beanie

You were forever grateful for Betty Brant. No matter how messy things got, she was always there—your closest friend since high school, your ride-or-die, your emergency contact, your two a.m. lifeline. She was there when your pet fish Angelo died (you’d sobbed for two hours straight). She was there when you bombed the PSAT and thought your entire academic future was ruined. And she was there now, two days before Christmas, getting dressed to go drink your sadness away—because that’s what she did. She showed up.

She suggested just staying in, drinking wine from coffee mugs and watching Love Island, but you insisted on going out. You didn’t want comfort—you wanted chaos. You wanted overpriced cocktails, bad lighting, and music so loud it made your teeth rattle. You wanted to freeze your ass off in a too-thin top and forget everything for a few hours.

So she came with you because she always did.

“I don’t think you should be getting another drink, babe!” she shouted over the blaring speakers, reaching for your elbow as you mumbled something about another shot and tried to make your way to the bar.

You paused mid-step and turned to her, wobbling slightly on your heels. “Butta wanna, though,” you mumbled, the words sticking together like your mouth couldn’t keep up with your brain.

Betty raised an eyebrow, her breath visible in the chill that clung even inside the club. “Babe, I don’t know what happened between you and Peter—”

“Don’t say that name.”

She didn’t flinch. “Fine. Whatever happened between you and… it—look, you’re grown. Talk to… it. Drinking yourself sorry isn’t gonna fix it.”

You didn’t say anything, just pressed your lips together and turned back toward the bar.

You didn’t end up getting that shot. Partly because Betty gave you that look—one eyebrow arched, all judgment and concern—and partly because you knew she was right. Even drunk, you knew. Somewhere in the haze of your thoughts and the warmth humming under your skin, logic poked through.

Your parents were already upset about the state of the kitchen. The sugar trails, the smeared dough on the countertops, the half-decorated cookies left abandoned when Peter—when he left. They didn’t say much, just sighed and told you to clean it before they drove to see your grandparents. They offered to bring you, but didn’t push it when you said no. And honestly, you couldn’t imagine sitting through a family dinner without crying into a casserole.

But, sure. A club seemed like a great idea instead.

You slumped into Betty’s side with a dramatic sigh. “’Kay, fine, no more tequila. You win.” You blinked slowly, like the air was thick. “But can we please go pee? ’M seriously gonna piss right here.” You paused, frowning at nothing. “Like—not even joking, Betts. I might need a fuckin’ pull-up.”

Betty snorted. “What’re you still doing here then? Go piss girl.” She gave you a little push toward the back hallway, laughing gently.

The bathroom was dim and lined with stickers and graffiti. You stumbled into a stall, sitting with your head in your hands, pressing your palms to your forehead as if you could squeeze the thoughts away.

You didn’t want to be mean to Peter. You regretted everything you said, practically the second it left your mouth. But you’d felt so overwhelmed, so confused. You didn’t know how to explain what was happening in your head—how real it had all started to feel. The way he looked at you, touched you, talked to you like you were something he’d been searching for. Like you belonged to him. And maybe part of you had wanted that.

But you weren’t his. That had never been the deal.

You flushed the toilet, your movements sluggish, and opened the door to find Betty standing with her arms crossed.

“Took you long enough. Did you drink four gallons of water or just pass out?”

“’M okay,” you mumbled, stepping out and heading to the sink.

She watched you in the mirror as you washed your hands. Her expression softened when she saw the puffiness under your eyes, the way your concealer was clinging to the dry spots from crying the night before.

“Here,” she murmured, digging through her purse. She held up a tube of lip gloss. You turned toward her, and she gently swiped it over your lips, careful and slow.

“My pretty girl,” she whispered, and gave you a light kiss on the cheek. “Let’s get you home before you black out and I have to carry you.”

You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Betty called the Uber as you clung to her hand, the two of you stumbling out into the cold night. Your heels clicked against the icy sidewalk, the wind biting at your legs, but you didn’t complain. The cold was grounding and something to focus on that wasn’t the storm in your chest.

The Uber pulled up, headlights blinding in the dark, and Betty helped you in first before sliding in beside you. The ride was quiet and a lot warmer. You leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur by in smears of light and motion.

Betty glanced over at you. “You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. “Nuh uh.”

“Okay,” she said, and that was it.

She got out with you when the driver pulled up in front of your apartment and walked you upstairs without needing to be asked. At your door, she gave you one more look—serious, steady.

“You need me tomorrow, I’m a text away. Even if it’s Christmas. I’ll bring pie or wine or both.”

You smiled, a little crooked. “Thanks you, Betts,” you slurred, patting her cheek with exaggerated affection. “You’re like, my guardian angel.”

“Don’t thank me. You’d do the same.” She pressed another kiss to your cheek. “Now go inside before you cry on the stairs.”

You laughed, a little wet in the throat, and nodded as you watched Betty go—her arms wrapped tightly around herself, steps light and quick as she disappeared down the hallway and into the elevator. Then it was just you, the quiet echo of her footsteps fading into silence as you turned and let yourself back into the apartment.

It was dim inside, still and too quiet, the kind of quiet that settled like dust in the corners. The only light came from the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The door clicked shut behind you with more finality than you expected.

Your head was still buzzing—not just from the drinks, though they’d certainly done their job, but from the entire night. From the ache in your chest that you couldn’t seem to name, from the way your skin still hummed with memory. You let your purse drop by the door with a soft thud, then stood there in the middle of the living room, motionless like you were waiting for something to tell you what to do next.

Eventually, you slipped out of your shoes and padded across the floor in your socks, cold toes brushing against the hardwood. You reached for a hoodie draped over the back of a chair—one of your own, oversized but thin, the cotton soft from too many washes. You tugged it on, but it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t heavy enough. Not warm enough. Not his. It lacked the familiar scent of Peter’s detergent and the slight stretch from where he’d pull the sleeves over his hands when he was tired. You swallowed down the sudden wave of longing and wrapped your arms tighter around yourself anyway.

Still restless, you cracked open your bedroom window. The cold air slipped in immediately, biting at your skin. It helped, but only a little. It wasn’t enough. The apartment still felt thick, the air too warm and stale and full of the echo of things you didn’t say.

So you stepped outside instead.

The cold night hit you full force this time, cutting through the thin fabric like glass. It stole the breath straight from your lungs and left your cheeks tingling, your fingertips aching. But it was honest. It was real, and somehow, it felt better than the hush inside. You crossed your arms over your chest and exhaled, watching the breath curl out in front of you like smoke, disappearing into the dark.

The streets were mostly empty at this hour, quiet except for the occasional car rolling past or the wind rattling against the windows. Somewhere a few blocks away, someone was playing music too loud, some bass-heavy track that made your teeth itch. But here, on your little patch of sidewalk, it was quiet and empty like the world was paused. And still, even out here, you couldn’t shake the ache. The lingering chill under your skin that wasn’t from the cold.

You looked up at the sky. Clouded over, faint city light bouncing off the gray. The stars were faint, barely visible through the city haze, but you searched for them anyway. You weren’t even sure why you came out here. Fresh air, maybe, or the illusion of it, but you really just didn’t want to sit inside with your thoughts anymore. You knew you should go to bed, crawl under the covers and pretend the night hadn’t gotten under your skin, but something held you there for just a few more minutes.

Maybe it was the hoodie that wasn’t his. Maybe it was the part of you that still wished it was.

You were still drunk—soft around the edges, a little warm in the face, but mostly just tired. Tired in a way that wasn’t physical and in a way that made you want to dissolve. You exhaled shakily, and for a second, you thought you were finally going to cry.

But then there was a sharp thwip—a quick, slicing sound through the air—and a soft thud as something landed just off to your right.

You flinched.

Your body went rigid, heart skipping a beat before your brain caught up with your eyes and registered the figure crouched a few feet away.

Red and blue. Webbing. Mask.

“Mister Spandex,” you mumbled with a sleepy sort of grin, the words slurring slightly on your tongue. “Jesus.”

You dropped your gaze to the ground, where a stray piece of mulch lay by your boot. Your fingers moved on instinct, nudging it with your toe, dragging it along the sidewalk in lazy loops and stars and half-formed hearts that didn’t leave any real trace.

“Hey,” came a voice—soft, careful.

You blinked.

You weren’t sure what you expected him to sound like. Maybe that fake-deep voice he used the last time you saw him—when he claimed he had "yogurt call disorder" or bronchitis or whatever excuse he’d made up on the spot.

But this wasn’t that.

This was gentler and familiar in a way that made your head tilt without thinking.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping closer—slowly, like he knew better than to startle you.

You sniffed, eyes still on the ground. “Not really.”

He crouched beside you, not too close, just close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him despite the suit.

“You, uh…” His voice dropped again, softer now. “You drunk?”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “‘M fine.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as ‘m ever gonna be,” you said, tracing invisible shapes with your toe.

He didn’t press.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said eventually.

You shrugged. “Don’t really wanna be inside either.”

A beat passed. You heard him exhale through the mask.

“Can I take you somewhere?”

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes squinting. “You gonna kidnap me or somethin’?”

He chuckled under his breath. “I’m the guy who stops kidnappings, remember?”

You narrowed your eyes, tipping your head like that might help you figure him out. “Y’know… I said this before but your voice is weirdly… like…”

The thought slipped away mid-sentence, dissolving on your tongue before it could land.

You frowned. “Nevermind.”

He held out a hand to you. “C’mon.”

You stared at it. Then up at him. Then back down at your feet where you doodled on the concret. And finally, after a few more seconds, you reached out and took it. His gloved hand was warm, contrasting the freezing cold that nipped at your cheeks.

“You afraid of heights?” he asked as he helped you up, one steadying hand at your back.

“Only when ‘m sober,” you muttered.

He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

And then he picked you up and then within moments, you were flying.

Wind rushed past your face, cool and fast. You let your eyes flutter shut and curled your fingers a little tighter into the suit at his shoulder. Time went funny, slipped sideways. You couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or minutes when your feet touched ground again.

You opened your eyes slowly.

The rooftop stretched out in front of you, bathed in soft amber from distant streetlights. Queens glowed below in sleepy oranges and dull yellows, the hum of traffic a quiet buzz beneath the silence. A rusted water tower loomed nearby. Fairy lights lined the low brick wall—half-burnt out, half-flickering, still trying.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“This is nice…” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied, even softer. “It’s my favorite spot when I need to think.”

You drifted toward the ledge, sat down, and let your legs hang off the edge. The concrete was cold beneath your palms, but the air up here didn’t bite the way it did down on the street. Instead, it just settled around you.

He sat beside you—close, but not crowding. The silence stretched between you again.

You turned your head slowly and looked at him. “Do you always talk like that?” you asked, voice rasped and hoarse from cold and maybe the crying. “Without the… gravelly fake voice?”

He was quiet for a second. Then shook his head. “Not usually.”

You squinted, like you were trying to zoom in on the sound of his voice. “Why now?”

He looked out toward the skyline again. “Because I think you needed real tonight.”

You looked at him again, longer this time.

There was something tugging at your brain. His voice. The way he said certain words. The familiar cadence underneath all the caution. Not quite déjà vu, but close.

"You’re real nice for someone who’s technically a stranger,” you mumbled, the words thick and a little uneven.

He tilted his head. “We've met before, so not strangers technically.”

You sniffed, rubbing your knuckles beneath your nose, voice a little too soft when you said, “I dunno what I’m doing.”

He didn’t ask what you meant, just said quietly, “I know the feeling.”

You let out a breath. Scoffed a little, not mean—just worn down. “Doubt it.”

His head turned, mask still angled toward the skyline. “Everything getting messy. Things feeling real and not real. Wanting to say something but not knowing how. Or being too late.”

You blinked fast. Your chest felt heavy like something was trying to crawl out.

“Oh,” you whispered. “S’rry for doubting you, Spidey.”

He gave a quiet chuckle. “It’s okay. I’d probably doubt me too.”

You leaned your shoulder gently into his, barely a nudge. “Y’don’t feel like a stranger,” you admitted, your words low, a little fumbled. “‘S weird.”

Spider-Man didn’t move away, just let the moment stretch between you, the way your voice curled into the quiet like it belonged there.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, barely louder than the breeze. “I’ve… thought the same thing.”

You blinked slowly, trying to focus through the haze of exhaustion and alcohol. “That’s kinda spooky,” you muttered. “Like déjà vu but emotional.”

He gave a small hum in agreement. “Like you’re in a memory you forgot having.”

You exhaled a soft laugh. “Wow, that’s poetic. Who knew Spider-Man was such a sad little poet.”

“Like I said, I contain multitudes,” he responded lightly.

You smiled—lazy, tipsy, unguarded. “So mysterious. D’you write in a little rooftop journal or something? ‘Dear Diary, the city is so full of longing tonight…’”

He snorted. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

You nudged him again. “I’m teasing.”

“I know.”

Silence for a beat.

Then: “But… you’re not wrong. About the longing part.”

You turned your head to look at him. “That sounds personal.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It kind of is.”

You tilted your head, drunk curiosity nudging past your hesitation. “What do you long for, Spider-Man?”

He hesitated.

You could hear the small catch of breath through the mask, could feel the way he tensed like something in him had almost said too much.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Or—I do. I just don’t know what to do with it.”

You stared at him a moment longer, head swimming a little.

You watched the side of his masked face for a moment, your thoughts a little foggy from the cold and the beer, but your curiosity sharp. “Is this about the girlfriend that’s not your girlfriend?” you asked, voice soft but pointed.

He was quiet for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Kind of.”

You didn’t respond right away and just let the words hang there between you, carried by the hush of the night and the hum of distant traffic. You stretched your arms above your head and let them drop again. “She must be really special.”

He glanced at you. “She is.”

You blinked, gaze going unfocused. “I hope she knows that.”

“I think she doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause I keep messing it up.”

You frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m trying not to,” he said quietly. “But it’s… complicated.”

You turned your head toward him again, brows still drawn. “Humans are complicated creatures, man.”

The wind picked up, slipping cold fingers through your hair and tugging a few strands loose across your cheek. You didn’t bother brushing them away. They fluttered in and out of your vision, ghosting against your skin like the night was trying to get your attention. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just sat there in the hush of it all—not quite peaceful, but not tense either. It felt suspended, like the air itself was holding its breath. Like you were both waiting for something, even if neither of you knew what.

Then Spider-Man shifted beside you, only slightly, but enough for you to feel it—the subtle change in where his focus was, like he’d turned his attention fully to you.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, voice low beneath the mask. “You don’t feel like a stranger.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking back to him. “You don’t either.”

He adjusted his posture again, slower this time, like he wasn’t sure he should. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“…Do you believe people can come into your life twice?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What, like reincarnation? Or fate?”

“Not exactly.” His voice was steady, thoughtful. “More like… sometimes the first time around, things are messy. Wrong place, wrong time. But maybe if the timing’s right the second time, people can—get it right.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “That’s such a Spider-Man thing to say.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “No. It’s kinda sweet.”

You turned to look at him again, this time letting your gaze linger longer. “Y’know, for someone in a mask, you’re really… open.”

There was a pause.

“Just with you,” he said.

That sat in your chest like a weight and a warmth at the same time. It made you ache in a way you didn’t know what to do with.

“Why’re you so nice to me?” you asked finally, your voice rough around the edges. “You don’t even know me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, softly, almost like he was afraid to be heard:

“That’s not true.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He didn’t backtrack, didn’t deflect. Just tilted his head slightly, like part of him wanted to take it back—but the rest of him was done hiding. You sat up a little straighter, heart beginning to climb its way up your throat.

“What do you mean?” you asked, even though part of you already knew. There was something in his tone—too careful, too human—that curled uneasily in your stomach.

He hesitated, just long enough for you to notice. His head dipped slightly, his shoulders rose and fell like he was bracing for something, and then his lips parted beneath the mask. You could almost see the shape of the words forming before they left his mouth—hesitant, deliberate.

And then, after a moment of silence so thin it could snap, the thing that finally broke it was the sound of your name. Spoken low, muffled slightly by the fabric, but unmistakably yours.

It didn’t sound like a guess. It wasn’t something tossed out casually or pulled from context. It landed in the space between you with weight, like it had been sitting on his chest for weeks, maybe longer, waiting to be said out loud. He said it the way someone says a truth they’ve rehearsed a hundred times in their head but never dared give voice to, like he’d said it a hundred times before, just never like this.

You went still—completely, instinctively. Your fingers froze against your thigh, your breath stalled in your chest, even your thoughts tripped over themselves trying to keep up. Your name coming from Spider-Man wasn’t just recognition. Your heart thudded hard once—then again, faster. It was the kind of dizzy, disoriented thudding that came just before everything changes.

You stared at him, the sting already building behind your eyes, and when you finally spoke, your voice was a breath, barely audible, already unraveling.

“…How do you know my name?”

He didn’t answer right away.

You could see the mechanical eyes on his mask widen just slightly—like a flicker of panic—and then freeze, the lenses narrowing as the cogs behind them spun into overdrive. But he didn’t move and neither did you. Your breath hitched somewhere in your chest, caught on the edge of too many thoughts that couldn’t quite string themselves together.

Your vision blurred at the corners, whether from the cold or the tequila or the million red flags your heart was trying to raise at once.

You leaned in slightly, squinting at him, your words still loose around the edges. “Y’know me, don’t you?”

His shoulders tensed. You could feel the air shift between you, the weight of something unspoken pressing harder against your ribs.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen like this,” he said finally, voice low and tight.

That didn’t help. Your eyebrows scrunched together, your chest tightening. “Yo, what is going on,” you said, stumbling over the words, half-laughing, half-scared. “I’m kinda freaking out right now—what do you mean? I know I’m drunk, but I swear I know that voice. I know you.”

You tilted your head again, trying to make your brain focus, but everything felt heavy and slow, like you were underwater. Your hand moved before your thoughts did, reaching up, fingers brushing along the edge of his mask.

He didn’t stop you.

So you pulled.

The fabric peeled back slowly, catching on your fingertips like the moment itself didn’t want to let go. First, his jaw—sharper than you expected, then his lips, parted like he’d just been biting them out of nerves. His nose next, familiar, painfully familiar—and then, finally, his eyes.

Big. Brown. Doe-like. Glassy.

You blinked. Your mouth parted. Your stomach dropped.

“Peter.”

His name slipped out before you could catch it, and your hand fell back to your side like it had been burned.

He looked at you, lips pressed together, the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes now glinting under the moonlight. His whole face was a portrait of quiet guilt and heartbreak—like he was scared you might run.

You couldn’t run. Your legs weren’t working, and your mind was still spinning in circles.

“What the fuck,” you breathed, scooting back a little on instinct. “No. No, no, no—no fucking way—”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that hit you square in the chest. That was him. Of course it was him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey? Hey?!” You blinked, hard, your vision swimming. “You’re—you’re Spider-Man?! You—you—” You pointed at him, half-accusation, half-delirious. “You were just in my kitchen. You ate my cookies.”

“I know,” he said, sheepish. “Technically they were our cookies.”

You let out a short, broken laugh, disbelief coloring every syllable. “And then you left me there! You didn’t even—you just left—fuck.”

The world tilted again. You dropped your face into your palms, the dizziness flooding back in full force.

“Oh my God. I’m gonna throw up.”

Through your fingers, your eyes met his again, wide, hurt, and disoriented.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to,” Peter said, voice quiet like a confession. “I swear I did. I just… didn’t know how.”

You let out a shaky sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I slept with Spider-Man.”

Peter flushed bright red. “Technically… you slept with Peter—”

“I fucked Spider-Man.”

He looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t. Not while your whole world was still spinning.

“Fuck—fuck am I gonna have spider babies?” you said, panicked. “I don’t wanna be pregnant with spiders—”

Peter pulled you into him before the words could spiral further, wrapping his arms around you in one smooth, steady motion.

“Okay, alright, baby. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

You nodded against his shoulder, the weight of his arms making you feel just a little more solid. He tugged the mask back over his face and held you close as he shot a web toward the nearest rooftop, pulling you both into the air like you weighed nothing.

Your apartment window was still cracked open from earlier, and Peter climbed through it with practiced ease, gently easing you down onto your bed. He peeled his mask back off and set it on your desk before disappearing into the kitchen. When he returned, he handed you a water bottle without saying anything, then crawled into bed beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced over, brows raised, sincerity softening the edges of his voice. “No. I was watching out for you. Just—making sure you were okay.”

“Right,” you said slowly. “Just casually making sure I was okay while in a tight spandex suit and hanging off buildings.”

He scratched the back of his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “What can I say? I’m thorough.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So when you said you had to stay on campus for your internship…”

Peter looked at you with a dry, almost sheepish smile. “This is the Stark internship.”

You blinked. “You lied.”

“I technically omitted.”

“You liar.”

“Protective liar,” he corrected, holding up a finger. “Big difference.”

You turned toward him slowly, eyes glassy, voice quieter now. “But I thought it was fake. All of it. We were just fucking. And you said all those things and then pulled away like none of it was real.” You sniffed. “That hurt, Peter. That really fuckin’ hurt. When you said I was yours—I believed you. But you didn’t mean it.”

Peter reached out, gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed just under your eye. “I did mean it. I just… panicked. And I didn’t know if you felt the same.”

“I was mean,” you mumbled, lips wobbling. “’M s’rry, Peter. I didn’t mean what I said.”

He smiled faintly, soft and crooked. “I know. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No, not okay,” you mumbled, stubborn even through the haze of sleep and vodka. “Should’ve talked to you. Should’ve said how I felt instead of running away like a dumbass.”

You sniffled softly, curling your fingers in the fabric of his sleeve. “I just—I really like you, Pete. So much. Like… so much it makes my stomach hurt.”

He let out a quiet breath, brushing his thumb along your knuckles. Then he leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there for a moment longer than they needed to. “You weren’t the only one fucking it up,” he said, voice low and warm. “I was scared too. Scared of saying the wrong thing, or screwing it up, or finding out you didn’t feel the same.”

You opened your eyes just enough to look at him, lashes heavy, pupils soft. He looked back at you like you were something fragile and glowing.

“And I do,” he added, quieter now. “Love you, I mean. A lot. But we’ll talk more in the morning, yeah? You’re drunk, baby.”

You gave him a sleepy little smile. “Not that drunk.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing you, but didn’t argue.

As he reached for the lamp to turn it off, you caught his hand in yours, tugging at him weakly. “Stay with me?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Wordlessly, he slid under the blanket, curling his body around yours like he’d been waiting to do it all week. His hand found your waist, his chin tucked into the crook of your shoulder, and the warmth between you settled quick and easy. You closed your eyes again, breathing in the faint scent of him. Everything was soft like the moment might float away if you didn’t speak.

“Dunno if I’m dreaming,” you whispered.

Peter’s voice was barely a murmur against your hair. “About what?”

You gave a faint smile. “You being Spider-Man. You telling me you love me.”

He huffed a soft laugh into your neck. “If this were a dream, I’d probably be cooler about it.”

You giggled, sleepy and loopy and so full of love it hurt. “Pinch me or somethin’.”

“I’m not gonna pinch you,” he said, tightening his arms around you. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You sighed into his chest. “’S okay.”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, voice like a promise. “It is.”

And this time, it really felt like it might be.

You've known Peter Parker since the start of senior year, a few classes together and nothing more. Peter is smart, aces all his tests without trying because as far as you know, he is late every single day and that pisses you off. It's not realistic how he doesn't get punished by his tardiness simply because he's an unspoken genius! While you try so hard, his worst is not even close to being your best.

During winter break, you unfortunately had to catch up to some work to earn that extra credit so graduating in june was possible, and it sucked. It was late, you were tired and your family wasn't even home. Your brother was getting ready for college and your parents are always out on some business trip, so most of the time the apartment was all yours. You didn't throw parties or anything like that but you could sit on top of the kitchen counter without your mom asking you not to.

Studying in the dark was superior, even though it probably hurt your eyes a lot more, turning the lights on completely was just way too bright. During one of your well deserved breaks, you hear a loud thud coming from the fire exit stairs just outside your window. "What the fuck...?" you jump from your chair, is someone trying to break in? You panic trying to find whatever possible to defend yourself with and slowly make your way to the window. Clearly whoever it was didn't notice you were awake in the darkness of your room, so much so they were mumbling under their breath.

"Jesus christ, it is so goddamn cold..!" you squint trying to make sense of the figure, their movements were so familiar somehow... The person continues to mumble to themselves and you move closer trying to understand what's being said, the closer you get more you make sense of it. Something in between the lines of 'every single time' and 'i need to fix this thing'. You hold onto your window, strategizing to open it at the right moment, you don't need a stranger at your bedroom window at 3:45 in the morning.

The figure mumbles non stop but it also seems to be having some trouble breathing, their chest struggling to get air. They reach to their head, pulling out something that was covering their face. Your eyes widen. Is that-

"Peter Parker!?" you say out loud opening your window fully. He's startled by your voice, standing defensively as he looks at you up and down. "What the hell you doing in my window!?"

"Woah, woah.. Stop yelling there... This isn't what it looks like." He tries to ease the situation with his hands up like he's been caught actually trying to break in, except he wasn't. Peter Parker has been spider-man since the end of his junior year, bitten by a genetically altered spider when he least needed to. Today was a hard day for the boy. Patrolling in the cold and if that wasn't good enough, his web-shooters keep failing on him and he just doesn't have the time to fix them. You take a good look at him, the moonlight helping you figure out this situation. He's holding something in his hand and the tiny blinking red light on his wrists shines on it, it's a mask. Spider-man's mask.