The city screamed around them in a symphony of sirens and shattering glass, but Jisung's heart hammered louder against his ribs, trapped somewhere between terror and exhilaration. He clung to the side of a Midtown skyscraper, his suit torn at the shoulder where a mercenary's blade had grazed him, the fabric sticky with blood that thankfully wasn't his own. Below, the streets were chaos—some lunatic with a gravity device was tossing cars like toys, and Jisung had swung in thinking he could handle it alone. He couldn't. He was nineteen, exhausted from balancing patrols with college applications, and currently wondering if this was how he died: plastered against brickwork, too drained to shoot another web.

"Well, well, well," a voice drawled from the shadows of a fire escape above, dripping with sarcasm and something else—amusement, maybe, or hunger. "If it isn't the friendly neighborhood spider-kid, looking like he just lost a fight with a lawnmower." Minho dropped down without grace, landing in a crouch beside Jisung, his red-and-black suit pristine, katanas gleaming on his back. At twenty-one, he carried himself with the lazy confidence of someone who'd already died twice and found the afterlife boring. He tilted his masked head, studying the younger hero with an intensity that made Jisung's breath hitch. "Need a hand, or are we playing hard to get?"

"I'm fine," Jisung muttered, but his voice cracked, betraying him. He tried to push off the wall, but his legs buckled—adrenaline crash hitting hard and fast. Minho caught him effortlessly, one arm snaking around Jisung's waist, pulling him flush against the hard plates of his tactical suit. The contact burned, electric and overwhelming, and Jisung hated how his body leaned into it, craving the stability Minho offered without asking.

"You're not fine," Minho said quietly, the mask muffling his voice but not the command in it. He gripped Jisung's chin, forcing their eyes to meet through the fabric—white lenses staring into white lenses, but Jisung could feel the heat of Minho's gaze like a physical touch. "You're shaking, baby. Let me take care of you." It wasn't a question. It never was with Minho, who'd decided months ago that Jisung was his favorite distraction from the monotony of mercenary work. The older man handled him like he was precious and breakable, even as he pressed Jisung against the brick, caging him there with an arm on either side of his head.

Below them, the gravity device whined, building toward something catastrophic, but neither moved. "We should—" Jisung started, but Minho cut him off with a gloved finger against his lips, the touch lingering, proprietary.

"We will," Minho promised, leaning close enough that Jisung could smell gunpowder and expensive cologne. "But first, you're going to admit you need me. Say it." The order was soft, devastating, and Jisung's resistance crumbled because it was true—he needed Minho's strength, his experience, his maddening certainty that they would survive this. "Say it, and I'll clean up your mess. I'll always clean up your mess."

"Please," Jisung whispered, the word torn from him like confession, like surrender. Minho's laugh was low, triumphant, and then he was moving—launching them both off the building with an arm locked around Jisung's waist, spinning through the air with a grace that made Jisung dizzy. The fight below would be over in minutes once Minho entered it, efficient and brutal and beautiful to watch. And afterward, when the dust settled and the sirens faded, Minho would strip off their masks and trace the bruises on Jisung's skin with reverent fingers, claiming every hurt as his own to heal. That was the unspoken contract between them: Minho protected what was his, and Jisung, young and reckless and desperately in love with the danger of it, let himself be protected. Let himself be owned. The city blurred beneath them as they fell together, and Jisung stopped trying to hold on—he just let go, trusting Minho to catch him, always, at the bottom.

Scenario One: Aftermath

The thing about having a healing factor is that you forget what pain actually feels like. Not the sharp, bright sting of a bullet—that's just Tuesday. I mean the slow, aching kind that sits in your chest when you watch someone you care about bleed. Someone who doesn't have mutant DNA or experimental serum coursing through their veins. Someone who's just... breakable.

I was perched on the fire escape outside his window, which sounds creepy when I say it out loud, but in my defense, Jisung never locks the damn thing. Nineteen years old and still thinks he's invincible. I watched him through the glass, watched him wince as he peeled off the Spider-Man suit, revealing the mottled bruises blooming across his ribs where that metal-fist had caught him earlier. My fingers twitched against my katanas. I should have killed the guy. I wanted to kill him. But Jisung had grabbed my wrist—his small hand wrapped around my forearm, those big doe eyes looking up at me—and begged me not to.

"Minho," he'd said, breathless, bleeding. "Don't. Please."

So I didn't. But I carried him home. Cradled him like something precious, which he is, even if he'd punch me for saying it. He'd passed out against my shoulder somewhere over Hell's Kitchen, and I'd never moved so fast in my life. Not for a contract, not for money. For him.

Now he was struggling with the medical tape, his fingers shaking, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I pushed the window open and swung my legs inside, landing silent as a cat. He didn't even flinch—just sighed, that exasperated little sound that meant you again.

"You're going to give yourself an infection," I said, moving to the bed before he could protest. I sat on the edge, close enough that my thigh pressed against his bare knee. He was only in his boxers, skin pale and perfect except for the violence painted across it. I reached for the antiseptic, and he let me. That was the thing about Jisung—he fought me on everything except when he actually needed me. Then he went pliant, soft, all his sharp edges melting away.

"Turn," I commanded, and he did, presenting his back to me. The bruise there was the size of my hand, dark purple and angry. My jaw tightened. I poured the antiseptic onto a cotton pad and pressed it to the worst of the abrasion, watching him flinch, watching the muscles in his back tense.

"Sorry," I murmured, not really meaning it. The pain would keep him careful. Or it should, though with Jisung, you never knew. He had this reckless streak, this need to throw himself into danger like he had something to prove. Like he didn't know that if he died, I'd burn the whole city down looking for someone to blame.

"'S fine," he mumbled, head hanging. His hair was sweaty, sticking to his neck. I wanted to push it back. I wanted to do a lot of things.

I bandaged him in silence, my fingers lingering longer than necessary, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine. He didn't stop me. When I finished, I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. I could feel his heartbeat through his back, rabbit-fast and real.

"You can't keep doing this to me," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "I aged ten years tonight."

He laughed, but it was wet, shaky. "Sorry, hyung."

"Don't apologize. Just..." I squeezed him tighter, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Sweat and copper and that vanilla shampoo he liked. "Just let me take care of you. You don't have to do everything alone."

He turned in my arms then, and I let him, rearranging us so he was facing me, straddling my lap without either of us really deciding it. His hands came up to cup my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones—still in the mask, always in the mask around him, because I was a coward about some things.

"Minho," he whispered, and I loved how he said my name. Loved it more than money, more than violence, more than the sweet release of death. "Stay tonight."

Like I was going anywhere.

---

Scenario Two: The Morning After

I woke up to the sound of Jisung trying to be quiet. It was adorable, really—the kid was a disaster. He was attempting to make coffee in my shitty kitchenette, wearing nothing but my Deadpool hoodie and a pair of socks, dropping spoons and muttering curses under his breath. I watched him from the doorway for a solid five minutes, just enjoying the view. The hoodie swallowed him, hanging off one shoulder, exposing the marks I'd left there last night. Possessive satisfaction curled in my gut.

"You're burning the coffee," I said finally.

He jumped, nearly knocking the French press off the counter. "Jesus—don't do that!"

"Not Jesus. Just a humble mercenary with a heart of gold and boundary issues." I crossed the room in three strides, crowding him against the counter. He didn't retreat—never did—but his breath hitched when I caged him in with my arms on either side. "Morning, spider-baby."

"Don't call me that," he grumbled, but he was already tilting his head back, offering his throat like he knew exactly what it did to me. I took the invitation, pressing my mouth to his pulse point, feeling it flutter against my tongue.

"Spider-kid? Spider-twink? Web-slinger extraordinaire?"

"Minho." He pushed at my chest, but there was no force behind it. "The coffee."

" the coffee." I lifted him onto the counter, ignoring his yelp of surprise, and stepped between his legs. The hoodie rode up, and I ran my hands up his thighs, squeezing the soft skin there. He was warm, sleep-warm and perfect, and I was already addicted to the way he wrapped his legs around my waist, pulling me closer.

"You're insatiable," he accused, but he was smiling, that rare, blinding smile that made my chest ache.

"Only for you." It came out more serious than I meant it to. I cleared my throat, tried to find the sarcasm again. "I mean, obviously. Have you seen you? I'm only human. Mostly."

He rolled his eyes, but his hands found my hair, fingers threading through the messy strands. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love," I corrected, and then froze, because I hadn't meant to say that. Not yet. Not when he was nineteen and had his whole life ahead of him and I was... me. A mess in a red suit with a death wish and a body count.

Jisung went very still, his fingers tightening in my hair. I couldn't read his expression, and that terrified me. I started to pull back, to make a joke, to deflect—

"Say it again," he whispered.

"What?"

"Say it again. Without the mask. Look at me and say it."

My hands were shaking. Actually shaking. I'd faced down the Juggernaut without blinking, but this kid on my kitchen counter had me coming apart. I reached up and peeled off the mask—the red and black fabric that felt safer than my own skin—and dropped it on the counter beside him. Bare-faced, vulnerable, I looked him in the eyes.

"I'm ridiculously in love with you, Park Jisung," I said, and my voice didn't shake. Much. "There. Now you know. You can run away, or call the Avengers, or whatever—"

He kissed me. Hard. Desperate. His hands framing my face, holding me still while he devoured me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning. When we broke apart, we were both breathless, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Idiot," he breathed, smiling, tears in his eyes. "I've been in love with you since you saved me from that mugger six months ago and wouldn't stop talking about chimichangas."

"That was a really good chimichanga," I managed, dizzy with relief, with joy, with the terrifying realization that this was it. He was it. My anchor in the chaos.

"Shut up and take me back to bed, hyung."

I didn't need to be told twice.

---

Scenario Three: The Stakeout

I'd been watching him for three hours. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe slightly in a creepy way, but I preferred to think of it as protective surveillance. Jisung was on patrol, swinging through the Meatpacking District with a grace that still took my breath away. He'd gotten faster since we started training together. Stronger. But he still took unnecessary risks, still threw himself into situations without backup, still believed that being a hero meant taking the hit so no one else had to.

I was going to fix that. I was going to teach him that he was allowed to be careful, allowed to be selfish, allowed to let someone else carry the weight for once. But first, I had to catch him.

He landed on a water tower, crouching, scanning the streets below. I was behind him before he could sense me, my hand over his mouth, my arm around his waist, pulling him back against my chest.

"Don't scream," I whispered against his ear, feeling him tense, then relax as he recognized my voice. "It's just me."

He bit my palm. Hard. I yelped and let go, and he spun, eyes blazing behind the mask. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Trying to teach you situational awareness. Which you failed, by the way. I could have been anyone."

"You're never anyone," he shot back, and I preened, I couldn't help it. "You're always you. Annoying. Loud. Impossible to miss."

"Yet here you are, missing me for three hours while I followed you." I stepped closer, invading his space, and he let me, tipping his head back to maintain eye contact. "Do you know how many times you could have died tonight? Three. I counted. That sniper on 14th? You didn't even check the roof. The bomb in the dumpster? You walked right past it. And don't get me started on the—"

"Minho." He put a hand on my chest, right over my heart. "I'm fine."

"You're nineteen," I said, and my voice cracked. I grabbed his shoulders, gripping too tight, probably leaving bruises. "You're nineteen, and you're not allowed to die. Do you understand? You're not allowed to leave me. I can't—I don't function without you anymore. I need you to be careful. I need you to come home to me."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with things we didn't say. The city hummed below, indifferent to our drama, to the mercenary falling apart on a rooftop because a teenage superhero took too many risks.

Jisung reached up and pulled off his mask. His face was open, honest, too beautiful for the ugly world we lived in. "Take yours off," he said softly.

I did. The air felt cold against my skin, exposed.

"Look at me," he commanded, and I obeyed. His eyes were fierce, burning with a conviction that matched my own. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise. But you have to let me be Spider-Man, Minho. You have to let me make my own choices, even if they're dangerous. Even if they're stupid."

"I can't," I admitted, raw and honest. "I can't watch you get hurt. It destroys me."

"Then don't watch." He stepped closer, pressing himself against me, his arms winding around my neck. "Come with me. Fight beside me. But don't try to cage me, hyung. I'll only break trying to get free."

I rested my forehead against his, closing my eyes. He was right. I knew he was right. But the fear was a living thing inside me, clawing at my ribs, whispering that I wasn't enough, that I couldn't protect him from everything, that one day I'd be too late.

"Let me be scared," I whispered. "Let me worry. That's all I ask."

He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. "You can worry. You can be as overprotective as you want. But when the mask is on, I'm Spider-Man. And when it's off..." He pulled back, smiling that devastating smile. "When it's off, I'm yours. Completely."

I kissed him then, pouring everything I couldn't say into it—the terror, the devotion, the desperate, all-consuming love that had rewired my brain until he was the only thing that mattered. He kissed me back like he understood, like he felt it too, this terrifying gravity between us.

When we broke apart, I kept one arm around his waist and turned to face the city, my other hand pointing toward the distant skyline. "Fine. But we're doing this together. No more solo patrols."

"Minho—"

"Non-negotiable, baby. You want freedom? You get me as a shadow. Deal?"

He sighed, but he was smiling, leaning his head on my shoulder. "...Deal."

"Good." I pulled my mask back on, feeling more like myself. More in control. "Now, there's a weapons deal going down on the docks. Race you there?"

"You're on."

He shot a web and swung away, a red-and-blue blur against the night. I watched him for a second—my heart, my weakness, my reason—and then I followed, always following, always catching him at the bottom.