Sweet Dreamin

- You’ve been best friends with Gwen since diapers, but you’re known for being complete polar opposite’s of each other.

- Gwen is of course the super intelligent, future class valedictorian and is absolutely beautiful. The perfect girl next door.

- You’re known for being sent to the principal’s office for your fair share of ‘incidents’, which include putting Flash in his place and calling out teachers when you thought they were being unfair. Perfectly misunderstood.

- “Are you kidding me? This is your 3rd detention this month. You’re starting to give me gray hairs,” Gwen comments once you arrive at your locker which was, of course, right next to hers.

- “Mr. Stevens hates me, ok. I don’t even know what I did this time. I think I just breathe and he automatically thinks I insulted him,” you grumble, back slumped against the locker door.

- “Well, maybe if you didn’t make it your absolute mission to humiliate him everyday, he wouldn’t be out to get you,” she states, putting her books away.

- “Well maybe if he actually graded me fairly and didn’t give me a D- on a paper that was clearly profound, then I wouldn’t have to call him out on his ridiculousness. Like really, a D- ? That shouldn’t even exist. Just give me a normal ‘D’ then, asshole.”

- “Wait a minute. A ‘D-‘? Really?” she looks at you, flabbergasted.

- You nod and Gwen slams her locker door closed. “I literally helped you with that paper! You’re totally right, he is an asshole. Forget him.”

- No matter what, at the end of the day, Gwen has always had your back, and you had her’s. You were inseparable.

- That was, until Peter Parker came into the picture.

- Listen, you had to forgive Peter for having individual crushes on the both of you.

- Yes, it made him feel like a complete tool, but to be honest, he liked you both for totally different reasons.

- He liked how smart and kind Gwen was. Her passion for academics and her self confidence was something he admired, along with the way she would wear her hair and the sweet smile on her face. She’d be the first person to raise her hand in class and the first one to help anyone that needed it. She was pretty much perfect.

- He liked you because you were anything but. You were unapologetically yourself, always standing your ground and not afraid to say what was on your mind, which was always funny or witty. You always wore the coolest t-shirts and he found your favorite pair of red sneakers adorable and he liked that, despite what you might think, you were actually very intelligent.

- Guilt aside, Peter didn’t think his crushes on the both of you even mattered, because it’s not like either of you were paying any attention to him.

- Until you did.

- And boy, was he in trouble.

- Gwen had come to his defense from Flash at the courtyard, and from then on, the playful flirtations and bashful interactions ensued.

- And you? The basketball court, where you were helping Missy Kallenback finish painting a banner.

- Flash being Flash, of course, just had to throw a ball at you two. And that got you fired up.

- “What’s your problem, Thompson?! Are you that inept that you can’t do the one thing you were bred to do? There goes the possibility of you having an actual future,” you fire back, clearly irritated.

- The whole gym whoops and hollers, Flash’s teammates making mock hissing sounds as if they had gotten burned. Flash’s eyes are on you now, nostrils flared and fists clenched.

- “At least I have a future. You’re going nowhere, you know that? Except maybe prison like you’re old man,” he says, laughing along with his buddies.

- You’re seething at this. Flash, along with the rest of the school, would bring up your dad’s incarceration every chance they got. It was the real reason why Mr. Steven’s was against you. Why people picked on you. Why no one saw your potential; You were looked down upon by everyone for your father’s mistakes.

- Except for Gwen.

- Gwen was always there for you, even offered her home and family to you whenever you needed it. She never treated you like your father’s actions reflected your own. She saw you for you and gave you the love and acceptance you always craved from everyone else.

- So you think of her before you make your next move because Gwen’s dream was always to walk the stage at graduation together, and you knew that if you punched the living daylights out of Flash now, that would never come true.

- So you choose to stay quiet, focusing on helping Missy clean up the mess of paint created by Flash’s ball. It’s a couple moments later that you notice the ball is coming your way once again, this time straight at you.

- Before you can move out of the way or even try to duck, two hands are in front of you, having caught the ball that was about to hit you square in the face.

- Peter Parker catches the ball with seemingly no effort and you look at him, completely shocked.

- He gives you a wink and ends up making a complete fool of Flash in your honor.

- It ends with him shattering the backboard behind the hoop completely.

- “Peter, right?” you call out, catching up to him after he exits the principal’s office. He’s with his uncle, who gives you a moment to speak alone, but not before revealing that Peter has a picture of you in his room.

- Peter bashfully claims that it’s because he takes pictures of the school’s clubs for the yearbook committee.

- “But I’m not in any clubs…” you claim with furrowed brows.

- “Then maybe it’s about time you join one. Extracurriculars look great on college applications,” Peter suggests, clearly embarrassed and trying to make a joke out of a situation he wished he was spared from.

- Despite catching him on his lie, you find his attempt amusing, so you let it go.

- “You might not know me that well. We don’t really have many classes together because you’re a boy genius, and I’m not, but I’m still smart enough to know that what you did back there wasn’t humanly possible. So, what are you hiding, Peter Parker?” you ask with folded arms across your chest, a suspicious look on your face.

- At first he just looks at you, completely at a loss for words as he tries to mask his nervousness with a laugh.

- He then comes up with a very Peter-like answer and says “I drink a lot of milk. You know, great source of calcium. Builds strong bones.”

- And of course, you don’t buy this. Not even for a second. But you choose to let it go, because in truth, you always had the tiniest little crush on him, having spotted him skating around the school.

- He also never picked on you. In fact, now that you thought about it, you were both kindred spirits. Both misunderstood and mistreated by those around you.

- “Thank you, for what you did back there. I know you probably got into serious trouble, but it really meant a lot to me. Plus, Thompson definitely deserved that ego check.”

- “It’s not a big deal. Honestly, you’re always the first person to stand up for everybody else. It’s about time someone did the same,” he says, instinctively moving closer to you with every word.

- “And what Flash said back there is wrong. You’re going to have a future that’s way brighter than anyone else’s here. I know it. ”

- This makes your cheeks heat up as a warmth surges through your chest.

- Peter makes you feel like you’re walking on air instead of into a battlefield like everyone else does.

- “Hey, would you like to…? Or if not..we could…instead…maybe?” Peter’s cheeks are pink and he doesn’t finish the sentences that he tries to stammer out, but you know exactly what he’s trying to say, and you feel butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

- Peter Parker was cute. Very cute. And sweet. And smart. And chivalrous. And the list could go on, really. If he was asking you out, you would say yes in a heartbeat.

- But just as the words are starting to come out properly, Peter pauses once he spots Gwen walking down the hallway.

- And that’s when it hits him.

- He was so screwed.

- He apologizes to you and says his uncle’s waiting for him and then just leaves you in the hallway, frozen in place, completely confused.

- And you’re also hurt because you’re not exactly sure what you did wrong to make Peter run away like that.

- “Was that Peter?” Gwen asks, appearing from behind you.

- “Yeah…he’s umm, he’s really weird, isn’t he?”

- “I think he’s kinda cute. I might ask him to come over one of these days,” she admits, and that’s when your eyes widen.

- Oh.

- Peter and Gwen.

- Got it.

- Makes perfect sense.

- So of course you back off from then on because Gwen is your best friend in the entire world and no stupid boy is going to get in the way of that.

- And Peter and Gwen are perfect for each other anyways, so you’re happy to sit by the sidelines and let them be together because they’re truly meant to be.

- It’s a bit awkward at first and sure it stings just a little, but hey, you’ve been through worse.

- On Peter’s end though, he’s just overwhelmed with everything else he has to deal with. The death of his uncle Ben really brings him down and eats him up. He obsess over it for a bit till he finally comes to the understanding that in order to move on, he needs to do better.

- So he puts all his energy and focus into being Spider-Man, which then consumes his entire time because there’s now a giant lizard running amuck in the city.

- And then of course there was the question of both you and Gwen; Who did he like more?

- It would mess with his head relentlessly in school, although lately he’s starting to think that you were never interested in the first place because of how distant and dry you’ve been.

- You barely acknowledged him, even when he approaches you at school and when he came up to your table at lunch, you immediately got up to leave, claiming you had to stop by the library.

- With your absence though, he’s able to get closer to Gwen, and he’s starting to think that she’s the one he’s supposed to be with. His feelings for her grow and in turn they become closer. He has plans to go over to her place one night for dinner and considers finally confessing his feelings for her, but something else changes his plans while he’s on patrol that night.

- You should know better than to go into a creepy dark alley.

- I mean come on, it’s a creepy dark alley in New York! Did you have a death wish or something?

- So he watches you from above the building because he knows there’s a chance something might go wrong.

- And as if on cue, a group of troublesome men trail behind you, and he knows for sure they’re up to know good.

- He doesn’t even think, just jumps right down once one of the men grabs and pulls you by your wrist.

- Peter is just straight up pissed when he hears them calling you insulting names, so he punches the one with the big mouth hard on the face, and he doesn’t care if he possibly broke his nose.

- He deserves it.

- After kicking all their asses in less then 3 seconds, he webs them all together to the wall, where he’s sure the police will find them.

- When he turns to you, however, his anger and adrenaline completely fades.

- Your chest is heaving, eyes glossy, and he’s never seen you look so small before.

- You were terrified. If it wasn’t for Spider-Man, who knows what might have happened to you? So the tears fall down your cheeks as you spill out multiple apologies to him.

- Peter, shakes his head and immediately tries to comfort you.

- “Hey, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I’m sorry that happened. But you’re okay now, I promise.”

- You’re visibly shaking so without thinking he embraces you, hoping to keep you steady. He feels you stiffen at this, but just as he’s about to pull away, your arms wrap themselves around him as you cry into his chest.

- You’re like that for a while, Peter just letting you spill it all out, because he knows it’s much more than you being shaken up. He knows the constant mask you put on for others, acting like you’re unbothered and above it all. He knows you act strong, but that facade shouldn’t last forever, and you deserved to be honest and vulnerable with yourself.

- Personally, he thought you deserved the world.

- “Eww, gross. I’m crying on a stranger wearing latex,” you jokingly say after a moment, sniffling.

- “Hey, I’ll have you know it’s actually spandex, ok.”

- You pull away and Peter has to fight every urge not to pull you back into his arms.

- “Seriously though, thank you. You probably saved my life.”

- “It’s not a big deal. Honestly. That’s my job as your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

- There’s something in the way that he says that that clicks in your head and you realize that Spider-Man seems a little familiar…

- You don’t make that obvious to him though.

- So Peter goes home, sneaks into his room, through his window, and is in the middle of taking off his suit when he starts to feel like someone is watching him.

- He turns around and there you are, sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes as wide as saucers.

- You stand up, mouth wide open as you begin to scream “Oh my god, you’re Spide-!” but Peter shoots a web right at you, pulling you into him and smashes his lips on yours.

- You’re stiff until your eyes slowly flutter close and you melt into the kiss, completely forgetting what had just transpired. It isn’t until Peter himself pulls away that you realize what had just happened.

- “Did you just…kiss me to shut me up?” you ask, dazed.

- “It worked, didn’t it,” he teases, voice soft as he rests his forehead against yours.

- Turns out, you had come to his house to talk to him because ever since the incident in the alley with Spidey, you couldn’t shake the feeling off that he felt a little too familiar. And given what had happened at the gym with the shattered hoop, putting 2 and 2 together wasn’t that hard.

- He tells you about it all; the spider that bit him, Dr. Connors turning into a lizard creature, even about his guilt over Uncle Ben’s death.

- You’re easy to open up to, and he’s comforted by the way you listen and reassure him, especially since, mid talk, you ask Peter for his first aid kit and start to help patch him up.

- After talking for a bit, Peter leans in to kiss you once more, but just as you’re lips are about to meet, you pull away.

- “N-no. I’m sorry. Gwen. She…she really likes you, Peter.”

- The guilt consumes you and Peter closes his eyes, the realization hitting him as well.

- “I’m not going to do this. She’s the most important person in the world to me. And you guys go really well together. I know that you like her, too. I see it. And I’m not mad, I mean I get it. It’s just…I don’t want to be the one that gets in the way of that.”

- He looks at you, a pained expression on his face, because why would you think that you’re just something that’s getting in the way when you were so much more?

- He tries to say something, anything to get you to understand, but the words fall short and he doesn’t want to make you feel worse than you already did.

- So he lets you leave and he begins to understand that he needs to stop being an idiot and make his choice. He thinks about you and Gwen and he tries to ignore the icky feeling he has because he respects you both too much to put you in this situation, but he knows a choice has to be made.

- And he finally makes his decision that night, because he realizes it’s not a tough one to make.

- He intends to make it known the next day, picking up flowers from a local floral shop to bring to school, but then Dr. Connors had to crash in and ruin everything.

- As the entire school runs out of the building, you go to find Peter.

- “What are you doing here?! Get out, you’re gonna get hurt!” he shouts at you.

- God you’re too stubborn for your own good.

- “You need to tell Gwen! About you. About Connors. She works at Oscorp, she can maybe get you a serum or something!”

- He hates that you’re right. But with no time to tell Gwen himself, he gives you the ok to fill her in, and continues to focus on getting the lizard out of the building.

- And everything seems to go according to plan, until he gets a call from you.

- “Dr. Connors is at Oscorp and Gwen is still in there!” your voice is shrill and panicked filled and Peter feels his breath catch in his throat.

- No no no no.

- “Peter please, please you need to get her out of there.”

- He can hear that you’re crying on the other end, and it adds to his own panic.

- You were consumed with fear and guilt because you were the one that put Gwen in the middle of this.

- You had never known real fear till the life of your best friend came into question. The incident in the alleyway was nothing compared to this.

- Peter’s mind is racing, blood pumping rapidly. He needs to get Gwen out. He needs to save all of New York. He needs to make sure you’re okay. It’s all too much to deal with.

- His run-in with Captain Stacy doesn’t make it any easier.

- At the end of the day though, Peter accomplishes all those things. He defeats Dr. Connors and Gwen is safe and reunited with you as a crowd of people gathered below the Oscorp building.

- But Captain Stacy had died and Peter can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.

- Time moves fast yet stands still at the same time. There’s a funeral for Gwen’s father, but Peter can’t find it in him to attend. The guilt is too much.

- He watches from afar, however, and he spots the both of you together, you visibly comforting a crying Gwen.

- It breaks his heart.

- And this is when he decides that he’s going to leave the two of you alone.

- Because he can’t risk losing either one of you, or have you losing each other.

- He tries his best to ignore you both at school, doesn’t answer the phone and declines any visits May announces are for him.

- He puts his whole mind and body into his work as Spider-Man.

- Still, he sometimes imagines what it would have been like if he had gotten the chance that day to tell you that he wanted, more than anything, to be with you.

- It ends up being one of the things he thinks back to when he’s in need of motivation.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Ice clinked against the stainless steel of her coffee tumbler like hollow wind chimes. She brought the pastel pink container to her lips, taking a careful sip. She’d already spilled some of it in her lap, and now brown spots dotted the yellow of her dress. Carefully, she set the tumbler down beside her, taking a moment to glance up at the scenery around her.

It was a golden-yellow summer day with a cloudless sky, save for the smog hanging over the city. Despite last week’s heat wave, the temperature was more moderate today, giving New York a much-needed break. From a bench in Central Park, she sat beneath the canopy of towering oak trees. A breeze rolled through that chilled her skin delightfully, aided by the icy beverage in her cup.

Nearby, a flock of pigeons scavenged for crumbs. On this particular Saturday, construction sounds were minor, reduced to distant echoes. The bright sounds of a street musician’s violin floated on the wind from nearby in the park. She heard a whistle from a group of children in the distance as they practiced soccer kicks. 

Soccer would be good for Bella, she thought. The seven-year-old girl had tons of energy and legs that were longer than she knew what to do with. Ever since the Olympics and watching Space Jam: A New Legacy, Bella had been obsessed with becoming the next WNBA champion. She described LeBron’s performance as a masterpiece. 

Her aunt knew better than to let her personal opinion spoil the girl’s fun.

That had been a good day. Today was a good day. She mused to herself as she took a breath. She was aware of the fact that the day wasn’t technically over. And perhaps there wasn’t anything particularly different from yesterday. But as her muscles relaxed beneath warm rays of sun on her shoulders, she found peace.

“Mind if I sit here?” a kind voice said from behind her. The muscles in her neck pulled taut. Her heart seized up and tripped over itself.

She glanced over her shoulder to find a pair of doe eyes fixed on her. Cherry lips twisted into a lopsided smile. 

Impossibly, Peter Parker looked younger than the last time she saw him. The only sign of age in his creamy smooth skin were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and a faint pink scar blending with the wrinkles above his brow.

Without the beard, he looked criminally soft. Big, bright amber eyes were fixated on her in a way that made her heart want to burst. She felt like she was floating in space and plummeting through the atmosphere. 

At the same time, the primal part of her brain screamed out shrill sirens. Just the sight of him and his soulful eyes felt like she was tearing off a broken limb. Watching as his teeth pinched his pouty lip gave her the sensation of ripping apart nerve endings. Her stomach soured as her heart ached. 

Beneath the heart, lava boiled in her belly. Her eyes were open wide, they could even be mistaken for shock. It wasn’t shock, however, but sheer rage burned in her eyes. 

Peter Parker, the persistent paradox. 

The only man that could stir every emotion in her, like the sun conjures every color of the rainbow out of drops of rain. He painted her world in vivid colors, and yet she was colorblind to everything but the golden hue of his eyes.

Peter Parker, who could make her feel stronger and weaker all at once.

She burned for him, in every sense of the phrase.

And at the present, he was holding his breath, waiting for her reply. She gazed up at him as emotions warred within her. He waited patiently, ready to accept whatever fate she thought he deserved.

She pursed both her lips tight, eyes narrowing. “I’ll allow it,” she said. 

His lungs came to life once again, as if he’d been spared the guillotine. Gently, Peter rounded the park bench and sat down in the spot to her right. She kept her nose forward, eyes focused on anything but him.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked gently, gazing down at the pamphlet in her lap.

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. “A brochure.”

He observed the glossy tri-fold sheet with a nod. “I see that.” Instantly, he recognized the pictures and logo on the pamphlet, recalling how he once read the same words. “ESU, huh?” he noted with a half smirk, observing the ivory towers of the campus nestled in Midtown Manhattan. “Thinkin’ about classes?” He bit his lip anxiously. “What d’you wanna study?”

She held still, remaining silent as she stared down at the brochure. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and it felt like razors being shoved into his eye sockets. 

“Dunno,” she answered with a gentle shrug. “Interior Design, maybe.” She cleared her throat and spoke with a little more volume. “Thinkin’ about applying for a grant for this fall.”

A smile warmed his eyes, though melancholy weighed down the corners of his lips. “What’s in the cup?” he asked, pointing his nose towards her coffee tumbler.

Lashes fluttered, she followed the end of his fingertip down to her beverage, almost having forgotten that it was there. “Oh,” she said meekly. “It’s a Mauna Kea.”

Peter quirked up a brow. “A what-ya-saya?”

She pinched her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from curving. “Mauna Kea,” she repeated slowly, enunciating the syllables. “Means ‘White Mountain’ in Hawaiian.” She hesitated for a moment, licking her dry lips. “It’s the name of the tallest mountain on Earth,” she declared, mustering confidence, “from peak to summit.”

A crease formed in Peter’s brow. “I thought Everest was the tallest mountain?”

“Tallest by altitude,” she divulged with pride. “Mauna Kea is bigger.” She flicked her eyes over to his and was immediately captured by his soulful gaze.

“No joke?” he replied with a thousand-watt smile and rosy cheeks. 

“Yup,” he answered, as butterflies filled her belly.

He gazed at her as if he were witnessing the sunrise for the first time. “So, you’re drinkin’ a ‘White Mountain?’”

Her heart skipped a beat. “It’s a cold brew. Blended with honey, macadamia milk and ice, topped with coconut milk foam.” She intended to look down at her cup. Or at the pedestrians. Or the trees. Or the sun. She intended to look anywhere but at him. She really tried. “I made it myself,” she said, feeling heat crawl up her neck.

His eyes glowed, further enamored by her mere existence. “Wow. All this time, all I’ve been drinking is black coffee.” A smile glinted in his expression while his blush gave him away. “Just black coffee. Bitter. With extra sadness.”

She fought the smile her lips formed. “That’s a shame.”

“It is. People tell me I should take more risks, though. Go out on a limb.” His eyes wandered across the park before shifting back over to her. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and in his eyes she could spot his trepidation. If he looked young to her before, now he looked like a blushing boy asking his crush to prom. He gazed at her with the same terror, his heart in his throat and on his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

A fire burned bittersweetly in her heart as tears burned behind her eyes. She gazed at him, feeling her emotions swell. “Mari,” she answered, truthfully. She studied the bourbon and topaz facets of his irises and the lovely curve of his cupid’s bow. “But all my friends call me ‘Honey.’” 

Peter’s lip trembled at that, eyes glistening despite his attempt to control it. “Honey,” he repeated with a murmur, as if chanting a prayer, or a protection spell. As if it was the answer to everything in the universe. In his universe, at least. “It suits you.”

A bittersweet smile warmed his features as he gazed at her, lost in the universe and freefalling towards her singularity. Her eyes went glossy as she mapped the pores, freckles, and scars on his face like the constellations in the sky.

“I missed you,” he said, endearingly.

Her heart throbbed at the pain in his voice. “I know.” She licked her lips, sadness filling her expression. “You hurt me,” she said somberly.

With misty, red eyes, he whispered back, “I know.” He swallowed hard, tears swimming in his gaze. “I’m sorry for that. M’sorry for a lot of things. But I don’t regret a single moment.” 

Eyes glistening, a warm smile overtook her features, lighting up her gaze. She nodded in silent reply.

The sight of it made him want to die of joy. “If it doesn’t sound too forward,” he began gently, speaking with measured formality, “I was gonna ask you to come home with me.”

Home, he said. The significance of the word wasn’t lost on her. A tear rolled down her cheek, sliding along the curve of her grin. “Already?” she breathed out a laugh. “Geez. That was fast.”

His smile faded; he melted into enraptured awe. “No,” he whispered, eyes glowing with admiration. He leaned forward, breaking the invisible barriers between them. Her eyes fluttered shut as his calloused fingers brushed over her jaw, triggering a shiver down her spine. “I’ve waited years for you, remember?” he quietly rumbled. “I’ll keep waiting. For the rest of my life, if I have to.”

The sweetness of it all made her dizzy. It made her feel like her heart had spilled open and she would bleed out on the grass. “I’ll take it,” she sniffed, as Peter thumbed the tears from her cheeks.

“Take what?”

“The rest of your life.” 

He melted in her gaze, staring down at her lips. “Sweet girl. You are my life.”

Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The sensation made her heart flutter, her mind soar, and her brain sizzle. It made her wounds heal and her soul sing. It made life worth living. It made hope real.

When they parted from the kiss, they were breathless and dizzy, hearts thrumming together in sync.

The honey hues of his chestnut eyes were fixed on hers. “So,” he said, thoughtfully. “Mauna Kea. Ever see it up close?”

She smirked. “Nope. Never been to Hawai’i.”

“Me neither,” Peter shrugged, his eyes alight with life. “Wanna change that?” 

End of Volume 1

A Note From Your Storyteller:

Whew. That was long.

I can't believe this has come to an end. Before I began writing, I was skeptical about this story, but honestly I could've never anticipated or expected the overwhelming support and love that I've gotten. People have made art from my art. They have showered me with gifts for my gift. If you'd say any gift is an expression of love, then gifted art is the ultimate expression of devotion. I love that you care about my characters, and about me!

What's next?

Good question. I've been at odds with this answer, and now it feels like I really need to commit to a path. My imagination is full of many more places that Honey and Peter can go. I could probably write 2-3 novels about these two with all of the effort I put into making these characters come to life. Realistically, I'm a mom with a baby, and I'm about to be a one-person band for the next few months. I'm excited to share these stories, but I'm not sure when or how, or even what that will look like.

The best thing you can do to interact with me is to keep your eyes on my updates from my Ko-fi page! I'm hoping to allow that to become a place where the S&V 'fandom' (wtf that sounds so weird what happened what is this life I am not worthy) can gather and where I can share updates.

In addition to S&V-related news, I'm going to post writing tips, best storytelling practices, AMAs, my favorite fics of the week, answer questions, and maybe even offer commissions. Keep in mind, none of this will be gatekeeped (gate-kept?) or behind a paywall. Even if you're not a regular... er, um, patron?... (barista?) on Ko-fi, you can still hopefully find some interesting stuff to check out.

But even if you don't do any of that, because... who cares, right? I do want you to do one thing for me. One tiny thing that will make the world better. One small thing that could end up changing someone's life.

The next fanfic you read, if you feel any emotions about it at all, please hit "reblog."

You don't have to write a long review, or leave a comment, or add any tags to it. You don't have to do anything more than click the reblog button. But please reblog. When you reblog, you get to share the gift fanfic writers make with someone else, regardless of whether you know them. And subconsciously, you tell the writer 'yes, I see you, and I think other people should, too,' and that small thing can save someone's life one day.

Forget engagement, forget likes vs comments vs reblogs vs community labels vs filtering settings—

Stories are gifts. They are expressions of love put to words. They are emotions lived, repackaged, wrapped in a bow, and then shared with others, along with a kind little note that says 'here's this moment of my heart, I hope it moves you the way it moved me.'

Reblog. And fill the world with a little more love.

The forced proximity caused her to mewl louder, hyperventilating in his grip. He lifted her further off the floor by the shoulders and slammed her against the tiles, expelling the air from her lungs. 

He was stronger than she remembered, his grip exponentially more painful. He’d no doubt logged extra hours in the gym, just like he used to, between his time at work and his time violating her.

She was weaker than she remembered, clawing helplessly at his arms with her shoulders pinned against the wall. Shrinking with terror at the feral look in his eye. Eventually, she went limp in his hold, submitting to her fate. She trembled uncontrollably, gasping through her nose, with her toes barely touching the tops of his feet. 

Just like old times.

“There you are!” he cheerfully cooed, with a tone that reminded her of the way two old women greet each other on Easter Sunday. 

His hand cemented her mouth closed while his forearm crushed her chest like a steel beam. “I’ve been worried sick about you, Peach. You haven’t answered my texts... my calls...” He grinned sadistically, with a festive tone. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the Brooklyn Bridge!”

She had nightmares like this, where a scream tore at her throat but couldn’t break free. If she could, it would’ve pierced their eardrums. The panic in her eyes was shriller than sirens. Her heart drummed nearly as loud as the muffled music in the bar outside. Terror gripped her, and all he could do was laugh.

If she could scream, it would be one name: Peter.

As if John could read her mind, he narrowed his gaze, eyes darkening. Threatening. Daring her. “Now. I’m gonna move my hand so we can chat. And if you do so much as sneeze too loudly, I’ll drown you in that toilet bowl down there.”

She shuddered, tears spilling down her face. She sobbed. But she quit struggling. 

“Atta girl,” he purred with a wicked smile. Licking his lips, he wiped a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Here we go.” Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting his palm slide down her chin and his fingers wrap dangerously around her throat.

She gaped up at him, wet eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light. 

“So,” he said, glancing between her petrified eyes and trembling lips. “What gives, Peach? Did you forget about me already?”

“John, please—”

He constricted his hand around the base of her neck. She pictured a python suffocating its prey, squeezing slowly until every bone shattered.

“I can’t help but feel like you’ve been ghosting me,” he said unnervingly lightheartedly. “Be honest. Was it something I said?”

She panted in short breaths. “Nonono, you don’t understand—I’m-’m trying to protect you!”

He tightened his grip.

“It’s the truth! You don-don’t understand—something is wrong... Peter is—he-he’s capable of things that-that humans shouldn’t be capable of!”

He curled a brow upwards, intrigued.

“I’ve seen it! It’s... it’s like the devil. I-I don’t know. He’s-he’s not human, John. I’ve seen him almost rip a man’s head off with his bare hands. Please, he’s... he’s not right—”

“You tellin’ me bedtime stories, Peach?” 

“Nooo,” she sobbed, shaking her head. He allowed her the space to do so. “I’m not, I swear! He-he can’t be stopped...I don’t know what he’ll do to me if he finds out— I don’t know what he’ll do to either of us—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his eyes softening. He wiped another tear from her cheek. “It’s okay, I got ya.” He stroked her face sweetly. It made her skin crawl—a cruel imitation of kindness. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You just gotta use that silver tongue of yours.”

She gulped at his insinuation. 

“Speaking of which, you blow ‘em yet?” He sneered with a smile that made her nauseous, with an overemphasis on each syllable, “Come on, Hun-ney.” He wiped across her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, narrowing his eyes into slits. He breached her mouth, and she loathed the foul taste of his finger. “I know you’ve got what it takes.” 

She went stiff. Felt cold and clammy. Like her skin wasn’t attached to her muscles. She didn’t want to wear it anymore.

“Well,” John pouted, pulling his thumb away, “if you’re not willing to play, I’ll have to resort to other measures. Guess I’ll have to settle for the kid.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare touch Bella—”

“I’m not talkin’ about Bella,” he snickered. “And not any of your slutty sisters either.” Her brows pinched together anxiously. “I’m talkin’ about the other kid—Miles Morales.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. A Cheshire smile stretched his face like an evil clown out of a horror movie. “Fucked up what happened to his family,” John mused with faux sympathy. “If anyone ever knew where to find him, he’d be in real danger.”

Her glossy eyes widened and her blood went cold. He didn’t need to choke her. She was being strangled by a mix of terror and rage, cutting off her air supply. She thought she was going to pass out. 

“You can’t do that,” she whispered in shock. He tilted his head, glaring through slitted eyes. “He’s... he’s just a kid. He’s not even a part—”

“Oh, please,” he chuckled darkly. “Don’t tell me you’re that stupid. No one’s gonna believe that he’s some innocent bystander. Especially not the cops in this city.” 

Her upper lip curled. “You’ll never prove anything.”

“I don’t have to,” John said under his breath. His voice was as soft as a cloud, and his eyes turned to ice. “All I have to do is call for backup. Lotsa things happen when the police get involved. Miscommunication. Accidents.”

He let the words sink in, as if holding for a dramatic pause. He leered down at her maliciously, like he’d just delivered a punchline. Her sense of reason detached from her own body. A fresh swell of rage rose in her, boiling the blood in her veins.

She barely recognized her own voice, or the poisonous sound of her fury. “If you come near Miles, you’re a dead man,” she seethed, almost breathless with anger. “Peter will kill you.”

John’s smile melted at her insolence, staring at her with disbelief. Rage spread through him.

She recognized that look. Knew it well, like an old friend. This was usually the part where he’d flatten her with the back of his hand. 

She expected it. Welcomed it. She was convinced that it would have been worth it.

Instead, he pulled back his chin, studying her with scrutiny. “Wow,” he scoffed in disgust. “Parker got you good. He’s your knight in shining armor, isn’t he?”

He released her weight, letting her stand on her own, but kept his forearm against her chest. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a smartphone. Tapping in a code, he unlocked the screen and held it up to her view. She blinked rapidly, her eyes struggling to focus on the harsh blue light.

The image that came into view baffled her. It looked like a red paint can had exploded. But she knew who was showing her the picture, and anxious nausea gripped her. She looked away.

“Look. At. It,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “Recognize this?”

She glanced at the image with a stoic expression, which looked more like a Jackson Pollock painting than anything. She flicked her gaze upwards, glowering in silence. 

“No? Lemme show you the ‘before.’”

He swiped the photo away. Her eyes went cold.

Immediately, she recognized Peter. If you had asked her—that was the first thing she saw. He was in some kind of nightclub, maybe in a part of Web that she hadn’t seen. 

His face was partially obscured. But if you had asked her, she could tell you with certainty that it was Peter. That jutted jaw sporting a beard he’d worn up until today. That sharp nose. The prominent Adam’s apple in his throat. She’d recognize them anywhere. 

If you had asked her, he looked disheveled in a way she couldn’t recognize. His hair was wild. Black shirt slightly askew, hanging too loosely like he spent time in a mosh pit.

But if you had asked her at that moment, she wouldn’t say anything. She was unable to speak.

She was utterly frozen, staring horrified at the half-naked woman on his lap. The woman was wearing nothing but a thong and tiny slivers of fabric that barely contained her breasts. She straddled him, fingers laced around the buttons of his shirt. 

He didn’t look upset by it. Not one bit. 

Didn’t look concerned at all. Instead, his head was thrown back in what appeared to her as ecstasy. She’d recognized that expression. She’d seen it from that same angle. It had only been a couple of days since she was sitting where that woman sat.

A sharp line formed between her brows. It had only been a couple of days. 

This photo was taken with a long lens from a hidden angle. Someone had been spying on him. Watching him, unseen. Recently, too—there was a watermark of a date in the corner of the image. 

It had only been a couple of days ago.

She was numb. She didn’t need to look up at John to see him beaming down at her. The color was draining from her face, her natural hue turning greener every second. Viciously, he flicked his thumb, displaying another image.

This one had them locked in a filthy kiss. 

The next one had his lips latched to her chest.

The next one had his hands cupping her ass. Thumbs toying beneath the waistband of the silver thong she was wearing.

The next one had those hands buried in the woman’s hair—that gorgeous woman with her giant tits and flawless body. Perfect ass hoisted in the air as she bent her knees on either side of his thighs. Her tongue licked the flesh of Peter’s exposed chest. 

Although Honey’s eyes told her it was a still image, her brain projected a motion picture. Her mind crafted each frame, imagining this woman trailing down his sternum until she connected with the hard, thick line in his lap.

In her memories, she could vividly see his eyes, but now they were staring at this woman. Burning her with a hungry gaze. Speaking filthy vows as he worked himself with his own hand. Worshiping her like she was a goddess. 

“Aww, how sad,” John hummed, relishing in her pain. 

When had she started crying?

“Now, check this out. Lemme show you the ‘after.’”

Another flick of his thumb revealed a wider image of the painting. She gasped with horror as she recognized the paint splatter as human remains. It was all that was left of the woman. Body parts and organs spread across a room like disjointed puzzle pieces. Her mouth fell open in a silent gag as her stomach pitched. 

John snorted with a chuckle, “Geez, I can’t imagine the cock on this guy. Talk about splitting a woman in half, eh?”

Her heart crumbled. Her mind was shattered. Like the piano against the wall. Like that guard’s spine. Like the bloody mess of the man who’d kidnapped her. The whole world was red. 

“Did he tell you about Gwen?”

Her heart skipped at the sound of her name. Her eyes darted up to John’s—stunned. How did John know about the woman of Peter’s dreams—the other other woman in his fantasies? She gazed at him in disbelief. He snickered.

“Did he tell you they were married?”

Another stab to her heart. A phantom limb severed. 

“Did he tell you how she died?”

Another stone placed on her chest. She felt her lungs compress and buckle. 

“Did he tell you how he murdered his own wife?”

Now, she was nothing. Less than nothing. Pulverized. Crushed to dust. Ground into the dirt. No more a body than the bloody painting of Peter’s mistress.

“You know what’ll happen to me if something happens to Miles?” John said. 

He hooked a finger under her chin, pulling her gaze up to his. It was effortless. She had no fight left in her body. She was clay in his hands to mold however he wanted. A jellyfish washed up on shore. She had never had a backbone.

“Absolutely nothing,” he breathed, fixing her with a cruel smile. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she couldn’t feel them anymore. Couldn’t feel anything. 

“I won’t be the one that Parker goes after. It’ll be you. His sweet, saintly, slutty snake.”

She stared with lifeless eyes, like playing possum. That was a mistake. She knew it wasn’t any fun for John if he couldn’t see her suffer. He wouldn’t be sated. 

“Oh. One more thing. You forgot this.” He put his phone back in his pocket, retrieving another one. Her eyes went wide. It was hers—the one she kept hidden in her bedroom. “Can’t leave this lying around just anywhere,” he glowered. 

She felt an iron grip on her thigh. She gasped sharply, but he cupped her mouth and sealed off the cries. Viciously, he wrenched up her thigh, pulling her legs apart. His fingers groped beneath the hem of her dress. A scream bubbled up in her throat as he shoved his hand into her underwear. 

“Gotta make sure you keep this close,” he sneered through gritted teeth. Cold glass was placed crudely against her flesh, sending a chill that penetrated every cell in her body. In her mind, she thrashed, shrieked, kicked, hollered, scratched, bit, punched, yelled, clawed, bludgeoned, and punctured. But aside from sobbing, her body did nothing. 

Just like old times.

When he retracted his hand, her limbs were rubber. If his hand on her mouth hadn’t nailed her to the wall, she would’ve collapsed. 

Instead, he leered down at her, feasting on her anguish and relishing her torment.

He smirked. 

There was no need for threats. No need to worry about her at all. She was broken. Weak. She would fall apart if he pushed her—a dandelion in a hurricane.

He released her, letting her knees buckle. She slid down the wall, trembling, crumbling beneath the toilet bowl. She winced at the uncomfortable feeling of a foreign object between her thighs.

“You run along now,” he muttered, undisturbed. “You’ll be okay as long as you can manage to keep your legs closed.”

Peter leaned back against the wall, letting the coolness seep into his scalp. His eyes were closed as he hummed a tune playing on the jukebox. Every breath was measured steadily, trying to shut out the noises around him.

He’d almost lost it. Again.

And while he was dreaming up violent pictures and all the different ways he could slaughter the two drunkards—who had smartly disappeared—he felt the sensation of an icy breeze tickling his body. It started gentle, like a gust of late autumn wind against bare skin. A moment later, the temperature plunged. It was excruciating, stab wounds all over his skin like he’d been dropped into a frozen river. 

His eyes opened wide, a gasp filling his lungs. A chill he hadn’t felt in years shot down his spine. His gaze darted across the room, frantically searching. And then he spotted her—his girl stomping across the bar, rushing towards the exit. Her shoulders were rigid, arms wrapped tightly around herself, head down. She was a few paces away from sprinting. He could smell her tears from here.

His eyebrows pinched together. “Honey?”

She stopped for nothing. Scampered on shaky legs and unsteady heels out onto the sidewalk. Frozen tear tracks decorated her cheeks like glitter. She could hear Peter calling after her. The sound of his voice made her want to rip her face off. 

A bomb of vile fury— ugly, savage, and raw— had been set off beneath her ribs. Rage vaporized her insides, burning blisters across her heart. A firestorm in her stomach and chest threatened to incinerate everything in her path.

“Honey! Wait up!”

Her eyes were blurry—glazed over. She recognized the shape of a yellow cab in front of her. Didn’t hesitate for a moment. 

“Taxi!” she shouted, reaching for the door handle. She wrenched it open—if she had a fraction of Peter’s strength, she would’ve ripped the sedan in half.

Just before she crawled inside, the door slammed shut. Again. Peter tried to pull her back from the edge. Again. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa— what the hell—?”

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked, voice like shattered glass. 

The shrillness of it caused him to jolt. Immediately, Peter removed his hand from her upper arm, a bewildered look on his face. He blinked in confusion, overwhelmed by the redness of her eyes and the streaks of mascara down her face.

“What happened?” he gasped softly. His voice hardened to a demand. “Who did this to you?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” she screamed in a tone that was sharp and piercing enough to cut through the concrete jungle of New York City’s streets. 

Peter suddenly felt every eye in the city on him, reminding him they stood on a busy Manhattan street. Flushed, he glanced around to see a crowd of bystanders turning to look. Curious and judgmental eyes attacked him from every direction.

Calming himself, he lowered his voice. “Honey, talk to me. What happened?”

Her eyes were wild. “Where’s Bella?”

“What?”

“Where is she, Peter? Where did you take her?!”

He curled a brow upwards, studying her, becoming more disturbed by her erratic outburst. “We talked about this,” he said placatingly, “I told you she was safe—”

“All you told me was that you took my family out of their home and hid them away from me!” She roared with a sharp, accusatory tone, “What did you do to them?! Where are they?! What did you do with my baby niece?!”

Compared to her, he was a whisper in the wind. “Honey, please, just calm down—”

“Forget it, I’m leaving!”

“What? No, I’ll drive us home!” Peter rushed after her, trying to maintain control of the situation. Panicked, he made eye contact with a man sitting at the valet stand just off the arcade entrance. He called to him, “Hey! Bring my car ‘round, will ya?” He hurried to give the valet his ticket, and the young man darted off immediately at the command.

Honey was now ten feet away from him and expanding her lead. The crowd was still eagerly watching the drama unfold. His senses buzzed him again as his eyes found a beat cop parked in a police cruiser nearby. He broke eye contact with the suspicious eyes of the officer, jogging away to catch up to her.

She turned a corner just as he approached. “Honey, I said I’d drive you—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she hissed. He jumped into her path, fighting the urge to make contact.

“Wait a minute—!”

“Get away from me!” she hollered, her voice cracked and ravaged with cries. She stopped and backed up, putting several feet between them. A couple that was passing by slowed to a stop to watch. As did a senior man walking his dog. As did an off-duty driver watching from his cab.

Peter could recognize a power shift when he saw one. Now, standing on Fifth Avenue with her screaming her head off in front of a growing audience, she had all the power in the world.

He breathed heavily through his nose, his voice barely above a whisper, “Please, just slow down. Lower your voice. Tell me what’s wrong—”

“Or what?” she snapped, her volume still teetering on hysteria. “You’ll kidnap me again?” She was louder than a jet engine. 

He felt faint, with the constant sirens in his mind alerting him to impending danger. He was defenseless. 

“You're gonna throw a bag over my head and put me in the trunk?” she hissed. “In front of all these people?”

He swallowed hard, stomach twisting. Skin burning from dirty looks in the crowd. Cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. 

“That’s your weakness, isn’t it?” she speared him, relentless in her attack. “You thrive in the shadows. You can’t survive without the dark! Can’t live where people can see how dirty you are out in the open! You’re worse than a rat; you’re fucking vermin! You act like you’re different, like you’ve got some moral code! But you’re no different than those dirty cops! All you want is to control people!”

His chest heaved while his gaze blackened. He lowered his chin, quietly seething. “Honey. Let’s not talk about this here.”

“I’m taking a cab.”

“You’re not gettin’ in a cab by yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe!”

She glowered resentfully, jabbing a finger at him, “You’re not safe!” He blinked rapidly, taken aback by the pure loathing in her eyes. Rage flowed through her veins like lava. He’d never seen her so savagely cruel, like she was savoring the violence in her mouth.

“You call that love?” she demanded, voice cracking with cries. “Devotion? That’s obsession! Slavery!” Her whole body was shaking, eyes ablaze. “Fuck you! You don’t know what it means to love!” 

The twist beneath his ribs was beginning to throb. Nostrils flared, he glared back and opened his mouth to speak. She unleashed another barrage the moment she saw his resistance. 

“You know how to fight, but you don’t know what it means to surrender.” Her voice was quieter but no less vicious. She stalked towards him, emboldened by her anger. “You think I didn’t want to leave home? I wanted to run away! But I didn’t! I stayed... because that’s my mother! I stayed there to protect my sisters!” She paused only for air. “Suffering! Sacrifice! That’s love! How dare you pretend you know anything about it!” 

“I’ve sacrificed,” he bit back, his hardened defensively. His eyes were lit up by the cars that passed by, the glimmer in them unmistakable. “And for the record—that’s not love. Love isn’t suffering. That’s fear.”

She eyed him lividly, words spewing out like boiling poison. “How would you know?” she hissed. “Everyone that ever loved you is dead. And everyone left alive is too scared to tell you the truth.”

He pressed his lips together, lifting his chin. His eyebrows furrowed together, eyes hung solemnly on her seething form. She spotted the tick in his jaw. The way he clenched it tight to keep himself from breaking down in her presence. 

Against her will, the sight soured her rage. She inhaled slowly through her nose, biting down her jaw to keep her lip from wobbling in response.

He sniffed, rubbing his nose briefly. “That feel good?” he said bitterly. He glanced up at her, tears brimming in his eyes. “I bet it did. Now you finally know what it’s like to stand up for yourself.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down as if he was keeping something rancid from crawling up his throat. He sniffed again. Eyes flicked away. “Pretty nice bein’ on the opposite end for a change? Or do you get off on the pain more?”

Her irritation flared; his words sliced into her like a dagger. Her eyes burned with built-up tears. 

“You like that, yeah?” he glowered. His eyes flashed with anger, temper flaring. “Ain't that right?” He hissed through gritted teeth, stalking up until he was inches from her. “You love it when the bad men hurt you. Fuckin’ love being a victim. So much that you’re willing to apologize for it. Admit that you wanna be controlled! You wanna be tied up and kept! It’s your goddamn dirty fantasy, isn’t it?”

His voice reverberated off the buildings before he buttoned his lips. Nostrils flaring, he dropped his gaze to the cement beneath their feet. She glared back, but she wasn’t looking at him. 

Instead, she saw that slut writhing on top of him while she foolishly—stupid, stupid girl— worried for his safety. 

“You’re confusing your fantasies with reality,” she sneered lividly. “You bastard, you don’t even know my name. You don’t know anything about me.”

His jawbone twitched, eyes downcast. “How could I? How could anyone? You never let me in.” He glanced up at her beneath his lashes, bitterness in his gaze. “I don’t know if you won’t because you don’t trust me or because it’s just easier for you to lie. But I am the only one who has laid it all out for you! I’ve told you exactly who I am, and what I am!”

She shook her head, her tone virulent, “And I hate all of it.” 

The viciousness of her tone gave him pause. The sweet girl in the coffee shop was gone. Her humanity was ripped from her cells. He stood in horrified awe. Completely aghast and wondering who would have destroyed her like this. Who on Earth had the power to tear apart a soul the way hers had been?

“You were right, Peter,” she softly declared. “Your aunt and uncle didn’t deserve to die like that.” All the tears had drained from her eyes; the remnants dripped from her chin. Her quivering lip shook them loose. “But you do.”

The killing blow. That’s all he needed to hear in order to posit his answer. 

He had been the one to kill her. To break her spirit. Tear apart her soul. He just hadn’t realized it until now.

He heard the roar of a familiar V8 engine. Glancing over, still slightly glazed from the raw energy of their fight, he saw his Basalt Black Porsche Spyder pulling up to the curb. It stopped several paces away, high gloss shine glittering in the streetlights. It was a stunning jewel proclaiming his accomplishments, none of which he could immediately recall—or give a shit about.

Most of the faces on the sidewalk were now pointed away from them, but Peter could hear the cruel things they whispered under their breaths. Maybe they were right.

The valet popped out of the driver's side, smartly avoiding even a glance towards the couple. He disappeared, didn’t even wait for a tip. 

Peter stared at the ajar door, reeling with hot emotions and dreading the next fight ahead.

“Get in the car, Honey,” he muttered darkly. Any ounce of kindness or patience had evaporated.

“Fuck off.”

He flashed rageful eyes at her. “I’m not tellin’ you again. Get. In the car.”

She narrowed her eyes and scoffed at his empty threat. “You gonna have me whacked, Boss?”

He tilted his head. Glowered at her for several moments. “Of course not.” His tone was calm and his eyes gentle, a shocking contrast to his livid demeanor moments before. He strolled towards her until she was within arm’s length.

“I’m gonna let you go,” he said matter-of-factly. “Gonna let you run. Get as far away from me as you can, until I’m nothin’ but a bad memory. I’m gonna let you go free. Let you believe that you really won this time.” Like a feather, he drifted closer, stopping inches from her ear. He whispered icily, “Then I’m gonna hunt you down.” 

She flicked her gaze to his. His eyes were black, possessed by rage and whatever other evil lived inside his soul. “And I will bring you back. In handcuffs, if I have to. In chains.” He leveled his gaze at her, speaking in a hushed tone. “You think I’m scary now? You think I’m the bad guy? No. You haven’t seen me bad, Honey. You haven’t seen me angry.”

Her expression was stone. The threat lingered in the air, but she didn’t respond. He doubted she lacked the courage to do so. She likely didn’t have the energy.

She simply didn’t care anymore. 

“I’ve seen all I need to see,” she said calmly, letting out a tired sigh. 

Rolling her eyes, she rounded around him and began strolling towards the car. She walked with an airy gait, floating like a ghost. Untethered to this world. Empty and void of anything resembling life. “Dinner is over,” she bitterly muttered. “And I’m ready to go back to my room now—”

A force collided with her upper back like she took a punch to the spine. Before she could cry out, she was flying backward. 

The car shrank in her gaze. She came to a sudden stop, crashing against the brick wall of Peter’s chest, steel beams wrapping around her. They were both flying through the air, spinning dizzily, until coming to a hard crash on the pavement. 

The air ejected from her lungs as she rolled to her back. Peter’s body covered hers, shielding her.

A bright flash. Blinding light. A blast of heat. 

A shockwave erupted from the sportscar as it exploded into flames.

And then, there was nothing but silence.

Her lungs felt like they were on fire. She choked on methane, her chest trembling from damage. Her eyes fluttered open to see Peter gazing down at her. Doe eyes. Wide and terrified. He was sobbing. She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

“Wake up, baby... Baby, please, please come back to me, wake up wake up, come back, stay with me staywithmeplease staywithme—”

It sounded like she was at the bottom of a well.

On the next inhale, she broke into a coughing fit. The change in pressure of her airways restored some of her hearing, but she was still trapped in a coffee can. The whole world rattled and buzzed around her. 

Peter’s face filled with relief, albeit short. “I got you.” His voice trembled. She was no longer on the ground. She was freezing and soaked, covered in road mud and sleet. She shook against the heat of his chest. Her fingers were icicles, and it was painful to grip his neck.

“I got you,” he repeated. “S’okay. Gonna get us out of here, okay? Just close your eyes for me.”

The bright lights of a bonfire blinded her, and closing her eyes was a welcome relief. Then her stomach pitched, like she jumped off a building. 

She kept her eyes closed. Gripping him close, her nails dug into the leather of his jacket. She was so cold. Like she’d been walking through a blizzard. Could barely feel her toes. What happened to her shoes?

She jostled as she came to a sudden stop. Her head throbbed from the jerking sensation. It was like she’d been in a car crash. Or had gotten hit by a bus.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter repeated, terror stretching his voice thin. “Sorry so sorry so sorry I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it—”

She felt herself crying, shaking in his hold. The sharp prickle of gravel on the backs of her exposed legs startled her. Dizzied, she blinked up at him in confusion. His gaze was buried within hers. He cradled her close to his chest. 

She was disoriented. Where did the buildings go? Were they on the roof? When did they go upstairs? Had she blacked out?

“Baby, look at me,” he called to her, his voice as gentle as a lake. Her eyes struggled to focus. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t breathe enough to speak. Choked on the frost in the air. Choked on the taste of blood in her mouth.

Her eyes went wide, gazing up at him as terror settled in. Her brain started to reboot, putting pieces together, but her pulse pounded as the picture came to life. The car blew up. Right in front of her. They had almost died. She had almost died. Peter had almost died.

She sobbed. Cried out his name.

He held her tight, rocking her like a child. “It’s okay,” he whispered soothingly. He dug his arm beneath her knees, elevating her legs while dipping his hold on her back. He was so warm, always warm all the time—practically burning up. She was so cold. 

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe.” 

Tearfully, she hiccuped, sucking in big gasps of air. “Pete—”

“Shh, shh,” he cooed. “Breathe for me, baby. Just breathe. Just like you taught me, yeah? In and out. We’re gonna take a moment to breathe.” 

“M’sorry... I’m sorry about everything,” her voice broke over the words. It felt like her tongue wouldn’t move as she wanted it to. “I didn’t mean it—” 

His face was filthy, streaked with tears and horror and blood. He shook his head, touching his nose to her. “It’s okay, baby. Just rest right now, okay?”

“Peter, what happened?” she cried, shuddering as he rocked her. “Wha...?”

“It’s okay, sweetie. S’okay, we just fell. We fell. You-you hit your head... and—fuck, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—”

“I’m co-cold...”

“Here.” He shucked off his jacket, blanketing her with it. “We gotta get you warm. Just need t’get a good look at you, see where you’re hurt.”

“Di-Did I almost die?”

He winced. Squeezed his eyes closed, like holding back a scream. “No, baby.” He swallowed hard. “No. I was never gonna let that happen. I’m never gonna let that happen, I swear.” His face crumpled as he pressed an agonized kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never—I’ll never hurt you again, I swear it. I swear.”

Her face crumpled as he squeezed her body to his chest. She closed her eyes, burying her wet cheeks in the crook of his neck.

He was sorry. So was she.

But not nearly enough. 

Not yet. 

To be continued...

[back to masterlist]

A/N yeeeeeaaaah. originally, i planned for 14 and 15 to be one chapter, but instead, we needed some semblance of joy. for a moment.

thank you so much for everyone that has given me beautiful feedback and notes and fun little ideas for the playlist—I have been going through a mountain of stuff but I appreciate you all so much.

want to be on the taglist for the next one? make sure you reblog!

"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."

"You think?" 

You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again. 

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks. 

The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face. 

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."

You shove Steve's shoulder lightly. 

"You are not dumb, Steve."

One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.

He had made you swear not to tell anyone. 

"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."

His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you. 

"Tommy says I am."

"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."

You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you. 

“Promise?” he asks.

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.” 

You nod and lay back on the floaty. 

“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks. 

“Just us?” 

“Just us.”

Now. (January, 1987)

You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you. 

Whoops. Right. You're still at work. 

You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing. 

You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink. 

And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it? 

Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar. 

“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”

Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.

“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”

“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.

“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."

The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?” 

You lean against the side of the game, considering.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

You snort. 

“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”

He glances at you. 

“So?”

“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.” 

You wink at Dustin. He beams.

“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add. 

The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently. 

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”

Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway. 

You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight. 

“You’re awesome, Y/N!" 

You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”

Dustin sours.

“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?” 

“No way!"

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”

You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot. 

“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again." 

You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young. 

Dustin shrugs, starting the game.

“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”

“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”

“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”

“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."

You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town. 

"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."

"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."

"Would I now?"

"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered." 

"Wow. Impressive."

"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”

“You would?”

The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.

“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”

“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."

“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”

“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”

Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.

“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."

"'Kay!"

Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family. 

"Who do I ask for?" 

"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"

"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"

"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."

Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck. 

The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.

"Can I help who's next?"

You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!

"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says. 

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?" 

You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler. 

She nods in realization. 

"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."

You wince. 

"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"

Her brows raise. She smiles a bit. 

"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"

"Pretty in Pink," you say. 

"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"

"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."

She grins.

"Me too. She's pretty."

"Super pretty," you agree. 

The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand. 

"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."

You take her hand. "Y/N.”

"Did you go to Hawkins High?"

"I did. Graduated last year."

"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"

You nod. 

"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."

"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"

"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."

You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest. 

"How come?" she asks. 

"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."

Robin smiles sympathetically. 

"They're jerks," she says. 

You huff. "Yeah."

You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore. 

Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans. 

"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."

"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from. 

She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass. 

You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on. 

The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures. 

"Have you been waiting long?"

You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter. 

Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font. 

He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles. 

"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."

You blink.

"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye. 

"No," you manage. 

"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?" 

He doesn't remember you. 

You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.

And he doesn't remember you. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.

You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve. 

"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."

"I have to go," you say. 

You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin. 

Her brows rise. 

"Oh. Is everything—"

"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."

"That's okay, we can just—"

You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away. 

Only there do you stop to catch your breath. 

And then you cry. 

February 1982

"What do you think about Marie?" 

You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table. 

"Marie Iverson?" you ask.

"Yeah." 

Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it. 

"I don't know. I don't know her that well."

"She's cute." 

"I guess so," you say. 

It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—

"I was thinking of asking her out."

The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase. 

"Shit, here. Take mine." 

Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it. 

"Y/N?" 

"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."

"Sure. So what do you think?" 

"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."

"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."

Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before. 

"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now. 

"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."

"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."

Steve deflates. 

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

You sigh and rub your temple. 

"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."

"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."

Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?" 

"Writing?"

"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."

"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."

He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention. 

"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."

Steve laughs, nose scrunched. 

"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."

"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words." 

"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"

"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."

Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."

Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.

You shuffle your papers into a stack. 

"Can we study now?" you ask.

"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."

He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.

"Lemme take you out," he says. 

You nearly swallow your tongue. 

"Wh–what?"

"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."

Steve beams. "I'll drive you."

Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do. 

You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair. 

Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back. 

"Just us?" you check. 

You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together. 

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?" 

You check your watch and close your book. 

"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later." 

Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.) 

"Please," he says. "For helping me."

Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."

Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends. 

"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."

You perk up at that. "Really?"

"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?" 

"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.

Now

You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs. 

"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."

You might have overshot the perks, though. 

Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses. 

"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."

She shoots you a mean look. 

"I'm complaining to the manager."

You paste on a smile. 

"You do that. Have a nice day."

She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation. 

Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.

Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always. 

You lean your elbows on the countertop. 

"What'll it be, gang?"

"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."

You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes. 

"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.

"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."

Dustin accepts this with no argument. 

"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."

You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that. 

He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking. 

"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say. 

"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?" 

Lucas nods. 

"Yup. They're both parents."

You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey. 

"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."

"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."

"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"

Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you. 

"What?"

"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains. 

"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."

"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."

"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone. 

Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie. 

"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."

"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort. 

"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared. 

"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."

"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector." 

Dustin nods eagerly.

You blink. "He protects you guys?"

Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly. 

"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."

"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."

"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."

"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."

You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that. 

"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."

"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."

"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?" 

Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."

"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”

“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.

“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”

You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change. 

When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty. 

"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"

"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."

"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"

"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."

"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.

"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business." 

"And why can't your babysitter take you?"

You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional. 

"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."

Now that sounds like the Steve you knew. 

"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."

"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."

“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.

You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.

“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”

“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.

“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”

You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”

Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”

You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”

“Byeeee!”

They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.

March 1983

“Okay, but if you had to choose.”

“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”

Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”

“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”

“Exactly! My birthday.”

He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.

“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”

“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”

“I keep telling you you need glasses.”

“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”

He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool. 

“Shit,” he says.

You belly laugh in delight.

“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”

“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”

"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."

You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy. 

The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy. 

“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”

"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.

“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”

“‘S cold.”

“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”

He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”

“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.

“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.

“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason. 

“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”

“Can’t believe no one else came.”

You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.

“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”

You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.

“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”

“I listen.”

Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.

“God, I miss you,” he says.

You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little. 

“I’m right here, Steve.”

“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”

Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.

“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”

“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”

“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.

“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”

You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.

“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”

“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”

Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”

His laugh is warm in your neck. 

You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.

Now

“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”

“Game plan?” El asks quietly.

“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”

She stares at Lucas.

“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”

“Right.”

“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”

You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”

Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”

“Or a total disaster,” Max says.

You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.

“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”

The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.

“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”

Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”

“Uh-huh.” 

The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning. 

“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area. 

You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share. 

“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”

Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.

“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”

He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.

“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.

“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”

“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”

“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.

“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”

“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”

Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.

“Harrington, man, what’s up!” 

Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.

“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”

Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.

“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm. 

“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.

“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”

America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying. 

“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded. 

You feel a burst of pride.

Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.

“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”

“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”

No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror. 

“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”

Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.

Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”

Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.

“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”

He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.

“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”

The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket. 

“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”

“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”

Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.

“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”

She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you. 

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”

“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”

Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”

You’re suddenly exhausted.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”

“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”

“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”

“I didn’t want it that much.”

“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”

“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”

“Y/N—”

“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it. 

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”

“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”

Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.

So you run. Again. 

You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting. 

You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?

So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.

Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.

Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.

"Slushie?"

She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"

You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"

"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"

Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth. 

You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese. 

"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.

Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"

"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?" 

Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too. 

"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava. 

"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"

"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."

Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none. 

"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."

"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."

You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head. 

"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."

"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."

Robin smiles a sad smile. 

"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."

The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?

"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."

"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."

"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble. 

"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."

You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.

"If you two are—"

"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met." 

"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."

Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."

You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot. 

"This town is so shit," you say. 

"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."

"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."

Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."

"I can sometimes be an asshole."

"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?" 

You laugh. "We'll get jackets."

"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle. 

You look at the tape in your hand. 

"Does Steve like John Hughes?" 

"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."

He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved. 

"I did want to watch this one," you say. 

"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises. 

You suppose not.

December 1984

You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.

Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on. 

Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap. 

Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.

You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't. 

A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself. 

You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.

Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been. 

"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."

There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie. 

It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.

Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not. 

Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy. 

Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life. 

No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.

You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault. 

But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him. 

You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital. 

Now (And Forever)

The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.

It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.

The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it. 

Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.

That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.

I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.

You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.

I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.

Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you. 

I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck. 

But I miss you. I always have.

Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.

I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships. 

Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that. 

It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.

I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it. 

I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.

You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.

Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.

Sincer

Lo

Your friend,

Steve

You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand. 

You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.

It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.

There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.

You knock on the door three times. And wait.

Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.

The door swings open. 

Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine. 

“I got your letter,” you say.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”

Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”

“Like a friend?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask. 

“Always.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”

You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—

“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you confess.

Steve nods against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”

“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.

“Hmm?”

You pull back to look at Steve.

“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”

“Thanks, buddy,” the man sitting with his arm around her shoulders, possessive as ever, said. “You mind excusing us for a moment while I speak with the missus?”

Bile crawled up her throat. 

Lamar’s dark eyes glanced in the rear view mirror, giving a short nod. He opened the driver’s side door and hopped out of the seat. She felt the urge to sob as she watched the stranger leave. She wanted to beg him to come back. Just so she wouldn’t have to be alone with him. 

Instead, she was silent. Said nothing. Typical. 

The door slammed with a hard thud, and her heart broke with it. Goosebumps broke out across her skin as sharp fingers dug into her shoulder. 

They were alone in the backseat. So very alone.

“Well, I gotta say, you look good,” he began. His tone was light. It always began that way, before shifting into a poisonous rant of curse words, insults, and rage. “How long’s it been? Four years? Time flies, doesn’t it?”

This is a nightmare. It’s only a nightmare. Don’t move. He’ll go away if you don’t—

His free palm came up and slapped her across her cheek, the bite so prominent she could feel it in her jawbone. “Answer me when I talk to you,” he snapped through gritted teeth, hatred in his voice. 

A small whimper that she loathed escaped her lips. She tensed up, holding her throbbing mouth, feeling the sting of his beefy, calloused hand. Weathered over time by football skins and pistol whips and breaking her nose twice.

She heard him slowly exhale, like a saucepan set to simmer.

His tone grew soft as a pillow, “Hey, come’re.” With the same hand he used to slap her, he hooked his fingers beneath her jaw and gently pulled her head to the side. “Look at me.” 

With dead eyes, she stared lifelessly at his icy blue orbs. She had no other choice.

Although time hadn’t been kind to John Walker, he still looked ruggedly handsome, with classic cowboy charm and suntanned skin. The native Georgian had kept his luscious, golden hair, currently trimmed neatly and parted to the side. Tiny hairline wrinkles formed at the edges of his aquamarine eyes. Despite this, they didn’t detract from his classically-beautiful features, the sort that were inherited from the pairing of an Adonis father and beauty-queen mother.

They were his ticket to a life of privilege. His God-given ‘get out of jail free’ card. His bait and lure.

“There ya go,” John cooed at her, soft as a kitten’s fur. “There she is.”

There was a spark in his baby blue eyes. At one point, she had confused it for love. Or at least a crush. 

She had mistaken his oppression for passion. That tiny spark set a fire of heated words, grips that were a little too tight, and condescending remarks. Soon it was an all-consuming blaze of purpling bruises, broken bones, and crying herself to sleep as she lay beneath his naked body. A wildfire of rage and fear that had spiraled out of control.

“My little peach,” he grinned, as he drank in the sight of her. She would’ve gagged if she were capable of moving.

Had it really been four years? Four years after the night she snuck out of the massive Loudoun County colonial with nothing but the clothes on her back. How does one run away from an abusive husband who’s also a cop? 

Clearly, not easily.

She drifted in and out, disassociating as much as possible. John could see it. He could always see it. He snapped twice in her face, the rapid movement of his fingers making her flinch. 

“Just wanted to make sure the lights were still on upstairs,” he chuckled darkly.

He released her chin and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. His arm still rested heavily across her shoulders, fingers rubbing bruising circles into her upper arm. 

“God, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?” he added with a beaming headshake. Clearly satisfied with himself. “You look good.” She shifted uncomfortably, worryingly assessing if she had pissed her pants when he grabbed her.

“Nothin’ to say, eh?” John said with a rapidly fleeting smile.

She was terrified that if she opened her mouth, she’d either scream or vomit. Maybe both. She pursed her lips tighter, to prevent either from occurring. To keep her lower lip from wobbling.

“Well,” he sighed, glancing out the darkened windows to the brick walls of the alley. “I sold our house. In case you were curious. Our friends were extremely surprised to hear that you suffered a mental breakdown and joined the Peace Corps.”

That part made her want to laugh. She never had any friends. That’s what she would say. If she could speak.

“Of course, that would be the only explanation for why someone would leave her devoted husband and a 7,500-square foot home.”

A prison for the deranged, indeed. She wanted to say.

“Got a new job,” he added. “With the Feds. Picked up a little townhouse in Dupont Circle. The commute is still shit, but I’m ‘Agent’ John Walker now. Can you believe it?”

Can I believe someone gave you access to more guns? No, I can’t say I’m surprised. She wanted to say.

“Anyway. Water under the bridge, I suppose.” His jovial demeanor was just as unsettling as the dark turn he would inevitably take. The only time he’d sound this pleasant was right as a whiskey buzz set in, and right before he would backhand her into a wall. “Let’s talk about you. You’ve been busy. Especially recently.” He glowered at her with a cruel smirk. “I gotta say. I never figured you for a mob whore.”

Her eyes lit up with surprise, turning towards him in shock. 

“Yeah, I know about Peter Parker,” he answered smugly. “FBI, remember? We can look at security cameras as well as the next agency. It’d be different if he stayed in his own little pond, but no. He made deals with the big boys in Chicago and Miami. Crossed state lines. That’s federal, babe. He’s in my house.” 

Wow, if only I knew that this was all you needed to pop a boner. She wanted to say.

Hopefully, it lasts longer than you usually do. She wanted to say.

Hopefully, you get your legs run over by a train and rats eat your stupid face slowly and your corpse gets fucked by a vagabond on bath salts and if there’s a hell you burn there for the rest of eternity for all of the pain and torment you caused me because I fucking hate you and I would rather die than have you touch me ever again. She wanted to say.

She said nothing. 

“For days, you’ve had thugs parked outside of that shitty apartment on 45th,” he sneered haughtily. It would have been shocking to her that he knew where she’d been living, if she could feel anything at all. 

“They’re there right now,” he said, matter-of-factly, “just waiting for you to show your face.” He turned to her, and the feeling of his eyes on her skin made her want to boil herself alive. “But that’s ‘cos they don’t know you like I do. Nobody does.” There was an overt threat in his voice. He leered at her viciously, his smile reminding her of an evil clown. 

“The second you made that call, I knew exactly where you were headed,” he added proudly. “Right back here. Where you started. You always come crawling back, huh?”

She gulped, and it felt like swallowing glass. She had nothing to say to that.

“Caught yourself a big one this time. Real moneymaker. Did you put out on the first date like you did with me?”

His cold callousness never failed. It infuriated her how he could cut her down with just a few words. He didn’t even need to hit her.

“Never mind that,” he shrugged. “I’m here on business. And right now my business is your new boyfriend.” He shifted his body in the seat, leather creaking, as he turned towards her. She closed her eyes as she felt the heat of his lungs glide over her skin. “I want to know everything you know about him,” he whispered threateningly.

I don’t know anything. I don’t know him as well as you think. You’ve got this all wrong. We’re not dating. And even if I did know anything, I would never tell you. She wanted to say.

“That means now,” he hissed savagely. 

The rage startled her lips into movement. “I-I don’t… you don’t… it’s not…”

“Jesus Christ, spit it out!” he sneered impatiently, rolling his eyes. The action shut down any more noises. “I know you know something. Unless you opened your big mouth and he happened to notice what a stupid cunt you really are. That’s the only reason the big boys would be gunning for you, is if for once in your pathetic life, you actually knew something useful!”

Her eyes burned painfully. She’d rather gouge them out than cry in front of him. The more she stared at him, the stronger her resistance felt. She peered into the ice of his eyes, determined to hold the line.

“What were their names again?” he idly hummed. As if his focus had ever dwindled away from torturing her. “Those two Muslim chicks at the coffee shop?”

Nasrin and Leyla. Who weren’t even Muslim, fucking asshole. Leyla might have been Hindu. Nasrin was an agnostic from New Jersey. 

All of this, she wanted to say.

Her stomach muscles tensed, like taking a sucker punch. Her eyes glistened. 

“Eh, don’t answer that, I don’t really care,” He ran a distracted palm through his blonde hair. “Point is, do you know how they died? Like really?” A disgusting smile split his lips. “Not the bullshit sanitized version they put on the news?”

She was going to be sick. He relished in it.

“I saw the crime scene photos,” he elaborated. “Grisly stuff.” 

She felt hot liquid brimming her eyes, although the rest of her skin had gone clammy. 

“It should make you feel better that only one of them was still alive when they started burning.” 

Her breath hitched, and she hated herself for the sound it made. 

“The other one had her head cut off. Looked like a hunting knife or something. It’s hard to tell when they’re deep fried.”

That did it. She felt the first in a wave of tears slide down her face, still sore from the slap. Once again, she wanted to leave. Wanted to run. At least break eye contact so he wouldn’t be allowed to gluttonously savor her torment.

She was paralyzed.

“Oh, don’t be sad,” he brushed her off with mock sympathy. “You got away. That’s what you’re good at.” The cruel undertone of the comment pierced her even further. She choked back a sob. He was hungry for it.

“‘Sides,” he crassly shrugged. “Don’t they get 72 virgins or some shit? Or, y’know. The equivalent? Giant cocks? Cows? Whatever.”

Her lip trembled at the cruel remark. She was bubbling with rage, her eyes screaming profanities at him. Clawing at his face with her nails. Kicking him repeatedly in the balls.

“Point is,” he continued, each of her silent bullets bouncing off of him harmlessly. “There’s no way you’re worth all that trouble unless you know something. So you’re gonna tell me. Or I’m gonna have to insist.”

John leaned into her, the heat from his body making her feel faint. If she fainted—swear to fucking god don’t you do dare you pieceofshitcoward—she’d throw herself off the nearest bridge.

“I-I don’t know,” she blurted out. Her lips moved without her consent. Shoulders hunched, her hands trembling. “I-I-I don’t, please, John, I swear. Don’t want anything to do with this. I-I ran away. He’s crazy, he’s talking crazy. Killing the Mayor. Please, I’m scared, you’ve gotta believe me—”

“Okay,” he answered her softly. “Okay, it’s okay. I believe you.” Her muscles tensed up, reflexively anticipating another blow. “We’ll just have to keep trying then, won’t we?”

Her eyes bulged out of her head. “What—?” 

“It’s simple, Peach. You’re gonna go crawling back to him and get me what I need.”

“No, you can’t be— p-please, you-you don’t— he’s a-a… You don’t know what he’s capable of!”

The way his eyes narrowed on hers sent a chill down her spine. The color disappeared from his irises. His mouth twisted into a snarl, quietly seething. She felt like she was being roasted alive in the fire of his gaze.

“You think you know what I’m capable of?” he whispered, deadly calm. “You think you’ve seen my bad side?” A tiny smile played on his lips, before his eyes grew wide with a murderous look. “A lot’s changed in the last few years, Peach. I don’t fuck around.” His jaw set firmly as he flayed her with his gaze. “You will go back to Peter Parker. You will get me the information I need to put him away. You will do whatever it takes.” 

She was frozen in his sight. The way a cobra hypnotizes its prey before swallowing it whole. The touch of his fingertips made her flinch instinctively, as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. 

“You’ll do these things for me,” he continued, his soft tone a contrast from the malice in his voice, “or I’ll come back to this building, and do to those people upstairs what they did to your friends.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. She was weeping now. Quiet tears rolling down her face. She had no idea when they ramped up, but she could barely breathe through them.

“You hear me?” he grinned. “Whatever it takes. Now go say goodbye.”

He withdrew his arm from around her shoulders, leaving her body an empty sarcophagus. Shoulders shaking, she turned to reach for the door handle. 

“Oh, just one more thing,” John called after her before she opened the door. Hesitantly, she waited though she kept her gaze forward. 

He viciously buried his fist in her stomach, punching her so hard it forced the air from her lungs. She doubled over in the seat, gasping for air. The force was so powerful, she thought her ribs would be stamped with the Green Beret crest from his ring. 

He leaned in towards her ear, his voice as intimate as a lover and equally acidic with bitter contempt. “That’s for embarrassing me in front of our friends.”

A ghost. An apparition. The Wandering Sufferer, cursed to walk the earth forever. Her own terror wrapped around her ankles like iron shackles. She plodded up the stairs of the apartment building, imagining herself scaling the cliffs of Moriah. At the top, she’d rather drive a knife into her own heart than have to make such an awful choice.

Her tears had dried. Either that, or she had cried all of the water out of her body. Physically, she felt like the latter was the more likely explanation. 

Every step. Forward. And yet so many steps behind. She was stepping back in time. Devolving. Erasing the fantasy of anything like progress. Of any sort of pride.

The people at the top of the staircase were too important to her. She couldn’t fail them. She imagined herself as a headless body buried in a landfill somewhere. Either the mob or her estranged husband would be responsible. That’s the only way this would end for her.

Even if it meant her dying breath, she couldn’t let anyone else suffer. Not for her mistakes. She wouldn't let anyone else end up like Nasrin and Leyla. 

At least her death would mean something. She hoped that at least the FBI could protect her loved ones from the mob. Protect them from Peter Parker’s wrath.

As the front door of Apartment 2B opened, she saw how difficult that was going to be.

Greeting her at the door was a woman she bore a striking resemblance to. At least that’s what she’d always been told, much to her frustration. The short, stout, wrinkled, round woman in her late 50s, with eyes that didn’t quite match her face, lit up with surprise. 

The older woman gasped with joy and cried out her name, throwing her arms around her daughter. It was more affection than she’d received from her mother in years. Misguided and disproportionate as it was, Honey allowed herself to close her eyes and simply feel.

An emotion came over her, filling the emptiness inside. If only it were a happy feeling, instead of an ache. A bittersweet agony that weighed her down like a boulder on her chest.

“Mama…” she whimpered, her lower lip wobbling. The childlike urge to be cradled and carried sucked the strength from her muscles. She fought to keep her legs from buckling beneath her.

“There she is!” her mother jovially exclaimed, squeezing her tight. “My beautiful baby!”

Her eyes fluttered open, suddenly alert to the fact that something was off.

Honey pulled away, her teary eyes looking beyond the woman to the inside of the apartment. She took quick stock of what she expected to find. It was cramped, but spotlessly tidy. Hot but cold. Filled with trauma and yet fortified with at least a dozen crucifixes. Housing all the women who made up her youth.

Sister #5, also known as Gabriella, a high school sophomore sitting in an armchair in the corner, her phone held close to her nose, as she scrolled aimlessly through TikTok.

Sister #4, Selena, a senior in high school. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the latest Brian Sanderson novel in her lap. Her eyes went wide as she saw who was at the door.

Sister #3, Rebecca. One year post-GED. Standing in the center of the living room with arms crossed. Dressed in a crisp collared shirt, likely ready to get on the train to her job as a night-shift housekeeper at a Holiday Inn in Newark.

A squeal erupted from the living room. “Auntie!” A flurry of pattering feet came rushing through the room.

A small child, no more than 6 years old ran up to her — my god she’s 6, has it really been that long? — with sparkling eyes, wild hair, and a purple pajama set adorned with her heroes, Elsa and Anna.

Honey’s heart swelled up at the sight of her niece, Bella. She was the daughter of her oldest sister (not pictured here, or anywhere, for that matter). The child was more or less dropped off to stay with her grandmother for a few days. Or... forever, if Honey had to guess. 

Tears sprang to Honey’s eyes, overwhelmed with joy. The little girl nearly jumped into her arms, wrapping her long limbs around her waist, burying her huge grin with a missing front tooth into her aunt’s belly. 

No greater love existed in the world than the unconditional love they had for one another. Despite her lack of faith, Honey gasped a breathless sob of relief, taking solace that no harm had come to her. 

“We were wondering what happened to you,” the thin-lipped matriarch of the family said with an eye-twitch and a smile that was too wide to be comfortable. “You’re late.”

She looked up at her mother, her brow furrowed in confusion. She didn’t make the connection until she saw another figure emerge. A giant, flashing beacon. A puzzle piece out of place.

Peter Parker came to a fluid stand from the tiny living room couch, smoothly turning towards her petrified, flustered form. He wore a cool demeanor and a Ralph Lauren Purple Label fitted ensemble, featuring a midnight-black, double-breasted blazer, a pristine-white dress shirt, with a corresponding thick, black-with-white dotted necktie, secured with a gold tie bar. 

Suave as ever, he towered beneath the low-ceiling of her living room, rendering her speechless. A glimmer of mischief in his chestnut eyes. The slightest smirk danced upon his lips. 

Inside, Honey’s brain was exploding. Full stop, sparks flying as her entire aura was thrown into disarray. Her muscles went rigid. Her eyes went wide.

He gazed at her the way a cat stares down a cornered mouse. She had the morbid feeling she was about to be devoured. He looked hungry.

“It’s not polite to keep people waiting,” her mother’s subtle disapproval pulled her attention back from the brink. Honey looked over to see the older woman’s dark eyes swimming with that look, which used to make her stomach ache. 

“Ana, really, it’s fine,” Peter replied with a debonair shrug, glancing at her mother. “She told me she’d be running a bit behind.” His devious doe eyes landed on her again. “Isn’t that right, Honey?”

The young woman stared at him, blinking in shock. Not only was he in her mother’s apartment, but he knew her mother’s name. They were on a first-name basis? Honey’s eyes shot back and forth between Peter and her mother, her mind reeling from the revelation.

Ana eventually tore her eyes away from her most brutally middle child, biting her tongue as she did so. She forced a smile on her face, grinning up at Peter with her best attempt at charm. “She always was a little slow,” the woman said, under her breath. 

For once, Honey was too distracted to be offended by her mother’s casual slights. At the cutting remark, Peter’s gaze dropped to the floor. His jaw clenched. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Honey had seen that subtle look before. The same one he’d wear whenever Tod was around. 

Jesus H. Christ, I forgot about Tod! Is he even alive, or did Peter—?

“No matter,” Peter unsealed his lips, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension built there. His eyes met Honey’s again, fixing her with a gaze that could melt ice. “I’ve already spent my whole lifetime waiting for her. I’d wait a hundred more. She’s worth it.”

The way he looked at her and the rich caramel of his eyes—goddamn Bambi eyes—made her want to evaporate. And cry. And scream. And run.

“What are you doing here?” Honey curtly asked, her tone teetering on aggressive. She glared at him, hackles up, running her fingers soothingly through her niece’s hair.

Peter gazed back, lifting his chin slightly. A shadow of disappointment fell over his face.

“What are you talking about?” Ana nervously danced between grinning at the man and glaring at her rude daughter. “We always love it when Peter comes to visit!” 

Her eyes darted over at her mother as the color drained from her face. 

“It would be good to see you too, once in a while.” Ana noted with that tone. “You’re always so busy. Too busy for your family, I suppose.” 

Honey’s lips parted as she stared haplessly at the older woman. Such a tiny reaction, she thought, for an unfathomable misrepresentation of the hellish last few years of her life. Her mother never failed to surprise her. 

How could this woman stand here and pretend that they were anything like a family?

Her eyes shifted back to Peter, filling with contempt. Oh. Of course she could.

By contrast, his eyes were gentle. Commiserative. Like he was watching a sad commercial about starving children, or cats with cancer.

Fuck you and fuck your pity. She wanted to say.

“Really, the fault is mine,” Peter explained, ever the charmer. “I hafta admit, between me and her job, she’s been very busy.” 

“Gross.” A barely-audible whisper came from the corner that Gabriella was posted up in.

“I apologize,” Peter said to Ana, pretending he didn’t hear the comment. “I feel like I’ve been selfish with her.” He turned back towards Honey, a quiet understanding being communicated with his gaze. 

“Yes, well, I’m just happy we’re all here together,” Ana beamed. She walked over and took Honey by the hand, pulling her towards the living room.

“Auntie!” Bella cheered as she hung onto the tails of her aunt’s hoodie. The child could barely contain her enthusiasm. “We’re gonna play mermaids with Ariel!”

“Hush,” her grandmother scolded softly. “Don’t talk when adults are talking! You know better.” The young girl silenced obediently, folding into herself. Honey smoothed the girl’s back.

Ana’s view narrowed in on Honey’s hand, a look of disgust slapped across her face. “Ugh, your hands! Look at them!” she scoffed, quietly chastising her as she glared at her cuticles. “I can tell you’ve been chewing—I told you not to do that. Nasty! Now you need to get your nails done.”

Honey pulled her hand back, tucking it back in the little girl’s hair. Ana then turned her full attention back to Peter. “We have so much to discuss!”

“Yeah,” Rebecca commented from the side of the couch. Honey turned to see the next sister born shooting daggers at her. A crease formed between her brows. “Like whereya been the last couple of years, sis?”

Her lips parted as she stared down the barrel of her sister’s contempt. “It’s... complicated.”

“Rebecca, bring us more tea, andiamo,” Ana ordered her daughter with a tone she was used to hearing as a housekeeper.

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca stomped out of the living room. “I gotta go to work. Bye.” A few seconds later, the front door slammed loud enough for the wall to shake. 

It rolled right off of the older woman. “She’s crazy,” Ana dismissed. “Selena, you go. Let’s not talk about negative things. Let’s talk about the future.”

Shoulders tense, Honey’s stare landed on Peter’s again, her eyes demanding an explanation. Peter jumped right in. “Yes, well, we were just catching up—”

“Catching up?” Honey repeated, breathlessly. Tears gathered along her waterline. 

“Don’t interrupt,” Ana chided her. Honey blinked at her mother, stunned, yet somehow unsurprised.

Uncomfortably, Peter continued, “Your lovely mother and I were just going over a few details, y’know?”

“We’re going to swim in the ocean and look at the Nemos there!” Bella blurted out. 

“What’s going on?” Selena interrupted, not having gotten up to get the tea. She eyed her older sister suspiciously. “How long have you two been planning this?”

Honey looked at her, a mounting feeling of dread. “Planning what?”

“The Nemos and Dory too, and we’ll have mermaid tails!”

“Don’t interrupt!”

Honey turned to Peter, anxiously. “What did you do?”

“Why are you still pretending?” Gabriella remarked from beneath the glow of her phone, her attention split between the current conversation and Addison Rae. “Not a secret anymore, Jesus Christ—”

Ana hissed, “What did I tell you! Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”

Bella shouted at the top of her lungs, “Tomorrow we’re going to Disneyland!” 

Honey’s jaw dropped at the news. She glanced around the room to see if someone would hop out of the closet with a camera crew and tell her all of this was an elaborate prank. This whole scenario. This whole week. Her entire life. All one big joke. 

Meanwhile, her mother was just as excited as her niece, looking like she won a sweepstakes. “Two weeks!” she grinned, staring at Peter lovingly. “What a generous gift!”

Honey’s eyes darted to Peter, who maintained control of the situation at all times. He stared back at her with a ‘just go with it’ expression.

“A gift?” Honey spat out the word as if it were rancid. “That’s what you think?”

“Siiick,” Gabriella monotonously replied, still disassociating.

Honey felt like her head was going to explode. She glared at Peter, her blood pressure rising steadily. 

“Oh, we need to pack!” Ana excitedly gasped. “I can’t wait to tell Gayle. She’s another cashier at the store. She always is bragging about her daughter in Arizona. She’ll die!”

“What am I even supposed to wear?” Selena whined. “All my stuff is dirty and we don’t have any quarters.”

“Well, go to the bodega,” Ana dismissed.

“With what money, Mama?” Selena sneered.

Honey turned to Peter, fuming. He tilted his head slightly, relaxed in the heat she was emanating. “Really? A vacation for two weeks? In California?”

He calmly replied, “In Tokyo.”

That answer drew a gasp from her lips, and after, she wouldn’t be able to hear a bomb go off next to her head. Every sound faded out. Her jaw dropped. Peter’s eyes remained fixed on her, silently proclaiming without question just how serious he was.

Peter held her gaze, then like flipping a switch, he put on a big smile. “I know we were saving the surprise for next year,” he explained, performing for the family. “But... you know how I feel about your mom.” He flashed the older woman a twinkling smile. “I just can’t keep a secret around her.”

Honey nearly bit her tongue off at that remark. 

“Besides,” he smirked, turning his gaze back to her. “Your mother works hard. Needs a vacation.” The underlying sarcasm was invisible to the others. But not to Honey.

“Let ‘em go,” he declared, the double-meaning of the words resonating. “You and I have other plans. Things to discuss.”

While she stared back, slack-jawed and wordless, Bella wriggled out of her hold. She scampered across the room and rushed right up to Peter’s thigh. She looked up at him like a rose basking in the sun. “I’m gonna play mermaids—right, Mr. Peter?”

He gazed down at her, sincere in his warmth and gentle with his smile. “You’re absolutely right, Princess. You’ll make a beautiful mermaid. And there’s a whole lotta other stuff to see too.”

Honey felt a tug at her hand, long nails digging into her skin. “You need to get your nails done,” her mother harshly whispered in her ear. She let herself be dragged aside by her mother, feeling as hollow as a mannequin. “You should do it before he asks!”

She blinked. Curious. Confused. 

“Wipe that dumb look off your face,” she murmured under her breath. “I know all about it. He’s an old-fashioned man. I already gave him my permission.”

Crushed. 

Cold.

Claimed.

“Peter, I need to talk to you right now,” Honey announced. She fought to keep her voice from quivering as she pulled herself from her mother’s grip.

She didn’t wait for a reply, cutting through the living room to the first door on the left. Peter watched her retreating form, then glanced back at the other women. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said with a nod, then followed her.

When he crossed the threshold, he stepped carefully, making sure he didn’t step on any one of the items scattered across the stained carpet. The room was tiny, to say the least. Although it was probably the biggest bedroom in the apartment, it was only about as large as Peter’s high school bedroom. 

Against one wall was a double bunk bed, an old one at that. Paint chipped off the metal frame. There was a single twin bed on the opposite wall, covered in thin blankets and a prominent dip in the mattress that was the shape of two bodies. Peeling wallpaper and a beige color that once was eggshell covered the walls. Along with band posters, school schedules, aged photos, and another crucifix (just to be sure). 

He glanced over to the closet, where he spotted a tiny nest made up of a pink pillow and sleeping bag, laid out over the track of the sliding closet door. Above it, an overwhelming stack of clothes (both dirty and clean), linens, shoes, children’s books, toys, and Christmas decorations.

Hands in his pockets, Peter gazed around the room with a solemn expression. He was reserved, as if visiting a cemetery. In many ways, these were the remains of her childhood. He stepped up to a wall and leaned in closely to view one of the pictures taped to it. The photo was clearly of Honey, those giant, sparkling eyes recognizable anywhere, from when she was about 7 years old. 

He knew this, because he’d been in this room before. He’d been given the grand tour weeks ago. A window into a different world. A different life. Regardless, it was one he was familiar with.

He turned around to see Honey staring, grimly. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Wet eyes cast down in the corner. “I fucking hate this goddamn room.”

The quiet rage in her voice, the hostile language, was almost shocking to hear. Nevertheless, he understood why. She sniffed, tears beginning to spill. Glowered at the twin bed, burning it in her stare. “I used to sleep right there. With Selena. And then with Gabriella.”

She glanced up briefly, expecting Peter to cringe. Instead, his face was void of judgment. He listened intently.

“It wasn’t always like that,” she continued, although unsure why. “We lived in a house once. Got a good nine months out of it before it went to hell.” 

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. “There was a tree in the backyard that I used to climb... when I needed to get away. I’d sit up there and dream of what my house was gonna be like when I grew up.” Her voice tightened, melancholy taking over. “Everyone would have their own room. I used to draw pictures. Floor plans, even. I looked at real estate mailers all day. I'd imagine every room, what they were all used for. For birthday parties... and holidays... sleepovers. Where everyone would be happy.” 

She grieved, bitterness souring her tone. “Where everyone would be safe.” Her eyes found him. “You know what I've learned since then?”

Peter gazed at her knowingly. Mournfully. “There’s no such thing as ‘safe,’” he responded, contemplative in his regret.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she nodded her agreement slowly. Biting her lip to keep from breaking down. Her gaze turned cold. 

“How long?” she frigidly demanded. 

“How long what?”

“How long have you been stalking me?” she hissed. “Lying to me? Waiting in the wings, controlling my life like I’m a puppet?”

The indignation in her voice pierced him. He winced at the pain of it. “I have to be thorough,” he explained calmly. “Calculated. Particularly when it comes to protecting what I care about—”

“And you thought the best way you could do that was to come into my family’s home?” she bellowed. “To make friends with my mom?” He dropped his gaze as she skewered him with her own. “Admit it, Peter. You didn’t do this for anyone but yourself.”

His head remained down for several moments as he let out a defeated exhale. “You’re right,” he stated simply. Looked up at her. “I’m sorry.”

His surrender was unexpected. She bit her lip, unsure if his genuine apology made her even more angry than before. “So what is this?” she demanded. “An ultimatum? Your final offer? I go with you like a good girl or you’ll hurt my family?”

Peter flinched at her remark, lashes fluttering. Jaw ticked. He reeled from the sting of her words, letting the jab sink in and burn beneath his chest. He took another long breath, composing himself. It reminded her of a boxer pulling himself up off the mat with nothing but determination to stand on. Setting aside his pain, he fixed his gaze on her.

She watched the whole interaction intently, reading into every emotion. She scrutinized every muscle twitch, trying to find a disingenuous crack in his facade. To her frustration, she found none.

Peter declared solemnly, “I would never hurt your family.” There was a pause afterwards, punctuating his sentence. “I don’t do that. I don’t hurt women. I would never hurt a child.” He exhaled bitterly, “Is that really what you think of me?” It was unclear if the frustration in his voice was directed at her, or himself. “I’mma lotta bad things, Honey. But I’m not that.”

She cried silent tears, gazing up at him hopelessly. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” It came out as a wretched plea, her voice breaking under the weight of her sorrow. Peter gazed at her longingly. Wanting to cross the space and hold her. But he kept his feet rooted to the ground.

“Your family’s gonna be okay,” he vowed. “As soon as they’re outta this city. There’re people I can trust out there. They’ll make sure.” She cried into her palms, knowing there was no other choice. “It’s the best thing for them, Honey.” Then, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

She sniffed, ceasing her sobbing to wipe her eyes. Her tone hardened. “Peter, if anything happens to them—happens to Bella, I—” She swallowed hard, sharpening her voice enough to amputate. “I swear to god, Peter—”

“I’ll never let it happen,” he answered, speaking with a reverence of someone making a covenant. “I’ll do everything within my power to protect them. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

It would be the last thing you ever do. She wanted to say.

She was silent.

“I will protect Bella,” he replied, as if he could hear her thoughts. “I swear on my life.” He held her gaze, affirmation infallible. 

She wiped her eyes again, muttering under her breath, “If only I could protect her from my mother.”

He nodded, the mood shifting. “Eh, she’s not so bad.”

She gave him a look. “You’re kidding right?”

“Yeah,” Peter frowned. “I am.” She huffed with a humorless laugh as she shifted her weight, loosening the tension in her body. She could feel his gaze watching her intently. “It’s been a long time since I had a mother in my life,” he whispered kindly. “Must be hard living with one who’d give her daughter away to a man she’s barely met.” She looked at him again, seeing sorrow in his face. “Not even a second thought.” 

She swallowed hard. Looked away. Looked back at the closet, watching a vision materialize of herself as a rebellious 18-year-old, stuffing what little clothes she had in a backpack. Tears spilled from that girl’s eyes as her mother cursed her from the doorway. She held onto that backpack, a cheap engagement ring, and the hope that no matter where she was going, it had to be better than where she’d been.

Stupid girl.

“Someone’s gotta protect you, too, y’know,” Peter’s voice broke into the vault of her memories. She turned to him to see a coy look in his gentle eyes. “If you’ll let me.”

She stared wordlessly for several moments. A feeling built up inside of her like she was about to jump off a cliff. Jumping would be easier at this point. “Will I get to talk to them?” she asked, her eyes now on the tiny bed.

Peter sighed softly, his jaw clenching. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It wasn’t a no, or a yes. Just a hope. Once again, it was all she had to hold onto.

She clung to it as they emerged from the room. As she wished her sisters goodbye and to enjoy their trip. As she folded her niece protectively in her arms, squeezing the little girl close to her heart, and reminded her to brush her teeth at least once a day, and told her not to talk to strangers, and to hold Selena’s hand no matter what. She hoped— prayed, even —as the girl promised.

She clung to it, tight enough to hurt, as her mother hugged her a bit too forcefully. The yeared woman leaned down, whispered a warning in her ear through time-worn lips. “Listen to me. You do whatever that man tells you. None of that sass from you. You’re not going to get another chance like this. And get your nails done.” Wrinkled eyes locked onto hers, as she fearfully proclaimed, “You don’t want to end up alone, do you? Like me?”

But she was alone. Always had been. She felt so alone.

Peter waited outside the front door in a hallway that was too dark while she said her goodbyes. When she emerged, her face was cast in shadow, but not from the weak flicker of the fluorescent lighting. She was just a shell of the person he’d met in the coffee shop. She looked broken beyond repair. And he hated that he was the one partly responsible. 

He walked just a step behind her. Still somehow guiding her. Not touching her. Not speaking to her.

When they got to the street, the caravan had arrived and was waiting with engines idle. She tensed up, seeing the pair of black Escalades in front of and behind a blood-red Audi R8. Her eyes darted around, pulse quickening. As if she was expecting an ambush. He held open the passenger door of the sportscar, offering her the seat beside him without a blindfold this time. Once they were secured inside began the drive, she hadn’t relaxed a bit.

The ride was silent. 

Silence as they parked.

Silence as they entered the loading dock elevator, passing silent armed guards on the way.

Silence as they entered Peter’s multimillion-dollar penthouse. Returning to the first place he’d taken her. All the silence weighed on her nerves. Clearly. The sound of her pounding heart was triggering a headache at the back of his skull.

“I sent for another set of clothes for you,” Peter said, closing the door. He kept his eyes off of her, addressing her without eye contact. “The bag’s in the guest room if you want to change. When you’re ready, I’ll have Felicia take you to the airport.”

This got her attention. “Airport? Where are we going?”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Peter clarified, his face emotionless. He walked past her, pacing towards the living room. “You’re the only one goin.’” He could practically hear her eyelids blinking with confusion. He paused mid-stride to clarify, “Don’t worry. I’m not tryin’ to kill ya, n’case you’re wonderin.’ If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

Honey watched him walk away from her, his fingers tearing at the Windsor knot on his tie. He looked like an agitated, feral cat, clawing at himself. Once the knot was loose, he roughly ran his palms down his face. Not a cat, she thought. A lion. 

After standing in his foyer with a bewildered expression on her face, she quickly followed him into the living room.

“I-I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean we’re not going together?”

“Guess it’s your lucky day,” he muttered bitterly. He avoided looking at her. The bite in his voice was unnerving.

He was angry with her. She gulped, starting to panic. “I-I-I don’t... wha—you’re sending me away…?”

Peter sighed, slowly turning to face her. His eyes were hard, seething. Betrayed. “You broke the most important rule we have, Honey,” he said with clipped words. Bit his tongue, trying to stay calm. “The one thing that I cannot abide.”

She felt herself shrinking in his gaze. A child being scolded.

“You hurt yourself,” he explained grimly, his agitation mounting along with the pitch of his voice. “Damn near killed yourself. You know what I would’ve done if you’d actually—?”

He snapped his jaw shut, sealing the thought inside before it could form into words. Pulled his gaze away from her. It was then she noticed a glimmer in his eyes. A tear trying to escape. He sniffed, stowing his feelings tight.

“You did that just to get away,” he continued, calmer, but no less distraught. “From me.” His voice broke on the final word. She gazed up at him solemnly, heart weighed down with regret. 

“You’re not a prisoner,” he added, struggling to steady himself. “You’re not some object that I stole. You don’t want me around? That’s all ya had to say.”

She considered his position. He was going to send her off to who-knows-where, but this time with 20 faceless guards watching her every move. She pictured herself locked down in a safe house, with nothing but her imagination and his toy soldiers to keep her company. It would drive her insane. It may not be a prison, but she’d go from one cage to another, more like a zoo animal.

Only this time, she would be without his oversight. Was that a good thing? Without his companionship. Is that what she really wanted? Without insight into his plans.

“No!” she blurted out, with a gasp. “No, Peter, you don’t have to do that—”

“‘S’not up for discussion,” he replied, cutting her off. He turned away. “S’already done.”

“Wait, I can explain—”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Peter snapped, raising his voice in a way that made her heart trip. His face twisted like he stepped on a nail. “There’s nothin’ else to say.” He plopped down on the sofa, his fingers massaging his throbbing temples. The pressure in his skull was building, the weight of stress or defeat pushing on his brain. “You want me gone, I’m gone.”

Her mind was spinning. She felt out of control. She was falling. Powerless. With no weapons against the forces plotting against her. Against her loved ones. No tools in sight. No assets.

Felicia’s words rang in her mind. 

Without a second thought, she leapt forward. Took a knee on the sofa to get down to his level. Squeezed her eyes closed. Grabbed the sides of his face and planted her lips on his.

The kiss was electric. Almost in a literal sense, as she felt his body jolt, every muscle pulled taut, like he’d sunk his teeth into a powerline. 

Clumsy, impulsive, and unpracticed—the sting of teeth knocking distracted her momentarily, before the pain faded into a deeper burn. 

She inhaled through her nose, the cinnamon and cedar scent of his skin seeping into her. Overwhelming her senses. She breathed him into her lungs, getting high off the taste. The bolt of lightning that had shot down his spine transferred into her, scorching her belly.

She felt his lips open, either to take a breath or pry her lips apart. Either way, as soon as he had access, he slid his tongue over hers. The sensation stunned her momentarily. She tensed at the weight of the warm, wet intrusion in her mouth. His tongue stroked across hers with a sensation that bordered on defilement. 

Her stomach fluttered, her abs tensed, and her core pulsed. Every part of her body jolted alive. She nearly choked on the whimper in the back of her throat. The noise tasted pornographic in her mouth. Reflexed, he responded with a hungry groan.

His hands came alive, and then she felt him in every cell of her body. Pulling her by the waist into his lap. Fingers touching everywhere. Serpents twisting around her limbs. Ropes pulling her apart. It was like the floodgates opened, and his touch was bursting through, toppling over sea walls.

Peter buried his fingers in her hair, drawing her soul out through her mouth. He ran his tongue over hers again, licking into her mouth. For a moment, he was back in his wet dreams and running his tongue through her lips. He moaned into her mouth, feeling a twitch beneath his belt as she straddled him. His grip tightened on the back of her thighs, pulling her closer to the part that ached for her.

Their minds were on fire, burning in the present and in their imaginations. Both were private infernos, fueling dark desires. 

As he consumed her, he teleported to yet another fantasy where he pictured burying his face between her thighs. The scent of her arousal sent him into a tailspin. He could practically taste her on his tongue. He could feel the wetness pooling between her legs.

Suddenly, she pulled her lips off of his with a gasp, as if she could sense her body’s betrayal. The two of them stared at each other in a daze, both reeling from the almost religious experience they shared.

She observed him, completely wrecked. Chest heaving, he gazed up like he wanted to worship her. Like he wanted to fuck her.

She came to a stand on wobbly legs, putting several feet in between them. Her mind was reeling. She’d skated out onto thin ice. Fallen through. Shocked by the chill of the water. 

Her original plan was—what the fuck was her plan? oh that’s right—Felicia had mentioned something about utilizing her assets to her advantage. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, Peter Parker wanted her. He wanted her in his bed. Wanted her in the clothes he bought. Wanted her in the lingerie.

She could use that. Maybe all she had to do was convince him that she wanted it too. Just a little pretending. Right?

Presently, she trembled in his living room, mouth gaping like a fish. “I... I...”

I can’t act. I can’t lie. He’ll know I’m lying. He always fuckin’ knows I’m lying don’t lie just trust him just tell him about John tell him the truth

“I’m scared,” she murmured. His brows furrowed at that, as if an icy wind had blown through and cooled him off. “Scared of...” She looked down at him. He braced himself for what she was going to say. She swallowed hard, “Scared of how I feel when I’m with you.” His eyes fell to the floor, shamed. She took another breath. In and out. “I’m scared of how much I want you, Peter.”

His eyes darted up at her. Mouth agape. It would’ve been comedic, his slack jawed expression, cute enough for a romcom, even. If she wasn’t wetter than a swamp and if she couldn’t see the very prominent outline of a bulge in his slacks.

Slowly, he came to a stand in front of her. His eyes fixed on her. Hungry.

“I-I’ve never been good with... with these kinds of-of... f-feelings before,” she added, glancing down at her toes. Fearful that she’d melt in the heat of his gaze. “I know that this is dangerous. That... you’re dangerous, and... I know this. I know it. But...” She looked up at her, steadying her heart, lowering her voice. “I want it anyway.”

His pupils were blown with lust. The look in his eyes made her want to collapse. She felt her walls breaking and buckling. Her stomach fluttered.

Pretending. Just pretend.

She watched the bob in his throat, reminiscing his scent. She could still smell it in her nose. Hoped she would smell it on her body. She wanted to bite his Adam's apple until it made him groan again. Lick up the juices with a greedy tongue.

She was drooling again. She wiped her mouth. 

“Please... don’t send me away,” she begged. “I-I was just scared. I wanted to see my family. I was worried for them. I-I was gonna come back. We both know I’m safer with you than with anyone.” He pursed his lips, gazing down at her. She fixed him with an innocent smile, her doe eyes gazing at him coquettishly. “I can be good. Promise.” 

She bit her bottom lip. He stared as she did it. She held onto her poker face. Wearing the costume of who she believed he wanted her to be. Innocent. Pure. Sweet.

She could pretend.

Peter stared at her, swallowing hard again. Slowly, he reached up. Rough fingertips barely touching her chin as he hooked a finger underneath. Peered into her eyes, his heart swelling as he did so. He looked like he might die. It made her weak, looking at her like that.

A ghost. A zombie. A snake.

Minutes after excusing herself, she slithered into the guest bedroom. Found a Nordstrom bag on the bed. Exhausted, she carried it to the guest bathroom and turned on the shower. Rid herself of her stolen clothes. Winced at the purpling bruise on her ribs. 

Soaked beneath the water. Scalding herself in its heat. Felt her skin burn and bit her lip only to add to the pain. Her hands smoothed down her sore muscles. Her fingers dipped between her folds. Sniffled softly, until tears filled her eyes and she could quietly sob under the stream. 

Dragged herself out of the shower, her skin raw. Her mind raw. Yanked the clothes out of the bag, ripping off tags. 

Heard a clattering. 

She turned, looking down at the tiled floor behind the toilet tank, where a phone had fallen. Kneeling, she reached for the device, turning it over curiously in her hands. As she stared at it, the phone came to life. Unlocking at the recognition of her face. Her eyes grew wide.

The wallpaper was a photo from the tiny chapel ceremony that made her Mrs. John Walker. In it, she stood wearing a simple wedding dress and a bouquet of red roses. John pulled back the veil and kissed her. Sealing their matrimony. Sealing her fate. 

Soon he would lift his own veil. Soon she would see him for what he really was. A week wouldn’t even pass before she checked herself into an emergency room, refusing to give anyone her name. Knowing that if she did, he’d actually kill her.

She stared at the phone in horror.

“I just have one question,” Peter asked, holding her chin as he stared down into her eyes. It was a chaste touch with a single finger. Unspoken, they observed the no-touching rule. This time, for both of their benefits. “I just gotta know one thing.”

“What is it?” she asked, painting herself with a smile.

Gently, he brushed the hair out of her eyes, peering down at the left side of her face. “Who did this to you?”

She froze beneath his gaze. Eyes unblinking. Recalling the tenderness of her flesh, which had no doubt turned into a bruise.

You can pretend, can’t you?

“Tell me the truth, Honey. Please. Don’t lie.”

She bit her lip. Smile never fading. “At the hospital. I fell.”

Gripping the phone in her hand tight enough to crush it, she saw a silent notification pop up. A text message. Unknown number. 202 area code. She didn’t recognize it, but knew exactly who was on the other end.

A photo appeared. A picture of Mrs. Fulson’s PS-173 first grade class. Cropped in on Bella, standing proudly in the middle with a missing-front-tooth grin.

A line of text followed:

do exactly what i tell you, or they’ll never find her body.

To be continued…

A/N y’all thought Wilson Fisk was the worst villain in this story? hehehehe.