Kind of sucks cortis want to be genuine artists and be taken seriously when they are under a kpop label and have kpop fans.
This is truly coming into fruition as people are already complaining about the phone rule and the lack of outfit changes during the tour. Also saying they weren’t acting grateful and or… crying?
Why would they cry for an audience that obviously doesn’t respect them? Not following the only rule they requested for the concert.
In the end people should’ve anticipated everything that has happened.
The phone rule was adamant.
They only have around 10 songs so of course they will repeat a few.
They don’t have to change outfits if it doesn’t pertain to their concept.
We’ve known Cortis isn’t like a normal kpop group why are people acting surprised. This isn’t enhypen or txt (I love them both).
They’re trying to change the industry and I think they’ve made that clear.
This is what it looks like when a group actually has a decision in their concept.
pairing. martin x fem!reader genre. angst wordcount. 1.6k warnings. crying, miscommunication trope kinda not really, kissing, yelling..
riri’s notes. i poured my heart into this because i know how this feels, honestly i hope none of you guys feel this pain in any time of your life, love you all 🤍
( SYNOPSIS ) months of contained emotions and your boyfriend martin barely speaking to you leads to a night of admission of everything you both have felt.
like this? find my masterlist here.
your apartment was too quiet.
that was the first thing you noticed, not the dishes sitting untouched in the sink, not the half-folded blanket on the couch, not even the framed picture of you and martin smiling together from a beach trip 4 months ago.
just the silence.
and somehow, that made it worse.
you stood in the doorway after coming back from work, your keys still hanging loosely from your fingers. martin sat at the dining table, scrolling through his phone. you looked at him, he looked at his phone.
“hi.”
“hey.”
that was it, just another conversation that died before it even started. you swallowed hard and set your bag down. “how was practice?”
“fine.”
“that’s good.”
“mhm.”
silence; again.
you hated silence, especially when it came from the person who used to tell you everything.
martin used to tell you about every little thing, the weird fan interaction he had, the joke juhoon made that had everyone crying from laughter, the random dream he had about owning a farm and six cows.
everything he could think of. now? absolutely nothing.
you didn’t know when the shift happened.
maybe when cortis got bigger, maybe when the schedules became impossible, maybe when exhaustion started eating away at both of you, maybe neither of you noticed the distance growing until it was already too wide to cross.
you walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “did you eat?”
“no."
“why?”
“wasn’t hungry.”
you shut the fridge door. “martin.”
“what?”
“can you actually talk to me?” he finally looked up. “i am talking.”
“no, you’re not.” his jaw clenched before he asked “what do you want me to say?”
“anything.” you laughed dryly, “tell me about your day.”
“it was practice.”
“okay…and?”
“and that’s it.”
you stared at him & martin stared back.
and something inside of you cracked, because it wasn’t just today.
it had been months, months of waiting, months of feeling lonely while being in a relationship, months of sitting beside him while feeling like you were miles away.
you set your bag down harder than you meant to. “do you even want to be here anymore?”
martin froze.“what?”
“with me.”
his eyes immediately rolled, “seriously?”
“i’m asking.”
“and i’m telling you that’s a stupid question.”
your eyes burned with tears “see? that’s exactly what i’m talking about.”
“what are you talking about?”
“you don’t listen."
martin pushed his chair back and stood. “because every conversation turns into this.”
“this?” you laughed. “you mean me trying to tell you i’m unhappy?”
“don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“make me the bad guy.”
you stared at him in disbelief and complete confusion, “you think that’s what i’m doing?”
“i think you’re acting like i’m some terrible boyfriend.”
“martin, i barely see you.”
“because i’m working.”
“i know that!”
your voice cracked, the tears came before you could stop them. “i know you’re working. i know you’re tired. i know your schedule sucks. i know all of that.”
another tear slipped down your cheek. martin’s expression softened slightly, but the ache in your chest was already getting bigger.
“but what about me?”
“what about me, martin?”
your voice broke completely; months of anger, confusion, loneliness lead up to this moment. “because i’m tired and i’m lonely too.” you laughed through tears, “hell, you come home and sit ten feet away from me.”
martin quickly answered, “that’s not fair.”
“it is fair.”
“it’s not.”
“then tell me why.”
he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
nothing came out.
and somehow that hurt more than him saying anything.
because you needed him to say something, anything. you needed him to fight for this, for you, for the relationship. instead, there was only silence. your chest felt tigh, everything hurt.
“i don’t know what happened to us.” your words came out quietly.
martin immediately looked up, and for the first time all night, he looked scared. “don’t say that.”
“why?”
“because…” his voice cracked, and you froze immediately. martin rarely cried, but right now? his eyes were already glossy. “because i love you.”
you laughed with no emotion.
“then why does it feel like you don’t?”
the second those words left your mouth, he flinched. actually flinched, like you’d slapped him. immediately, you wished you could take them back, but it was too late.
martin took a step backward, his eyes filled with tears “you really think that?”
you couldn’t answer, because part of you didn’t, but the hurt part of you did.
his voice became quiet.
“after everything.”
“martin-“
“after all these months.”
“i didn’t mean-”
“after every performance.”
the look in his eyes absolutely destroyed you.
“every flight.” a tear slid down his cheek. “every night i stayed awake talking to you because i missed you. every single thing i’ve done to show you i love you.”
his voice broke some more, “you think i don’t?”
you started crying harder, because now he was crying too. and somehow that made everything worse.
“i didn’t mean it like that.”
“then how did you mean it?”
“i just miss you.”
the confession shattered between you.
“i miss you so much.” your knees felt weak, “i miss my best friend.”
martin looked away whileanother tear rolled down his face. “i miss her too.”
that hurt because he sounded just as broken, just as lonely, just as exhausted.
neither of you spoke, the apartment filled with the sound of crying. until finally, martin whispered, “i’m trying.” you looked up. his face was wet with tears, his shoulders were shaking. “i’m trying so hard.”
your heart shattered into pieces.
“i’m trying to be everything.”
“a good leader. a good person. a good member.” he covered his face. “and i don’t know how to do all of that and still be enough for you.”
the room fell silent.
because suddenly, you understood, not all of it, but enough. enough to see how tired he was, how much pressure sat on his shoulders every single day.
you took a shaky exhale, “why didn’t you tell me?”
“when?”
“whenever you need to.”
martin’s eyes met yours, “because every time i came home, you looked disappointed.” you froze, your heart beating a hundred times a minute.
“i didn’t want to add more to it.”
your tears doubled because you never knew.
you never knew he saw your sadness as disappointment, you never knew he thought he was failing you, you never knew he was hurting too, you just didn't know.
the distance between you suddenly felt so stupid & unreasonable. you both were just two people hurting. two people convinced the other didn’t understand, when really; neither of you were speaking.
“come here,” you whispered.
martin didn’t move an inch, you stepped closer.
“please.”
his lip trembled and that was all it took before he crossed the room in seconds. you collided into each other, arms wrapping tightly around one another, desperate, like you were both terrified the other might disappear.
martin buried his face in your neck. and then he broke like a dam, actual sobs shook his body, “i’m sorry.” his voice came out muffled, “i’m so fucking sorry y/n.”
you cried into his shoulder, also muffling your cries. “i’m sorry too baby.” his grip tightened, “i don’t want to lose you.” immediately, you shook your head. “you won’t.” “i thought you were leaving.” martin breathed.
your heart dropped straight to your stomach. “what?”
“when you asked if i wanted to be here," his voice cracked, “i thought you were breaking up with me.”
for a minute,
maybe you had been.
not intentionally.
and judging by the look in his eyes, he knew.
martin pulled away just enough to look at you.
both of you looked awful. you both sported red eyes, tear-stained cheeks, frizzy hair.
yet somehow you both never thought each other looked more beautiful. “i don’t know how to do life without you.” you started crying again, because neither did you.
martin had become part of everything.
your routines, your mornings, your nights, your future, your home, your best friend, your person. you lifted your hands and cupped his face. martin immediately leaned into your touch, like he needed it, like he needed you.
“you're an idiot martin.” a watery laugh escaped him. “m'sorry.” you both laughed through the tears.
and for the first time in months... it felt like him; your martin.
martin’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing shaky & for a moment, neither of you spoke. you both simply stood there, holding each other, feeling each other’s heartbeat. feeling the warmth that had been missing for so long.
martin’s hand slid gently against your cheek. his brown eyes opened & looked at you. there was so much love in them that it nearly made you cry all over again.
“i love you y/n.”
his voice was barely above a whisper, and it sounded raw, exhausted, but loving.
you nodded immediately.
“i love you too tin’.”
his expression crumbled and before either of you could say anything else, he kissed you.
it felt like finding something you’d been searching for. martin’s lips trembled against yours, you could feel tear streaks on both your faces. but neither of you cared, because for the first time in months.. the distance was gone.
when you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. martin rested his forehead against yours and took a deep breath.
a small, tired smile appeared on his face as he whispered, “there you are.” your chest tightened. “yeah?”
his smile grew, “there’s my girl.”
and somehow, after all the yelling, the crying, the heartbreak, and the fear—that was the thing that finally made you cry again.
and maybe tomorrow would still be hard. maybe schedules would still suck. maybe arguments would still happen. but tonight, you remembered something important.
you were never supposed to fight each other.
you were supposed to fight for each other.
and as martin held you against his chest, kissing your forehead while both of you sniffled through the leftover tears, you knew one thing for certain.
info. fluff, angst, est. relationship, spiderkeon au heh, warnings. skinship (making out), violence, near-death experience, injuries, mentions of blood, parallels to the amazing spiderman, suicidal thoughts (not real tho)
synopsis. it's keonho's birthday, but being spider-man means the day rarely goes as planned. between robotics class naps, a scolding girlfriend, and a brush with death that shows him an alternate universe where he lost you, keonho learns what really matters.
LISTEN TO... halley's comet by billie eilish ... distant lover by marvin gaye ... high and dry by radiohead ... robbers by the 1975 ... say it aint so by weezer ... my all by mariah carey ... sienna by the marias
wc. 12.1k
▸ feedback & reblogs are highly appreciated
▸ not proofread
▸ hiiiighly requested (hyeon ver too lol)
maddy's note. SURPRISE LOL.... ive had this brewing for like 3 weeks bc it came to me in a dream. while i do see hyeon more as spiderman in the nerdy aspect, i think both 09z can pull it off well and i needed a bday fic idea SO!!!! i am still sick but i locked in the finish the final 1k of this fic so woop woop GOOD LUCK!!!
The fluorescent lights were buzzing and the school needed to change them. They were so fucking loud, he itched to climb up there and fix the wiring himself.
That was the first thing Keonho registered when he cracked one eye open—the persistent, annoying hum of the overhead lights in the robotics lab. The second thing he registered was the small puddle of drool on his forearm where his face had been pressed against the workbench.
Cool. Sweet. Very dignified of him.
He sat up slowly, peeling his cheek off the metal surface with a sound that was frankly embarrassing. His neck cracked in three places. His left arm was completely asleep, that pins-and-needles sensation making his fingers twitch uselessly.
The workshop was empty except for Seonghyeon, who was hunched over a soldering iron two tables away, so focused on whatever circuit board he was working on that he hadn't noticed Keonho had been dead to the world for—
Keonho checked his phone. 7:47 AM.
He'd fallen asleep at 6:15.
An hour and a half. He'd been passed out on a workbench for an hour and a half, and nobody had bothered to wake him up. Not even his best friend, who was right there, actively choosing to let him drool on expensive school equipment.
"Hyeon," Keonho croaked, his voice rough with sleep. He shook out his left arm, trying to get feeling back. "You just let me sleep?"
Seonghyeon didn't look up from his work. "You looked like you needed it."
"I was drooling."
"I know. I took a picture."
"What—"
"Already sent it to the group chat."
Keonho's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
He unlocked it to find approximately seven million messages in the CORTIS group chat, which Juhoon had renamed "keonho aegi's naptime" at some point during Keonho's impromptu nap.
juhoon
[TODAY, 7:46 AM]
LMFAOOOOO
james
[TODAY, 7:46 AM]
is he dead
martin
[TODAY, 7:46 AM]
Why does he sleep like a victorian child with tuberculosis
juhoon
[TODAY, 7:47 AM]
tuberculosis? bro...
💀💀💀
seonghyeon
[TODAY, 7:47 AM]
hes awake now
unfortunately
Keonho looked up to glare at Seonghyeon, who was now smirking at his circuit board like it had just told him a really good joke.
"I hate you," Keonho informed him.
"You love me. I'm literally your best friend."
"Best friend? You let me drool on robotics equipment and documented it for posterity."
"That's what best friends do." Seonghyeon finally looked up, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Also, you look like shit. When's the last time you actually slept? In a bed?"
Keonho tried to remember. Tuesday? Wednesday? Time was weird when you spent your nights swinging through Seoul stopping crimes.
"I sleep," he muttered defensively.
"Passing out on workbenches doesn't count."
"It should."
Seonghyeon gave him that look—the one that said I know you're Spider-Man and I know you're running yourself into the ground and I'm worried about you but I'm not going to say it out loud because we're teenage boys and we don't do emotional vulnerability.
They'd perfected that look over the past year.
"Just..." Seonghyeon sighed, turning back to his circuit board. "Try to take it easy today, yeah? It's your birthday. Incase you forgot."
Oh. Oh. That's right.
It was February 14th.
His birthday. He'd completely forgotten.
Before Keonho could respond, his phone buzzed again—but not from the group chat this time. A separate text from a number he didn't have saved.
Which was weird, because Keonho was religious about saving numbers. He had everyone in his phone—his members, his family, his teachers, the ahjumma who ran the convenience store near his house, even the guy who'd helped him fix his phone screen last year.
But this number? Completely blank.
unknown number
[7:49 AM]
did you seriously forget
He stared at the message, his sleep-deprived brain struggling to place the tone. Accusatory... exasperated... familiar in a way that made his chest tighten with something that felt an awful lot like guilt.
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:49 AM]
i cant believe you
im actually gonna lose it
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:50 AM]
AHN KEONHO.
Oh no. That was you, alright.
His girlfriend.
Who he'd somehow never properly saved in his phone after you'd changed numbers three months ago because he'd been so buried in Spider-Man stuff that he'd just... forgotten. Even though you'd reminded him. Multiple times.
Even though he knew your number by heart because he called you every night before bed (when he wasn't bleeding on a rooftop somewhere). Even though you were literally the most important person in his life besides his family and his friends.
He'd forgotten to save your number.
And apparently, he'd forgotten his own birthday. This was bad.
keonho
[TODAY, 7:50 AM]
baby why arent you saved in my phone
also forget what
The typing bubble appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
This was very bad.
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:51 AM]
im going to kill you
keonho
[TODAY, 7:51 AM]
???
what did i do
i just woke up
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:51 AM]
EXACTLY.
Keonho stared at his phone in confusion. He looked at Seonghyeon, who was now watching him with barely concealed amusement.
"Do you know what I forgot?" Keonho asked desperately.
"Oh, I know."
"Are you gonna tell me?"
"Absolutely not. This is way funnier."
"Some best friend you are."
"The best. That's why I'm not robbing you of this learning experience."
Keonho's phone buzzed again.
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:52 AM]
lunch. meet me. we need to talk.
Those four words—we need to talk—were possibly the most terrifying combination in the English language.
keonho
[TODAY, 7:52 AM]
am i in trouble
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:52 AM]
SO much trouble
the biggest trouble
trouble ur little pea brain cant even comprehend
keonho
[TODAY, 7:53 AM]
ok but like
on a scale of 1 to 10
unknown number
[TODAY, 7:53 AM]
11.
Keonho let his head fall forward onto the workbench with a dull thunk.
"I'm dead," he announced to the table. "I'm so dead."
"Probably," Seonghyeon agreed cheerfully. "But hey, at least you got a nap in first."\
You'd been waiting outside the south building for approximately seven minutes, which was approximately six minutes longer than you'd planned, because Ahn Keonho had apparently decided that being on time was optional today.
Your boyfriend was many things—brilliant, sweet, funny, occasionally heroic when he wasn't actively giving you a heart attack by swinging between buildings—but punctual was not one of them.
You were about to text him again when you finally spotted him.
Keonho was speed-walking across the courtyard with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair sticking up in about fifteen different directions like he'd been repeatedly electrocuted. His collar was loose and crooked. His shirt was untucked on one side. He looked like he'd gotten dressed in the dark while falling down a flight of stairs.
He also looked unfairly cute, which was annoying because you were supposed to be mad at him.
(You were mad at him. You were. The cuteness was incredibly irrelevant.)
When he got close enough, you didn't give him time to speak. You grabbed his wrist—felt his pulse jump under your fingers—and yanked him sideways, pulling him into the equipment closet tucked behind the building's side entrance.
"Wh—"
Keonho's entire body went rigid the second the door closed behind you. His free hand came up in a defensive position, muscles tensed. His eyes were wide and unfocused in that way they got when his spider-sense was screaming at him. For half a second, you could see him ready to fight—ready to protect himself from whatever threat his powers were warning him about.
Then he actually looked at you.
"Oh my god." He sagged against the wall like someone had cut his strings, one hand pressed to his chest. His heartbeat was visible in the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. "You—I thought—"
"You thought what?" You crossed your arms, blocking the door so he couldn't escape. The closet was tiny, barely big enough for both of you plus the mops and cleaning supplies. Keonho had to hunch slightly to avoid hitting his head on the shelf above him.
"I thought someone was trying to jump me," he admitted, still catching his breath.
"At school?"
"My life is weird! Things happen!" He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, making it worse. "You can't just grab me like that. My spider-sense goes crazy when—" He stopped, seeming to remember that you were the one who'd grabbed him, and why. "Wait. Why did you grab me like that?"
"Do you know what today is?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.
He blinked. Thought about it. You could see his brain working, processing, coming up empty.
"Friday?" he tried.
"Keonho."
"...February?"
"AHN KEONHO."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, I—" He stopped. Actually thought about it this time. You could literally see the moment it clicked, his eyes going wide with horror. "Oh. Oh shit."
"Yeah. Oh shit."
"It's my birthday."
"IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY."
"I forgot it was my birthday." He said it like he couldn't quite believe it himself. Like the words didn't make sense even as they were coming out of his mouth.
You wanted to hit him. Not hard—never hard—but enough to knock some sense into his sleep-deprived, overworked, self-sacrificing head.
"How," you said slowly, measuring each word, "do you forget your own birthday?"
"I was busy!"
"Busy doing what? Napping in robotics?"
"That—how did you know about that?"
"Seonghyeon sent me the picture."
Keonho's face went red. "Of course he did."
You pulled out your phone and showed him. He looked absolutely ridiculous—face-down on the workbench, mouth open, a small puddle of drool visible on his forearm. His hair was a disaster. One of his shoes had somehow come off.
"This is what your best friend sends me at 7:46 in the morning," you informed him, and you hated how your voice cracked slightly on the words. "This is how I find out my boyfriend is alive."
Something in his expression shifted. It softened. The embarrassment fading into something that looked like guilt.
"Baby—"
"Don't 'baby' me." You locked your phone, shoving it back in your pocket. "Do you know how worried I get? When you don't text me back? When I don't hear from you for hours?"
"I know—"
"Do you?" The words came out a little sharper than you meant them to. "Because you changed your number three months ago and I still have to text an unsaved number to reach you. Because you forget to eat. Because you fall asleep in robotics labs instead of your actual bed. Because every time my phone rings after midnight, I think it's going to be a hospital telling me you—"
You stopped and bit your lip. You weren't going to cry. You weren't.
Keonho was staring at you now, intensely staring, and you could see the exact moment he understood. His lips turned into that unintentional pout that made you regret yelling at him at all and his eyes glossed over.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—I should've saved your number. I should've remembered my birthday. I should've texted you back. You're right."
"I know I'm right."
"In my defense—"
"There is no defense for this, Keonho."
"I was up late!" He said it desperately, like he needed you to understand. "There were three separate things happening—the robbery in Brooklyn, the car chase near 32nd, and some guy was setting fires in SoHo. I couldn't just ignore it."
And there it was.
The thing you could never actually argue with.
Because he was right. He couldn't just ignore it. That wasn't who Ahn Keonho was—had never been who he was, even before the spider bite, even before the powers. He was the kid who'd stayed after school to help the janitor clean up after someone had trashed the cafeteria. The kid who'd given his umbrella to a stranger in the rain and walked home soaked. The kid who'd spent his lunch money buying food for stray cats behind the convenience store.
Being Spider-Man hadn't made him selfless. It had just given his selflessness teeth.
And you loved that about him. But you also hated it, sometimes, in the way you can only hate the things you love most—the things that scare you because you can't control them, can't protect them, can't keep them safe.
"I know," you sighed finally, softer now. "I know you can't ignore it. That's not—" You exhaled, feeling some of the fight drain out of you. "That's not what I'm mad about."
"Then what are you mad about?"
"You forgot your own birthday, Keonho." You looked up at him, at this boy who was somehow both the smartest person you knew and the most oblivious. "You forgot, and I spent three hours last night cooking for you, and setting up, and planning this whole thing because I wanted to make today special, and you just—" Your voice cracked again. Fuck. "You forgot."
His face crumpled and he stepped closer.
"I'm the worst boyfriend in the world," he said.
"You're not—"
"I am. I'm terrible. You did all that and I forgot my own birthday like some kind of—of—" He gestured helplessly at himself. "—disaster person."
"You're not a disaster person."
"I literally just woke up from napping on robotics equipment. There was drool."
"Okay, that's fair."
"I don't even remember falling asleep. One second I was fixing the servo mechanism, the next second I was waking up to Seonghyeon taking pictures of me for the group chat." He looked at you, and his eyes were so genuinely distressed that you felt your resolve cracking. "I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to forget."
You wanted to stay mad. You really did. But he was looking at you with those stupidly pretty eyes, all soft and apologetic and genuine, and you were incredibly weak when it came to Ahn Keonho.
"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered.
He perked up immediately, like a puppy hearing the word "walk." "I'm very cute."
"Shut up."
"The cutest. The most—"
You kissed him to shut him up.
He made a small surprised sound against your mouth—he always did, like he never quite expected you to kiss him even though you'd been dating for eight months—and then melted into it. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer in the tiny space. The kiss was soft and sweet and tasted like the convenience store coffee he'd probably mainlined between classes and something uniquely him.
When you pulled back, he was smiling like an idiot.
"Happy birthday," you croaked and pressed your lips together to avoid a smile.
"Best birthday ever," he said immediately. Those grabby hands of his tried pulling you closer again but you wouldn't let it.
"I haven't even given you your present yet."
"Don't need one. This is good. Amazing, even."
"You're so easy to please."
"Only for you." He said it simply, like it was just a fact. Like being easy to please for you was as natural as breathing.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. "Okay, Romeo. You need to get to class."
"Don't wanna."
"Keonho."
"Can't we just stay here? This closet is nice. Very cozy. Smells like—" He sniffed. "—lemon cleaner and determination."
"That's the dumbest thing you've ever said."
"I've said dumber things. Remember when I tried to explain quantum entanglement to you and accidentally described the plot of Interstellar instead?"
"You're such a nerd."
"Your nerd," he corrected, stealing another quick kiss before you could protest.
You shoved him lightly, trying to ignore how your heart did a stupid little flip at the words. Your nerd. Yeah. Yours.
"Go," you insisted. "Before someone finds us and we both get detention."
"Worth it," he grinned, but he squeezed past you anyway—the closet really was absurdly tiny—and paused with his hand on the door. "Hey. What time tonight?"
"What?"
"For my present. What time should I come over?"
You'd been planning to tell him at the end of the school day, had a whole speech prepared about how he better not be late or you'd personally web him to your fire escape, but fine.
"Nine," you said. "And don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You're literally always late. You were late to our first date."
"I was fighting crime!"
"You were also late to movie night last week, and you definitely weren't fighting crime because I could literally see you on Find My at the convenience store buying snacks."
"Those snacks were important," he protested. "You can't watch a movie without proper snack preparation. It's, like, a law."
"Keonho."
"Nine o'clock," he said quickly. "Got it. I'll be there. On time. Early, even. I'll be so early you'll be annoyed by how early I am."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
He flashed you one more smile—that insanely bright, genuine one that made your chest feel warm and tight and too full—and then he was gone, slipping out of the closet and back into the crowded hallway.
You waited a few seconds before following, giving him time to get far enough away that it wouldn't be obvious you'd been in there together.
keonho 🤍
[TODAY, 12:23 PM]
like REALLY pretty
i forgot to say it earlier
bc i was busy being a fuckup
keonho 🤍
[TODAY, 12:23 PM]
im gonna think about that kiss all day probably
keonho 🤍
[TODAY, 12:24 PM]
also im saving you in my phone now
RIGHT NOW
ur the loml
You smiled despite yourself, despite the fact that you'd been genuinely upset with him twenty minutes ago, despite everything.
you
[TODAY, 12:24 PM]
ur such a fucking dork
keonho 🤍
[TODAY, 12:24 PM]
ur dork
you
[TODAY, 12:25 PM]
yeah
mine unfortunately
And it was true. He was yours—this brilliant, stupid, selfless, oblivious boy who forgot his own birthday but never forgot to text you goodnight (even when he was bleeding on rooftops). Who saved people's lives and then came to you with scraped knuckles and tired eyes and told you about his day like it was nothing.
Yours.
You just wished he'd take better care of himself.
He was going to be late.
This was entirely the universe's fault, Keonho decided as he swung between buildings, his web shooters firing in rapid succession. The mechanical thwip-thwip-thwip of synthetic webbing launching from his wrists was the only sound besides wind and his own labored breathing.
He'd left with plenty of time. Had even factored in a stop at the flower shop near your apartment—the one run by the ahjumma who always gave him extra flowers because she thought his girlfriend was "such a sweet girl, so pretty, you better treat her right young man."
He was treating you right. He was trying to treat you right. Showing up on time with flowers was treating you right, wasn't it?
But then his spider-sense had kicked in.
Not the usual low-level buzz that meant something minor was wrong. This was different—sharp and insistent, like someone had stuck a live wire directly into his brain stem. The kind of sense that meant someone was in danger. Real danger.
So he'd ducked into an alley, changed into his suit (the one you'd helped him sew last month when he'd torn a hole in the side fighting that guy with the really aggressive baseball bat), and followed his instincts.
Which led him here: chasing three guys in black masks through Lower Manhattan.
They were armed. All three of them. He'd seen the guns when they'd burst out of the jewelry store on Canal Street, bags full of stolen merchandise, and his spider-sense had screamed so loud he'd almost fallen off the building he was perched on.
"Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" he called out, shooting a web at the closest guy's legs. "Here to ruin your evening!"
The guy went down hard, face-planting on the pavement with a sound that made Keonho wince. His gun skittered away across the asphalt, and Keonho webbed it to a wall before the guy could even think about reaching for it.
"One down!" He flipped over a parked yellow cab, narrowly avoiding a bullet that pinged off the metal where his head had been half a second before. "Two to go! You guys want to make this easy? No? Okay, cool, we're doing this the hard way!"
The second guy—bigger, angrier, definitely compensating for something—had ditched his gun in favor of a metal pipe he'd grabbed from god knows where. He swung it at Keonho's head with enough force to crack a skull.
Keonho's spider-sense screamed.
He ducked, felt the pipe whistle past his head close enough to ruffle his hair, and came up with his fist already moving. The punch connected with the guy's solar plexus—not hard enough to do serious damage (probably), but hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
The guy wheezed and doubled over.
Keonho webbed him to the nearest wall in one smooth motion, cocooning him from shoulders to ankles.
"Two down!" He was breathing hard now, adrenaline making everything sharp and bright and too fast. His phone was buzzing in his pocket—probably you, probably wondering where he was, probably getting progressively more annoyed with every minute he was late.
8:52 PM. Shit.
He needed to wrap this up. Now.
"Last chance to surrender, my guy!" Keonho called to the third man, who was backing away down the alley between a bodega and a shuttered dry cleaner, gun still raised. "Just put the gun down and we can all go home. I've got places to be. It's my birthday."
The guy didn't surrender. And so he fired.
Three shots in rapid succession, and Keonho's spider-sense went absolutely haywire—a shrieking alarm bell that made his teeth ache and his vision blur. He dodged the first two on pure instinct, his body moving before his brain caught up, twisting mid-air in ways that should've been impossible.
The third bullet—
It grazed his side.
Hot, sharp pain, like being burned and cut at the same time. Keonho gasped, one hand flying to his ribs. When he pulled it away, his glove was red.
Not a lot of red. Not arterial bleeding or anything that screamed "hospital immediately." Just enough to hurt like hell and soak through his suit.
"Shit," he breathed. and when he looked up, the guy was reloading.
Keonho didn't give him the chance. He webbed the gun out of his hands, then webbed the guy himself—wrapped him up like a mummy, nice and secure, definitely not getting out of that without industrial-strength scissors or a very patient NYPD officer.
"Okay," Keonho said to no one in particular. His side was burning. He could feel blood soaking into his suit, warm and wet and wrong. "Okay, that's fine. This is fine. Just grazed. No big deal."
It was probably not a big deal. Probably... he hoped to god.
He webbed up to a nearby roof, crouching low behind an air conditioning unit to catch his breath and assess the damage. His fingers came away red when he touched his side—not great, but not as much as he'd feared. The bleeding was already slowing.
8:56 PM.
He needed to move. He needed to get to your place. Needed to—
His vision blurred.
But it was just for a second. Just long enough for his spider-sense to spike again, different this time—not danger from outside but danger from inside, his body trying to warn him that something was very wrong.
Wait. No.
He was fine. The bullet had barely—
The world tilted. Keonho blinked, trying to focus, trying to stay conscious, because passing out on a rooftop bleeding from a gunshot wound was decidedly not part of tonight's plan.
He pulled out his phone with shaking hands.
8:57 PM.
Three missed calls from you and seven unread messages.
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:45 PM]
ur late
!!!!!!
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:48 PM]
keonho where are you
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:50 PM]
if you forgot i swear to god
this isn't funny
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:54 PM]
please tell me you're okay
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:55 PM]
keonho
im getting worried
His chest hurt, and not just from the bullet graze. His spider-sense spiked again—harder this time, insistent, screaming at him that something was wrong.
But nothing was wrong. The guys were webbed up. The cops would find them soon. He just needed to get moving, needed to swing to your apartment in Queens, needed to—
The dream. The one from this morning. The one he couldn't quite remember. It was coming back now, fragments coalescing into something coherent.
You. Falling. His webs catching you too late.
Your neck—
What the fuck? No.
His spider-sense wasn't warning him about now. It was warning him about what could happen. About what would happen if he kept being reckless, if he kept thinking he could handle everything alone, if he—
If he died.
The vision slammed into him with the force of a freight train.
He was standing on a rooftop. But not this rooftop. Somewhere taller, more industrial. Under construction, all exposed rebar and concrete and open air. The wind was howling.
And his spider-sense was screaming.
"Keonho!"
His head snapped toward the sound.
You.
You were there, at the edge of the building, but something was wrong. You were too close to the ledge, your feet slipping on loose gravel, your arms windmilling as you tried to keep your balance.
And behind you—
Behind you was nothing but just open air. The kind of drop that would—
"No!" Keonho lunged forward, his body moving on pure instinct. His web shooters fired—thwip—the webbing arcing through the air toward you.
But you were already falling.
He watched in slow motion as your foot slipped, as your balance gave out completely, as your body tipped backward into empty space. Your eyes went wide with terror, your mouth open in a scream he couldn't hear over the roaring in his ears.
"NO!"
He shot another web. Then another. Desperate, frantic, his hands moving faster than they ever had before. One web caught your wrist—he felt the tension as it went taut, felt the weight of you suddenly suspended in midair.
He'd caught you. Right? He'd—
The web snapped. Or maybe it didn't snap. Maybe you just slipped free. Maybe his aim was off. It didn't matter.
You were falling again. And this time he couldn't...
He shot another web, caught your ankle this time, and pulled with everything he had. His muscles screamed in protest as he swung you back toward the building, trying to get you close enough to grab, to hold, to save—
But the momentum was wrong. The angle was wrong. Everything was wrong. You hit the side of the building hard—too hard—and he heard the sickening crack that meant bones breaking, that meant internal damage, that meant—
"No no no no no—"
He was pulling you up now, hand over hand on the webbing, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might explode. He could see you dangling there, limp and unmoving, and the web was dissolving (it always dissolved, that was how it worked, biodegradable in two hours) and he needed to reach you before you...
His fingers closed around your wrist. He hauled you up onto the roof, cradling you against his chest, and—
Fuck, your neck. Your neck was bent at an angle that necks weren't supposed to bend.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, baby, please—"
He ripped off his mask with one hand, pressing his fingers to your throat, searching for a pulse. There had to be a pulse. There had to be.
Nothing.
Your eyes were open but unseeing. Those gorgeous eyes of yours stared at something beyond him, beyond the building, beyond everything.
"Please," he begged, and he was crying now, tears streaming down his face. "Please don't—you can't—"
But you already had. Your neck had broken. The fall, the impact, the—
He'd tried to save you. He'd fucking caught you.
And he'd killed you anyway.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, pressing his forehead to yours. Your skin was already getting cold. "I'm so sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, I—"
"It wasn't your fault."
Keonho's head snapped up. Standing a few feet away was...
Himself.
But not himself. An older version, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, with longer hair and a scar across his cheek that Keonho didn't have yet. This future Keonho was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, hands in his pockets, looking at present-day Keonho with something that looked like pity.
"What—" Keonho's voice cracked. He was still holding you, couldn't let go, couldn't bear to let go. "What is this? What's happening?"
"Warning me about what? She's—she's dead, I killed her, I—"
"You didn't kill her. But you could. If you're not careful. If you keep being reckless. If you keep thinking you're invincible." Future Keonho stepped closer, and his voice was heavy with something that sounded like experience and scorn. "This isn't about her dying in some freak accident. It's about you dying, and what happens after."
Keonho looked down at you in his arms. At your broken neck, your lifeless eyes. The image was searing itself into his brain, burning itself into every synapse until he knew he'd never be able to unsee it.
"This isn't real?" he whispered.
"It's real enough. It's a possible future. One of many." Future Keonho gestured, and the scene shifted—
Suddenly Keonho was somewhere else. A hospital hallway. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and death. Your face, tear-stained and devastated, staring at something through a window. He followed your gaze and saw—
Himself.
His own body on a table. A white sheet pulled up. Doctors shaking their heads. A nurse checking the time.
"Pronounced dead at 9:37 PM." Only 37 minutes after he was supposed to come over.
No. No no no no.
That wasn't right. That wasn't—
He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He had plans tonight. He had dinner. He had you. He had—
"You bled out in that alley," Future Keonho said quietly. "Thought you could make it to her apartment. Thought you were fine. But you weren't fine. You passed out mid-swing and fell three stories. By the time someone found you..."
The scene shifted again.
Your apartment. Late at night. You were sitting on your bed, phone in your hand, staring at the messages you'd sent him. The ones he'd never answered.
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:45 PM]
you're late
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 8:56 PM]
im getting worried
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 9:15 PM]
keonho please answer
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 9:47 PM]
where are u
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 10:23 PM]
im scared
the love of my life ❣️
[TODAY, 11:01 PM]
please be okay
And then the call. The one from the police. The one that shattered everything.
He watched as you crumpled. He watched as you screamed into your pillow so your parents wouldn't hear. Watched as you stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped being you in all the ways that mattered.
Because of his decision. Because of him.
Weeks passed in seconds. He watched you attend his funeral, watched you stand at his grave in Brooklyn, watched you slowly stop functioning.
"She loved you," Future Keonho said. "More than anything. And when you died, part of her died too."
"Stop," Keonho whispered, voice cracking intensely and he couldn't even be bothered to care.
"She tried to keep going. For a while. Your members tried to help. Her friends tried to help. But grief isn't something you can logic your way out of."
"Stop."
"And one night, six months later—"
The scene shifted one final time. That same rooftop. The construction site. But this time it was you standing at the edge, and you weren't slipping.
You were choosing.
"STOP!"
The vision shattered.
Future Keonho stood in front of him, expression grave. "You see it now, don't you? This isn't about saving her from some villain. It's about saving her from what happens when you don't save yourself."
Keonho was shaking. He couldn't stop shaking.
Why? Nothing was happening. He was fine. Were you fine? Fuck, he needed to see you.
"That dream you had this morning," Future Keonho continued. "The one you couldn't remember when you woke up. That was your spider-sense trying to warn you. Trying to show you what could happen if you're not more careful."
The dream. The one where you'd been in trouble, where you'd been falling, where he'd tried to save you but—
"I don't want this," Keonho said hoarsely. "I don't want any of this. I just want her to be safe. I just want her to be alive."
"Then you need to be alive too. You need to stop being so goddamn stubborn about asking for help." Future Keonho crouched down to his level. "You're bleeding out right now. In the real world. You've got maybe five, ten minutes before you pass out. Before this—" he gestured at the frozen scene of your grief, "—becomes real."
"What do I do?"
"You get up. You go to her. You let her take care of you for once instead of trying to handle everything alone." Future Keonho's voice softened. "Being Spider-Man doesn't mean being invincible. It means being smart enough to know when you need someone."
Keonho looked at the frozen image of you. Grief-stricken. Broken. Standing on that ledge.
"I can't let that happen to her," he whispered.
"Then don't." Future Keonho started to fade. "Go to her. Now. Before it's too late."
"Okay," Keonho breathed. "Okay."
"And Keonho?"
"Yeah?"
"Happy birthday."
Keonho gasped, eyes flying open.
He was back on the real rooftop. Still bleeding and still in danger. But alive.
Still alive.
It absolutely pissed him off to another level that some mediocre level baddies were the ones to bring him to this huge epiphany of his but he guessed it was better than losing you altogether.
His side was throbbing, blood seeping through his suit, but it wasn't as bad as the vision had made it seem. Not yet. He had time. Not much time but he was sure it was enough. He stood on shaking legs and fired a web toward Queens.
Toward you.
You'd blown out the candles on the cake.
Not because you were making a wish—what was there to wish for except for your boyfriend to show up?—but because the wax was dripping onto the frosting, hot droplets sliding down the sides in slow rivulets that pooled on the plate beneath. You'd spent too long making this stupid cake—three layers of chocolate with vanilla buttercream, his favorite—for it to be ruined by candle wax now.
Your phone had been silent for thirty minutes.
The food you'd made was getting cold on the fire escape. Six different containers of his favorite things—japchae with extra sesame oil, the way he liked it; gimbap rolled so tight the rice didn't fall apart; tteokbokki that had taken you four tries to get the spice level right. The fairy lights you'd strung up hours ago were twinkling cheerfully above it all, their warm yellow glow mocking you in the darkness. The blanket you'd laid out—the soft fleece one from your bed—was covered in rose petals that were starting to wilt in the February cold, their edges browning and curling inward.
Inside your room, your record player was spinning. You'd put on your and Keonho's favorite vinyls earlier, back when you'd still been excited instead of worried, back when your hands hadn't been shaking every time you checked your phone. Marvin Gaye's "Distant Lover" was playing now, the opening guitar notes drifting through your open window, melancholic and yearning and so painfully appropriate it almost hurt.
Distant lover, lover...
The irony wasn't lost on you.
You were sitting on your bed, knees pulled up to your chest, phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline. Your room was dim—just your desk lamp on, casting everything in soft shadow. The fairy lights from the fire escape bled through your window, painting stripes of gold across your floor.
You were starting to spiral.
Because Keonho was always late, sure, but he always texted. Always called. Always let you know he was okay, even when he was bleeding on a rooftop somewhere, even when he was mid-swing between buildings, even when his hands were shaking so bad he could barely type.
God, you hated that you'd just thought "even when he was bleeding on a rooftop somewhere" like it was a normal thing. Like your boyfriend being Spider-Man was just a quirky personality trait and not something that gave you constant heart attacks. Like the fact that he risked his life every single night was just another item on the list of things you loved about him, filed somewhere between "makes terrible puns" and "cries during Pixar movies."
You checked your phone again.
9:15 PM.
The numbers glowed blue-white in the darkness, accusatory. Fifteen minutes past when he was supposed to be here.
The last text he'd sent was at 8:57: im ok. spider-man stuff. be there soon. i promise
That was eighteen minutes ago.
Eighteen minutes of silence. Eighteen minutes of your imagination conjuring up every possible worst-case scenario—him unconscious in an alley, him bleeding out on a rooftop, him falling, always falling, because that's what you dreamed about sometimes. The falling. The moment when his webs didn't catch, when his reflexes weren't fast enough, when physics won.
Your thumb hovered over his contact. You could call. You should call. But what if he was in the middle of something? What if your call distracted him at exactly the wrong moment? What if the sound of his phone ringing was the thing that made him lose focus, lose his grip, lose—
Your phone rang.
The sudden vibration in your hands made you jump so hard you nearly dropped it. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked at the screen, desperate to see his name, needing to see his name—
But it wasn't Keonho's name on the screen.
It was Seonghyeon's.
Your stomach dropped so fast you felt nauseous.
No. No no no. Seonghyeon only called you when something was wrong. When Keonho couldn't call you himself.
"Hello?" Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, thin and afraid.
Behind you, Marvin Gaye crooned through the speakers, his voice smooth and aching. Distant lover, so many miles away...
"Hey." Seonghyeon's voice was careful. Too careful. The kind of careful people used when they were about to deliver bad news and didn't want you to panic before they got the words out. "So, um. Don't panic—"
"Oh my god, what happened?" The words tumbled out in a rush. Your free hand was already clutching your comforter, twisting the fabric between your fingers. "Is he okay? Seonghyeon, is he—"
"He's okay," Seonghyeon said quickly, and you could hear him trying to sound reassuring, trying to keep his own voice steady. "He's okay. He just—he called me about ten minutes ago. Said he got grazed by a bullet but he's fine, he's conscious, he's swinging—"
"He got shot?!"
The word came out as a strangled shout. You were on your feet now without remembering standing up, pacing the small space between your bed and your desk. Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in your temples.
"Grazed," Seonghyeon emphasized, and you could hear the effort it took to keep his voice level. "He said it's not bad. Just a graze. But he wanted me to call you and let you know he's on his way to your place. He didn't want you to worry."
"He got shot and he didn't want me to worry." You heard your own voice rising, cracking, tipping toward hysterical. "He got SHOT, Seonghyeon!"
"I know, I know. But he's okay. I promise. He sounded okay on the phone. Tired, but okay. His voice was steady. He was making jokes about it, you know how he gets—" Seonghyeon paused, and you heard him take a breath. "He should be there any minute."
"How far away is he?"
"He said he was in Manhattan when he called, so maybe—"
Knock knock knock.
You froze.
The sound had come from your window. Three sharp raps against glass that cut through Marvin Gaye's crooning, through your racing thoughts, through everything.
The record skipped slightly, caught on some microscopic scratch, and Marvin Gaye's voice stuttered before continuing. ...many miles away...
"Hold on," you breathed into the phone.
Your feet carried you across the room without conscious thought. The hardwood was cold under your bare feet. Your desk lamp cast long shadows that stretched toward the window, toward the curtains you'd drawn earlier.
"Is he there?" Seonghyeon asked, and there was relief in his voice now. "Did he make it?"
You didn't answer. You were already crossing your room, heart hammering, hands shaking as you reached for the window latch. The metal was cold under your fingers.
The curtain was drawn—pale blue fabric that blocked out the fairy lights from the fire escape, blocked out the city beyond, blocked out everything. You couldn't see outside. But you knew.
You knew who was on the other side.
"I'll call you back," you told Seonghyeon, and hung up before he could respond.
For a moment, you just stood there, hand on the latch, trying to steady your breathing. Trying to prepare yourself for whatever you were about to see.
He was fine. Seonghyeon had said he was fine. He'd made it here. He was on the other side of this window, waiting for you to let him in. He was—
Knock knock.
It was quieter this time. Not deliberately because it was weaker. The sound barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears.
Your heart lurched. You yanked the curtain aside.
Keonho was clinging to the side of your building.
That was the first thing you registered—not that he was there, not that he was okay, but that he was clinging. One hand pressed flat against your window frame, the other clutched to his side. His spider-suit—the red and blue one you'd helped him sew back together last month—was dark with blood. Or maybe it just looked dark in the shadows. You couldn't tell. Couldn't think.
His mask was still on, but you could see everything the mask couldn't hide. The way his chest was heaving, ribs expanding and contracting too fast under the spandex. The way his fingers were trembling where they gripped the window frame, knuckles white with effort. The way his whole body was tilted wrong, favoring his left side, like standing upright took too much energy.
The way blood was seeping between the fingers pressed to his ribs.
Not a lot of blood. Not horror-movie amounts. But enough. Enough that it was visible even in the dim light from your room, enough that you could see it dripping, slow and thick, down his suit.
"Oh my god."
Your hands were on the latch before you finished speaking. You wrenched the window open so fast you almost broke it, the old wood frame protesting with a loud crack that you barely heard over the rushing in your ears.
"Get in here," you demanded, your voice coming out hoarse. "Now. Get in here now."
He half-climbed, half-fell through your window.
You tried to catch him but he was too heavy, all lean muscle and momentum, and you both went down in a tangle of limbs. He landed hard on your bedroom floor with a sound that was part gasp, part groan, and you scrambled to your knees beside him.
"Let me see," you demanded, reaching for his hand—the one pressed to his side, the one that was slick with blood. The record player was still going behind you—Marvin Gaye fading out, the next song queuing up with a soft crackle of vinyl. "Move your hand, let me see—"
"It's not that bad," he mumbled, but his voice was weak. Thready. Like he was talking through water. "Just a graze. I'm fine."
"You are NOT fine, you're bleeding on my floor—"
Your hands were shaking as you carefully peeled his hand away from his side. The suit was torn—a clean slice through the fabric, edges dark and wet. When you pressed the tear wider, carefully, your fingers came away red.
The wound was about three inches long, running diagonal across his ribs. Deep enough that you could see—god, you could see layers, could see where the bullet had carved through skin and tissue. The edges were angry and red, already trying to clot but not fast enough. Blood welled up steadily, soaking into the torn fabric of his suit.
But it wasn't arterial. You could tell that much from the color, from the flow. Dark red, not bright. Steady, not spurting. Not a graze, not really, but not life-threatening either.
You made a choked sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. Relief and terror in equal measure.
"You scared the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry." He reached up with his free hand, his fingers finding yours. They were cold, trembling, leaving smears of red on your skin. "I'm so sorry. I tried to get here faster but—"
"Shut up." You squeezed his hand, hard enough that it probably hurt. "Just—shut up and let me fix you."
You stood on shaking legs, your knees protesting. Your room spun for a second—adrenaline crash, probably, or shock, or just the surreal absurdity of having your boyfriend bleeding on your bedroom floor again.
You grabbed your first aid kit from under your bed—the one you'd started keeping after the first time he'd shown up bleeding. It had been a small drugstore kit back then, just band-aids and antiseptic. Now it was a tackle box stuffed with supplies you'd accumulated over months. Gauze in three different sizes. Medical tape. Butterfly bandages. Antiseptic wipes and hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol. Actual sutures that you'd bought from a medical supply website and learned how to use from YouTube videos because dating Spider-Man meant learning field medicine, apparently.
When you turned back, Keonho had managed to pull his mask off.
His hair was a mess, dark and sweat-damp, plastered to his forehead in chaotic spikes. His face was pale—not ghost-white, but wan, like all the blood had drained from his cheeks. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, corners turned down with pain. But his eyes were on you.
Always on you.
Dark brown and red-rimmed and exhausted, but focused. Tracking your movements as you knelt beside him again, as you opened the tackle box and started pulling out supplies.
"This is going to hurt," you warned, your hands already reaching for the antiseptic wipes.
"It already hurts."
"It's going to hurt more."
"I can take it."
He couldn't, actually.
He hissed through his teeth when you pressed the first antiseptic wipe to his wound—a sharp intake of breath that ended in a barely-suppressed whimper. His hand squeezed yours so hard you thought your fingers might break, bones grinding together. But he didn't complain. Didn't tell you to stop. Just kept his eyes fixed on your face like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness.
"You're an idiot," you muttered as you worked, carefully wiping away blood and dirt. Your hands were steadier now, muscle memory taking over. This wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. "Such an idiot. What were you thinking? You should've gone to a hospital—"
"Couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because you were waiting for me." His voice was soft. Raw. "And I promised I'd be here. Even if I was late. I promised."
Your hands stilled.
You looked up at him—really looked—and saw past the exhaustion, past the pain. Saw the fear that he was trying so hard to hide. The guilt. The absolute devotion that made your chest ache.
"Keonho," you whispered.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "I'm sorry I forgot it was my birthday. I'm sorry I got shot. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm just—I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing and hold still." You went back to cleaning the wound, blinking hard against the tears that were threatening to spill. "I need to see if this needs actual stitches or if I can butterfly it."
It needed stitches. Of course it needed stitches.
You'd practiced this before—on oranges first, their thick peel similar to skin. Then on chicken breast from the grocery store, the raw pink meat that made you nauseous at first. And once on Seonghyeon when he'd split his hand open on a circuit board in robotics and hadn't wanted to go to the nurse.
But this was different.
This was Keonho, bleeding on your floor, trusting you to put him back together with thread and trembling hands.
"This is really going to hurt," you warned again, threading the curved needle with shaking fingers.
"I know."
"Like, really really hurt. Worse than the antiseptic. Worse than anything—"
"Shut up. I trust you."
Those three words nearly broke you.
But you steadied your hands and threaded the needle.
The first stitch made him gasp—a sharp, punched-out sound like all the air had left his lungs. The second made him bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, red blooming at the corner of his mouth. By the third, tears were streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the grime and sweat, but he didn't make a sound.
"I'm sorry," you kept whispering, a mantra, a prayer. "I'm sorry, I'm almost done, just hold on—"
"Keep talking," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "Please. Just—talk about something. Anything."
So you talked.
You told him about your day. About how you'd spent three hours cooking his favorite foods—how you'd burned the first batch of japchae because you'd been too distracted checking your phone to watch the heat. How you'd had to start over, running to the corner store for more ingredients, your hands shaking the whole time with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
You told him about stringing up the fairy lights on the fire escape, how you'd almost fallen off the ladder twice because you were trying to get them perfect, trying to recreate that one photo you'd seen on Pinterest. About arranging the rose petals on the blanket, spacing them out with careful precision even though you knew the wind would mess them up eventually.
About setting up the candles on the cake—seventeen of them, one for each year plus one to grow on—and how you'd had to relight them three times because the February wind kept blowing them out.
You told him about putting on your vinyl collection—the records you'd been collecting together since your third date, when he'd dragged you to that record store in Brooklyn that smelled like dust and nostalgia. Marvin Gaye and Radiohead and Weezer, all the albums you'd spent hours listening to in his room or yours, sprawled on the floor with your heads touching and the music washing over you.
About how excited you'd been. How you'd checked your phone every five minutes starting at eight-thirty, each notification making your heart jump only to crash when it wasn't him.
How worried you'd been when he didn't show up on time. When he didn't text back. When nine o'clock came and went and your messages went from playful (you're late) to concerned (keonho where are you) to desperate (please tell me you're okay).
When Seonghyeon had called and said he'd been fucking shot.
"I thought—" Your voice cracked. You were on the last stitch now, almost done, your fingers moving on autopilot. "I thought I was going to lose you."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that." The words came out sharper than you meant them to. "You can't know that. You could've died tonight, Keonho. In some alley in Manhattan, and I wouldn't have even known until—"
"Hey." His hand found yours again, squeezed weakly. His palm was clammy, fingers trembling, but his grip was sure. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can." His voice was firm despite the pain. "Because I'm not going to let that happen. I promise."
You tied off the last stitch with hands that shook, your fingers fumbling with the knot. It wasn't pretty—the stitches were uneven, some tighter than others, the kind of work that would make a real doctor wince. But it would hold. It would heal.
He would heal.
"Done," you whispered.
"Thank you."
You carefully covered the wound with gauze, cutting strips of medical tape with scissors that rattled in your shaking grip. Your fingers were gentle as they smoothed over the bandage, pressing the edges down to make sure it would stay. Then you helped him sit up against your bed, one hand supporting his back, the other carefully avoiding his injured side.
He winced with every movement, his jaw clenched tight, but he didn't complain.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
You just sat there on your bedroom floor, surrounded by the debris of emergency first aid. Bloody gauze piled beside you. Antiseptic wipes stained red. The first aid kit open like a mouth, supplies spilling out. The metallic smell of blood mixing with the chemical tang of antiseptic, sharp enough to make your nose wrinkle.
Your hardwood floor had drops of blood on it—a trail from the window to where you sat. You'd have to clean that later. Before your parents came home from their dinner party. Before literally anyone saw.
You didn't know if it was worse for your parents to find your boyfriend in your room home alone or Spiderman.
The record player had moved on. Some Radiohead album now—The Bends, you thought, though your brain was too scattered to be sure. "High and Dry" drifted through the room, Thom Yorke's voice ethereal and sad, reverb making it sound like he was singing from underwater.
Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever...
"I had a vision," Keonho said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse. "When I was bleeding on that roof. My spider-sense showed me something."
You looked at him. Really looked. Saw the way his eyes had gone distant, unfocused, like he was seeing something beyond your room, beyond now.
"What did it show you?"
He told you. All of it.
The building—some construction site, all exposed rebar and concrete. You, falling. His webs catching you too late, the wrong angle, the momentum all wrong. The sickening crack of your neck breaking in his arms.
The alternate timeline where he'd died in that alley, bled out before anyone found him. Where you'd gotten the call from the police, your phone lighting up with an unknown number that shattered your entire world.
Where you'd stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped being you in all the ways that mattered. Where six months later, you'd stood on the edge of a building and chosen to follow him.
His voice broke on that part, cracking clean through the middle like ice. You squeezed his hand tighter, your thumb rubbing circles on his knuckles, feeling the delicate bones shift under his skin.
"It wasn't real," you said when he finished. Your voice was steady even though your hands weren't. "It was just your spider-sense. Just your brain trying to warn you."
"I know." He looked at you, really looked, and his eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted and so, so scared. Young in a way that made your chest ache. "But it felt real. I watched you die, and I couldn't—" His breath hitched. "I can't lose you. And you can't—you can't do what I saw. If something happens to me, you can't—"
"Nothing's going to happen to you." Your voice was fierce now and incredibly sharp with conviction. "Because you're going to be more careful. You're going to call Seonghyeon when you're hurt. You're going to come to me instead of trying to handle everything alone. Right?"
"Right."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I promise," he said, and this time his voice was steady. Determined. His eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "I promise I'll be more careful. I promise I'll ask for help. I promise I won't make you go through that."
Something in your chest cracked open.
All the fear, all the worry, all the love you'd been holding in for the past hour came flooding out like a dam breaking.
You surged forward and kissed him. Because you were angry.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was desperate and messy and tasted like salt from both your tears, like copper from where he'd bitten his lip. Your hands cupped his face, fingers threading into his sweat-damp hair, and he made a surprised sound against your mouth—a soft oh—before kissing you back just as fiercely.
His good arm came around you, hand splaying wide across your back, pulling you closer. You shifted forward without thinking—too eager, too relieved, too desperate to feel him solid and real and alive under your hands—climbing into his lap.
He hissed in pain.
The sound cut through everything. It was sharp and involuntary, his body went rigid beneath you.
"Shit—" You tried to pull back immediately, tried to climb off him, your hands pushing against his shoulders. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"No." His arm tightened around your waist, keeping you there. His voice was strained, tight with pain, but firm. "Stay."
"Keonho, I'm hurting you—"
"I don't care." He pulled you back down, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath was hot against your lips, coming in short pants. "Stay. Please. I need—I just need you to stay."
"You're bleeding—"
"I'm fine."
"You literally just hissed in pain—"
"Because you were trying to leave." His hand slid up your back, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. "That hurts worse."
Your heart stuttered in your chest.
"You're such an idiot," you whispered, but you stayed. Carefully redistributed your weight, shifting so you were straddling his thighs instead of putting pressure on his injured side.
"Your idiot," he murmured, and kissed you again.
This time it was slower and distinctively deeper. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to get a better angle, and you melted into him like butter, like honey, like something soft and sweet. Your hands traced the lines of his face—the sharp cut of his jaw, the high arch of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose with its slight bump from when he'd broken it fighting that guy with the crowbar.
You were trying to memorize him through touch alone. Every angle, every plane, every detail that made him him.
The record player moved to the next song. Weezer now—"Say It Ain't So" filling the room with its distinctive opening bass line, fuzzy and warm and nostalgic.
Oh yeah, all right, feels good inside...
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead still pressed against his. Your noses bumped. You could count his eyelashes from this close, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"I was so scared," you admitted.
"I know." His thumb brushed away a tear you didn't know you'd shed, the pad of it rough against your cheek. "I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
"Okay." He kissed the corner of your mouth, soft and sweet. Then your cheek, right where the tear had been. Then the spot just below your ear that always made you shiver, that he'd discovered by accident one night and had been exploiting ever since. "Is this better than apologizing?"
You let out a watery laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his suit. "Much better."
His lips found yours again, and this kiss was different. Sweeter. Full of all the things you couldn't say out loud—I love you, I need you, I can't lose you, please don't ever scare me like that again, please please please.
Your hands slid down to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms. Strong and steady and alive. The thump-thump-thump of it against your skin, proof that he was here, that he was okay, that the vision hadn't come true.
So alive.
"I love you," you whispered against his mouth.
"I love you too." He kissed you again, gentle and reverent, like you were something precious. "So much. You have no idea."
"I think I have some idea." You pulled back to look at him properly, your hands still on his chest. "You swung across half of Manhattan bleeding to get to me."
"I'd swing across the whole country if I had to." He said it so simply, like it was just a fact. Like there was no question.
"That's anatomically impossible."
"I'd find a way."
You laughed and the sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. You pressed your face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. Sweat and blood and that cheap bodega cologne he refused to stop buying even though you'd offered to get him something better. And underneath it all, just him. Just Keonho. Warm and alive and here.
"You're staying here tonight," you said and your voice was muffled against his skin. "No arguments."
"My mom—"
"I'll text your mom. I'll tell her you're sleeping over for your birthday. She likes me, she'll believe it."
"What about Spider-Man? What if something happens—"
"Then someone else can handle it for one night." You pulled back to look at him, your expression firm. "You're hurt. You need rest. And I need—" You swallowed hard. "I need to know you're okay. I need to see you breathing. So you're staying."
He studied your face for a long moment, and you could see him wanting to argue. Could see the responsibility weighing on him, the guilt, the constant awareness that somewhere out there, someone might need help.
But then his expression softened.
"Okay," he agreed quietly.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. "Okay."
"Good." You carefully climbed off his lap, ignoring his small sound of protest. "Because I didn't spend three hours making you dinner for you to not eat it."
"It's probably cold."
"I don't care."
"The candles probably melted all over the cake."
"Still don't care." You stood and offered him your hand. "Come on."
He let you help him to his feet—slow, careful, his hand gripping yours tight enough that you could feel every tremor. He winced but didn't complain, didn't protest when you slid your arm around his waist to support him.
Together you made your way to the window.
The fire escape was exactly as you'd left it, like a photograph, like a moment frozen in time. The blanket spread out over the metal grating, its soft fleece corners fluttering in the February wind. Rose petals scattered across it like confetti, some blown into the corners, some stuck to the blanket with moisture from the cold. The fairy lights overhead casting everything in warm yellow light, strung in careful loops along the railing.
The food in its containers, lids still on, condensation beading on the plastic. The cake on its plate, candles dark now, wax melted and pooled on the chocolate frosting in uneven rivulets.
It looked exactly like what it was: a labor of love. Hours of work. Hours of hope.
Keonho stared at it all, his expression doing something complicated. Soft and aching and overwhelmed all at once.
"You did all this?" His voice was rough, scratchy in the way it got when he was trying not to cry. "For me?"
"Of course I did." You climbed out first, the metal cold under your bare feet, then helped him through the window. The February air was sharp, cold enough to make your breath visible, but not unbearable. Not when you were this close to him. "It's your birthday."
"Best birthday ever," he said softly.
"Your birthday where you got shot and I had to give you stitches on my bedroom floor?"
"Yeah." He pulled you close with his good arm, careful not to disturb his bandages. His hand settled on your hip, thumb tracing small circles through your sweater, the touch warm even through the fabric. "Because you're here and you waited for me. Because you—" He gestured at the fire escape with his free hand, at all the evidence of your love spread out around you. The food, the lights, the cake, the petals. "—because you did all this."
You felt tears prick at your eyes again. "You're such a sap."
"Your sap."
"Yeah," you agreed softly, turning in his arms to face him properly. Your hands came up to rest on his chest again, feeling that steady heartbeat under your palms.
Proof of life.
"Mine."
You kissed him again—couldn't help it, couldn't stop yourself, couldn't resist the pull of him. And he kissed you back like he'd been waiting for it, like even thirty seconds without your lips on his was thirty seconds too long.
His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer, and you went willingly. Carefully and mindful of his injury but unable to resist the gravity of him, the way he anchored you, the way he made you feel safe even when everything was terrifying.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing hard, your breath mingling in the cold air between you.
"Food," you managed, your voice unsteady. "You need to eat."
"Don't want food." He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the soft spot below your ear. "Want this. Want you."
"Keonho—"
"Fine." He sighed dramatically but settled onto the blanket, letting you prop him up with pillows against the railing. The metal was cold through the fabric, but he didn't complain. "But only because you went to all this trouble."
You settled beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched, your thighs pressed together. You started opening containers, the lids popping with soft sounds. The japchae was cold, the noodles slightly congealed. The gimbap was definitely room temperature, the rice starting to firm up. The tteokbokki had lost its heat, the sauce thick and sticky.
But Keonho ate it all like it was the best meal he'd ever had.
"This is so fucking good," he mumbled through a mouthful of japchae, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
"It's cold."
"Don't care." He reached for more, his chopsticks clicking against the container. "You made it. That makes it automatically the best food ever."
"You're delirious from blood loss."
"I'm delirious from you."
You groaned, but you were smiling. "That was terrible."
"You love it."
"Whatever, nerd."
He grinned. His dumb bright cheesy grin that made your chest feel too full, like your ribs couldn't quite contain your heart—and stole a kiss before reaching for the gimbap.
You watched him eat, your own heart settling into something that felt almost like peace. He was here. He was alive. He was eating your terrible cold food on your fire escape in Queens, surrounded by wilted rose petals and melted candles, and smiling like an idiot.
He was okay.
Around you, the city breathed. Car horns honked in the distance. Sirens wailed somewhere blocks away. Someone was shouting in Korean from an apartment across the alley. The subway rumbled underground, shaking the fire escape slightly. The smell of someone's dinner drifted up from below—kimchi jjigae, probably, the fermented spice unmistakable.
Normal sounds. Normal smells. A normal Friday night in Queens.
Except nothing about this was normal. It was special. Every night with you was.
"Make a wish," you giggled eventually, holding up the cake with its melted candles.
The wax had pooled on the frosting, created strange abstract patterns in brown and white. Some of the candles had tilted, leaning drunkenly to one side. It looked nothing like the perfect birthday cake you'd imagined. But Keonho looked at it like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"The candles aren't lit," he pointed out.
"So? Wishes don't need fire." You held the cake closer to him. "They just need hope."
He was quiet for a moment, looking at the cake, at you, at the fairy lights overhead. His expression was soft and open in a way it rarely was, all his defenses down, all his walls lowered.
"I don't need to wish for anything," he sighed finally. "I've got everything I want right here."
"That's so freakin' cheesy."
"You love it."
"I hate that I love it," you repeated, but you were smiling.
He leaned in and kissed you again—soft and sweet and tasting like cold tteokbokki and frosting he'd stolen from the cake when he thought you weren't looking. When he pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots.
"Happy birthday, Spider-Man," you whispered and wiped stray frosting from his chin.
"Best birthday ever," he whispered back completely lost in your compelling and alive and breathing eyes.
And he meant it this time.
Because here, on your fire escape in Queens, with the city lights twinkling below like fallen stars and the sky above light-polluted and empty, with your arms around him and his side aching and your hearts both still racing—
This was everything. This was enough. Even though his real one wasn't far, you were home.
Inside, the record player kept spinning. Radiohead faded into the next album, into the next song, the music drifting through your open window like a soundtrack to the best worst birthday either of you had ever had. The needle hissed softly between tracks, that comforting crackle of vinyl that meant real, that meant tangible, that meant something you could hold onto.
And somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving, kept breathing, kept needing Spider-Man.
But for tonight—just for tonight—Spider-Man could rest.
Keonho could rest.
And you could hold him, and kiss him, and remind him that he didn't have to save everyone. Just himself.
