyes filled with worry. With fear. With love. With tears.

Breathing in, your spine slowly straightens. Had you expected some crashing wave? Maybe a visceral feeling that screamed, how could you forget? It just feels blank. But there is curiosity in the unknown.

"Peter Parker," you whisper to yourself. 

He feels like he himself has somehow become some personification of a fever. He melts, eyes softening into a brand of resignation he hasn't known for the last four years. Hearing you say his name encourages his heart to be excited. Maybe it's wrong, or selfish, or maybe just morally ambiguous, but he wants to hear it over and over and over.

Of course, he knows you're just tasting it. Trying his name out, or maybe committing his face and name to memory so you know who to avoid from here on out. But at least your eyes are on him again. He didn't know how badly he missed being seen by you.

His hands, unsure of what to do, both hold onto his Spider-Man mask. It somehow makes him feel less vulnerable. How is it possible to feel so naked with 90% of your body covered?

"Why didn't you just tell me?" You ask it again, and answering has become unavoidable. 

Saying the wrong thing would be incredibly easy right now. He really, really doesn't want to make you run, but also knows you're halfway out the door. He can't blame you.

"Because I was afraid," he says the truth. He swallows the lump in his throat, teary eyed but refusing to let them fall. "I lost someone very important, and it was my fault. I've been afraid of letting you know me because…"

The holes in his argument are massive, he's just as aware of that as you are. But you let him go on anyway. You offer him a level of patience that doesn't feel deserved. 

He continues, "Because knowing me is a risk. And if I lost you, I wouldn't know how to live. I couldn't." 

"A risk for me to decide on," you point out.

"I know," he nods, entirely agreeing. "I've been selfish."

"Is you acknowledging that supposed to make it okay?" Your arms cross over, hugging yourself through this uncharted territory.

"No," he says quickly. "No, it just… You wanted to know why, and that's it. It was because I can't lose someone else so important to me. I love you, that's my reason."

His knuckles are nearly white, gripping his mask with an intense concern that he's losing you anyway. Just as the prophecy read, it would be his own fault.

"I love you." He repeats. What if this is the last time he gets to say it?

You're unsure how the new confession hits you. You don't even know what else you could've expected having read the letter. Of course that's his reason or he never would've written the letter in the first place. Some part of you knows that you just wanted to hear him say it.

Those three words ring through you with a vague familiarity. You'd heard them before, you heard them just yesterday when saying goodbye to Ned before his weekend trip. But that was between friends. This just… lingers. Has been lingering. Festering. Eating your brain as you cry for the loss of something you didn't recognize. 

Your foot lifts from the metal floor, taking two steps closer to the man standing on trial. He stays planted, like a deer staring into the headlights of a crashing car. He's accepting of his fate.

The proximity feels comforting. Now that you're closer, you see the color of his eyes is brown. That somehow perfectly fits the vision you had of him. A color that is warm and gentle, fitting the persona Spider-Man had to have in order to help civilians feel safe.

His name had been perfect too. An alliteration that scratched every itch when you spoke it. It soaks into your mind, firing off neurons that tell you you aren't supposed to know that. You aren't supposed to know him. 

But how can you ignore the simultaneous tug of your heart that is begging you to step closer? Muscle memory takes over, guiding your hand to his face. His eyes watch as you near and he stays still.

You quietly ask, hand frozen less than an inch away from its destination, "Can I?" 

"Please." He whispers back. It's all it takes. 

Your fingers finally land, brushing backwards on his cheek as your hand simply knows how to find its place there. His jaw unclenches beneath your touch as if his body is allowing him to relax for the first time in ages. 

Peter feels sure that he is about to burn up as crashes back into your atmosphere. His eyes are still set straight ahead, locked with yours. But your eyes are still scanning and determining how close you'll let him get. 

First, your eyes land on the freckle to the left of his nose. Something that you figure past you had memorized away as a place to put casual kisses. Then, you look at the curls that laid messily against his forehead and can assume your fingers used to coil around them with ease. Last, you see the absolute exhaustion in his eyes that likely always ratted him out for pushing himself too hard.

Thumb smoothing the skin beneath his eyes, you connect your gaze with his again. You see it now. Really, truly see it.

"You look so lonely," you murmur the concern. 

Accuracy can be presumed by the way he leans into your touch, head guiding him to press his face flat against your hand. The tips of your fingers brush into the brown curls by his ear. Your fingers know just what to do to hold him properly, relaxing and parting around his ear. 

This is his punishment, he imagines. To feel the touch of your skin again, and immediate relief of being back in your orbit. To feel the physical acceptance that your muscles just know you used to give him, but with that reminder that your brain wasn't going to allow it. To know that, eventually, you would push him away and he'd be aimlessly floating. 

"Ah, you know… hard to feel alone when I stay busy as Spider-Man." Peter tries to shake it. It's in him to try keeping it light. 

You shake your head, thumb moving across his cheek bone now. "Lonely, not alone."

He knows the difference well. Admittedly, though, the call out is right but slightly off. Those tears that had refused to budge before let loose now. No point in avoiding it anymore.

"I think I've been both." He confesses and his chest sputters a breath. "I know I have."

Pulling him in for a hug is careful and smooth, bodies pressing together with ease. Your hand wrapped around, resting on the back of his head to cradle him through this pain. The other hand goes to his back and presses him closer to your heart. 

You could tell yourself that it's just kindness. That you are simply comforting another human in a time of need. It's so much more, though.

The beating of his heart makes it feel like it's trying to break through just to be held in the palm of your hand. The hold that surrounds you as his arms wrap around brings a desperate comfort that you recognize as one of those things you knew you were somehow missing. His fingers splay across your back, frantically gripping the fabric of your shirt and pulling you in with a fervor that begged you to stay.

Sobbing tears roll from his eyes before he squeezes them shut, desperate to focus absolutely everything on this feeling of holding you again just in case he never gets to do it after this. Trying his hardest to calm down, to not entirely fall apart in the arms of this person that hardly knows who he is, he takes in slow, staggered breaths that only stab his heart again as he breathes in your perfume. At least it's something else to hold on to.

"I'm so sorry," he cries into your neck. "I'm so sorry, I should've told you. I should've—I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you coo. 

"It was so selfish, I'm sorry." He repeats himself, not really sure what else to do. "I love you, and I've been so afraid."

Your eyes close, deciding to be fully present in the feeling of being held and holding him. "It's okay, Pete. I'm here."

There is some sense of overwhelm that is beginning to wash over you. You almost let it scare you, but it's right. It's fucked up, and it's dirty, but it's truth. 

You've felt his arms around you before, and not just on the absolutely, mind blowing-ly terrifying web swinging ride here. No. You've felt this desperate claw for comfort. You've held him through tears, and sobbing, and failures to self soothe. 

"May," you utter the name. "It was May that you lost, wasn't it?"

Peter freezes, and you do too. The names were spoken before you had even actually processed them. Pete is excused, too common of a nickname to read in to. But May? You don't even know where it came from, you just trusted your heart that it was right.

Pulling back but keeping his hands on your upper arms, he looks at you through his reddened eyes. "Where did you…"

"I don't know." You feel almost guilty for knowing the name. "Your letter must've mentioned her."

"No," he shakes his head. "No, I didn't write her name. I… I wasn't ready to write her name, I've not even been able to say it."

He's not anything but sorrowful, seeking for answers just the same as you. Hoping that he'll find the answer to it all by looking into your eyes, just like you had hoped seeing his face would unlock floodgates. What catches you off guard is that it's not a flood, but a stream. 

"It was May, I just remember." Your gaze turns itself away, realizing tears were streaming from your eyes too. Were you ready to remember?

"It was, but…" Peter's chest rises and falls with exaggerated flow. He doesn't want to get his hopes too high. "Did I say her name? Is it because of the name Parker? You helped put at F.E.A.S.T. sometimes, do you just remember her from that?"

He doesn't mean to overwhelm, he really doesn't. 

"I don't know," your voice is quiet again. 

Gripping his arms, your eyes squeeze shut like trying to regain balance just to find out that your footing is stable. Your brain feels fogged. Which… isn't anything new for these last four years. It's just that now the fog is turning acidic, biting at you and making itself known rather than concealing something's existence. 

He reacts, cupping your cheeks and ducking his head to follow your avoidance and be sure that you're okay. Again, meant to comfort you. Physically, you feel his gloved hands brushing over your skin with a tenderness that was well practiced. Muscle memory steps in again, leaning yourself into his touch because your body simply knows that you belong in his hands. 

Emotionally, you're coming undone into a million pieces. Working overtime, your brain is scrambling to build up a dam to stop a crashing wave that ends up coming out more like a trickle regardless. Why does it feel like something grand is supposed to happen?

"I just knew," you helplessly repeat. Your brain is throbbing. 

"Okay." Peter gently accepts, seeing that it's overwhelming. 

Excitement came over him. He wants you to remember, he needs you to remember. But he can't force it. 

He's glad to see your acceptance of his touch. He thought that he'd surely never get to hold you again. It's so much sweeter than he remembered, and the memory had been one dipped in honey. 

"It's okay." He speaks softly. "I'm not trying to push, I'm sorry. It's just…"

"No, I know." You slowly exhale and opt to keep your eyes shut. It feels nice to just float in his hold. 

You're grounding yourself, same method that Peter recognizes from four years ago. Slow, deep breaths, controlling your senses so you can recenter. Letting his hands be a guiding force. 

Taking the chance, his eyes scan your face. The way it looks in his touch. The way it looks when standing so close. He's missed you so terribly. 

Focus shifts, your hand coming up to press his hand closer into your cheek. The warmth feels just like returning to bed in the middle of the night. His fingertips pressing into the plush apples of your cheeks feels exactly like sipping a hot cup of tea after being showered in a relentless rain. His patient silence fills you with that same exact excitement of clicking the last piece of a thousand count puzzle into place. 

"Peter." You say it another time. This time it hurts. 

He never stopped crying. Taking one step closer, coming when called upon, the edge of his boot brushes your shoe. He almost lets his forehead rest on yours but that's your call not his. 

"Yeah?" His voice is broken, though there's a faint glow of hope. 

A laugh breaks through your overwhelming crisis. It's bitter, aimed at your own heart and memory. You want to tear yourself to shreds. 

"I've known you," you cry, gripping onto his wrist because you need to his hands to stay there. "I've known you this whole time, haven't I? You've been that void in my head?"

Is it sick to say he hopes so? 

Instead he says, "You read the letter." It allows you to process however you need. 

You shake your head, sniffling and leaning your forehead against his chest. "But I've known, in some way. I've known something was missing. I know something is missing. I know you, I knew Aunt May."

His hand cradles the back of your head. There's some sort of peace in the fact that him holding you is bringing comfort. You'd feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind the way he used to. He needs to be seen by you, held by you, absorbed by you. 

Trying to brush everything off with a quick lash of doubt was becoming increasingly difficult. He had never said May's name to you, and he certainly never told you she was his aunt. How could he keep denying hope entry when the walls were being torn apart brick by brick?

Chin resting ontop of your head, he whispers, "You did. You do."

"Oh my god, I've missed you." You speak as a deep sighed cry comes out, your arms wrapping around him again but this time with a deathly grip. 

It would be more lethal… were Peter not genetically enhanced, and if he wasn't so desperate for you to never let go. Weld yourself into his ribs for all he cared, he'd bring the flame if you brought the torch. 

"I've missed you so much, this entire time. I knew." You're spewing anything just to talk to him again. 

You can't even remember each and every detail of why you missed him, it's just a sense of knowing. You love this man. You have loved this man, prior to these last four years of separation. It's the reason your life feels stalled. The explanation for why things just never felt complete. He has been missing. 

"I missed you, I love you." Your heart just lets it all out. 

Peter's brain feels nearly as thrown as yours. He can't believe the words he's hearing. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare, or one of Mysterio's cruel trick visions. It feels surreal. 

But it's you. You, in his arms, on his chest. You telling him you love him, and remembering May on your own. If it was a dream it would be immediate, and if it was Mysterio it would be over the top. It's real, and it's you. Taking time to mend the broken pieces, but that connection between the two of you letting itself be known. 

Still. He has been tricked so many times before. You read him plainly, you called out his loneliness. Was this just a stranger trying to offer someone kindness in their time of grief?

"You don't have to say that." Peter regrets feeling the need to say it. "Please don't say it unless you really mean it."

"Pete, I mean it." You pull your head from his chest, though it longs to stay. "I wish I'd known it months ago, years ago. I wish I'd seen you sooner, or read that letter, or— it doesn't matter. I've missed you."

The more you say it, the more you feel how true it is. It's a fact. You know him, and there is a giant mass of empty space in the life you've been pretending to live while he has been gone. You may not remember his favorite bodega, or how he takes his coffee, but you're absolutely certain that…

"I love you." You say it with a heavenly sigh because you get to say it at all. 

Your hands cup his face, coming in for a soft and tender kiss. Peter thinks he's dying. But your lips feel exactly how he remembers. Precisely how they've felt when he has imagined feeling it again. Even if his heart was giving out, the connection of your lips sends a spark to revive him. 

"Say it again." He says it almost silently. "Please, say it again."

You do. "I love you." Followed with another magnetic kiss. 

It isn't a crashing wave. There are no fireworks, and there is no flash of every single memory that you'd lost in this unfair story. Sure, you could make it something dramatic and theatrical, but at its core it's so simple. 

It's just you with him. It's what is right. A blissful, all consuming, lasting love that will take its sweet time to reconnect you. How thrilling, to fall in love again. 

"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.

"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.

"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"

"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.

She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."

You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."

"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.

"It's not-"

"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"

You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."

She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."

"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.

You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.

Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.

"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.

This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."

"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."

Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.

When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.

As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.

You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.

"What are you doing?"

Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.

"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.

His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.

"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.

"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.

His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.

"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.

You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.

"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.

Reassuring himself.

Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.

You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.

He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.

The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.

"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.

"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"

She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.

---

As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.

You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.

"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.

"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.

"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.

"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.

"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.

"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.

"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.

You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."

"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.

"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.

"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.

You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.

You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.

"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.

"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.

"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.

You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.

You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.

"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"

"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."

"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.

"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.

"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."

"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"

"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"

"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"

"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"

"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"

"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"

"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.

Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.

"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.

Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.

"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.

You grin. "It's a date."

The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.

"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."

"Oh, come on-"

"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.

"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.

Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"

"Shut up."

He wakes up pretty quickly most of the time. After how many of them he’s had by now, his body knows to wake him and get him out of there as soon as possible. It’s the panic that comes afterwards that’s harder to deal with than the nightmare. The crushing darkness of his room, the feeling that everything he’d dreamt might be real. But maybe it’s how comfortable he feels sleeping beside you that keeps him there a little longer tonight, in the world where he lost you too.

You’re used to waking up when you sleep in the same bed as Peter. There have been several times when you’ve slept over at his apartment and he’s gotten an alert on his phone in the middle of the night, causing him to spring out of bed, grab his suit, press a quick kiss to your forehead and go off to do what he does best. But what wakes you up tonight is different.

It’s the sound of whimpers that clue you in to the fact that something isn’t right. Still half asleep, you turn over, blinking your tired eyes to look at Peter. He’s laying beside you, sweat coating his body, head moving side to side. You hear the whimpers for what they are now.  Murmurs of “No, no, no.” 

Dread fills you. “Peter,” you mutter, sitting up in the bed and reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to try and gently shake him awake. “Peter, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, sweetheart.” 

His eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling for a split second before looking right at you. He murmurs your name and before you can even think about replying or to ask if he’s okay, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back down to the bed and into his chest. His body is warm and slick, still coated in sweat that you’re sure would have soaked through a shirt had he been wearing one. 

“Are you real?” Peter whispers against your head. “Please tell me that this is real.”

Your heart cracks. “It’s real, Peter. I’m real.” You don’t even know if he can hear you but you try to make your words as loud as you can through the sudden feeling of thickness in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this before. 

You can feel his heart racing and slowly you become aware of the fact that his breathing is quickening too. 

“Peter, hey,” you gently try and push back from him, though his grip is still tight on you, clearly trying to convince himself that you are real. “Tell me what’s going on.”

His grip loosens enough for you to pull away a little. You reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes are screwed shut, breathing coming in small bursts. You recognise it for what it is immediately. 

“Can you sit up with me for a second?” You whisper, moving to sit up and feeling immediately relieved when he listens to you and sits up too. “I think you’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me?”

You move to sit a little closer to him so he can see you in the dark room, only lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. You reach up and swipe away a tear as it falls from his eye. 

“Peter, open your eyes, sweetheart,” you try again.

His eyes slowly open and the sight of them so full of tears breaks your heart even more. That, combined with his still heavy breathing and the fact that he hasn’t uttered a word since he first woke up, worry you even more.

You reach down to take his hands in yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Can you breathe with me, Peter? In for four, out for four, okay? I’ll do it with you. Ready? One, two, three, four…”

Relief fills you as Peter starts to try breathing with you. It’s difficult at first but the more you count out loud, the more you do it with him, the better he becomes at it. His breathing starts to slow and even though there are still tears streaking down his cheeks, it’s progress. 

You keep counting for a few minutes even after his breathing has slowed and the tears stop falling. Your hands don’t let go of his, though. You still want to keep holding him, anchoring him to the real world for as long as he needs it, even if he hasn’t asked you to. 

“Are you okay?” You eventually ask, voice soft.

Peter nods once and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. You can’t help but feel the need to get closer to him so you make the split second decision to move to straddle his lap, letting go of his hands briefly to rest them on the sides of his neck, stroking your thumbs back and forth over his skin. 

“That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?” 

He nods again, hands moving to rest on your waist and pull you a little closer to him. “They’ve been happening for a while,” he replies, voice a little croaky from the tears and the panic attack. In the past, he’s been known to scare himself awake with a scream. Had he done that tonight? No… no, tonight your voice had been what he’d heard when he’d awoken. Your voice and your touch. You had cut through the noise. “And the panic attacks afterwards.”

“You’ve never said anything,” you frown. You’re not disappointed in him. You think you understand why he kept them to himself. But knowing he’s been struggling like this for a while and you’ve been unable to help him hurts a little. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” he admits, meeting your eyes. His eyes are still full of tears, you notice. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. Not when it was my choice.”

“Everyone has nightmares, Peter. I’d never think you’re weak for having them.”

Peter shakes his head again. “Not nightmares like these,” he continues. “These ones… they’re different. It’s not just nightmares like I used to have. About the blip or about losing fights or… about Aunt May. These ones…” He drifts off, closing his eyes again.

“You can tell me,” you hum, stroking your thumb over his skin again. 

“In these ones, you forget me too,” he manages. “I wake up one morning and you’re asking who I am, why I’m in your apartment, in your bed. Or I come home and you tell me to get out of your apartment or you’ll call the cops. Or I try and text you and the message bounces back to me because I’m not in your contacts.” 

Tears start streaming down his cheeks again as he tells you about his nightmares. They’re coming too fast for you to stop this time, even though you try. Even though there are similar tears tracking their way down your cheeks too, now. He’s been dreaming about you forgetting him. About Doctor Strange’s spell working on you, like some kind of delay. And you had no idea about it up until now. It’s been over a year since the day that spell worked. Has he been having these nightmares ever since then?

“Peter, I’m not going to forget you,” you sniff, removing one of your hands from him just so you can wipe your own tears from your face this time. “If the spell was going to work on me, it would have worked by now. But it didn’t. It didn’t and I’m still here.”

Peter blinks, finally looking back at you. “How can you be sure of that?”

You wish you could tell him with certainty that you were sure. That there wasn’t a part of you that thought that one day, the spell would take effect. That the delay would finally wear off and you’d forget him entirely. You’d had similar nightmares in the past, but none to the extent that Peter has clearly been having. 

“We can’t be sure of anything, Peter,” you admit softly. “But we can be sure of right now. And right now I’m here, and you’re here and we’re together. And I remember you and I still love you like I have all along. That’s not going to change.”

For a few moments, Peter does nothing but stare at you. Even though in the dark room, he can’t see you that well. He focuses instead on what he can feel. The weight of your body atop his. The warmth of your legs over the top of his. The feeling of your shirt and your skin where his hands sit on your waist. He reaches one of his hands up to cup your cheek, wet with tears like his are too. His thumb moves to trace your lips. He works on calming his breathing again as he takes in the feel of you. You’re here. You’re real. You remember him.

He can’t help but lean forward, then, and capture your lips in his. His hand moves to hold behind your neck as he kisses you, still focusing on how you feel, how warm your lips are, the taste of the salt of both of your tears mixing together, the faint taste of your lip balm, the one you always put on before bed. He memorises feelings like this for the next time he wakes up in a panic from a nightmare like the one he’d just had. Feelings like these to remember what it feels like to have you, to hold you, to love you and to have you love him back just as deeply. 

Eventually, when he needs to breathe again, he pulls away regretfully from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I woke you, love,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather be here with him awake now than sleeping beside him, unaware of everything he was going through and unable to help him. “Wake me up next time it happens, please. Every time it happens.”

Peter knows better than to argue with you. “Okay,” he agrees. “I will.”

The two of you sit there again for a few moments, soaking in the feeling of each other. You feel closer. Things have changed in your relationship tonight. For the better, you think.

“You think you can try and sleep again?” You ask. 

He nods, if only for your benefit. He doesn’t know if sleep will come for him again tonight, but he’ll happily lay with you in his arms, feeling the way you breathe and letting you sleep beside him. “Yeah, I can try.” 

Before you can move off of him to lay down again, he leans forward to kiss you again. The kiss is deep but gentle, soft but firm. It’s another attempt to memorise the way your lips feel against his. Something to think about as he tries to sleep again beside you. Something to hold onto.

He wraps his body around yours as you both lay back down to try and sleep again. He makes sure the blanket is pulled back up around you to keep you warm and presses a soft kiss behind your ear as you snuggle back into him. 

“I love you,” he whispers, needing you to hear the words since he didn’t say them earlier.

It didn’t take long for you to get tired of the nightly noise from the apartment above you. The constant whirring of some sort of machine, the conversations between a (you presumed) young man and older woman, not to mention the bumps and thumps. When you first moved in it was easy to ignore. Hell, you’d put up with a noisy neighbor if the rent stayed as low as it was, but now you were a seasoned enough tenant that you felt like you could complain. The thought was tempting, especially on noisy nights. You’d play out the confrontation fantasy in your head. A braver you would knock on the door, the asshole would answer, and you’d get to chew him out. He’d be rude enough that you wouldn’t feel guilty about it but he would ultimately retreat and never make a noise again. This scenario played out almost every night in your head while you laid in bed with little variations based on the noise level. Sometimes it involved a firm slap to the face. Other times, when his voice sounded weak over the whizzing of whatever he was doing up there, you felt softer. You’d show up and say something gentle like, “hey, do you mind being a little quieter? It’s almost 2 in the morning.” It wasn’t like you were trying to sleep yourself, you often stayed up late into the night doing whatever you pleased. In some ways, it was nice to have some sort of not-so-silent companion. Weirdly enough it made you feel less alone in the big city. Maybe you were being too sentimental over someone who had no idea who you were, but pretending that there was a real camaraderie between two night owls meant something to you.

Some nights even made you worry, the silent nights. Nights where your mystery neighbor would suddenly slam his window, run the shower, then presumably go to sleep. Maybe he is sneaking out and that lady is his mom, you often wondered, but he doesn’t sound that young. You hadn’t run into either of them as far as you knew so there was no way of telling. Tonight was one of those silent nights that made you wish for the safety of a complete stranger. Well, maybe not a complete stranger, he was your neighbor and make-believe kindred spirit. You couldn’t help but stay awake a little longer than you typically would, waiting for that window to slam and signify his safe return. 

All of these thoughts were freely flowing through your mind as you poured another mug full of tea. There were some candles and low-light lamps illuminating your space while the news quietly played from the TV. It was a calming night, the only piece needing to complete the puzzle was that window slam. Call it neighborly concern or call it obsession, but you couldn’t relax until you heard it. Maybe I should talk to my therapist about that. I definitely have an empathy problem— 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud. This wasn’t from the apartment above you, instead it came from eerily close by. Like, a few feet away close. Instinctually you ducked below your kitchen island, your blood rushing to your ears amplifying the sound of your own heartbeat. After a moment of panic, you foraged as quietly as your could in your drawer and fished out the largest butcher knife you could. Okay, okay, you got this. You are not going to die. Nobody is willing to die for the shit I’ve got in here, just go scare them off. Slowly you tiptoed to your bedroom, your mug now abandoned on the kitchen floor. You hugged the walls all the way to your open bedroom door. While the rest of your apartment was lit, your bedroom was pitch black, the perfect lighting for a burglar to hide in. Perfect. 

With a rush of bravery you jumped out from behind the doorframe and flicked on the overhead light, shouting, “Whoever the hell is in my apartment get out now!” Your shaky hands held the knife out in front of you like you were afraid of it. The room flooded with light, revealing a sight you couldn’t have imagined in your wildest imagination. Standing in the middle of your bedroom was Spider-man, donned in his red and blue suit. He whipped around to face you immediately and threw his hands out in defense.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I did not mean to break into your apartment, I was- uh, trying to, you know what? It doesn’t matter, I’m gonna let myself out, I am so so sorry, please don’t scream.” His words tumbled out almost incoherently, his arms waving around wildly as he spoke. The knife slipped from your hand as you stood with your jaw agape. However as soon as he made his way to the window, you snapped back to your senses. With him turned to the side you could see long, dark gashes along his ribs. The closer you looked you could see they were littered all over his body and face. 

“Wait, wait! Holy shit, are you alright?” He froze at that, panic taking over once again.

“I’m fine, all in a day’s work, or night’s work, whatever. Have a great one, by the way, goodbye!” When he tried to move, a wince ripped through him. You took this as your signal to march in between him and your open window.

“No, please, just wait a second. You break into my apartment looking like you just got dragged through hell. You obviously aren’t alright. Just, take a second, alright?” He turned to face you again, stilling as he considered your words. Silently, you turned away and started walking to the living room. After a moment you could hear his feet padding behind you. Your heart was still thumping out of your chest but at least you were in control of this moment. When the two of you finally got to the living room you pointed to the small but cozy living room.

“Wait just a second so I know you aren’t losing your mind. Just- just lay down on the couch,” you called out while you rushed over to your small linen cabinet to grab some towels for him to lay on. No way were you letting him stain your couch, you saved up good money for that thing. After gathering up as many as you could possibly spare to lose you began laying them out in layers over the fabric. However Spider-man didn’t budge, instead opting to awkwardly shift his weight from one foot to the other from the corner of the room.

After a moment he finally spoke up, “Are you really sure? I can take care of myself pretty well, this isn’t nearly the worst I’ve been roughed up before.” That stunned you again, a wave of sadness washing over you. You looked over your shoulder at him with a somber expression as you struggled to find the right words. It was hard to imagine that the man who protected your city day and night, no matter how big or small the threat was, going back to an empty home and patching himself up alone. You felt your heart shatter. It had to be lonely. It wasn’t fair. You let the silence simmer a moment longer.

“Well, not tonight you aren’t.” You meant to sound more authoritative but it came out too gentle, like a loving scold. Your hands smoothed over the towels with finality to ensure they were laying as flat and comfortably as possible before you moved out of the way. He hesitated one last time before finally giving in. His back hit the couch with a sharp exhale, his muscles melting into the springs as he situated. You started making your way to the kitchen when he called out to you again.

“Thank you… random lady whose apartment I broke into.” A little laugh slipped from you. Despite his condition he still could crack a joke, that was the Spider-man everyone knew and loved. Or, thought they knew, at least. Retrieving your mug from the floor along with a clean one for Spider-man you poured more fresh tea out and began searching for your first aid and sewing kits.

“You can thank me after I finish maiming you with a sewing needle… sorry you couldn’t stumble into some nurse’s apartment or something.” After gathering all the supplies you made your way back to the couch, pulling a chair up so you could sit beside his reclined figure. He sat up a bit when you did and nervously scanned over your kit. Instead of paying his caution any mind you shoved the mug into his hand.

Again, he started rambling.

“Listen, I’m really thankful for the tea and the couch but I seriously cannot let you patch me up. I mean, these wounds aren’t really the type you can sew up, not most of them at least. Plus, I heal super quick. Double-plus, I can’t let you see me, like at all.” Your hand met your forehead, pensively rubbing over your forehead.

“How about… you can fix yourself up if I just turn around while your mask is up? Maybe I could just get you some ibuprofen and an ice pack?” He let out a breathy laugh at that and nodded softly.

“Yeah, that’d be really great.”

“How about a snack?”

The fridge light poured into your kitchen as your eyes scanned through every possible option you could provide. What do you make for a local superhero who is bleeding out on your couch? From the living room you could hear the sharp hisses of someone repeatedly shoving a curved sewing needle into themselves, a noise you never wanted to hear again in your life. As that sound registered in your mind you suddenly became aware of how ridiculous this situation was. 

“So, how often do you stumble into random people’s apartments?” You began pulling out ingredients for a turkey sandwich and ignored the urge to turn around and face him.

“Well this is sort of a one and done thing for me. I think I got a concussion or something, I was just swinging and… thought I was at my place, I guess.” While you weren’t paying any attention to the TV but you became aware of it when it went quiet.

“Sorry, I had to turn it off. Only thing worse than having your ass beat is watching the view from a helicopter.” It was your turn to laugh now as you finished assembling the sandwich. Then, you started packing ice into a plastic grocery bag and twisting it tightly.

“Alright, let me know when I can turn around.” After some scuffling he finally replied, “You’re good!” When you turned around he was back to his reclined position, a pile of bloody needles and thread laid out neatly on a towel.

“Jesus, that’s brutal.” He shook his head with a chuckle, you could only imagine what his expression was under the mask. Despite not being able to see his face you imagined it was handsome. There was no way someone that brave, athletic, and clearly fit wasn’t hot too. The thought made a warmth rise in your cheeks. You had always been a fan of Spider-man, even entertained thoughts of a moment like this. He didn’t have to know that, of course.

You handed him the plate which he took in his lap while he reached for the ice pack. Quickly, you pulled it out of his reach.

“Nuh-uh. You are not eating that sandwich with one hand on my couch. You eat it, I’ll hold the bag.” Deep inside you knew you just wanted to be close to him for as long as you could.

He snickered and shook his head, “You seriously are protective over this couch, lady. And no way, you’re forgetting my golden rule.” You huffed back.

“Treat others as you’d like to be treated? Isn’t that what I’m doing right now? And I have a name, ya’know.” 

“I mean seeing my fa-” He froze. “Wow, I really look like an ass right now, don’t I? What is your name?” 

“But that’s not fair though, right? You don’t get to know my name if I can’t know yours. That’s my golden rule.” 

“Well then who am I gonna write my long-winded thank you card to? Just ‘beautiful lady who fed and pampered me?’” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice while your face grew even hotter. Instead of indulging any further you pressed the ice pack against his mask, taking a twisted pride in the hiss that came as a result. You stood above him and turned your face towards the ceiling without explanation, the implication serving its purpose. After a brief pause you could hear the shifting of his mask and feel the sensation of him chewing. 

In between bites he spoke up, “I’m trusting you a lot right now, you know.” 

“I’ve only known you for about thirty minutes, it’s a wonder someone hasn’t exposed you already.” He swallowed before replying.

“Well if everyone I met made me a sandwich and a towel bed I’d probably be in a bit more trouble.” Again, your mind drifted to the underlying tragedy of the situation. He probably had nobody, when was the last time someone helped him? Under the cold compress you could feel him reach past your body to retrieve his mug and take a long sip before adding, “I should probably break into more strangers’ houses.” 

“Or maybe you could just knock next time.” He was quiet after that, instead focusing on each bite as he absorbed your words. It’d been a long time since he had spent time with anyone who cared about him, much less let himself be taken care of. Selfishly he wanted to prolong it as long as he could. When the final bite of his meal was gone he considered pretending to still be eating or just keep sipping his tea as slowly as possible to prolong the moment, but he knew that wasn’t right. He had already intruded enough, he was just glad you didn’t try using that knife on him or immediately kick him out. With great restraint he put the plate on the table, his arm grazing your thigh. The contact sizzled for a moment, sending a wave of electricity through your body. You could feel him pulling his mask back down but neither of you said a word. Instead, you just looked down at him. His head slowly turned up to face you as well as he slowly clasped one hand over yours, gently applying more pressure. It wasn’t an invitation to take the ice pack from you, rather a silent expression of his gratitude and a plea for you to stay just as you were. You could feel the warmth of his hand through the cool fabric of his gloves, a sensation that made your heart race. He felt it too, the smallness of your hand under his gloved one. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining what it might have felt like if he wasn’t wearing it. What it would have been like if he met you on the elevator as Peter Parker. It was true that he was concussed, but it wasn’t like he had ended up very far from home. Replaying the memory of him swinging into your window, he could see it clearly now. He had only missed his own bedroom by one floor. Both of you stayed like that for a while longer before he spoke again.

“I should probably go, I think.” You didn’t say a word, just pulled back your hand and made space for him to stand. Now that he had moved you could see the amount of blood on the towels but it didn’t cross your mind to worry about the couch. Something inside of you turned over, another wave of sadness washing over you. You would miss him, you were sure of it. You wondered where he would go. Did Spider-man have somewhere to call home tonight or would he go back out on the streets, fighting off whatever went bump in the night? He stood slowly with a groan, his free hand finding a sore spot on the small of his back. Leading the way, you guided him back to the window. It seemed right to have him leave the way he came. He took a long look around your room now that you weren’t threatening to stab him, taking note of the piles of pillows and duvets. Maybe in another world he could sleep on a bed like that next to a girl like you. He had always wondered who his neighbors were, it was hard to imagine that you had been right below him all along. When he finally got to the open windowsill he stilled for a moment, committing you to memory one final time. 

“Are you sure you can’t tell me your name?” He couldn’t help himself. Sure, he knew he couldn’t return the favor, but he wanted to give it one last try. He wanted something to hold on to after tonight. You shrugged at him with a teasing shake of your head.

“You know the rules, Spider-man.” There was a pause. He didn’t want this to end, but like everything else good in his life, it had to. Slowly he lowered himself onto your fire escape.

“I guess this is goodnight then.” Your lips tugged into a frown at that. You didn’t want him to go. If you had it your way he would have slept on your couch, woken up and eaten breakfast, maybe washed himself off, anything that could relieve him for even one moment. Unbeknownst to you, he could sense that from you. Thankfully you didn’t press the offer, he wasn’t sure he could say no.

“Thank you so, so much,” he said with a softness akin to a whisper.

“Thank you, for everything you do.” Even through the mask you could tell he was smiling. Then just like that he was gone, the whizzing of webs pulling him out into the night. A deep breath left you as you stood in your now empty room. Unable to do anything else with yourself, you made your rounds through your apartment to turn off the lights. You would deal with the couch and the plates and the mugs in the morning. For now you just needed to rest. 

Pulling your covers over yourself, you let yourself mull over every question that crossed your mind. Was there more danger waiting for him? Did he ever get lonely? It seemed that way to you. Your eyes couldn’t stay open another moment, but just before you teetered off the edge of sleep, you heard a familiar slam. At least he was home safe.

—

The first time Peter Parker breaks into your apartment, it’s snowing outside.

It isn’t an intentional break-in, really— just an unfortunate miscalculation of floors due to limited visibility because of the snow. He only notices that he’s in the wrong apartment when he clicks the window shut, turns around, and sees you.

Your computer sits open on the coffee table, the old plush of your worn loveseat dipping beneath your weight. It seems to him like you’re in the middle of something, based on the way your fingers move tirelessly scrawling something in the notebook on your lap. It also seems like you’d barely noticed his arrival.

Peter stands awkwardly by the window, hands drumming at his sides. Should he wait for you to notice him? Should he leave before you do? He decides that it’s probably better that Spider-Man doesn’t gain the reputation of breaking into girls’ apartments and starts to pull the window open from the bottom, when—

“What are you doing here?”

He whips around to face you. You’re standing now, notebook and blanket thrown haphazardly to the floor at the sudden motion. You’ve got this shocked look on your face, because obviously it’s normal to be shocked when a masked vigilante breaks into your apartment. He curses himself internally and watches as your eyes scan the apartment.

“Is— is something going on? Am I in trouble?” You ask.

“No!” Peter interjects, and when you flinch at the volume of his voice, lowers it and holds his arms out in front of himself, “No, no! I just, uh— this is the, uh… it’s wrong.”

“It’s… wrong?” You echo.

What an idiot. He’s got such a way with words. If E.V. doesn’t play this on loop to embarrass him later, his brain will do it for her.

With a rapid flailing of his arms, he clarifies: “No! I mean, it— it’s wrong, because this isn’t my apartment.”

By the look on your face, you’re not as terrified by the intrusion as before. A small smile creeps onto your lips as you glance around, almost as if to prove his point. “Well, yeah, dude. I could’ve told you that.”

He inhales deeply. Exhales like he’s blowing away his inability to speak. Emphasizes every word like he’s trying to correct himself. “I am not in my apartment.”

At this point, you’re not as on guard as you were. Wordlessly, you sit back down, pulling the blanket over your legs and lifting the notebook from the ground. Your hand resumes its busy motion of writing in the notebook, gaze focusing back on the laptop screen that illuminates your figure.

You’ve, seemingly, gone back to work. Peter has not. He stands there like an idiot.

After a moment, you cock an eyebrow at him. “You good?”

His face is probably scarlet— not that you’d even be able to tell through the already red fabric of his mask, but it’s the pure notion of it. He opens his mouth once, twice, trying to get any semblance of a coherent sentence to tumble from his mouth. “I’m— I’m going to leave now.”

You smile— wide, genuine, a laugh huffing through your nose as you do. “See you, Spidey.”

Peter fumbles with the already open window, blindly shoots a web, and swings back out.

The second time he breaks in, it’s pouring.

He’s absolutely sure, even with the fact that he can barely see the building with the rain beating down on him, that he’s made it into the right apartment this time. There’s no way that would happen again. He’s absolutely sure of it.

That is, until his feet land on an unfamiliar floor and the smell of vodka sauce floats in the air. A spoon clatters on the kitchen counter.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s you, wrong-apartment-girl from before. He did it again. Son of a bitch.

Footsteps pad through your apartment and as he begins to lift his head to glance around, he notices that he’s dripping water all over your floor. A thought from May creeps into the forefront of his mind, something about ice cubes and water and hardwood floors. He quickly goes to stand off the hardwood to save the floors, but then realizes he’s now leaking water all over your nice rug.

You return from what he presumes to be the bathroom or the bedroom with two green bath towels in your hands. You hand one to Peter, which he gratefully wraps around himself, and drop the other to the puddle of water on the hardwood.

“Sorry about that, by— by the way. And— about this.”

After pushing around the towel on the floor with your foot, you pad back to the kitchen and start to stir the saucepan again. “What? You mean the fact that you keep breaking into my apartment?”

“It’s not on purpose, I promise!” He stutters, hands moving so fast that the towel nearly falls to the ground. “It’s just— the weather, and I miscounted, and—”

“Relax. I’m joking.” You say, turning off the burner beneath a pot of noodles. “Would you come strain this for me? Colander’s in the sink.”

Peter, to his own horror, obeys. He walks to the kitchen, slips on two green gingham-patterned oven mitts, and watches as the pasta produces a cloud of steam above the colander.

“Rigatoni? That’s— a good choice.” He says, small, and realizes at this moment how ridiculous he must look: Spider-Man, wielding no weapon but two oven mitts, marveling at your chosen type of pasta.

“Yeah? Thanks.” You laugh, ensuring that each burner knob is set to off. A clinking of dishes sounds from behind, and as Peter turns, he’s met with two flower-patterned ceramic bowls on the counter top. “Wanna stay for dinner? I probably made too much for just me, anyways.”

At first, he’s hesitant. He broke into your apartment, and you’re asking him to have dinner with you? It’s all backwards— not that he’s ever enact it in the forwards way, anyways, but regardless.

At his lack of response, you smile and pour the strained pasta from the colander to the pot. “What, no time to eat? Old lady stuck in a tree, or something?”

He can’t help but laugh at your joke. What else has he got to do, anyways? It’s not like he’s got anyone at home to have dinner with. “I’ll have some. That’d— that’d be nice.”

Peter pulls his mask up to eat, barely above his lips. He’s cautious about lowering it in between bites as you sit across from him at your small table. He notices you stab multiple noodles onto your fork and bite down on them, fork now clean.

“So… Spider-Man.”

“So…” Peter echoes, voice trailing off slightly. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“And I don’t think I ever caught yours.” You say, grinning, eyes shining as you corner him with words.

Peter huffs a laugh. “Touché.”

A rigatoni-filled silence passes while you both continue to eat. “Fine. Keep your secrets. Remain mysterious.”

“That’s the plan.” Peter grins. He gestures up and down to himself with his fork. “Masked vigilante? It’s… kinda my whole thing.”

“I get it.” You say, stabbing a few more noodles with your fork. “Anonymity is key.”

“Exactly.” He answers. After a few moments, he speaks again. “I still didn’t get your name.”

You don’t answer. You shrug, grinning as you finish off the noodles in your bowl. The way you’ve chosen to deflect the topic makes him laugh. “What? Am I just gonna call you wrong-apartment-girl forever?”

You laugh too. “Hey! If anything, my name should be totally-innocent-repeat-victim-of-home-invasions-girl!”

“That’s… something. Very wordy.”

“Well, not all of us can be Spider-Man.”

As if on cue, his phone beeps: Bank robbery. 51st street. What an appropriate reminder.

Peter stands, firmly tugging his mask back into place as he deposits his bowl in your kitchen sink. You smile at him from the kitchen table.

“Stay dry out there, Spider-Man.”

You couldn't explain why, but you lived with the persistent sensation that someone was watching you. 

It followed you out of lecture halls and across campus sidewalks. It lingered in the little coffee shop in Queens where the barista had memorized your order, in the subway car after late-night movies, in the backseat of yellow cabs carrying you home from dates that left you wondering why you'd bothered in the first place. The feeling arrived without warning, settled beneath your skin, and refused to leave. 

For a while, you entertained increasingly irrational explanations. Maybe someone had become obsessed with you. Maybe you had unknowingly caught the attention of the wrong person. That feeling haunted you like a nagging doubt. Andy patiently dismantled every paranoid theory until your fears sounded almost embarrassing out loud, and eventually you laughed them off with him.

But that doesn’t mean you didn’t find yourself looking over your shoulder at every corner.

The irony was that your instincts had never actually been wrong. You just weren’t looking in the right places—like up at the New York sky, among the skyscrapers and the billboard lights.

He never convinced himself that it was healthy. He wasn't spying out of jealousy or some misguided desire to haunt your life. Watching you had become a ritual born from guilt, and guilt was remarkably persuasive.

If he could see you laughing with friends, making it home after dark, walking away untouched from whatever dangers the city invented each day, then he could breathe a little easier. It was the closest thing to peace he allowed himself. Whenever Spider-Man wasn't chasing armed robbers across Manhattan or helping Captain DeWolff untangle another investigation, he always found himself drifting back to you without meaning to, settling somewhere high enough that you would never notice. 

Distance had become the only promise he still knew how to keep. 

There was a peculiar cruelty in witnessing someone continue living while your own life refused to move. Yours adapted to the passing months with quiet determination. New routines replaced old ones. Faces came and went. You smiled more, rolled your eyes at bad jokes, discovered new favorite cafés, complained about impossible assignments. Time welcomed you without hesitation. And that was like a stab to Spider-Man’s poor heart.

Peter remained suspended in the exact moment he had chosen to let you go.

The first year after Doctor Strange's spell was almost unbearable. Every memory the world had carried of Peter Parker disappeared as though someone had erased him from history with the swipe of a hand. His friends, the Avengers, Ned... you. Everyone looked at him with the polite unfamiliarity reserved for strangers. He had expected loneliness. He hadn't expected how loudly it echoed whenever he saw you laughing with someone who had no idea how your smile used to look when it belonged to him. 

Some afternoons, fate seemed determined to test whatever resolve he had left. You'd cross paths on crowded sidewalks or reach for the same door at the same café, and he'd manufacture an awkward apology just to hear your voice for a few seconds longer. You always offered him the same courteous smile—the kind people exchange before forgetting each other entirely—and continued on your way. 

Every one of those encounters demanded more restraint than fighting a supervillain. 

He wanted to stop you. To tell you that none of this had been your fault. That there had once been late-night conversations, shared apartments in your daydreams, arguments that always ended with laughter because neither of you could stay angry for long. He wanted to confess that he still knew the exact cadence of your laugh, the way your hand instinctively searched for his whenever you crossed a busy street, the tiny scar near your wrist that you had forgotten existed. More than anything, he wanted to hear you say his name like it still belonged to him. 

Instead, he watched you disappear into the crowd, carrying a life from which he had deliberately removed himself. 

That was the wound he could never cauterize. The spell had taken your memories, but the lie had come from him. You believed the relationship had ended because he'd fallen out of love, because somewhere along the way he'd decided you were no longer worth fighting for. Peter had willingly become the villain of your story if it meant you would never become collateral damage in his.

People often imagined heroism as impossible choices made in spectacular moments.

Peter had learned it was far more ordinary than that.

Sometimes heroism meant surviving the consequences of your own decision every single day afterward.

And there wasn’t a single day in Peter Parker’s far-from-ordinary life when he didn’t regret what he’d done to you. It was a dilemma, because he knew that the only way to keep the one he loved most safe was to make you think that none of it was real.

Peter had already convinced himself that nothing would ever eclipse the day Aunt May died.

He was wrong.

Grief had settled somewhere beneath his ribs, dense and immovable, mixing with a fury that had nowhere to go. He was angry at the city, at the villains who kept crawling out of it, at himself for believing, even for a little while, that he could divide his life cleanly in two. There was no Peter Parker without Spider-Man. One identity inevitably bled into the other, and everyone foolish enough to love him eventually paid the price.

May had.

How many more people would?

Indeed, with great power comes great responsibility, and Peter learned this the hardest way.

A week after May's funeral, Scorpion found the one wound that hadn't stopped bleeding. He didn't come after Spider-Man. He came after you.

Peter still remembered every second with nauseating clarity. The skeletal frame of the unfinished building. The rain turned steel slick beneath his feet. The timer wired to the explosives flashing numbers that disappeared too quickly to comprehend. You were trapped in the middle of it all, wrists bound, blood trickling from a cut along your cheek.

He had never moved faster.

The city blurred into streaks of glass and concrete as he hurled himself between buildings, every web fired on instinct alone. He could hear the countdown long before he reached the scaffold.

Three.

Two.

One.

The explosion erased the night.

A blast of white and orange swallowed the skyline, bright enough to rival lightning. The shockwave hurled twisted beams through the air, ripped metal from its bolts, shattered windows blocks away. Peter saw your body thrown into the smoke before his mind had time to process it. He reached you on instinct, wrapping himself around you as fragments of steel screamed past his back.

Even afterward, when the ambulance lights painted the streets red and blue, one thought refused to leave him.

Milliseconds.

If he'd been one swing slower… His mind returned to that unfinished sentence more often than he cared to admit.

A few days had passed, and you were still recovering from the huge shock and the head injury. Your father, who had never truly endorsed your relationship with Peter Parker, forbade the young man from visiting you, turning him away every time he showed up with a half-smile and a small bouquet of flowers.

This couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t let your life be put at risk over and over. If anything happened to you, just as it had happened to May, he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

On the sixth evening, as the sun bled across the horizon in muted shades of gold and amber, he stopped asking permission. Spider-Man slipped through your bedroom window as quietly as the wind lifting the curtains.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. The steady rhythm of your breathing was the only sound. You were asleep, your face peaceful despite the bruises shadowing your skin, one arm curled carefully against your ribs and knowing that he had caused them left him clenching his fists.

The curtains stirred again, and your eyelashes fluttered.  Slowly, your eyes focused on the red and blue figure standing near the foot of your bed. Confusion gave way to recognition almost instantly. 

“Pete?” Your voice was rough from disuse. You pushed yourself upright, only to stop halfway as pain caught beneath your ribs. 

Peter crossed the room immediately. 

"Easy," he murmured, instinct overpowering every speech he'd rehearsed. "Don't push yourself." 

He peeled the mask back over his head, revealing the cuts that still hadn't fully healed and curls flattened from hours beneath the fabric. 

Relief spread across your face so quickly it almost undid him. 

“You’re here.” Your fingertips brushed his cheek with impossible tenderness. "I thought..." A weak laugh escaped you. "I thought you were angry with me." 

Peter frowned.

"Angry?" The word sounded almost foreign. "I'd never be angry with you."

"Then why didn't you come?"

Peter looked into your teary eyes and felt the final sound of his heart breaking.

He could have told you about the flowers. About your father's closed front door. About standing across the street some nights just to make sure your bedroom light eventually went out.

Instead, the lie began quietly.

"How are you feeling?"

You studied him for several long seconds. 

"Better," you answered carefully. "Everything still hurts a little... but I'm getting there."

Peter nodded, though he barely heard you.

His gaze lingered on the bruises peeking above your blanket.

“Peter,” The fear in your voice finally pulled him back.  "What happened?" 

He swallowed. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened with confusion. "For what?" 

When your hand reached for him again, he stepped back before he could stop himself. The movement landed harder than any words.

"For all of this." His voice sounded distant, almost detached. "If I hadn't come into your life, none of it would've happened." 

"Peter, that's not—" 

"It is." The interruption came sharper than he intended. His eyes trembling with sorrow and tears he couldn’t shed. "You almost died because someone wanted to hurt me." 

“I’m right here, Pete.”

“But you might not be, like…” May's name caught somewhere behind his teeth before he forced it out. "Like May."

You shifted despite the pain, determined to be closer to him. 

“I know what you're thinking.” You sighed. 

"No, you don't." 

"I do." Your eyes searched his. "And if I had to make the same choice again... I'd still go after you." 

Peter stared. 

"I love you enough to do it again."

Peter looked away. He felt something inside him splinter.

“Are you listening to yourself?”

“Well, I…”

“No, you’re not listening. You’re saying you’d put your life at risk without a second thought—that can’t happen.”

“Well, I love you, Peter. What do you want me to say?”

For a second, he was silent, analyzing and digesting your words. Under any other circumstance, he would've laughed softly, cupped your face, and kissed you until neither of you remembered why you'd been arguing. And he wanted to. God, he wanted to so desperately.

“This isn’t right,” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “This love shouldn’t exist.”

He heard your breath rending the air into shreds. You looked at him with tear-filled eyes, your heart shattered. You blinked, waiting for him to take it back, but he didn’t. 

“You… You didn’t mean that, did you? You—” You swallowed hard. “It’s not true.”

He finally looked at you.

“I do.”

"No." Tears blurred your vision. "You're lying." 

"I've never been more serious." The certainty in his voice was practiced but devastation in his eyes wasn't.

You almost laughed, but tears flooded your cheeks with surprising speed.

“So..." You struggled to steady your breathing. "Every time you said you loved me..."  

You searched his face for the boy who used to grin through kisses, who bought flowers for no reason, who looked at you as though he'd stumbled onto something miraculous. 

"...none of it was real?" 

Peter's chest burned. 

"It was easier to say it because you said it first." 

You recoiled as though he'd struck you.

"So you pitied me."

Peter remained silent.

“This is nonsense. Is this some kind of a joke? If it is—”

"I think it's better this way." 

"You call this caring about me?"

"I want you to have a life that isn't spent looking over your shoulder."

"I want one with you."

The room fell silent again. 

You wiped your tears with your sleeve, only for more to follow. Peter clenched his jaw and stepped back, because he was afraid of what he might do if he stayed there, watching you cry, hurt in every way because of him.

“So that’s it?” You swallowed a sob. “You just don’t love me? Never did?”

Outside, traffic rolled through Queens as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Somewhere below, people laughed, car horns echoed between buildings, and the city carried on with its endless indifference.

Inside, Peter watched the future he wanted collapse beneath words he prayed you would someday believe.

To confess that loving you had become as involuntary as breathing. That every dream he'd ever allowed himself included your hand in his. That you had taught him happiness could exist even after radioactive spiders, masked criminals, and impossible responsibilities. That his heart had made its decision long before he understood what love actually was.

He buried every one of those truths beneath a single lie.

"That's right."

The words left his mouth. Something inside him broke.

“You should leave.” You turned away before he could see your face completely dissolve. "I don't want to see you anymore."

Peter stood there for one impossible second, committing every detail of you to memory.

Then he pulled the mask back over his face and climbed through the window.

He didn't stop swinging until the city blurred around him. Eventually he landed on the rooftop across from your building, tore the mask off with shaking hands, and finally surrendered to the grief he'd been holding together by sheer force of will.

Across the street, your bedroom light remained on.

A few moments later, you appeared at the window, one hand pressed protectively against your injured side. You searched the rooftops as though refusing to believe he had truly gone.

Peter almost stood. Almost called your name.

Instead, he stayed hidden behind the chimney, tears falling unchecked as he watched you close the window with trembling hands.

The soft click of the latch carried farther than it should have.

It sounded painfully final, as though the last remaining door between your lives had just been locked from the inside.

It was one of those rare New York nights that felt almost restrained.

The city never truly slept, but sometimes it lowered its voice. Music drifted out of bars with their doors propped open, taxis barked impatiently at intersections, and somewhere a group of college kids laughed loud enough to make the whole block feel younger. Peter had just left May's grave, fresh lilies resting beneath the headstone like they did every week. The walk back to his apartment had become muscle memory by now.

Then his senses flared. That familiar prickle climbed the back of his neck.

You.

His head turned before he consciously decided to look.

Through the front window of a neighborhood bar, he spotted you sitting alone at the counter, one elbow resting beside an untouched cocktail. Your hair fell loosely over your shoulders, slightly disheveled from repeatedly running your hands through it—a habit you slipped into whenever you were irritated or overthinking. 

Peter stopped on the sidewalk. He should've kept walking.

Instead, he stood there a second too long, feeling like some creep staring through the glass. With a quiet sigh, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pushed the door open. Warm air, cheap beer, old rock playing through tired speakers, conversations overlapping into meaningless noise. 

He picked a stool three seats away from yours and ordered a Diet Coke despite having absolutely no intention of drinking it. 

"...Yeah, because apparently ghosting people is a personality now." You rolled your eyes, absentmindedly spinning your straw. "No, Andy, he straight-up never showed. Didn't text, didn't call... nothing." 

Peter stared at the bubbles floating in his glass. 

"I mean, my expectations weren't exactly sky-high, but... damn."  A pause, then you laughed. "Yeah. No, you're right. He's kind of an asshole."

Peter wasn't proud of himself. Eavesdropping wasn't exactly one of Spider-Man's nobler qualities. Still...

Some guy had stood you up. A ridiculous amount of satisfaction crept into his chest before guilt immediately followed behind it. You deserved better than that. You always had.

"...And don't even get me started on Charlie." Peter tried focusing very hard on literally anything else. "The dude keeps sending me dick pics like that's somehow gonna convince me to get back together with him."

Peter violently inhaled his Diet Coke.

The carbonation hit the back of his throat, and he doubled over coughing hard enough that half the drink splashed across the bar. 

"Oh my God..." 

You pulled your phone away from your ear and instinctively turned toward the noise. Peter was still coughing when your eyes met.

Time had a cruel sense of humor. For a heartbeat, the rest of the bar disappeared.

He saw the tiny line that formed between your brows whenever you were confused. The way your eyes searched his face with the strange familiarity people sometimes feel toward complete strangers. A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek.

God. You looked exactly like home.

"Sorry," Peter managed between coughs, grabbing napkins. "I—" 

Peter searched for something to say in his defense. That’s when his eyes fell on the TV, where a news segment was airing a story about Spider-Man helping to apprehend a gang that was planning to rob the bank. How convenient. 

“...That guy," he muttered, pointing vaguely at the news report. "Caught me off guard." 

Real smooth, Peter.

You blinked once before speaking back into your phone.

"Andy, I'll call you later."

You slipped the phone into your purse and turned fully toward him. Peter immediately regretted every life choice that had led him to this bar. Up close, he noticed the dress.

Red. His favorite color had always looked unfair on you. You were supposed to be out with someone else tonight. The realization landed with a dull ache in his chest.

“Um… You good?” you asked, tilting  your head slightly. 

Peter looked up. For a second, words abandoned him completely.

"I... uh..." His brain had officially clocked out. "Yeah," he said, reaching for the Coke simply to occupy his hands. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure?" There it was. That smile. So particularly yours that made his heart ache.

"Yeah." He managed one in return. "I'm okay."

Your attention drifted toward the television. You nodded toward the screen. 

"So..." Peter followed your gaze. "...big Spider-Man fan?"

His stomach dropped.

"...What?"

"You heard me." There was the faintest trace of amusement in your voice. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost when he popped up." 

Peter looked back at the TV. Back at himself. Then at you.

"I, uh..." He scratched the back of his neck. "I guess he's... alright."

"'Alright?'" You laughed. "That's such a non-answer."

"I don't know." He shrugged, fighting a smile. "Feels like the city's kinda split on him." 

"Oh, please." You scoffed, taking a sip of your drink. "Half this city complains when he saves them because he left webs everywhere."

Peter let out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

"What about you?"

"Hm?"

"What do you think of Spider-Man?"

He lifted the Coke to his lips mostly to give his hands something to do. Being this close to you felt strangely familiar, like slipping into an old hoodie that still smelled like home. It had been months since the last time you'd exchanged more than an absent-minded morning while passing each other on the sidewalk. Somehow, five minutes on neighboring barstools felt infinitely more dangerous. 

You rested your chin against your palm, studying him with quiet curiosity instead of answering right away.

Peter felt his pulse pick up. Then your expression shifted. Something clicked behind your eyes.

"...Hang on. Do I know you?" 

The words landed with enough force to empty the air from his lungs. 

"What?" He blinked, a little too quickly. "Uh... no." 

"I swear I've seen you somewhere."

Peter forced out a nervous laugh.

"I think you've got the wrong guy."

Your brows stayed knitted together for another second before suddenly lifting.

"Oh, right." You pointed at him. "You're the flower guy." Peter froze. "I've seen you at that flower shop on 43rd."

The breath he'd been unconsciously holding finally escaped.

"Oh." A tiny, almost embarrassed smile tugged at his mouth. "Yeah. Guess I am." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I... buy flowers there a lot."

Every Sunday. The words stayed locked behind his teeth.

You looked down at your drink, tracing the condensation on the glass with your fingertip.

"Whoever you're buying them for..." You smiled to yourself. "She's lucky." Peter's smile faltered. "It's kind of sad that flowers feel like this huge romantic gesture now. They used to be normal."

He stared at the bubbles rising through his untouched Coke. They aren't for a girlfriend. They're for May. The truth hovered on the tip of his tongue. If he said it, you'd ask questions. If you asked questions, he'd answer them. If he answered them...

Everything he'd sacrificed would begin to unravel.

So he swallowed the truth with another sip.

"...Yeah."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. Just unfinished. You glanced toward the front windows, where the sky had darkened into deep navy.

"Well..." You slid off the barstool. "It was nice meeting you..." A tiny grin spread across your face. "...mysterious Spider-Man fan."

Peter couldn't help smiling.

"You too."

You left a couple bills beneath your empty glass before smoothing out your dress. As you walked past him, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air for a moment longer than it should have.

His fingers tightened around the cold glass. He stayed where he was, watching the ice slowly melt.

Maybe this had been enough. Maybe sharing twenty minutes with you—listening to you laugh, pretending to be strangers—was more than he deserved.

He counted to three. Then the bar door opened again.

"Hey."

Your voice made him turn so fast he nearly knocked over the Coke. You were standing halfway outside, one hand still on the door.

"This is gonna sound kinda weird..." You laughed at yourself. "...but my night's already a train wreck, and I'm headed to a friend's place." You looked him over for a second before adding, "You also look like you could seriously use a drink."

Peter let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

If only you knew…

"So..." You nodded toward the street. "You wanna come?"

His heart answered before his mind could.

Every instinct he'd spent months cultivating screamed at him to walk away. Let her leave. Let this become another almost-memory. Another story that ended before anyone got hurt.

Instead, he looked at you standing beneath the glow of the bar's neon sign, smiling at a stranger you somehow couldn't stop gravitating toward.

He'd spent months convincing himself that distance was mercy. For the first time, it felt indistinguishable from punishment.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"...Yeah." He stood, reaching for his jacket. "Yeah. I'd like that."

The walk to Andy's apartment stretched longer than it actually was, though Peter would've gladly doubled the distance if it meant hearing you talk a little more.

You filled the silence with easy conversation, and he let you.

You told him about college, about finally being close to graduating, about how impatient you were to stop living off internships and part-time jobs. Then, almost as an afterthought, you admitted you weren't sure you'd be good enough once the real world came calling.

Peter listened without interrupting. He already knew all of it. None of that mattered now. He listened as though every sentence was brand new, committing your words to memory for a second time. It felt unfair that he still knew you this well while you'd forgotten him entirely.

You circled back to the guy who'd stood you up earlier that night, laughing at the absurdity of it more than complaining.

"I swear," you said, shaking your head, "dating in this city is actually a public health hazard."

Peter laughed.

"That bad?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

"I mean..." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You've got a decent story out of it."

"Yeah?"

"You met a random guy who almost died drinking Diet Coke."

You laughed loud enough that a couple walking past glanced over.

"...Okay," you admitted. "That's fair."

His chest warmed. God, he'd missed making you laugh.

"It's this building."

You pointed toward a five-story walk-up squeezed between a laundromat and a deli on the corner. Music leaked through open windows before either of you even reached the entrance.

The stairwell vibrated with bass from somewhere above. By the second floor, voices echoed down the hallway. By the third, someone was arguing over a beer pong game. When you reached the apartment, the front door was already propped open, and the place overflowed with people talking over one another, red cups in hand, music rattling the picture frames on the walls.

You slipped inside with practiced ease.

Peter followed, immediately feeling like he'd wandered into somebody else's life. Over the crowd, you spotted Andy pouring vodka into a red plastic cup.

"Andy!"

He looked up instantly.

"There she is!" He crossed the apartment, wrapping you in a hug dramatic enough to make you laugh. "I was starting to think you ditched us."

"Never!"

"Good thing you didn't." He pulled back, pointing around the apartment. "This party would've sucked without you."

Peter stayed a few steps behind, hands buried in his pockets while strangers brushed past his shoulders.

"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "And who's this?"

You blinked. "...Wow." You looked at Peter. "I never asked your name."

For half a second, Peter's brain completely emptied.

Definitely couldn't say Peter.

"...Parker," he answered.

It slipped out before he could stop himself.

You repeated it with an approving nod. "Parker." Like you'd finally solved a mystery.

Andy stuck out his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Parker."

Peter shook it.

"You too."

"Anybody who survives hanging out with her after she gets stood up deserves a drink."

"I heard that!" you called.

"I wanted you to!" Andy laughed before clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Make yourself at home."

Peter smiled politely.

"Thanks."

You looked around the apartment before pointing toward the far window.

"Oh, you should meet Justin." Peter followed your finger. A guy in a beanie was halfway through passing a joint to someone else. "He's obsessed with Spider-Man. Like... genuinely concerning levels of obsessed."

Peter winced. "Really?"

"Yeah." You laughed. "You two would probably get along."

"Uh..."

Before he could think of a response, Andy grabbed your wrist.

"C'mon, help me in the kitchen."

"What? Why?" You rolled your eyes dramatically.

As Andy dragged you away through the crowd, you glanced back over your shoulder.

"Don't disappear, okay?"

Peter smiled before he could stop himself.

"I'll do my best."

He watched until you vanished into the kitchen. Only then did he finally exhale.

He wandered toward the dining table, grabbed the nearest beer, took one sip...and immediately regretted it. It tasted horrible. Still, he kept drinking.

Across the apartment, he caught sight of Andy saying something that made you throw your head back laughing. Peter smiled instinctively. Then, against every ounce of common sense he possessed, he focused.

The music faded. Conversations blurred into meaningless static. Your voice rose above the rest with perfect clarity.

"So..." Andy nudged your shoulder. "Where the hell did this guy come from?"

You shrugged.

"The bar."

"The bar?"

"Mhm."

"And you just... adopted the guy?"

You laughed. "He seemed nice."

Andy stared at you for a beat before bursting into laughter.

"'Seemed nice?' Girl, are you blind?"

"What?"

"He’s hot."

Peter almost choked on the beer this time. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

You looked down, trying—and failing—to hide your smile.

"...Yeah." The single word slipped out quietly. "I mean..." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "...he is."