Heather!

The music is loud—too loud—thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat in everyone’s veins. A third, if you count the group huddled in the bathroom just steps away, where weed curls thick in the air. Someone’s screaming the lyrics to the pulsing Beyoncé song, bottles clink, red light washes over every scuffed wall—while in Megumi and Nobara’s poor, dumpster of a flat, laughter erupts every few seconds before collapsing in on itself.

The night is alive, messy, and chaotic like any other Friday… but Yuji isn’t in the centre of it.

Instead, he’s sprawled on the floor of Megumi’s bedroom, back against the bedframe, controller warm in his hands. Outside the room, people are dancing, kissing, and making all sorts of reckless choices that they’ll laugh about tomorrow. But here inside, the TV glow spills across his face in soft waves of blues and golds. His brows are furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking just slightly between his teeth.

“You’re literally just button-mashing,” Nobara scoffs from behind him, perched on the desk chair, scrolling through her phone.

“It’s called strategy,” Yuji replies seriously, mashing even harder. Megumi doesn’t even look up.

And between them both lies you, curled beside your boyfriend, half on his thigh, half on the carpet, your head resting easily against his shoulder. Every time the bass rattles the walls too hard, he shifts a little closer. Somehow, his arm always finds its way around you without him noticing.

“Sleepy?” he asks quietly, voice softer than the music bleeding through the door.

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. And to that, he grins right back, bright, lips curling lopsided underneath the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp. For a second, he looks exactly like what he is; just another boy in college surrounded by chaos, hiding away in the simplicity of comfort.

Suddenly, someone bangs on the door, yelling something about shots. He groans dramatically and buries his face into your hair.

“Five more minutes,” he mutters. “Please.”

He doesn’t move when no one answers.

And really, it isn’t even his party. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps looking for him.

Thankfully, though, by two in the morning, the party’s already burned itself down to embers. Bass still thuds faintly from a dying speaker, but laughter’s long been hushed into hiccups and murmurs. Someone’s sleeping on the couch, lampshade tilted over their face, while another is crying in the bathroom over an ex no one remembers. Controllers lay clattered on the floor, and the TV flashes victory screens no one’s watching.

The kitchen, though, is its own universe.

There, you’re perched on the counter as usual, legs dangling, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. The overhead light hums faintly, bathing everything in its warmth, all while empty red cups crowd the counter, an unopened can of beer beside you. A loaf of bread is lying on its side, and a plate of something that used to be brownies now looks more like a crime scene, perched near your fingers. The air is thick, musky, lazy in its sweet swirling scent.

But your head simply rests against the cabinet, eyelids comfortably heavy and dazed as you watch Yuji rummage through the fridge.

“There’s no way,” he mutters. “Fushiguro definitely had pizza.”

“You ate it,” you giggle into your cup.

He straightens almost immediately, offended. “No, I didn’t.”

“You ate three slices.”

“That’s— okay, first of all, those were medium slices.”

He turns back around to the fridge, shoulders broad, hair a little messy from being tugged at all night—by friends, by hands, by you—and he’s barefoot. His silly socks are abandoned somewhere between the couch and the bathroom, and he’s wearing that old college tee you like, just because it’s soft and smells like him.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he finds leftover noodles and lifts them in triumphant victory. “Aha!”

You smile despite yourself.

He moves around the kitchen way too easily; bumping his hip against the counter, nudging your knee gently aside so he can reach the microwave, steadying himself with a hand on your thigh. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

The little overhead glowing yellow of warmth hums, and outside the window, the city is quieter now. Sirens pass distantly still, and somewhere, someone sings off-key on the street below. It’s all spinning too much like the budding warmth blooming within you.

Slowly, he leans gently back against the counter beside you, nudging your shoulder with his own. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in. “Just tired from today’s job interview.”

And to that, like a habit, he runs his fingers through your hair fondly. His fingers twirl them absentmindedly to his muzzy gaze. He lifts the threads up to a soft kiss.

“Don’t worry too much about it. You totally rocked it.” When the microwave beeps, he splits the noodles without asking, handing you a fork before taking his own. “Any corp would be lucky to get you.”

You stifle a chuckle at his comment, eating straight from the container. Knees bumping, shoulders touching; it’s warm. It’s comfortable. It’s nothing and everything all at once.

From the fogged living room, a familiar booming voice of Todo yells, “ITAAADORIII! REMATCH!”

“In a minute!” he calls back before lowering his voice just for you. He dips his head close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “They’ve been saying that for an hour.”

And through the tenderness of his eyes, he watches in silence. The way the light pools gently, lingering along the slope of your jaw, how it softens where your cheek curves inward, flushed and pink. Your fluttering lashes cast faint shadows when you look down. Hazy and unfocused, mouth tilted into a lazy smile.

He feels his lungs tighten instantly.

Somewhere, the hairs on his arms prick up when he feels another guy staring too long at you. He steps right in front of you at once, filling your vision with his broad chest. You just titter softly, tilting your head back obliviously.

The way, God, the way the light catches glimmeringly on your throat and the quiet pulse there—he stills when you lean into his side all too familiarly. His heart lurches into his throat for a second, and you don’t hear how he’s thinking, absurdly, that this is how stars must adore the sky.

He swallows too loudly for his own ears.

Finally, you feel his shoulders drop in relaxation, arms settling around your shoulders like they’ve always belonged there. His thumb rubs slow circles against your sleeve as the TV volume drops again.

The apartment exhales, and you don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

With how late it is, with all the greasy food, tired limbs, the thick reek of rum and the party fading far into memory, it doesn’t feel like you need to. And he stays exactly right there beside you. A buzz vibrates through your phone in your pocket, but you don’t pay any mind to it.

Finally, after a brief moment, you hear him let go of a deep exhale. His fingers absently tap against the tile. “Y’know… this is my favourite part.”

Slowly, you turn to glance at him, blinking. “Of what?”

“Of all of it.” He gestures vaguely—at the kitchen, the party, the city beyond the windows. Then, his gaze drops down to you, particularly the way your lashes flutter gently below the dim light. “When it’s just… us.”

And his words settle warm into your chest, quiet yet heavy.

Suddenly, you catch the way his eyes flicks instantly to the window for half a second—instinctive, alert—and how his shoulders tense at a distant siren, all before relaxing again after a few seconds.

But even then, you feel him here. Solid, and steady. Anchored.

You rest your head more fully against his shoulder this time, eyes dropping shut.

Soon enough, within the muted chaos outside, between the wrapping of his arms, he hears you whisper.

“Let’s go home?”

And somewhere across the city, one woman is about to earn the most confusing paycheck of her career. Because why the heck is Spider-Man asking for forty chicken nuggets at three in the morning?

“Uhhh, hello— Earth to Ma’am?”

She does not get paid enough for this. But alas, capitalism wins yet again.

With a cheerful “Thanks, you’re the best!” and the jingle of fluorescent lights, the red-masked boy spins out the door.

He shoots. Then he shoots again. And suddenly, the ground is a blur as he glides in between the narrow gaps of gridded skyscrapers, him a shooting red ball of meteor arcing just above traffic and cellphones. Rain kisses the air, shimmering beneath the crescent moon.

The metal railing he finally lands on rattles as he waves the paper bags in his arms with joy. “I’m back!” And you’re already there, perched on the stairs, wrapped in his jacket, knees tucked close. Home. Quickly, he peels off his mask, shaking out his pink, rain-matted hair. “Got your orders, Ma’am.”

Kiniro appears instantly from behind you, tail wagging excitedly.

“They totally thought I was crazy too,” Yuji laughs, dropping the bags, rubbing the pup until he rolls over happily before quickly turning over to you. You laugh as he smushes his face into your hair.

“You are if you don’t let go,” you giggle, pushing him back. “You’re crushing me.”

He doesn’t, though. And if any other person saw you both wrestling, they’d probably be concerned—but right now, the only thing you’re worried about is the forty chicken nuggets on the stairs going cold. Oh, the horrors. 

As he shakes his head with all his silly might, you sigh in resignation, your fingers slowly threading through the curls of his hair. The narrow street tucked between you and the brick flat across hums with the usual chatter. But instead of stars hanging in the overhead sky, headlights flash below with the distance of flickering constellations, the staple of the city.

Yuji's humming into your hair, and fed up already, Kiniro barks once more before leaping into him. This successfully distracts him for a moment because you get to snatch the bottle of Coke from behind you. You shove it straight against his chest. “We need to eat it before it gets cold!”

He pouts instantly in response. “Oh, come on,” he turns to point at the boxes, “you know we’re gonna finish this in like, what, half an hour?”

“You don’t need to remind me how much you eat,” you roll your eyes.

“We eat.”

You jab a poke at his shoulder, ignoring his dramatic cry. The metal echoes in the quiet buzz of the night as you scooch closer to unpack the paper boxes, and as soon as you lift the cover, a warm, mellow scent douses you in all its freshness.

Without missing a beat, you take one, plop it into your mouth, and instantly raise your hand over your gasp. Warm sweetness envelopes you at once, melting atop your tongue. It settles too perfectly into the bottom of your stomach, filling the hollow from the night’s spurge of cheap alcohol. Now, even he is intrigued by the way your back has suddenly stiffened.

You quickly tug at him, raising a nugget in front of him. As usual, he gives in. He opens his mouth, leans in to you gently—and his eyes go wide. 

“That’s sooooo frickin' good?!” he beams, fingers already fighting against yours to reach the largest piece of the bunch. You slap him away without hesitation.

He huffs instantly, but with a smile as radiant as the moon above, he’s huddling closer with you now, teasing you more. Quietly, he lays his head atop your shoulder, eyes lidded while they gaze over the flickering city lights. “Thanks for covering for me, though.”

You stop your munching, face him, then quickly stuff his face with yet another nugget. “Be honest with me, you wanted to go home early, too, didn’t you?”

Yuji instantly shakes his head, nuzzling into your shoulder. But you can feel the smile curling at his lips, and you groan in frustration. You pat his head just a few more times.

The sizzle of coke bubbles warmly in your throat, rushing down as you sip quietly from your cup, head leaning against his. Out of the blue, he sits back upright, hairs on his arm standing quickly.  “Something’s up at Empire State.”

“More for me then,” you grin, already used to it.

“I’ll be back fast—” but before he can finish his sentence, his hand pauses midway from his mask.

He turns to look back at you, knees huddled, while you just smile at him. All of a sudden, he stops. Something warm crawls up into his heart when he watches you tilt your head, ignorant of all as you sip from your cup.

“What?”

The moon catches on the curve of your nose, the soft line of your mouth as you exhale smoke blissfully into the rest of the night. He stands in front of you motionless, but inside? His heart’s already doing stupid acrobats in his chest.

You look like you belong entirely to nobody but the skyline, like the city made you in all its twinkling glory, but forgot to take you back. For a moment, he can’t help but think that is what he comes home to…

And the thought itself terrifies him with how much it steadies him.

With a quick breath, he gently kneels, hastily wrapping his arms around you as he drops into a hug. You just laugh in reply, rubbing his back like you always do.

Finally, after a few seconds of silence, he exhales deeply, planting a warm, soft kiss on your cheek before letting go. The smug grin on his face returns as soon as he pulls down his mask. His arms are already aiming towards the building right across. “Be right back!”

You salute back.

And as quickly as he came, he’s already off hollering right after, “WOOHOOOOO—!”

Yuji soars once more into the night sky, his scream trailing fadingly into the shadowing distance. A gust of wind brushes past you, blowing past the curtains behind, and trickling down your back. 

In the midst of the cold, you munch on his tacky takeout.

You can’t help but think the nugget isn’t the only warmth blooming in your chest right now. You don’t even notice your phone buzzing in your pocket.

But you also can’t seem to remember when you signed up to be Spider-Man’s only greatest, most competent assistant ever.

Well, as they say, capitalism wins yet again.

Just… this time, in another form. 

The first thing you notice is how quiet his room feels.

Even if it’s not silent—never, really, with all the midnight honking—it’s still muffled, like the world outside has been turned down a few notches, settling warm inside of you. Outside, the city hum still bleeds in through the cracked window. Distant sirens swirling, passing cars hissing, all stretched thin by height and night.

His bedroom smells faintly of laundry detergent, old books, something sweet you can’t quite place yet, all while you’re sitting on his bed. Your back is pressed against the cold wall, knees pulled up to your chest. He’s also on the floor, cross-legged near you.

Slowly, your eyes flick downwards to his fingers, him fiddling nervously with the lighter between, almost like he’s afraid it’ll explode if he looks too long.

The glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to his ceiling years ago—crooked, uneven—are already starting to hum faintly as the room darkens. While outside, the inky, velvet sky drapes across the window scenery with swirling purple. A chilly breeze brushes past your cheek, curtains rustling.

“So,” you whisper, voice already a little lighter than usual. “This is… normal, right? That you’re stalling.”

Your boyfriend quickly glances up, grinning sheepishly. “Hey. I just wanna make sure I’m doing it right. I don’t wanna—y’know, ruin the vibe.”

That makes you laugh, soft and breathy, and something in his chest loosens at the sound. He likes your laugh best when it sneaks up on him like this, when the room is dark enough that you forget to be careful.

Eventually, after a brief few seconds, he sits beside you. Close. Close enough that your shoulders touch, that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

The lighter clicks. Once. Twice. Then a thin ribbon of smoke curls upward, pale and slow, drifting towards where the window opens. The smell reaches you a quick second later, sharp and bitter at first, like crushed leaves and wet earth before dissolving warmer.

It’s skunked and sweet in a way that settles into fabric, into hair, into memory. But it isn’t like the damp scent of sweat paired with throbbing parties—more so a secret, drifting far into the night.

And almost immediately, he coughs way too loudly, startling even you. The blissful silence of the room falls apart once he waves a hand in front of his face, almost offended by the smoke itself.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, covering your mouth. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I am not,” Yuji protests hoarsely, eyes watering at the throaty burn. “I just—okay, maybe I am.”

And finally, he hands it to you carefully, fingers lingering even after you take it.

He watches you too closely, like he’s memorising the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter when you breathe in, the way the lighter briefly paints your face in gold and shadow.

You’re no better than him.

“Oh my god, are you okay— wait, here, drink water—”

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, laughing through it. “Relax.”

And he finally does when he sees you smile.

Time stretches long after that, melting as the high settles warm into your chest. Everything seems way too laughable now, with all his silly jokes and faces, and even the faint ceiling stars come alive more as the minutes pass. Little constellations you both made years ago with messy hands and too much paint. Lying on the floor, arguing about whether stars could be shaped like hearts if you wanted them to be.

You stare up at them now, vision soft around the edges as they bloom slowly. Soft green pinpricks scatter across the ceiling, some crooked, some too close together. And you’re not sure when you end up lying on your back, head pillowed on his chest. His arm is draped loosely around your shoulders with a weight too natural you just fall into it.

“You remember,” he suddenly murmurs, voice low, “when we ran out halfway through?”

“And you said asymmetry was artistic,” you giggle, the ceiling feeling even further away now.

“It is,” he mumbles, pouting. “Look how pretty they are.”

They are. But he’s not looking at the stars.

He’s looking at you.

The way the stars reflect faintly in your eyes, like they’re holding pieces of the sky just for you.

He lifts a hand, hesitates, then lets his fingers brush yours, barely there. Electricity hums under your skin anyway.

“Can’t believe they still work,” you whisper, feeling the faint warmth of his lingering touch.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You pressed them extra hard, anyway.”

And instantly, your laugh vibrates against him, small and warm. He feels it everywhere from underneath his arms, even despite the cold of the night breeze.

With that, your chest settles a lot slower now, even with the high that crawls into your veins, almost like diving underwater without panic. Every sound landing slower, and every thought stretching.

Before you notice it, his thumb moves instinctively in the moment—tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. He’s hyperaware of it now. Of how close you are. Of how your breathing syncs with his if he pays attention long enough.

But the stars above flicker in ignorance as a car passes outside.

“You look really pretty like this,” he mumbles suddenly, softly.

And in turn, you tilt your head to look up at him. He feels his lungs tighten when he meets your eyes, warm, bright, reflecting the stars above like you swallowed the sky whole. And there’s something tender in your expression—something open, unguarded, that makes his chest ache.

“Yeah?” you grin.

He nods, and something flutters quickly inside of you.

Because here, inside nothing but the comfort of his room, the silk of his sheets, the stars throw a faint green-blue glow across his stupidly wide grin.

You see the way his chest rises and falls, slow and even, like he finally isn’t bracing for something to go wrong. Even you can tell there’s a softness to him right now that feels almost… sacred.

And he notices you staring.

“…What?” he asks quietly, the dimmest tinge of pink catching on his ears now.

“Nothing,” you reply quickly. Then, softer, shyer, “You just look... nice, too.”

All of a sudden, everything feels muted away, and even the word itself feels insufficient. Yuji feels it too, the way it lands so still between you both, heavier than it should be.

“Oh,” he breathes, and he shuffles just a bit beside you, biting his lower lip now while he struggles to push his own smile back. “That’s a first.”

You blink. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yeah, it is,” he teases.

Ans his eyes quickly flick away again— “Damn, how am I supposed to compete to you and the lights?”

His words slip out too easily. Way too easily when you feel your own heart climbing up your throat, stuttering over itself. But instead, you just nuzzle your face into his sleeved arm draped over you, shaking your head as you hum in protest. Clinging.

Maybe it was from the pure adrenaline clinging to his high just a few minutes ago, because now, he freezes. But then slowly—carefully—he lets himself relax too, resting his head atop yours gently.

The faint music playing from his phone is low and distant. Something dreamy looping in the background. It’s his playlist just for late nights like these, lulling you to sleep. And finally, you tilt your head, just barely, until your temple brushes his neck.

His breath hitches.

None of you move. 

But you turn just enough to look at him again, watching the stars glowing above, painting everything in their gaze unreal. He stares right back like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, and with a shift of your weight, you sit just up a little more now, close enough that your knees press into his sides, close enough that the air between you hangs even heavier.

His hand stills on your arm, fingers curling slightly, unsure.

Then you lean in slowly, feeling the warmth of it all.

Your lips brush his—once, barely—and he inhales sharply, like he forgot how to, because when you kiss him again, it’s even softer.

You press into him even closer now, while his hand finds your waist carefully, like it’s been waiting all night.

And it doesn't take another second until he starts pushing more of his own weight into it now, gentler with every touch. He pulls back from you now and then with a gaze that almost screams he’s afraid of waking up, and he's so soft it gnaws.

Your foreheads are both pressed together now, warmth curling in between your breaths, mingling.

Slowly, you feel the world fade away to nothing but the quiet creak of his bed, shifting under you both, and the soft city hum beyond the walls.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, all while yours curls into the fabric of his shirt.

When you pull back—eyes locked, chests panting—the stars above you seem brighter somehow, leaning in to watch.

You kiss him again.

“Yuji,” you whisper, and he repeats your name even more reverently, gentler.

For today, just today, you let yourself fade into nothing.

Because for once in your life, right by his side, it feels far away enough for that to happen.

Right under the stars nobody else but you can see.

“That’s so cringe.”

“What she says.”

“Are you serious? It’d be the most romantic thing ever!” Yuji slaps his palms against his thighs, his body thrown forward already.

Beside him, Megumi shoots Nobara a flat look, and she returns it immediately, sharp and unimpressed. The three of them are sprawled across the thin blue mattress laid directly over the living room floorboards. All the while, their backs are pressed to the coffee table, knees knocking together in the cramped warmth of the flat.

Nearby, the window is cracked just enough to let the rest of the evening city breathe in. Traffic murmurs like a restless tide from below, and the faint scent of Nobara’s mint plant drifts in with the night air. It tinges crisp and clean, a quiet promise of winter creeping closer. But under the dim amber glow of the ceiling light, it’s not much worse than how blatantly she’s squinting at Yuji. Concern knits her brows together as she props her elbow against the table. 

“You’re serious?” she asks slowly, scratching at the back of her head.

“Yeah!” he answers, far too brightly, as if he hasn’t just confessed to something wildly impractical, wildly sentimental… and like it’s nothing more than deciding which taco place to hit on Tuesday.

Megumi ruins it instantly, “You’re insane.” 

“What?!”

Four days ago, the evening sky had burned crimson behind them, Manhattan stretching endlessly beyond the glass, skyscrapers glowing gold and glassy, immense in its uncaring view. Across the walls hung Megumi’s photographs of all sorts of nature—birds mid-flight, rain trembling on leaves—all framed in clean wooden rectangles that matched the rest of the lumber furniture in the room.

Everything neat. Everything plain.

Everything except Yuji.

“Manhattan’s huge,” she groans in disbelief, gesturing vaguely at the skyline behind him. “How the hell are you even gonna pull that off?”

Yuji glances over his shoulder, waving her concern away with an easy grin. “I’ve got my ways.”

Then he shoots Megumi a knowing look, who’s already sighing in resigned defeat.

And even now, past midnight, that memory burns bright in his mind.

Oh, he’ll pull it off, alright.

Concrete scoffs beneath his boots as he lands for what feels like the tenth time tonight. He straightens, hands settling on his hips, breath fogging faintly inside the mask. From this height, even the chaos below—the honking cabs, the sirens, the endless human noise—feels distant.

The city stretches vast beneath him in molten gold and silver, skyscrapers glowing like veins of light beneath the dark velvet sky. Finally, he peers over the edge once more, brow furrowing. He puffs his chest out with unabashed pride.

He got this.

And for the last time, Yuji crouches, picks up the slightly crumpled bouquet, and starts counting the petals almost ritually. His gloved fingers fumble through the wrinkles, checking through each side, flipping through them, counting them, again… and again. Straightening the stems, heart thudding stupidly hard, then, with his ever-so-reckless confidence, he finally steps off the ledge.

Swish—

The webline cuts clean through the rare, blissful quiet of the cold night air, followed only by the faint hum of a distant aeroplane above. The wind bites, winter whispering its arrival, but beneath the suit, in his chest, blooms something tepidly warm from within, spreading amidst the outside frigidity.

He grins, thinking of your face. Of your laugh. Of how careful he’ll have to be not to wake you. But as he nears the apartment, his smile falters because the slightest bit of warm yellow still peeks from behind the curtains, even in this late, harrowing hour.

A prickle crawls up his spine, but it isn’t stinging with danger. It’s even colder…

Familiar.

Still, he slips inside quietly, the warmth of the room enveloping him. While his assignment papers sprawl across his bed, stars scatter similarly across the ceiling, glowing softly from where you’d stood on tiptoes, crayon clutched in your hand. Quietly, he pulls his mask off in one swift motion and hears a faint press of your voice, muffled through the door.

You aren’t alone.

Instinctively, he feels his fingers curl around the paper wrapping behind his back as he walks over to the door, crinkling. Each step feels heavier, louder, while his own heart crawls deeper into his throat. With a creak of the wooden handle, he slowly pushes it open.

His jaw drops to the floor.

“H—Hello—”

The woman’s voice cuts sharply through the room. “You’re only coming out to greet me now?” 

She stands rigid by the door, irritation etched into her posture, perfume clinging to the air from her flashy black dress like a stain. Your hands lift weakly, trying, futilely, to calm her before her gaze flicks over to him once, head to toe.

“So,” she huffs, adjusting the strap of her purse. “You’re still alive.”

Your shoulders tense immediately, catching your breath. But you merely show her a shake of your head, already exhausted. “Mom, it’s late—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, eyes snapping to you. Sharp. Precise. Surgical. “I didn’t come here to be avoided.” And her attention immediately slides back to him, lips pressing into a thin line.

“And you’re still living together,” she scoffs, almost in disbelief.

It isn’t even a question—and the bouquet slips instantly from his fingers. All while on the other hand, you swallow a gulp down, migraine pulsing even louder now, “We’re roommates.”

Instantly, she lets out a soft, humourless laugh. “You always did like excuses.”

A beat. Then, pointedly, “Monday. Dinner. Eight o’clock. Downtown.” Her gaze pins you in place before she pauses briefly, then finishes quieter, meaner. “And bring him.”

His jaw tightens, but you inhale sharply, “That’s not—”

This time, there’s no pretence of politeness. “I need to talk with him,” she says flatly. “He’s done enough damage to your life already.”

The words land heavily. Final. And before either of you can speak, she turns on her heel, its clack echoing once, twice, like punctuation as the door slams. Silence crashes in behind it, and the waft of her bitter perfume still stings long after she’s left. Even Kiniro peeks hesitantly from behind the couch, tail low.

The dimness of the room suddenly feels far too dark, enveloping all in its entirety. The sloped figure of you is lit aglow by the golden ambient kitchen stove lights. You bite back the tears forming in your trembling lips, the clench in your heart—

And Yuji doesn’t hesitate.

Quickly, he crosses the space in three wide strides and pulls you into him. One hand firm at your waist, the other curling around your wrist. And at once, you fold instantly into his chest, breath shuddering while your throat closes up on you. His hands tremble when they thread into your hair, and beneath it all, something twists violently in his chest.

“Still the same nauseating perfume, huh?” he murmurs weakly, voice cracking despite himself.

The shadows seem to swallow the two of you whole as you let yourself melt into his warmth. The only one in this long cold night as he hugs you even closer than the tightness in your chest.

But you don’t catch how his breath shivers from above you, darkness hiding the inevitable frown in his face—the purse of his lower lip, the scrunch of his nose. The dull, low throb that lodges in his throat.

And when you look up at him—God, when you do—something inside caves.

Something harsh pulls at his own ribs when he meets your eyes. Because in his mind, he feels everything but nothing all at once. He wants to do something, anything, even when he feels ever so utterly hopeless in the small of it.

There aren’t any other words to describe it, and there’s no other way to say it when his lips slowly drop over to yours, head tilting downwards in the softest surrender he’s ever known.

His breath hovers just in front of yours; warm, minty. Like that matching toothpaste you bought just last week from a holiday sale right down the street. You’re foolish, too, as is, tiptoeing and giving him a gentle peck while your arms drape over his neck. Somehow, it makes you feel safe, pulling him closer.

Your foreheads rest together, and in the quiet of the night, the whisper of the curtains, and the stars that glow like luminous constellations in your eyes, you feel a soft tremor in your chest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, your gaze dropping quietly downwards, “can we go to sleep together tonight?”

Unconsciously, he rubs tiny little comforting circles on your waist to soothe you. The shapes remind him of the stars twinkling across his bedroom ceiling. Warm. Soft.

The ones you had stood on your very tiptoes on your tucked-away stool to reach, hands raising to doodle with your childhood crayons. The ones whose glow would reflect brighter than the darkest of his nights, even the Manhattan lights. Ethereally golden in comparison.

The ones you said would accompany him no matter what. Even when your room was just a few steps away, and your cooking was always left in a single bowl—warmed, even when he returned too late at night. 

His thumb slowly guides you to lift your chin to him, and when he sees the way your eyes blend within the tenebrosity of the shadows, the way he melts like he’s sinking into the deepest of nights—

He feels something break loose inside of him, the heavy weight of his lungs feeling too small. He wants… wishes to pull off that curtain of stars you’ve drawn for him. And even in this city that has its own constellation of twinkling golden lights below, he wants to make it yours.

He wants to drape you in the beauty of the home you’ve made for him, in its little warmth with the most fortunate power he thinks he’s ever been given.

And don’t get it wrong, you make it feel fortunate. Because when you meet his eyes, the very same ones burning, stinging under damp night-kissed lashes, he can’t look away.

Quietly, he presses his lips together into a thin line, an old hurt stirring within his bruised heart.

“Don’t be,” he whispers back, gently cradling you as his heart climbs into his throat, stuttering. “Anything for you.”

He’ll say it even when everything is falling apart, even when the city demands him, and even when the weight returns.

Just a smile, Yuji thinks, and a smile he gets, as he tickles your face with even more kisses. You let out a giggle inadvertently, softly pulling him closer.

And for him, that’s worth everything.

Almost too faint, and too brief in this lingering still of a night. 

Red is the colour of his favourite hoodie, the one you steal every other day and swear you’ll return… eventually.

Red is the colour of his stupid spandex suit, the one he slips into every night without ever telling you when he’s bleeding.

And red, unfortunately, is the colour of this restaurant you do not want to set foot in today, without him.

You shouldn’t have agreed to this.

You’re pacing in front of the glass doors, phone clutched tight enough that your knuckles ache. Yet inside, the restaurant glows bright enough, almost like a sore wound; Velvet walls, lacquered floors, roses in vases that cost more than your rent. Six waiters hover just behind the entrance, smiles strained, eyes flicking to the reservation tablet again and again.

They’re waiting for you.

Red. Red. Red.

It presses in from every direction, crawling up your spine, tightening around your ribs. The rug beneath your feet is crimson. The roses are crimson. Even the wine in the glasses catches the light wrong, dark and viscous.

And then your gaze lands on her.

Already seated.

She hasn’t noticed you yet. Instead, she’s studying the wine list with the same sharp focus she once reserved for your report cards. Lips pursed, nails tapping, every movement smooth. Her posture is perfect—back straight, legs crossed with deliberate elegance—gold jewellery glinting.

They glimmer, all across her throat, her wrists and her fingers, each piece chosen carefully and conservatively expensive. Even her lipstick matches the roses on the table beside her, positioned so perfectly against the backdrop of the dark city skyline.

You swallow.

Once upon a time, red meant danger.

Once upon a time, red meant don’t trust anyone.

Once upon a time, you were small, standing barefoot on cold tile, clutching Yuji’s sleeve in a kitchen that felt too large as she told you—calmly, coldly—that it wasn’t her responsibility to look after you. That she didn’t care who you brought home, and that whatever happened next would be on you.

And yet, here you are.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes in your hand.

Yuji: I’m so sorry, running late. Don’t go in yet if you haven’t. Please.

A soft, breathless laugh slips out of you as you type back, already having expected his answer. But still, it doesn’t shake off the ache crawling up your throat any less.

I’m already here.

You take one last breath, steady yourself, and finally push the door open, all while the sound of the once so familiar setting washes over you immediately—soft jazz, low conversation, the delicate clink of glasses. It all comes back too quickly.

On cue, a waiter steps up right in front of you, his smile sharp and polished, “Reservation?”

You pause for a brief moment, the word lodging in your throat halfway. It still tastes unfamiliar when it rolls off your tongue, but she looks up at once.

Instantly, you feel her gaze sharpen when she meets yours, sweeping over you from head to toe in a single, assessing glance. The pause is brief, but you feel it settle on your shoulders like an all too familiar weight; everything crushing, caving in too heavily already.

“You’re late,” she remarks flatly, already returning her eyes to the table again.

You take one deep breath, then glance at the empty chair beside you. “...He’s on his way.”

And that gets her attention.

But tonight, sirens peel through the city blocks endlessly.

Yuji hits the pavement hard, rolling, but he doesn’t waste a second in getting back up. He’s already back on his feet, moving, because stopping has never been an option.

The city is chaos incarnate tonight: a delivery truck jackknifed at the intersection, glass everywhere, a large crowd all frozen between fear and phones held too high. In the midst of it, he hears someone screaming. He feels someone trapped.

Webs fire from his wrists quickly in precision, binding the truck in place before it can slip another inch, the metal groaning low in the gutter night as smoke grows heavier. Somewhere near, the smell of burning rubber is already curling into the cold air. He braces his shoulder against the door and rips it open with a grunt, coughing when grey instantly mists his vision.

“Hey,” he says gently to the little girl shaking on the passenger seat. He keeps his voice steady even as his own heart pounds with muzzy eyes. “You’re okay. I got you.”

She’s shaking, eyes wild, but his arm stays firm around her still. Then with one swift motion, another web cuts through the air. He brings her back over to the safety of a nearby road, waiting until he finally sees her father running towards her.

Police cars wail in the distance, but he still chooses to wait just for another second, holding the little girl’s hand.

He chooses to stay.

Because it’s the same thought that’s followed him since he was a kid—since nights spent saving citizens, since learning how easily people disappear when it gets inconvenient.

Since you.

And quickly, he sets off again to the accident site, shielding a bystander too dangerously near with his own body as another car skids too close. 

Thwip! Thwip!

He weaves the site carefully, keeping the curious bystanding citizens away. Each web drives the herd further from danger as he barricades the crash inch by inch, the tides pulling back. Applause breaks out somewhere behind him, and someone yells his name, “Woo! Spider-Man!”

But Yuji barely hears it, because his own heart is hammering hardly against his chest and his phone buzzes once more against his ribs. It’s muffled beneath the suit, but he already knows what it says without looking.

Where are you?

His chest tightens, and when he imagines you sitting there alone—spine straight, smiling through it all—he feels his hands curl into fists below.

“I’m on my way,” he whispers, not sure who he’s even saying it to anymore.

Another web. Another accident down the block. He grits his teeth as he loses yet another minute.

As the ambulance doors slam shut and the crowd finally disperses, he perches on a streetlight for half a second, just long enough to enter the name of the restaurant into his phone. The city stretches beneath him, infinite and demanding, and he thinks about the first time he ever stayed somewhere because someone wanted him to.

You, sitting cross-legged on your bed, handing him a marker and pointing at the ceiling.

We can draw stars, you’d said. So it doesn’t feel so dark—and he’d nodded like it was nothing. Like it didn’t change everything.

He launches himself hastily back into the air, swinging hard and fast, cutting corners he usually wouldn’t.

His shoulder throbs, his lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow.

Because even when he stays to save people, he’ll always choose you—again and again—even when he’s late. Even when the city keeps asking for more from him.

“He,” she repeats coolly, finally lifting her eyes. “Of course.”

With the last of her words, silence stretches far too easily, thick and suffocating, but you sit anyway, fingers twisting together in your lap. The chair is too stiff, the table too wide, and inside, the ache stirring within just won’t ease.

You feel your heart growing small, the distance between you unbearably vast. The waiter pours water soon enough, soft clinks of ice too loud in the deafening tension.

“You’re still living in that…” your mother finally utters, folding her arms in front of her, “apartment.”

You swallow at her tone of the last word. “Yes.”

“With him.”

“Yes.” Your fingers curl under the table.

Her mouth tightens, just enough for you to notice… and there it is. “I don’t understand why you insist on making things difficult for yourself.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, fingers fiddling beneath the table. Your stomach tightens even more. You can’t bear to eat the served appetisers now, names you barely hear after your throbbing heart.

All the while, on the other end of the table, she hums, unconvinced. She’s always swirling the glass in her hand with boredom. “You were always stubborn. Even as a child.”

Always the same words.

The waiter returns, and she orders without looking at you—something expensive, something red. Wine. Always wine.

“You know,” she says casually, “I read an article the other day. About that Spider-Man.”

Your heart stumbles immediately with a drop.

“Reckless,” she continues. “Impulsive. Dragging innocent people into danger under the guise of heroism.” She takes a sip, eyes landing upon you as cold as ice. “He reminds me of someone.”

Hesitantly, you meet her gaze, jaw tight. “Yuji’s not reckless.”

“No?” she raises one eyebrow, nails tapping mockingly against the glass. “Then why does trouble seem to follow him wherever he goes?”

Your chest burns at her words, and even now, you think of the night when you were eleven, when you almost disappeared into a crowd. Of hands grabbing. Of fear choking you. Of Yuji’s grip on your wrist, unyielding, refusing to let go.

“I gave you options,” she says. “Safety. Stability.”

“You offered control,” you rebut, frowning now.

She simply scoffs, tilting her head in similar vexation. “I offered you sense.”

You remember being eleven, standing in the doorway, shivering as another glass shatters just beside you. Falling, cracking.

Your breath instantly shudders.

At once, you feel your own nails dig into your palm, and you ask, voice low. “Do you remember when I told you I was scared?”

“That was a long time ago.” She blinks once, unbothered even while the silence stretches as far as the wine was poured. The scarlet red looks almost black in the low swirl of the dim light. “You embarrassed me,” she avers, brows pinching. “Crying. Begging. Bringing your… father’s mistake of a friend’s son into my home.”

And the words hang there, almost like you’d both uncovered something straight from the grave itself.

With how small you feel right now, you hate it. How, even after all these years, all you've done, you can never seem to grow past this.

Because you still remember being eleven, fingers tangled in Yuji’s sleeve while he stared at the floor—skinny, bruised, clutching a trash bag with everything he owned. 

Just two days after your father crashed.

Just after Yuji’s also passed away in the hospital bed right beside.

Please. Just tonight.

Just after your mother arrived home drunk… with another new man that very same day.

“And look how that turned out,” she snaps, and the tone still sends your lungs shrinking too small for any gasp of air, “Living paycheck to paycheck. Playing house. Tied to someone who—”

Her hands quickly rise when she gets up, and your jaw tightens at once.

It still closes up on you now, the pull behind your ribs as you flinch. Your eyelids shut immediately in brace.

Waiting for burning red—

Suddenly, the chair beside you scrapes back.

“Sorry, I’m late—” Yuji’s voice cuts through the table like sunlight through fog.

You instantly look up.

With a turn of your gaze, you catch him breathless, hair still damp, red hoodie half-zipped, eyes immediately finding you first, checking, always checking, before flicking to your mother. He straightens, offering a polite bow of his head. “Good evening, ma’am.”

She looks him up and down. A few moments pass before, at last, she finally sits back down, his name rolling off her tongue unwillingly. Heavy. “Yuji.”

But he just smiles, easy and warm as usual, as he sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush under the table, and his presence is grounding, understanding. Slowly, you feel his pinky hook around yours beneath the table. For the first time since you stepped inside, you can breathe.

He leans in just enough to murmur, “You okay?”

You’re not, but you nod anyway, all while she remains indifferent in her tone. Almost too unbothered to even be so.

“You’re late,” she mutters. But he replies easily, gaze unwavering.

“Yes…” he keeps his eyes on her. “I am.”

Her lips thin grudgingly. “You always were.”

And finally, she exhales sharply, yet she continues, unfazed. “You know, I warned her about you. Boys like you attract problems. Danger.”

He doesn’t interrupt, simply listening. After a while, calmly, as if he’s waited enough, he places both hands flat on the table. “May I speak then, please?”

Your mother blinks. Then slowly, agonizingly, she crosses her legs. She sips again from her glass, uncaring while she tilts her head.

“You were there when I had nothing.”

Immediately, you notice he isn’t even speaking to her, but to you, his eyes almost golden underneath the amber of the chandelier lights while he looks into yours.

“When I didn’t have anywhere to go. When I slept on couches. When I didn’t know if anyone would notice if I disappeared… Even when your father was gone, and mine was already slipping away.”

Your chest tightens as he directs his gaze back at her now. “She shared her food. Her room. Her time. She stood between me and things that could’ve gone very wrong.”

A pause.

“You call that dragging strays home,” he continues, gaze unwavering as his hands squeeze yours tightly underneath the table. “I call it kindness.”

Your mother scoffs. “Kindness doesn’t pay the price when it backfires.”

He nods once, almost like it pains him to agree. “No. But it saved me.”

And his words hang heavy in the stillness of the air.

“It’s right to worry about danger,” he adds, even steadier, “but every time something almost happened to her— I was there. Because she chose not to turn people away.”

His jaw tightens, almost like a raw bruise aching from within. Unraveling. “And she was brave. Braver than anyone I know.”

Somewhere within, you feel your own eyes stinging with each second, throat lodging as you bite your lower lip.

Because if this is how he sees you, even the crushing weight of the entire night feels like nothing. Your heart caves in too painfully, clenching as your own breathing betrays you now.

He turns fully toward her, and even then, he doesn’t raise his tone. He keeps his firm steadiness. Unwavering.

“She didn’t ruin her life by caring,” he takes one last deep breath, chest heaving with it for a moment. And like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it, he finally does. Resolute, unshakeable with the very same voice you’ve grown to hear every day. “She built one. Even if it doesn’t look like the one you wanted.”

Your mother opens her mouth. But he doesn’t raise his voice when he finishes.

“So if you’re going to sit here and make her feel small—” his hand squeezes yours again, firmer, “—then I’d like to take her home.”

A promise.

And suddenly, the restaurant feels all too quiet.

…Smaller.

All you hear is the pounding of your heart, the tremor of your breathing.

Your mother looks between the two of you. She watches the way he sits, steady, unfaltering. The way you’re leaning into him without even realising it.

And her eyebrow twitches when you finally speak up.

Don’t cry, you bite back.

Because in your mind, you’re shaking, trembling. But even then, even while you’re stumbling, you’re still picking up the words. The words you’ve practised over the last few years.

Everyday. Every time.

“We’re doing fine. On our own.” You finally breathe out, and with a soft push of the chair, the thundering pulse of your heart, you hear him get up as your own voice echoes absentmindedly in your ears. Like you’re somewhere… far away. “Thank you for all these years.”

You truly mean it. 

And for the second time in your life, with trembling hands underneath his, your knees, breath unsteady, you follow.

This time, the final.

Even then, somewhere deep, your heart tightens at the thought.

She knows it as well. Because when you stand up, when you walk away, when you glance one last time back over your shoulder—she doesn’t say anything. She merely sits there, mouth agape, stunned in disbelief.

You don’t look back again.

The door slides shut behind you with a sound too soft for what it means.

Somewhere behind, a glass shatters into the quiet night.

It echoes—but you don’t get to hear it as you walk away.

Outside, when the doors finally shut, the rest of the city swirls. But it doesn’t swirl dark like the wine behind, it’s bright.

Amber neon burns vividly from above, bleeding deep into rain-slick pavement. They warp beneath your feet like aglow pearls, flickering like the taxis hissing past quickly. Unbothering, unstopping, even when something irrevocable has splintered apart far behind you. It never rests for anyone.

…And in one way or another, you’re thankful for that.

But your chest still aches, your ribs still pull tight. Words bubble somewhere between your throat, and even your ribs share the same sentiment.

Too heavy to swallow, yet too sharp to exhale.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Quietly, steps echo hollowly into the dead of night as he simply walks beside you. Close enough that your arms brush with every step, close enough that you can feel the warmth he always carries, even now.

Especially now.

His jaw is tight, eyes fixed forward, hands still intertwined gently with yours. The sleeve of the hoodie he wears—his entire closet—is red, worn thin at the cuffs, stretched just enough to fit you, too. Yours as much as his, whether either of you ever said it out loud, and far off, the citylight pricks through the tense air, lighting aglow your skin silver-blue.

Your eyes are distant, unfocused, like you’re somewhere he can’t step closer into just yet. Yet he simply watches the way the light gathers almost fragilely in your hair, how it clings to you even when you try to fold inward, smaller.

It's a place he’s too scared to reach for sometimes, just out of his fingertips.

Finally, you stop beneath a flickering streetlight.

“Yuji,” you start, then falter, breath catching on the way out. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

The words catch you by surprise, and at once, he turns to face you. In his eyes, in his stare, lies no anger. They aren’t sharp, yet they aren't exactly soft either.

They're pleading... aching.

Your jaw tightens.

“I’m not doing this because I owe you,” he whispers. “And not because I hate her.” In the corner of your eye, you watch the slow way his shoulders rise, then fall, releasing a breath he’s been holding for too many years. “I’m doing it because I choose you.”

Suddenly, a siren wails somewhere far off, and his gaze flicks upward for half a second…

But he still looks back at you all the same.

“I spent my whole life being told I had to be grateful,” he continues, voice low. “For roofs, for meals, for being allowed to stay.” A pause. “For not being alone.”

Then slowly, his voice dips, softening even more around the edges, tightening as his hands curl at his sides. “But you were the only one who ever made it feel like staying wasn’t… an obligation.”

The streetlight hums overhead, and suddenly—

You’re eleven years old again.

Your feet don’t reach the floor as you sit at the edge of the dining chair, legs swinging nervously beneath the polished wood. It creaks with every fidget, trembling as your mother’s heels click sharply against marble. She paces, and she paces, irritated by each growing second. Somewhere on your cheek, a red mark blooms furiously across the heat.

“I don’t care,” she snaps, sharp and dismissive. “We don’t just take in strays.”

The word cracks something open, and there, Yuji stands behind you, hands clenched into the sleeves of his jacket, bruised knuckles hidden, shoulders hunched. He’s smaller than you remember him being now—thinner, all sharp bones and quiet, eyes too old for his face.

“He’s not a stray,” and even then, your voice breaks despite yourself. “He’s a person. He’s my best friend. Dad would’ve—”

She cuts you off with a sigh, dragging a hand through her hair like you’re already exhausting her. The sight of it makes you feel incredibly small, incompetent under the heavy pressure she exerts every time.

“Your father made enough mistakes,” she mutters grudgingly, rolling her eyes at the mention of him. “I won’t repeat them.”

You don’t get it.

Truly, you don’t understand how hard it is to reach your hand out to someone, even when it doesn’t hurt you.

Because she never forgave him for believing in people too easily. For trusting Yuji’s father. For letting compassion exist.

“You don’t understand responsibility,” she grumbles even further. “You don’t understand danger.”

And later—much later—you would.

The way a man’s hand lingered too long on your shoulder when Yuji wasn’t there for a second. The way she blamed you for wandering off.

For trusting. For being soft.

But even then, on that night, all you understood was Yuji instantly reaching out for you before you could fully disappear into the crowd.

Yuji holding your hand even when the glasses shattered outside your room, huddling together with you under your blanket.

Yuji standing in front of you whenever she raised her hand.

Yuji splitting snacks with you in the dark.

Yuji sitting beside you when you cried, whispering, I’m here. I won’t go anywhere.

Suddenly, a raindrop splashes against your cheek, pulling you back into the present.

When you blink again, you realise it isn't a raindrop but a tear—softly trailing down as your own breath starts to cave in on itself, your knees finally buckling.

And you don’t recall when, but he’s already reached out without thinking, thumb brushing it away while he holds you. A habit all too well. Even then, even now, his every touch lingers, hesitant, like he’s afraid that if he pulls back a single fraction, something fragile between you both might fall apart.

The string between you both.

“She never forgave me,” you whisper, finally letting go of your breath. “For choosing you.”

He pauses for a moment, but he shakes his head gently. “You didn’t choose me.”

And for a moment, he exhales, placing a warm hand on your chest as if pointing to your heart. His calloused palms linger with crescent marks—his anxiety, etched into the very crinkles of each line.

His forehead rests on top of your hair. “You chose yourself. She’s the one who never forgave herself.”

The silence that follows is heavier, thicker, draping the two of you in a still blanket. A dark, gnawing bruise blooms from inside of you, a hole you've never known existed. While yet above you, something skitters across the brick. A sound you know too well by heart now.

Instantly, his eyes lift again, reflexive, guilty—and when you follow his gaze, you see it.

The weight. The mask he’s itching to wear because people need saving. The boy who learned too young that if he didn’t act, someone else would get hurt.

Under his breath, drifting with the gentle carry of the breeze, you catch it. You catch the way he looks back at you, smiling weakly, as he whispers.

“...You did really well there.” And your jaw clenches when you see the darkness in his eyes, the gaze he hesitantly tries to hold. “I’m proud of you.”

But even then, you step closer, pressing your forehead to his chest, resting upon his steady heartbeat. And for a moment, his breath stutters.

For this single hour of the night, you just wish to… run away.

You don’t want to be saved.

You never did.

You just wanted one night where you could pack your bags and run. Run, far, far away until the past couldn’t bear to catch up anymore.

And above, out of your sight, you don’t see the way he watches your hair fall forward, curtain-soft, hiding your gaze. The way the light catches the curve of your neck so reverently. His breath climbs and chokes up in his throat all at once with the sight. Heart, tugging in ache.

Because he sees everything too much.

Of the city, of the dangers—but never you.

It’s a simple truth, really. You’re the only one that soothes him.

A moment of silence passes. Then—

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers slowly threading through your hair. “Can I show you something?”

He steps back before you can answer, already glancing around the street with a quiet urgency that makes your chest tighten. But curiosity pulls you forward anyway.

His fingers softly tangle with yours as he guides you quickly down the block. Past a shuttered bodega with its metal gate half-rusted shut, past a flickering neon sign that hums like it’s on its last breath. And finally, he stops in front of a grimy twenty-four-hour diner, its bathroom door bearing a crooked, hand-painted OUT OF ORDER sign that looks older than both of you combined.

“Okay—don’t laugh,” he mutters, already tugging you inside and locking the door behind you.

“You brought me here to murder me, didn’t you?” you huff out, eyeing the cracked mirror, the stained tiles, the fluorescent light buzzing so loudly it feels almost too accusatory.

And as if on cue, he snorts despite himself, cheeks flushing pink beneath the flickering luscent. “Trust issues, much?”

Then he turns his back, shoulders hunching slightly as he fumbles with the hem of his hoodie. The room fills with the soft thwip of fabric shifting, him smoothening his shirt underneath in a clumsy rush that’s all too familiar, and he knocks his elbow painfully against the sink with a muted curse.

He nearly drops his mask, and you have to bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing out loud.

“Hold on—hold on,” he mumbles breathlessly, hopping once as he wrestles the suit into place. “I swear I’m cooler than this, usually— Okay. Okay. There.”

And when he turns back around, “Spider-Man” stands in front of you—red and blue, masked in all his stupid glory—but somehow, unmistakably, still Yuji.

The same posture. The same nervous energy. The same warmth that lingers in his eyes, visible even behind the thin, stretched fabric of his mask.

Then slowly, he opens the narrow bathroom window with a grunt and climbs out first, perching easily on the ledge before turning back toward you. He reaches out his hand without hesitation, fingers steady.

“Trust me?”

He doesn’t even need to ask.

The city opens up beneath you when he swings upwards instantly, wind rushing past your ears, lights streaking gold and white. Your stomach drops and soars all at once as you cling to him instinctively, fingers bunching in the fabric of his suit. Even now, you still shut your eyes in terrifying fear, hiding your face in the warm crook of his neck amidst the cold wind. 

You can never get used to this, but he just laughs softly at the sight of it. One quiet, humming sound through his chest, vibrating into you within his wrapped arms.

“Hold on tight,” he teases, like it’s the only truth he’s ever known in the whole wide world. 

And he lands quickly on the edge of a skyscraper rooftop, the spin of the ride coming to a stop. The concrete thuds so softly below with practised grace, and he sets you down gently, hands lingering at your waist just long enough as the dizzying eases.

You never can keep up with what kind of antics he brings you on—but you still slowly probe open one eye, then two—and now, the entirety of the city stretches endlessly below you.

It's the entire glistening vastness of New York’s restless sleep, alive and breathing. Windows glow bustlingly like constellations, with streets pulsing in bright light, all while somewhere else, far below, sirens wail. Distant and dull.

That’s when you realise just exactly where he’s landed.

Lost already in the tapestry of lights, he simply steps beside you, quiet.

“Okay,” he mumbles even more now, rubbing the back of his neck. “So. This is… kind of stupid. But I wanted to do it anyway.”

He gestures downward.

At first, you don’t see it. But then the lights shift with all the cars moving, the many windows flickering, and something else catches again—

Threads, gleaming silver-white in all their wilting ivory glory, stretched delicately between buildings far below, woven atop the golden luminescence.

Your breath leaves you at once. Because anyone with eyes can see that it’s your initial, webbed carefully into the city itself, tied within the tall skyscrapers that corner each alley. Even more, it feels so sacred with how it's only viewable from this one and only height, the building towering far above the rest.

The strands glow faintly as the building lights hit them, shimmering like stars caught in a net, painfully beautiful in their haze. 

And there, just out of your sight, he watches silently, dazed, as the city glow bleeds far from below. In his eyes, they reflect nothing but the way neon paints you ethereally in gold and navy, fracturing you into the oases of his deepest dreams. Light skimming gracefully with all its heavenly glow across your cheekbone, settling warmly in the subtle hollow beneath your collarbone.

Somehow, the sight of it all makes you look like a secret the city is trying to keep. And past his eyes, past his dream, and past his stare, something within him tightens at the thought of that.

“I—I-uh,” he suddenly whispers, voice even softer. “I swing past here a lot. And every night, when the lights turn on, it kinda looks like that. Like… stars. And I thought—if I ever got to choose something selfish, even once—”

He trails off.

You can’t pry your eyes off the view, and when he realises all words fail him, he just slowly spins you around. With a turn of your gaze, your heart instantly drops.

The stairs leading up to the highest platform are scattered with little petals of red roses, railings webbed gleamingly within each swirl of its metal. Your breath catches when you see the little round wooden table in the middle of it all, draped almost too carefully with a soft, rustling cream cloth. 

In all its ridiculousness, even the rusted fans are blowing alongside the wintry breeze. A horrid attempt, really, at luxury in their perfume. Yet luxury it is, because atop the table is a bouquet of red roses—petals folding upon themselves in bloom amidst the soft golden glow of a singular candle. 

You turn to him, chest aching in the best, worst way.

“Yuji,” you whisper.

He stiffens at once, rubbing the back of his neck in shy embarrassment, “I was planning the whole week for this, but then your mom showed up—and now—even the menu felt like a total killer for how silly this looks now—”

You shut him up, stepping into him, and pressing your forehead against his chest again, right over his heart. It’s racing. 

“No, it isn’t,” you murmur. And finally, slowly, his arms carefully come around you, almost like he’s afraid this entire moment might shatter if he holds just a bit too tight.

The light pools under your lashes glitteringly, glinting at the corner of your mouth when you finally smile—small, soft, just for him. It's only then, he realises that no matter how many times he swings through the city, no matter how high he climbs, this is the brightest place he knows.

For once in his life, he’s thankful he’s still wearing his mask—because his heart’s already doing silly flips with his tummy.

"Didn't know you were this smooth, Yuj'..." you grin, lifting your gaze up to him.

He bites his lips as his fingers find their way to yours. Tangling, intertwining, warmth pooling between. "Hey—what's the point of even having spider-powers if you can't use them for a little romantic trespassing?"

God, he can’t keep himself from smiling.

"So what’s on the menu?”

“Special homemade tomato pasta, Ma’am.”

The first recipe you’d taught him long ago… your favourite. 

Above you, the stars are faint, drowned out by the city’s glow.

But below, woven a dozen times into steel and glass, something else entirely shines just for you.

It isn’t the most expensive gift. Not by a long shot. But when he drapes his jacket over your shoulders and disappears briefly through the balcony door to retrieve his warm beloved dish, it doesn’t matter. It’s decorated with all your favourite silly side snacks, a small swab of sauce by the side.

And no amount of money could widen your smile when you notice the small letter tucked carefully into the centre of the bouquet.

After all, the city below you is for dreamers. For people who arrive with nothing but a wish, and stay long enough to turn it into a life. It glitters like it’s made of them, too, every light a promise someone once believed in.

Alleys, windows—all of them are tangled in light and glass, whether they see it or not, a pledge of the city that something can become brighter, simply by daring to look up.

And look up you do, because there, beside you, he’s already draped an apron over his stupid spandex suit, babbling away like a Michelin butler.

He finally pulls up his mask, tilting his head when you stare at him with a grin, silent amidst it all.

You don’t need to say anything.

You never did.

After all these years, you realise all you wanted was permission to dream—because with him by your side, even the impossible feels close enough to touch.

A small shooting star over New York...

And you don’t see it yet, but somewhere in the quiet, you’re his as well.

Your mind is fuzzy, lips glossy when you turn over to his temple, panting beside his ear. The balcony door slides shut behind you, shadows enveloping you both. Your own nails dig into his scalp while he zips out of his suit, your stomach twisting with need.

He fumbles behind as he yanks the curtains close, and a whine slips past your lips when he nuzzles his own face deeper into your neck. Again, groaning as one strong arm locks around your waist, lifting you against his chest. Something warm blossoms inside of him when you wrap your limbs so naturally around him, clinging with each drunken kiss.

“Slow down, Yuj—” Your gasp catches itself midway, your hand tightening around his hair while he slips your clothes up your arms.

“Ngh, sorry, angel…”

Your lips trail down his jaw with the last bit of patience left inside of you, and you press messy pecks onto his thick Adam's apple, all while he’s walking you both to his bedroom, hands dug deep into your skin. Gently, he finally lays you down, and his throat hums gutteringly when you tug his hair.

Now, carried by the drift of the night, amidst your hazed breaths, atop the crinkled bed and below the ceiling stars, his palm softly rubs across your tummy, his head tilted downwards while his own lips wrap gently around your nipples. His fingers send jolting sparks with each motion, warmth blooming from how sensitive you are.

For a moment, he feels his heart stutter into his gulping throat when he peeks back at you, meeting your gaze, your dazed expression, and the gentlest flutter of your eyelashes. The dim lights of his bedroom are all turned off now, the shadows kissing each curve of yours perfectly with contouring beauty. Darkness—draping you with its sweetest blanket under the stars.

“Fuck… I still can’t believe this is what I come home to…” He doesn’t curse a lot—heck, he barely does, but when he sees you smile, when your eyes crinkle into the second crescent that hangs in the middle of the sky, he can’t help but swallow heavily, heart pounding deafeningly in his ears. “You seriously don’t know how much I love you.”

He pushes the gnawing need inside him to instead stroke your cheeks with his thumb—soft, warm, little massaging rubs—and silently, he’s cooing internally, maybe visibly, too, when he keeps your stare, both your chests heaving at the spot.

The smallest bit of leaking lucent moonlight kisses you softly, and neither of you utters a word, even as he glides his tongue to your other nipple. It’s hard already as he hums warmly around it, sucking it softly through the vibration.

Your nails gently scratch his nape with each lingering moan, twitching underneath the slick wet feeling of his tongue swirling around it. You can’t help the way your chest heaves against him, the warmth of his weight pressing onto you while his tongue plays devotingly with both buds. 

Slowly, as if on instinct, you nuzzle your face deep into his pillow; breathing, gasping at the intoxicating scent of his. It fills the entirety of his room—the whole of your drifting head.

Amidst your silent tremble, his fingertips trace shivers when he slowly trails up from your stomach, crawling to your plump breasts. And reverently, while your fingers thread through his hair, almost like he's hypnotised, he squishes one of them softly.

Again… and again.

“What are you…” You can’t stifle your giggle when you see his eyes light up at the enthralling motion, glinting like he’s found a spark he never knew. And when his other hand drags up from your waist to the other, he’s squeezing them both gently at the same time.

“Ngh—” a whimper escapes you more out of embarrassment this time, and his head slowly tilts downward again to lick at your probing nipple, flicking his tongue and sucking tenderly. 

The rough callouses of his palm make it too consciously difficult, no matter how gentle he tries to be, and you can feel your own heart pounding at the growing heat. You haven’t even fully caught up with everything until he’s sliding his hand back down, fingers probing the wet slick that coats your thin fold of fabric. 

“So sweet, always so sweet. How, how—” And with how shaky his hands are, he still slips now and then while he drags them down, like his own trembling breath tickling your skin. "I can never get enough—angel, please—" And truly, you don’t know when your pants have turned into soft moans. Whether from the dizzying pleasure or the embarrassment. 

He just hums against your silent plea as your wet heat finally spreads slowly across his palm, and he dips one finger carefully into the tightening knot in your core. You bite back a gasp at the stretch, a slight sting blooming inside when he slips another digit inside.

And if it isn’t for your squirming, you’ll see the way the darkness in his eyes grows. How your wetness coats so easily around his finger, squelching as he goes deeper… slowly, inching. For a moment, he hesitates. “Are you okay?”

But the soft sucking from your nipples has your back arching, you cradling his head closer. He slowly picks up the pace by just a second more, pumping his fingers in and out. You nod lazily, “Mm… keep going.”

And something in him tightens immediately when he hears the pure coo of your words, rutting his hips desperately against the mattress. All the while, his greedy lips continue to suck, swirling at your top while his own eyes roll back to meet yours in his dazed haze.

Deep within, from your squeezing, from your trembling thighs as they wrap tight around his hand below, he grunts at his own fingers squirming inside your warm hole. He’s probing, digging at every gummy wall, searching. You feel every single scratch, every itchy poke at the most sensitive bundle of your nerves, and when his fingers finally curl against your sweet spot, your hips jump instantly on instinct.

“Yuj’—!” His name rolls off so sweetly on your tongue, trembling while you squirm underneath the plump biceps of his arms.

You can feel the shiver reverberating through him instantly as he fastens the pace, and your grip on his head tightens almost too pleasuringly as your nails scratch that perfect spot against his scalp.

He groans as he leans in desperately to your touch, sucking even harder while you squeeze around his fingers. His scent, his breath, his soft murmurs of praise—everything’s driving you insane.

You see stars behind your eyes. Literal stars.

And when your lips part, feeling that knot tighten up in your core, whining a pitch higher, he pulls off just for a second, his lashes half-lidded and tongue lulling. 

Your eyes flutter shut, tears edging, while he keeps his own wide open. He leans in to meet your open, faltering mouth, tongue gently tangling with yours as he swallows your moans—your breathy gasps of his name.

Under the gentle shadows, aglow by the gentle kiss of the silver crescent and the scattering of the stars above, his gaze stays locked on you. Watching, worshipping the way your hair falls so perfectly, even when it's all messy, framing your face so beautifully.

He can’t help how hard his own heart drops at the sight, because finally, you feel everything fall apart, crashing down upon you when your body jolts high. It’s sharp and instant, lingering briefly before quickly dissolving into smaller trembling afterwards.

He helps you ride it out, lapping your nipples with his tongue almost too devotedly until he’s pulling his fingers out. The sound pops too consciously for your own sake, too wet in the quiet of the night. You shiver when his breath tickles your ears.

“Mm, you did so well,” he’s babbling stupidly, repeating it like a broken record, peppering you even more as his own eyes roll back. “So—damn good—” and he gently rubs at the warmth between your legs, rubbing it drunkenly.

You tilt your head downwards when the soft rustle of his zipper suddenly snaps you out of your daze. Your gaze lands slowly on the girth he’s palming, hanging out already.

Unconsciously, you feel your own legs squirm as your thighs tighten beneath his palms, desperate to rub against each other. His fingers dig against your skin, keeping your legs spread as he breathes heavily, chest panting as he stares at your wet folds.

The dimness of the room hides the way his eyes darken and how he’s biting his own lips, almost painfully. Slowly, he rubs his girth up and down, probing agonisingly between your folds. But even then, the tip only peeks inside just whenever it slides up the most sensitive bundle of your nerves, kissing your clit teasingly. Yet he leaves every single time he slips back down, leaving your pussy lips fluttering at the clench of utter nothing. 

But he isn’t doing it simply to tease you—he’s also grunting frustratingly, sweat trickling down his forehead as he watches, mesmerised by his girth coated drenchingly by your slick arousal. The way his tip kisses your puffed up clit with every single flick, how you squirm each time at the brief contact, grinding back down desperately against him.

You’re distraught, wretched whenever you shift perilously against the sheets just to meet him. And finally, as if you’ve snapped something inside of him, the whine that slips out of your lips is all he needs to gently flip you on your tummy, hands briefly helping you as you follow needily. 

“Switch over for me, angel, please,” his voice cracks as he pulls your hips back, his hands slowly cupping the soft plush of your ass. “You don’t know how gorgeous you look like this—” and he almost finishes right there and then when he sees you on your hand and knees, him nuzzling his head affectionately against the crook of your neck. "Haah—no, it doesn't even matter when—"

All while his fingers trail against the dimples of your elbows on your back, sending shivers with each trace. A whimper slips past his lips when you let yourself fall into a deep arch, gyrating desperately backwards, your lewdly wet folds spread open for his darkened eyes. You feel it from the way his chest grows heavier, how his fingers dig tighter into the soft skin of your ass, fondling it with all the devotion he’s whimpering out with every drunken babbling of praise.

“Can’t—” he cracks, shivering as drool trails down his lips, sloping against his chin, “still can’t—believe this—” and he’s eyeing how slick your folds are coated with syrup, your little hole clenching around nothing but cold air, even more clear wetness trickling out.

Slowly, you watch as his other free hand moves back down, slightly up again, clenching around his base, pulling it desperately as he rubs his tip through your folds, his head tilted downwards. He feels his very own muscles tense, breathing heavily, sweat trickling down as he strengthens his grip on your fragile waist—

You haven’t even counted until a second when your jaw falls slack, nails instantly digging into the sheets. You gyrate back against the sudden feeling of his engorged tip pushing past the tight walls of your cunt, pain intertwining with pleasure until you can’t tell what’s what anymore.

And with the sudden fluttering of your warm gummy walls, his jaw locks, brows scrunching as his breath catches in his throat.

“F—fuck, just like that, angel,” and his voice is cracking, whimpering with his tone lifting higher—higher than ever as he chokes back at you, grinding desperately to fit the remaining inches. His own body folds in surrender, hair tickling the crook of your neck as his own lips wobble, finding your shoulder. You squirm when you suddenly feel him lick the sweat trailing down your neck adoringly, especially as pathetic groans whisper beside your ear.

Your cheeks instantly flush at the sound of his frustration, and you help him despite the stinging stretch aching within yourself, needier as your ass gyrates slowly into him. Squeezing, fluttering all around his girth as his tip probes deeper, stretching your walls even more. The sting is so addicting in its painful bloom, yet you still can't stop wanting more.

“Ngh—” instantly, he throws his head back, getting up despite every warm clench of your pussy beckoning him to crumble already. 

He still feels big, maybe even more now, and your hand reaches behind to trail down the chiselled firmness of his abs. Shaking, sending shivers across his spine with each lingering warmth, finally tracing down to where his happy trail ends. 

“Want it inside me already, Yuj’— You whine, gyrating your ass back—and when your drool pools onto the sheets, you drunkenly babble over how big he is—you flinch at how hard his grip tightens on your waist. He’s squeezing, his own breath heavy and shaking.

Breathe, he chants in his head, but when your warmth is all that’s enveloping him, your scent, your sound, the sound of it? Something in him snaps.

The cord deep in his stomach instantly falters, and you stuff your face into the pillow below when something slick trails your walls with every push. 

He can feel your gummy walls squeezing every corner of his pulsing girth, tip sliding and touching you everywhere. Behind you, he’s groaning so lewdly when one of his hands grabs onto the plush of your ass, and you feel sparks all over your body as he’s shoving more of his length inside you.

“Wait—“ you choke, tears pricking your lash line, but Yuji’s already too lost in it, with how many full thick inches he is deep inside you.

He can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, but fuck it, because he’s gasping, whimpering when he slides another shaky thrust into you, growing faster and faster until you’re left with nothing but yourself to hold onto.

“Ngh, so good—” he groans weakly, shaky as he picks up his pace. “Baby, ngh, this feels like heaven, you look like heaven.”

And you’re crying out silently, fingers curl into the sheets while you arch embarrassingly, thrusting your hips back in a desperate attempt to keep his pace. Because with every whimper, you feel his own abs flexing, and you peek over your shoulders to see how flushed his chest is, trembling as he slams his length deep back inside you.

Beady tears edge from the corners of your eyes as you smush your face helplessly into the pillow, suffocating on your own moans. When you struggle to look back in a plea for him to slow down, he meets your gaze. And for a moment, something almost too lovingly tender swirls in his eyes as his hand moves from the steadying grip of your ass, up to your face, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

He bites his lips as he stares down at you, your folds sucking him back in every time he pulls out, the frothy white ring pushing him to thrust even harder.

“My goddamn—gorgeous angel, ngh, fuckin'—heavensent,” and you feel your heart stutter in your own throat, especially as his tip pokes the depth of your core, pressing against your spongy cervix, soft already from all his girth's bruised kisses. "Bet ya don't even—haah—know it." Instantly, your pussy squeezes tight, the drag of his raw cock against your walls sending stars bursting behind your eyelids.

“Wait, Yuj’—nghh!” You can’t even think of finishing your sentence, because the entirety of your brain clouds up, and your lips fall defeatedly agape. Jolting throughout your body, each vein of yours lights up with every desperate moan, shaking into the quiet of the air filled with nothing but the creaking of the bed.

Your own nails dig into the sheets, and you groan as his own biceps flex with each thrust, planting brief yet bruising kisses on your cervix. Instinctively, he keeps a soft hand pressed on your lower back, keeping you arching so gorgeously up for him, but not hard enough so you wouldn’t feel any pain.

He’d kill himself before that ever happens. 

“So good—" you babble nonsensically, cheeks squished pitifully against the pillow. You’re achingly gripping onto them as he keeps at his brutal pace, the loud clapping filling the air as he digs his fingers into your ass even deeper. The sting blooms fervidly within your nerves.

"Yuj', please—" And slowly, with the last muster of your strength, you drag your hand weakly to reach for his arm beside you. 

His entire stomach twists in butterflies, lips parting as your fingers tenderly trace his muscles, lingering with every bit of warmth. Because out of your sight, beneath the shadows, he can’t pry his eyes off at anything but how your cheeks are aflame, back trembling as his own weight presses on top of you.

He ruts his hips into you again, grinding little yearning circles against your mound, sending your entire body another set of jolts.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he husks, his voice getting raspier with how it pathetically cracks. “You’re so fucking good, mmh—I’d do anythin’, haah—fuck—anything for you.”

And you whine as he continues slapping his thighs into your ass, addicted to the way it bounces each time, rutting like a dog in heat. He’s desperate for his own friction, but when your hips buck, whining every time his bulge rubs against your swollen, puffy pussy lips, he throws his own head back at the sparking overstimulation.

His own stomach flutters at the sight of you squirming all so beautifully into an arch beneath him. He’s watching the flush in your ears as your fingers trail little lines on his arms, and the desperation practically drips from his voice even when you can’t see him.

You want it so badly in the haze of your brain that the words slip out of you before you realise, “Kiss me—please.”

And kiss you he does, because his hands instantly drift over to you, fondly cupping your chin as he tilts you up to meet him. He buckles over when he folds to kiss you, arm catching himself beside your head as he whimpers into it.

For a brief moment, he peeks open his eyes to see you. They grow dark when he catches the way your wet lashes kiss your dewy cheeks, glossy lips agape, eyes rolled up to the very back of your head, struggling to meet his. The sweat that trickles down your forehead and spine glows ethereally lucent under the thin rays of moonlight.

He’s so lost in the way your pussy flutters so softly around his edged girth, massaging him soothingly in all its warmth that he desperately wants to thank it with his cum.

But he’s more so thankful for you.

Thankful that you’re always still in his bed, waiting for him whenever he gets back. That your soft skin is always still warm even in the coldest of nights, even when he runs his calloused palm against it, his own hands bruised and red. That your lips still part and sigh his name in that angelically sweet tone of yours when you wake up next to him, forgiving and understanding whenever he has to run off in the middle of the day.

He knows it isn’t enough—believe him, he knows—but he tries desperately, again and again, and thanks you, pouring all his love and devotion into the tangle of your kiss, him pushing all his trembling weight into it. Eager.

You tremble from the growing knot in your stomach, and it’s worse when you start to feel your mind go numb, his unstopping thrusts pushing you over the edge. “Y-Yuj’—”

“Together—let’s cum, haagh, together,” he groans pleadingly, voice cracking as your pussy spasms around him, locking him so tight he can barely move.

The bed creaks with every thrust, and he’s leaning in so close now that his warm breath tickles across your sweaty skin. His head is slumped weakly against your neck, his tip snuggled all so deeply against your cervix while he ruffles affectionately though your hair. "I love, ngh—you so fuckin’—haah—much—”

He chants it over and over like a prayer, and your toes curl instinctively, your back arching, your entire body twitching uncontrollably with pleasure while sobbing.

"Please," You reach up one hand to grip on his hair desperately, threading through his pink hair just like you always do, making him whimper in desperation for your every touch. "I love you too—Mmf—Yuji!"

You feel his hands squeeze your ass even more tightly, and before you know it, he’s scrambling, grasping his powerful arms to keep you with him. You choke on your own tears, body tensing, his arms tight around you now as you shake uncontrollably, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

And that’s all it takes for him to grit his teeth when he lets his throat rip with a guttural groan as he finally cums. Your walls squeeze tightly against him, hugging him into a deep, contracting massage, fluttering as you milk him.

You feel it warm deep inside of you, bursting in white-hot pleasure and in the gooey white wads within your tight cunt, shivering and full from the sheer amount of it.

There’s simply so much of it that you feel your own eyes roll back as it dribbles down your thighs, and every orifice possibly inside you.

“Fuck, you drive me insane.” His voice is octaves higher by this point, cracking to a point where he’s completely flustered. “Don’t even— You don’t even know what you do to me...”

And it's only about then that you're dredging up the courage to peek once more over your shoulders, the sight of him in blissful, absolute heaven, shivering right behind your limp legs, eyes adoring you with every last bit of strength left, his whole body slumped defeatedly above yours.

You rest your head against his as the two of you finally drop atop the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. Groaning at his heavy weight, you chuckle weakly when you push him off you into a roll beside, and he laughs right back at you.

All the while, a slick white trail of cum dribbles out of your shivering hole, the sudden emptiness of it making you whimper in exhaustion.

Even though you’re still shaking with the aftermath, the two of you lie in silence, breaths heaving as you both try to catch your own. He shifts over to your side, cupping your chin as he gives you a gentle peck on the lips, then trailing down to your chin, your jaw, down your neck and below.

“Shit, I’m so lame, but still—” his voice cracks when you cut him off by cupping his cheeks, forcing him to meet your gaze.

You whisper into the quiet of the night, smiling, and repeating the words. “I love you.”

His hands instantly grip your hips, thanking you, again and again, like a broken record. 

And if there was one thing you learnt later on that night, it’s that he totally can, and will, pass out when you say it three times in a row.

…Even in the middle of it.

The afternoon sky stretches wide above you, a washed-out blue softened by drifting clouds painted on, all while bright sunlight spills everywhere, catching on glass windows and car roofs until the whole block glows. Heat shimmers faintly above the pavement, while somewhere overhead, a plane cuts a white scar through the sky.

It’s the kind of sky that makes everything feel lighter than it really is; like nothing bad could possibly happen under something so open—

So here you are, halfway through explaining to Nobara why you absolutely did not cry over a sad commercial earlier—because it was about a dog, and dogs don’t count—when she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you. 

“You’re lying,” she scoffs flatly, sipping her iced coffee in nonchalance. “You cry over anything.”

“I do not—”

A shadow streaks across the café window, then a loud thwip! One thwip! Two thwips! Then a flash of red and blue flickers past, and—

“HEY, HI—SORRY—” Yuji instantly swings past the glass at approximately Mach Jesus, upside down, waving both hands far too frantically.

You choke on air.

Nobara spits her drink.

Because outside, he smacks face-first into the lamppost beside with a very undignified clang. It echoes unbearably loudly, muffled by the thin pane of a glass window. “Ow, okay! That’s—fine! Meant to do that!”

You’re already on your feet, “YUJ—YOU?!” but you instantly clasp your hands over your mouth at the slip of your lips, your eyes sprang wide open.

All on the other hand, he scrambles upright, mask jumbled, eyes lighting up the second he sees you.

“Oh! Oh my god, hi!” he beams, way too cheerful as another truck flies past him through the air. Quickly, he webs it and pulls it down to the ground before it hits anything. “You look—wow—you look really pretty today—okay, I have to go—”

Across you, Nobara leans over the table, deadpan as ever. “You’re… struggling.”

He glances down at his battered arm, suit torn a bit where you can see a few scratches. “Yeah! A little! It’s fine!” Then he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish even through the mask. “Okay, but in my defence—”

Suddenly, a distant scream echoes down the block, and his head snaps up instantly. In the corner of your eye, you see red against the stupidly blue backdrop, a creature, wet and writhing, peeling itself out of the shadows.

It’s literally climbing the side of some other skyscraper sideways, upside down.

“Oh! That’s mine,” he gulps. Then, with softer, apologetic eyes, he glances back at you. “I’ll be right back. Probably.”

“You said that last time,” you tease, smirking as you rest your elbow against the table.

“I came back!” he protests.

“Three hours later!”

“Yeah, but I did come back!”

Nobara squints at him. “If you die, I’m calling dibs on being her next roommate. Fushiguro’s too bor—”

“HEY—”

Another scream echoes, louder this time, and he winces.

“Okay. Okay. I really have to—” and finally, he steps closer to the window while lowering his voice just for you. “Dinner later? I’ll text. If I don’t, uh, get launched into traffic.”

And your heart flutters almost foolishly again. “Be careful.”

This time, he smiles even wider, softer in his gaze at you. “Always,” he cooes—and then, as usual, because he’s Yuji, he adds, “Well. I’ll try.”

He shoots another web, salutes Nobara with two fingers. “Nice meeting you under… normal circumstances!” and he laughs brightly into the afternoon sky, swinging off into the city, red-and-blue disappearing between the blocks like he was never there at all.

The café goes blissfully quiet while you sit back down slowly.

She stares at the window. Then at you.

“…So,” she snickers. “Did he finally go through with the plan?”

“The plan?”

“Y’know… that dinner he can’t shut up about.”

You sigh exhaustingly, hiding the smirk tugging at your lips.

By the end of that day, one of the Trade Centre's employees had already snapped a picture of your webbed initial—and it exploded all over the internet.

Now everyone's gossiping in forums over who has their neighbourhood Spider-Man head over hills, especially with the recent bridge fiasco.

Even in campus, hallways murmur with the latest bit of gossip, speculation swirling with anticipation in the cold of air.

And just today, when he helped an elderly cross the road, he spent longer trying not to out his giddy self when she just kept asking who said mystery girlfriend of his was.

You smile into your palm, heart fluttering at the memory.

Because of course, he couldn’t shut up about it.

It’s Yuji, for God’s sake.

In the afterglow of the evening, the crimson of the sky, and the fluttering of a pigeon somewhere above, the alley you walk in is quiet.

Too quiet.

It wafts with the damp scent of rain and old brick, your own steps echoing through each wall. Your earphones dangle from your ear, backpack slung over as you navigate your way back, until suddenly, with a soft thud, steps crunch from just behind you.

You quickly pluck your bud out, letting it fall and wrapping it into your pockets. As usual, you spin around, and there, in front of you, like clockwork, is the headlining mascot you’ve seen all across newspapers today. Spider-Man Yuji’s swinging his arms wildly, even when his red suit screams blatantly within the desolate blandness of the alleyway.

In one swift motion, he finally pulls up his mask, pink hair ruffling with golden glows from the fresh breath of air.

“Heeeeeeey!!” he cheers, hands swinging over you as he pulls you into a tight hug, “How was class?!”

Snickering under your breath, before you can reply, before you can wrap your arms around him, you hear it first. A thin, reedy mrrrow echoing from above.

He freezes mid-step. “Did you hear that?”

Another cry follows, panicked, scratchy, and you both look up at once.

There, perched miserably on the crooked branches of a half-dead tree wedged between two buildings, is a tiny cat. It’s soaked through, tail puffed like it’s seen the end of the world, claws digging uselessly into the bark.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, heart dropping at the sight. “It’s stuck?”

And his shoulders straighten immediately.

“Okay. Okay, no problem,” he mutters softly, already tugging his mask back down over his face. “I got this. Easy. Super easy. I do way scarier stuff than cats.”

The cat hisses at him.

“…Okay, medium easy.”

So now, you lean smugly against the brick wall, arms crossed, watching as he shoots a web a little too hard—thwip!—and launches himself upward. And if he’d known any better, your gaze was almost too knowing.

He overshoots, and there's a loud thunk, followed almost immediately by a yelp, “OW—okay! That’s—fine! I meant to do that!” while you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth in amusement.

“Focus, Spider-Man!”

And somehow, the sight reminds you of Kiniro, probably still blissfully in his afternoon nap at home.

“I am focusing!” he calls back, now clinging sideways to the tree trunk, golden light catching on his suit. “I’m just, uh, approaching from a different… angle.”

The cat meows again, louder, trembling, and he softens instantly. “Hey, hey… it’s okay. I know it’s scary. I’m scary too, maybe. But in a good way!”

He inches closer, hands slow, gentle, too gentle, maybe—because his foot instantly slips, and the whole world flips. A loud snap! echoes, and you barely register what happens before he’s suddenly hanging upside down in a blur, one ankle webbed to a branch, swaying slightly.

And there’s a long pause before he finally calls out to you, his voice muffled and mortified. “…I’m fine.”

You stare for a moment.

Then you burst instantly into laughter.

And the loudness of it echoes straight off the narrowing alley walls, resounding in all its unrestrained might.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, clutching a hand on your aching stomach. “You look ridiculous.”

“I am saving a life!” he protests. “This is very dignified hero work!”

The cat, now apparently reassured by the sheer incompetence, scrambles down the branch hastily and hops safely onto a nearby dumpster, tail flicking indignantly before it vanishes into the dark.

Behind his mask, you can almost see him blink in disbelief. “Wait, did it—”

“It’s safe,” you snicker, still smiling. “You did it, tiger.”

“…Oh.” His voice goes small. “Cool.”

He sways again, upside down, clearly realising he’s stuck.

“So,” you tease, stepping closer. “Need help?”

“…Yes,” he admits. “Please.”

You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his mask, and he stills instantly.

The shimmer of the evening light beads along the red fabric, all while his breath is audible now—slow, nervous.

Without a word, you take one more look back, making sure nobody is around. And finally, slowly, you tug the mask just enough for his lips to slip free.

With him confused, and before he can ask what you’re doing, gently, like you've been waiting all this time, you lean in and kiss him.

Brief. Lingering, even as he swings stunned in shock—the words stolen straight out of his mouth when you finally pull back. He tastes like the very same mint you’ve always known, bright and sweet.

A few seconds pass, and the warmth that settles on both your lips still stays despite the frigid breeze, brushing past both your cheeks in the ending autumn. When you look back at him, fingers still caressing his jaw, you can feel the piercing stare of his eyes at you. Like you’ve just hung the stars in the sky yourself.

“…Wow,” he whispers breathlessly, hands reaching flimsily over his lips. “I—I think that was way better than the save.”

You push down the wide grin tugging on your lips, finally helping unweb his ankle, and he drops lightly to the ground. He wastes no time in crowding your space, forehead resting gently against yours.

“Friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man,” he says quietly, smiling into your hair. “At your service.”

“Oh, shut up with that…”

He doesn’t pull away, though, even when you try to push him away. Instead, he simply stays there, breathing you in so deeply like he’s etching to memorise the moment. Finally, you feel yourself smile against the broad warmth of his chest, melting into it.

The entire alley feels suspended, caught between day and night, between the strings that falter now in between the branches and the walls.

When he finally steps back, he offers you a hand.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks, smiling like it’s the most important mission he’s had all day.

And as usual, like any other day, you take it.

Because unlike most superhero stories, this one doesn’t end with sirens or headlines or a city held simply together by webs and hopeless prayers.

It ends here.

In any other quiet alley that smells like damp rain and brick, with a boy slipping out of his red suit, laughing breathlessly, and choosing, again and again, to be gentle.

Another buzz vibrates from your phone, but oddly enough, you don’t feel discomforted by it.

You simply lace your fingers with his, an email notification glowing subtly from your pocket.

Because sometimes, heroism isn’t about saving the whole world. Sometimes, it’s just saving a cat, kissing the person you love when no one’s watching, and choosing kindness.

Even when it’s small. Even when it’s unseen.

Because in a city built on dreams and becoming, sometimes the bravest thing a hero can do is stay.

And for New York’s friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man, Yuji Itadori—who’s already stuffing his suit into his stupid backpack, skipping over to your side like any other college boy—

That choice has always been the most courageous one of all.

CH 1 ⇐ CH 2 ⇒ CH 3 જ⁀➴

CH 3┆new york already knows spider-man. what it doesn’t know is what happens when the opposite arrives. a new kind of red—and he tears and feeds, turning streets into bloody carnage. yuji has always believed strength means protecting others. he believes that's nothing but a joke. only one of them gets to be right.

a/n: if youre a comic nerd you'll have clocked the venom reference from the first paragraph :DD