The full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door has been catching you in fragments all evening—an elbow here, a hip there, the gold clasp of the snake cuff Irya wrestled onto your upper arm twenty minutes ago—but you haven't committed to the full picture yet.

Irya's got her phone propped on the counter, a YouTube tutorial frozen on a girl with a $400 highlight palette doing something architectural to her cheekbones.

She's been flitting between you and the screen for the last half hour, dabbing gold shimmer along your collarbones with a fan brush and narrating the process like a nature documentary. 

"Okay, hold still."

She tilts your chin up. Dusts something across the bridge of your nose. Steps back. Studies you like you’re some sort of painting in a museum.

"God, you're annoying."

"What?"

"Your bone structure. It's annoying. Like, medically." She waves the brush at your face. "Some of us have to contour for the aesthetic. You just—look pretty. Sitting there. Rent-free."

"Irya."

"I'm stating facts. Hold still."

More powder. A final sweep. Then she clicks the compact shut with satisfaction and drops it into the mess of products crowding the marble counter—lipstick tubes rolling into setting spray cans, a palette balanced on the edge of the sink, bobby pins scattered everywhere.

"Okay. Collarbone shimmer's done, base is set, lips need one more layer but that's after this coat sets."

She's already gathering her things—the curling iron she brought for Yeji's wig, three different hair clips, a ziplock bag of bobby pins that looks like it weighs a pound.

"I gotta go wrestle Yeji into her corset before she decides leather is 'too conformist' and shows up in a trash bag."

"She would absolutely show up in a trash bag."

"She has shown up in a trash bag. Sophomore year. She called it 'deconstructed capitalism.'"

Irya pauses at the door, arms full, and gives you a once-over.

Whatever she sees makes her smile—soft, private, the kind she saves for when she actually means it.

"You look really good. Like, crazy good. Jason's going to lose his entire mind."

The door clicks shut behind her and the bathroom goes quiet.

Just you and the mirror.

You finally turn to face it.

The skirt is—okay. It's not obscene. It's a draped Grecian thing, dark green, slit high on the left thigh, with a gold chain belt sitting low on your hips.

The top is a structured corset-style piece that Yeji found at some vintage shop in Bushwick and mailed to you with a note that just said ’WEAR THIS OR PERISH.’

You don’t want to perish.

It's tight. Tighter than you usually go.

You can see the dip of your waist and the press of your ribs when you breathe, and where your chest looks—well.

Present. Accounted for. Very much there.

The snake cuff wraps your left bicep. Gold snake earrings hang from your lobes, and Irya threaded smaller gold chains through your hair so they catch the light when you move.

You look like something out of a Caravaggio painting, if Caravaggio had access to Amazon Prime and a $30 costume budget.

You look good.

You think you look good?

You tug the skirt down half an inch, which accomplishes absolutely nothing because the fabric just slides back up.

The slit gapes. Your thigh is right there.

This is—it's a lot of skin.

More skin than you usually show when there are people around who aren't contractually obligated to find you attractive.

More skin than you showed at Pulse that night, and look how that turned out.

Don't think about Pulse.

You're adjusting the chain belt when the bathroom door swings open and Jimin appears in the frame, already half in costume—white button-down untucked over black slacks, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smear of fake blood on his collar that he hasn't blended yet.

He stops when he sees you. Actually stops. Feet planted, lips parting, the whole thing.

"Oh my god."

"Don't."

"Oh my god."

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and his face does something complicated and openly delighted.

"You look—girl. Seriously. That's so—the snakes in your hair? And the—is that a cuff?"

He reaches for your arm, turning it gently so the light catches the gold coils.

"This is incredible. Yeji picked this out, didn't she."

"She threatened my life if I didn't wear it."

"Correct response."

He lets go of your arm. Leans against the counter with his hip, crossing his ankles, and it strikes you again how Jimin occupies space—gently, without demand.

Even now, in a bathroom that isn't his, he's somehow not intruding.

"Medusa?"

"Medusa."

"The original 'I'll ruin your life if you look at me wrong.'"

"That's—yeah, actually. That's exactly what I was going for."

Jimin tilts his head, studying you the way he studies texts in the library—attentive, as if reading between lines you didn't know were there.

Then his gaze snags on your eyes and he frowns. Not a bad frown. An assessing one.

"Did Irya do your liner?"

"She was going to but she had to go deal with Yeji's corset situation."

"So you haven't done it yet."

"I was going to wing it." Beat. "No pun intended."

He's already scanning the counter, fingers drifting over the scattered products with the same familiarity you saw before Emma’s birthday party.

He picks up the liquid liner pen, uncaps it, checks the tip. Caps it again. Picks up a different one—the felt tip, the good one, Irya's—and holds it up.

"Can I?"

The question is so casual and so careful at the same time that it takes you a second.

"Please save me."

He chuckles, pulling a hand towel off the rack and drapes it over his shoulder—the move of someone who's done this enough to know about smudging.

"Close your eyes."

You close your eyes.

His fingers are feather-light on your jaw, tilting your face toward the overhead light.

The first stroke of the liner is precise—no wobble, no hesitation. A clean pull from the inner corner outward, measured and smooth, and you feel the little flick at the end that means he's going for a wing without even asking your preference.

Bold choice. Correct choice, but still.

"You're good at this," you say, eyes still closed.

"Yeah."

A pause, careful, like he's deciding how much to give.

The liner moves to the other eye. Another clean stroke.

"My sisters used to practice on me. Back in middle school. I was the—you know. The patient one. Sat still."

"That tracks."

"And then I just..." He trails off. You feel him angle the pen for the wing. "Kept doing it. On my own. Thought it was fun."

Another pause, and something shifts in his voice—gets quieter. Not ashamed, but conscious. Aware of the shape of what he's saying.

"…Nails too. I like nails. I'm good with color."

You think about the neon pink nail you grabbed in the car.

How fast he snatched his hand back.

The embarrassment that flickered across his face before he buried it under.

"The pink nail," you say softly. Eyes still closed.

He doesn't answer for a second. The liner pauses on your lid.

"Yeah." He resumes. Finishes the wing.

"It looked good," you tell him. "Really good. The color was perfect on you."

The liner lifts.

You open your eyes.

Jimin’s face is close—inches away—and he's looking at you with an expression that's hard to name. Grateful, maybe. Or something simpler than that.

Just seen.

"You think so?"

"I know so. You've got the hands for it."

You gesture at them—the slim fingers, the clean nail beds, the careful way he holds the pen like it's calligraphy and not drugstore liquid liner.

He looks down at his own hands. Turns them over slowly, like he's seeing them through your description instead of his own.

"My dad used to call them piano hands." A small exhale that's not quite a laugh. "Which was his way of saying they weren't—you know. Right. For a boy."

The liner pen rests between his index and middle fingers. He rolls it once. Twice.

"I don't talk to him anymore. Either of them, actually. My mom—she just kind of... agreed with whatever he said? So." A shrug that tries very hard to be casual and lands somewhere south of it. "My sisters, though. They're good. They get it. They got me the nail kit for my birthday last year. The real one, with the UV lamp and everything."

He says ’they get it’ like it's a complete sentence. Like there's a whole second half he trimmed off before it could reach the air.

You don't push. You know what trimmed sentences sound like—you've been editing your own since you were fifteen, snipping the parts that felt too raw to survive outside your own head.

"That's a good birthday present," you say instead.

"Best one I've gotten."

The bathroom is quiet for a second and Jimin looks at the liner pen in his hands like it contains some answer to a question he hasn't asked yet.

Then he asks it.

"Can I ask you something?"

He's chewing the inside of his cheek. There's a crease between his brows that wasn't there thirty seconds ago, and his thumb is rubbing the cap of the liner in small circles like a worry stone.

"Yeah. Of course."

"How did you know..."

He starts, stops.

Starts again. "How do you know—"

Another stop.

His jaw works around something that doesn't want to become language.

"That you're... what you're supposed to be?"

You almost deflect. Almost hit him with something sarcastic, something light—’I'm supposed to be a lot drunker right now’—because that's what you do when conversations tilt toward something more serious.

But Jimin's face is doing the thing. The still thing. Like he's bracing.

So you don't deflect.

"I don't."

He blinks.

"I don't know," you repeat, and it comes out quieter than you intended. More honest. "I have—literally no idea. About any of it. What I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to want, who I'm supposed to be doing it with—"

You catch yourself gesturing vaguely at the entirety of existence and drop your hand.

"My parents had this whole... blueprint. For me. For who I was. What I'd study, who I'd date, where I'd live, what kind of person I'd grow up into. And for a long time I just—followed it? Because it was easier than figuring out my own answers when I didn't even know what the questions were."

The marble counter is cold against your lower back. You lean into it. Let it ground you.

"And then I stopped following it, and it was like—okay, cool, now I have no map and no compass and I'm just... going. Everywhere. At once. Trying everything, saying yes to things I should say no to, saying no to things I probably should yes to, dating people who are categorically wrong for me, picking fights with my roommates, making choices that would give my mother a stroke—"

Jimin's mouth twitches.

"—and like, ninety percent of those choices blow up in my face. Genuinely. I'm not being self-deprecating, I am statistically terrible at decisions. I fall on my face so often I should just live down there. Set up a little apartment on the floor. Decorate."

A breath.

"But it's mine. The falling. Even when it's stupid and it hurts and I'm lying there thinking ’wow, you really did that, you lame ass bitch’—at least I chose it. At least I'm the one who tripped. Nobody pushed me. And that's..."

You search for the word. Can't find it. Settle for the feeling instead.

"That's worth more than never falling because someone else was always holding the railing for you. Even if you're bruised the whole time. Even if you look insane. It's better than being trapped."

And Jimin…

Jimin is watching you. Not with pity, not with that head-tilted therapy look people give you when you accidentally say something too real when there’s not enough alcohol in your system.

He's watching you like you just read aloud from a page he's been staring at for months, and some of the sentences matched.

Not all of them. But some.

"The falling is yours," he repeats softly.

"The falling is mine. The bruises are mine. The spectacular bad decisions are mine." You shrug. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be. I just know what I'm not. And I figure... I'll get there. Eventually. By process of elimination, if nothing else."

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Process of elimination," he murmurs. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—"

He doesn't finish. Just nods, slow, his jaw softening from whatever clench it had been holding.

And his eyes are bright in a way that might be the overhead lighting or might be something less explainable.

"What if you try everything and none of it fits?" he asks, and the question is so small.

Smaller than him, smaller than the bathroom, smaller than the bulb above you.

"What if there isn't a—a word for it? For what you are? What if you keep looking and nothing matches and everyone else seems to know exactly where they go and you're just..."

He trails off.

But you know what he means.

So you finish for him.

"Standing in the aisle."

His eyes snap to yours.

"At the store," you say. "Like when there's a wall of options and none of the labels match what you actually came in for, and everyone around you is just grabbing things off the shelf like it's obvious and easy and you're standing there reading the back of every single box thinking ‘why doesn't any of this sound like me.’"

Jimin's throat works. A swallow that takes longer than it should.

"...Yeah." Barely audible. "Exactly like that."

"Then you leave the store."

He frowns.

"You leave the store without buying anything. And that's fine. You don't owe the store a purchase. You don't have to grab something off the shelf just because everyone else did."

You pick up a stray bobby pin from the counter, turning it between your fingers.

"Maybe what you came in for doesn't have a label. Maybe it doesn't need one. Maybe it's just yours and it doesn't fit in a box because it wasn't supposed to."

You're talking about more than you understand.

But you know the aisle.

You've stood in it.

Different section, maybe, but the same fluorescent lighting.

Jimin sets the liner pen down on the counter with a small click. 

"My sisters would like you," he says, which is, you suspect, the highest compliment in his vocabulary.

"I'd like them back."

"They do makeup better than me."

"Impossible. I've seen your work."

That gets him. The corner of his mouth trembles, buckles, and then he's smiling—really smiling, the kind that rewrites his whole face, and the crease between his brows is gone like it was never there.

He glances down at his hands again and this time he doesn't turn them over, doesn't inspect them.

Just lets them be.

"Honestly? Your technique is better than Irya's and she would kill me for saying that, so if you tell her I said it I'll deny everything and also never speak to you again."

The laugh that comes out of him is startled and real—bright, nose-scrunching, his whole face folding up into it.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth like he's trying to contain it but it keeps spilling through his fingers, and the sound is so warm and so Jimin that you're laughing too before you can help it, both of you cracking up in this marble bathroom surrounded by scattered beauty products and fake blood, and it feels—easy.

Uncomplicated.

The kind of friendship that doesn't need a history to feel solid, just a willingness to sit still and be honest for five minutes.

And then you turn and Jason is standing in the doorway.

In costume from the looks of it—dark slacks, a worn corduroy blazer over a white henley with the top button undone, a battered paperback stuffed into the breast pocket like an afterthought that was actually very much thought about. Hair pushed back, slightly disheveled in that way that takes effort to achieve.

Kerouac. Obviously.

His eyes move from you to Jimin, then back.

"Hey."

"Hey!" Jimin straightens, already moving—that fluid, instinctive thing he does where he creates space before anyone asks for it. "I was just—eyeliner. She needed eyeliner. I'm done though."

He shoots you a grin.

"You're welcome for the best wings of your life."

"Thank you, doctor."

He snorts as he passes Jason in the doorway—a quick nod, shoulder turned to slip through—and then he's gone.

You turn back to the mirror. Check the work.

The wings are, annoyingly, perfect. Bold, symmetrical, the exact angle you'd have chosen if your hands were a surgeon's and not, historically, the hands of someone who once tried to do her own eyeliner on the subway and ended up looking like someone had done your makeup during an earthquake for an entire Thursday.

You make a mental note to bribe Jimin into doing this at every future event forever.

Jason's reflection appears behind yours.

"Hi," you say to his reflection.

"Hi." He pushes off the frame. Moves closer—close enough that his voice drops without dropping, just gets quieter as a function of proximity. "You look—"

He stops. Reassesses, the way he does when his first draft isn't good enough.

"I was going to say it's a shame about Virginia Woolf."

You raise an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "Excuse me."

"Thematically." He picks up the thought carefully, like he's handling glass. "On paper, it would've been— you know. Kerouac and Woolf. The road and the stream of consciousness. There's an argument there."

"There's an English department argument there."

"That's—yes, fair, that's exactly what it is." He has the self-awareness to look mildly embarrassed. "But I want it on record that I was skeptical about Medusa at first."

Something tightens across your shoulders.

"At first," he continues. "And then I—"

He crosses the rest of the distance. His arms come around you from behind—loose, warm, not confining—and his chin finds the curve of your shoulder. Both of you looking at the same mirror.

"You're really pulling it off," he says, quiet. "I mean it. The whole thing. The snakes, the liner, the—"

He exhales.

"You look... Wow."

"Wow is not an adjective."

"Wow is absolutely an adjective when you look like that."

He turns you gently by the waist until you're facing him instead of the mirror. Studies you—the snakes, the gold, the liner, the bare shoulders.

"Give me a spin?"

"A spin?"

"A twirl. I want the full three-sixty."

You groan but you do it—skirt flaring with the movement so the slit opens and the chain belt catches the light and for one stupid second you feel like a kid at prom.

Self-conscious and a little ridiculous and hoping someone thinks you're pretty.

When you come back around, Jason's face confirms it.

He thinks you're pretty.

"The skirt's too short," you hear yourself say.

Because of course you do. Because you can't just take the compliment and let it sit there, can you.

Can't just let someone look at you like that without immediately offering them a reason not to.

"It's not too short."

"Jason. My entire thigh is out. Like—the whole thing. If I bend over, people are going to see my—"

"It's not too short." Firmer this time. "You look incredible. You look like you could turn every guy at that party to stone and not even feel bad about it."

A pause. Small smile.

"Which, given the costume, is kind of the point."

He spins you so you’re facing the mirror again, and he presses his lips to your shoulder. Stays there a beat.

Your eyes stay on the sink.

On the marble. The scattered bobby pins. The cap of Irya's liner.

Small things. Ground-level things.

He says your name.

Not babe, not Medusa, not anything playful. Just your name, and the way he says it has weight behind it—the careful weight of something he's been holding for a while and has finally decided to set down.

"I want to talk about something."

His reflection's looking at yours. Waiting.

You watch the small, private smile form at the corners of his mouth—patient, warm, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.

And you're quiet for long enough that it becomes a statement.

Long enough that the word skeptical is still sitting in your sternum, lodged there, growing a little larger the way an inconvenient word does when you don't deal with it immediately.

Why did he need to include that.

Skeptical. Like it required convincing. Like Medusa was something he had to come around to, some compromise he generously decided to accept.

"Why skeptical?" you hear yourself say.

He blinks. Loosens slightly around you. "Sorry?"

"About Medusa." You keep your voice even. Even is good. Even is controlled. "You said you were skeptical. Why?"

"I just meant—costume-wise, it can be hard to—"

"It's a smart costume." The thread tightens. Just a little. "She's not a monster because she was one. She's a monster because someone decided her pain was inconvenient and turned it into a story about a pretty face that kills things. And then everyone dresses up as Perseus, the hero, like he didn't just—"

"I didn't mean it like—" He breathes out. Careful. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you cared that much."

The knot pulling at your throat goes tighter.

"It's not that I care that much, Jason," you say, forcing the anger to recede, picking words carefully.

Because you only get to say this once before it becomes A Thing, and you don't want it to become A Thing, you just want it to be true

"I just." A breath. "I didn't want to be Virginia Woolf. I know that's what we talked about and I know the pairing would've been cohesive and you would've looked great and everyone would've gotten it immediately. But Virginia Woolf is—she's yours. She fits your costume. And I would've just been the matching piece."

Your eyes finally lift to your own reflection.

To the snakes and the liner and the chain belt sitting low on your hips.

"I didn't want to dilute myself just to be a good mold to your costume."

Silence.

Jason's chest doesn't move for a second behind you.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Then again.

You glance down automatically—reflex that makes you check your phone when you're mid-conversation even though you know it's rude and you hate that about yourself.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 7 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜

Seven closets. He’s opened seven closets in a house that isn’t his, looking for towels, and his first instinct is to text you about it.

Can he be more bored. Seriously.

You type back before the thought finishes forming.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚒𝚡 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜

You almost send ’dogs don't have hooves that's literally the whole point’ but Jason's still standing behind you and you're being—rude.

You lock the phone. Set it face-down on the counter.

When you look up, Jason's eyes are on your wrist.

The bracelet.

It lasts maybe two seconds. Maybe less.

"Sorry," you say, turning to face him fully. "You were saying something?"

Jason blinks. The furrow between his brows flattens.

Whatever sentence he'd been running through internal quality control, whatever thought he'd carried into this bathroom with that careful look on his face, it folds itself up and slides neatly behind his smile.

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "It can wait. Should we head down?"

"Yeah."

You grab the lipstick Irya left—the dark berry one, last layer—and swipe it on without checking the mirror.

"Yeah, let's go before Yeji starts a revolution without us."

He holds out his hand.

You take it. His fingers are dry and warm and they close around yours as the tiny rain charm digs gently into the web of his thumb.

Jason doesn't mention it.

The party is louder than it has any right to be for a house that still has doilies on the armrests.

Tessa's grandparents' living room has been transformed into something between a haunted speakeasy and a Brooklyn warehouse rave, which shouldn't work but somehow does—string lights swapped for orange and purple, candles in jack-o-lanterns lining the mantle, a fog machine somebody smuggled in chugging away in the corner near the fireplace and making everything look like a cologne commercial directed by Tim Burton.

The furniture's been pushed to the walls to make a dance floor that nobody's really using yet because it's that stage of the night—too early to dance, too late to pretend you're not drinking.

You're three sips into something Hobi made that tastes like liquid Jolly Rancher and almost certainly has enough vodka to dissolve tooth enamel, and you're doing that thing where you stand near enough to a group to appear social without actually having to contribute to conversation.

It's an art form, really. You've perfected it.

Jason, on the other hand, doesn't need to fake it.

He's across the room with a cluster of Tessa's film friends—Dylan the Nolan disciple, a girl dressed as Mia Wallace who's been twirling her wig all night, and two guys whose names you immediately forgot because they introduced themselves at the same time and your brain just filed them both under ’beard.’

Jason's laughing at something one of them said, drink in hand, posture open, doing that thing where he touches people's arms when he talks.

Not in a sleazy way.

It’s rather a ‘I'm genuinely interested in what you're saying and I want you to know that’ way.

He's good at this. Effortlessly, irritatingly good.

Someone asks about his research and he gives an answer that's smart without being condescending, funny without trying too hard, and brief enough that it invites a follow-up instead of shutting the conversation down.

This is what a functional adult in a social setting looks like.

This is what it looks like when someone doesn't treat every group interaction like a hostage negotiation.

You should take notes.

He catches your eye from across the room and winks.

You know him enough to understand that’s his way of saying ‘I see you standing there alone and I think you're beautiful and I'll come rescue you in a minute.’

You half-smile back and take another sip of Hobi's chemical weapon.

The middle couch is where you end up twenty minutes later, wedged between Jason and the arm rest, his hand resting on your knee over the drape of your skirt. Hobi's holding court from the floor, cross-legged, telling a story about a Broadway choreographer who threw a shoe at him during tech rehearsal.

"—and I'm standing there, holding the pose, and this man—this grown, adult, Tony-nominated man—just hurls a Capezio at my head—"

"Did it hit you?" Mia Wallace asks, riveted.

"It hit the mirror. Behind me. Seven years bad luck. Which, honestly, explains my entire 2022."

Laughter ripples around the group.

You're smiling too—Hobi's delivery is genuinely good, theatrical in a way that knows it's theatrical, which is the difference between annoying and magnetic.

And that's when you notice it.

Across the room. The other couch. The smaller one, the loveseat tucked into the alcove by the bookshelf where the lighting is dimmer because the nearest jack-o-lantern burned out an hour ago and nobody replaced it.

Yoongi's sitting there.

Which isn't unusual—Yoongi gravitates toward the darkest, quietest corner of any room like it's a biological imperative.

What is unusual is that he's sitting there with Jimin, and they're not just near each other, they're—close.

Jimin's angled toward him, one leg tucked underneath him on the cushion, and his knee is touching Yoongi's thigh. Just resting there. Casual. Like it landed and neither of them bothered to move it.

Yoongi's talking.

Yoongi is talking.

Not in his usual three-word-maximum, energy-conservation style. He's actually saying something—mouth moving, gestures happening, and whatever it is has Jimin leaning in closer with that soft focus he gets, the one where his whole face goes quiet and attentive like everything else in the room has been muted.

Yoongi says something and Jimin laughs—not loud, not the bright startled one from the bathroom earlier. A different one. Low and warm and aimed downward, like he's trying to keep it between them. His hand comes up and lands on Yoongi's knee, a brief pressure, and stays there for a beat too long to be nothing before lifting.

Yoongi doesn't react.

Which, if you know Yoongi—and you're starting to—is itself a reaction.

Because Yoongi reacts to being touched the way most people react to being handed a live fish.

He flinches. He shifts. He creates distance with the efficiency of someone who's been practicing it for years.

He doesn't flinch.

He keeps talking.

Huh.

"—and then he sent me an edible arrangement the next day," Hobi finishes, throwing his hands up. "With a card. 'Sorry about the shoe. You were flat on the eight-count.' I was not flat on the eight-count—"

"You were a little flat," Yoongi calls from the alcove without looking up.

Hobi gasps with his entire torso. "Min Yoongi. From the peanut gallery."

"You’ve told me this story already, and you ended up admitting you were flat."

"I was expressive."

"You were a half-beat behind and your hip alignment was off. You literally told me."

Jimin bites his lip. Tries not to smile. Fails.

The conversation then drifts—costumes, classes, someone's roommate horror story that makes your living situation look downright idyllic—and at some point Dylan brings up a film festival submission deadline that loops in half the room.

Jason's arm stretches along the back of the couch behind you, not quite around your shoulders but present, and you settle into the warmth of it without thinking.

"What about you?" Dylan points his beer at you. Scooby-Doo villain energy, this guy, at all times. "You're an English major, right? You got any thoughts on adaptation? Like, book-to-film—when does it work, when does it fall apart?"

You open your mouth.

"Oh, she's big on fidelity to source material," Jason says, squeezing your knee.

He turns to Dylan with that easy, confident delivery—the one that works so well in seminar rooms and networking events and everywhere else where knowing the answer before you're asked is an asset.

"She thinks most adaptations fail because directors prioritize their own vision over the author's intent. Right, babe?"

Babe.

The word lands weird. Not bad, just—new. He's never called you that in front of people before.

But also—

"That's not exactly—"

"No, I get it," Dylan says, nodding like Jason just delivered a TED Talk. "The auteur problem. The director overwrites the text."

"I mean, it's more complicated than that." You shift forward slightly, Jason's hand sliding to your lower back with the movement. "Fidelity isn't really the point. A slavishly faithful adaptation can still be a bad movie. It's more about—understanding what the source is actually doing. What it's exploring emotionally, structurally. And then finding the cinematic equivalent of that. Not copying the plot. Translating the experience."

You pause. Feel the room's attention, which you didn't ask for and don't love.

"Like, ’No Country for Old Men’ isn't great because it followed the McCarthy novel beat for beat. It's great because the Coens understood what the book felt like—that dread, that silence, the sense that violence is arbitrary and meaningless—and they found a way to put that feeling on screen. The adaptation is faithful to the mood, not the manuscript."

Silence. Dylan blinks.

"Shit. Yeah, okay, that's actually—yeah."

Jason's thumb strokes your back. "That's what I meant," he says lightly.

It wasn't.

It wasn't what he meant, because what he said was fidelity to source material and what you said was the opposite of that, and the difference matters—it matters to you, at least, in the way that precision always matters to someone who chose a career built on the exact right word in the exact right place.

But nobody else caught the discrepancy, and Jason's already nodding like your answer was a more eloquent extension of his, and correcting him further would make you look petty, would make you look like the girl who can't let things go, and so you—

Let it go.

Sip your drink. Lean back. Feel his hand warm and steady on your spine.

It's fine.

He was trying to include you. Trying to make you look good.

It came from a kind place, even if it landed in a wrong one, and you're being—you're being oversensitive. 

You know this.

You're premenstrual and overcaffeinated and you've been on edge since the shower and the orange and the pool and the towel texts and the bracelet pressing into Jason's thumb, and you're looking for reasons to be irritated because irritation is easier than whatever the alternative is.

So you let it go. Take a deep breath.

Jason kisses your temple.

"You're the smartest person in this room," he murmurs against your hair.

Then he should let you finish your own sentences.

The thought surfaces fast and mean and you drown it in Jolly Rancher vodka before it can take root.

Jason's hand slides to your waist, and you let yourself be pulled into the shape of him—shoulder against chest, hip against hip, the cedar warmth of his cologne settling over you like a second layer of clothing.

And it's—good.

It's warm and solid and the room's too loud and your cramps are creeping back and there's something genuinely, uncomplicated nice about being held by someone who runs warm when you run cold.

He laughs at something Hobi says and the vibration travels through his ribcage into your spine, and you let your eyes close for half a second. Just long enough to take inventory.

Safe.

That's the word. Not fireworks, not a defibrillator to the chest, just—safe.

Predictable in the way that the good things are supposed to be predictable, like sunrise, like your coffee order, like gravity.

Nothing's going to lurch sideways. Nobody's pulling a rug.

You can work with safe.

You open your eyes. Do the room scan—automatic, compulsive, the background app your brain refuses to close.

Hobi on the floor mid-anecdote. Dylan nodding too hard. Taehyung gesturing with a full drink, which means somebody's getting baptized in vodka before the hour's up. Yoongi and Jimin still in the alcove.

No Yeji.

You frown. Scan again. No Irya either, but Irya follows Yeji the way weather follows the jet stream, so locating one solves both.

"Hey." You tilt your head back against Jason's shoulder. "Have you seen Yeji?"

"The one with the—"

"Combat boots. Permanent scowl. Weaponized eyeliner."

He scans. Shakes his head. "Not since she came downstairs. Maybe outside?"

You should find her.

A Yeji without a check-in is a Yeji who's either having the best night of her life or about to commit a felony, and the probability split on that is genuinely fifty-fifty.

"I'm gonna go look." You peel yourself from his side, which requires actual effort because he doesn't let go immediately—fingers pressing into your hip for one more beat, a gentle parenthesis, before releasing.

"Want company?"

"No, stay. I'll be quick."

He catches your hand. Brings it to his mouth. Presses his lips to your knuckles like he's in a Brontë novel and not a fog-machine-haunted living room in Greenwich Village.

"Hurry back, Medusa."

Okay. Charming. Fully charming. No notes.

You weave through the living room, sidestep the fog machine's overzealous output and a Joker whose purple coattails are a legitimate trip hazard, and check the kitchen (empty except for two people arguing about whether Aperol Spritz counts as a cocktail), the back porch (smokers, no Yeji), and the bathroom (locked, muffled giggling, not touching that).

Which leaves upstairs.

The staircase swallows the party noise in increments—each step trades bass for silence until you're on the second-floor landing and the music's just a pulse in the floorboards.

The lighting situation up here is borderline criminal: one wall sconce, two guttering electric candles, and the fog machine's runoff creeping along the baseboard like something from a Hammer horror film.

And when you turn, suddenly, you see Ghostface.

Tall. Dark robe. Hood up. That white mask with its long, warped scream tilted toward you in the dim corridor, standing in the doorway of the study like the house generated him. Hands loose at his sides. Still as furniture.

Your pulse bumps. Once. Involuntary.

You know it's him.

The bump is because of the mask.

Because your body has a whole filing system for the mask thing that operates independently of your prefrontal cortex, and the file is labeled with a conversation you should never have had on a warehouse with Mr. Stupid over here.

Mr. Stupid who’s currently standing in a dark hallway wearing the exact thing you told him about.

The mask tilts. Slow. That measured Ghostface head-cock, curious and considering, and the precision of it tells you he's been waiting for someone to walk by.

Probably specifically you.

Probably for longer than is psychologically normal.

"What took you so long?" you say, crossing your arms. "I expected this ambush like twenty minutes ago."

A beat. The mask stares.

"Couldn't find a dark enough hallway?" You gesture at the sconce behind him. "This one's actually pretty well-lit, Ro. By your standards."

His hand comes up. Pushes the mask over his forehead.

Flushed. Sweaty at the hairline. Hair wrecked from the hood—pushed back and falling forward simultaneously, a physics anomaly that should look stupid and does not. Dark eyes already mid-laugh before his mouth catches up.

"I've been up here for twelve minutes," he says, and he sounds genuinely aggrieved about it. "Tae walked by and didn't even flinch. Hobi waved."

"Devastating. Truly. Your career in psychological terror is off to a flying start."

"I had a whole routine planned. The slow walk. The head tilt. The hand trailing along the wall."

"And you wasted it on an empty hallway."

"I wasted it on Taehyung, who asked me if I'd seen the bathroom." He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across the black robe. "I blame the mask. Hard to hide my recognizable handsomeness behind it."

"Wouldn't have thought that'd be the hard part." You make a show of looking him up and down—the robe, the boots, the whole ensemble. "Given your ego, I mean. That one’s impossible to hide."

"Funny." He's grinning now. "That's funny, Nix. You're funny."

"I know."

"I do have a bigger thing that needed hiding, for the record, but the robe's actually pretty accommodating—"

"Oh, god—"

"—surprisingly roomy in the front, good ventilation—"

"That is the weakest thing you've ever said to me and you once called coffee a 'warrior's drink' with a straight face."

"Coffee is a warrior's drink. That's objective." He points at you. "You're a tea person. Your opinion on this is constitutionally invalid."

"My opinion on your dick joke is constitutionally invalid because I drink tea?"

"See, you said dick joke, which means you understood the reference, which means it wasn't weak, so I kinda win."

You press your lips together. Hard.

Because the laugh trying to escape is not going to make it out.

It's not.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of landing a joke that was, at best, a C-minus on the execution scale, even if the delivery had that specific deadpan energy he does where his face stays almost serious and only his eyes give it away—bright, pleased, watching you fight yourself.

He sees it. Obviously he sees it.

"You're holding it in."

"I'm not holding anything in."

"Your jaw is doing the thing."

"I don't have a thing—"

"The thing where you bite the inside of your cheek because you'd rather die than let me see you laugh. That thing. It's happening right now."

You make a sound that is categorically not a laugh. It's a scoff. An exhale. A brief, involuntary release of air that happens to travel through your nose in a way that sounds adjacent to amusement but is, in fact, disdain.

His grin widens. "Knew it."

"Shut up."

"Never."

You roll your eyes—full rotation, the kind that strains the actual muscle—and you're about to turn and walk away, leave him to his empty hallway and his failed Ghostface career, when you notice him putting the mask back on.

It’s crooked in an angle that's making him look less ‘iconic horror villain’ and more ‘drunk frat guy who forgot which way the visor goes.’

The elastic strap is caught on his ear in a way that probably itches but he hasn't fixed because he's too busy being pleased with himself to notice he looks ridiculous.

You step forward.

Close the distance before the thought fully forms—two steps, maybe three, until you're right there, in front of him.

Your fingers find the edge of the mask. Adjust the strap where it's snagged on the cartilage of his ear—gentle, careful, a small correction that takes maybe four seconds and requires you to be close.

"There." Your voice comes out quieter than you planned. "You were crooked."

He hasn't moved. That's the thing. He hasn't moved at all. Hasn't leaned back, hasn't turned his head, hasn't done any of the things a normal human does when someone gets into their space uninvited.

He's just—still. Looking down at you with an expression that's lost the grin but kept the heat behind it.

"You got awfully close for that, Nix," said in that shit-eating smug tone of his. "That necessary?"

You drop your hand. Step back.

Smack stupid his shoulder—firm, open-palmed, the kind of hit that's more punctuation than violence.

"Don't be weird about it."

"I'm not being weird. You're being weird. You came to me."

"Your mask was crooked. I fixed it. That's called being a decent person."

"That's called finding an excuse to touch me."

"I will end your life."

"Promises, promises."

He pushes off the doorframe, unfolding himself to full height, and his gaze drops.

Not to your face. Lower. To the slit of the skirt, the length of your thigh, the gold chain belt sitting low on your hips.

He takes his time about it—not leering, not predatory, but thorough in a way that makes your skin heat.

The grin returns, but different. Sharper at the edges.

Knowing.

"That's a lotta leg for a house party, Phee."

And normally—normally—you'd volley this back.

But.

Something about the fact that you already had this exact anxiety in the bathroom mirror an hour ago and Jason's reassurance helped but didn't fix it…

"I know," you hear yourself say. Quieter than you meant to. "It's—a bit short, right?"

His grin flattens. Something else takes its place—attention. The sudden, focused kind, like a lens snapping into resolution.

He looks at you. Really looks, in a way that's different from the look three seconds ago.

"Hold on." His voice drops the tease entirely, levels out to something almost gentle. "Seriously?"

"It's fine. It's not—"

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Hand. Give it."

You give it. Automatic.

His fingers close around yours—warm, dry, the silver ring cool against your knuckle—and he lifts your arm, stepping back to create space between you.

"Turn."

"I'm not—"

"Nix. Spin."

You spin. Slowly, because the hallway's narrow and because his hand is guiding you at a pace that's measured—not the playful twirl Jason asked for downstairs.

This feels… different.

He's looking at the hemline, the fall of the fabric, the way the slit moves when you turn. Checking where it hits, how high it rides, what shows and what doesn't.

You come back around. He's still holding your hand.

"You're safe."

"You're—"

"It's short. But it's short in a completely accurate way." He says this with the conviction of someone delivering a professional opinion. "The slit opens when you walk but it falls back. Nothing's showing that you don't want showing. The chain keeps the drape in place. And the corset balances out the leg—it reads intentional, not accidental."

You blink.

He notices your reaction—or lack of one—and he shrugs.

"I'm a film major. I know how costumes read on camera. And in person."

A beat.

"You look good. Don't fuck with it."

Something in your chest loosens. Not all the way. But enough.

"Since when do you know anything about women's hemlines?"

"Since I spent three semesters studying costume design as visual narrative." He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. "Also, I have eyes, Nix."

"Debatable."

"Fully functional, twenty-twenty, and currently appreciating the commitment to the Medusa bit."

He nods toward your hair—the gold chains threaded through it, the snake earrings.

"The detail work's good. Yeji?"

"Yeji and Irya."

"Figures."

His gaze lingers on the snake cuff wrapped around your bicep. Then moves to the corset. Then—for a beat too long—to your face. The eyeliner Jimin did. The dark berry lip.

He's quiet for a second.

"It's a very interesting costume," he says finally. Slow. Choosing each word like he's placing stones across a river. "Especially the part where Medusa’s whole power is that men can't stop looking at her."

His eyes don't leave yours.

"Even though they know it'll destroy them."

The hallway shrinks.

"Even though they've been warned."

Don't react. Do not react.

"That's—" You swallow. "That's not really the feminist reading of the myth."

"Wasn't going for feminist."

His grin comes back. Slow. One side first, then the other, like it's uncurling.

Something behind your ribcage does a thing you refuse to name.

It has syllables. It has a shape. It sits in the space between your lungs like a word you swallowed before it made it to your mouth and now it's just lodged there, taking up room, refusing to dissolve.

He pushes off the wall. Steps forward—directly toward you, directly through the space you're occupying, because Jungkook doesn't take the available path when the unavailable one runs through you.

And the smell. That smell. Cutting through the fog machine haze and the lingering cedar of Jason's cologne that's still on your skin from being held—

Rain.

Clean, specific, impossible rain, the kind that doesn't come from a bottle, it only exists as him—and it hits your bloodstream like a door opening in a room you thought was sealed.

He's past you. Three steps. Five.

And right before he rounds the corner, just before the dark and the fog fold over him completely—

"Was going for accurate."

By the time you make it back downstairs, the house has gone feral.

There’s a guy in a Roman centurion costume doing a body shot off somebody dressed like a Playboy bunny near the dining table, beer pong has taken over one whole corner of the living room, and Hobi is standing on the hearth in a white tank top with fake chest hair yelling rules at people like he’s the glitter-coated cruise director of hell.

Everything is louder than before. It feels like the whole place tipped over while you were upstairs and just kept rolling.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little fuzzy too. Pleasantly blurred around the edges.

Three—no, four—of Hobi’s homicidal Jolly Rancher concoctions sitting warm in your bloodstream, enough that the staircase feels a little softer under your feet and everyone’s costumes look half a shade more ridiculous than they did an hour ago.

Ridiculous includes Yeji and Irya, who choose that exact moment to stumble in through the open french doors from the courtyard looking like the world’s hottest antique disaster.

You stop dead.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

They both look up. Freeze. Exchange one of those guilty little glances that immediately answers the question before either of them opens their mouth.

Yeji’s in a black frock coat, lace at the throat, sole sort of corset (so Irya managed to get it on her after all), dark hair slicked back, mouth stained a theatrical wine-red that has definitely migrated past the lip line because Irya was probably the one applying it and then got distracted by being horny in a courtyard.

Irya, meanwhile, is all pale silk and velvet and luminous blonde curls, fake blood at the corner of her mouth, eyes glassy with delight.

Louis and Lestat. Obviously.

Of course they would pick the sluttiest possible interpretation of Interview with the Vampire and then look smug about it.

“Where the fuck were you?” you ask, intercepting them before they can drift past. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

“Shhhh,” Irya says immediately, pressing a finger to her lips, then bursting into laughter at her own shushing.

Yeji squints at you with exaggerated concentration. “Why are you so loud.”

“Oh my god. You two are high.”

Another shared glance. Another collapse into giggles.

“Jesus,” you say, because wow. “You are actually high.”

“Dylan made brownies,” Irya says.

Yeji hums. “They’re in the kitchen, by the way. Left side of the island. On the ugly orange plate.”

“The one shaped like a leaf,” Irya clarifies helpfully.

“You left me alone with film bros and Jason’s terrifying ability to make eye contact with strangers,” you tell them. “As friends, I don’t think that was very feminist of you.”

Yeji pats your shoulder with immense gravity. “As a feminist, I believe in your resilience.”

“As your actual friend,” Irya says, leaning in with a grin too wide to be trusted, “you look insanely hot.”

“Insanely,” Yeji echoes.

Then, because the night enjoys making a mockery of stability, they drift off again toward the living room like two beautifully stoned lesbians returning to sea, and you’re left standing there watching them go.

High. Great. Perfect. Incredible support system.

Still, brownies.

You cut through the crowd, past beer pong and a Frankenstein making out with Cleopatra against the bookshelf, and make your way to the island.

Ugly orange plate. Leaf-shaped.

There it is.

The brownies look offensively normal. Just little square chunks of domestic treachery sitting beside mixers, solo cups, a bowl of limes, and—randomly—a tiny bottle of vanilla extract someone must’ve dragged out while raiding Tessa’s baking supplies for god knows what reason.

You reach for a brownie.

“Boo.”

You jump so hard your hand smacks the counter.

“Oh, fuck you—”

Jungkook’s laugh comes warm and low, right by your ear, and then you realize why your pulse just shot into your throat: he’s got both hands planted on the counter on either side of your hips, boxing you in without actually touching you, leaning down just enough that his voice lands against the shell of your ear instead of in the room where it belongs.

Seriously. Personal space means nothing to him tonight.

You turn around and there he is, too close and very obviously enjoying himself.

Ghostface robe, hood down now. Mask gone, and you don’t even wanna ask where the fuck he left it. Hair a mess. Eyes a little glassy. Mouth curled up at one corner like he cannot believe he got that reaction out of you.

“Seriously now I scared you?” he says. “Phoenix. C’mon.”

“I wasn’t expecting to get ambushed in a kitchen.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“That sounds like you’re insufferable.”

“Only because it works.”

It does. Which is deeply irritating.

He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t seem interested in moving back. Just stays there braced around you, heat pouring off him in lazy waves of whatever weed does to his usual edges.

Softer, maybe. Looser.

Not less cocky, though. If anything, worse.

Because sober Jungkook is already a menace.

Baked Jungkook apparently comes with reduced respect for linear thought and increased interest in hovering.

You open your mouth to tell him exactly that and then notice his focus slipping.

Not far. Just over your shoulder.

His gaze goes past you, unfocused for a second, snagging on something on the counter.

You follow it automatically and—

Vanilla.

The stupid little bottle of extract sitting there with the cap on.

When you look back at him, his eyes are on your mouth.

Not your eyes. Your mouth.

Dilated, dazed a little, like his brain took a scenic detour and he’s still making the trip back. His throat moves when he swallows.

And okay. Great. Great, actually. Because your body, which has never once in its life chosen dignity, immediately clocks the look and reacts accordingly.

You fold your arms just so you have something to do with them. “You stalking the baking supplies now?”

His mouth twitches.

“Maybe.”

“Take a brownie like a normal drug user.”

“Already had one.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Does it?” His gaze flicks down slowly, then back up. “Thought I was being pretty subtle.”

“You’re incapable of subtlety.”

He bites his lip for half a second, trying—and failing—to hide the smile threatening at the edges.

It makes him look modest and filthier at the same time, which really shouldn’t be possible but seems to be one of his more annoying talents.

Your eyes flick, traitorous, to his mouth.

He catches that too. Obviously. Obviously, Jungkook catches it.

His head tips slightly toward the tiny bottle on the counter.

“Dunno,” he says, voice gone a little rough now. “Craving cookies.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Cookie.

Is he serious.

The fucking nerve of this man.

“You’re unbearable when you’re sober,” you tell him. “This is worse.”

“And you’re prettier when you’re pissed off,” he says, immediate and easy, like it isn’t even a line. “So I guess we both came out ahead.”

Your brain does not so much short-circuit as flare out in little blue sparks.

Because there’s no room to recover from that when he says it like that.

Not smooth or rehearsed or remotely thought-out.

Simply dropped between you like he reached into the air and set it down.

You scoff because what else are you supposed to do.

“Did the brownie make you stupid?”

“Made me honest.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For you maybe.”

“For you, actually. You’re the one talking like a horny baker.”

That gets him. His tongue presses briefly into his cheek and the smile he was holding back wins, slow and mean and stupidly gorgeous.

“Yeah?” he says. “And what’re you doing standing here smelling like dessert if not trying to start a problem?”

You hate him.

You hate that you know exactly what he means.

“It’s called soap, Ro.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s called basic hygiene.”

“Mhm,” again, but distracted this time, because his eyes drop to your mouth one more time and linger there long enough that it feels less like a glance and more like a hand.

There’s music thudding ten feet away. People yelling over pong balls and shots and somebody in a devil mask chanting “chug, chug, chug!”

The whole room is one big flashing idiot machine and somehow this little patch of counter feels cut out from it.

Just you, and him, and a brownie and that stupid bottle of vanilla extract sitting ominously.

A series of terrible, terrible life choices queuing politely in the wings.

“What,” you say, because your voice has come out thinner than you’d like and you resent that. “You gonna write me a shopping list now? Flour, eggs, one functioning brain cell?”

He leans in a fraction—not much, but it makes his grin gain a private edge.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I get the cookie.”

You hold his gaze for a beat too long.

Two beats.

Three.

Then you reach behind you, snag a brownie off the ugly leaf plate, and shove it directly into his mouth.

His eyes go wide with genuine surprise before his teeth close reflexively around the edge and your fingers come back dusted with cocoa and crumbs.

"There," you say. "Cookie."

He chews, slowly, looking at you like you just performed a magic trick he's still trying to reverse-engineer.

"'At was a brownie," he says, mouth full, barely intelligible.

"Congratulations. You've been promoted from horny baker to food critic."

He swallows. Licks a crumb off his lower lip. Grins.

"Not the cookie I meant, Nix."

"Yeah, well. That's the cookie you got. Consider it a gift."

"A gift."

"A charitable donation. From me to you. Because you looked hungry and sad."

"I looked hungry and sad."

"Standing in a kitchen at a party with a Ghostface robe and no mask. That's textbook hungry and sad."

He huffs out a laugh—half through his nose, half through his chest—and finally, finally pushes off the counter. Moves back enough that you can breathe without inhaling petrichor, though his warmth lingers in the space he vacated like a stain on the air.

You grab your own brownie. Bite into it. It's dense, fudgy, and hits the chocolate craving your uterus has been screaming about for the last forty-eight hours with the precision of a guided missile.

Also, it is absolutely laced.

You take another bite anyway.

"Real question," you say, chewing, gesturing at the living room behind you where the noise has reached a pitch that suggests property damage. "Why are you lurking in the kitchen? Shouldn't you be out there doing shots with the centurion or whatever?"

He leans his hip against the counter beside you. Arms crossed. Casual. The robe hangs open over a black t-shirt that's doing things to his chest that no cotton-polyester blend should be legally allowed to do.

"Already did." He holds up three fingers. Counts them off. "Tequila, something Hobi poured that I think was Midori, and a Jell-O shot from the Playboy bunny."

"Three shots and a brownie."

"Four shots. There was one earlier that I'm counting separately because Tae dared me to take it without hands."

"Without—how do you take a shot without hands?"

"With difficulty and zero dignity." He mimes something with his head that looks like a chicken drinking water. "The centurion filmed it. It's on like four people's stories."

You snort. Actually snort, which you will deny under oath.

"So you've peaked already. That's what you're saying."

"Peaked, plateaued, entered my reflective era. I'm in the kitchen now. This is where the intellectuals gather."

"The intellectuals and the brownies."

"Same thing after enough THC."

You finish the first brownie. The chocolate is still thick on your tongue and the cramps are a dull throb behind your navel and you already know you're going to eat a second one because your willpower around edibles is roughly equivalent to your willpower around—

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

You grab another brownie. He watches you do it with his eyebrows slightly raised.

"That's your second."

"Astute observation."

"Those are—you know those aren't regular brownies, right?"

"I'm aware."

"Two of those, plus whatever Hobi put in your cup—"

"Is this a lecture? Are you lecturing me right now? In that robe? I know you’re not lecturing me in a robe."

"What’s wrong with my—anyway, I'm just saying. Those hit different than smoking. There's a delay."

"I've had edibles before, Ro."

"When?"

"Sometimes? Like a normal person?"

"Mhm." He looks unconvinced but doesn't push it, which is mature of him.

Almost suspiciously mature.

You bite into the second brownie. Let the chocolate do its work.

A beat passes. The bass thumps from the other room. Somebody shrieks with laughter—high, delighted, the sound of someone having the kind of fun you're supposed to be having instead of eating your horniness in a kitchen with a man dressed like a serial killer.

"Honestly though," you say, quieter now, because the sugar's settling and the question's been sitting there since you found him in the hallway. "You okay? You've been lurking all night. The hallway thing. Now this."

He doesn't answer immediately.

His jaw works around something that isn't food.

"Yeah." A shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine. Parties are just—"

He trails off. Picks at the seam of his robe's sleeve. Rolls it between his thumb and forefinger in a way that looks idle but isn't—you've seen him do this before, back at the apartment, with guitar picks and pen caps and the cuff of whatever hoodie he's wearing.

"Parties are just what?"

He exhales. Quiet. Through his nose.

"Last big party I was at didn't end great."

The sentence comes out flattened. Ironed down to nothing, all the wrinkles pressed out until it's smooth and small and sounds like it costs him exactly zero to say, which means it costs him everything.

You wait.

He doesn't elaborate. Just keeps rolling the seam between his fingers, eyes on the counter, on the leaf-shaped plate, on nothing.

"My birthday, actually." A sound that wants to be a laugh. Doesn't make it. "Twenty-first. Big one, right? Supposed to be this whole—thing."

He gestures vaguely.

The gesture contains a birthday party, a thing that went wrong, and an entire universe of context he's not giving you.

"Wasn't."

Two syllables. That's all he gives it.

You set the half-eaten brownie down.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

You watch movement travel the length of his throat—slow, visible, Adam's apple dipping and rising beneath the mole on the left side of his neck.

His eyes drop to the floor.

He stays there for what feels like a long time. Looking at the tile. At his boots. At the space between his feet where something's sitting that he can't or won't name, and you can see him deciding—frame by frame, like one of his film edits—how much of himself to put in this cut.

His tongue slides across his lower lip. Unconscious.

"Maybe later,” is said to the floor.

Then he lifts his head and the grin is back—thinner, working harder, held up by less scaffolding than usual—but it's there.

"I'll put it on the agenda. Right after 'bully Dylan about aspect ratios' and before 'steal Yoongi’s aux cord.'"

"That's a packed schedule."

"I'm a busy man, Nix."

You want to push. You want to ask. You’re feeling the same exact urge that makes you crack open a book's spine too far.

You don't push.

Because you know what it sounds like when someone says ’maybe later’ and means ’not here, not yet, not with this many people and this much noise and this little distance between the version of me that can talk about it and the version that's standing in a kitchen trying to be funny.’

You know because you speak the same dialect.

"Your agenda should also include finding a better costume," you say instead, mild. "Ghostface without the mask is just a guy in a bath robe."

"Okay, seriously?" His jaw drops in absolute offense. "A guy in a bath robe?"

"A guy at a Marriott. Heading to the continental breakfast."

"Take that back."

"I will not."

"This robe cost forty dollars."

"From the Marriott gift shop?"

"From the warehouse we bought the costumes from, you absolute—"

You take another bite. Smaller this time, savoring it, because this brownie is doing more for your emotional wellbeing than three years of therapy and a Lexapro prescription combined.

Jungkook’s eyes track the movement.

“Give me a bite.”

“Get your own.”

“You’re literally standing in front of the plate.”

“So extend your arm.” You gesture at the counter behind you, where the ugly leaf plate sits with at least four brownies still on it. “They’re right there. Use your limbs. You have two of them.”

“I want that one.”

“This one is mine. I picked it up. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“That’s for property.”

“Brownies are property.”

He makes a grab for it and you yank it back, holding it behind your hip, and he’s doing that thing where he leans into your space instead of going around you because apparently the concept of a detour doesn’t exist in his spatial vocabulary—

And then.

Fast.

He ducks forward and licks a broad stripe right across the top of the brownie. Tongue flat. Maintaining eye contact the entire time like a feral animal marking territory at the dinner table.

“Ew—”

“I licked it.” He pulls back, satisfied, the corner of his mouth shining with chocolate. “So it’s mine.”

You look at the brownie.

You look at him.

His tongue is still slightly out, the tip resting against his lower lip, and he’s waiting. Waiting for you to flinch, to drop it, to concede the territory like any reasonable person would when someone has just deposited their saliva on your dessert.

You hold eye contact.

Bring the brownie to your mouth.

Bite.

Slowly.

Right over the wet streak his tongue left.

Chew. Swallow. Don’t blink.

His throat bobs on a swallow that has nothing to do with food and his teeth catch his bottom lip, pressing down in a way that blanches the skin white for half a second before releasing.

You tilt your head. Innocent. Mild.

“Hm?”

His nostrils flare.

And then his hand—

It happens so fast you don’t process it as a sequence. Just a blur of warm fingers closing around your wrist and then pain—sharp, sudden, startling—his teeth sinking into the hand junction, right below the thumb, hard enough to dent.

“OW—what the f—”

Not a nibble. Not playful. An actual bite, the flat of his front teeth pressing into the soft flesh, jaw clenched for one pulsing second before releasing, and your brain is still buffering—still running the input through quality control—

Did that just happen, did he just BITE you in a KITCHEN at a PARTY—

You shove him. Both hands, flat against his chest, and he staggers—actually staggers, catching himself against the counter with one hand, the robe swinging with the momentum, and he’s laughing. Low, rough, that THC-loosened sound that comes from the depths of his lungs, eyes half-lidded and bright with the specific delight of someone who has zero impulse control and even less remorse.

“You bit me!”

“You started it.”

“I started—by eating a brownie?!”

“By eating it like that.”

He’s still braced on the counter, still grinning, and he looks—

He looks like someone who just acted on a thought he should’ve kept inside his skull and knows it and does not care even slightly.

“Consider us even.”

“We are not even! I’m going to have a bruise—”

You hold up your palm. There’s an actual indentation. A crescent of teeth marks pressed into the fleshy part below your thumb, stinging, very much real.

He glances at it. His grin doesn’t falter. If anything it gets worse.

“Looks good on you.”

Your palm throbs. Your face is hot. Your brain is running seven diagnostics simultaneously and none of them are returning coherent results because what the fuck just happened.

You’re still staring at him—at the chocolate still smudged at the corner of his mouth, at the lazy tilt of his head, at the way he’s looking at you like he’d do it again in a heartbeat and isn’t even pretending otherwise—

And that’s when your gaze drifts.

Jason.

Jason, who is looking at you.

At you.

Standing at the kitchen counter with Jungkook, both of you leaning on the same surface, body angled toward his, chocolate on your fingers and a grin you didn't authorize still fading from your face.

Fuck.

Okay.

Okay, is this—does this look like something?

From over there, with the fog machine and the low lighting and the way you're standing together, does this look like two roommates grabbing brownies, or does this look like what it used to be?

Does Jason know what it used to be?

No. He doesn't. He can't. There's no way, because you have never told him, and Jungkook sure as fuck hasn't told him, and nobody knows so this is fine. This is objectively fine.

It’s just. Two people. At a counter. Eating brownies and being friendly and platonic.

Just two roommates at a party.

Jason tips his glass at you from across the room. Tiny smile. Warm.

You return it. Wave with fingers that are definitely not shaking.

Then you push off the counter.

"I gotta go," you say. Bright. Too bright.

You can hear the overcorrection in your own voice and pray the THC in his system is doing enough damage to his perception that he misses it.

"Gotta go where?" He frowns. "We were just—"

"Places. Many places. People to see, Rogue. Parties to attend."

"You're at the party."

"Different part of the party. The part that's not this counter."

He stares at you. The frown deepens. Then smooths.

"Okay," he says. Easy. Too easy. "Go mingle. Turn some men to stone. It's what Medusa would want."

"Exactly."

"Try not to miss me."

"That has literally never been a risk."

You're already walking. Moving through the gap between the island and the stove with the focused momentum of someone who is very normal and not fleeing at all—

"Nix."

You half-turn.

He's still leaning on the counter, robe hanging open, brownie crumbs on his fingers, and looking at you with that expression.

The one that's nine-tenths grin and one-tenth something else entirely, the fraction he never lets anyone see for long enough to name.

"Circles."

One word. Tossed across the kitchen like a coin.

Your face goes hot so fast it's a medical event.

He turns back to the plate of brownies like that was nothing.

You are going to kill him.

Later. Right now you have somewhere to be that isn't here.

The living room is a blur of fog and noise and costumes and you cut through it on autopilot, scanning for an anchor—something to attach yourself to that isn't the counter you just left or the couch where Jason is probably still watching, still running his literary analysis on the body language of a girl who just stood too fucking close to her roommate.

And then you see them.

Jimin and Yoongi. Sitting on a loveseat.

Jimin's leaning in—really in, forehead practically at Yoongi's jaw—and he's saying something that makes Yoongi go very still.

Yoongi says something short. Jimin pulls back. Nods once.

Then Yoongi stands.

It's fluid (as usual, because everything Yoongi does is unhurried, the man refuses to grant any situation the courtesy of urgency) and he picks up his drink, says one more thing to Jimin that makes Jimin's mouth twitch, and then he's walking. Past you without acknowledgment because Yoongi doesn't do transitional greetings when he's mid-route. He's a man of efficiency.

Which leaves Jimin.

Alone on the loveseat.

In the dim alcove.

Looking at his hands.

You adjust your trajectory.

Swing wide around Tessa and the Mia Wallace girl (who apparently has mastered the slide movement), duck under Irika’s gesticulating arm—she's mid-story, wine sloshing dangerously—and come up behind the loveseat at an angle that puts you directly behind Jimin's unsuspecting shoulders.

You throw your arms around him from behind—full drape, both arms hooking over his shoulders, chin dropping onto the top of his head—and squeeze.

"BOO."

Jimin yelps—a short, high, full-body jolt that makes his drink almost go off the edge—and his free hand flies up to grab your forearm where it's crossed over his chest.

"Oh my GOD—"

"Gotcha."

"You—I almost—" He twists, craning his neck to look up at you, and his face is caught between genuine shock and the kind of outrage that's already dissolving into a laugh. "I almost spilled everywhere, you psycho—"

"Blame your boyfriend's friend," you say, squeezing tighter. "He scared me upstairs and I had nowhere to put the adrenaline."

"He's not my—" A strangled noise. "He is not my boyfriend."

"Mm."

"He's not."

"Sure."

“I mean it.”

“I believe you completely.”

“You don’t.”

“Mm, I do.”

He gives you a look over his shoulder that says ‘you are the worst liar I have ever met’ and opens his mouth—

“Speaking of believing things,” he says, deceptively mild, “do you want to explain the pool?”

You blink. “What pool.”

“The pool. The one you and Jungkook were in. Together. When I found you.”

“We were looking for clues.”

“You—” He twists to stare at you. “Both of you? Simultaneously? Into a heated pool?”

“Tessa’s thorough”

“His hands were on your—”

“What are you drinking?” You lean forward and grab his cup before he can finish that sentence. Bring it to your lips. It’s something sweet and tropical and probably Hobi’s doing. “Oh, this is good.”

“That’s mine—”

“It’s really good, actually. What is this?”

“Give that back—” He huffs.

But he just gives up, smart man. Tips his head back into the hollow of your collarbone again, skull warm and heavy against you, and his hand resettles on your wrist. Staying.

"You look really good, by the way," you tell the top of his head, leaving the cup in one of the nearby tables.

"Yeah?" He tilts to glance up at you, mouth doing that pleased little downturn it does when he's trying not to smile. "The blood was Irya's idea. She said Poe needed more 'visual tragedy.'"

"She was right. You look like a beautiful man who's about to die of tuberculosis in a gutter."

"That's... the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me?"

"You're welcome."

Jimin is nice to hold onto. He runs warm and stays still and doesn't make it weird, which is a vanishingly rare quality in a human being.

Your chin settles on his head. You do the room scan—automatic, compulsive—and it lands on Yoongi.

He’s across the room talking to someone you don’t recognize. Short, beanie pulled low, a citrus-colored drink in one hand. Easy posture. Expressive eyes. Gorgeous in a way that reads immediately even from across a fog-machined living room. Laughing at something Yoongi said, which is already notable because Yoongi isn’t funny. He’s dry and occasionally cutting and sometimes accidentally hilarious, but he doesn’t perform. Doesn’t work for a laugh.

He’s working right now.

Or—not working exactly. More like open. Relaxed in a way that’s different from his usual economy-of-movement stillness. His hands are actually moving when he talks.

“Who’s Yoongi talking to?”

A beat.

You feel it before you see it—the slight shift in Jimin’s shoulders under your arms. Like he needed a second to decide how to hold the question.

“Alex,” he says. “Yoongi’s friend from the industry circuit. Sound design.”

“She’s really pretty.”

“They.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“They.” Jimin’s voice stays mild. “Alex uses they/them.”

“Oh.” A beat. Heat creeps up your neck, quiet and stupid. “I’m sorry. They’re really pretty.”

“They are,” Jimin says.

And then says nothing else, which is somehow louder than anything he could’ve added.

You look back at Yoongi. At the way he’s leaning in slightly—is he leaning in? Yoongi doesn’t lean. Yoongi stands at a fixed, calculated distance from all living things and dares them to close it.

…He’s definitely leaning.

Then you look at Jimin.

Jimin, who is looking at his drink.

Huh.

You narrow your eyes back at Yoongi.

And you decide it’s time to change the topic because you don’t like it when Jimin goes small like this.

So you play Jungkook’s card.

Make light of the conversation.

“Okay. Important question.” You adjust your chin on his head. "What the fuck is Yoongi supposed to be?"

Jimin's chest starts shaking before the sound comes out.

"Don't—" he manages, but the laugh is already breaking through, hiccupy and barely contained. "Don't make me—"

"Is he in costume? Was that his costume? Because it looks like he just... came as himself. In a black t-shirt. Which would actually be very on brand—"

"He's Skrillex."

You blink.

"I'm sorry?"

"Skrillex." Jimin is vibrating with it now, that full-body silent laughter where nothing comes out because the sound got stuck somewhere between his lungs and his throat. "He—he shaved one side."

"He did not."

"He didn't. He pushed it back with gel. And he has—" Jimin loses it. Actually loses it, shoulders heaving, voice cracking into a wheeze. "He has—clip-on—clip-on earrings. From Claire's."

"You are fucking joking."

"I am not. I watched him put them on." Jimin tips forward, both hands pressing against his mouth like he can physically hold the laughter in. "He stood in front of the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes doing the hair and then clipped on these—these dangly skull earrings from the teen section at Claire's and said 'this is fine' with a completely straight face—"

"Min Yoongi went to a Claire's."

"He went to a Claire's!"

"Min Yoongi—who once told me he doesn't believe in accessories as a concept—went to Claire's."

"To buy SKULL EARRINGS." Jimin wheezes so hard he coughs. His eyes are wet. His whole face is crumpled with the force of it. "From the rotating display. The one next to the friendship bracelets—”

“But wait—wait wait wait.” You hold up a hand. “That doesn’t even make sense! Skrillex has long black hair, it’s like his whole thing. Yoongi is blond. He’s literally bleached. How is that Skrillex?”

“He said—” Jimin takes a shuddering breath. Loses it. Tries again. “He said the hair was ‘conceptual.’”

“CONCEPTUAL?”

“He said he’s doing a ‘blonde era Skrillex’ and when I pointed out that Skrillex doesn’t have a blonde era he told me to—and I’m quoting—‘google it harder.’”

“I’m going to pass away.”

“I can't—you can't tell him I told you, he thinks he nailed it—"

"He thinks he nailed it?!"

"He literally turned to me with the most serious face I have ever seen on a human being and asked if it was ‘accurate’.”

“And you said?”

“I said it looked great!”

“Jimin.”

“What was I supposed to do?! He was making the face—the focused face—and I couldn’t tell him he wasn’t pulling this off!”

“He’s pulling off ‘guy who owns one black t-shirt and found earrings.’ That’s what he’s pulling off.”

“That is—” Jimin snorts. “That is exactly—oh my god, that’s exactly what he looks like—“

You're both gone. Completely, irretrievably gone. You've collapsed forward over his shoulders, forehead pressed to the back of his neck, and you're shaking with the kind of laughter that makes no noise because all the air's been used up.

Every time one of you starts to recover, the other says ‘Claire's’ and it starts again.

Your ribs ache. Your cramps ache. Your face aches.

It's the best you've felt all night.

"Okay," you say finally, wiping your eye with the heel of your hand, careful not to smudge Jimin's liner work. "Okay. I have a follow-up."

"I can't take a follow-up."

"Why Skrillex?"

Jimin takes a shuddering breath. Composes himself. Fails. Tries again.

“He said—” Another breath. “He said it was the costume with the least amount of effort that still technically counted as a specific person.”

"That's the most Yoongi thing I've ever heard."

"He ran a cost-benefit analysis. Out loud. To me. While eating cereal."

"Was the cereal part of the analysis?"

"The cereal was the baseline. He said anything that required more effort than eating cereal wasn't worth it."

You bury your face in his shoulder and scream a little bit. Quietly. Into the cardigan.

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, the laughter ebbs.

The mental image of Yoongi standing in a Claire’s examining skull earrings is going to sustain you through the winter, though.

Jimin relaxes back against you again.

"I'm glad you came," he says after a while, soft. "To this whole thing. The retreat."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. I was kind of dreading it? Five days is a lot of people for a lot of time." His thumb traces a small arc on your wrist. "But it's better. With people who—you know."

He doesn't finish the sentence.

He doesn't need to.

"Right back at you, Poe."

His head turns slightly. You catch the edge of his smile in profile—soft, real, a little raw around the edges in a way that makes you think he's still carrying whatever was happening in this alcove before Yoongi stood up and walked away.

You don't ask.

You're getting good at that tonight. Not asking. Holding the space without prying the lid off.

"For the record," you murmur against his hair, "whatever's going on with—whatever. You don't have to have it figured out. You're allowed to be in the aisle."

His thumb stops on your wrist.

Starts again. Slower.

"The aisle," he repeats. Like he's putting it somewhere safe.

"The aisle."

A breath.

Then his hand squeezes your forearm—brief, tight, a pressure that says more than the sentence he doesn't build around it—and releases.

You feel calm like this. Draped over him, chin on his head, watching the party happen from a safe distance.

Hobi's moved on from the shoe story and is now trying to teach the Roman centurion a two-step. Taehyung and Irika are slow-dancing to a song that isn't slow, Yeji and Irya have resurfaced and are sharing a chair, Irya's legs across Yeji's lap, Yeji's hand absently trailing up and down her calf while she argues with someone about something you can't hear but can tell is political by the angle of her jaw.

It's good. All of it.

The noise and the fog and the warmth of Jimin's shoulders under your arms and the brownie starting to soften the edges of the room in a way that feels like putting on glasses that make everything slightly kinder.

You’re going to be very high in about twenty minutes.

Suddenly, against all peaceful odds, you hear your name from Jason’s voice.

“Can we talk?”

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

Spider-Man

In this world, the impossible becomes possible, and imagination becomes reality. That has been shown again and again, from the creation of Captain America, to the influence of Ms. Marvel. Most notably, New York City has had many of these superheroes, such as the Fantastic four and allegedly Daredevil, protecting and defending it from crime. These heroes inspire millions, maybe even billions of people to this day, 2007.

One of those people is the 12 year old Peter Parker. He doesn’t have much going for him, living with his uncle Ben and aunt May, in a poor apartment, and didn’t have many friends. That never seemed to stop them though, as he constantly created and built whatever he pleased. He was currently writing his own comic book about man in red and blue who swings across the city like Daredevil, when he heard his uncle, Ben Parker, call him.

“Peter! You’re gonna be late for school!”

“Coming Uncle Ben!” Peter yells as he grabs a small camera and a wrist device and runs out his small room.

Peter went to Midtown Junior High in Queens, a school that awarded innovation and skill, but was still like any 2000s school. Peter was scavenging through his locker, keeping his face hidden to avoid a certain someone. After finishing his scavenging and closing his locker, someone catches his eye: Gwen Stacy, talking and laughing with her friends a few feet away. Peter has a MASSIVE crush on Gwen, despite the fact that she’s a grade higher and doesn’t even know that he exists. If only he had the courage to ask her out.

Holding his head up high was a mistake. Why? Because of the upperclassman Flash Thompson. Peter has been messed with and bullied by Flash for as long as he can remember.

“Where do you think you’re going, Parker?” Flash says menacingly as he slowly approaches Peter. Peter tries to make a run for it, but Flash grabbed his wrist. Accidentally, and instinctively, he put his hand out, hold out his pinkie, index, and thumb, and shooting a web-like fluid onto Flash’s face. Kids who saw gasp, and Peter froze in shock and fear. Flash was visibly infuriated.

Flash looked like he was going to strangle Pete then and there, but another kid breaks it up. Peter’s savior has arrived, Harry Osborn. He was the son of the head of the corporation Oscorp, and best friends with Peter. Flash immediately backed down, not wanting to anger the son of a billionaire weapons manufacturer.

“Thanks, Harry. Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”

“Don’t mention it, Pete. Now come on, the bus is leaving!”

That day, several students were going on a field trip to Oscorp Headquarters, where they’ll be able to see its many projects, and be able to meet not only the founder of Oscorp Normon Osborn, but a sponsor from a larger company, the head of Stark Industries, Anthony “Tony” Stark. Peter was much more interested in the former, though.

Peter had heard of the headquarters from Harry, but seeing it in person was even better. It was massive, each section filled with something that would make any scientist melt, let alone a smart boy like Peter. Peter was in absolute awe throughout the entire walkthrough, snapping pictures of anything he saw. He hopes that one day, he could create experiments as good as the ones Oscorp create.

“Hold it…This says “radioactive,” but it’s just a glass cage.”

“Oh, I remember this one!” Said Harry, “There’s a spider in there. It was modified to help build muscles. It was used to make better cow meat.”

“Huh. Could’ve used it for a better kind of meat.”

Outside their knowledge however, the spider was in fact NOT in its cage. It escaped, and managed to crawl onto Peter’s sleeve while he leaned a little too close. It hangs onto Peter for now.

The students eventually made it to the main attraction, the one who started it all, Norman Osborn. He had just finished talking with another school, and seemed delighted to introduce himself to the next, especially since his son was apart of it. Norman presents himself with a charm similar to Jim Carry, which some of the kids silently laugh at. Norman says that despite a small decline, Oscorp still remains one of the most successful industries in the world, but only one other industry beats it.

“Hey, Dad. Where’s the Stark guy?”

“Oh, Stark? Uh…He’s just…running a bit late. Genius-billionaire and all-“

“Did someone call for a…genius-billionaire?”

Tony Stark arrives, arms open and a smug grin on his face. He is immediately met with praise from everyone except Peter, who thinks Stark is a narcissistic rich asshole (and he kinda is.) He instantly steals the spotlight from Osborn, at his dismay.

“Now, who’s happy to see me? Come on, make some noise!” Peter made some noise alright, yelling out “Ouch” And holding his hand. “Ouch indeed. Worst criticism I’ve gotten in years,” said Stark. Peter excuses himself, still holding his hand. He’d slowly let go of his hand and realized what had happened. There was a swollen bite mark on the back of his hand, and a dead spider right over it. Was this the spider? It sure felt like getting bitten by a cow. Minutes passed and, to his surprise, he didn’t feel woozy.

“You alright in there, Pete?” Questioned Harry, worried for his best bud.

“Yeah,, I’m coming, man! Just had to… take some medicine.”

Peter felt ok afterward, despite being bitten by a radioactive, likely venomous spider. He did end up coming home late, because the growing crime in New York was making it harder to travel.

He made it back to his apartment, tired and sweaty from walking, and was greeted by his uncle Ben and aunt May with smiles on their faces. They had prepared dinner 20 minutes ago, and were awaiting Pete’s return.

When asked about his day, he said it was…eventful. He got to meet two billionaires on the same day, and all they did was talk about themselves. May, being the wise woman he is, tells people that while men like Stark have the power to do anything in the world, with Ben adding that they they lack the responsibility required to use it properly. Peter nods, the words somewhat resonating with him. He glares briefly at his bite mark, but doesn’t pay it that much mind.

That night, Normon Osborn would enter a large Oscorp lab with that comical smile being missing. He was frustrated. Oscorp was already losing traction, and now Stark Industries is trying to steal it. He has a solution, however. He meets with one of his lead scientists, and orders:

“Is the formula ready?”

“No, sir, it’s not nearly-“

“Well I don’t care! We need to rest this now. If it works in cows and spiders… it can work on humans too.” Norman drunk the formula before going to the next step.

Normon put into a glass chamber, attached to a chair and monitors. The scientist nervously turned on the gas, and the green air came in, and it affected Normon instantly. He shook and spazed, shook and spazed, went still…then awoken. He broke out of the chair with ease, acting like a completely different person. The scientist tried to check in on him, but Normon grabs him by the throat and throws him against the wall, knocking him out. Norman, stares down at the scientist with a grin on his face. The experiment was a success...

…But everything has its cons.

Norman passed out shortly after, and is found and woken up by a worried Harry. Norman reassures his son that he’s alright, and that his newest experience was a success.

The next day, Peter went to school with the same geekiness as always. He was trying to get around school when he accidentally bumped into Flash. Flash pressed him immediately, getting in his face and shoving him once or twice. Peter lost his temper and would say,

“I don’t have to wear my initials on my shirt to feel seen, thunder thighs.”

Everyone gasped.

“…What did you just say?”

Before Peter could respond, Flash was already swinging at him. Peter’s entire perception seemed to change. Everything seemed to slow down and his reflexes seemed to heighten. He dodged the punch with ease, shocking him, Flash, and everyone watching. Flash through another and Peter ducked it also. Flash started throwing punches faster and faster, and Peter was dodging in more extreme ways.

“Woah!” Peter exclaimed with a smile.

“How about you wipe that smile off your face-“

Flash was punched in the chest so hard he’s sent flying across the hall. Everyone watches in awe and shock, and mutter to eachother about what has just happened.

“How about you wipe that snarl off yours, pal?” Peter remarked cheekily before walking away as if nothing happened.

After school, Peter walks into an alley way where no one can see him, and then looks down at his hands. What were these powers, and where did they come from? Wait…The spider. That dang spider. It must’ve boosted his strength. But could it have done more? Only one way to find out. He’d put a hand on the wall and pushed up. He could climb. He did this until he reached the very top of the building, looking across Queens.

He then started jumping from building to building another power he discovered, doing back flips and cartwheels as he did. It was straight out of a comic book. Was he a superhero like the ones who saved New York in the 60s? Eh, he wasn’t commited to that yet.

He kept these powers hidden for days, until one Saturday afternoon. Him and Ben were going to the convenience store. By the time they got there, Ben was tired and exhausted. His old bones were creaky and he didn’t have as much stamina as before, so Peter made him sit on a bench while he went for the groceries.

It was a long journey, having to find anything cheap enough for him to buy, Peter he eventually got everything he needed. Before he could get to the counter, people started screamed, and shots fired. Robbers had come in, wanting the food and money. At first, Peter chooses to cower like everyone else, but then he remembers that he’s superhuman. He had to do something about this.

He jumped up, Superman punching a robber so hard that he’s knocked out instantly. Another one tries to shoot him, but Peter dodges the first bullet and webs the gun before he can fire a second. He is then also knocked out. Peter knocks out three more before dramatically Superman posing. Other robbers start running. It seems that he’s won…

But his senses pick up something and instinctively dodges. A gun shot…from the cashier lady?

“Woah, lady! I’m here to save you!”

“You’ve saved no one,” She said in a…thick masculine Russian accent? Her face starts glitching, and an advanced white mask is revealed in its place. He’d fire two more shots and Pete dodged once more.

“Wow you’re, like, some sort of chameleon! Shouldn’t you be shooting at crickets instead?”

Their fight only lasted a minute, but they were on near equal footing. It ended after Peter had him on the ground and hook him so hard that his masks breaks and the “Chameleon” is knocked out.

“Haha! Peter Parker, ONE! Chameleon, ZERO! Did you all see that!?”

No one has saw that.

“Ah, well. Maybe next time.”

Peter crouched over and observed the mask. It was Oscorp tech. Typical. These rich dudes can’t event keep up with their own products.

Peter would then hear gunshots outside and then remembered.

Uncle Ben is out there…

UNCLE BEN IS OUT THERE!!!

Peter rushes outside and sees police already at the scene, and a group of people are surrounded someone. Looking closer, Peter realizes that it’s him. Ben Parker has been shot. He attempted to distract the criminals so that the police could catch up.

Peter rushed and pushed through everyone, looking down at his parental figure distraught, tears threatening to escape the ducts

“Uncle Ben…I’m sorry, Uncle Ben, I’m Sorry-“

“Peter…I-It’s…Not your fault…”

“No, it is! I was busy showing off instead of stopping the criminals! I could’ve saved you…”

“Peter…Remember what we told you…”

Peter waited for his answer, not being able to hold it anymore. He sniffled as he waits for his beloved Uncle to answer. His answer would be remember for years as his last:

“W-with…With great power…comes great responsibility.”

Ben died shortly after in Peter’s arms, and he stayed by his side for a solid 10 minutes, before paramedics took his body. He crawled to the top of a building, looking at the sunset and falling to his knees. He had to tell aunt May the news, and he knows it will break her. He swung there, and told her without even looking at her, not wanting her to see his face. She collapsed in his arms and cried.

He didn’t sleep that night. He was too distracted by the events of that day. What happened to Ben was unacceptable. He couldn’t let that happen to anyone else. He couldn’t!… A light bulb went off

With these abilities, he could become the new savior of New York. He couldn’t just go out there in a high school outfit though. It’ll catch eyes, and he isn’t to fond of that idea. He needs a supersuit. Peter grabbed a book and starts drawing. His first suit consists of:

-a ski mask

-a red, short sleeved hoodie

-blue t-shirt and pants

-fingerless red gloves

-red sneakers

-goggles to cover his eyes

-and most important, his web shooters.

It will do for now.

The first public appearance of this hero happened during a police chase. It seems that these criminals are going to get away with it, when their car is caught by a…giant web? They try to get out of the car, but are met with the web shooter in red and blue himself.

“Going somewhere?”

There criminals are quickly webbed down by the hero, who stands over them with his hands on their hips.

“Didn’t think so.”

One of the officers, George Stacy, walks up to the him and asks who he’s supposed to be, keeping his arm in his hands. The hero holds his hands up and introduces himself quickly.

“Calm down, clam down, I’m friendly…neighborhood…Spider-Man! And tell your daughter I said hi!”

He’d then swing away hurriedly, leaving the police confused. Officer Stacy was concerned at the fact that he knew his daughter.

The Spider-Man quickly gained traction across Queens, and, eventually, New York City. Mix feelings grow for the new hero, but it’s mostly positive. The city loved him, his classmates loved him, even Aunt Pay thought he was helping the city. J. Jonah Jameson tried to use the Daily Bugle to say that Spider-Man is a “masked menace” but it wouldn’t be the first time he twisted things to gain traction. In the 60s it was the Fantastic Four, now…it’s Spider-Man

Spider-Man evolved in real time. His latest costume, who he sewed himself, was dark red and a pastel dark blue, fully body suit, with thick black lines here and there, white bug-like eyes, and two spider symbols on the front and back. He also had a belt that could hold extra webfluid, but it was uncomfortable to wear while swinging around. The one on the front was to intimidate bad guys, and the one on the back was for the citizens to see.

The first 3 weeks of his career consisted of him swinging through the city, stopping crime while cracking jokes, saving lives, and making sure the people of New York are happy. The hero work helped him slowly cheer up after the death of his Uncle, and he felt that he was doing exactly what Ben wanted him to do. He did his job almost as well as the fantastic four.

One evening, after another successful day as Spider-Man, he lands on a building near the famed Stark Tower, which he scoffs at. He then notices another man staring at a the tower, with a green and purple suit on. The man eventually walked away, but Spider-Man sensed something off and…familiar about him.

While Stark Tower was never at risk of failing, Oscorp was, and the heads of the company were meeting up to make a decision. Their CEO was the last to arrive, saying that he was with his son (FYI: he wasn’t). Their final decision was that Osborn was no longer suitable for the company, and a decision has been made to see it to Stark Industries, who made an offer weeks ago. Anthony Stark, that traitor, Norman thought to himself. He’s expected to resign within the month’s time, and it would be announced at the annual World Unity Fair. What angered him most is the fact that he wasn’t even told.

“I’ve sacrificed so much for this company…AND NOW YOU WANT ME TO SELL IT!?”

There wasn’t a hit of remorse on their faces.

Norman went home that day with his head down and his hands behind his back. He didn’t even respond to Harry when he tried to ask how his day was, which was itself a foolish question. Norman just went straight to his room, and sat down on his bed. He truly was done for.

“Kill them all, Osborn!”

“What? Who goes there?”

“Take a look in the MIRROR!!!”

It must’ve been the gasses doing. That’s why he was experiencing memory loss. This was the con. This voice in his head is telling him to take his revenge on those who forsake him. He didn’t want to listen, but was slowly being tempted, by himself. He eventually gives in.

“Put the mask on, Norman! Put the mask ON! Nahahahaha!!!”

The day of the festival , Peter and Harry arrived together. Peter asked where Harry’s father was, but even he didn’t know. The festival was huge, obvious, filled with cultures and free food. Despite this. The main thing that ends up catching Peters eye is Gwen, who was talking to a black girl with a thick Afro. The girl seemed to notice this, and ended her conversation with Gwen abruptly, bumping Peter with her elbow as she walked away.

“Face ‘em, tiger.”

“Thanks, Mary-Jane…”

“You heard the girl,” says Harry, “Go get em. I gotta get to the balcony.”

Peter nervously approaches Gwen, and fumbles over himself instantly. Thankfully, this amuses her. Gwen likes guys like Peter; she thinks they’re adorable. Peter tries to communicate his feelings but is interrupted by the speakers at the event, Oscorp, and Tony Stark standing closely to them. They’re only able to greet themselves and wish for everyone to enjoy the festival, before disaster strikes.

“What’s that in the sky?”

“Maybe it’s a bird-“

“It’s a glider!”

Bombs are shot at them. Most of the Oscorp chairmen are vaporized and Stark manages to avoid most of it by getting inside. The one who shot the bombs is a man in green armor, with a goblin mask on his head, and of course, he’s on the glider. Peter sees this and runs off to change into Spider-Man.

“Who’s out now!?” The man laughs, throwing another bomb for fun, near Gwen’s proximity, but Spider-Man catches it, throwing it into the air before it explodes. This almost knocks the goblin off his feet, but he catches himself.

“What other tricks are down your sleeve, Hou-Green-i?”

“Neat, Spider-Man! Let’s see what else you can do!”

The two start fighting, with Spidey being the underdog due to his inexperience with supervillains and the Goblin’s array of tech. Spidey does eventually win by ripping out a part of goblin’s glider, causing it to go haywire and crash into a building, making it explode. After this, Spidey quickly swings over to the bombed balcony and saves the surviving Oscorp chairman and Stark, safely putting them back down.

Everyone claps and cheers for the amazing Spiderman, and Peter, not being used to this, quickly bids farewell and swings away. Gwen looks at Spider-Man as he swings away with dreamy eyes.

Spider-Man swings into the building Goblin entered. It didn’t have much in it anyway, so it was likely abandoned. Thank god. Now he just had to take that jester in. While searching, he’s sneaked by the man, starting round two. Spidey continued to struggles, even getting a cut on his arm, but he’s recognizing attack patterns.

“Come on, Spider-Man! We’re both superhumans! We should be working together! We can be best pals!”

“I’d never work with a man cosplaying as a medieval knight goblin, let alone a supervillain!”

“Then this isn’t over by a long shot, Spider-Man!” The man yells before dropping another bomb and fleeing, leaving spider to deal with the blast. He’d flung out of the building, but catches himself using his web shooters. They save the day again. The people continue to cheer for Spider-Man, but Peter is dissatisfied.

J. Jonah Jameson and theDaily Bugle get reports out the day after, saying that there’s a new, true menace in Queens, who he dubs the Green Goblin. Spider-Man catches the news while patrolling, and is evidently annoyed. He wishes the news was the news and wasn’t trying to push secret motives. Very unprofessional.

“Wait, what time is it?…shit, I gotta get home!”

He starts swinging back to the apartment as fast as he could. Aunt May had dinner scheduled with guest, so him not being there would be suspicious. He made it there just in time, sneaking into his room and changing into regular clothes. When he got to the table, he saw the Osborns there. This was a surprise. They great Peter with hospitality, and Peter awkwardly answers back. The dinner slowly becomes more and more awkward, but it meets its peak when Aunt May points out the cut on his arm.

Norman’s smile fades instantly as he sees the cut. It’s in the same place that Spider-Man was sliced at during their fight. Peter Parker …he’s Spider-Man. Norman abruptly decided to leave afterwards, ignoring May and Harry’s attempts to make him stay. Harry apologizes for his father, before following him out.

Harry continued to try and make his father speak, even after they got home. Norman ends up blowing up at his son in frustration, saying that he himself is a pathetic and sick man who can’t seem to do anything right. He adds that Harry will just end up being as bad as the rest of the Osborns before storming up stairs. Harry is left speechless and hurt.

Norman sits in his room, the lights dim and the doors locked. What he said to Harry was unreasonable, and he wants to apologize, but he’s too stressed out right now. He’s on the verge of losing it fully, and this is cemented by the return of that voice in his head. He’s getting quite sick of it, but he’s too mentally exhausted and desperate to not listen.

“Norman, you fool! If we cannot take down Spider-Man with our fists on his jaw. We have to take him down with our fists on his heart!”

“What…What are you saying-“

“I’m saying go for the loved ones, you doof! Hurt them! Kill them even!”

Norman locks in, grabbing his helmet, and putting it on his head, chuckling to himself. If he can’t win conventionally, he’ll make sure that the Spider goes through hell. Tonight will be the Spider’s worst night.

Peter, meanwhile, was still not sleeping that night, designing a new suit for himself after the latest one was damaged by Goblin. His artist skills are stopped by a big boom and the building shaking briefly, making him fall off the bed. He recovers quickly, and is confused on what caused it. Then he hears aunt May crying for help and the sound of cackling going farther away, and rushes over quickly.

Before he knew it, he was at the nearby Hospital. Peter clasped his hand together against his mouth as he waited for his aunt to wake up. Her injuries were minimal, but the shock must have made her faint. When she did, she instantly panicked, yelling “Demon! Demon!” Peter managed to calm her down enough for her to tell her what happened. She said that a man in green blew up her room while she was preparing to go to sleep. Peter knew exactly who this man was, and said man is messing with him. Peter told her that she’d be right back, before leaving the hospital.

He rarely goes out at night as the Spider-Man, but tonight is one of those nights. Two attacks within 2 days? This Green Goblin is becoming too frequent for him to leave alone any longer. He swung across the city, trying to find this man, whoever he was, when he heard a young, feminine voice call for him, seemingly panicked.

When he made it there, on a rooftop, he didn’t see or sense anything, no imminent danger at all. Was this another Green Goblin trick? Apparently not, since he was soon met with a familiar face.

“…Gwen?”

“Hi.”

What’s got you crying wolf? I’m kinda busy at the moment-“

“I know, but, I just…never got to say thank you. For saving me.”

“Oh, uh…Yeah, of course.”

“You know, Spider-Man…you sound kinda young, and familiar…you’re also awfully short in person.”

“Low blow.”

“…Do I know you?”

“Of course you do…I’m the Amazing Spider-Man.”

He tried to swing away afterwards, but his web is cut off by the man on the glider, making him fall. The Green Goblin cackles, and then turns his attention to Gwen. He saw how Peter stared at this particular girl during their field trip to Oscorp. Jackpot. He sweeps the terrified girl off her feet, her screams catching Spider-Man’s attention.

“Let’s see if you can save her too, Spider-Man! Nehahahaha!”

This turned into a chase across Queens and Brooklyn, with Spidey constantly trying to reassure Gwen and himself that she’ll be ok. Goblin threw a bomb or two to throw off his attention and give him more of a distance. When they made it to the Brooklyn bridge, he threw his final bomb onto it. The bomb was so strong that the bridge started falling apart. Spidey had to think fast, and had to use more strength than he’s ever had before.

He skydived down, swinging below and above the bridge, while using all the web-fluid he had to web the two halves together, both around and within the crack. He also managed to quickly save any pedestrian or car about to fall. Then to finish it off, he swung in between the bridge, shoot a web on both sides and pulled, using all of his strength to keep it all together. This method ends up being a success, but very straining, and he’s low on fluid. Still enough for him to fight Goblin, though.

When he swung to the top of the bridge, he saw Goblin holding Gwen by the neck, over the east river, threatening to drop her. She struggles in fear.

“My fingers are slipping, Spider-Man~”

“No, no, wait! Ok! Ok… If you want me to be friends with you… we can be. I can help you, green goblin man.”

“Hmm…let me think- No.”

He drops Gwen, and she screams in horror as she starts falling. Peter drops down quickly, one web already attached to the bridge for him to climb back on. He shoots another web, straight for Gwen, and prays.

“Please let this work…”

…

It catches her by the torso…

And she goes limp.

Spider-Man, thinking that he saved her, lets out a sigh in relief, before climbing back on the bench with her. He holds her body in his arms, saying that it’s ok and that she can get up now. She doesn’t answer. He puts a hand on her cheek, and then slides it down to her neck. No pulse. Peter is distraught. First his Uncle, now his crush. He holds her close, sobbing against her chest.

Goblin looks over at the scene, letting the moment pass, before taunting him.

“You try so hard, but you never seem to succeed, Spider! Hahaha!”

“Goblin…”

“I got one more stop I want to go to! Try to catch up! Nehahahaha!”

Goblin flies away, leaving an angered Spider-Man with a dead girl in his arms.

“You’ve really done it goblin!… YOU’LL DIE TONIGHT YOU HEAR ME!? YOU’LL DIE!!!”

The people on the bridge approach the sobbing spider as he exclaims. Spider-Man stands up, still holding the girl in his arms. Angry. Ashamed. Vengeful. The people there start comforting Spider-Man, saying that they’ve lost people they cared about too, but he can’t let that stop him. He’s the amazing, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, and he has to stop the Green Goblin. Spidey is hesitant to drop Gwen at first, he eventually gives up her body to the people, knowing that there are bigger fish to fry. He tells everyone “Thank you,” before swinging away. The people cheer for their hero.

Goblin, meanwhile, has made it to his last stop: Stark Tower. He’s going to kill the man who ruined everything for him. The man in question, Tony Stark, is in his workroom, working on a new weapon to sell to whoever. He’s too careless on the whole selling ordeal. Suddenly, a bomb is set off, sending Tony flying back.

“Hey, this isn’t a costume party or a terrorist one, so you should go on home!”

“Oh, Classic Stark! Even with your life on the line, you wanna crack jokes!”

“I can give you a thousand afghani.”

Goblin scoffs and prepares to throw another mechanism, but he then notices two we a shoot past him onto the wall. The webs are pulled and Goblin is dropped kicked into the next room by the Spider-Man himself. The two straighten up.

“It’s over, Goblin.”

“Over? Ha! It’s only just started, Peter!”

Spidey tries to shoot another web, but nothing comes out. All out of web fluid? Oh well, fists it is. The two have their final showdown, and with Spidey being more calculating than usual, Goblin is the underdog here. Each punch is countered, each trick is thrown back into his face. Goblin ends up finding himself pinned against the wall, being punched repeatedly by a traumatized, angry, really strong teenager. Eventually, he caves and holds his hands up.

“Peter wait! It’s me!” He said as he takes his mask off, revealing himself to be Norman Osborn. Spidey stops. Of course, the rich guy is crazy and does evil stuff to make himself feel better. He can’t believe he ever trusted him. Norman tries to reason with Peter, trying to pull him back into the facade, but Peter just can’t anymore. Norman has went too far and he can’t ever forgive him for what he did.

Eventually, Norman just goes “It was worth a shot” and summons the glider. It starts going straight towards Spidey, and if it weren’t for his spider sense, he’d be impaled. Spidey backflips over it last second, and it goes straight for Norman. Norman is pinned to the wall by the glider, critically injured. Before he draws his last breath, he tells Peter.

“Tell Harry…I’m sorry.”

Peter bows his head. He doesn’t feel bad for Norman, not in the slightest, but telling Harry what happened is going to be a challenge. He takes Normans body and prepares to leave. While he’s out of webs, he still has his super jump and the ability to stick to walls, so he can replicate what the Hulk did for this. Noticing Tony staring in shock, he tells him one last thing before he leaves:

“You suck.”

Spidey reached the Osborn’s home, attempting to sneak Norman’s body into his room, but he’s caught by Harry, who came to check on his father. Harry angrily asks “What did you do!?” but the spider doesn’t answer. Spidey tells him that he’s sorry and swings away. Harry falls to his knees, speechless at the sight of his father being brought home dead by the so called savior. He has to pay for this. Spider-Man, will pay.

Days passed, and things were almost back to normal (as normal as it could be.) Peter and a discharged May were hovering near the graves of Ben Parker and Gwen Stay, who were only buried feet apart from each other coincidentally. Mary-Jane, who was also a friend of Gwen, walks over to Peter, her hair in a neat bun.

“I’m sorry, Parker. I knew you liked her.”

“It’s…Quite alright.”

“Look, if you need anything, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks.”

She’d nod with a smile on her face. She was about to walk away when Pete asked

“Hey, do you know where Harry is?”

“Haven’t seen him in days.”

Great. Just fantastic.

Peter got back home that evening, having just finished his newest suit. Its colors were bright, it had lines resembling webs all over it, and it seemed way more appealing for kids and grown ups alike. He holds it up, when he hears a voice come from his closet.

“Nice suit, Spider-Man.”

The man opens the closet to reveal himself: Nick Fury, Director of SHEILD. Peter has no idea who he is, how he got in here, or what SHIELD is, which is quite alright in Fury’s eyes, since no one knows who SHIELD is, and shouldn’t. Nick Fury is here to recommend him for the Marvel Initiative, where heroes from across the globe unite to save the world from supernatural threats. Peter thinks about it for a second, and declines. He’d rather work alone, within the city, rather than fight people from Australia or wherever. Fury Accepts this, but says that the offer is still open.

Peter nods, and puts on the new suit, the lines reflecting against the sunlight. He’s ready to go out there and be New York’s newest savior and the first public modern superhero.

“Oh yeah, What was your name again, Kid? I couldn’t keep it in mind.”

“Who am I? I’m Spider-Man.”