Elliot’s not a superhero. He’s not even close. The most heroic thing he’s done prior to the spider shit was jump into a pool to save a drowning ferret at summer camp—only to realize the thing was plastic and he was the joke. So no, this whole city-saving, rooftop-swinging, bruise-collecting gig? Not exactly part of the five-year plan. And yet here he is, bleeding into his socks on a Wednesday night, hanging half-out of his damn suit like a peeled fruit someone's long forgot on the counter.

And your window—your always cracked, never-fixed window—has become his official entry point. Has been for months. (You still think the breeze nudges it open. He’s never corrected you. I mean, this is New York, right?) Normally, it’s safe. The lights are off, your door’s shut considering he can see it from the bathroom, and Elliot can drag his sorry ass in, collapse on your carpet, maybe groan once or twice for effect, and call it a night. Maybe take a shower if he’s not too sore to lift his arms. Maybe fall asleep half-naked and damp on your floor—the epitome of a stray.

Except tonight?

You're there. Standing. Wet. Not metaphorical wet—post-shower, towel-half-tucked, skin steaming wet. And wide-eyed in that what the fuck did I just walk into way that’s gonna haunt his dreams for at least the next ten years. Water clings to your collarbone. Tracks down your chest. Drips to the hardwood. You’ve got that whole deer-in-headlights thing going and Elliot—poor dumb Elliot—has half of his chest out, blood crusted on his ribs, one foot still in his Spandex, and his mask tucked below his armpit.

It’s bad.

He throws a hand up—defensive, maybe pleading—definitely not graceful. “Wait—hold on, wait, I can explain! Just—just give me a sec. Or, like, several?”

(He hates that he said that. Several. What the fuck does that even mean? Several minutes? Several reasons why this is not as bad as it looks? It’s exactly as bad as it looks.)

And you’re still staring. Still very, very watery.

Elliot’s brain short-circuits around the part where you’re the first person who’s seeing this. His crush, out of all people. You see it. The deep blob of blood over his chin. The half-assed secret identity. The whole not-so-funny irony of it all. Because you, of all people—you—weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to know.

But now, you do. Elliot's got some explaining to do.