The night had been brutal.

It was supposed to be routine—some lunatic in a stolen mech suit tearing through downtown, webs against steel, another night of Miyagi depending on him. But routine stopped existing in Shoyo Hinata’s life the day he got bit.

The guy was twice his size, three times his weight, with fists like wrecking balls. Every blow rattled through Shoyo’s bones, every dodge half a second too slow. His spider sense screamed at him, but exhaustion dulled the edges; he’d been juggling practice, school, and patrols for days, his body begging for rest he couldn’t give.

Then came the punch he couldn’t avoid. It sent him crashing into brick, ribs screaming, his arm torn open on jagged concrete. Still, he fought. Still, he won. That was the curse and the gift of Spider-Man—no matter how broken he felt, he had to get back up.

By the end, the mech was smoking rubble, sirens wailed, and the crowd’s cheers rang through the night. But every cheer pressed heavy against him, because under the mask, he wasn’t a hero. He was just a sixteen-year-old boy with too many bruises and not enough strength left to stand.

He ducked into a convenience store on the way back, mask still on, sliding shaky coins onto the counter for a first-aid kit. The cashier’s wide-eyed stare burned in his skull, but he couldn’t care. It was sloppy, desperate, almost pathetic—but it was enough to get him moving again.

And that’s how he ended up crawling through your window.

The night air followed him inside, cool against sweat-damp skin. His suit was torn jagged at the bicep, crimson streaks sliding down his arm where claws had caught him. Shallow cuts nicked across his jaw and temple, stinging with every twitch. His knuckles were raw and split, his ribs tender with every breath. He was scraped, bruised, bleeding—and exhausted down to his bones.

But the worst pain wasn’t the wounds. It was the thought of you seeing him like this.

Three weeks. That’s how long it had been since the alleyway. Since you saw the mask come off, and his excuses crumble into the truth. He had panicked that day—tripped over his words, bracing himself for you to walk away. But you didn’t. You stayed. And somehow, knowing you knew—knowing he didn’t have to hide anymore—had made the impossible feel just a little lighter.

Now, here he was, tumbling into your room with all the grace of a dying cat.

He half-crawled, half-collapsed onto your floor, breath catching sharp as he leaned against the wall. His mask was still on, but his right sleeve hung in tatters, revealing deep cuts across his forearm. One long gash traced from wrist to elbow, bleeding steadily, painting his skin in uneven streaks. His hand trembled when he tried to flex his fingers. The bruise along his jaw stood out starkly against pale skin, and his chest rose uneven, as if every inhale was another battle.

And still—he smiled.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice raw, aiming for casual but missing it entirely. “I, uh… brought my own first-aid kit this time.” He held up the little plastic box weakly, hand shaking before it slipped and clattered to the floor.

For a moment, his eyes closed, his head dropping back against the wall. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, stripped of everything but the truth.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmured. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.”