Jackie

Peter’s brows jump together. He watches his mug as he fills it up. “No. Why?” 

You feel immediately stupid. You’ve overstepped. You’re nosy. You don’t mean to be. 

“I heard the door open.” 

No way to say that without sounding like a paranoid freak. You have a quiet door in a loud city. At nearly midnight, with sirens wailing and your neighbor singing in the shower on the other side of your wall, you shouldn’t have heard it. But you did. 

If Peter finds this odd, he doesn’t mention it. “Oh,” he says, dragging the word out long and slow. “Out as in out of the apartment. I thought you meant out out, like to the club or something. No, I just…I had a late night craving. Went down to the bodega to grab some chips.” 

You feel yourself frown. You hadn’t heard the door open again until a couple hours later, far longer than a trip to the bodega would take. But to ask more questions would be to admit you’d still been listening, so you don’t. Maybe Peter has some emotional attachment to a bodega in Queens. He said he was from Queens, right? 

Peter joins you in the living room. You’ve opened a window to let the air in, still warmish but getting cool enough that you can get away with running the fans and not the air conditioning, and Peter turns his face into the light as he settles in on the opposite side of the couch. You wonder if he’ll have his own dent in time, too. He doesn’t strike you as the type. 

“You were up late, too, huh?” he asks. The smell of his coffee mingles with the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust coming in through your window. 

“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself, “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s cool. It’s not prying to make sure the door to your apartment isn’t left unlocked in the middle of the night.” Peter grins. Two dimples dive into his cheeks. “Were you doing homework then, too?” 

“No.” You don’t consider lying. It’s not something you feel the need to be private about, even with virtual strangers. “I just don’t sleep much.” 

Your roommate’s head tilts. The movement reminds you of a cocker spaniel. “Like, you can’t?” 

“I can’t,” you confirm. “Not usually, at least.” 

“Ouch. That sucks.” 

Peter’s sympathetic bemusement confirms for you that his reasons for being tired are not, in fact, the same as yours. Whatever they might be, you file it away as None of Your Business. You’ve asked, he’s told, that’s the end of it. You sleep not twenty feet apart, but Peter is a near stranger to you. You don’t have any right to his mysteries. 

“So,” he says into the silence that follows, “any classes today?” 

“Yeah.” You check the time on your laptop. Corner the page of your textbook. “Actually, I’d better go. It starts in twenty minutes. Do you care if I leave my mess on the coffee table?” 

Peter glances at your collection of pens and highlighters with a look that makes you think his version of mess might be different to yours. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “So long as you don’t mind my mess joining it.” 

“Of course not.” You zip up your backpack, relieved. 

“You coming back for lunch? I think I’m gonna go grab a bagel in a sec, I can bring you back one.” 

“Oh, that’s…” That’s too much. That’s more than roommate duties, and more than you want to return. “That’s okay,” you say, moving towards the door. “I packed a sandwich, I’ll probably camp out on campus between classes.” 

Peter raises his hand in a lazy salute. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” You try to mirror him. It feels weird; you let your hand drop halfway through. The door shuts nearly silently behind you. 

—

Peter plies you with meatloaf when you return. He’s been to his aunt’s in Queens and brought back enough to feed a family of four. 

“It’s not…I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a not world-renowned meatloaf,” he says, bringing a forkful to his mouth. “But it’s food and it’s free and I can’t eat it all by myself, so.” 

You’re not in any position to turn down free food. You sit on the couch next to him. Peter’s left the cushion by the window open, and you wonder if already you each have your own spot. The meatloaf isn’t bad. 

You talk about your classes. Peter’s studying biophysics and biochemistry, two words which mean nothing to you but apparently require lots of time spent at the labs on campus. He congratulates you on the achievement of getting matched with a roommate who will make you feel like you live by yourself; his classes are only getting started, but soon he’ll be in the lab most of the time. Though your own classes are far from easy, you don’t envy him. 

Peter doesn’t need any help from you; he finishes the rest of the meatloaf in that one sitting. 

—

You get into a rhythm quickly. On campus from your first class in the morning until your assignments (or at least the ones due the next day) are finished usually sometime in the evening, cooking at home, eating on the run, plasma donation on Thursdays at seven to make some extra cash, four scoops of coffee grounds in the machine because both you and Peter need it strong. Peter brings home more meals from his aunt. Her name is May, you learn, and after the third free dinner you write her a thank-you note for Peter to bring back to her. 

Your hot water goes out. Peter sweet-talks the landlord while you send stern emails to the leasing company until it gets fixed. You bring his laptop instead of yours to campus by mistake and have to meet up at a library to swap. Peter comes from the lab, half-jogging with plastic goggles pushed up into his hair and making it stick out in every direction. It’s endearing beyond reason. You make him a sandwich to take to class when he oversleeps. He comes to pick you up from the plasma donation clinic when you forget to eat beforehand. You develop inside jokes about the flickering light above your stove, and the erratic banging you think is your upstairs neighbors having sex, and the too-good-for-this-world cashier at the bodega on your corner. No matter how Peter tries to get you in on it, you refuse to develop inside jokes about his Aunt May’s cooking. 

It’s in the dull blue of a sleepless night in September, Aunt May’s pasta pomodoro still heavy in your stomach, when you hear the lock on your front door click. It’s a quiet sound, but you’re too antsy to miss it in your otherwise silent apartment. The door opens with a shush of air. 

You wonder if Peter is going out or coming in. It’s late, but not so late for the overworked grad student population. He warned you that he’d eventually be spending long nights at the lab. 

You don’t get up with any suspicions. You only want to make sure the door gets re-locked, and you haven’t heard the second click. 

There’s an odd sound as your bedroom door opens. Like plastic ripping or cast fishing line, blink-and-it’s-over. You step out to find Peter wrapped up in your largest blanket and absolutely covered in filth. 

You blink. 

Peter blinks back at you. 

“Jesus,” you say. 

“Nope, just me.” Peter grins, but it falls short of his usual. “Sorry, lame joke. My uncle used to make it. It was lame then, too, I guess.” 

“What happened to you?” 

“Uh, there was a small accident at the lab. You should be asleep.” 

“Small? Is that soot?” 

“It’s…it’s soot, yeah.” 

You’re reeling. You turn the kitchen light on to see him better. Peter’s left footprints in from your front door. There’s soot even in his hair, tinging it a darker color. “Was there an explosion?” 

He grimaces. “It was a super small explosion. Very contained. But, you know, chemicals. Volatile stuff.” You shake your head, baffled, and his expression softens. “It was freaky, but everything’s fine now. It’s late, you should go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Peter’s brow furrows; the lines are more pronounced with soot etched into them. “You weren’t? It’s almost three,” he says, as if to himself. 

“What’s with the blanket?” 

“The…oh.” He looks down. “Right, yeah. The lab actually took my clothes. They’re probably not contaminated or anything, but they’re being disposed of for liability reasons.” 

You look down at your blanket, covering him toe-to-chin, and back up at Peter. “They made you walk home naked?” 

Peter blinks. “Uh. No, no, not…totally naked.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. 

“They gave us…lab coats?” His voice tips up at the end like a question and the corners of his mouth tip up with it, sheepish. He gives a little shrug. “It’s not super modest, but it’s what they had on hand. Sort of like a slutty nurse costume situation? I didn’t want to, uh, you know, scar you as you were coming out of your room.” 

“Right.” You frown, embarrassed of the heat you can feel coming to your face. “I…appreciate that.” 

“Anytime. But you can go to bed now, seriously.” Peter starts edging towards the bathroom. “Don’t let me keep you up, I know you have that nine a.m. tomorrow.” 

You wave him off. “I’ll be fine, we don’t have any explosions in my class. Are you okay? Is there anything I can help with?” 

“Nope! No help.” Peter’s voice pitches slightly when you step towards him. He draws the blanket tighter, walking backwards until his back bumps the wall and feeling his way into the bathroom. “It’s just that I’m really basically naked. Like, so, so naked, and it’s embarrassing, so you should just go to your room and I’ll shower and then we can, uh, probably just not talk about this, if you’re alright with that. Because I’m embarrassed. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You hold your hands up peaceably. “If you’re sure.” 

“Super sure.” Peter flashes you a smile before shutting the bathroom door. “Goodnight!” 

You go back to your room and sit with your head laid flat in the middle of your pillow, your bent knees making a tent of your covers. You listen to the shower running until it squeaks off at three-thirty. 

—

Your backpack feels heavier leaving the library than it did on the way to campus this morning. Your train runs less frequently after midnight, so walking is nearly just as efficient. It’s a long, slow trudge up the hill that leads from campus to your neighborhood, past empty university buildings and through dapples of pale streetlights. A raccoon stops riffling through a trash can to look at you as you pass. You raise a hand to let him know you’re a kindred spirit. 

It’s cliché, but you sort of love the city after dark. It’s less glitzy than people think. The city may not sleep, and neither do you, and apparently neither does Peter, but some people have to. The streets are relatively quiet, technicolor dulled into grays and blues that blur together as you pass them by. Somewhere out of view, a siren wails like a ghost’s cry. 

It’s the quiet that allows you to hear the schwick and rush of air that comes before feet hit the sidewalk beside you. 

You flinch hard. Nearly send yourself tumbling into the street, but a hand whips out to catch you before you can slip off the curb. Slippery red fabric with black latticework spanning up the wrist. 

“It’s okay.” Spider-Man steps back as soon as you’re steady. He holds his hands up. “It’s okay.” 

You put a hand to your heart, feeling it beating beneath your palm. “Jesus. Don’t you know not to sneak up on girls walking by themselves?” 

“Don’t you know girls shouldn’t walk by themselves?” Spider-Man counters lightly. 

You suppose you’re meant to feel chastened, except you are a girl, and you have to get places, you can’t have a chaperone at all times. Also, this superhero speaks in a deep, rough voice that makes you think of teenage boys trying to sound tough. 

“Is this really the most pressing thing you have to deal with?” you ask him. Spider-Man’s head tilts, and you gesture around you at the empty street. “Aren’t there any bank robberies happening? Or, like, serial killers on the loose?” 

He’s wearing a mask, and yet you could swear it’s like his eyebrows raise. “How common do you think those are?” 

You shrug and keep walking, though you’re careful not to put your back fully to him. Even Spider-Man could turn out to be a bad guy to be stuck alone with. “I don’t need any help,” you say. “Thanks for the tip, though.” 

He keeps pace with you. “Are you a student?” 

You look at him sideways. “Maybe. What makes you ask?” 

He taps the pin on your backpack. “The university has a walking buddy program, you know. So students don’t have to walk home alone after long nights at the library.” 

“How long have you been following me for?” 

“What?”

You narrow your eyes at him. You don’t like that he guessed you were coming home from the library; however, on the chance that it is a guess you’re not about to tell him he was right. 

“I’m just saying.” Spider-Man’s hands are up again, in a gesture of peace. “You should think about calling a walking buddy next time.” 

“Maybe I’d rather be alone than alone with someone who’s volunteered to learn the routes to people’s homes.” You throw him a pointed look. 

Spider-Man’s casual gait doesn’t falter, but he lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you always this suspicious of people trying to help you?” 

“John Wayne Gacy was known to lure victims by promising help.” 

“But I’m…” The voice behind the mask changes, turning younger and less polished. He lifts his gloved hands haplessly. “...Spider-Man.” 

You shrug, not allowing yourself to feel bad. “I’m suspicious of people in general. And I don’t need help.” 

“Noted. Listen, can I just walk you to your building to make sure you get in safe? I won’t know your apartment number or anything.” 

You give him an appraising look. Spider-Man walks with a respectable distance between you, his hands swinging at his sides. It’s not like you could actually make him go away even if you wanted to, but you do think he would fuck off if you said no. Ultimately, that’s what makes the decision for you. 

“Okay,” you say, tacking on reluctantly, “thanks.” 

“Hey, all in a day’s work. Until there’s another bank robbery or serial killer, obviously.” 

Spider-Man turns out to be a half-decent walking companion. He offers to give you a lift instead—but once he clarifies what he means by lift and you swiftly decline, he only continues walking beside you at a New Yorker’s amble. He asks you about your classes. You admit to having fallen asleep earlier at the library, and then staying late to make up for the study time you’d missed. He tells you about how it feels to swing through the city at night; how there are some neighborhoods he likes better than others for their calmness, but of course by the nature of what he does he tends to stick to the noisier ones. Times Square isn’t only a hotspot for crime during the day, as it turns out. He says, in a light, kind voice, that he’s glad to have the break of walking you home. He enjoys the quiet of your little neighborhood, too. 

True to his word, Spider-Man lets you go at your building. He watches you walk up the front steps, waving when you turn around briefly before buzzing yourself in. You hear the schwick of his webbing shooting out just before the door closes behind you. 

You slog up the flights of stairs to your apartment, letting your backpack drop by the door and sending a silent apology to your downstairs neighbors right after. You feel lighter without it, but still your body all but drags you to the floor when you sit to take off your shoes. You turn at the sound of a door creaking open. 

Light spills out into the hall as Peter emerges in his plaid pajama bottoms. You wince. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“No.” He shakes his head, though you obviously did. His hair is all messy from sleep, sticking out in every direction. “Did you just get back?” 

“Mhm.” 

Peter makes a face highly reminiscent of a sad puppy. “You were on campus all day?”

You shrug, like what can you do? Peter’s a grad student, too; he’ll get it. 

But your roommate looks troubled. “Did you eat?” 

“I…” You blink, realizing why, besides the late hour, you might have felt so tired on your walk home. “I guess I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep for a while in the library.” 

“Yeah?” Peter’s already moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down, I’ll make you something.” 

“Peter, that’s okay.” 

“I’m not gonna have you passing out waiting for the microwave or whatever. Just sit down.” 

You find you don’t have much argument left in you. You’re dead tired, and the couch does look like a nice place to rest. “I thought we ran out of May’s lasagna.” 

“We did. I can’t cook as good as her, but I can whip up a half decent quesadilla.” 

You fall silent, resting your cheek on the back cushion of the couch and watching as Peter puts a thin slice of butter into a pan on your stove. Your teeth worry into your lower lip. 

“Doesn’t the library close at midnight?” he asks. 

“Two,” you correct him. “It’s open twenty-four hours during midterms and finals week, though.” 

Peter glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not midterms or finals.” 

“Hence why I got kicked out.” 

He makes a chuffing sound like laughter, familiar in a way you can’t place. “Can’t believe you stayed late enough to get kicked out.”

“I know, right? It’s like bar close for students.” 

“Are you really comparing yourself to people who get kicked out of bars?” 

“Hey, we’re both committed, just to different pursuits.” 

Peter hums, ceding the point. “I guess the only difference is that you got kicked out on a Tuesday.” 

“You think the barflies aren’t there on Tuesdays?” You give him a droll look. “Wisen up, Parker.” 

Your roommate casts you a glance paired with a half-smile. “You know productivity decreases with exhaustion, right?” 

You scoff. “You don’t get to talk about healthy sleeping habits. I know you work just as hard.” He brings you a plate with a neatly folded quesadilla on it, and you soften your tone as you take it. “Thank you.” 

Peter settles into his side of the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He watches you take your first couple of bites. “I just think,” he says, “that if you pass out somewhere from sleep deprivation or low blood sugar or whatever, there might be some part of our lease agreement that says I’m responsible for that.” 

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Did you read that whole thing?” 

“Oh, hell no.” 

“Me neither.” 

“I’m only saying that it’s possible. Landlords love weird clauses.” 

You hum as you chew, playing along. “Okay. That’s fair. What if I kept a note constantly on my person that said this isn’t Peter’s fault, so that if someone finds me passed out you can avoid culpability? Would that make you feel better?” 

Peter’s lips twitch. He shrugs. “A little.” 

“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do, then.” 

“You could also just come home before some poor librarian has to kick you out. Or,” he goes on, “call me to walk you home if it’s late.” 

You give him a look. “I’m not going to call and wake you up so you can come get me every time I stay late on campus.” 

“I wouldn’t mind being woken up. I might be on campus too, and anyway I’d want to help.” 

“I don’t need help.” 

Peter frowns. “If you say so.” 

You nod, trying to smile to soften the rejection. You hold up what remains of your quesadilla. “This is really good, by the way.” 

Peter mirrors your half-hearted smile. “I learned from the best.” 

“Yeah, you did. I really owe May another card.” 

“You don’t owe May anything, and if she were here she’d tell you that herself.” 

—

You feel like something is amiss. It’s not a new feeling. Some nights, you can’t stop going over things you’ve done wrong. Times you said something you shouldn’t have, acted without thinking, didn’t act and regretted it, going back as long as you can remember. It’s enough to make you hate yourself. 

Other nights, like this one, you become convinced there’s something still yet to be done. You didn’t actually hit submit on that assignment. You’ve left the stove on. Your water bottle is sitting abandoned on your table in the library, begging to be stolen. Someone’s trying desperately to call you, but you clicked your phone to silent without realizing. 

The anxieties worm their way into your weary bones until the only option is to drag yourself out of bed and quiet them. It’s not like you were going to fall asleep anyway. 

Your building is old and creaky. You take care to walk on light footsteps into the kitchen, reassuring yourself forcefully as you go. The stove is off. The freezer is shut. The heater is not turned up so high that you’re going to be surprised by a heart-stopping electrical bill. The kitchen sink isn’t leaking. Your school things are just where you left them, heaped together in your backpack beside the door. The front door is…

The front door is unlocked. 

You know you locked it when you came in. You’re sure you did, because you don’t allow yourself to put your keys on the hook unless you have and there they are. You look towards Peter’s room. 

When you text him, there’s no chime you can hear.

YOU: Hey, are you home?

PETER: Just left, forgot my laptop on campus! Everything ok?

YOU: Yeah, it’s fine. The door was unlocked.

PETER: Shit. SO SORRY!!! 

PETER: U can lock it, I have my key.

YOU: It’s fine. Locked now.

PETER: Won’t happen again. Promise!

You double-check that Peter’s key is missing from his hook before actually locking the door. You think wryly that you and Peter may have synced in your sleeping habits; you always seem to be awake at the same times. Or maybe you were simply both such terrible sleepers to begin with that the comings and goings of the other don’t make much difference. 

You run through a few more checks before going to bed. The window that goes to the fire escape is latched. The oven is off. Your laptop is charging. 

Right next to Peter’s. 

—

The next night, you’re not woken by worries but by cold. You rouse from a fitful hibernation to find yourself coiled tight like a crab within its shell, knees pressed together and chilled nose hidden beneath your covers. Early winter seeps through your apartment like a frozen kiss. 

You take your blankets with you as you stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed. You feel the chill more when you leave your room, though less in the living room. The heat is supposedly on. Peter’s door is closed, but you knock to see if it’s woken him, too. There’s no answer. 

“Peter,” you whisper. 

Still nothing, and you knock again. 

“Pete, are you up?”

When another minute of this produces no response, you turn the door knob tentatively. You know it’s a massive invasion of privacy. You know that. But your apartment feels like it’s teleported to the Arctic, and for all you know Peter could be comatose with hypothermia right now. 

It feels all the more plausible when you open the door and the air that meets you is cool enough to make your skin pebble under your blankets. Peter really might have hypothermia. If he was here. 

But Peter’s bed is empty, and his window is open. 

You decide to leave it that way in case it’s how he needs to get back in. You take more blankets with you to go back to bed. 

—

There are few things you can think of which require someone to be out in the darkest hours of the night. None of them are reassuring. Things too illicit to be exposed to daylight, risky things, illegal things. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you probably should have realized sooner. New York is expensive, and Peter doesn’t seem much better off than you are. You’re both full-time students without jobs; everyone has to supplement their income somehow. He probably makes more doing whatever he’s doing than you do pimping out your plasma once a week. 

Peter may not seem like the type, but you don’t have to be the type to do drastic things when you’re broke. Anybody could be doing anything. Some people do yard work, some people babysit, some people buy cheap shit and resell it on ebay; you donate plasma; Peter deals drugs, probably. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s not fine, it’s dangerous, but you can understand it. He has access to a lab and pays for school with government grants. He had to be paying for your rent somehow. 

“Hey.” Peter returns to your table with a mug in each hand. “You good?” 

You let out a little hum. “Yeah, why?” 

“You just looked kinda spacey.” He sets your coffee in front of you. You pick it up, gratified by the way it sears your tongue and seeps sweetness into your tastebuds. 

You’ve taken to spending your Saturdays together at this coffee shop, The Daily Bean. It’s big enough in size that you can always find a table in some hidden corner if you look hard enough, small enough in popularity that regulars can still stare-shame anyone who talks too loudly when everyone else is trying to work. You and Peter like that it’s walkable from your apartment, and that the chairs are comfortable, and that every mug is unique so you can debate who got the better one when your drinks come out. The icing on the cake is that if you order a simple drink, refills are free so long as you bring back your mug. You keep asking Peter to go up to the counter because you’re worried the employees are going to get angry with you for abusing their policy by camping out all day, and no one can get angry with Peter.

And that’s sort of the sticking point, isn’t it?

Peter is a good guy. He’s nice, he works hard in school, he pays rent on time. Obviously he has this other thing going on on the side, but that doesn’t make you like him any less. It’s not fair that he should have to give up sleep and put himself in god-knows-what dangerous situations just to live. Lately, the crescents under his eyes are nearly as bad as yours. You’re worried about him. 

“You do photography, right?” 

Peter looks up, blinking, from where his attention had gone back to his laptop. He’s working on something he told you about during the walk over, some report of some sciency thing. You think he could tell you weren’t grasping it even as he explained it to you. 

“I take pictures sometimes,” he says, doing a side-to-side sort of nod. “Not really the same thing.” 

“But you’re good.” 

It’s not a question. You’ve seen the photos all over Peter’s room. They’re stuck to the walls with scotch tape like he’s not even proud of them, but they’re incredible. Candids of a graying woman you imagine to be Aunt May in different locations of the same lovingly cluttered home. Stills of people in the motions of their day, on the subway and lounging on front steps and smiling at dogs. Angles of the city that make you feel like you’re flying. 

Peter makes a face. “Eh…” 

You huff a laugh at his humility. “I’m just saying, have you ever thought of charging people for that?” 

“For…”

“To take pictures of them. Or to buy your pictures, either way.” 

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs. He looks almost like he might be blushing. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to pay for that, and anyway I’m not sure I have the time to, like, monetize it or whatever.”

“I could probably help,” you say casually. Take a sip of your coffee to sell it. 

Peter watches you, unabashed in his staring even when you won’t look back at him. “Yeah? You’d do that?” 

You lift your shoulders. “Sure.” 

“How come?” 

You meet his gaze, though it sends tingles from your ears all the way down your spine to do it. The brown eyes waiting for you are just as warm and thrice as sweet as the drink in your hand. “Because I want to,” you say. 

Peter’s mouth kicks up in the corner. “Noted,” he replies. “Thanks.” 

You make a mumbly sound of acknowledgement, going for your coffee again. Your roommate’s grin worsens. 

“Hey.” He bumps your ankle lightly with his under the table. “You want to learn something about protein misfolding and Alzheimer’s?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, you do.” Peter shuts his laptop, setting his elbows on it to lean closer to you. “So, when proteins lose their functional shape…” 

—

Lately, the only place you can find sleep is in places it shouldn’t be. Slumped over the table of a study room, in the chair of the plasma donation clinic, in your sunlit living room between classes. When Peter finds you, you’ve started a small puddle of drool on your textbook. The fluorescent lights of the library press at your eyelids, obscuring any awareness of time in a distant outside world. 

Peter says your name with something soft curled around the syllables. 

Your eyes burn as you open them to find him crouched by your chair, one hand on your textbook and the other floating a few inches above his knee like he’d been thinking of reaching for you. His hair is sticking up the way it does when he’s run his fingers through it. 

“Peter?” 

“Hey. Hi.” He clears his throat, blinking something away from his expression. “Glad you still know my name. Since, you know, you seem to have forgotten where we live.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“I’m hoping to save the librarians some hassle.” His mouth curves, pink and lovely, into a little smile. “Ready to go?” 

You peel yourself off of your textbook, allowing Peter to close a pencil in it to mark your page before dropping it into your backpack. You feel like you’re moving through molasses, back clicking as you stretch; you must have been sleeping deeply. 

“What time is it?” you yawn as Peter helps you into your coat. He shoulders your backpack without saying anything. 

“One-thirty.” When you blink blearily at the near-desolate library, he touches your shoulder gently to direct you toward the elevators. You try to take your backpack from him, and Peter only hikes it up further on his shoulder. “They’re gonna put posters of you up at some point. I think you’re here more than anybody else on campus.” 

You send him a droll, sleep-addled look out of the corner of your eye. “I don’t think you get to talk about staying out late.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “No? Why not?” 

“Because you’re always at the—” You yawn hugely. “At the lab.” 

Peter huffs a laugh. If it sounds a bit relieved, you’re perhaps too tired to judge. As you step into the elevator, he hits the button for the ground floor and steps back beside you to put an arm over your shoulders. “Touché.” 

You stand still in silent uncertainty as the elevator descends. This is closer than you and Peter have been before. It feels a slight shift from bumping elbows in the kitchen or accidentally brushing each other’s knees under your table at The Daily Bean, though maybe that’s just you. Regardless, it’s going to be a cold walk home; Peter’s body is emanating an enviable warmth through his coat, and you’re just sleepy enough to consider leaning a bit on him as you walk. You stay where you are. 

“How’d you know where I was?” you ask as the elevator doors open. Peter steps out with you tucked under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s almost two in the morning on a Thursday.” He waves to the librarian at the desk, pushing the front door open for the both of you. “Where else would you be?” 

“Ha ha,” you mutter. “But, like, how’d you find me?” It’s a big library. Five floors, dozens of tables, and you’d been hidden away in your own private corner chosen specifically for how rare it is for any other student to stumble across. You suppose someone outside might have seen you through the window by your table, but even that seems unlikely. It’s higher up than most people think to look. 

“I’m an efficient search committee,” says Peter. He adjusts his hold on you when the wind picks up and you step closer unconsciously, hand slipping down your arm to encourage further sharing of his warmth. “Cold?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t this bad when I left.” 

He makes a half-smug humming noise; you feel its vibrations kiss the top of your head. “That’s what happens when you stay out this late, I guess. My Uncle Ben used to say nothing good happens after midnight.” 

“Have I called you a hypocrite yet?” 

“Only in implication.” 

“Well, you are.” 

Peter laughs, the sound wonderfully crisp. “Did you at least eat?”

“It’s not your job to feed me, you know.” 

“Seems like someone’s gotta do it.” 

“Well, for the record, I did.” 

“Glad to hear it.” 

Peter seems to gather that if you walk all the way home he’s going to end up carrying you for at least part of it, so you go down into the subway to wait for the next train. You fall briefly asleep on his shoulder waiting, and again in your seats once you get on. It’s a feat, considering you’re only a stop away on this line, but both times Peter rests his chin on the top of your head like he’s surrendered to the idea of keeping you there. 

It’s only after he’s half-dragged you up the stairs to your apartment and is digging your key out of your backpack (why he doesn’t seem to have his, you don’t bother asking) that you say, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to campus to get me.” 

Peter makes a quiet scoffing sound, jiggling the handle until the door gives way. “I didn’t have to. I don’t mind, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“You’re always doing things for me, though.” You shuck off your coat, tossing it over the back of the couch as he does the same with his. “You’re either making me food or picking me up from places or bringing me my stuff…” 

Peter’s eyebrow twitches, a teasing curve to his mouth that fits his voice to its shape. “So what, I’m not allowed to do things for you? You’re gonna rob me of that?” 

“Do you have a hero complex or something?” 

You think it’s obvious you’re teasing him back, but Peter’s expression flickers with something that makes you wonder if he didn’t catch the levity in your tone. He recovers fast. “Maybe.” 

“I’m just saying,” you try on a bit of sincerity, “you don’t have to.” 

“Hey, I know.” He moves closer, eyes dark in the low light. Neither of you have moved for a light switch, your apartment cast in the cool blue tones of the moonlight coming in the window. “I really don’t mind. I like doing things for you.” 

“But,” you ask, hesitating, “who does things for you?” 

Peter’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he’s surprised you’d ask. When his voice lowers, there’s something about the roughness of it which tugs at a memory. “You do.” 

You feel yourself frown. Yes, you try to do things to make Peter’s life a bit easier, but that’s half out of a sense of gratitude for all he already does for you and they’re never really sizable things. A few extra pancakes left in the fridge when you know he won’t wake with enough time to make breakfast before class, a pack of twizzlers snagged from the bodega when you notice he’s running low. Is that as much care as Peter gets? It can’t be. 

You’re about to tell him that he deserves better, but when you open your mouth you realize he’s right there, and letting yourself list forward is just as easy. 

Peter kisses you like he’s breathing you in. Slow at first, the beginnings of an inhale, and then in great pulls. He cups the side of your face, stepping forward, crowding you, his other arm winding around your waist to keep you from falling when you move backwards into the couch and nearly tip yourself over the edge. A few seconds later and he’s changed his mind, sending you both over so you collapse down onto the cushions in a heap, him all on your side and you all on his. One sleepy, confusing tangle. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to bed,” you mumble against his lips. 

“Who said that?” Peter rolls you sideways, putting you to the inside of the couch so he can push your hair away from your face. “Tomorrow’s Friday. It’s basically the weekend already.” 

“Could’ve probably stayed at the library then.” 

“Too cliché.” 

His hand coasts up your back, and you find you’re out of cleverness. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Plus, what would the librarians think of you? You’re a big name over there.” 

“You’re such a hypocrite.” 

Peter sighs into your mouth. “Tell me about it.” 

—

Maybe it should be awkward, but it’s not. You and Peter already live together, already have your routines and your in-jokes and an ease of moving about each other in a small space, so adding kissing to the mix really doesn’t feel like so far of a leap. 

It’s not fireworks. Or butterflies or cartwheels or any of that. It’s…easy. Like slipping into a warm bath. You feel yourself unspool one inch at a time, until coming home from class to lay yourself down in Peter’s lap and go over flashcards with him is as natural as breathing. 

“It’d be over in Chelsea, so I could stay here and take the bus.” Peter’s got his glasses on, which always make you want to kiss him hard enough to get them all askew, and his hands are wandering your legs and waist as he talks, not helping matters. “And they’re doing this really cool stuff with ion channels that I could get involved in…” 

He’s telling you about an internship he’s applying to for the summer. You’re sitting in his lap trying to look engaged and not humiliatingly wanton. Really, you like the sound of this internship. It would mean you’d both get to stay in the apartment for the summer, since you’re returning to a previous internship in the city, too, and of the options Peter’s told you about this one offers the best pay. You may not understand ion channels or space radiation or half of what he talks about, but you love the idea of anything that might supplement his supplemental income. 

“Didn’t you say your internship’s in Greenwich?” Peter asks, touch coasting up your back. 

You hum in the affirmative. 

He grins, flashing a dimple you want to poke your tongue into (because you’re a nonsensical, depraved thing). “We could meet in the middle for lunch.” 

“That would be nice.” You give into your baser urges and lay a soft kiss on the side of Peter’s nose. The frames of his glasses dent into your cheek. “Where would we go?” 

“I know a good sandwich place on Eighth and Hudson,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up into his hair to kiss you properly. Damn him. His voice hums against your lips. “Maybe lunches there sometimes, dinners at Chelsea Market.” 

“Chelsea Market?” You smile, and Peter’s quick to kiss the corner. “Are we made of money in this fantasy?” 

“Duh. We’ll have high-roller internships—” 

“Speak for yourself.” 

“—and those of us who are possibly being taken advantage of for their cheap labor and wonderful, perfect—” He mushes his lips to your face with each word. “—really very valuable brain will luckily have a lovesick biophysics intern to sponsor them.” 

You hum, sliding your finger along the curve of his glasses behind his ear. “Where am I gonna find one of those, you think? Should I start loitering on park benches reading genetics books and looking confused?” 

For someone so gentle and who spends so much of his time in labs, Peter is surprisingly strong. You’ve discovered this several times over now, enough to want to goad it out of him when you can, and still it surprises you to find yourself flat on your back against the couch cushions less than a second later. You’re giggling breathlessly before Peter even gets to you. 

“You think you’re so funny,” he mutters, a far cry from menacing as he smooshes wet kisses into the underside of your jaw. 

“Or I—I could try hanging around the three-in-one shampoo at the discount store—” Peter squeezes your waist, and you gasp out a laugh. “—or hoard all the city’s ramen so they come to me.” 

“Okay, you know I eat better than that, you traitor. Are you trying to get yourself cut off from my culinary resources?” 

You squirm, pushing at Peter’s hands and enjoying how useless it is. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Also” —he breezes right past the threat, because you both know he wouldn’t— “if you have a problem with my hair, all you’ve gotta do is say something. Does it smell bad?” 

He sticks the top of his head in your face, the soft ends of his hair tickling your nose. You stick your face in dutifully to take in a pull. You know the scent of Peter’s three-in-one (you live together, you’ve read the bottle), but somehow his hair always manages to smell like fresh laundry, too. You have every intention of feigning shock and disgust, except you’re overtaken by a rush of affection and the teasing mood leaves you. 

You press your lips to his forehead. “It’s perfect.” 

“Wow. Even with three-in-one in there?” 

“I’m surprised, too.” 

Peter tilts his head up, bumping your noses together. “Guess you don’t have to go on the search for some other biophysics guy to fawn over you, then.”

Fawn. That’s exactly what Peter does, fawn over you, but it’s somehow worse that he does it knowingly. 

“Maybe not,” you say, “but you know I’m not just going to let you get my lunch every time.” 

“Oh, yeah? How are you gonna stop me?” 

“I don’t know.” You heave a long, thoughtful sigh. “I guess probably start selling your photos to make my own way in the world.” 

Peter laughs. “I think probably one of the most adorable things about you,” he says, lips to your cheek, “is that you think those are worth something. They’re all yours, pretty girl.” 

“They’re definitely worth something. I’m going to make millions.” 

“Sure you are.” 

“You’ll see, when I move out of this place into a penthouse and you’re still just scraping by on your measly STEM salary.” 

Peter watches you with an analytical gaze. You’re playing at levity, but he knows by now when you’re hiding your sincerity away, and he also knows what you’ve been pushing for for weeks now. 

“Why do you want me to sell them so badly?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Because,” you say, “I’ve never seen the city the way I do when I look at them. I think other people would like that, too.” 

He mushes your hip in his hand affectionately. “They’re not that original. I’d be one of a thousand people trying to sell pictures of New York.” 

“Yeah, but yours are good.” 

“You’re so stubborn,” he mumbles, pushing his face into yours to kiss you with a vengeance, “and cute. I just don’t have the time, sweetheart.” 

“I can set you up a website.” It’s not said in haste. You’ve been trying to think up ways to get this idea off the ground for a while now. “That way you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just list them for you and handle the shipping when people buy them.” 

Peter blinks at you. It’s clear he’s caught offguard, and it aches a bit that you offering to help him out is still so unexpected. You’ve been trying to do it more—though it’s near impossible to keep up with how often Peter helps you, and it seems like he ups the ante with every attempt you make—but you wonder if Peter will ever get used to the feeling of someone wanting to do things for him. You can relate to that particular discomfort. 

“Would that make you happy?” he asks after a moment. 

“It would,” you reply honestly. 

He hesitates. “I would want to choose which ones you put up. And I don’t want you to be disappointed if they don’t sell…” 

“I won’t be disappointed.” You wave him off, already reaching for your laptop despite still being trapped underneath him. “They’ll sell like hotcakes.” 

“What even is a hotcake?” Peter muses, though he moves when you nudge at him, allowing you to sit up and open your laptop. 

“Pretty sure it’s an old-timey word for pancakes.” 

“Do pancakes sell famously well?” 

You cut him a dry look. “Then they’ll sell like Mets merch, Peter. Is that better?” 

The distracted look in Peter’s eyes diminishes, replaced by a more familiar one. “I think you’re the hotcake they were talking about,” he says, smarmy. 

“Are you saying I sell?” 

“No! No. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, walk that one back, Parker.” 

—

You’re halfway to a dream about holiday break and Peter’s fresh-laundry smell when the fire alarm goes off. It knocks you out of your study fugue state and knocks your coffee clean over, making you gasp and fumble for your laptop. It’s gotten all over your lap, too, but you don’t have time to think about that, ignoring the burn and the shrill wailing in favor of wiping your keyboard off on your shirt.

A moment later, and the coffee is no longer your laptop’s paramount threat. The sprinklers go off. You stow your laptop in your bag, hugging the whole thing to your chest like you can shield it with your body. It’s then that you remember what a fire alarm means. 

You’re not the only brain dead, half asleep straggler in the library who hasn’t been quick to action. There are other students just now making their way to the stairwell door; you grab your notes and follow suit. 

The alarm is deafening in the stairwell. It bounces off the walls in a painful, ceaseless screech, punctuated by flashes of bright white light. Coming down from the top floor, you’re joined by a throng of others as you descend. People shove; a girl shouts her friend’s name; someone else stops by the railing, halting the flow around them as they try to make their way back up to some forgotten item. Most heads are ducked, the sprinklers still raining down and water dripping from chins and noses. You say an apology that gets swallowed up by the cacophony when you step on someone’s foot. You wince when someone else steps on yours. You curl around your backpack and keep going. 

You’re near the back of the push down the stairs, so when Spider-Man arrives your only indication is the change in tone of the shouting below you. Cheers go up with the siren’s shriek, and you peer over the railing just as a stream of webbing shoots past you, sticking to the ceiling. The spandex-clad vigilante follows it up. He goes slowly, scanning faces as he goes by. 

“All good? Everybody okay? Let’s make our way down in a neat and orderly fashion, folks. No need to push. Where’s the fire, am I right?” 

If he wanted to go put out the fire, or even to sweep from the top floor down to make sure no one’s still not evacuating, there are surely quicker ways, but you’re a bit warmed that Spider-Man is taking the slower route to check that you’re all okay. He’s risen nearly to you now, and while some of the students around you have stopped or taken out phones, you’re still trying to get out of here. Of course, now that you’re looking at Spider-Man and not your feet, you fall straightaway onto your ass. 

It’s embarrassing. You narrowly avoid hitting your chin on the stair railing; someone near you gasps. Your tailbone and your pride both feel terribly bruised. 

“Oh, shit. Hey. You okay?” 

It doesn't help matters that you’ve pulled Spider-Man’s attention, too. 

He swings neatly over the very railing that nearly concussed you a moment earlier, reaching down to pull you upright. 

“Yeah, you’re okay. Nothing feels broken, right?” He skims touches over your elbows, your waist. It’s all too much at once, an overwhelm, but you step away quickly when he lays a probing hand at the small of your back. 

“What?” Spider-Man’s voice rings with concern just loud enough to be heard over the alarm. “That hurt?” 

You’re shocked speechless. Does he just go around touching everyone like that? It feels intimate to you. 

“Oh.” He seems to get it. His demeanor changes, a few more inches of space appearing between you. “Sorry. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” you say. 

“Can I, uh.” He looks up in the direction he was heading, then back to you. “Can I give you a lift down?” 

You feel yourself frown. “I can make it on my own.” 

Spider-Man breathes out a dry chuckle. “I forgot how suspicious you are of people who want to help you.” 

You blink, biting your tongue against the question that rises to it. You remember me? It’s difficult not to feel flattered, but you’re also just baffled. Spider-Man saves dozens of people every day, and yet he remembers a conversation with a girl he only walked home on an uneventful night?

“Just let me take you to the ground floor,” he asks. “I won’t be able to relax if I think there’s some injured bootstrapper hobbling their way down the stairs.” 

You don’t remember deciding to agree, and you certainly think you’re going to argue his bootstrapper label more than comes out, but you find yourself clinging to spandex-clad and surprisingly warm shoulders a minute later, Spider-Man’s hold far from unwelcome now as he lowers you gently to the ground. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring the people who stop and stare in favor of guiding you outside. 

You think it’s probably a good sign that there isn’t smoke visibly pouring out of any windows you can see. The library’s fire suppression system may have worked fast enough to put the fire out before it grew too large. Spider-Man keeps you close, maneuvering you both through the gathering crowd and past the arriving firefighters to the curb across the street. 

“What happened here?” he asks you, something achingly familiar about the gentleness of his tone as he looks down at your lap. Whereas most of your clothes are speckled with dampness from the sprinklers, across your thighs is a dark, prominent splotch. 

“Coffee,” you answer resignedly. 

He hisses. “Hot?” 

“Not cold.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, not really. I think the sprinklers cooled me off.” 

You try on a smile there. You think maybe Spider-Man mirrors it, his tone lightening some. 

“Is your butt okay, too?” 

“My butt’s none of your concern.” 

“Hey, I concern myself with every butt in this city. You’re all under my care.” 

It feels ridiculous, laughing while your university library is still being evacuated and alarms are still going off. It’s also nice. The laughter gathers like bubbles in your chest, fizzing and popping and disrupting the tension in there. You wonder if this is how Spider-Man does what he does, if it’s what makes him so good at it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him. 

“Promise?” 

“Yeah. Don’t you need to…” You look at where the firefighters are running into the building. 

Spider-Man follows your gaze. “Yeah,” he says, though he doesn’t move. He glances between you and the building a few more times, fingers twitching at his sides. “I, uh.” 

“Thanks for your help.”

The dismissal is clear, and it seems to snap him out of it. 

“Right. Okay.” He finally takes a step back. “Stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. Just, I have to—you stay here.” 

“Okay,” you say. He’s already shot away on a web, and with the sirens and the shouting, you aren’t sure if he hears you. 

You aren’t sure why Spider-Man would ask you to wait. Does he plan to come back? He seemed flustered; he might not have meant it. You’re resting your head on your knees with eyelids growing heavier, but it seems rude to leave when someone rescues you and then asks you to wait up. 

“Hey.” You jolt when a hand lands on the back of your neck. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” 

Peter’s a sight for sore eyes. His grin is tentative as he sits on the curb beside you, all soft brown eyes and hooked brows. The apprehension goes out of you in an instant. 

“Hi,” you say, warmth filling your chest. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” Peter rubs between your shoulder blades, looking you over. “What happened?” 

“There’s a fire in the library.” 

“Yeah, I think they put that out.” He offers you a small smile. “I mean what happened to you? What’s this?” He sets a hand to your thigh, over the wet spot on your jeans. His brows rise. “It’s warm.” 

“Yeah, I…” You shake your head, breathing out a sigh. “I knocked over my coffee when the alarm went off.” 

Peter frowns. “Ouch.” 

“How’d you even know about the fire? I thought you were at the lab tonight.” 

“I, uh.” He seems distracted, still looking concernedly at your burnt jeans. “I saw it on the news.” 

“Already?” 

“Yeah, the school sent out a text alert. Hey, don’t you want to get those pants off?” Peter gives you a look in exchange for the one you give him. “Not like that, you delinquent. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean let’s go home and put some ice packs on your or something, okay? Are you good to walk?” 

You’re shaking your head before he’s finished talking. “Pete, I’m fine. But I have to…” The words shrivel up, humiliated with themselves, before leaving your mouth. 

Can you really tell Peter that Spider-Man asked you to wait here for him? Peter might like you well enough to make out from time to time, but you can’t imagine they make rose-tinted glasses thick enough to look past anything that sounds so pathetically made up as that. Why would the city’s favorite vigilante, with his very busy schedule, want you to stay put so he could come back for you after saving the day? It’s a good question. Peter said the fire is out; if Spider-Man was coming back, surely he would have already?

“What’s up?” Peter asks you. His voice is gentle. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” You shake your head to clear a nagging thought. “Let’s go home.” 

You stand on your own, though Peter’s hands hover while you do and he gets an arm around you as soon as he’s allowed. You walk tucked close to his side, his thumb rubbing absently over your hip. 

“How’d you know I was gonna be here?” 

“Well, it’s quarter to midnight on a Friday. I was gonna go around checking the clubs first, but…” 

“Asshole.” 

“Nerd.” 

“...Did you really come looking for me?” 

“Duh. And it’s not like I was far, the lab’s just across campus. Hey, did you hurt your butt somehow?” 

“What?” 

“You’re walking funny.” 

“I am not.” 

“Yeah you are, it’s like…it’s sort of a hobble. Did you?” 

“You’re making this up.” 

“I’m not! What happened to your butt?” 

“I am not hobbling.” 

—

You find out the next day that the fire was started by some idiots who tried to smoke and then freaked and tossed their still-lit blunt when they heard someone coming. If it had fallen onto the carpet or a table it might have gone out, but of course it landed right on the corner of a bookshelf, seemingly endless kindling spread out in front of it like the promised land. The fire was put out quickly, but not before most of that shelf went up and not without incurring water damage on everything else in the library. 

You read the news article and seethe while Peter applies burn cream to your legs, doing it for you because he claims you’re neither gentle nor patient enough with yourself to do it nicely. His touch is featherlight. 

It’s Saturday, and so Peter succeeds in cajoling you into spending the day in bed, napping and touching and musing in whisper-soft voices about what you might order for dinner, but Sunday you heed the university’s call for help. 

The library is all but destroyed. The carpet needs to be ripped out, some of the furniture needs to be recovered or replaced, hundreds of books need to be inspected and salvaged. The librarians and janitorial staff can’t do it all themselves. 

You may be selfish (Peter calls it single-minded), but this isn’t something you’d normally concern yourself with; you’ve got your own shit to deal with, impending exams and a now-glitchy laptop that could use some attention. It bothers you that this was your library, though. You’ve spent a lot of time tucked away in its stacks, Peter’s spent nearly as much navigating them to come drag you home, and if the fire had been more serious you could’ve been in real trouble. You feel like you owe it something, a little bit. At least a few hours of your time. 

Peter comes to help, because Peter doesn’t need a sense of obligation to step up. He’s made of better stuff. 

You go through the shelves with other volunteers, sorting books into bins based on how damaged they are. Peter gets tasked with bringing old furniture out into the sun, stuff that should have been replaced decades ago but the school is still going to try to save, even if it’ll probably smell like mildew forever. You get periodically distracted when he walks by with some musty armchair and you can see the shapes of his biceps through his shirt. At lunchtime you run home to make sandwiches, and you and Peter eat them on the same curb he found you sitting on two nights prior, the sun on your faces and breaths clouding in front of your mouths.

You call it quits when it gets dark, though some of the volunteers switch the lights on and stay. Peter buys you both hot chocolate on the way home. He waves you off when you try to pay and teases you about being extra careful because you’ve already had enough hot drink incidents for one week. 

Despite knowing you have heaps of studying left to get through, you feel strangely energized. Peter sits down in his couch dent when you get home and pulls up his notes, and you can’t stop thinking about the library. There’s got to be a more efficient way to dry the books. Who’s making sure the staff gets meals, when they’re there supervising all day? And surely there’s a more durable flooring than carpet to put in a library. If they take it down to the hardwood, and then people donate old rugs to help swallow sound…

You go back. It becomes a part of your routine. You go to class, you study, you help at the library, you bring Peter something to eat at the lab, you study some more. Peter goes for dinners at his Aunt May’s and comes home with tupperware intended specifically for you. At night, he tries to help you fall asleep, experimenting with different things he’s read to see what works. On some of those nights you end up faking it so that he feels accomplished. Most nights, you don’t, so that he’ll stay with you for longer before eventually saying he has to go to the lab or to the bodega or to wherever before slinking off. Those nights you think you sleep the least, though it’s hard to be sure. 

You and two other students haul a donated couch up the library stairs. You learn how to wedge paper towels between the pages of the most waterlogged books, a tedious but rewarding process. You get friendlier with the librarians than you ever have been, which Peter finds ironic considering you spend half the time you used to there. One of them is married to one of your professors, and your efforts earn you a bit of extra credit, a small miracle you’d never have dared to hope for. 

“What’s this?” Peter asks one afternoon at The Daily Bean. You’re meeting between classes for a quick study session; you haven’t seen him since you left him sleeping early this morning to go to the library. Rain falls in gentle patterings outside the window, fog clinging to the panes. Autumn is having its last hurrah. Thanksgiving is next week, and the city tends to grant everyone’s wishes for snow soon after that. The last of the leaves have been shaken from the trees, and now they squelch rather than crunch under your feet. 

You look at where Peter’s turned your hand to the side. “Oh.” You roll your eyes, rubbing at the white so that it flakes off. “It’s paint.” 

“They’re making you paint now?” 

“Yeah. I guess they figure if they’re already gutting so much of the building, may as well do a full remodel.” 

“Is it starting to feel like they’re just using you for free labor?” 

“Oh, definitely,” you laugh. 

Peter’s dimples frame his smile in parenthesis. “You don’t seem mad about it,” he says. 

“No, I’m resentful.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yup.” 

“You seem resentful.” Peter’s grinning for real now, his eyes warm. Sometimes you think you’d say anything to get him looking at you like this. It’s addicting. “You seem ready to revolt.” 

“I might.” You take a sip of your coffee. “No, I don’t know. I don’t mind it.” 

“Aw,” he says. “You’ve gone soft.” 

“I have not. Don’t think I’ve abandoned my get-rich-quick scheme. The website is up.” 

Peter blinks. “My website?” 

“My website,” you correct him, teasing, “since you won’t sell your own photos yourself. I’m just waiting for the go-ahead from you on which ones to put up.” 

“Yeah,” he says, quieting. “We can do that.” 

“Soon?” 

“Tell you what, pretty girl.” Peter takes your hand, kissing the side of your pinkie just before the paint starts. It sends goosebumps all the way up your arm. “You find some time to pencil me in between your studying and being the school’s go-to laborer, and we’ll do it.” 

You have to look away from your roommate’s sweetheart brown eyes. He’s still holding your hand. “I’d probably have less studying to do later if we actually did some now.” 

“You can’t study now. This is a date.” 

“It is?” 

“Yeah, duh. Did you think we were actually going to study? That’s just how I get you to come to these things, loser.” 

—

“Is it, like, the suit and tie kind of dinner or the nice sweater kind?” you ask.

Peter’s exhale suggests he’s trying to be quiet about his amusement, but not very hard. “You could show up in yoga pants and my sweaty t-shirt, and she’d still think you were gorgeous.” 

“Could you try to be a little less biased?” 

“If I was being biased, I’d tell you to wear my sweaty t-shirt and forget the pants.” 

“Peter, I’m serious.” You step out of your room and into the hall where he can see you. “Is this going to be okay, or should I pick something nicer?” 

Peter turns around from where he’s standing in front of his own mirror trying to subdue a cowlick. He’s wearing a sweater and jeans, which is reassuring. It’s also new. You’re used to seeing Peter in his pajamas, or in rumpled sweatshirts he threw on in a rush to get to class, but this is…well, your roommate cleans up nice. His handsomeness is no surprise, but the new effect on you is. The green of his sweater somehow makes his eyes look an even softer color as they take you in. 

“You look beautiful,” Peter says. 

Your cheeks tingle at the bald reverence in his tone. You finger the hem of your dress. “It’s okay?” 

“Come on.” He huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding me?” 

“No.” But Peter looks like he wants to eat you, and he’s dressed more casually than you are, so you think you have your answer. You move on before he gets any ideas. “I’m thinking of trying to throw together a pumpkin pie,” you say, going to check on your rolls in the oven. Peter tails you. “I’d have to run to the bodega, though. Do you think we have time?” 

Peter leans against the counter. “What would you have to get?” 

“A pie tin, crust, pumpkin puree, eggs, and…um, I think there might be milk…” You take out your phone to check. 

Peter steals it from your hand, kissing the frown that comes to your lips. “Don’t sweat it. Your rolls are going to be more than enough.” 

Your frown persists. “It feels rude to only bring one thing and let her do everything else.” 

“It’s not rude. Are you kidding? Aunt May’s had me mooching off her since forever, she’ll be psyched that you brought anything at all.” 

“I already owe her for probably a dozen meals.” 

“Sweetheart.” Peter puts his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into a lazy hug. “You’re freaking out.” 

“I’m not freaking out.” 

“You are. And it’s sweet,” he allows, kissing your temple, “but you don’t have to. May’s already obsessed with you. She’s asked me, like, six times this week if you like green bean casserole.” 

“I like anything she makes,” you mumble. 

“I know. Kiss-ass.” 

You can’t deny it. You want Peter’s aunt May, this woman who’s fed you for the better part of a semester and now invited you to Thanksgiving at her home, to like you, obviously. And part of you suspects that Peter’s reassurances aren’t entirely empty. It’s hard to imagine anyone who raised a boy this kind being anything but loving and generous. You’ve seen pictures of Aunt May in Peter’s room; she has eyes remarkably like his, considering they’re related by marriage, and smile lines etched onto her face the way only genuine warmth can scar. It’s not so much that you’re worried she’ll dislike you for wearing the wrong thing or using the wrong fork, but she’s something to Peter and it’s becoming harder to deny that Peter’s something to you now, so you can’t help but want to make a good impression. 

“Not trying to be a kiss-ass,” you murmur, circling your arms around Peter’s waist, “but you look really nice.” 

Peter smiles. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing a kiss-ass would say.” 

“I know. It was a risk I had to take, because I needed to tell you.” 

You get squished to Peter’s chest. You suspect it’s so you won’t see him fluster. 

“Don’t tell her the rolls were frozen, okay?” you plead. “The story is I made them from scratch.” 

“Right. With, like, yeast and wheat?” 

“And whatever else goes into bread, sure.” You squeeze him back, but your grip slackens when Peter hisses. “What?” 

“Nothing.” His voice buoys with false levity. “Sorry.” 

“Peter, what?” You retreat enough to see him, hand skimming up his side. “Are you hurt?” 

“It’s nothing,” he says again. His hand comes up to cover yours when it lands on his ribs, and you know without asking that’s the sore spot. “I just, I fell yesterday. I’m a little bruised up.” 

You look up at him. Your concern feels like a tender thing, like your guts are spilling out into the space between you. It makes you a bit sick. “What happened?” 

“I was, uh, skateboarding.” 

“You were skateboarding.” 

“Yeah.” Peter’s shrug looks bashful. “I haven’t done it since high school. Turns out it’s not exactly like riding a bike.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. You want to. You really want to, you want to think Peter would never lie to you, but you know already that he does. It used to be something you could ignore, but now it makes you too sad to bear thinking on. 

“Please be careful with yourself,” you ask him. 

Peter catches the sobriety in your tone. “I’m fine,” he says, more sincerely now, cupping your face. “I won’t do it again. Anyway, maybe I’m tougher than I look, did you ever think of that?” 

You chuff a laugh. “You’re not.” 

“Mean.” He kisses you. “You’re a meanie.” 

“Kiss-ass, meanie. Pick something to call me and stick with it.” 

When you arrive at Aunt May’s, she already knows who you are, but Peter introduces you anyway. This time, he calls you his girlfriend. 

—

On occasion, when you know Peter’s gone on one of his late-night errands, you also take the opportunity to do away with the pretense of sleep. Finals are nearly done. There’s nothing you can do for the library at night, though repairs are nearly completed and the school expects for it to reopen at the start of the spring semester anyway. There’s really not much for you to do, but your head drives you out of bed with an itchy sense of urgency nonetheless. 

This time of year, your apartment is well lit all through the night. The wattage of the city has increased tenfold, lights of white and red and gold twinkling at all hours to entice tourists and holiday shoppers into storefronts. Peter insisted on getting you a cheap tinsel tree, too. It glows warmly in the corner of your living room. 

You hear Peter’s window slide open somewhere around two-thirty. It’s a bit earlier than he usually comes back, but you hope he’s in to stay. You know Peter knows that you wake up to find him gone at least some of the time; but you don’t ask, and so neither does he. It’s…an ache. 

You imagine the silence sometimes like a physical thing, a weight balanced on a string that stretches between the two of you, pulled tight. You feel it some times more than others. You hear the slide of Peter’s window, and the string tugs at the center of your chest, impeding on your breathing room. A dull, familiar ache. 

You know from experience what will happen now. Peter will sleep in his room for the rest of the night. You might hear another few sounds—a shoe being tossed into the closet, the groan of bedsprings. He’ll come out in the morning to find you—maybe asleep, maybe still awake—on the couch, and he’ll chide you between playful kisses so as not to seem too serious, and you’ll pretend not to resent his hypocrisy, though really it’s not the hypocrisy you resent. 

You don’t expect him to come out of his room. 

You almost wouldn’t know it was him if not for the way the figure steps carefully over the squeakiest of your floorboards. Peter is wearing sweatpants and a bulky hoodie, so rumpled you almost wonder if he threw them on just now. He cracks the door to your room, peering inside. 

“Peter?” 

Peter turns on his heel lightning-fast. “Hey,” he says. He looks flustered, face mostly in shadow but the whites of his eyes are lit in your tree’s glow. “Hey, hi. What’re you doing up?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Your voice sounds shockingly normal for the tension crackling through the room. Peter shifts on his feet. “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, giving a quick shake of his head as though unsure why you’d ask. “Yeah, I’m just—I had a weird feeling, so I wanted to see if you were okay. Nightmare, I guess.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“So you are?” 

“Huh?” 

“You’re okay?” Peter’s acting twitchy, and it’s making you nervous. Of the two of you, he definitely seems the least okay. 

“Yeah, Pete,” you say gently. “I’m fine.” You open your arms in invitation, and Peter hesitates a moment before stepping forward. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, you half twisted to reach over the back of the couch and him bent over to get to you, but you make the most of it. 

“What’s going on?” you murmur, raking your fingers through the hair at his nape. It’s sweaty, like he’s been running. You don’t really anticipate a genuine answer to your question, but it feels important for Peter to at least know you care enough to ask. 

You feel his head shake. “Nothing,” he says. He gives you a squeeze, some other half of an excuse probably already on his tongue, but before he can get it out you both jerk apart. 

“Ow.” Your skin burns where Peter’s wrist pressed to it. 

“Shit. Sorry, baby, let me see.” 

You turn around, allowing him to pull the collar of your sleep shirt down enough to look at it. “What was that?” 

“I have, uh. I was just tinkering around with something in my room—you know me, tinkering—and this thing I was messing with sort of exploded. I didn’t realize it was still hot, I’m sorry.” He blows a bit of cool air on your skin. You turn to try and see for yourself. “Hold on, I think we still have some of that burn cream.” 

But in turning, you can now see the light on his face. “Peter,” you breathe. 

Peter must hear something in your voice, because he stops mid-pivot. The weight between you heavies. You feel the strain on your lungs. 

“What happened to your face?” 

His expression twinges. You wonder that it doesn’t reopen the cut on his lip, or if that slow seep of blood is all it can muster anymore. Your boyfriend’s jaw is marred with an ugly splotch of color, already darkening in the center. The cheery glow of your Christmas tree shows in unforgiving starkness the dried blood crusted around his nostrils and the bruise of his nose. 

“This?” Peter smiles, and now his lip does reopen. He hardly seems to notice. “I, uh…well, it’s embarrassing, but I fell out of bed.” 

“Peter.” Your voice thins. 

“I know, it’s so stupid. Didn’t put my arms out to save myself or anything, just boom—face to floor.” 

“Peter,” you say again. “Just tell me what happened. Please.” 

“I’m telling you.” He’s smiling still, like you’re silly, his silly girl, but you can see the strain around his eyes. “Babe, I think you’re more tired than you notice. Let’s go to bed, okay? I actually have to go out and get a replacement part for the thing I exploded, but—” 

“Don’t.” Your eyes are burning. You see Peter see them, his smile dissolving at the edges. “Please just tell me the truth. Who’s doing this to you?” 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No, I—I got it at first, because we’d just moved in and you had no reason to trust me. It wasn’t my business, and I got that. I didn’t—I was fine with letting you do whatever you wanted to.” Tears blaze hot paths down your cheeks, but you refuse to break Peter’s stare long enough to wipe them. “It just seems like it keeps getting worse, though, you know? Or maybe it was always this bad and I just didn’t know, but now—I don’t know, I don’t really know what this is, but it’s different than it was at first. We’re not strangers anymore, right? You can trust me. Please, I just—” Your voice splinters. “I just want to help.” 

Peter’s looking at you with something desperate in his expression. You can see the whites of his eyes again, and his chest is moving like he’s breathing harder than he needs to. He takes a step back, and the string between you pulls taut. It feels sharper than an ache now. 

“I have to—” 

“Don’t go,” you cut him off. 

Peter’s face pinches. “I have to. I have to, I’m sorry. Please go to bed.” 

“Why?” Your shoulders jump, something in you crumpling as you realize there’s nothing you can do to make him stay. Your nose runs. “Just stay here.” 

He glances toward his bedroom, then back at you. He must have left the window open; you can feel the night chill beginning to permeate your apartment. Peter’s fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Please,” you try again. 

Sirens wail outside, and Peter takes another step away from you. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I have to go right now. I’ll be back, okay?” 

You don’t reply, watching through blurred vision as he goes. 

It takes you less than a minute to come to a decision after that. You’re still leaking from your eyes and nose, so you grab a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom, cramming it into your pocket before throwing on a sweatshirt over your sleep clothes and shoving your feet into shoes. 

Peter’s not on the fire escape when you stick your head out his window. You have no clue how he climbed down so fast. You push the window closed and go out the front door. 

Your neighborhood is less quiet tonight. The sirens that make up the city’s constant white noise are closer than usual, louder, echoing down alleyways to reach your peaceful cluster of buildings. You think half-humorously that they might create an opportunity for Spider-Man to pay a visit; maybe if he’s not too busy, you can get him to help track down your runaway boyfriend and scare some sense into him. 

You hate to think of what could compel Peter to come back out here tonight, when he was already so beat up and he clearly didn’t want to. You don’t understand what role he could play. Is he making things for someone? Is that why he had that exploding thing on his wrist? Peter’s skilled, and smart, but you don’t think he’d get mixed up in anything that required him to pass off dangerous technology to anyone who wouldn’t be responsible with it. Unless he had to, at least. 

You’re so furious with him. You tear off a square of toilet paper, blowing your nose. If he gets any more hurt than he already is, you’ll tell Aunt May on him, you swear to god. 

It’s almost funny, considering how much better lit the streets are, that you don’t notice anyone around until the gun is at your back. 

“Purse,” says a voice at your ear. 

“I don’t have one.” Your voice wobbles, but mostly because of the whiplash. Christ, what a shitty day. “I don’t have anything on me.” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” The gun presses harder into your back. “Phone, then.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Don’t lie.” 

“I don’t! I left it at home.” 

“You know what—” 

“What?” Comes a voice from behind you both. A familiar voice. 

For a millisecond, you could swear it’s Peter, your heart clenching, but you turn after the mugger does to find Spider-Man standing a few feet away. As soon as the gun is trained on him, white webbing jams the barrel and it’s cast harmlessly to the side. 

“I don’t think she’s lying, man.” Spider-Man moves toward you, firing webs on the way that plaster the mugger’s feet to the concrete. “I think you just picked the wrong girl tonight.” He jerks his head at you, and you get his meaning instinctively, stepping out of the way as he moves close enough to give the mugger a shove. The other man goes careening backwards. As soon as his hands land on the ground, webs ensure that’s where they stay. 

Spider-Man takes your elbow in hand, guiding you away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Something’s nettling you. You wish for Spider-Man and he appears, is that how it works now? You have the feeling like you’re forgetting something. “This is where I live.” 

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very amused. “I know, but why are you here? What’re you—” He pulls the waist of your pajama pants up from where they’ve started to slip. “Sweetheart, it’s freezing out. Couldn’t you at least have put on a real coat?” 

Sweetheart. 

Your voice sticks in your throat. 

“Your fingernails are gonna fall off,” Spider-Man goes on in a familiarly chiding tone (playful, so as not to seem too serious). He walks you out of the alley, ignoring the calls of the man stuck to the pavement. “What do I have to say to get you back inside? I’ll come with you, how’s that?” 

“Peter?” 

Spider-Man looks over at you. Eyes of all white, and yet everything said in the tilt of his head. “I was going to tell you when I got back,” he says, still walking towards your building, “but of course you had to go out and find trouble. You probably think I’m full of shit now.” 

“Peter,” you say. Not a question this time, but an exhalation. Something released. 

“I’m not making it up, though, I really was going to tell you. I would have told you before I left, but there wasn’t really time, I could hear the cops having a shootout and I really felt like I had to go—I actually only came home because my web-shooter caught a stray, so I needed a backup…” 

You’re reeling, you think. Or swooning. You’ve never figured out the difference. Spider-Man’s (Peter’s. Spider-Man’s?) hand has found its way around your waist, keeping you propped up against him. Silly, to be treated like you’re the delicate one when you know for a fact he’s all bruised and bleeding under that mask. There are probably other injuries you don’t know the half of. 

When Peter stops, you don’t understand why until you realize you’re standing in back of your own building. You’ve crossed streets without noticing. 

“I thought we’d take the fast way up,” he says. 

You manage a “hm?” before he’s tightening his grip on you and you’re sling-shotting up six stories. Peter sets you down on the fire escape. You grip the railing when he lets you go, the cold metal digging into your palms as he jimmies open his bedroom window. He has to gently uncurl your fingers to usher you inside. 

It’s clear one of you is more practiced at going in and out of windows than the other. You half-crawl onto Peter’s bed, stumbling a bit in an attempt to avoid getting your shoes on his pillow, whereas your boyfriend slips gracefully through and is laying down before you’ve managed to turn around. He pulls the window shut so that it hardly makes a sound. You wonder if it’s habit. 

“You okay?” Peter asks as he pulls off his mask. 

You stare. “Me?” 

He looks chastened, but says anyway, “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re shaking a little.” 

“I’m…” You reach for him. Your fingertips lay themselves over the bruised bridge of his nose. Peter’s eyes are sorry. “I’m surprised.” 

“You also just had a gun pointed at you.” 

“So did you. You probably have guns pointed at you all the time.” 

He shrugs, as though this is more or less true. “Are you mad?” 

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit. “Probably, a little.” 

“Is it okay to ask for a hug?” 

“Am I going to hurt you?” 

“No,” he promises, reaching forward to bring you to him. His lips mush to your cheek. “It looks worse than it is. Perk of the spider mutant thing, I heal fast.” 

You’re still careful with him. You hug him with your arms around his shoulders, feeling the strange texture of the webbing spread over his suit. There’s a strangeness to your senses; it feels like a tuning fork has been struck, everything reverberating and trembling its way into alignment. Your heart trembles with it.

“This isn’t what I was expecting,” you hear yourself say. 

“It’s not? I sort of thought you had it all figured out.” 

You shake your head. 

“Well, you’re taking it a lot better than I expected. If that helps at all. I kind of thought you might freak out.” 

“I don’t know how much freak out I have left.” You intend to stop there, but the next admission comes tumbling from your mouth unbidden. “I’ve been worrying for a long time.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Peter sounds genuinely apologetic, and so doting it makes your chest tight. He rubs your back like he can feel it happening. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but then it seemed like you were gonna find out no matter what, and…honestly, I just thought I’d get matched with a roommate who didn’t give a shit.” 

“Bad luck.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Not really.” He pulls back enough to kiss you, bumping his nose against yours affectionately. “Hey, maybe it’s too soon, but there might be a pro to the whole dating Spider-Man thing.” 

You look at him. A face you know as well as anything, and from the neck down a suit you’ve seen mostly in news clips. He’s your boyfriend; he’s Spider-Man. He’s your boyfriend who’s Spider-Man. 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“If you really like those pictures in my room, I can bring you to the places where I took them from. It’s not, ah, something most of the public can access. Special privilege only.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s cool.” 

“Too soon?” 

“Maybe. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that you work for the cops.” 

“Uh, okay, I don’t work for the cops, I work with them. I’m not some narc.” 

The incredulity in his tone is so distinctly Peter that you come back into yourself. All of the trembling pieces settle into alignment. 

“Right, it’s just. I don’t know.” Your lips give a small tug. You see a familiar amused curiosity ignite in familiar warm brown eyes, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before delivering the news. “I’ve been picturing you more or less at odds with the law. I was pretty sure you were a drug dealer.” 

『••✎••』

This was it. The crushing pressure of his hand around your throat was the last thing you were going to feel. Your world, which just ten minutes ago had been filled with the mundane concern of cold fries and a possibly sulking Peter Parker, had narrowed to a single, violent point.

You were going to die here. In this mess of a room covered in... webs? Your frantic, oxygen-starved brain couldn't quite process anything beyond the primal terror screaming through your veins. To think, the worst thing you'd anticipated was Peter giving you the silent treatment for being late. You pictured his familiar pout, the way he'd avoid your eyes while you apologized, the eventual softening of his features when you offered him the milkshake you'd bought as a peace offering.

But this… this was a nightmare. A waking, breath-stealing nightmare.

You knew something was wrong when you found the door unlocked yet so difficult to push open. When it finally yielded, it was like breaking through a thick, gossamer membrane. The sight had made your stomach drop. The apartment wasn't just messy; it was cocooned. Shimmering white strands of webbing draped over everything—his desk, the window, the ceiling, the floor. They were beautiful in a horrifying way, like a spider's larder, catching the dim light from the city outside. Panic, cold and sharp, had begun to prick at you.

And then you saw him. Slumped in his desk chair, head bowed. You hadn't even registered the red-and-blue suit at first. All you saw was blood. A dark, tacky mat of it in his hair, stark against the pale skin of his temple, a trail of it snaking down his cheek. Your own blood turned to ice. The food—the greasy burger, the cold fries, the melting milkshake—all forgotten the moment your eyes landed on that crimson stain.

You had never run a day in your life, not even to catch that missed subway the fateful evening you met him, but when he wasn’t responding to your frantic calls, you rushed to his side. Your hands shook, your breath catching in ragged sobs. You reached out, your fingers hovering over the nasty gash, terrified to touch it, terrified of what it meant.

In his unresponsiveness and your hesitation, the world slowed to a near-standstill. You had no idea how much time had passed before he snapped upward.

His head lifted with an unnatural, whip-like speed. No slow rousing from unconsciousness. Just a sudden, violent reanimation. And his eyes... God, his eyes. The warm brown irises you knew, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, were gone. In their place were two vast, inky pools of black, devoid of humanity, devoid of recognition. Pure predatory instinct.

You didn't even have time to scream. You barely had time to process that his apartment looked straight out of a horror movie and he was dressed in some kind of... costume... before you were flying.

No, he was flying. In a blur of motion, he was out of the chair and on you. You hit the wall with a jarring thud that knocked the wind from your lungs, your head cracking against the plaster. Before you could even register the pain, a hand was around your throat. His grip was like iron, impossibly strong, his long fingers completely encircling your neck. The pressure was instant and absolute, cutting off your airway with terrifying efficiency.

Your hands flew up, scrabbling at his forearm, at his wrist. You might as well have been clawing at steel for all the good it did. Your feet dangled uselessly, kicking against the wall. The room swam in a haze of gray spots and flashing lights. Sounds became muffled, a dull ringing in your ears replacing the panicked, desperate gasps for air your body was making.

And so, here you were. Trapped in the gaze of those abyssal eyes and the crushing grip of the boy you knew. The boy who made dumb jokes and shared his earbuds with you on park benches. Death was a cold, impersonal thing. But dying at his hands, by the strength you never knew he possessed? That was a special kind of hell.

The blackness was closing in, a velvet curtain being drawn around your vision. A strange, calm lethargy began to seep into your limbs. The fight was draining out of you. Your body was giving up. But your mind, in its last few seconds of lucidity, refused. It clung to a single, desperate hope.

And that hope was the size of a little green mug you’d painted with him at a pottery class. You saw it resting on his desk, a splash of clumsy, cheerful color in the dim, web-draped room.

It was your last shot.

With the final ounce of strength you could muster, you went limp for a second, gathering yourself, and then slammed your knee into his abdomen with all the force you could manage from your awkward position. It wasn’t enough to get him to release you, not even close, but you didn’t need it to be. You just needed him to flinch. To break that terrifying, empty focus for a fraction of a second.

To have enough time to reach out your left hand.

Your fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled for the mug. Your index finger brushed against its cool, painted surface. The sensation jolted through you, a grounding anchor in the storm of your own demise. You hooked your fingers around the handle and swung.

The mug connected with the side of his head with a sickening crack of ceramic on skull. The green mug, painted with lopsided sunshines and your initials intertwined with his, shattered into a dozen pieces.

The effect was instantaneous.

The crushing pressure on your throat vanished. You dropped like a sack of potatoes, your body a dead weight on the floor. Air—sweet and glorious and painful—rushed into your oxygen-deprived lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp. You collapsed onto your hands and knees, coughing violently, your throat burning as if you’d swallowed fire. Each breath was a struggle, a sharp, agonizing pull against the bruised cartilage of your trachea.

Through the haze of tears and oxygen deprivation, you heard a sound. A groan. And it reminded you that he hadn’t made a single noise the entire time he was attacking you—no grunts of exertion, no sounds of effort. It had been a silent, terrifyingly efficient assault.

You looked up.

Peter was stumbling back, one hand flying to the very spot where the mug had struck him—the gash you’d seen earlier. The fresh impact had ripped open what was likely a poorly tended wound, and fresh, bright blood welled up between his fingers. But it was his eyes that held you captive. The abyssal black was receding, the unnatural emptiness draining away like water down a plughole, leaving behind the familiar, startled brown you knew so well. They were wide with confusion, pain, and then dawning horror.

He looked from the blood on his hand, to the shattered green ceramic on the floor, and finally to you. You, crumpled in a heap on his floor, one hand still instinctively cradling your throat as you continued to cough and wheeze.

Realization crashed over his features, a tidal wave of absolute devastation. His gaze dropped to your neck, where the red, mottled imprint of his fingers was already beginning to bloom against your skin.

"No," he breathed. The word was a shattered whisper, barely audible over the ragged sounds of your own breathing. He stared at you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated self-loathing. "Oh, God. No, no, no..."

You attempted to say something, to tell him you were okay, that you understood, but all that came out was a pained croak. The simple act of trying to speak sent a fresh wave of fire through your windpipe. You squeezed your eyes shut, a fresh tear escaping and tracing a path through the grime on your cheek.

He didn't wait for you to speak. He was already stumbling backward, a frantic, erratic motion that had him colliding with the opposite wall. The impact didn't seem to register. He slid down it, leaving a smear of his own blood on the faded wallpaper, until he was on the floor, mirroring your posture across the room.

He looked small. Defeated. The sight of him in that red-and-blue suit, looking so utterly broken, sent a confusing jolt through your pain-fogged brain.

"I... I did that," he choked out, his gaze fixed on the purple and red marks painting your neck. His hands flew up, as if to ward off an invisible attacker, and he stared at them as if they were alien things, contaminated, monstrous. "I... I could have..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The words died in his throat, replaced by a shuddering, horrified sob that wracked his entire frame.

And in that moment, all of your own fear, your pain, the lingering phantom pressure of his fingers—it all receded, washed away by a tidal wave of concern so fierce it took your breath away all over again. You saw the blood matting his hair, the way he held his side, the tremor running through his hands. You saw the webs cocooning the room, not as a horror-movie set piece, but as a symptom. A sign of something terribly, terribly wrong.

You pushed yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was agony—a dull throb in your head from where you’d hit the wall, and a sharp, searing fire in your throat with every swallow. You ignored it. You crawled the few feet separating you, ignoring the way your jeans stuck to the floor with something you chose not to identify.

"Peter," you tried again, your voice a raw, damaged whisper. "It’s okay. I’m okay."

You lied on the second part, but truth felt secondary to the way he was crumbling before you. He flinched as you drew closer, his entire body shrinking in on itself, a cornered animal expecting a deserved punishment.

"Stay back," he rasped, turning his face away from you, pressing his bleeding temple against the cool plaster of the wall. His shoulders shook with silent, violent tremors. "Please. Just... stay away from me."

You stopped, your hands hovering in the space between you. You could see the fine tremors in them too, adrenaline leaving a tremulous after-effect. The food bag, with its cheerful red-and-white logo, lay toppled near the door, the contents spilling onto the web-strewn floor like a sacrifice left at an altar. The sight was a grotesque parody of the simple hangout you'd planned.

"No," you said, the word stronger this time, pushed past the burn. You didn't move closer, but you made your tone firm, an anchor. "I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't respond. He just kept his face hidden, a statue of self-flagellation carved in blood and spandex. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by your ragged breathing and the faint, distant wail of a city siren. The webs around the room caught the light again, a gossamer prison he had woven for himself. They weren't random. They were defensive. A barrier. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots: the injury, the suit, the strange strength, the webs, and that terrifying black-eyed trance.

You knew who he was. The knowledge settled in your gut not as a shock, but as a sad, inevitable truth. Of course. Of course it was him. The boy who was always late, who had bruises he'd laugh off, who looked at the world with a quiet, heavy responsibility that never quite left his eyes.

"Peter," you whispered, your own voice cracking. "Look at me."

A shudder ran through him. He shook his head, a minute, desperate gesture against the wall. "I can't."

"You have to."

"I hurt you." The words were muffled by the plaster, but the weight of them hit you like a physical blow. "I looked at you, and I didn't... I didn't see you. I just saw... a threat. And I..." He broke off, a guttural sound of pain tearing from his throat. "I can’t… I can’t look at what I did to you."

You swallowed, a painful, deliberate action. "That wasn't you. I don’t really know what that was, but it wasn't you."

You risked closing the last few inches. You sat on the floor beside him, not touching, just being there. A presence. A refusal to leave. Your proximity seemed to fracture whatever fragile control he had left. He finally pulled his head from the wall, and the sight of his face nearly broke you. The blood from his temple had smeared across his cheek, mingling with tracks of fresh tears. He looked younger than you'd ever seen him, and impossibly older all at once. He was the boy from the subway, and he was a stranger covered in scars you couldn't begin to comprehend.

His eyes darted to your neck, then immediately away, as if the sight burned him. "Don't say that. Don't try to make this okay. It's not okay. Nothing is okay." His gaze, wild and lost, scanned the room, taking in the chaos he’d created. The webs, the blood, the shattered pieces of the stupid, happy mug.

"It's getting worse," he whispered, the confession seeming to tear a hole in the very air between you. "The... the mutation. It’s... changing. I don't sleep. I get these... rages. Blind spots in my head. I wake up and things are... different. Broken. Or..." He trailed off, his gaze finally, reluctantly, landing on you again. "Or worse."

You followed his line of sight to your own hands. They were scraped and swollen from your fight against the door, from your fall. The beginnings of bruises were already blooming on your forearms. Physical evidence of the last twenty minutes. Your life, irrevocably altered.

"Peter," you said, your voice still a raw, painful thing, but steady. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No." The denial was instant, sharp. The same reflexive fear you’d seen so many times before when he’d brush off a scrape or a bruise. But this was different. This wasn't a scraped knee from a bike fall; this was a gaping head wound and a nervous system that was actively trying to kill him. "They can't... they can't know. What if... what if it happens there? I could hurt someone. A doctor. A nurse. I can't risk it."

"Pete—"

"You need to leave," he cut in, pushing himself back against the wall, trying to create more space between you. "Please. Just go. Get checked out. Tell them you were... I don't know, mugged. Anything. But you can't be here. I'm not safe."

The hypocrisy was staggering. He was sitting there, bleeding, barely conscious, actively falling apart, and his primary concern was your safety. The same safety he had so brutally violated minutes ago. It made your chest ache with a fierce, protective sorrow. He was so far gone he couldn't even accept help.

"I'm not leaving you," you stated, leaving no room for argument. The words rasped in your abused throat, but they were solid. Unwavering. You pushed yourself up, ignoring the way the room tilted, and made a decision. The hospital was a non-starter for him, which left only one other option. You.

You were what he had.

You held up a hand, a gesture of peace, and slowly walked toward the bathroom. The floor was tacky in places, and you had to carefully step over several thick strands of webbing. The small window in the living room offered a clear view of the Queens skyline, a glittering, indifferent universe to the private hell in this tiny apartment. How many nights had he sat here, alone, fighting this battle without a single person to notice?

The bathroom was mercifully free of webs, a small, tiled oasis of normalcy. You turned on the light, and the stark fluorescence made you flinch. Looking in the mirror was a mistake. The face staring back was a stranger’s. Your eyes were wide and bloodshot, rimmed with dark, puffy circles. A deep, nasty purple bruise was already spreading from where your head had hit the wall. But it was your neck that made you gasp.

A necklace of violence. A perfect, five-fingered ring of dark, mottled red and purple was etched into your skin. No wonder he couldn't look at you. No wonder he was so shattered. You gingerly touched the tender flesh, wincing as a bolt of pain shot down your spine. The raw, burning sensation when you swallowed was now matched by a deep, muscular ache. You were a walking, breathing testament to what he was capable of. What he feared he was becoming.

You turned away from the mirror, your resolve hardening. You couldn't fall apart now. You grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink—a dusty, half-empty box with cartoon Band-Aids and a near-empty bottle of antiseptic. It would have to do. You also grabbed a clean towel and a washcloth, tucking them under your arm.

When you returned to the living room, Peter hadn't moved. He was still curled against the wall, a statue of misery. The sight of the pathetic little medical kit in your hands seemed to break something else in him. A fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes, and he shook his head, a desperate, silent plea for you to stop. To leave. To not try and fix this.

"Stop," you said, your voice a gentle but firm command. You knelt in front of him, close enough to help, but not so close that you were crowding him. "You're bleeding all over your wall, Parker. Let me help."

He didn't fight you this time. He just watched you with those big, broken brown eyes as you dampened the washcloth with warm water and some antiseptic. His whole body flinched when you reached out, but he didn't pull away. He let you gently dab at the gash on his temple. He closed his eyes, and a single tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the blood and grime on his cheek.

The cut was worse than you'd thought. Deep, and probably in need of stitches, but for now, you could only clean it. You weren’t in the headspace to watch tutorials on suture techniques. You were just trying to hold on to the boy in front of you and make sure he didn't bleed out on you.

"So, the whole 'friendly neighborhood' thing is a pretty big understatement, huh?" you said, your voice soft. You were trying to lighten the mood, to break the tension, but it fell flat, landing in the space between you like a lead weight.

Peter didn't laugh. He just flinched again, a full-body shudder this time. "Don't," he whispered, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Please don't joke about it."

"You're right. Sorry," you said quietly. You focused on your task, rinsing the cloth and coming back to clean the last of the dried blood. "Is this what you do every night? Get mauled and then go home and redecorate with... well, this?"

He didn't answer for a long moment. He just breathed, each inhale a little shaky, each exhale a little too controlled. You could see the faint, blue-tinted outline of his collarbone through the tear in his suit, and the skin there was mottled with bruises that painted a story of a brutal fight. The suit itself was shredded at the shoulder and stained with something dark that wasn't blood. Soot, maybe. Or something worse.

"That’s… new. The webs," he finally admitted, the words barely audible. "Started a few weeks ago. I don't even... I don't remember doing it. I just wake up, and it's like this. Or I'll be trying to sleep, and my hands will just... shoot them. I had to buy a new mattress last week because I webbed the old one to the ceiling." He said it with such a flat, hopeless resignation that it hurt more than if he had been crying. It was the sound of a man documenting the slow, inevitable decay of his own mind.

You finished cleaning the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but it still looked angry and deep. The best you could do was press a piece of gauze against it and tape it down as best you could. His skin was clammy under your fingertips. You worked in silence for a few more minutes, the only sounds the distant city hum and the quiet tearing of medical tape.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. It wasn't an accusation. It was a raw, wounded whisper. You thought of all the times you'd hung out, the stupid movies you'd watched, the way he'd expertly dodged your questions about a new bruise or a sprained wrist with a clumsy, unconvincing lie. You thought of how blind you'd been. How willing you were to accept the lie because the alternative was too complicated, too terrifying.

"Would you have believed me?"

His question, so quiet and direct, caught you off guard. You opened your mouth to say yes, of course, but the word wouldn't come out. And it wasn’t just the physical pain in your throat that stopped you. It was the ugly, honest truth. Would you? If he had sat you down one afternoon, over cheap coffee in a diner, and said, "Hey, by the way, that hero everyone in New York has complicated feelings about? The one who swings from buildings and occasionally gets accused of property damage? That's me. Also, sometimes my brain short-circuits and I try to strangle people I care about," would you have accepted it? Or would you have smiled awkwardly, made an excuse, and slowly backed away, convinced he was having a psychotic break?

The silence was your answer.

He gave a short, bitter huff of a laugh that was more air than sound, a pathetic, self-mocking thing. "Yeah. That's what I thought." He finally opened his eyes, and the sheer desolation in them was a physical blow. "Who would? What do you even say to that? 'Hey Peter, cool superpowers, too bad they come with a side order of homicidal rage'?"

You finished taping the gauze, your hands moving with a steady, practiced calm you did not feel. The sterile white patch was a stark, temporary bandage on a problem that went bone-deep. "I wouldn't have said that," you whispered, your throat protesting.

"No? What would you have said?" he challenged, a flicker of the old, defensive Peter sparking in his exhausted gaze. "Would you have run? Called the cops? Or just stopped answering my texts until I got the hint—?"

"Do you know Captain America?" you asked, the question seeming to come from nowhere.

Peter blinked, utterly thrown. "What?"

"Captain America," you repeated, your gaze unwavering. "You know. Stars and Stripes. The guy on the recruitment posters. Have you ever met him?"

He stared at you, his mind clearly struggling to pivot from the abyss of self-loathing to your non-sequitur. "I... yeah. Once or twice. Briefly. He's... why?"

"His best friend," you continued, ignoring the confusion warring with the despair on his face. "The one they called the Winter Soldier. Did you know about him before everything went down? Did you know he was a brainwashed assassin who'd spent the better part of a century being used as a weapon?"

"I... I read the files," Peter said slowly, his brow furrowed. "But what does that have to do with—"

"Everything," you cut him off, your voice gaining a sliver of strength, the edges still raspy but the core of it solid as steel. "Because when it all came out, when Steve Rogers found out that the person who had murdered countless people, who had tried to kill him a dozen times, was just... broken. A good man who'd had things done to him, he didn't run."

You leaned in a little closer, your gaze boring into his, forcing him to listen, forcing him to see the parallel you were drawing. "He fought for him. He risked everything for him. He went to war against the world to protect one person who wasn't in control of himself."

Peter was silent, his jaw slack. He was looking at you like you'd just started speaking in tongues.

"So you want to know what I would have said if you'd told me?" you asked, your words deliberate and punctuated by the painful throb in your throat. "I wouldn't have run. I would have risked the same once I believed because that's what you do when you see someone who's hurting that badly, Peter. You don't run away. You stay. You help."

A fat, glistening tear finally escaped and rolled down his bruised cheek, tracing a path through the blood. It was followed by another, and then another. The careful dam he had built around his pain, around the secret he had carried alone, finally broke. The shuddering sob that tore from his chest was ragged, violent, and it seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. It was the sound of a person coming apart at the seams.

You didn't hesitate. You moved the last few inches and wrapped your arms around him. It was awkward and painful with you both on the floor, but you didn't care. You pulled him against you, your chin resting on his shoulder, ignoring the rough, scratchy texture of his suit. He was stiff at first, a board of resistance and self-loathing, but you held on. You pressed your cheek against the torn fabric of his suit, ignoring the lingering smell of smoke and city grime.

"It's okay," you whispered into the fabric, the words a broken promise you were determined to keep. "I've got you..."

translated and adapted from my wattpad

about me

✶⋆.˚ The apartment was scarily quiet again. The curtains were closed, letting the room be drowned with darkness. The books scattered around the floor seemed to stare at you, reproaching you for weeks of undone work and unread emails from your boss. You looked down at your hands resting on the dining table. They were dry and cold, your nails bitten down and broken to the point where you couldn't even remember the last time you’d painted them your favorite color. 

The only sounds were the hum of traffic outside and the low vibration of the fridge. Not even the familiar sound of your neighbor’s TV could be heard right now. The apartment was quiet and you felt so empty.

Suddenly, Peter’s steps approached carefully. You looked up slowly and saw him holding two plates of your favorite meal, the one that always brought you back to your happiest memories. Your plate had slightly less food than his. 

“Here you go,” Peter said softly, setting the plates onto the wooden table and sitting down opposite from you.

You stared at the food in front of you as if it had come alive, screaming atrocities at you. Shifting in your seat, you lowered your hands down to your lap, hiding them behind the long sleeves of your sweater, wishing to disappear completely. Peter noticed instantly, brows furrowing as worry washed over his face.

“You have to eat, baby.”

“I’m not hungry,” you muttered, your voice weak and raspy from the lack of use.

“I know, but you need to eat something, baby. Just one spoonful, please?”

Suddenly the noise of the city outside and Peter’s spoon clinking against his bowl felt suffocating. The exhausting quiet of your home had turned into and overwhelming roar, and you couldn’t stop it. The food was quietly judging you and you didn’t understand why eating felt so difficult when, just a few months ago, your favorite time of the day was coming home after a long day and tasting the meal your boyfriend had cooked for you.

Your tired eyes began to sting, and your breathing hitched as you realized you were about to cry, though no tears actually came out. You had hit rock bottom.

Noticing your distress, Peter got up and moved to the chair right next to yours, gently rubbing your back with the lightest, careful touch.

“Hey, it’s okay. I know you can do this, alright?” he leaned in close, his brown eyes searching yours. “I made your grandma’s recipe just for you, beautiful. Don’t you wanna taste a little?”

You remained silent.

“You can go back to bed after, darling, and we can rest together. But you need to eat a little first. Can you do that for me, baby? Here, I’ll help you.”

He scooped a spoonful of soup and held it patiently in front of you, waiting for you to accept his little offer.

His words echoed in your mind. You glanced at the spoon, then at Peter, whose eyes were on you, and then back at the spoon. Letting out a shaky breath, you parted your lips and took the spoon in, allowing the warm soup to coat your tongue. Swallowing felt like an impossible task, but you were doing it and Peter was right there by your side, feeding you tenderly, guiding you through it.

Peter smiled softly as he kept a reassuring hand on your back. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment.

“You’re doing so well, baby. Do you want some water?”

You nodded as he grabbed the glass in front of you and brought it to your lips so you could take a small sip. As soon as he set it back down, you collapsed against his shoulder in exhaustion. He instinctively wrapped his arms tightly around you.

“I don’t want any more soup.”

“Alright, we’ll save the rest for later,” he pushed the plate to the side, noticing you had managed to eat nearly half of it. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

Peter stayed there, calming you down with his embrace while he watched his food get cold, ignoring his subtle hunger.

After a few moments, he tilted his head to see your tired expression. “What are you thinking about, darling?”

You looked straight into his brown eyes, the ones that always worried about you. You swallowed hard and you inevitably lowered your gaze once again.

“I don’t remember what being okay feels like,” you admitted in a trembling voice, heart racing against your ribcage while you waited for Peter’s reaction.

Peter’s breath hitched. His jaw tensed and he sat straight, cupping your cheek and pulling you against his chest. You finally broke as you felt actual tears slide down your face, your frantic sobs filling the room.

“It’s okay, love. You’re going to get through this, I know you will.”

You felt as if your heart shrunk as Peter warmly kissed the top of your head, which gave you just enough strength to lift up your arms and wrap them around his body.

“You’re not alone in this, alright?” he whispered near your ear. “You’ve got a lot of people who love you—me most of all. I’ll be your anchor, I won’t let you fall apart.”

“I didn’t mean to stay in bed all day again, I promise. I just can’t bring myself to get up, I’m sorry,” you sobbed against the phone.

“It’s not your fault, baby. Don’t punish yourself for it,” he said softly over the city noise.

“I just don’t want to lose my job,” you cried, lifting up your hand to wipe the tears away from your face. “I feel terrible, Peter,” you said in a quiet voice.

On the other side of the line, Peter felt his heart shattering in a million pieces at your worried sobs. He paused, took a deep breath in and focused on you. 

“Take a breath, baby. Try that breathing exercise your therapist taught you, yeah? I left class early, so I’ll be there in no time.”

He hung up, shooting webs to the nearest building to try to get home as soon as possible.

A couple of weeks later you held a warm mug of hot chocolate in between your hands. Peter had made it for you before heading out to patrol for the first time in forever. Taking small sips, you sat down on the couch trying to relearn your love for the films you used to enjoy.

Late at night, Peter silently crawled in through the bedroom window, moving slowly to not wake you up. As soon as he closed the window, he felt a violent wave of panic when he saw that you weren’t in bed. Hearing the noises coming from the living room, he rushed out the bedroom.

Peter saw the TV light glowing against your body curled up on the sofa. A relieved sight escaped his mouth as he approached you, gently whispering your name. He noticed your slow, steady breathing and your closed eyes. You had fallen asleep watching a movie.

He slowly kneeled beside the couch, still wearing the suit and holding the mask in between his shaky fingers.

“Hey, gorgeous, wake up,” he murmured, brushing his fingers carefully through your hair.

A soft smile painted his face as your eyes opened. You relaxed instantly at the sight of him bathing you in quiet words and soft caresses.

“Did you enjoy the movie?” he asked, helping you sit up.

“Not really.”

“No? Why not, baby?”

“I don’t know. It used to be one of my favorites, but today it just made me feel… odd,” you whispered.

Peter leaned in, lowering his gaze, completely confused. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You shrugged, staring at the embroidered spider on his chest. “You were busy.”

Peter breathed in deeply while he held your head between his bruised hands, resting his forehead against your.

“Call me whenever you need to. I’m never too busy for you, love.”

You nodded, letting yourself crash against the sofa, finding it difficult to remain sat up. Peter noticed instantly, giving you a cozy smile.

“Are you tired, darling? Have you eaten today?”

“Not since lunch.”

“Alright, I’ll reheat today’s breakfast, then. You don’t have to finish all of it, just eat a little, yeah?” You nodded. “Okay. After that, do you want to go to sleep? Take a shower? Talk about it?”

“No, I don’t wanna talk. A shower sounds nice though.”

“Great. I’ll be right back, gorgeous,” he said, giving you a quick peck. “I love you.”

As he stood up, the wounds and bruises he gained after a night of fighting criminals in the streets demanded his attention. He felt a stinging pain shoot through his abdomen, making him flinch, but he hid it before you could take notice. 

He went straight to the kitchen, putting a plate in the microwave, pouring water into a glass and taking some painkillers to shut off the pain.

When the food was warm, he brought it to you, softly encouraging you to take a few bites like he did every night. For the first time in months, you finally ate the whole thing.

Later, Peter guided you to the shower, washing your hair just like he did whenever you felt overwhelmed.

“Aren’t you going to take off your suit?” you asked sleepily as he helped you into your pajamas.

“Yeah, in a minute. You’re my first priority,” he leaned in to kiss your temple.

That night, once you both were cuddled under the blankets, Peter couldn’t bring himself to sleep until he was completely sure you were sleeping peacefully.

The next morning Peter got home early. His ears were red from the crisp winter air and his eyelids were dark from the lack of sleep. He kicked off his shoes and made his way to the bedroom, preparing for another morning of sweet words and patiently trying to get you out of bed.

Today, much to his surprise, the blinds were already open, the bead was neatly made and your books were stacked on your desk. You got out of the bathroom, still in your pajamas.

“Good morning,” you said, watching him stand in the hallway.

Peter smiled out of reflex, slightly worried and confused.

“Hey,” he said when his brain finally caught up, rushing to give you a soft hug. “How are you feeling? How long have you been awake?”

Peter let go of you, immediately searching for that grey, tired expression you always wore. He expected to see dark circles, eyes fighting to stay open, but he didn’t see any of that. He instead saw a quiet glow across your face. You looked perfectly normal. 

“Just a few minutes. I woke up feeling good. I even made the bed.”

Peter glanced at the bed behind you and then back at you, taking in the slight smile in your face.

“Yes, I see that. I’m proud of you, love,” he whispered, pulling you back into his arms.

“Thank you”, you smiled. “What’s on the bag?” you ask when you felt something press against your back.

“I brought freshly baked cookies from that place you like,” he informed, showing you the brown paper bag. “I thought you might want some.”

“Yes, I do.”

Once in the kitchen, you pulled out a couple of plates from the cupboard while Peter stood there, completely bewildered. His brain was constantly in the search of something to help you with. Did you need help making the coffees? Maybe carrying the plates? When you tried to open the carton of milk, Peter practically stepped in, opening it himself for you.

“Don’t tire yourself out, love,” he insisted.

“Thanks, baby,” you replied.

As you sat down to eat, Peter sat next to you, wrapping a nice blanket around your shoulders to keep you warm. His eyes were fixated on you, ready to jump in to protect you at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, you ate the warm cookies, slowly and quietly, but comfortably. Peter, on the other hand, didn’t even realize he sat completely still, his body tense.

“Peter?” you called.

He quickly leaned in. “What is it?”

“Today’s my therapy appointment.”

Peter placed a cold hand on your knee, tracing absentminded circles with his thumb. “Yes, I know. What’s wrong?”

“Can you come with me? I know you talked about visiting your aunt, but I don’t think I can make it without you there,” you asked with sincerity.

“Of course I can come with you, baby. Always. Don’t worry about May, yeah? We can give her a visit whenever you feel up to it.”

You smiled, relieved, placing your hand on top of his and finishing your breakfast.

Then, one night after Peter had kissed you good night, you woke up a few hours later and found him asleep on a chair in the dining room. His Spider-Man suit was sprawled over his lap, a half-threaded needle sticking out of it and a cold cup of coffee in his hands. You kissed the top of his head, gently waking him up.

“What are you doing up?” He asked, rubbing his eyes and placing the cup of coffee on the table. “Can’t sleep?”

“I just came to drink some water,” you answered. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

“I can’t. I have to finish this,” he said, standing up to grab the glass of water you asked for.

“Don’t you have an early class tomorrow?” you asked, accepting the glass of water and taking a sip out of it.

“Yeah, but it’s okay.”

Peter sat back down on the chair, picking up the suit and resuming his stitches. You nodded, kissing his cheek. You took a look at the calendar on the wall, previously full of Peter’s exams and patrol schedules, now exclusively covered with your therapy appointments, and you headed back to bed.

The sound of keys unlocking the front door echoed through the apartment. You stepped in and kicked off your shoes, closing the door behind you. Peter’s hurried steps suddenly appeared.

“Hey, sorry for being late. We lost track of time,” you smiled.

“Hi, love. Where were you?” Peter asked, taking your bag and placing it on the coat rack.

“Didn’t you get my message? I texted you while you were in class that I was grabbing dinner with the girls.”

“Yes, I saw that, but I didn’t know where you were. I mean, I didn’t have your location.”

You stared at him for a moment, confused. He had big dark circles under his eyes, his eyes looked glassy, almost as if he was about to cry, and his brown curls were a mess.

“Sorry, I forgot to send it to you. But I was only a few blocks away.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re home now, with me,” he breathed out, pulling you in for a hug, softly kissing your hair. “Are you tired? Do you want to lay down?”  

“No, I actually slept in today,” you replied, gently pulling back.

Peter placed his slightly trembling hands on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your whole body for something that might be bothering you. Noticing that you weren’t wearing a coat, he instantly headed to the bedroom.

“Are you cold? I’ll get a blanket. Or do you want some hot tea?”

“Peter,” you said, declining the blanket he offered you.

“Tell me, baby.”

“I’m not cold.”

Peter’s frantic expression faltered as he looked down, but he forced himself to stand tall, offering you a smile.

“I made some food while you were out so you could eat as soon as you got home,” he said, walking to the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

Peter stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at you with pure tenderness.

“I know, love, but you have to eat at least a little bit, yeah?”

You looked at him firmly, placing your hand in his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat under your palm.

“I’m not hungry because I already ate. Sally invited me to dinner, dessert included, and then she offered to help me look for a job offer in her building.”

Peter’s brain short-circuited after hearing your words. He stared at you, locking in your smile, searching for any sign that you were faking it. But all he found was a genuine, glowing smile.

“Oh, um… that’s great, love. I’m happy for you.”

In that moment, Peter felt like the worst person in the world. You, his girlfriend, the person he loves the most, the strongest woman he had ever met that had spent months in the dark was finally okay. You were actually smiling, proud of your journey, excited for your future. And Peter, your boyfriend, the person who should be the happiest for you, couldn’t do it. So he continued searching for any problem to solve.

“Are you sure you ate enough? Don’t you want to rest a little bit?”

“I think I’m going to take a shower. And maybe tomorrow we can take a walk through the park? The weather’s been so nice lately. You can really tell spring is here.”

“Yeah, perfect,” he nodded. “Do you want me to wash your hair? Or I can just sit on the floor and chat with you, like you like.”

You lowered your hand to his arm, gently stroking it through his hoodie. “I do like it when you do that, but I wanna try to do it on my own this time. I feel really good.”

Peter swallowed harshly, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, “Alright.”

You followed his gaze as he looked down, taking his hands in yours.

“I know these past months you’ve gotten used to taking care of me, and I’m truly grateful for that,” he looked up at you. “You’re amazing, but today I genuinely feel okay.”

Peter smiled softly, nodding slightly as his brows remained furrowed, “I’m so proud of you. You look really happy.”

“Thank you, handsome,” you smiled widely, stroking Peter’s cheek and giving him a quick peck on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Once you got out of the shower, steamy mist rushing out to the hall and fresh clothes covering your body, you looked for Peter, wanting to spend some quiet, relaxing moments with him for the first time all day. You found him in the dining room, his laptop was open in front of him, tools and superhero gear were scattered across the table and his college textbooks lay abandoned on a chair.

You approached him carefully, wrapping your arms around his tense shoulders and touching his chest. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs when you buried your head on the crook of his neck, letting yourself relax.

“What are you doing, love?” you asked.

“Upgrading my web-shooters,” he answered, seemingly fixated on the tiny mechanism in his hands.

“You don’t have to do that, Peter,” you said in a quiet voice, gently taking the screwdriver out of his hands. His knuckles were white from gripping it tightly. “You already did that last week.”

Peter froze. He stared at the messy table, then at the recently cleaned kitchen, and then finally at you. You looked alive, renewed. For the first time in months, there was nothing in front of him that needed fixing. 

His hands started shaking. “I can put the clothes in the laundry so you can wear your favorite hoodie tomorrow,” he let out quickly, almost desperately, standing up in a second.

“Peter,” you interrupted, catching his cold hands. “The laundry’s already hung up.”

The air was knocked out of Peter’s lungs, as if he had been punched directly in the stomach. He took a step back, but his legs betrayed him, forcing him to slump on the chair behind him. He slammed his hands across his face, feeling a frustrating sting in his chest, overwhelmed by everything and nothing at all.

“What do I do, then?” he muttered as his voice broke a little, losing his confident appeal for a second. “If you don’t need me… what am I supposed to do?”

You sat down by his side without taking your eyes off him. You grabbed his hand and placed it right above your heart so he could feel its steady beating.

“You don’t have to do anything. Rest, have fun. Exist.”

“I just… I don’t know how to do that, y’know?” he confessed in a thread of a voice, letting his head drop heavily against your shoulder. “If I’m not fixing anything, if I’m not helping you, I feel totally unworthy.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling a sting of guilt and tenderness at the same time. You understood that hollow feeling of emptiness all too well. You had lived in it for too long.

Slowly, you ran your fingers through his hair, unraveling the soft, messy curls. You felt his body shaking against yours with the weight of months full of quiet anxiety.

“You saved my life, Peter. You were there for me,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “But I don’t love you because of what you do for me. I love you because you’re you.

He let out a choked sob, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against you like you were his only anchor in the middle of a storm.

“You’re tired, baby,” you said softly, caressing his back. “You should get some sleep.”

You slowly helped him up and guided him to the bed. Peter let himself fall against the mattress, quietly slipping under the pillows.

You curled up beside him, placing his head on your lap. You covered his body up to the shoulders with a warm blanket as you gently stroked his soft hair.

For the first time in weeks, Peter peacefully closed his eyes. He quickly fell asleep, knowing deep in his heart that if he ever fell, you were always there to catch him.

a/n: bnd was sooo good even my mom liked it and she’s not really a fan. anyways i think she’s in love with tom holland now (not kidding) so good for her.

i’ve been really wanting to write this one shot for AGES since phoebe announced her new album ‼️, but i couldn’t bring myself to do it. it took me so much time, and then translating and adapting it (since it was originally written in spanish) was the hardest part because I constantly have to look up alternative words and phrases to use.

the first sign that something was off with your next door neighbor, peter parker, showed in his texting.

in the months he'd been in the apartment next to yours, the two of you had grown quite close. it was slow, at first. this meek, fawn of a man who had moved in just before christmas, seemingly closed off to all of your friendly neighbor charms and attempts at passing conversation.

he stood no chance against your grandmother's brownie recipe.

from that cold night in january on, you saw more and more of him open up. you'd gotten his number, and discovered the list of commonalities between the two of you. as he let you into his life more, you started to even find it endearing as he spammed your phone at all hours of the night, your notifications filled with nothing but the fleeting thoughts on his mind he thought to share with you.

but suddenly, a stranger was responding to you; single words replaced his once excited paragraphs to even the most of mudane things.

may 3rd @ 2:35am

you: did you watch the nintendo direct tn???

peter parker (#1304): last night, technically

peter parker (#1304): AND YUPPPP

peter parker (#1304): already calculated how much overtime i’m gonna need to afford the new zelda and mario dlc

peter parker (#1304): see you after summer 😔

you: you literally don’t even have a switch

peter parker (#1304): no but i have the kindest most wonderful neighbor in the whole wide world who does

peter parker (#1304): 🥹

you: why the hell are you even awake rn??

peter parker (#1304): i should ask you the same question, miss.

you: touché

may 4th @ 6:23am

peter parker (#1304): dude dude dude

peter parker (#1304): wake up and look at the sunrise

peter parker (#1304): loooookkkkkkkkkk

peter parker (#1304): lets go to the roof

you: if you send me one more message at this godforsaken hour, i'm going to murder you with my bare hands

peter parker (#1304): like you could even catch me 😏

may 4th @ 12:03pm

you: do you want spaghetti or mac and cheese for dinner tmrw

you: those miiiiiiight be the only two things to my name rn

peter parker (#1304): is it the spongebob mac and cheese

you: yes

peter parker (#1304): oh fuck yeah

may 5th @ 01:12am

you: are you breaking things over there? what the hell was that noise??

peter parker (#1304): lol

you: no like, you good????

read @ 02:45am

may 5th @ 10:48am

you: no fear, i have acquired hot dogs for the mac and cheese

may 5th @ 11:55am

peter parker (#1304): can't tn

you: what!! i spent a dollar fifty on these clearance hotdogs for nothing?? guess i'll have to get food poisoning alone 🙄

peter parker (#1304): lmao

you: everything okay?

read @ 11:59am

the second sign was the fact that he had dodged your weekly tuesday night dinner.

that alone wasn't unusual, as he'd cancelled plenty of times in the few months you'd grown to know peter. the day he swan dove through your window in stark red and blue, mistaking your room for his, you had finally found out why. now when he flaked, he'd attach a local news article of the crime he'd just stopped to his apology text an hour after he was supposed to show up. sometimes, you wouldn't hear from him until he got back just before the sun broke through, knocking on your window in desperate need of whatever medical attention you could offer him.

he had dodged you plenty of times, but today was different. peter texted you around noon, when he was supposedly mid chem-lab, simply saying he wouldn't be able to make it.

it wasn't weird that he bailed on your plans. it was weird that he let you know ahead of time.

but that wasn't what caused you to crawl across your shared fire escape and force your way into his bedroom. no, it was the third thing.

the third thing was the beyond heartbreaking, soul-shattering sobs that you heard come through the wall. paper-thin walls had become a bittersweet troupe to new york, and you often had done your best to respect your neighbors privacy whenever you could hear them and... whatever they were doing. especially peter.

you hadn't heard a noise like this from him before, though.

you were out of your window and onto the fire escape before you even knew your body was moving. climbing over the rusty metal through the dark, crisp night, you fumbled your way to peter's window just a few feet from yours. you'd only done this a few other times (in daylight, mind you), and how he did this multiple times a day was beyond you.

with the fight in your system to get to peter overcoming the flight as you resisted the urge to look down at the street 13 floors below you, a silent prayer left your lips as you hit peter's window and noticed it still unlocked from when he'd returned earlier.

there was a moment of hesitation, a flash of guilt as you contemplated the insane invasion of privacy it was to enter someone's bedroom window without asking. he hadn’t even noticed you yet, for fucks sake.

the moment passed as you heard peter choke trying to catch his breath.

pulling the window up and nearly falling through, you found him in his bed, the sight utterly gut-wrenching. if peter knew you were there, he didn't show it as he laid there, curled in on himself in fetal position, crying so hard you were sure he wouldn't have a voice tomorrow. you took a step closer, steadying your own breath as you took the view in of the strongest person you knew, spider-man, for fucks sake, choking on his own spit as he had his hands grasped around his damp curls. you watched in horror as he yanked. hard.

it was too much, and you had to intervene. you tried his name a few times, but it seemed peter was far too lost in his own head to notice.

"peter?"

god he can even hear her now. he tugged his hair harder, hoping the pain would drown out the voices.

"peter, please! you're hurting yourself!"

hearing her was one thing, but feeling his dead aunt's hands on his own was a new low. he'd officially fucking lost it.

"no! you're not even real!" peter screamed as he shot up right, the sudden motion catching you off guard and sending you to your ass on the hard ground.

you hit with a soft "oof", and it knocked some sense of reality back into peter as he met your gaze on the ground just below him.

"wh-what? what are you, how did you get in here?" he croaked out, confirming your previous suspicions that he'd shot his voice.

you moved to stand, watching as peter tucked himself small again to make room for you on his bed. it was immediately clear just how embarrassed he felt as he tried to wipe away his tears and snot, smoothing his tussled hair out as you cautiously sat at the edge of his bed.

"it seemed like something was wrong. guessing i was maybe right?" you tried softly, offering him what you hoped came off as empathy rather than pity.

it was hard not to - pity him - in that moment. you hadn't yet seen this part of peter. right now, he wasn't spider-man. he wasn't peter parker, top of his class at ESU. he was a broken boy, pieces shattered and laying out in front of you. you didn't know what was wrong, but from the look on his face, maybe just being here was handing him the first piece he needed to start putting it all back together again.

peter's face crumpled, fresh tears streaking down his cheeks as he launched himself into your lap. the dam broke as he let out wails that chilled down to your bones, broken "i'm sorry"'s filling the air between his gasps.

you didn't know what to do. you didn't know what was wrong. but it didn't matter in that moment as you held him tightly, pulling one of new york's mightiest heroes into your lap fully and cradling him as though he wasn't a 22 year old man. with a hand in his hair to soothe his obviously sore scalp, you whispered soft nothings into peter's ear as he continued to sob, and nothing but unintelligible "sorry"'s left his chapped lips.

you stayed like that for god knew how long, letting him get it all out. you didn't care that his tears were starting to soak through your sleep shirt, or that he was drooling against your arm as he fought to catch his breath. you didn't care. you just cared that he was as safe as he could be in your arms right now, and that he wasn't alone anymore. it broke your heart to see him so hurt. someone who saved you from a man in an alley with nothing but the flick of his wrist and a quick-witted comment, now bawling in your lap and apologizing as if he had been the one to hurt you that day.

after a while, peter eventually began to quiet down, his cries fading into soft sniffles. his once heavy, labored breathing started to even out as he used his remaining energy to match the deep and steady pace you had set out for him long ago.

soon, it settled even further, and you looked down to see a sleeping peter parker collapsed across your lap. you smiled at the sight, relieved to see his body finally relaxed. with the upmost caution, you shifted so that peter was laying back on his bed, and tucked his blanket gently around him. reaching up to brush some of the matted, sweaty hair from off his forehead, you gave a soft smile before you went to stand, but a hand landed gingerly on your wrist, causing you to turn back.

"don't go. please." it was so broken that it made tears spring in your eyes.

"i'm not going anywhere, pete. just grabbing a few things quick, okay?"

with a soft hum and the return of his steady breathing, you got up to get some supplies: a cold rag, some meds and a glass of water to soothe the headache you knew would be there in the morning, spidey-healing be damned.

you returned to sit next to him, covering his face as gently as possible with the rag. he hummed quietly, leaning into your touch as you wiped away the hours of tear tracks that had eroded his cheeks like a river does the land. you tossed the cloth to his dirty bin, tensing as you decided on your next move.

fuck it. you'd already broken in to his literal house.

you climbed into bed next to him, shimmying your way under the covers and molding yourself against his warm, tired body. he accepted immediately, arms finding their way around your waist and letting out a content sigh as your head laid on his chest. you smiled, noticing his heart rate had finally returned back to normal.

more unknown time had passed, this time much more serene than the last lost chunk of time. you'd thought he was fully out, feeling yourself pulled under the same lull before peter's voice quietly cracked through a whisper.

"it's my aunt's birthday today."

you moved your head to look up at him, your own eyes welling as you noticed the tears in his.

peter hadn't talked about her much. you only knew that she was gone and that he loved her wholeheartedly. he flickered down to meet your gaze before looking away again, and you began to draw comforting patterns over his chest in an encouragement to continue.

"i... i lost her last year. it was my fault, i... i-i couldn't-" he was cut off by his own choked sob, and you crawled further up the bed to hold him tighter, more properly.

"shh, hey. it's okay, peter. it wasn't your fault." you didn't know what had happened, but you knew there was no way in hell this was on him.

peter shuttered an exhale as he buried his face in your neck, newly wet cheeks smushed against your warm skin. "it's her birthday. and... and for the first time, she's just not here."

his voice was barely audible towards the end, and you held him even closer at the admission. you rubbed his back and exaggerated your steady breaths for him to mimic again as you laid there with him, allowing him to simply not be alone with this.

"i'm sorry i kept you up. i'm sorry i didn't come to dinner. i'm sorry about all of this." peter sounded like he was eight years old again.

you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "peter, please. you don't have to apologize to me. thank you so much for telling me."

his eyes wavered in your gaze before he dropped it, nestling his head back against you with a quiet, "okay". your hand found his hair again, the other still firmly planted on his back.

"can i ask you a question?" he just hummed in acknowledgment.

"Did you get everything?" "Oh. Right." You reached into your bag and pulled out a bundle of wooden skewers along with an extra set of acrylic paints. "You forgot these." "I definitely did." You held them out triumphantly. “Do you have a planet for me?” "Is Mars enough?" "I also want Jupiter." He looked up. “You’re haggling.” "Oh, just wait." You reached into your jacket pocket and produced a tiny bottle of iridescent glitter that shimmered in what seemed like a thousand different colors. "I'll trade you." Ryland's eyes widened. "For what?" "Saturn's rings." He stared at the glitter, then at you. "I'll give you anything you want."

An hour later, the two of you were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. Your fingers were stained with paint, half-finished planets covered the coffee table, tiny stars cut from glitter paper were scattered everywhere. Ryland was telling you about the latest disaster at school. "So apparently my fourth-graders decided that if we were learning about volcanoes, we obviously needed an actual eruption. They convinced me." He sighed dramatically. "So baking soda, vinegar, food coloring...fire alarm. The whole school had to evacuate."

You smiled, but Ryland noticed something that nobody else ever seemed to. The smile never reached your eyes. You were here, sitting beside him, painting planets, getting glitter stuck to your cheeks until you sparkled like one of the stars you were cutting out. But your mind… Your mind was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm flying to Dubai tomorrow." You didn't even look up from Mars. "They need someone to take care of the penguins." "Oh." You painted another careful stroke. "That's nice." "That's enough." You froze. Ryland quietly set his paintbrush down, half-finished Venus rested on the coffee table. "Are you going to tell me what's going on or should I start exploring alternative interrogation techniques?" You finally looked at him. You'd known him for so long, you couldn't lie to him again. Could you? So you just shrugged. "I'm just tired."

"'Just?'" "Yeah." It wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't. "You know you don't have to pretend around me, right?" His voice was gentle. "I don't want to pressure you. I just… I care about you, okay?" Your chest tightened. "I don't ever want you to think you have to come here just because I need help with school projects." He smiled sadly. "Or that helping me is the only reason I want you here."

Without thinking, you wiped at your cheek, only succeeding in smearing more glitter across your skin. It shimmered beneath the warm living-room lamp. "I'm sorry, Ryland..." He frowned immediately. "Don't." His voice softened. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, sweetheart." You inhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. "You know I hate it when conversations become about me." He nodded. "I know." "And you're not letting this go today." "Not a chance." A sheepish grin. "I can be stubborn." "Oh..." The corners of your mouth twitched. "I've noticed."

You set Mars aside. Your shoulders slumped. For a long moment you simply stared at your hands. "You know..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "I feel like I'm failing at everything." "What do you mean?" You shrugged helplessly. "Everything. I'm just... surviving from one day to the next. I wake up. I eat the same bowl of oatmeal. I go to work. I do what I'm supposed to do. I keep trying..." Your voice caught. "I keep trying to look like I've got everything under control. Like I'm capable. Like I belong. But honestly..." You laughed bitterly. "I'm terrified someone's going to figure out I'm a fraud. That I don't actually know what I'm doing. That I'm disappointing everyone. That I have to earn it."

Ryland felt something tighten painfully inside his chest.  He had never, not once, seen you that way. Your words felt impossibly unfair. Still… He already knew the answer before he asked. "What do you have to earn?" Your eyes had turned red. A few tears slipped down your cheeks before you hurriedly wiped them away. More glitter. More stars. "Someone noticing me." Your voice cracked. "Someone... doing something for me. I don't mean anything huge. I just… I want to be somebody's person." Your composure finally broke. "I don't want to be the strong one all the time. I feel like I'm constantly running. And somehow I'm always behind."

The tears came all at once. You hid your face behind your hands as though, somehow, you could hide from him too. Ryland moved closer without saying a word, he rested an arm gently around your shoulders. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him. His other hand slowly rubbed comforting circles along your arm. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "That's too much for one person. Even one as strong as you. Tell me..." He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. "When was the last time someone took care of you?" You sniffled. "The lady who did my nails?" Despite everything, Ryland smiled. There it was again, turning pain into a joke before anyone could see how much it hurt. "They're beautiful." He glanced at your hand. "But that's not what I mean. You're overwhelmed, but you keep pretending you're okay. You keep putting more and more on your own plate when you're barely managing what's already there." His voice caught. "I wish..." He hesitated, because he had never said this aloud before. He certainly hadn't expected tonight to be the night. Not while painting planets in his living room. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

You looked at him. "I can always count on you. It doesn't matter if it's building school projects or helping organize something for my class. You balance your job, your own life, everything else you carry. And somehow…you're still there for everyone. You think about other people before you think about yourself. You make sure I eat. You make sure I remember to take care of myself. You keep buying me those ridiculous science T-shirts." He smiled. "I still have no idea where you find them. But I love every single one of them."

Then, quietly. "You don't have to keep reflecting everyone else's light. You already have your own." His thumb brushed gently across your shoulder. "And I don't need you to be the person who has everything figured out. I just..." He smiled with that shy, almost embarrassed softness that was so unmistakably Ryland. "I just want you to be you."

Silence settled between you. Eventually, you looked up. Your mascara had smudged beneath your eyes, there was glitter mixed with your tears. Ryland couldn't help thinking you'd never looked more beautiful. "What if I don't remember how?" Your voice was almost inaudible. "What if I've been pretending for so long that I don't even know who I am anymore?" Ryland thought for a moment, then he simply shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. And we'll start tonight." He squeezed your shoulder before standing. "That's it. The solar system can wait until tomorrow."

"What?" "We're going to eat. I saw a little diner down the street. They serve wonderfully unhealthy food. They're open late. And after that..." He pretended to think. "We'll watch a documentary. And if we get bored, we'll watch something else. If you want music, we'll listen to music. If you want silence, we'll sit in silence. And..." He glanced around at the glitter-covered room. "If the mood strikes us…we can dance somewhere between the couch and this complete disaster."

You laughed through your tears. "You dance?" "With you?" His smile grew. "Absolutely." He held out his hand, without hesitation, you took it. When you stood, you were close enough that he could still see the glitter sparkling across your cheeks. But for the first time that evening there was hope in your eyes. "You know..." Your fingers tightened around his before naturally weaving between his. "You're a real treasure."

Ryland groaned dramatically. "Oh, come on..." He felt warmth creep into his cheeks. "I just wanted to do something nice for my favorite girl." The words escaped before he had time to think about them, but neither of you pulled away. Instead, you smiled. A real smile this time.

"Ry— Ry, hey, c'mon. Get up for a second."

A hand touches his shoulder, making him stir lightly as he moans into his pillow, slowly prying his sleep-foggy eyes open.

The tired, slightly raspy voice talking to him was familiar— yours.

"What?" He grumbles, his nose scrunching in his feeble attempt to see you, shrouded within the dark. It's useless, but he can see a faint, shadowed, you-shaped blob.

He didn't really want to get up.

"You wanted to see the fireworks. There's a bunch going now— you can see 'em perfectly from the window." You murmur, the wooden floorboards creaking lightly under your weight as you shift on your feet.

Now that he's listening… it doesn't truly sound all to different from the aforementioned fireworks going off outside.

He groans, huffing loudly as his hand grips your forearm gently, slowly sinking down to grab your hand. "Mmmng. What time is it?"

Pressing your hand to his chest, he blinks, squinting up at your vauge form.

"One AM. You gonna get up so you can come see?"

"Yeah, yeah," He mumbles, accepting his glasses as you pull them from his table and hold them out to him with your other, free hand, as he sits up. "What're you doin' up this late? You're s'pposed to be in bed. With me, you know."

"Oh, hush." Your laugh is tired, but just as beautiful as ever. It wakes him up a little more, making him smile softly at just the sound alone, even in his groggy state. "You wanted to see 'em, no? I'm letting you… well, not sleep through them this time."

He flushes. "It was an accident."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, he kicks off his blankets, missing the warmth immediately. You're a more-than-perfect substitute, though, so he huddles up to you once he's on his feet, interlinking your arms as he steps out of the bedroom beside you.

Truth be told, you waking up for this — for him — makes him feel fuzzy, adored. You despised getting out of bed after falling asleep (because you had trouble falling asleep to begin with), yet, tonight, you'd done so.

For him.

Out of anyone.

Eight-point-three billion people on this earth, and you chose him.

And by God do you make him feel worth it— even when he'd doubt it, even when he'd keep you up by blabbering whilst cuddling at bedtime, even when he was crud at cooking or couldn't win a game of Thumb-Wars for anything, you'd stuck with your choice.

He gasps silently at the feeling of your elbow gently pushing at his side, ripping him out of his day-dreaming and distraction.

He hadn't even noticed you'd made it to the window already.

The scene from the window is gorgeous.

Colorful fireworks light up the sky in pretty, distant hues, splaying across and warming warming the city's usual coldness— it makes it appear more gentle, softer, happier.

Easier to forgive the neighbors that have been playing Gosh-awful music on full blast all night three doors down, and distracting him from the similar fact of a couple… enjoying themselves… rather loudly only two down.

It's nice.

"I didn't want you to make the same accident this time," You mutter, reaching up to easily push the curtain a little more to the side, widening the view for him. "Plus, it's America's birthday. Can't miss it twice, right?"

He swallows, nodding sluggishly in a mindless form of agreement. "…Can't miss it. Right."

You could say anything right now, and he'd agree.

He glances over, licking his sleep-dry lips.

A mix of Purples, reds, and yellows paint your figure, drowning you like a beautiful silk; one that highlights your expression, drawing out the more hidden designs of you— even when you're both tired beyond measure and have to work tomorrow, you look ethereal.

As always, of course.

He needed glasses, but he wasn't completely blind.

He was more than well aware of what honor he has to be able to come home to you, to be able to call you cheesy petnames that make you wince, to be able to make you laugh and to get to call himself yours (and vice versa).

He'd be one dumb man if he wanted anything else.

"The fire-works are out there, you know. Not on my face."

"Hm?" He blurts, his eyebrows furrowing just faintly. "Oh, no, I, uh, I know. You're just…"

Pausing, his hand dips, lacing his fingers with yours as he pulls you closer and leans comfortably in your side. He fits there simply and without trouble, like he was just meant to orbit your planet.

To orbit you.

"…You look pretty."

Adjusting, he presses his cheek into your shoulder, wiggling a little to find juuust the right spot— once he hits it, he sinks into it, welcoming the warm, tiny wave of happy-shivers that follow.

"Mmmn." You hum, and he feels it in his cheek and his side as you pull your hand from his, replacing it with your other as you slip your arm over his shoulder, tucking him further into your warmth.

He brings his to curl around your middle, letting his other hand be busied by being tangled with yours. The arm of his glasses presses into his temple as he shifts his gaze, looking out of the window when a particularly loud firework goes off.

For the moment, he lets the moment linger, the pad of his thumb taking a slow, back-and-forth rhythm over your knuckles as you two stand at the window sill.

The fireworks glow brightly in the dark, clouded city sky, reflecting off of the glass of the buildings surrounding them. Some are singularly colored, some multi, with some lasting longer and some glittering off and fading the moment they burst and their life cycle ends.

If he could stare long enough, he could try to figure out what components were used in them; copper, sodium…

He exhales.

"Thank you for waking me up," He whispers, pushing his cheek a little more against you as he shifts on his feet. His other hand bunches up in your sleep shirt, twisting the fabric idly.

You whisper back, resting your head atop his own. "It's no biggie, Ry. I knew you wanted to see this."

It's better with you, He thinks, humming quietly to your answer. So much better.

A shudder drips down the notches of his spine as your hand slips under his shirt, making home of his side and soothing the fat there in a simple, up and down motion— it's something you always do in side-hugs, and it's probably one of his many favorite you-involved things in the world.

"At least we don't have to go up to the roof to see it," You add, voice still lowered. It cracks faintly around the syllables, making him smile just a little bit.

Your voice always did do that when you'd whisper— but again, his cracked awfully when he'd laugh, so he has no room to talk.

"Yeah," He agrees, continuing the slow, idle movement of his thumb. It drags across your knuckles, ghosting over the small scars littered there, left by life's grip. "I like it more from here... Less effort."

"Way less," You mumble.

"Gosh, I hate those stairs."

You snicker at him— he can feel the curve of your smile against his hairline, making him pick his head up and tilt it back a smidge to see it for himself.

Your fingers dig lightly into him, but loosen once he moves, giving him space to wiggle as needed.

The callouses collected on your palm brush his side, making him twitch as they ghost over the sensitive splotch of flesh there; where he was most ticklish.

"What?" He huffs, fighting the grin that attempts to wrestle its way onto his mouth. He wins, but barely, and only a little. "'S true. Very true."

You shake your head, smiling. "No, no, I know. I hate 'em too."

Grumbling, he drops his head to rest back on your shoulder, moving as close as he can get to you in this position. His focus is dragged back to the firework show as he settles, his shoulders dropping further.

This time, the path of your touch changes course, slithering up the way of his spine, then back down, then over his ribs. Your palm is warm, heating up where-ever you touch with the flame of familiarity.

His brain feels split between the two: the Fireworks and how pretty they are, and your touch and how wanted you make him feel.

You just… you have this way about you. Every nerdy joke he makes, every jest he fumbles— you have this thing to you that makes everything feel natural.

He doesn't ever feel strange or awkward with you. You don't ever make him feel wrong or weird; before, coming home was kind of awful. The emptiness, the quiet, how he'd always have to order something out for dinner or else he'd be stuck eating Mac 'N Cheese for the millionth time.

Now?

He can't practically come home fast enough, ever. You've somehow managed to teach him how to make a few good, healthy meals— Him! Mr. I-almost-burnt-the-apartment-down-making-french-toast!

It was a feat you deserved an award for.

Clearing his throat, he exhales, looking between you and the outside.

Was he zoned out staring at your reflection in the window?

Totally not.

He would never do that. Nope. Not at all.

You sure seem to notice his quiet, though.

"You still tired?" You muse, gently running your hand up and down over his side, purposefully avoiding his sensitive spots with each pace.

"Mhm," He hums, nodding against your shoulder. "'M glad it's a weekend... I can't wait to sleep the day off."

And to cuddle with you, his brain supplies, rather unhelpfully.

It's a nice thought, though, and it's the God-honest truth. Cuddling with you in the mornings was a true form of Elysium.

"Mmn. Wanna go back to bed?"

"Not yet," He swallows, slipping back and slowly pulling you over in front of him.

He moves to hug you properly once you're positioned right, letting your hands disconnect in favor of circling your middle with his arms and trying to get as close as he can manage.

"Wanna stand here a little more first." He mumbles.

His chest flutters as you return the affection immediately, waking the butterflies that have made permanent residence of his belly.

Your arms snake up behind him, one of your hands cradling the back of his head and tangling in his hair as your other finds its place on the low of his back, pulling him more into you.

Again, your hand slips under the hem of his shirt, breaking the fabric barrier of it in a movement to have skin-to-skin instead.

He presses his ear to your chest, listening to the steady thump of your heartbeat whilst he continues to stare out of the window.

In his apartment, it's dark and it's quiet— but outside is alive and thriving, joy and favor seeping into every living being, even for just a second.

Listening to your heartbeat was one of his many favorite things to do. In bed, cuddled on the couch, like now and in a hug… there was something to it. It was pleasant to listen to, to feel, to have the honor of being able to.

"…This is nice," He says, his lips pressing together just slightly as he adjusts his heads position, finding the right spot. "What do you think?"

"I like it, too," You agree, pressing a kiss into his hair. "The fireworks are pretty."

Humming lowly, he pulls his arms from completely around you, snaking them under your shirt before returning to their former positions. Again, his thumb draws little patterns, this time near the dip of your spine, and little stars rather than a mindlessly rhythm.

You feel so good.

"I love you," He whispers, silently wishing that somehow, and in some way, he could get closer to you.

It never felt like enough.

But, for the moment, just listening to your heart-rate tick up at his adoration will do perfectly fine.

"I love you too, Ryland."

You press another kiss into his hair, only to lean down and leave another on his forehead. He hums at the feeling, exhaling slowly.

"Okay, I think I'm ready for bed now."

"Yeah?"