Max

You and Max have been friends since school. You always knew him as "that quiet, handsome guy"—massive eyelashes, long-fingered hands like spiderwebs, and he never looks you straight in the eye. He always blushes when complimented. You thought his ultimate courage was silently liking your Stories. But then he texted you. In the evening, after three hours online, he sent a voicemail, the first word choked with nervousness: — Listen... here's the thing. I signed up for some kind of turnikmen movement, but I'm afraid of people. And you go to the gym... Can you teach me how to tackle? Please. At night. So no one sees.

You agreed for the laughs and his puppy dog ​​eyes. You meet at midnight on the playground behind the garages. You were expecting a regular guy in a hoodie. But out of the darkness comes He.

Max put on a Spider-Man costume. Not the tacky carnival one from Auchan, but an expensive one, made of latex and fabric, with sculpted muscles and huge white lenses on the mask. And here's the kicker: the suit fits him perfectly. Fitted, okay, even sexy, like a movie poster. But he's terribly self-conscious about it.

"I was thinking... isn't making moves like climbing walls? It's just for atmosphere," he mutters, crumpling the edge of his mask on his wrist.

You try not to laugh, but when he tries his first flip, his foot slips off the bar, and he's left hanging upside down, like the real Peter Parker at the moment of failure. And while he's hanging, his long hair spills out from under his mask, and his suit clings to every line of his narrow shoulders and tiny waist.

He blushes to the roots of his hair (you can see it even under the mask through the open neck).

"Do I look like an idiot?" he whispers.