Shiro woke to warmth.
Not the vague comfort of blankets or the dull haze of sleep—but something alive. Something that made his chest tighten in a way blankets never could.
Soft skin pressed against him, fitting like it belonged there. A slow, steady rhythm of breathing brushed against his collarbone, grounding him. And the faint scent of shampoo lingered in the air, sweet and clean, mingled with the stubborn bite of wine from last night—a reminder of how… lively things had gotten.
His eyes snapped open.
White ceiling. Morning light poured through half-drawn curtains, streaking the room with gold. His bedroom. His bed.
And arms. Wrapped around him.
His body froze.
A head of blonde hair rested against his shoulder, soft strands spilling across his chest like captured sunlight. Her face was close—too close—peaceful, serene… and absurdly distracting. Long lashes fanned across her cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly, as if she'd just tasted something ridiculously sweet and refused to tell anyone.
"…Gwen?"
The whisper barely left his throat.
Her eyelids fluttered. Blue eyes opened slowly—confused at first, then wide, and finally horrifyingly aware.
For a single heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Gwen Stacy practically launched herself upright. She yelped, clutching the white blanket to her chest like a medieval knight wielding a flimsy shield, her eyes darting between him, the bed, the room… and finally, down.
Shiro followed her gaze.
Naked.
Completely naked.
Gwen's jaw dropped. And then she did the unthinkable.
Her eyes flicked back to him, wide and sparkling, and she… dropped her blanket just a little to stare. Then her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. She leaned closer, like a cartoon character about to faint from sheer awe.
"You… you're… wow," she breathed, voice trembling somewhere between reverence and disbelief. "Seriously… how… how are you even…?"
Shiro blinked.
She trailed her hand—not touching, just hovering—like she was worshipping a sculpture in a museum, one that had just been dipped in molten drool. Gwen's cheeks flushed red, but her eyes didn't leave him. Not the way they should have.
"You… last night," she stammered, voice breaking into a giggle-snort. "The… the dragon thing… my god, I'm still… full!" She shivered dramatically. "Completely. Totally. Ridiculously full. And your… arms… chest… I can't even… Ugh!" She pressed a hand to her face, groaning in mock agony, eyes rolling back like she'd just remembered every wild detail, every violent, dragon-powered inch.
Shiro's lips twitched. Somewhere between horror and amusement, he realized Gwen was… adoring him. And maybe drooling a little.
"Oh my God—Shiro, why are you just lying there?!" she exclaimed, finally snapping back to reality. She yanked the blanket higher, trying to regain her composure. "We can't just… do this… and then… you know—what is happening?!"
"…I," he started, then stopped. His throat was dry, his heart slamming far too fast against his ribs. "I don't… remember."
And that was when it hit him.
Not confusion.
Not embarrassment.
Memory.
Not fragments.
A modest home surfaced in his mind.
Not small, but not large either. A two-story house in a quiet neighborhood, where the paint chipped a little faster than it should and the fence always needed fixing. It wasn't luxurious—but it was warm.
His father worked long hours. Never complaining. Always tired. His mother held the household together with careful budgeting and quiet sacrifices she never spoke of. There were no servants. No tutors. No extravagance.
But there was stability.
He grew up protected—not by money, but by routine. School in the morning. Dinner together at night. Weekend grocery trips. Family outings planned weeks in advance because every expense mattered.
He was sheltered—not because life was easy, but because his parents tried their best to keep the worst of it from reaching him.
Then his father died.
No dramatic collapse.
No instant ruin.
Just… absence.
The house felt emptier. The silence heavier. Bills stacked up faster than smiles. His mother seemed to age years in a matter of months—working longer hours, skipping meals, smiling through exhaustion as if pretending hard enough might make everything fine.
That was when Shiro changed.
He learned how to cook simple meals.
Learned to stop asking for things.
Learned how to read his mother's face to know when money was tight.
He learned that being responsible wasn't heroic.
It was necessary.
He studied harder.
Not out of ambition.
But because effort was something he could control.
He returned to school with focus sharpened by fear and quiet determination. Good grades followed—not because he was gifted, but because he worked. Teachers praised him. Scholarships became possibilities. And his mother—she smiled again, just a little, every time he brought home a report card.
"I'm proud of you," she said once, quietly.
That single sentence meant everything.
Life stabilized.
They weren't rich.
But they were okay.
And that was enough.
Then came the accident.
Shiro floated above the road.
He watched strangers rush toward his broken body. Watched emergency lights stain the asphalt red and blue. Watched as his mother arrived—confusion twisting into horror in real time.
She collapsed.
Screamed his name.
Clutched his hand even as it grew cold.
Shiro reached for her without thinking, wrapping his arms around her shaking form.
"I'm here, Mom," he whispered desperately. "I'm right here. I'm okay."
She couldn't hear him.
She cried anyway.
And for the first time in his life—
He couldn't do anything.
As her grief tore through the night, Shiro felt himself fading—not into darkness, but into quiet. Like slipping beneath still water.
His last thought wasn't fear.
It was regret.
I wanted to take care of you longer.
Then the world let him go.
Shiro gasped.
Air slammed into his lungs as Shiro Ainsworth lurched back into the present, hands gripping the bedsheets as if they were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Gwen was staring at him now.
Not panicked.
Worried.
"Shiro…?" she asked softly. "You look like you saw a ghost."
He swallowed.
No.
"I remembered," he said hoarsely. "All of it."
Fragments clicked into place.
This body—eighteen years old. Japanese, Filipino, Russian, American heritage woven together like a living mosaic. Living alone in a high-end New York condo under the excuse of "family assets." A student. Quiet. Wealthy, but never flashy.
And—
Maria Hill.
His cousin in this world.
Nick Fury's right hand.
S.H.I.E.L.D
He and his parents had watched the movie and the series together in his past life, during quiet moments of leisure.
A connection he'd never questioned—until now.
Then there was Gwen.
His Gwen.
He didn't know whether she was Ghost-Spider or just Gwen Stacy.
Childhood friend. Lab partner. The girl who always waited for him after class. The girl who had confessed last month, cheeks flushed, voice trembling.
I like you, Shiro. I've liked you for a long time.
And him?
He'd hesitated.
Not because he didn't care.
But because some part of him felt… unready. As if life were fragile—like it might shatter if he held it too tightly.
Yesterday, she'd come over to help with a school project.
There had been wine—far too much of it, the kind that made your thoughts fuzzy and your body feel like it was moving through molasses. Laughter had spilled over, loud and careless, echoing through the apartment in waves. Gwen—far bolder than he had ever seen her—had leaned in close, brushing his arm, her fingers lingering just a second too long, her words slurred in a way that made every bad idea sound deliciously tempting.
He remembered the teasing, the slow tilt of her head, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief. Then, without thinking—or maybe thinking too much—they had kissed.
It had been messy.
His hand had flailed, catching her shoulder when he meant to slide it to her waist. She had laughed—soft, warm, and slightly tipsy—and pressed herself closer anyway. Their lips had met again, slower this time, tasting of wine and heat, fumbling at first, teeth clashing in awkward little bumps, noses knocking, and whispered curses between breaths.
Somewhere along the way, his shirt had ended up on the floor, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan and knock his knee into the nightstand. Gwen had moaned—loud, embarrassed, entirely unbothered—and he had tripped over his own foot in response, nearly toppling onto the carpet.
And then—blackout.
Just warmth.
Her skin pressed against his, soft and burning, every curve and line amplified in the haze of remembered heat. He could feel her breath against his neck, smell the lingering sweetness of wine and shampoo, taste the faint trace of her lips on his collarbone.
Now—this.
This ridiculously warm, sticky, tangled mess of limbs and awkward apologies, punctuated by small, accidental groans and the occasional giggle when one of them knocked into something again.
It was hot.
It was ridiculous.
And somehow—he wouldn't have had it any other way.
"I'm so sorry," Gwen stammered, cheeks blazing crimson as if someone had set them on fire. Her eyes darted everywhere but his—ceiling, floor, wall—anywhere but the place she should have been looking. "I—I shouldn't have— I didn't mean to— I mean, I did, but—"
Shiro sat up slowly, lifting the blanket just enough to give her space without letting go of the lingering heat. His chest still hummed with memory, the faint taste of her lips lingering on his own, the memory of her breath warm against his skin.
"No," he murmured, low, teasingly gentle. "This… isn't your fault."
Her gaze flickered to him for a fraction of a second before darting away again. The tiny gasp she tried to stifle when their knees accidentally brushed made his chest tighten—and, yes, made him blush too.
He looked at her properly this time. Really looked. And damn.
She was gorgeous. Not unreal, glossy-magazine gorgeous—no, this was better. Natural, human, intoxicating. The faint flush still on her cheeks, the soft tremor in her hands as she twisted her fingers together, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes despite the embarrassment—it made him want to lean in, brush her hair back, and kiss her until the words didn't matter anymore.
"You know," he said slowly, voice low and teasing, "if you're going to apologize, you could at least do it properly."
Her eyes widened, a sharp inhale escaping her lips. "What—what do you mean?"
Shiro smirked, feeling that pull again, the heat and tension coiling in his gut. "Like this."
Before she could respond, he leaned forward, brushing their lips together softly at first. She froze, stiff as a board, and then melted into him, warm and desperate, laughing into the kiss when his hand fumbled at her waist.
"You're ridiculous," she gasped between kisses, fingers digging into his shoulders. "This is—this is insane!"
"Insane?" he teased, tilting his head. "No. Perfectly… inevitable."
Their kisses grew bolder, fumbling, teeth clashing accidentally, noses knocking. Gwen's soft moans, mingling with her occasional giggles at the awkwardness, sent a shiver down his spine. Every brush of skin against skin, every accidental groan, every laugh between gasps made the moment hotter—and somehow more intimate.
At one point, she tried to push him away—gently, desperately—but ended up tangled on top of him, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, hair falling into their faces, kisses catching teeth and lips in the most awkward, intoxicating way.
And through it all, Shiro couldn't stop thinking: she was hers. And somehow, utterly, ridiculously, perfectly his.