˚✧

“Wait, I thought I just saw you in your office?”

“Did you actually look or did you just assume I was there?” Dave countered, finally moving, taking a long inhale off Blake’s cigarette. You pursed your lips and considered the question. “What are you even doing out here, I thought Adrian made you quit.”

“He didn’t make me do anything,” you retorted, maybe a little too defensively. “I, you know…started thinking about D.A.R.E. and poof! Needed to quit. That’s all. Totally coincidental timing.”

“Wasn’t D.A.R.E. about not doing drugs?” Dave asked, his brow raised. He was right but you refused to indulge him.

“Now remind me, was that before or after the absolute tirade Adrian went on about smoking in the middle of the kitchen?” Blake asked with a knowing smile. You rolled your eyes at her.

“I mean, he had some points,” you argued weakly, eyes drifting, tracking the cigarette passing back to Blake. She inhaled slowly, smiling at you in that fond, crinkled eye way. The same way you used to smile at Adrian when you thought he was being dumb but you liked him anyway.

“You know, I think your little boyfriend is starting to rub off on you,” Dave commented wryly, glancing sidelong at Blake. Thank god Adrian wasn’t there to make a stupid retort about exactly how he rubbed off on you. Anyway, you weren’t stupid – you knew everyone at work talked about you and Adrian behind your backs. They all thought he was an absolute weirdo loser and couldn’t understand why you were with him. You’d never felt the need to justify it to them. Let Adrian live rent-free in their brains for all you cared, you got to go home and have the real thing.

That, of course, didn’t mean jack shit when it came to your hankering for a cigarette.

“You’re only entitled to a smoke break if you’re actually going to smoke,” Dave said, straightening his posture into what you and Adrian had coined his ‘corporate mode’. Dave could be a real dick when he wanted – he was totally chill when it meant flirting with staff and buying weed off the line cook, but the second things weren’t going his way the rules suddenly mattered. 

“Okay, so, I’m going to smoke,” you said flatly back at him, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“So do it.”

You arched an eyebrow and looked at Blake. “Is our boss trying to force me to smoke in front of him? I feel like that must be a violation of the handbook?”

Blake snorted. “Mmm yeah, I think it’s in there somewhere.”

Dave scoffed and looked back and forth in disbelief. “Whatever. I’m not dealing with whatever scheming you two are up to. Be back in 10.”

Once Dave had huffed off back into Fennel Fields, Blake smiled and fished a pack out of her apron and tossed it to you.

“Pall Malls? What are you, 70?” you teased. You slid your thumb under the lip of the green cardboard and hesitated. The faint smell of menthol was like a siren song. 

“You know Linda?” Blake asked, exhaling.

“‘My husband was taken over by an alien Linda’ or ‘Let me show you pictures of my illegal Pomeranian breeding business Linda’?” you asked. Blake snorted.

“Pomeranians. She always tips in cash but like two weeks ago she forgot to go to the bank so she asked if she could tip me in a brand new pack of Pall Malls and I said fuck it, you know?” Blake replied with a shrug. “She still came in next time and tipped me twice.”

“Hell yeah, Linda,” you laughed, putting the last cigarette between your lips, but still fiddling with the empty box in your hands. 

“Hell yeah, Linda,” Blake agreed, a sort of cheers to the universe between the two of you. She held up her lighter, with a quirk of her brow and you sighed, the paper wetting between your lips. 

“I promise not to tell Adrian,” she laughed. Just one would be okay! Besides, you’d been so good. Adrian didn’t need to know. If he was working tonight you wouldn’t even have entertained the idea. By the time you got home to him he would be none the wiser. And then you’d quit again tomorrow.

“Thanks,” you murmured after Blake flicked her lighter closed. 

“How is Adrian, by the way? For what it’s worth, I think you two are kinda cute together. Doesn’t hurt that you’ve mellowed him way the fuck out.”

“I think you might be the only person here who thinks that,” you replied, exhaling slowly, enjoying the way the menthol hit the back of your soft palate and left you feeling only feeling slightly guilty. Perhaps even a small amount of the shift’s stress eased out of your shoulder blades. “But he’s good.”

“Yeah?” she asked, seeming genuinely curious. “He’s got that puppy-dog thing about him when it comes to you. It’s sweet. I think he’d do anything for you.”

“That’s probably true,” you agreed, a fondness stirring in your chest. Your fingers itched to text him back. Blake made sure her cigarette was fully out under the heel of her non-slip shoes and then made for the door.

“See you back out there,” she called and you gave her a little waggle of your fingers. You ashed your cigarette gently, watching it burn down further without returning it to your lips.

She paused in the doorway, silhouetted by aggressively fluorescent lighting. “Any chance that beefy friend of his is coming by anytime soon?”

“I still cannot believe you were actually into the whole sweet cheeks thing!” You let yourself really laugh. “In your dreams, babe!”

And then Blake was gone with a wistful sigh and it was just you and your half-smoked Pall Mall and the vaguely misty Evergreen weather. Shoving the empty packaging into your apron, you fumbled around for your phone. He’d texted you ten times since you’d last checked in, all of them versions of I miss you and one inexplicable video of a red panda with its baby clinging to its back followed by the text: this is so us.

Something in the air shifted just slightly and you were suddenly certain you weren’t quite as alone as you thought you’d been.

“Smoking kills,” came a voice from somewhere behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know it belonged to a particular suited-up freak. You’d really been hoping not to run into him again, but fate had a different plan, apparently.

“Yeah, and so do you,” you quipped back. The sound of his boots hitting the pavement were still surprisingly light for a man jumping from the roof. 

“I saved your life once, the least you can do is try to stay alive.” His voice was pitched low in his chest, a concerted effort to disguise its true sound. Still, there was something about him.

“I don’t know if I’d say scaring off a rabid raccoon one time counts as ‘saving my life’,” you argued, complete with air quotes. Before you could tuck the dwindling cigarette back between your lips Vigilante was towering over you and plucking it from your fingers. It turned to ash beneath the toe of his boot, ground into the damp concrete. 

“Smoking within 25 feet of a building egress is prohibited in Washington State, you know,” he said haughtily. “I could kill you right now.”

“Pretty sure it’s a civil infraction, smartass,” you replied. You took a step forward, chest brushing against his. “So glad you have your priorities in order, dude.”

For a moment the two of you just stood, nearly pressed together, breathing heavily, willing the other to do something first. Finally, the crackling tension between you was broken by his hand reaching into the tight space between your bodies and into your apron.

“Hey!”

The punch you threw at his stomach landed without much fanfare. His masked face just inclined downwards slowly. “You really need to work on that.”

You scoffed. “You sound like my boyfriend.”

Vigilante’s posture turned ramrod straight. “I don’t sound anything like your boyfriend.”

“How would you know?” you asked with a spiteful laugh. 

“I don’t. How would you?” 

An alarm flared at the back of your brain, insisting something impossible. You shook it loose.

“That doesn’t even make sense. You’re so weird.”

The corpse of a Pall Mall pack was crushed in the strong grip of his gloved hand.

“Do you want my gun?” he asked suddenly, reaching towards his holster. Panicking, you slapped both your hands over his at his waist.

“Whoah, whoah! What? No!”

He shrugged and relented. “I just figured if you’re trying to kill yourself, you should at least be efficient.”

“Jesus Christ, dude,” you hissed, stepping back from him. “Why are you so wound up about this?”

“I don’t like being lied to,” he mumbled, his boot kicking idly at the butt on the ground. Your brow knit together at the comment, at the familiar lilt to his voice. There was only one person you’d told you were quitting who wasn’t currently inside Fennel Fields. 

“Who are you?” you asked, arms crossed over your chest. 

The back door slammed open and made you nearly lurch straight out of your skin. You whipped around.

“We need you back inside.” Dave’s head poked out the door. “Who were you talking to?”

Only an empty alleyway greeted you when you looked back expectantly behind you.

“Ade?” you called out as you hung your bag up on its respective hook by the front door. You knew he was home, his car was outside. And yet, he wasn’t all over you the second you’d crossed the threshold like he normally was. Never thought you’d miss being tackled into the front door but here you were, Adrian-less and strangely unhappy and…unnerved.

The distinct sound of Princess Peach: Showtime! could be heard from the living room.

“That better be my boyfriend in there and not some robber playing his Switch because if you are I will have to stab you on his behalf,” you called out.

“I’m in here,” he huffed. “Don’t stab me.” There was a long pause. “Well, don’t stab me right now. If you were going to stab me I’d want to enjoy it and I can’t enjoy it if I’m mad at you.”

Coming to a halt in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, you found Adrian slumped on the couch, glasses slipped down his nose, neck bent as he fiddled with his Switch. You could very clearly see he’d paused the game, yet his fingers fiddled with the buttons like he thought he could fool you. Like he was trying to keep his eyes anywhere but you.

“So, you’re mad at me?”

He scoffed. “Why would I be mad?”

“Well, I don’t know, Adrian, that’s why I’m asking. But you literally just said you’re mad at me. Like…out loud.”

His head lifted at that. “Oh. Right.”

“So, you wanna tell me what’s up? Because I was really looking forward to coming home and spending some quality time with my cute boyfriend, but it seems he has other plans.”

“Are you smoking again?” Adrian finally bit out.

“Um. Define ‘smoking again’?” you asked sheepishly. Goddamn you weren’t a good liar. 

“I can smell it all over you,” he said, pausing to sniff the air for dramatic effect. You rolled your eyes. 

“You can smell me from across the room?” you deadpanned.

“Yes!” he whined. “You smell like minty death.”

“Adrian…”

“It’s true! And it’s reminding me of your fragile mortality and it’s freaking me out!”

You leaned against the wall and rubbed at your tired eyes. Eyes still slightly bleary they caught on something crumpled on the coffee table in front of Adrian. A crushed pack of menthols. The exact same as the one Vigilante had pried from your hands in the back alley of Fennel Fields maybe two hours earlier. Swallowing properly was a task that you barely managed.

“I missed you tonight at work,” you began. You normally knew how to play Adrian just right. If it was any other evening you’d crawl right into his lap and kiss him silly and you’d let him tell you all about his day while he casually slipped inside you. Of course, this was another matter entirely. 

“Yeah?” he asked, perking up ever-so-slightly. 

“Yeah.”

“Anything, uh, interesting happen tonight, or…?” The slightly higher pitch of his voice was a dead giveaway, if the crumpled Pall Mall pack and that eerily familiar cadence of his in the alley hadn’t already been. Your boyfriend was fucking Vigilante. And he had the gall to be mad at you for smoking one cigarette during a stressful shift at work!

He looked at you and you smiled. “Nah. Just a busy shift. Stressful. Dave was being an asshole.”

“Fucking Dave,” Adrian muttered like a reflex. Then he cleared his throat. “Nothing else notable?”

“Nope.”

“And no cigarettes?”

You cocked your head at him, relishing the redness of his ears. Somehow you were fairly certain you had the upper hand in this bizarre situation. You didn’t answer his question. “Did you start?”

“What?”

“Smoking?” you asked, blinking slowly at him, batting your eyelashes innocently. You uncrossed your arms to gesture at the evidence on the table. 

“Oh uh, I, uh — those are…and I found that in your work apron!” he stumbled his way through.

“Huh. That’s so strange because I have my work apron with me?”

“Um…”

Watching his brain go into overdrive trying to come up with a reasonable lie was kind of adorable, actually. Though he seemed at risk of completely overheating and frying the circuitry entirely. 

“Oh gosh, I actually totally forgot there was something else that happened at work! Vigilante showed up.”

Adrian’s swallow was audible across the living room. You crossed to him slowly until you were between his knees, sitting on the coffee table across from him. You reached for the Pall Mall pack.

“And it’s so weird, Ade, because he reached into my work apron and took this exact pack from me before he disappeared!”

His eyes were so wide, whites fully exposed as he seemed to be trying to disappear into the couch. 

You frowned. “Aren’t you mad Vigilante put his hands on me?”

“Uh…are you mad about it?” he squeaked out. You were surprised at how much fun this was turning out to be. You turned the crushed cardboard over in your hands. You should have been mad about Vigilante touching you but now you were certain Vigilante was your boyfriend and you weren’t sure how to feel about it at all. Was Vigilante kinda…? Hmm. Much to consider.

“Look, the truth is I did smoke, Adrian. Blake offered me the last cigarette in this pack and I took it and I smoked it. Well, some of it. But I do promise that was the only time since I quit months ago.” You let that settle between you. Adrian pouted, but he didn’t argue and he didn’t launch into his anti-smoking rant. That meant there was really only one more thing to take care of. “You told me already tonight you don’t like being lied to, so it’s only fair I tell you the truth.”

“And I stand by that!”

You smacked your forehead with your palm. “No, wait! It was Vigilante who said that to me tonight!”

A strangled sound came out of Adrian’s throat.

“Well! He! Has! Some…good ideas! That I agree with!” He tossed his hands up. “Apparently!”

“Or she. Or they. We don’t even know who Vigilante is, right?”

“Yes. Totally. So progressive of you, babe! Vigilante could totally be a badass chick or a cool as fuck nonbinary person also!”

“Except he’s not. Because he’s you,” you said firmly. Adrian looked like he was considering the possibility of being able to unzip his human skin. “When are you going to stop pretending, Ade?”

He withered slightly. “Any minute now.”

“Okay,” you said, softening finally. You just needed to hear him say it. Sure, your world as you knew it was probably fracturing, but, with Adrian, you were pretty sure you could get through it. With him. For him. You were mad at him for keeping something like that from you, but you were just as mad at yourself for not figuring it out sooner. It felt shockingly obvious.

“Okay,” he said finally, taking a deep breath. He raked his hand up under his glasses and rubbed at his eyes furiously before he gave himself a little slap on the cheek. Then he leaned forward, knees knocking yours. “I wanted to tell you! So many times! But I kept trying to do the math of when it would make sense – you know, when did I know I could trust you, and when would be right for it to not be weird, and I was like, okay, well obviously first date is too early and six months is even weirder than that and it just sort of…got away from me? And then, I thought well, I’ve made it this far. And that maybe it was just better for you not to know. Safer. I only want to keep you safe. From big things – like crime, and supervillains finding out about you and using you to take me down. But also, small things like lung cancer. Or maybe lung cancer would be the big thing. I can’t fight lung cancer with my bare hands. The other stuff I could probably handle.”

You looked down at your own hands. His were mere millimeters from yours, wanting to touch you, but afraid. He’d hurt people with those hands. He’d killed people. And he’d held you gently with them.

“So, do you do a lot of jumping off of roofs?” you asked suddenly, thinking back to the alley. When you looked up at him again Adrian looked like every synapse in his brain was firing at once.

“...Yes?”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“I’m not going to ask you to stop being Vigilante,” you finally managed. “But I am going to ask you to not keep anything else from me.”

“Okay.” Adrian nodded and his curls drifted so you reached up and raked your nails through them, pushing his hair back. “I’m not mad at you, you know.”

You nodded slowly. “I’m a little mad at you.”

“That’s fair.”

“I have a million questions.”

“I’ll answer them,” he said firmly. Then he grimaced. “Well, okay, technically there are some classified things – ”

“Adrian,” you interjected, causing his nodding to intensify.

“No, no, you’re right, you’re right. I’ll tell you those things too.”

“I’m a little scared.”

“Of me?”

“For you,” you admitted. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“Now you know how it feels,” Adrian said, somewhere between taunting and utterly earnest. You leaned forward and kissed him gently. Adrian murmured against your mouth, “You taste like cigarettes.”

You pulled back and punched him in the shoulder, hard. He rubbed at it idly and you got the impression it hadn’t hurt him at all. God, how strong was he?

“If you’re going to keep running around as Vigilante, you really ought to work on your disguise, you know,” you said matter-of-factly. Adrian’s eyebrows raised and for a moment all he did was blink back at you.

“What?”

“Yeah, Vigilante sounds exactly like my boyfriend.”

Either way, you’d started trying to avoid that gnawing feeling in your chest. Besides, you were growing out of the phase where going to every party and meeting every person you could fascinated you. Maybe one day that deep, dreadful sinking would go away. Maybe it would stop appearing at parties, on every birthday you turned a year older, on the small amount of dates you’d gone on where the feeling got so strong it made you nauseous.

Today, though, was an exception. You’d graduated this past summer and moved back to New York with MJ and Ned, and they were determined to throw one last party with all the college friends that had wound up back in the city, too. 

Well, Ned was determined. You and MJ were lukewarm about the whole thing. 

Which is why you were in your—abysmally small—bedroom, working through this line of code that you were pretty sure was going to get you fired from your shiny new job if you didn’t figure out why it wasn’t working, with your door open to the noise beyond. It was to keep an eye on MJ and Ned, you told yourself, even as you eyed all the swaying people around the TV you’d just spent fifty dollars on from Facebook Marketplace. Ugh, you should have moved it before. If they broke it, you were totally making Ned buy you takeout for a week.

You went back to work, thankful everyone seemed to be too preoccupied with the party to worry about the weird girl staring at her computer screen on her bedroom floor. You couldn’t figure this out. It was driving you crazy. You were sure it had worked yesterday evening, and then when you’d come into work this morning it was all wrong and every single test you did didn’t fix it and you were going to throw your computer—

A knock on your open door. A cleared throat. “Um, hey.” 

You looked up.

A guy around your age stood in your doorway. The first thing you noticed about him were his eyes, wide and expressive, looking at you as if you were the one who’d shown up in his bedroom. But…reverent too, almost in disbelief. He was looking at you like he’d never seen a girl before. 

But he was cute. And something about him…

He seemed familiar. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. His gaze starts to bounce around the room the second you meet it, avoiding your eyes. “You looked, um, mad?”

“Oh!” You laugh a little at yourself. “I’m just doing some work. I’ve been told I look mad when I can’t figure something out. I don’t even realize it.” But who had told you that? It wasn’t your family, or Ned or MJ. But someone had told you. Who had it been?

The guy shifts on his feet. You realize he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, which is a weird thing to bring to a party, but you find it charming. He squints his eyes at you, but the corner of his mouth is lifting like he wants to smile. It makes something in your chest flutter. “You’re doing work during a party?”

He’s teasing you. You feel yourself smiling back. “Yes, I am. Super important work, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leans a shoulder against your doorframe, eyes on yours now. 

You can’t look away. 

“Yep. Keep an eye out because I’m gonna dethrone Spider-Man from the first page of the Daily Bugle tomorrow with my amazing work on debugging this finance app that only has three hundred downloads. Really groundbreaking stuff.” 

He smiles fully, now. It makes you feel triumphant, nervous, and warm. “That’s awesome because I love—What’s the name of the app?”

“Financipply” Stupid name. From the doubtful look he sends you, he agrees.

“That’s perfect because I love Finacnipply. Can’t wait to see you on the front page.” You roll your eyes, but you laugh. You both do, his shy and small, as if he hasn’t done it in a long, long time. As if he shouldn’t be laughing at all. But his eyes are bright. They turn towards the floor as your laughter dies, shy.  “So what can’t you figure out?”

And you just can’t stop looking at him. You motion towards your computer screen vaguely. “Just this code. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just not working.” 

He takes a small step forward. “Do you think…Can I…look at it?”

“For real? You code?”

He shrugs, one hand in his pocket. Adorable. “I…dabble?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

Another flash of a smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

He comes to sit next to you on the rug you found at the thrift store a couple blocks away, rubbing his palms over his jeans and looking intently at your computer screen. He smells like clean laundry and the rain the city had earlier in the day, and he’s looking at your code like he actually understands it. “Oh wow. Cool.” He scrolls through it a couple times, up, down. You’re entranced by his profile, so close.  He stops to type. “Did you try this?” 

You blink. Look at the screen. “Oh my gosh, no.” A simple line edit. You know when you see it that it’ll work. “Holy shit. You did it. Holy crap. Thank you. You’re, like, awesome.” 

“It was nothing.” But he's ducking his head with a blush.  “Seriously.” 

“What’s your name, anyway? Since you saved me from getting fired.”

“Um, May..nard.” 

“Maynard.” It sounds wrong. You’ve never had that thought before—that someone’s name is wrong. But it’s a sure feeling in your chest. The one you have when you know your code tests are going to work, and when you decided you wanted to move back to the city. It’s really the only feeling you trust anymore. 

“Yep.” He leans back on his palms, and your eyes run down his arms unconsciously, tracking muscles and veins. You have a brief, overwhelming urge to curl closer to him, to run your hands down his biceps, to take his hands into yours and trace the lines of his palms. And it feels normal, to have that feeling. So normal, your body almost starts moving on its own accord. But his voice breaks you out of it. “So, is this what you want to do? Program apps?” 

You tell him that your dream is to work on developing video games, and he nods like it makes complete sense and gets you to tell him that you’d love to make a game based off of Star Wars, which makes his eyes light up in a way that has your breath catching. 

And that’s how you end up talking to a cute boy on the floor of your bedroom for an hour, about Star Wars and your favorite video games and what got you into them in the first place. He makes you laugh, and talking to him is so easy. It’s hard to believe you just met him now and not in high school. He would fit right in with MJ and Ned. You can almost see it for a moment; the four of you hanging around the diner MJ used to work at before college, laughing and teasing and studying. The image is so visceral that for a moment it feels real. 

You’re just about to invite him over sometime because you’re so sure that they’d love him and that you want to get to know him better, when there’s a crash from the living room. 

Both of you turn, and your face immediately drops. That better not have been your TV. 

You sigh. “I need to go make sure nothing important is broken.” You almost add on a desperate wait for me, but he’s already standing up and holding out a hand for you. 

That would have been too weird to ask for, anyway. Right? 

You let him pull you up. When your hands touch, it’s almost as if the warmth radiates from his calloused fingers, grips your heart, and drags it all the way down to your toes. He lets go quickly, as soon as you’re on your feet, but you stand there for a moment, disoriented. Feeling like…feeling like you’re right where you need to be. But also like you’ve forgotten to do something. It pulls at your brain like a grocery item list you know you were thinking about five minutes ago, but no matter how far you reach, you can never remember what it was. 

It shouldn’t bother you this much—you’ve been feeling it since you went to college. It hung over you during orientation, and move-in day, and every visit home. It reaches you in dreams, and weirdly, whenever Ned shows you the thousands of videos he gets of Spider-Man swinging across the city. 

But you’d never felt this close to grasping it before. You can almost see an image in your brain, faded around the edges like an old photograph, a word floating just on the edge of your consciousness. 

“You okay?” He’s asking you. Maynard. God, why does that name sound so wrong to think?

He looks about a second away from grabbing your hand again. 

You want to let him. 

But you hear MJ’s voice from the living room, firm in the way she only uses when she’s annoyed, and you know that your TV is probably done for. Maynard seems to be able to sense it too, because he urges you to go. 

And your TV is broken, thanks to some idiot and his friend who decided to start play-fighting for no reason. He gives you a twenty from his pocket, but you can’t even focus. Your mind is too busy playing back your night. Warm brown eyes, messy curls, soft smiles. You end up just waving it off—but you keep that twenty—and rushing back to your room to find Maynard. 

Only, he’s not there when you return. 

Your laptop is closed and placed at the foot of your bed. On top, the bouquet he showed up with. 

You stand there, in the middle of your tiny room, touching your fingertips to the carnations and grieving. 

Grieving for what? You keep asking yourself. Why do I feel this way?

But you can’t figure it out. It stays, stays, stays. 

Later that night, his face comes to you in your dreams. It’s younger, unburdened with the sadness you’d seen lying underneath. He’s laughing, bright and beautiful, and he’s looking at you. You’re on a rooftop somewhere, both of you golden in the sun, and he’s saying your name with a fondness that notches into your spine. 

I love you, he says, and he means it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his expression melts into softness, in the way he traces his fingers across your shoulder and pulls you into him. 

Peter, your voice sounds just as yours does now, weighed down by adulthood. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and there’s a peacefulness in your body that you know you haven’t felt in years, even through the haze of the dream. I’ll always love you.

You feel the press of his lips to your hair, the curve of them as he smiles.

You wake up. Gasping, gripping the thin sheets of your bed, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. 

Peter, your mind whispers to you in the dark.

“Peter.” You murmur it into the moonlight shining across your floor, to your heart beating against your ribcage, to the knot in your stomach that finally releases. 

“Peter.” You say again. Taste it on your tongue, certain you’ve said it a thousand times, in a million different ways.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter Parker’s quaint little apartment was awfully loud for someone who lived alone.

The window was wide open, the hustle and bustle of New York infiltrating his home. The crap dryer was in the middle of shrinking his jeans as it hummed loudly, sounding as if a few screws were loose.

Which, come to think of it, probably were.

His speaker played music softly as he was hunched over the small desk near the window. He was in the middle of patching up his suit after an intense fight with The Hand.

Crash!

Peter jolted up, on high alert for any other sounds. His spider senses weren’t going off, but he was still worried about what caused the sound outside of his apartment.

He quickly grabbed his phone, pausing the music to hear better.

He was met with a dead silence until-

“Shit!”

Peter let out a sigh of relief, hearing a muffled voice from behind his door in the hallway.

The person must’ve dropped something.

Peter rose up from his seat and cracked open the door, only for his breath to quite literally catch in his throat.

You were standing there, three boxes stacked on top of one another, a fourth box on the floor with shattered glass surrounding it.

You set the three boxes down and huffed, scratching the back of your neck and looking at the mess you made in the hallway. You glanced up at the boy staring at you as if he had seen a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I just- well I thought I could carry all these boxes to my apartment, but clearly not.”

Peter swallowed hard and blinked, snapping out of the trance he was in. “You- wha- Sorry,” he laughed awkwardly, making you quirk a brow. “You’re moving in?” he asked, glancing at the apartment door right across the hall from him.

You nodded with a small smile, dangling your keys up. “Yup. Right across from you apparently.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in years. Not since Dr. Strange casted that spell and made everyone forget who he was. For years he wondered where you were, if you were okay, and more importantly, if you found someone new because truth be told, he hadn’t.

He wasn’t even looking.

At university, girls would flirt with him every now and then, falling for that shy and dorky personality with something more mature growing around the edges. Peter Parker was an attractive guy and he was so sweet, so kind, to everyone he met.

The boy could’ve honestly had a new girlfriend by now.

But he didn’t because it had always been you.

You were the only girl he ever wanted.

You rocked back on your heels, staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. You couldn't quite place it, but he seemed familiar, like maybe you had seen him somewhere before, but then again, he looked like your average young adult in New York. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

You looked around the empty hallway with a small giggle, already finding your new neighbor rather entertaining. “Who else?”

“Oh. Duh,” Peter lectured himself from under his breath with closed eyes and a pitiful headshake. He cleared his throat and straightened up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, no, you don’t.”

He hated lying, especially to you.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you sure? You seem…I don’t know. You seem familiar. What’s your name?”

“P-Peter,” he stuttered. “Peter Parker.”

You hummed, the name not entirely ringing a bell. “Peter Parker,” you repeated, as if it would jog your memory. “Sounds familiar, but then again, you have the most generic name.”

Before Peter could respond, you stuck your hand out and introduced yourself.

Peter stared down at your hand, then pulled his lips into a tight line. He knew that if he touched you he risked you immediately being overloaded with the knowledge of who he was and the history you both shared.

The day Dr. Strange casted that spell, he promised you that he would remind you of who he was.

That was the first time Peter Parker ever lied to you.

He went down to the pastry coffee shop he knew you and Ned would hangout at just to bother MJ, because there was once a time Peter was in the picture too. When he saw you sitting beside Ned, a small warm peppermint hot chocolate in your hands, his heart fluttered, excitement coursing through his veins as he made his way over to introduce himself, just like he had rehearsed a million times.

“Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and you don’t know me, but we used to be friends, more than friends actually.”

Was what he was supposed to say.

But when he got close enough for you to look up at him, a glint of confusion in the very eyes he had fallen in love with, his own eyes that you had no recollection of caught sight of the healing gash that caused a slit in your eyebrow and the bandage a few inches away from it on your forehead.

A painful reminder of what it meant to get too close to someone like him.

It was his fault that you had gotten hurt and nearly died.

He didn’t ever want to put you in a situation like that again, and after Aunt May…he figured it would be best if you were no longer associated with him.

He froze up completely and ended up telling you his name like some kind of dork and asking you if the peppermint hot chocolate was worth the five dollars.

So now, in the present moment, his heart was slowly breaking because you hadn’t fully remembered him from that day, which was fine because why would you have?

He was just a weirdo who approached you awkwardly and asked how the peppermint hot chocolate was, which…was strange because it wasn’t inherently obvious to anyone that wasn’t MJ or Ned that that was what you were drinking.

But Peter knew because it was your favorite.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I would shake your hand, but my hands are dirty. I was just uh…cleaning.”

“Oh,” you muttered quietly, pulling your hand away awkwardly, glancing away from him feeling slightly embarrassed.

The hallway was silent as you stood there for a second, Peter thinking of something, anything to say to you because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Do you want me to help you carry your stuff in?” Peter offered.

Your brows pressed together. “I thought your hands were dirty. I don’t want you touching my stuff,” you half joked.

“Right…” Peter replied. “I’ll sweep up the glass.”

You smiled softly and nodded, unlocking your door and dragging a box inside, thinking that your new neighbor was a little weird, but meant well.

Peter smiled and as soon as you disappeared into your empty apartment, his smile fell instantly. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering a list of profanities under his breath as he returned back into his apartment to retrieve a broom and dustpan.

He swept up the glass and you thanked him before going back into your apartment.

For the next couple of days, you wouldn’t see Peter often. You’d sometimes cross paths heading downstairs to retrieve your mail, earning a small wave from him or see him on your way out to work. 

Regardless, that little to no interaction was driving him up the wall.

You were right there.

Right across the hall.

Right within arms touch, and one touch…just the one, had the potential to ignite an old flame again.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter lied on his couch, staring at the ceiling while tossing a pen into the air and catching it mindlessly. He was supposed to be figuring out what to eat for dinner, but alas, you were on his mind.

He had missed you before, but ever since you moved in he felt like he was losing his mind.

You consumed each and every one of his thoughts, every fiber in his being. If there was one thing Peter Parker wanted, it was you.

He jolted up, hearing the sound of someone knocking on his door. He practically bounced off of the wall, his spider senses going haywire, sensing that it was you. He swung the door open and saw you standing in the hallway wearing a casual outfit that you still looked cute in. Cute top, sweatpants, and pair of slippers that he bought you for Christmas one year that made him smile from ear to ear.

“Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps flexing, which he was doing on purpose.

He watched as your eyes darted down quickly and back up. He noticed the way you swallowed, blinking quickly as if to get your mind back on track, which only made him smirk.

He was glad to know you still liked that.

“Hi,” you chirped. “So…” you trailed off, rocking back on your heels. “I made dinner and I accidentally made too much, I doubled the recipe,” you explained, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and have dinner with me?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “I uh…yeah, I’ll have dinner. I’ll be over in a few.”

Your smile widened. “Perfect. See you in a few.”

You turned on your heel and went across the hallway to your own apartment. Peter went back into his and scrambled across the living room into his bedroom where he yanked off his tank top and sweatpants. He threw clothes out of his closet and tried on about five different outfits before deciding on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. He nearly tripped over the clothes that were now all over his floor as he raced towards his cologne, deciding on the one he knew you loved.

He grabbed his shoes and-

Wait…

Does he need shoes to take two steps across the hallway to your apartment?

He decided to slip on his slippers like you had. He grabbed a bottle of wine that he was saving for his Daily Bugle office party, figuring that this was more important.

Did you drink?

He wasn’t sure.

He’d bring it anyway.

He raced over to the door, hand halting over the handle.

Hold on…

Jeans? Really? You were in sweatpants!

He groaned and ran back into the kitchen, setting the wine bottle down and running back into his room, yanking a drawer open and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. He kicked the slippers off, hobbled on one foot, nearly falling over as he took his jeans off and replaced them with the sweats.

Peter went back to grab his slippers when a new thought filled his mind.

What if you had changed into jeans?

“No,” Peter lectured himself. “You look fine. You look great,” he reassured himself, though his heart was racing, which could’ve been because he just ran around his entire apartment in less than five minutes.

He made his way out of his apartment, standing in front of your door and taking a deep breath.

Knock knock.

Within two seconds you were at the door, opening it all the way.

He let out a sigh of relief to see that you were still in your sweatpants.

The scent of his cologne immediately filled your nose and you felt an odd tingling sensation in your finger tips, as if your powers were so desperately trying to remind you of something.

You raised a brow, knowing you didn't smelled cologne when you initially went to his place, meaning he put it on before coming to yours.

“Brought some wine!” Peter chirped, holding up the bottle. “I actually don’t know if you drink, but if not I have uh…” he trailed off, thinking. “Well, I don’t have anything except for water…out of the sink, but I’m saving up for a filter!”

You raised your brows as he rambled, and his face quickly went red in embarrassment. “I uh…” he laughed. “I’m joking,” he breathed out. “Well…not really, but…”

You giggled, stepping aside. “I don’t drink, but I’ll gladly try with you. Come on in.”

Peter made his way inside and looked around as you shut the door. Your apartment reminded him so much of your bedroom back at the Avenger’s Tower, it just looked as if you had grown up.

Because you both had.

Peter Parker was still the nerdy, awkward, and awfully cute boy you met back in high school that you unfortunately didn’t have the pleasure of remembering. But something about him had changed. He was more mature. Slightly less awkward but still rather awkward to a fault.

“Your apartment is nice,” he complimented, following you into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you beamed. You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two regular glass cups. “I don’t have wine glasses,” you said sheepishly. “This should work, right?”

Peter smiled. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I don’t have a bottle opener either.”

Peter shrugged, taking the foil off of the bottle. “It’s alright. I got it.” Peter’s muscles flexed ever so slightly as he quite literally flicked off the top. “Tada!”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell? How’d you do that?”

Peter smirked. “Well, I work out a lot,” he said smoothly, leaning against the counter.

You raised a brow. “Do you now?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m at the gym all the time.”

“Right.”

Peter smirked, watching as you tried to conceal your smile, which you were doing a very poor job at. “You’re smiling.”

Now you broke, smiling like a dork. “Because you’re funny.”

“But I didn’t say anything funny.”

“You did,” you said matter of factly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to impress me, Parker.”

“Are you impressed?”

You rolled your eyes and snagged the glasses off of the counter. “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

Peter smiled triumphantly to himself. Back when you two first met, you were both incredibly shy, but you managed to take charge, flirting with Peter constantly, making him a nervous mess.

But now time had changed you both.

Now Peter was the one with the confidence to flirt with you and make you all nervous.

He followed you to the small table in the kitchen where two bowls of pasta were sitting. You both sat down, Peter pouring both your glass a little less than halfway.

“So,” he said, trying to spark up a conversation, aka, trying to figure out how you had been the past few years since he had missed out. “How’d you manage to afford to live in the most expensive place in all of New York?”

You laughed because you and him definitely did not live in the most expensive place in all of New York. It was actually the cheapest and you considered it to be a literal shit box.

“I’m making, like, fifty cents above minimum wage working at a bookstore a few blocks down,” you said as he slid your glass of wine over to you. You grabbed the glass from him, your fingers just centimeters away from ghosting his…just centimeters away from knowing the truth. “It’s not bad though, I like it. What about you?”

Peter filled his glass the same amount as yours. “I work at the Daily Bugle. I get all the pictures of Spider-Man and stuff like that.”

Your eyes widened as he set the bottle down, meeting your gaze. “You know Spider-Man?”

Peter shook his head, averting his gaze. “No. I- I mean, I just get the pictures,” he said sheepishly, bringing the glass up to his lips.

You gave Peter a confused look. “Come on,” you said. “You must know him. I mean, how else do you get literal selfies of him on top of the Empire State Building? Unless…you are Spider-Man,” you joked.

Peter spit his drink out back into the cup, becoming a coughing mess. “Wha- What?! N- No-!” he managed out between coughs.

Your face contorted into one of pure bewilderment at his reaction, something you weren’t at all expecting. “Jeez, okay…”

Peter put his glass down, shaking his head adamantly. “I’m not Spider-Man,” he said sharply.

“Okay.”

“That wouldn’t even be possible.”

“I believe you.”

“I just…we’re close enough that he gives me those pictures.”

“Right.”

“I am not Spider-Man.”

“Exactly.”

It was silent for a beat as you stared at each other. By your expression and tone, Peter could tell that you were catching onto something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. It could’ve been the fact that he was Spider-Man, it could’ve been that you were slowly starting to realize you knew him before, he wasn’t sure.

One thing he knew for sure was that if you kept staring at him, you would probably start to put two and two together somehow, because you always did.

“Are you gonna try that?” he asked, motioning to the glass on the table.

You glanced down at it and grabbed it, bringing it to your nose.

“Oh, shit,” you grimaced, the scent burning.

Peter smiled. “It’s not all that bad.”

You brought the glass to your lips and immediately spat it back out into the glass. “What the hell!” you exclaimed. “How does anyone drink this shit?!”

Peter laughed. “This is supposed to be the good stuff.”

You gagged. “Gross.”

“So uhm,” he began, changing the subject, grabbing his fork and picking up some pasta with it, you repeating the action. “You got any family close by?”

Now, he was just checking to see if you still had your family of Avengers.

To his knowledge, and based upon where things were the last time you two were actually together, you had already lost Nat, Tony, and Steve, so you were really left with the only two people you were close to.

Sam and Bucky.

You had been complaining to Peter your whole field trip across Europe about how you hated living with Bucky because he was insanely over protective and the only reason you were on that trip was because of Sam.

But then again, Sam was also over protective, just slightly less.

Your fork clattered against the plate, making Peter’s brows raise slightly.

“Sorry,” you laughed awkwardly, picking it back up. “I uh…I don’t,” you said, figuring it would be best to not tell a stranger that you were a superhero and after you moved out, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson had a falling out, which meant they went their separate ways and suddenly you didn’t seem to exist to either of them anymore.

Bucky was a new Avenger and Sam was rounding up his own team and you were left behind.

“No?” Peter asked, not wanting to pry but so desperately curious to know that the past few years you’d been okay.

You couldn’t look at Peter as you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly.

Peter’s heart broke because that told him everything.

You had been just as alone as he had, with the exception of MJ and Ned of course.

You had no family and neither did he.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter shut the door behind him, back pressing into it as he slowly sank to the floor, letting out a deep sigh.

God, he still loved you more than anything.

Of course he did.

Peter was completely lost.

He wanted you to know that just a few years ago you were both so desperately in love with one another, and you were just one touch away from knowing it.

You clearly were interested in him, already starting to fall back in love with him all over again.

He could just fall back in love with you and act like there was no history, but what was the point?

He didn’t want you to know who he was anyway to keep you safe.

But his soul craved to be with you again.

He bit his lower lip in thought, deciding what to do.

He had to tell you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your nose was filled with the putrid smell of alcohol and marijuana as you leaned against the wall that was vibrating against your back due to the music.

You sipped on the red solo cup in your hand, the plastic filled a quarter of the way full with soda, which was probably meant to be used as a chaser, but you didn’t drink.

Your eyes scanned the party, watching college students do the most heinous things while under the influence.

“And then…there’s Miles. This random high school kid from Brooklyn who might be Spider-Man, but my friends said we probably shouldn’t be stalking a fifteen year old.”

Your friend, Ned, was rambling to someone about how you, MJ, and himself were on the brink of discovering who Spider-Man was, though you were all more than likely far off in your guesses.

MJ was beside you, arms crossed over her chest as she pointed out people for you to look at. First it was some frat guy standing on top of a table while chugging a bottle of beer, then it was some girl making out with her boyfriend, and now it was some loser who allegedly kept staring at you.

“That guy,” MJ said, nodding her head across the room. “He keeps looking over here every ten and a half seconds.”

You didn’t know who she was talking about due to the sheer amount of people in the room, and you didn’t necessarily care. “Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on potential threats,” you teased lightly heartedly.

“Hey,” MJ, shrugged. “Maybe once Spider-Man stops taking all your villains, you can get back at it. I feel like you don’t pay attention to anything anymore.”

Ever since the Avengers had gone their separate ways following Thanos, you hadn’t really done much as a masked hero. 

You vaguely remember fighting alongside Spider-Man to defeat Mysterio and then there was something that felt like a blur with three Spider-Men, Dr. Strange, and villains from differing universes.

On numerous occasions, the ‘New Avengers’ had reached out about you joining their team, but you objected each time, partially because you hated the idea of your family of heroes being replaced, partially because of the politics surrounding it with Sam fighting for copyright, and partially because you enjoyed being a normal person for once.

Your entire teenage years were dedicated to fighting and for once in your life, you wanted to just live.

“I pay attention,” you said, finishing your drink.

MJ, pursed her lips, giving you an uncertain expression. “You know, a few years ago you would’ve thought that weird guy over there was out to get you because he’s been staring at you since you got here,” she said matter of factly. “Oh, not to mention he keeps scanning the room as if something bad is going to happen.”

You smirked. “Imagine he’s Spider-Man.”

MJ raised her brows. “That loser?”

You giggled. “I honestly don’t even know who you’re talking about.” Before MJ could respond, you flashed her your cup. “I’m going to get some more soda. Want anything?”

“Soda is good.”

You nodded with a smile and began to push your way through the crowd.

MJ’s eyes followed you briefly before glancing to the side. The ‘loser’ that she said was staring at you was following you, pushing his way through the crowd.

“What a dork,” she mumbled to herself, assuming that he was some socially awkward dweeb who had a crush on you.

In the kitchen, you had already filled up MJ’s cup and now you were filling up your own. You weren’t paying any attention and didn’t seem to notice the guy whose hands were shaking as he moved to stand beside you, refilling his cup that was already full.

It was Peter Parker, your neighbor, and you couldn’t seem to notice him in a crowded room. A few years ago, you would’ve thought he was the only person in the room, your eyes locking with his naturally.

It was like he didn’t even exist in your world all over again, and it was then he realized he couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to know.

You screwed the cap back onto the soda and grabbed the cups. The boy opened his mouth to say something, but you were already walking away.

As you began to push through the crowd again, you glanced down at the soda you had poured for MJ.

It was Sprite and he hated light soda, she preferred dark, something like Coke because ‘Light soda isn’t on the same wavelength as my soul,’ or whatever nonsense she said back in high school.

“Damn it,” you muttered to yourself, turning abruptly onto your heel.

Little did you know, that ‘loser’ MJ mentioned just moments ago was hot on your tail, following you.

You both accidentally collided into one another, your chest hitting his, sending your drinks, and his splashing, and very conveniently only hitting your clothes.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you alright?!”

Peter scrambled to figure out how to help, worried that he had completely ruined your night.

Then he looked at you and panic set in.

He recognized your reaction all too well.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at the half empty cups in your hands. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

As soon as you touched him, you saw everything.

The boy in high school you had fallen in love with.

The first time you’d met, Tony Stark introducing him as ‘The Spider-Ling’, to which Peter embarrassingly looked away from you when you laughed.

All those late nights staying up together over a video call, ranting about whatever books you were reading, a science project he was working on, or rambling on about your days, which you’d already spent together.

The first time he swung you all around New York when you couldn’t sleep, your arms wrapped tightly around him as your stomach dropped each time his webs redacted from a building.

Your first kiss at the top of the Empire State Building, slow, desperate, and messy.

The entire team of Avengers finding out about you two being together and embarrassing you both endlessly.

The two of you growing and maturing together right before college applications.

And that was the last you could remember of it because your memories had been taken from you.

It was like the room had fallen silent, the music fading out, and suddenly only you and the boy you spent your entire teenage years loving were the only people in the room, two hearts beginning to beat in the same rhythm again.

Your eyes slowly glanced up to meet his gaze, tears threatening to spill from them. Your mouth had gone dry, not even knowing what to say.

Peter’s face immediately washed over with realization.

You knew.

You touched him and your powers went off, telling you exactly everything that happened.

Before he could say anything, you turned around quickly, pushing as fast as you could through the crowd.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You managed to get away from the party, and found an empty fire escape on the side of the building where you sat crisscrossed, staring at the busy city despite it being so late at night.

You heard someone grunt softly and the sound of metal clanging. You turned and saw familiar brown hair and brown eyes.

Peter.

He gave you a soft smile, but you looked away, out into the skyline.

Peter’s smile faded, heart aching as he moved to sit beside you.

It was painfully quiet as he played with his fingers, not knowing what to say just yet.

Thankfully for him, you spoke up first.

“You promised me,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You promised you’d remind me of you. Of…of us.”

Peter glanced over to you, though your gaze remained on the skyline. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he apologized sincerely.

You finally turned to him, tears in your eyes. “Why?”

Peter swallowed, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just…I thought that everyone was finally okay because I wasn’t there. You all got to finally go to college because you didn’t know me. You all got to be happy and live a life away from all that stuff. You guys didn’t need me.”

“I needed you, Peter,” you said. “I needed you more than anything.”

Peter’s heart absolutely shattered at your words and the pure hurt in your tone.

You grabbed Peter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’d go back and do everything all over again if it means being with you. I’d go back and not get accepted into MIT. I’d go back and nearly die. I’d do it all over again, Peter.”

Peter’s expression softened. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. I want you safe and I want you to get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“But that’s just the cards we’ve been dealt,” you said softly, his hand still in yours. “If we hadn't been dealt them, who’s to say we would’ve ever been together?”

Peter sighed, staring out into the city. “It’s not fair to you. You deserve better and it was selfish of me to even think about getting back with you.”

You stayed silent, staring at Peter before looking away again.

“You know,” he began, letting out another sigh. “I had this whole plan to tell you tonight about everything. I assumed you wouldn’t believe me so then I was going to get you to use your powers and-” he cut himself off, shutting his eyes. “It was stupid. So stupid.”

You shifted your body, turning sideways to face him fully. “Peter,” you said softly.

He slowly glanced up to meet your gaze. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

Peter’s brows pressed together. “But it was-”

“Not, it wasn’t,” you interrupted him.

Peter then began to ramble a mile a minute, and it started to remind you of him in high school.

“Okay, but like, I just keep you in danger, and I know you always have been in danger because you have powers, but I feel like you’re in additional danger and-”

“Peter-”

“I just want you to be safe and I think maybe we should go back to not knowing each other-”

“Peter-”

“Not that I don’t want to know you, because I love you, and I-”

Peter cut himself off, face a bright shade of pink. He looked at you with wide eyes, your lips parted slightly.

Your lips slowly curved upward into a teasing smile as he began to panic again.

“No! I didn’t mean that!” Peter exclaimed. “Wait! I mean, I do love you but- but- like, you know- actually-”

Peter’s words weren’t cut off because you interrupted him verbally again.

No.

You kissed him.

Soft and gentle just like you had that night on the Empire State building.

Peter didn’t freeze up like he did that night.

He immediately melted into it, kissing you back.

Your powers gave you the ability to recall history or memories of the past. Peter’s did not, but something about that kiss made him remember the feeling he had been missing for years. The feeling he craved to experience again.

And that feeling was you.

The missing piece of his soul was you and it always had been.

You pulled apart, forehead resting on his. “I love you too,” you said softly, glancing up at him, cupping his cheek.

Peter swallowed. Hard. “You- You do?”

“I do.”

Peter’s lips curved into a smile. “I love you too.”

“Good,” you said, thumb brushing his cheek. “So, do you wish I could lose my memory of you again?”

Now did you know that Peter was going to catch on? Obviously. You were surprised he hadn’t already said anything.

After a second he did it, he grunted your name, breathy and all too similar to how he sounded in bed. That was the point, but you didn’t expect it to be so hot. Peter looked up at you through his lashes, his muscles clearly straining but he wasn’t too fazed.

“So, why’d you want me to do this again?”

You said the first lie to come to mind. “Research purposes?”

“Research?” he laughed breathily, doing a few more while keeping eye contact. “Really?”

You nodded, another idea popping in your head when you saw a picture of him and Ned on the wall. “Ned and I... We were betting on you. So... Twenty bucks! Yay.”

“Uh-huh. So, it’s not because you wanted to hear me panting your name?” he teased, your name slipping from his lips again.

Pressing your thighs together discreetly, you shifted in your seat. “No. I mean—Maybe! But hou can’t really blame me, can you? Those juicy sweats do your ass wonders. And your arms? I mean, holy shit, Peter,” you rambled, the light blush spreading on Peter’s face going unnoticed by you.

“Baby,” he hummed, getting your attention. “Come here, sit on my back. It’s too easy.”

You faked a sigh, trying to act unaffected. “Fine.”

He did almost a hundred with you on him before he asked, “Am I be done yet?” His head was turned back, looking at you over his shoulder. His very muscular shoulder that looked very... biteable?

Peter laid flat on his stomach, taking your silence as a yes. He did what you asked him to, and now you were looking at him like you wanted to eat him up.

You rolled off him, just enough to still have your body pressed against his. Without thinking, your mouth landed on his shoulder. Your teeth gently sunk into his skin, followed by a short, sweet kiss.

“Really?”

“Peter,” you shushed him, following with a sweet request, “Give me a kiss.”

And of course, he obeyed.

His lips met yours in a bruising kiss, hot and needy like the two of you weren’t making out right before he started working out.

His strong arm snaked around your body, pulling you up and onto his lap as he rolled on his back. Your legs fell to either side of him, straddling his lap.

You started to roll your hips, feeling his quickly growing erection beneath you. He groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down to hold you by your thighs.

But just as you started to get into a rhythm, his crime alert went off. The robotic voice read off the crime, of course being one that he couldn’t just leave alone.

“I’m sorry,” he pressed a short kiss to your lips as he stood you up, changing as quickly as he could. “I’ll make it up to you. When I’m back. I promise.”

masterlist

Apparently so because when the words, “Does it come out anywhere else?” slipped from your lips, Peter looked at you like he just watched his puppy get run over.

There was confusion, worry, and maybe a little bit of awkward ‘humor’ in his face. But even as he told you no, he didn’t look sure of himself anymore.

“Should we test that?” you asked, your voice low and sultry, trying to get the mood back. It worked, because you felt Peter’s still-hard cock twitch against your leg. “Yeah?”

He nodded, waiting for you to make a move.

If he was being honest, he didn’t know what you meant when you said to test it. He just knew that his very sexy girlfriend was talking about making him cum, so he agreed without thinking.

Watching as your hand snaked between your bodies, Peter’s heart was racing with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it would be safe for a normal person’s heart to be beating that fast.

Luckily, he wasn’t a normal person.

And he found that opened a lot of opportunities in the bedroom.

“You can go twice right? I still want you inside me after...” your voice was laced with need, almost pushing Peter over the edge right then and there. He nodded frantically, his hips twitching, pushing his aching cock against your palm.

“I can. I promise. Please just—” he cut himself off with a moan as your hand pumped and curled around his tip. “Fuck.”

Failing to hold in a giggle, a smile spread on your face that made Peter feel like he just fell in love with you all over again. Weird.

Your hand wrapped around him, giving him a few teasingly slow strokes before you scooted backwards enough to wrap your mouth around his sensitive pink tip. You started to up your pace while your mouth sank further down, taking more of him in.

Bringing him closer and closer to the edge, he felt the same internal panic he did when the webs came out of his wrists for the first time. But you didn’t stop. No. You only went harder.

Peter barely pulled you off at the last second, watching as webs came out of his cock and splattered on the ceiling.

It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.

The relief when it was over, the pleasure he felt during it. All of it. His curls were sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and when he looked over you were staring at him with wide eyes.

Wide, excited, horny eyes. (He could tell).

“That was so hot, oh my god,” you squealed, wiping off the last string of web from his extremely sensitive cock. A strangled noise came from his throat, overwhelmed by the strong feeling.

“Oh jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath. “I think I need just a minute. It’s really, really sensitive.”

You nodded, running your hands over his curls. He smiled, his head subconsciously leaning into your hand. Before you knew it, Peter was pulling you down to kiss him again, all wet and open-mouthed. His hands were roaming your body, reclosing the gap.

One of your legs swung over him, straddling his abdomin that was glistening with a sheer layer of sweat. You were careful not to go too far back until Peter was ready, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t rock yourself against him.

The hard ridges of his ab muscles were perfect for grinding your clit against, and not to mention Peter loved it. He didn’t realize how much he liked the praise until he met you.

“That’s it. Uh-huh,” he mumbled as he helped you guide yourself against him. Sweet noises were falling from your open mouth as you ran your slick pussy over his stomach.

One of his hands ran up, kneading your tits while the other stayed and grabbed at your ass—helping spread you open to get a better feel of him. You could feel your second orgasm of the night quickly approaching, but you wanted to save it.

Halting your hips was hard, you really didn’t want to stop, but you knew you’d be happier if you came with Peter inside you.

“Are you ready?” your voice was breathless and whiney, your eyes hooded and glazed over with need. He flipped you onto your back, pulling a cute squeak from your throat.

“Uh-huh.” Leaving open kisses down your neck, he asked, “But are you ready?” against your sticky skin.

You felt yourself squeeze around nothing. “Yeah.”

He pressed one last kiss to your neck before you felt his long cock stretch you out. You could feel every ridge, every vein, as he slid into you so far you felt like it would come out your mouth.

Your mouth was stuck open, tears from the pleasure welling up in your eyes. Peter felt your nails dig into his back as he started at a slow pace. It wasn’t gentle, but it was just enough to refamiliarize yourself with him.

As the seconds passed, you needed more and more. Trying to grind your hips up and meet him halfway for more pressure, more speed, wasn’t cutting it. You needed his all.

“Peter. Oh my, fuck. Peter, please. I need more. I can handle it,” you moaned as he thrusted, your eyes meeting his so he could see the truthfulness in your eyes. That you would really be okay if he went harder.

He was always scared of hurting you, so he needed that confirmation every time.

His pace sped up along with his thrusts’ power. After only a few seconds, he was fucking you into the mattress. Moans and heavy breaths were spilling out of your mouth, along with Peter’s grunts and moans himself.

The bed was squeaking, a dull thud against the wooden wall for every thrust he gave you. “Shit,” Peter grumbled, looking at something behind your head for only a second.

You could feel your second orgasm coming back, along with Peter’s antsy hands. They were moving from beside your head, to your waist, to your legs—pushing your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle.

Your moaning only spurred him on, his hand coming to rub circles to your clit. He felt you squeeze and flutter around him, your eyes and face scrunched up.

He felt his own orgasm coming up, but he was determined to focus on you. Your shaky legs and light knuckles from gripping the sheets too hard. Your short breaths and teary eyes.

“C’mon. Come for me,” he whispered as you felt yourself go over the edge. Your hips twitched and your pussy squeezed him unbearably tight, followed by his warm liquid leaking inside you.

The thought of his web-sperm mix you saw earlier being inside you made you flutter around him again.

He had the same sensitivity as before, hissing through his teeth as he dropped his head to your neck. He relaxed his body on top of you, too sensitive to move or pull out yet.

His weight and heat on top of you was a common feeling, but it was one of your favorites.

You loved having him lay on top of you, especially right after sex. “Thank you,” you mumbled against his hair, your fingers gently rubbing up and down his rigid back muscles. You could feel him twitching and softening inside you, an almost ticklish feeling.

Peter hummed before laughing and whispering, “Also, uh, we might need a new bed, by the way.”

masterlist

"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.

"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.

"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"

"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.

She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."

You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."

"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.

"It's not-"

"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"

You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."

She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."

"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.

You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.

Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.

"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.

This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."

"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."

Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.

When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.

As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.

You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.

"What are you doing?"

Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.

"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.

His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.

"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.

"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.

His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.

"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.

You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.

"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.

Reassuring himself.

Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.

You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.

He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.

The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.

"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.

"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"

She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.

---

As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.

You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.

"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.

"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.

"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.

"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.

"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.

"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.

"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.

You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."

"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.

"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.

"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.

You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.

You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.

"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.

"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.

"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.

You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.

You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.

"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"

"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."

"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.

"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.

"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."

"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"

"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"

"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"

"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"

"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"

"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"

"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.

Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.

"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.

Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.

"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.

You grin. "It's a date."

The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.

"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."

"Oh, come on-"

"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.

"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.

Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"

"Shut up."

You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.

"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.

You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.

Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.

Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.

I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.

I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.

I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.

Love, Your Peter.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?

His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.

"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."

Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.

"What are you doing here?"

You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.

Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.

"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."

Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.

"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."

"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."

He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.

"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."

"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."

His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"

You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."

"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.

The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.

"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."

His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."

"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.

He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.

"Oh, my door's 13B."

"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.

Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.

Hey, it's Peter again!

It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...

I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.

That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.

Love, Your Peter.

“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.

Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.

“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”

“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.

“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”

“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.

“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.

He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.

"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."

He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.

He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.

"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.

"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.

His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.

"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."

His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.

By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.

"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.

Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."

He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."

Peter here!

I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.

It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.

I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.

I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.

I love you, Your Peter.

P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.

"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"

You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.

"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"

"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."

You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.

You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.

Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."

Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.

"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."

His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."

"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."

Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."

"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."

You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.

"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."

"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."

"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."

"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.

"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"

You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.

His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."

"You're into photography?" You ask.

His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."

"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."

"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."

You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."

"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"

He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.

"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.

You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.

"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."

His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.

You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.

A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?

He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.

“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.

His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.

“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”

“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."

His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.

He knows, that you know.

"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.

He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.

He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."

"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."

It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.

"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"

His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."

"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."

"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."

"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."

You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.

“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"

"How could you know that?" He snaps.

You blink, stunned.

"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"

"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."

"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."

His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."

Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.

"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.

He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.

"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."

He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.

"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."

His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.

"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”

His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.

Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.

“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."

"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”

You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.

"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."

Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.

"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."

His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.

"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."

It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.

“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"

A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."

You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."

You staggered off the landing platform with the rest of the team, leaving a scattering of tactical outfits, boots, guns and knives in your wake. There were mumbled promises of "tidying up tomorrow", but you knew you'd all need a least two days to recover from the help Valentina had just put you through.

Lacking in super powers, or widow endurance training, you sadly made up the rear of the returning cavalry, holding your weary head up high all the same.

John stuck his arm out to hold the elevator door, each of your friends leaning against the walls with their eyes shut, but you waved him away.

"I'm going to grab a drink, you guys go on ahead."

The doors shut and you sighed into the darkness for only a moment before dragging your feet to the wet bar, hoping it had been stocked with ice cold water.

"You're back?"

Bob's voice sounded as tired as your own, coming from his corner of the operations room where he'd clearly fallen asleep in his bean bag chair.

"Yeah, we all are, no casualties our side so don't worry."

Bob set his book down carefully and you watched him fidget with his hands.

"I could do with a hug," you sighed and he was on his feet in seconds.

Bob's hugs could fix anything, his arms surprisingly strong under his sweaters, but he was always soft and snuggly too.

"Thanks," you squished your face into his chest and breathed him in, so much like home now that you were back.

"I think I might come with you next time," he admitted, lips touching your cheek briefly.

"Are you sure? Are you ready?"

"I — I don't know. I just — don't leave me alone again." He confessed.

"Okay, I'll talk to the others, we can take it on turns or work out who needs to go."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Bob."

You never picked up on the way Bob seemed to curl into himself whenever you entered the room. The way he made as much space for you as possible and tried to be invisible. It was just typical Bob to you.

He was doing it now as you entered the kitchen after a sparing sessions with Ava. You went straight to the fridge to grab a water and only after closing it did you see Bob, standing with his arms folding in the crook of one of counters.

"Hey," You offered a smile and he returned one back. "Thanks for washing dishes, you really don’t have to do that we can pick up after ourselves." You remind him after eyeing the empty sink.

"Oh, it’s the least I can do." Bob shrugs and scratches the back of his neck.

"We appreciate it. At least I do." You make your way out of the kitchen with your water but not before offering Bob another smile.

Once you’re out of sight, Bob shakes his head, feeling a sense of humility. Like he does after every encounter with you.

You’ve always been kind to him. But he noticed the change in his feelings towards you after game night last month.

Bob had been a bit more bold that night. He’d called Walker out for cheating during uno. Walker didn’t take it kindly(although he was in fact hiding cards underneath his seat). Walker had been harsh in his defense against the accusation and you were the first to defend Bob. The rest of the team had hopped on the ban wagon and forced Walker to stand up and just as Bob had stated, uno cards fell from Walkers ass.

Bob felt good knowing you had his back.

After that he started noticing more things about you. Like how you gave the smallest tasks your all. How encouraging you were with the team, he’d watched as you squeezed Ava after she’d phased for longer than she initially thought she could without, well, dying. Some mornings he’d watch you make sure there’s enough water in the coffee pot so when Bucky gets his cup of Jo he isn’t as grumpy.

And mostly, Bob admires how when you’re feeling overstimulated or down you don’t take it out on everybody else.

Bob found that he just liked everything about you and he accepted that his feelings wouldn’t be going away.

When night fell, Bob woke from a nightmare. Though he could never remember, he knew that the void had yet again plagued his mind. He crawled out of bed covered in sweat and decided to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

As he crept down the hall he heard faded sounds of laughter and when he rounded the hallway corner he saw lights from the tv flashing in the dark.

You were watching some sitcom, curled in a fuzzy maroon blanket, eating gummy worms.

Bob contemplated turning around and heading back to his room. The moment he decided it was probably the best thing for him to do if he wanted to avoid embarrassing himself in front of you, you turned your head to face him.

The alert quickly left your eyes and a gentle smile replaced your features.

"Hey," you said softly.

Bob timidly waved.

"Sorry is the tv too loud?" You asked reaching for the remote.

Bob quickly shook his head, "no no no, not at all, I just couldn’t sleep."

You nodded, understanding. Not only because it was Bob and you knew the darkness in his past still haunted him but because you also couldn’t sleep.

"You wanna join me?" You offered, even holding up your bag of gummy worms.

Bob only nodded before padding over to the sofa and taking a seat in the corner. You scooted closer to him to hold out the bag. Bob was going to refuse, not wanting to steal any from you but he saw that you were pretty adamant on sharing so he took one.

He also didn’t mind how you’d stayed close to him through out the rest of the night.

Bob had nearly lost it when you stopped into his room fresh out the shower. Your hair was wet and you had your towel wrapped around you.

"Do y'know where the cotton balls are?" You asked.

Bob didn’t even realize you’d spoken. He was more focused on where the towel had just wrapped around the top of your breasts. Then his eyes moved to your bare legs and he nearly died then and there. His thoughts started rushing to scenarios where he’d be able to touch you, drag his hands along your bare legs, and kiss the area above your breasts.

"Bob?" You raised an eyebrow before it clicked.

Bobs cheeks turned beet-red and he averted his eyes to his hands.

"Um, I-I’m not sure. With all the injuries you all sustain I doubt we have any left." He stammered out, trying his best to recover, hoping he didn’t just completely screw things up between the two of you.

"Okay, I’ll make it work. Thanks." You awkwardly stepped out of the room. Not because you were weirded out by Bob's reaction but because somehow you felt like you’d weirded him out.

You were aware that the two of you had grown closer and though Bob never expressed his limits and boundaries you were always aware that they were there. Maybe entering his room, his personal space was a crossed line. Not to mention wearing nothing but a towel on top of it.

This time you’re the one shaking your head, fighting off the sense of embarrassment.

After a mission briefing the next day, you were quick to hurry out of the office room.

Bob was now sure he’d completely fucked things up between you two. Why else would you avoid him like that? You didn’t offer your usual soft smile from across the table that morning and not even a mumbled good morning and now the thought of you was keeping him up at night.

Just beneath his door he could see faded changes in light. Before Bob knew it, his feet padded to the door and he slowly opened it.

Tonight it seemed you were watching some game show.

As he made his way down the hall, your head came into view, sitting in front of the screen and eating grapes. Bucky had once commented that being in front of the screen was bad for your eyes but you just shrugged at it and it only then occurred to Bob that the reason you stayed up so late at night was probably because you couldn’t sleep either.

You sensed him even with his socks walking on the marble flooring. Turning your head you offered a smile. "I can turn it down if it’s too loud."

"No, it’s fine." Bob scratched the back of his head and contemplated what he would say. He’d never felt this way about anyone; his past had consisted of abuse, drugs, and self-loathing. He wasn’t sure how to handle a situation with someone as soft as you. He awkwardly made his way over to the couch and sat down, making sure to keep some distance between you two.

"Are we okay?" Bob blurted all of a sudden.

"Yeah, why wouldn't we be?"

He shrugged and averted his gaze, "I don’t know, I thought I might’ve weirded you out or something."

You shook your head, "No, why would you think that?"

"Because I’m me."

"I like that you’re you, Bob." You reassured. Hesitantly you scooted an inch closer to him and turned to fully face him on the couch. Shifting your legs to a sideways angle and leaning the weight of your head on your loosely closed fist, while your arm rested on the back rest of the sofa.

"I don’t make you uncomfortable?"

"You’re the most comforting person in this building," You tell him. You take a second to evaluate him, his posture, his facial expressions. Nervous as usual but he also has a look of hope on his face.

So you took a chance and leaned in and nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck.

"Is this okay?" You asked.

You felt him nod before he uttered a soft "Yeah"

After a few moments of Bob coming to the conclusion that this was really happening, he finally relaxed into you and wrapped an arm around your body to pull you closer.

"I don’t weird you out, do I?" You asked, jokingly.

"Yeah, a little bit," came Bobs reply.

You gasped, and playfully nudged his shoulder. "Bob Reynolds did you just make an attempt at humor?"

"Yeah. Was I successful?" He questioned while scratching the back of his head.

Your soft laugh was all the answer he needed.

The two of you watched the game show until you dozed off.

It was the first good nights rest Bob had ever gotten.

You and Bob were on the couch till morning. Sound asleep and oblivious to your teammates staring down at you two.

"I did not see that coming," Walker commented.

Alexei hummed in agreement.

"Really? I’ve had a feeling for weeks." Ava countered.

"Yes and Bob hasn’t been so good at hiding his little crush." Yelena added.

"Hm, what about you Buck?" Walker looked towards the kitchen where Bucky was sipping his cup of coffee.

He sighed, "I don’t care."

You stopped at the edge of a small clearing, scanning the trees. You needed a place to sleep that wasn't a death trap. A cave was too obvious; the ground was too vulnerable. You looked toward a massive, ancient oak with low-hanging branches that disappeared into a thick crown of leaves.

"I'm going to scout the perimeter of that ridge," you said, adjusting the strap of your pack. "Stay here. Lean against that trunk and try not to pass out. Don’t wait up."

Peeta let out a short, dry laugh that ended in a wince, his hand flying to the bruised, matted hair at his temple. "Wait up? Sweetheart, if you think you’ll be going alone you must’ve hit your pretty head harder than I thought."

"I didn't hit my head at all," you snapped, though your eyes softened as you looked at him. He looked terrible—pale, smudged with dirt and dried blood—but his blue eyes still held that defiant, playful spark.

"Exactly. That’s my job," he said, pushing off the tree he was leaning on with a groan. He swayed for a second, then straightened his vest. "I’m the one with the concussion and the questionable survival skills. You’re the one who’s supposed to have the common sense. Leaving me here to be snacked on by a stray mutt while you wander off? Not great for the romance narrative."

"Peeta, you can barely stand."

"I can walk perfectly fine in a straight-ish line," he countered, stepping toward you. He reached out, his fingers grazing your arm, grounding you. "Besides, if the Careers find us, I can distract them with my winning personality while you run. It’s a foolproof plan."

You rolled your eyes, but you let him follow you.

The two of you picked your way toward the massive oak. It was the perfect spot—high ground, dense cover, and a view of the stream below. But as you reached the base, Peeta actually had the audacity to reach for the lowest branch, intent on pulling himself up to scout the higher vantage point.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, grabbing the back of his jacket. "If you try to climb that tree, I will freaking knock you out."

Peeta didn't even flinch. He just looked back at you over his shoulder, a lopsided, dazed grin spreading across his face. "I’m already concussed, I won’t even feel a thing."

You stared at him, deadpan, your hands on your hips. "You’re not making the point you think you are, Peeta."

He chuckled, the sound soft and genuinely warm, despite the circumstances. "Maybe not. But look at it this way: if I fall, the ground is soft, and you’ll have a very tragic story to tell Caesar Flickerman. It’s a win-win."

"Sit down," you ordered, pointing to the mossy roots of the tree. "Now."

Surprisingly, he obeyed, sliding down the trunk until he was sitting on the ground, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The bravado slipped for a second, and he let his head thump back against the bark, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You're very bossy in the arena," he murmured. "Back in District 12, you were much more approachable."

"Back in District 12, you weren't actively trying to survive every five minutes," you retorted. You knelt between his knees, pulling a small canteen of water and a clean-ish rag from your pack.

As you began to dab at the gash on his forehead, his eyes opened. He watched you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. It wasn't the look of a tribute looking at an ally; it was the way Peeta had always looked at you across the school hallway or from behind the bakery counter—like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"You have a smudge of mud right there," he whispered, reaching up with a shaking hand to brush your cheekbone. His thumb lingered, warm against your skin. "Very tactical. Makes you blend into the scenery."

"Shut up," you whispered back, but you didn't pull away. You leaned into his touch, just for a second, letting the terrifying reality of the Games fade into the background.

"I'm serious," Peeta said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the sarcasm. "Thank you for finding me. I was starting to think the last thing I’d see was a very ugly rock."

"You're stuck with me now," you said, finishing with his wound and capping the canteen. "So you'd better start behaving. No climbing trees, no trying to fight Careers with bread-making metaphors, and no more fainting."

Peeta smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, turning them into chips of bright blue glass. He caught your hand, squeezing it gently.

"I'll try," he promised. "But I make no guarantees about the fainting. You’re very distracting when you’re being all heroic."

You felt the heat rise to your face, a ridiculous blush for someone currently being hunted for sport. You settled in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, as the first cannon of the night echoed in the distance. Peeta didn't flinch; he just shifted so his arm was draped around yours, pulling you closer into the safety of the shadows.

"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we find some actual food. But tonight? I think I'll just stay right here."

"Good," you muttered, resting your head on his shoulder. "Because if you move, I’m still going to knock you out."

"I know, sweetheart," he sighed happily. "I know."

The anthem of Panem blared through the hidden speakers in the trees, the triumphant, booming brass sounding jarringly out of place in the silent, oppressive forest. You and Peeta sat perfectly still, your eyes glued to the sky as the Capitol seal flickered into view against the dark clouds.

One by one, the faces of the fallen appeared. You counted them silently—five tonight. The boy from 3, both from 4, the girl from 9, and the boy from 10. Every time a face vanished, the woods seemed to grow a little colder, the silence a little heavier.

When the sky went dark again, the temperature didn't just drop; it plummeted. The Gamemakers were clearly turning up the dial on the nighttime chill to force tributes out of hiding and toward each other for warmth.

"Well," Peeta whispered, his breath hitching as a shiver racked his frame. "At least we aren't on that list. Though if the temperature keeps dropping, I might just freeze into a very handsome ice sculpture. It would be a great addition to the victory tour, don't you think?"

"Focus, Peeta," you said, though you were shivering too. You pulled a thin, waterproof sleeping bag from your pack—the only one you’d managed to snag at the Cornucopia. It wasn't nearly enough for two people, especially not in this artificial winter. "We need to get under the overhang of these roots. The dirt will hold some of the day’s heat."

You dragged the sleeping bag into the hollowed-out space beneath the ancient oak. It was cramped, smelling of damp earth and moss, but it was shielded from the wind. You spread the bag out, looking at the narrow space, then back at Peeta, who was watching you with an amused, albeit weary, expression.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, easing himself down into the dirt with a grunt of pain. "And yes, I’m aware that I’m taking up a lot of room. I’m a baker’s son; we’re built for sturdy caloric intake, not for squeezing into rabbit holes."

"Just get in," you muttered, your teeth beginning to chatter. "And watch your leg."

Peeta slid into the bag, and you followed, pressing your back against the rough bark of the tree roots and pulling the zipper up as far as it would go. It was a tight fit—tight enough that you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your shoulder and the heat radiating off his body despite his chills.

"See?" Peeta murmured, shifting so his arm was tucked under your head, pulling you flush against his chest. "I’m essentially a human space heater. It’s one of my many talents, right next to decorating cakes and winning over hostile crowds."

"You're also a human radiator with a concussion," you reminded him, resting your hand on his chest to steady yourself. "How’s your head?"

"Spinning," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, velvet hum near your ear. "But honestly? Being this close to you is a much better distraction than the medicine Haymitch hasn't sent yet. I think I prefer this treatment."

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The forest was alive with the sounds of predatory insects and the distant, haunting cry of a bird. Every snap of a twig made you stiffen, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife tucked into your belt.

But every time you tensed, Peeta’s grip on you would tighten slightly, a silent, grounding presence. He began to trace small, idle circles on your arm with his thumb, a rhythmic movement that was surprisingly soothing.

"You're thinking about something," he said softly. It wasn't a question.

"I'm thinking about how much I hate the color of the sky here," you confessed. "It’s not real. None of this is real."

"We are," Peeta said firmly. He shifted, wincing as his injured leg bumped against the side of the bag, but he didn't let go. "This—the way my arm is falling asleep because you're leaning on it, and the fact that you're probably going to elbow me in the ribs at least twice before morning—that's real."

You let out a tiny, breathy laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like sweat, dried blood, and the faint, lingering scent of cinnamon—a smell that shouldn't have been there but somehow always followed him.

"I won't elbow you," you whispered.

"Oh, you definitely will. You’re a violent sleeper; I saw you in the living quarters," he teased, his voice thick with exhaustion. "But I'll forgive you. Provided you promise not to leave me for a more coordinated tribute tomorrow."

"Peeta," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," he whispered, his breath warm against your forehead. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your hair, a gesture so natural and tender it made your chest ache. "Now, try to sleep. I’ll stay awake for a while. I’m too concussed to dream anyway—all I see are bright lights and very confused squirrels."

"You need sleep more than I do," you argued, though your eyelids were already feeling heavy.

"Sweetheart, if I close my eyes, I’m just going to think about how cold my toes are. Talk to me instead. Tell me something... tell me what you’re going to do when we get back. Aside from avoiding bakeries."

You smiled into the dark, the terror of the arena momentarily pushed aside by the steady warmth of the boy holding you. You began to whisper a story—a quiet, rambling plan about a house with a garden that didn't grow poisonous berries—and slowly, the tension bled out of both of you.

As the frost began to silver the leaves outside your hollow, you finally drifted off, tucked safely into the space between Peeta’s heart and the rest of the fake world you were trapped in.

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You never understood how people could fail tests. In your brain, it wasn’t that hard to study nor was it to apply oneself. But kids your age were so focused on dating and sports and whatever other bullshit. To be completely honest, you were a proud and confident nerd.

The bell rung loudly throughout the school, signaling the end of third period. Silently, you shoved your books and pencils into your bag as everyone else rushed out of the room. As you were packing up your belongings, you couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between your teacher and fellow classmate.

“Clay, this is the fourth time you’ve failed a quiz in my class. I’m sorry, but if you bomb another I’ll be forced to fail you for the semester.” Mrs. Robinson warned the boy.

Clay Barton was the epitome of jock. Lacrosse was huge at your school, so obviously he was the captain. Girls flocked over him like he was some sort of celebrity. Every single guy wanted to be friends with him, or actually be him. You didn’t see the appeal.

Nevertheless—you were quite shocked hearing that he was failing so miserably. Clay didn’t strike you for the dumb type, not at all. He’d have to have some sort of intelligence to lead an entire team, so how could he be so academically challenged?

But then you remembered how others treated him. People talked to him like he was the rarest gem on earth—which typically leads to the growth of a huge ego. You could imagine that Clay thought he didn’t have to work hard for anything—that’d it just be handed to him.

Then it’s about time someone humbled him.

You scoffed lightly and threw your bag over your shoulder, tuning out of the world around you. Just as you were walking out of the classroom, your teacher stopped you in your tracks.

“Y/n, can you come here for a second, please?” The older woman asked, waving you over with her wrinkly fingers.

“What’s up Mrs. Robinson?” You huffed, adjusting your backpack strap.

“I’m sure you heard some of that..” She rolled her eyes in a perfect circle, referring to her exchange with Clay. You nodded, prompting her to go on. “I’ve assigned him a tutor, and…it’s you.”

Your jaw almost detached from your face. There was no way that you could tutor the Clay Barton. If he didn’t pay attention in Mrs. Robinson’s class that was beyond easy, why would he even give you the time of day?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea..” You said anxiously, face twisting in irritation.

“Look, I know he’s…well..himself. But you’re one of the only student helpers signed up for our tutoring program. He really needs this, you’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Mrs. Robinson reassured, a soft smile gracing her thin lips.

It’s true, you were a smart girl. But there were a million other things you’d rather utilize your smarts for. Tutoring Clay would be like climbing Mount Everest. Based off of the few interactions you’ve shared, he was such a prick.

Mr. Barton put gum in your hair in 3rd grade. In middle school he threw a basketball at your head in gym class. And in 9th grade he bumped into you, making your lunch spill all over the cafeteria floor. You already weren’t popular—so that was just the icing on the cake.

Despite this, you knew nobody else would be willing to tutor him. The kind hearted part of you would hate to see his downfall, it’d be pathetic. Thus, you swallowed your ego painfully and agreed.

💻....

The day of your first tutoring session came fast, faster than you would’ve liked. Your shoes pattered against the tiles of the library, all else quiet. You were not excited for this at all. He probably wouldn’t even be here, then you’d just look like an idiot.

Astonishingly, he was there. Clay Barton actually showed. For some reason, you felt a little spark when you turned the corner and saw him. It was odd, you felt…excitement. No, no, annoyance is what you felt.

Clay sat comfortably in the plush library seat, eyes averted down to his phone. A grey, cotton t shirt hugged his muscular frame, and black sweatpants pooled at his waist. You couldn’t help but gag at how effortlessly good he looked.

Eventually he noticed you staring at him and raised a brow suspiciously. Great, now he probably thinks you’re a pervert. Quickly, you collected yourself and walked over to him, looking his figure up and down when you got close enough.

“Sup, gum girl.” Clay greeted, looking up at you from where he sat. Gum girl—the name he’d gifted you in 3rd grade when he smeared that sticky pink bubblegum in your gorgeous hair.

“Hi Clay, I see you’re still immature as always.” You shot back, giving him a fake smile.

“What? You don’t like your nickname?” He teased. Clay clearly enjoyed messing with you, that much was clear and had been your entire lives. It was unclear why you’d thought he’d change since the two of you were older now.

“As much as I’d love to sit here and listen to your stupid jokes, we have work to do. Well, you specifically have work to do.” You reminded while grabbing your English textbook out of your bag. You noticed his smirk seemed to drop at the mention of work. Weird.

“Yeah, yeah.” He acknowledged, getting his supplies out as well.

“What exactly is it that you don’t get with this? Mrs. Robinson’s class is so easy.” You questioned, your tone judgmental.

Clay squinted his eyes at you. Why was it that you always had to act so cocky? Even when asking such a simple question like that. He knew he was one to talk about arrogance—but you were on a whole different level.

You carried yourself with this quiet confidence that was seemingly unshakable. Yet—you had no friends and absolutely no social status yet you had the audacity to judge him? Yeah, no.

Clay adjusted the silver ring on his finger, staring into your eyes that seemed distant and guarded. You always looked that way. Whenever he glanced at you in the hallways, or at lunch, or during class. There was some type of wall that restricted you from being…normal and open—from being liked even.

You were just so….nitpicky.

“Everything…you’re gonna have to explain it to me. Nice and slow.” He spoke calmly, shifting his body so that he could face you more.

“Seriously? God…ok fine. So we’ll have to start with chapter one…” You groaned, beginning to explain the material.

The library seemed still. Whilst you were explaining the numerous articles from your textbook, Clay couldn’t stop thinking about how much you ticked him off.

Ever since the two of you were kids, it was always just something about you that rubbed him the wrong way. But it wasn’t just your arrogance or the fact you thought you were Albert Einstein. It was something else he felt. Clay pretended he’d sneak looks at you because you were weird—because you were so peculiar that he just had to look. He hated to admit that maybe he was looking because you peaked his interest in other ways.

It was so frustrating how soft your lips looked as you spoke, how your delicate fingers glided across the old book pages—how, every now and then, you’d look up at him with those stupidly pretty eyes. You were just so vexing.

“Do you got that first bit?” You interrupted his thoughts. God…you were so serious, he’d have to get you to lighten up a bit.

“Yeah, keep going.” Clay nodded, running a hand through his thick black hair.

You went on and on, explaining the various things he needed explained, ‘nice and slow’. You were so focused in on the work, barely engaging with the boy directly. Therefore when you did, you were aggravated to see that his mind seemed to be elsewhere. He was literally staring into the distance.

“Hey!” You snapped, causing him to shoot his gaze to you. “Pay attention, or you’ll never get this.” You said as you shoved your finger in his face.

“Who says I’m not paying attention?” Clay snickered, flicking your finger away. You shook your head, leaning back in your chair.

“I’m serious, Clay. Failing 4 tests? Really? You can’t be the star player of lacrosse if you aren’t passing English.” You pointed out.

He knew you were right. Lacrosse was everything to him and if he kept up this behavior he could kiss it all goodbye. That couldn’t happen, not now, not ever.

“Whatever..” he mumbled, motioning for you to go on with his hand.

Hours upon hours passed of you breaking down everything to Clay. He hated to say it, but by the end of it he’d actually learned a few things. Who would’ve thought?

You yawned sleepily as you began to toss your things back in your bag, not particularly caring about organization. You wasted no time getting up from your seat and readying yourself to say goodbye.

“Hold up-do you got a ride?” Clay asked, standing up after you.

“Nope, I walked. My place isn’t far from here.” You explained, running a hand over your face.

Clay glanced outside, it was completely dark. As much as he wanted to get away from you, it didn’t feel right leaving you to walk alone at night.

“I’ll give you a ride.” He decided, beginning to walk before you could say anything.

“What, no! It’s fine, it’s like a 5 minute walk.” You argued, quickly catching up to him. He didn’t even look at you before replying.

“Nope, you’re not gonna walk alone at night. It’s not safe.”

“Since when do you care?” You grumbled.

Was it so hard to just accept a ride from him? Who in their right mind seriously would prefer walking completely unaccompanied at 10 pm? You were just hard headed.

“Since I realized if you were to get murdered out there I’d be the last person to have seen you. Therefore I’d be a suspect. I think I’m good off that.” He reasoned.

Though what he said was a possibility, it wasn’t really the real reason he wanted to take you home. Somewhere inside of him—he cared. He wanted you to get home safely. But the infamous Clay Barton would never accept that truth.

“Oh..so you’re doing it for you own benefit. Why am I not surprised?” You mumbled the last part to yourself as you followed him out of the library.

Clay didn’t respond to your comment, opting to not entertain your foolishness. The two of you continued walking until you arrived at his vehicle—if that’s what you could even call it.

“uhh, there’s no way I’m getting on that thing.” you were practically revolted by the sight of his motorcycle. Of course he’d ride one of those things.

“Y/n…just get on the bike.” He sighed, moving to hand you a helmet.

“Ok, I know you have this whole bad boy scenario going on but there is no way on gods green earth that I am risking my li-“ You tried to speak but before you knew it he was picking you up.

You were stunned. Did Clay Barton just pick you up? Like it was nothing at that? Clay plopped you down on the the seat, hands firmly holding your waist.

“Just shut up for once, alright?” He squeezed your flesh to further his point, shoving the helmet down on your head.

And thank the lord he did. Your face flushed in embarrassment, teeth sinking down onto your bottom lip. You hated how he just manhandled you like that—though you hated how good it felt more.

“Hold onto me.” Clay ordered as he saddled the motorcycle, throwing his helmet on. At that point, you were so defeated that you just listened to him.

Your arms slipped around his mid section, holding tightly. You could feel the pattern of his breathing, and the warmth that radiated off of his body. Your eyes squeezed shut—you tried your best to zone out of the moment, and pretend you weren’t feeling the things you were.

Clay couldn’t understand why his heart was all of a sudden beating so fast. The adrenaline from riding the bike was long gone, so it couldn’t have been that. It definitely wasn’t because you were so close to him. It certainly wasn’t because he could feel your chest pressed against his back. He was just…annoyed that he was forced to take you home.

The ride was silent and long—somehow 3 minutes felt like 3 hours. All you wanted to do was go to your room and wash off all of this tom foolery. You swiftly removed the helmet from your head, dropping it into his hands like it was some sort of disease.

“Thanks for the ride..” you cleared your throat, nodding to him. Truthfully, it was really nice of him to give you a lift.

“No problem..just didn’t wanna be wrongfully accused.” Clay joked, his brown eyes burning into your own. You blinked before turning around and walking to your front door, not daring to say another word. “See you tomorrow!” He called out while reving that stupid engine.

You waved curtly as you fumbled with your house keys. As soon as you were in the comfort of your home you leaned against the front door, face in your hands.

This was NOT going to be easy.

💭(・・?).. 📓 ‧₊˚ ➢ .

peters hands move from his ears to your arms, eyes still screwed shut as he begins to come down slowly. you thank him quietly, pulling the mask off his head and placing your headphones over his ears.

the noise cancelling feature turns on immediately, blocking out everything but the blood rushing through his ears and his erratic heartbeat. Peter’s eyes are still screwed shut, his grip on your arms is bruising, but you don’t dare move, watching intently as peter slowly comes down.

you could hear the muffled ‘arachnid hormones back to baseline,’ come from his mask, chest still heaving and bottom lip trembling as his grip on you finally loosens.

peter slumps slightly, eyes fluttering open just enough to make out your silhouette. he groans softly, dragging himself until he’s flush against you, his body falling limp the moment your arms wrap around him.

his head is still spinning, but the silence helps ground him, the warmth of your body balancing him out as he gains his bearings.

your legs are asleep by the time peter moves to take off the headphones. he looks at you with a small smile, face still bloodied from whatever he’d been fighting with this time.

“hi,” he whispers, a drowsy smile on his face as you brush a stray curl out of his eyes. you can’t help but smile back at him, scanning his face to asses the extent of the injuries you could see.

“hey bug boy,” you whisper back, letting your nerves settle as he nuzzles into you. “still overwhelming?” you ask, he nods.

“I don’t know what wrong with me,” he says, waiting a second before pulling away from you. not a second later you’re dragging him to the restroom, pulling out your first aid kit and having him sit on the counter.

“nothings wrong with you,” he wants to scoff at your words, but the sincerity in them almost makes him want to believe you. “it’s just change, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” your soft smile makes his heart clench.

“yeah, maybe,” he replies, eyes following your every moment as you clean his wounds. neither of you say anything as you stand between his legs, dabbing the blood off his busted lip before mumbling ‘okay’ as you finish.

“can i stay here for a bit? I just- i don’t want to go back out there yet,” he admits, you nod quickly.

“always,” you reply. peter thanks you, hopping off your counter and watching you rummage through your drawers. “here, these should fit you, if you wanted to shower or change,” you offer him a hoodie and sweats.

peter graciously accepts your offer, slipping into bed with you after towel drying his hair. your fingers scratch his scalp, tension leaving his body with every movement.

“you know im here for you, right? even if i can’t help with everything, im still here,” you say quietly. peter’s eyes prick with tears, nodding as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“thank you, angel,” peter whispers, breath warm against your skin. you don’t say anything, only kiss the top of his head. he lets his eyes close, focusing on the rhythmic thump of your heart to lull him to sleep.

Silence.

You pulled the pen from between your lips and when you looked up again, there he was.

Spider-Man stood awkwardly in your window, still dressed head to toe in the familiar red-and-blue spandex. Lately, it felt like that was all he’d ever worn.

One hand rested against the frame while the other was propped in his hip.

He was forcing himself to act casual like he hadn’t just been outside your window for five minutes. Like he hadn’t been admiring you trying to focus on whatever you were reading. Your hair over your shoulders, the pen between your lips that you kept biting down on and apart of him wished it was him-

“I was gonna knock,” he blurted, louder than intended.

“But you didn’t.”

“You… didn’t exactly give me the chance.”

“At my window?”, Your tone was dry but held teasing.

He had never been more grateful to be wearing the mask. He was certain his face was as pink as the night-gown you were wearing.

“…It was open?” He looked back at the window and back to you.

A smile tugged at your lips.

“Hey, last time I tried your front door,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger, “that cat declared war on me.”

“He’s harmless.”

“‘Harmless’-“ He used his fingers to make quotation marks “-doesn’t usually involve attempted murder.”

“You showed up dressed as Spider-Man.” Because it’s not like the cat knew who he was.

“I was working.”

“You scared him.”

He scoffed in disbelief “He scared me.”

“He-“ You emphasized, “-doesn’t like spiders.”

He paused to say something but then muttered under his breath. “Well I don’t like cats but you don’t see me biting him.”

A giggle escaped you. He was ridiculously easy to wind him up.

Peter let out a defeated groan before stepping inside, carefully closing the window so that it wouldn’t slam in the breeze. He wandered over with the sort of tired shuffle that suggested he’d been on his feet for far too long before letting himself drop onto the rug opposite you, crossing his legs to mirror your own.

His mask tilted towards the candles.

“…Are we summoning something?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He gestured vaguely around the room.

“The candles… the circle of books…” He looked between you and your notebook. “I’m just saying, if a ghost appears, I’m leaving. I can’t deal with that today.”

You snorted with a laughter knowing he was half-serious.

“No, you idiot.” With a lift of your finger, the study books closed showing him the front covers. “I’m studying.”

“Oh.”

“You know… like normal people our age.”

He looked down at himself.

“I am currently sitting on your bedroom floor as Spider-Man.”

Touché.

“And you’ve got…” He motioned around the room again.

Then looked back up at you in your frilly gown, one sleeve hanging off your shoulder.

You raised your brow slightly with smile of amusement.

“I’ve got…?”

“…Super cool witchy powers?” He tilted his head which made you believe he was hiding that cheesy grin under there.

You shook your head with a small smile, “By New York’s standards, I’d say we’re probably the normal ones.”

Spider-man considered it for a second before sighing,“…That’s actually a little concerning.”

“It really is.”

He noticed you smiled a lot more with him. Maybe because you were laughing at him but he liked to think he was just hilarious. The way your eyes would twinkle or the way you’d laugh suddenly and place your hand over your mouth to downplay it. It warmed his heart every-time. Every-time he’d decide to keep a distance with you. He didn’t know whether it was a coincidence or a test for him.

You reached over, stacking a few textbooks together.

He picked one up.

“‘Introduction to Quantum Mechanics?’”

“Mhm.”

He opened it, pretending to read.

“I know… some of this.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“I was gonna say.”

“I recognized ‘quantum’ and ‘mechanics’.”

“Well done, you’ve learnt it all now.” Your words dripped in sarcasm.

He half shrugged, “Well I understand you and that’s a reward in itself.”

You smiled, watching him carefully place the book back where he’d picked it up from.

“Besides, what do you need these for?” He asked, turning his attention back to you.

“Trying to learn abit about myself and what I can actually do or try to do.”

“That’s good. For you.”

He nodded slightly and managed to get his fingers on the hem of your dress. He took the lace frill between his gloved fingers and started playing with it like a child.

You looked at him with amusement.

“Speaking off, I had lunch with Kamala yesterday.” You suddenly remembered.

“Oh?” He said, now not really listening.

“At Dal’s.”

“…Delmar’s.” Or maybe he was.

You frowned, “I knew that.”

“You absolutely didn’t.” His tone was flat.

“I was close.”

“You were alphabetically close.”

You gave him a puzzled look.

“How did you even know that?”

He shrugged, “It’s on my patrol route.” Now tugging at the lace.

“So you’ve just happened to see me there?”

“…Maybe.”

You gave him a look,“Peter.”

He snapped his head up, “What?” His voice went high again.

He cleared his throat,“I’ve… happened to see you there a couple of times.” He said casually.

“A couple?” You questioned, believing it to be more than that.

“…Three.”

“You counted?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Right, you just remembered.” You lightly mocked him.

“I did!”

A smile tugged at your lips,“That’s oddly sweet.”

“Really?” He asked, almost hopeful.

Then you shrug, “Or a little creepy.”

He slouched down,“I was hoping that wouldn’t be it.”

You smiled playfully and nudged his knee with yours.

“Kamala’s been asking about you.”

“Oh no.”

“‘Oh no?’” You brows furrowed and you whacked his hand away.

“Ow-“ He pulled his hand to his chest.

You gasped, “You don’t like her?”

“No-no, I do-I do.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing.”

“It’s not that.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “Last time we talked she asked me, like… seventeen questions.”

“Seventeen?”

“I counted those.”

“Why do you keep counting everything?”

He ignored you, “And in the space of like 5 minutes.”

You extended your legs beside him, “What about?”

“‘Why are there so many rules in time-travel?’ ‘Do the Avengers know fanfiction about them exists?’ ‘And why am I not in the New Avengers?’ ‘Why didn’t Thanos just double the resources in the universe?’” He threw his hands up exasperated.

You grinned.

“Well?”

“I don’t know!” He threw his hands up animatedly.

“You were there.” You pointed

“So were you!” He nudged your finger and pointed back.

You drop the pen and cracked your knuckles, “Yeah I was a little busy trying not to y’know, die.”

“But I’ll tell her you’ll swing by if I see her.”

His hands lifted immediately, “Woah, don’t promise anything.”

“I didn’t.” You already did.

“You implied.”

“I suggested.”

He let out a dramatic sigh and propped his chin on fist.

You smiled fondly, watching him. You always did around him. A part of you wanted to peel the mask off him. But you knew this was ‘Spider-Man’. And technically on duty. Which means he was here for something.

“So,” you said, “you’re either avoiding patrol…”

“I’m not.”

“…or you need something.”

He let out a feigned insulted gasp, “I don’t always need something.”

“You climbed through my bedroom window.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live twenty blocks away.”

“Can I not just say hello?”

His voice turned smug and his fingers found your ankles, almost caressing it, “You know they do call me the friendly-“

You pulled your ankle back, “Don’t. Finish that.” You shook your head.

He sighed like a child who was just told no, “…Okay.”

“I need your help.” He piped up again.

I knew it.

Your gaze softened, “You know you can just ask.”

“I know.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I just… don’t want to drag you into things.” His tone shifted heavier and you could tell he was avoiding your gaze.

You extended your hand and placed it on his knee in assurance, “You’re not ‘dragging’ me to anything. It’s my choice.”

He then looked at you and down at your hand. For a moment, he just let himself embrace it.

He tilted his head up, “Have you ever heard of something called V-Max?”

Your eyebrows pinched together.

“Drugs?” You suggested.

“Not drugs.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, “I keep hearing the name.”

“From who?”

“Different people.”

“Different how?”

“You know the attacks that have been happening recently?” He asked.

You nodded, “The thing jumping into different bodies?”

“Exactly that. Whoever is behind all this is looking for V-max”

You straightened up, “But nobody actually knows what it is?”

“Nope.” He shook his head.

“So you’ve looked into it?”

“I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Police records?” You questioned.

“Nothing.”

“Online?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head again.

A quiet huff escaped beneath his mask.

“But I did speak to Bill Metzger.”

You quickly recalled where you remembered that name, “The head of Damage Control?”

“Yep.”

“What’d he say?”

“That he’d never heard of it.” He said back almost immediately.

You frowned, picking up on the doubt in his tone,“You don’t believe him.”

Peter was quiet for a beat.

“…I don’t know.”

“I asked Yelena. She didn’t know either.”

“You asked Yelena before me?” You tilted your head slightly.

He paused and you’re certain his white lens widened.

“…No?”

“That’s not the point-“ he waved his hand, “I don’t have any proof.”

“So why ask me?”

“Because…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m chasing.”

You thought about his words momentarily.

“You think Damage Control knows more than they’re saying.”

“I think…” He paused. “I think Metzger knows… something.” The frustration evident in his tone.

“But?”

“But the last thing I need is to start accusing the people who are supposed to be helping this city.”

You nodded slowly, “I get it.”

He let out a quiet breath, “I just… I can’t shake the feeling.”

“And if maybe that thing is a telepath then you could possible track it down - better than anyone else here?” He said quieter, like he didn’t really want to ask.

“You got a face or name?” You ask but you already knew what the answer would be.

“Not yet.”

You clasp your hands together, “If I start trying to go through the minds of everyone in New York, it’ll give me an aneurism.” You said straight and honest.

“I-I know, and I’m not asking that. I’ve seen what can happen when you do that. I just- If I find anything, could you possibly maybe try - when I narrow it down?”

You looked at him for a few moments and for a second you weren’t looking at the mask, you were looking at the eyes behind the lens.

“Yes, I’ll try.” You agreed on a softer tone.

Your hand leaves him and you pick up the pen again, tapping against your notebook.

“Well, I haven’t heard anything about V-Max.”

Spider-man sighed, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere with this.

“But…”

His head lifted.

“I have heard some things. Not anything specific.”

“But?” He gestured to go on, more intrigued.

Anything would be better than nothing right now.

“I don’t know…” You frowned. “Call it a gut feeling.”

“Telepathy?”

“Gut feeling.”

“The powers?”

“Peter” You said flat.

“Sorry-sorry. It’s just-they’ve done a lot of good, y’know. They clean up after attacks and they keep dangerous tech out of the wrong hands.”

You understand where he’s coming from. Spider-man was working alongside the city right now and he’s already had the world turn against him before.

“I’m not saying they’re the bad guys but you have to remember the way the people believe , the others don’t always.” You advised him.

You gestured between the two of you, “They trust heroes until heroes start asking questions and I mean we’ve seen that first-hand.”

Peter didn’t interrupt.

“Sometimes I feel their fear and doubt.” You paused looking down at your hands.

“That doesn’t stop just because they’ve decided to work with us. Not for us, for themselves.”

Spider-man was quiet but he didn’t look away from you. He knew you had your own fears, mostly about yourself. About not knowing. And he was going through the same thing, not that he’d share it.

“If I were you,” you said quietly, “I’d keep looking into V-Max.”

You looked back up at him and he nodded once.

“But I’d keep an eye on Damage Control too.”

“You really think so?”

You gave a small shrug, “I just think it’s better to be safe than sorry. Hope can turn into fear very quickly, Pete.”

He let out a low exhale and was about to speak up.

Peter suddenly winced, groaning. His hand flew up to the side of his head.

You practically lunged over to him, “Peter?”

“I’m fine.” He said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not fine.” You said concerned, your hands holding him by his shoulders.

“I thought you weren’t getting them anymore.” You said quieter, examining him as he avoided looking at you.

“They’re… mostly gone.”

“Mostly?” You lowered your head.

He looked away.

“Once or twice.”

“They’re manageable.”

You knew that tone. And you knew it meant it definitely was not manageable.

You used one hand to turn his chin so he’d look at you, “Let me help.”

“It’s okay.” He raised his hands to stop you.

“It’ll take a minute.” You pushed, trying to get him to let you help.

“I-I’m fine, really-.”

You reached for the edge of his mask but stopped before you could lift it.

He paused when he felt you about to unravel him. He stiffened up, like he was bracing himself.

You felt his eyes on you but he didn’t stop you.

You peel the mask back enough to rest on the tip of his nose.

His lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying to hide any emotion. To protect you and himself.

Like he hadn’t used these very lips to kiss you some nights. To make you feel at peace when the world was too loud.

His jaw was clenched and tight, and for a second you both held your breath.

You lifted your hand, your fingers grazing his jaw.

You applied a light amount of pressure and the tension beneath your touch eased almost instantly.

He let out a sigh of relief and his mind and senses suddenly became clearer.

His shoulders relaxed.

He looked peaceful. Which for Peter Parker was a rare sight. Something you only ever saw when he’d rarely let his guard down and let you help him. You didn’t understand, you could ease his mind. Help him so much more. But he never wanted that to be your burden.

His head lulled forward and he placed his hand over yours, holding you against him. He laid his other hand on your thigh, feeling your skin through the thin fabric.

You let your eyes close.

His forehead rested against you and then the hand over yours slid down to wrap around your wrist. You turned slightly, nose bumping into his as you let him lean on you.

His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you continued to relieve his mind and body at peace.

You didn’t look into his mind, you never did.

Not unless someone gave permission but even then, a part of you dreaded it. Because whatever emotions they’d felt, it stayed within you. You knew you’d do it for him. But ever since four years ago, this was the closest he would let you come.

BEEP. BEEP..

“Armed robbery in progress. Helll’s Kitchen. Officers requesting immediate assistance.”

The police scanner built into his suit crackled to life.

Peter opened his eyes.

“Close your eyes.” You gently commanded.

“The city’s got great timing.” He forced a light tone and the corner of his lips lifted as an attempted smile.

He wished he could stay. He so desperately wished he would.

Your eyes open and you looked at him in longing and something else… not disappointment, just wistful.

He turned his head, his lips press against your inner palm, lingering for a few moments before he pulled the mask back down.

Your gaze softened and your hand catches his wrist.

“Peter-“

“I have to.” He doesn’t let you finish. Because he knows it’s easier this way. He doesn’t let you ask because when you do it makes him want to just be Peter Parker. But that’s not him anymore.

You let out a heavy sigh and you know what the inevitable is between you two but every night you hope for a different outcome.

“I know.”

He climbed to his feet and crossed towards the window.

You followed behind.

He rested a hand against the frame and turned to you.

“Swing by later?” You offered.

“You’ll still take me in?” His voice was softer and tired.

“Kept you so far, haven’t I?” You attempted to ease the tension.

You felt the more genuine smile on his face this time.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He opened the window again, wide. He climbed over the ledge, one leg still dangling in.

“Be careful,” you murmured.

His head dipped in a small nod.

“Always.”

Then he was gone.

You stood there for another moment before looking down. You used your other hand to trace your fingers over your palm. Where his kiss lingered.

You heard a jingle and snapped your head up to see the familiar black cat perched on your window.

The body under the blankets shifts slightly and you hear a couple sniffles as you walk closer to the bed.

“Hey,” you sit beside him at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair from his sad eyes. They were red from crying and the bags under his eyes were very prominent. You sigh; he didn’t get much sleep last night.

Bob makes a confused noise seeing you, “What - what are you -” 

He’s not used to you just popping by the tower. In fact, you basically never come to the tower besides that day you first met the team. Not that Bob doesn’t want you around, but usually when you guys are together, you go to yours. Your house is nice, quiet, and normal. Plus, less likely of a chance of you having to run into Valentina compared to the tower.

“You didn’t show up for lunch and when you weren’t answering my texts, I got worried.” You cup the side of his face, thumb resting on his check, “Called Lena and she told me what happened with John and Val yesterday. She said you’d been in here for a while.”

Shit. Bob deflates when he hears that. He forgot about your plans. His hands come up to his face and he groans into them, frustrated.

Yesterday had been a bad day for him. He woke up feeling low, getting up and brushing his teeth felt like a chore. He was practically counting down the hours until he could escape with you for a couple days. But Val wanted to see him. Said she wanted an update on his powers' progress, to see if he was still ‘letting’ the void consume him in the aftermath. 

Val made him try sparing with John yesterday. And Bob really didn’t mean to push John that hard. But Val’s critiquing glare and muttered words of disappointment got to his head and he pushed the super soldier into the wall, eyes glowing golden as he felt the rush of power surge through his veins. John crumbled with an ‘oof!’, obviously caught off guard.

Then the guilt crept in. He mumbled an apology as he lifted John up off the floor, his eyes glued to the floor as he made a beeline for his room, ignoring Valentina’s shrill call of his name. He’d been wallowing in his room ever since.

Bob just wanted to prove himself. To show he could control it. He felt like such a burden to the team, unable to help on missions because while Sentry was a welcomed asset, Void wasn't. And he couldn't be one without the other. The fact that you continued to date him after learning about his “problems” was astounding to him. And he repaid you by leaving you hanging and forgetting all about your date.

“Fuck- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to forget! I swear, I didn’t, I-”

“It’s alright! It’s alright! That doesn’t matter now, baby, okay?” Bob looked like he still wanted to argue, but you just smiled, still petting the top of his head, “Want company?”

You wanted to leave it open for him. You learned early on in your relationship with Bob that when he got like this, he either wanted to be left alone in bed or for you to slip in cuddle. You were the only person he’d actually want around him when he got bad like this. If he shook his head, ‘no’ it was fine, you’d give him the space he needed and go out into the common room.

He stays silent, but nods, pulling the covers of his bed open so you slide in next to him.

When you get settled in bed, Bob scoots closer to you and his head finds its place on your chest, his cheek pressed against the fabric of your shirt.

You can feel the dampness on his face from the tears he spilled earlier. You pull him close, kissing the top of his head.

“I’m sorry I’m so much to deal with. You shouldn’t have to deal with someone like this.”

“Stop. I love you, Bob. I’m here for you no matter what, I don’t want anyone else.” Bob doesn’t say anything as he sniffles. His hold on you tightens “You don’t need to be afraid, I’m not going anywhere”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I don’t know how you tolerate me, Sentry, and Void. I’m a fucking ticking time bomb because of them.”

“Hey – I love you, okay? I love every part of you. And yes, that means I love all of you, Sentry, void, and most importantly, you Bob. They’re part of you, so why would I love them any less?”

“I just, I worry one day I’ll be too much. You’ll realize how much better you deserve, get tired of me and -” he chokes up and looks away. He couldn’t say those last two words. ‘Leave me’. That’s what Bob was always afraid of. Being too much, driving you away with his issues. That you’d soon realize you deserved better, someone smart, more attractive and didn’t have all these issues.

You tip his chin up, meeting his watery blue eyes, “Believe me, I will never be tired of you Robby.”

He lets out a shaky sigh, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, “I love you, Robby. Always. Even when we’re old and gray, when my memories are gone and I’m asking you where you put the remote and you have to remind me that it’s in my hand or when you start losing your hair and start looking like Professor X.”

You hear a snort, and pull back to face him, "I think I know what that smile means." You proudly smile at the fact when Bob shyly ducks his head down before he kisses you, full on the lips, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just being here. Sticking with me.”

“You never have to thank me for that honey.”

Bob nods as you kiss the tip of his nose, “Wanna stay in bed, or join the rest of the crew for a movie night? Ava said they were watching Airplane.” Bob doesn’t bother answering, instead he just pulls you impossibly closer, brags the remote from his bedside table and flips on your guy’s favorite movie, “A movie night for two then.”

God, this is why Bob loves you so much. You make things lighter, easier. An escape from this superhero life he didn’t want. You make him feel like he can actually live a normal life, a life he didn’t think he’d ever get, one he didn’t deserve. You’re what he cherishes most in this world and he didn’t know how he got so lucky for you to love him back.

Halfway through the second movie, it felt like a mission to keep your eyes open. You were just so comfortable, it was hard not to. The pillow you were laying on smelled so much like Bob's cologne, and his blanket was so plush and soft, it felt like you were wrapped in a warm hug (and the fact Bob was basically your personal space heater helped a lot too).

You were just about to doze off when Bob's voice cut through the air.

 “Wait….”

“What?” You sleepily mumble.

“… Do you really think I’ll lose my hair?”

You snort, eyes closed as you pat what you think is his cheek, “Never in a million years babe.”

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Boone’s face was the first you saw. His goofy, contagious grin flashed across the screen. “Alright, it’s rollin’,” he said, flipping the camera to show Tyler in the driver’s seat. “How we feelin’ today, T?” 

Tyler beamed, his smile causing his eyes to crinkle the way you loved so much. As annoying as it was to constantly be competing with tornadoes for Tyler’s affection, you had to admit that his passion was admirable. 

“Oh, we’re feelin’ pretty good, Boone– why don’t you show the viewers what we’re chasin’ today!”

The screen panned over towards the windshield, showing the storm ahead. The footage was a little grainy, but the impending storm in the distance was obvious.

“Ain’t she a beaut?” Boone marveled. 

“Now y’all got fireworks last week– this week what do you say we give rockets a go?” Tyler said, just as Boone turned the camera back on him. 

“Idiots,” you mumbled to yourself, shaking your head. You rested your phone against the utensil jar, propping it up so that you could continue to maneuver around the kitchen and listen at the same time. 

After a while, you got lost in the recipe you were trying, tuning out your boyfriend and his friends.

“Alright, Boone– Lilly?” Tyler said as you continued to chop the vegetables on the cutting board in front of you. “You ready?” 

“Oh, I’m ready!” you heard Lilly chime back. 

“Here we go, folks– as always, don’t try this at home!” 

You briefly turned your attention back towards the video as they began actively driving into the tornado, your view limited to Boone’s shaky camera work as Tyler’s driving undoubtedly turned chaotic. 

To avoid motion sickness, you looked back towards the food in front of you.

“She’s gettin’ close, boys!” Lilly yelled. 

You heard their collective cheers and hollers. 

“Anchoring time–” Tyler said. 

There was a brief pause before you heard Boone. “Hit the button, T–”

“I am hitting the button,” Tyler said firmly. 

“Tyler–” Lilly said. It was the hint of urgency in her tone that had you looking back towards your phone again. 

“It’s jammed–” Tyler said. “Here, gimme the screwdriver.”

Boone had clearly ceased thinking about camera angles. All you saw was the edge of Tyler’s face in the corner of the screen.  

“Tyler, we gotta lock it down–”

“I know, Boone. I’m tryin’ here– the damn button’s stuck again.”

“Guys–” Lilly warned. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you watched the frame. 

“Guys, it’s getting closer.”

“I know–” Tyler said. “Boone, move your hand.”

“C’mon, man, let me try–”

“I’m telling you, it’s stuck–”

“Look out!” you jumped at Lilly’s sudden scream, followed by the sound of a loud bang, that echoed even through the screen. 

“Oh shit–” Boone yelled, camera flying. 

You grabbed your phone urgently, but all you could see was the ceiling of Tyler’s truck. Suddenly, gear was flying through the screen– almost as if the truck was flipping. You held your breath, panic and dread flooding through your entire body as you watched helplessly. 

“Hang on to someth–” Tyler’s voice was suddenly cut off along with Boone’s feed. 

The Tornado Wranglers live stream has ended. 

Even after their video went dark, you continued staring at your phone– like you were hoping Boone would pop back up any second, laughing like this was some sick, twisted joke. 

Except you waited– and waited, and Boone never popped back up. 

And neither did Tyler. 

Frantically, you pulled up your contacts and clicked on Tyler’s name. You had an unspoken agreement that no matter what he was doing during a chase– if you called, he answered. 

So that’s exactly what you did. 

But your nerves weren’t settled. In fact, you stopped breathing all together when Tyler’s phone went straight to voicemail– something he swore he’d never do. 

Hoping that he just had bad service, you called a second time– and then a third. But each time you heard Tyler’s voice telling you to leave a message at the beep, you felt the pool of panic inside of you rising higher and higher. 

“C’mon Tyler,” you muttered to yourself. 

Stupidly, you let your hopes get up when Lilly’s phone actually rang. But when that went to voicemail too, your hopes just about shattered. You didn’t even bother to try Boone– he may have been the camera guy, but he almost never had his own phone within reach. 

After your fifth attempt to reach Tyler, you finally did leave a message. 

“Hey, it’s me. I was watching the livestream when it cut out and I–” your voice cracked, causing you to stop and take a shaky breath. “Listen, I just need to know that you’re okay. So please call me back.”

With that, you hung up the phone, setting it on the counter after finally realizing it probably wouldn’t be beneficial to try calling him a sixth time– no matter how badly you wanted to. You stared ahead out the window that was over the sink. It was blue skies where you were– just a few wispy, thin clouds overhead. Nothing that remotely resembled what Tyler had just driven through.  

You didn’t even know where he was chasing today. You’d meant to ask when he’d called you last night from his motel room, but you’d gotten distracted by the dog whining to go out and ultimately forgot. Now, you had no way to contact him and no idea where he was…  

Suddenly, a sob bubbled in your throat. Before you could filter or control it, you were letting out a shaky gasp– shoulders shuddering as you gripped the edge of the counter and doubled over. 

You felt it everywhere– from your mind down to your toes, your entire body reacted to the cruel, impossible idea of something happening to Tyler. 

Maybe he was fine, you told yourself. Maybe Boone just dropped his phone and the feed cut– But even as the thought crossed your mind, you knew it was ridiculously unlikely. You saw those things go flying– you heard Lilly’s scream. 

Maybe the car flipped, maybe it was crushed. 

Maybe Tyler was pulled right from his seat, tossed into the oncoming storm. 

Maybe he was hit with flying debris, his body mangled and bruised and broken–

“No,” you whimpered to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no– please– please don't take him, please don't take him.”

You weren't even sure who you were pleading to, all you knew was that you couldn’t imagine Tyler not being okay. He was the strong one– always steady, always certain. He was your rock, the person you leaned on for absolutely everything. And the idea of him being hurt somewhere was unfathomable. Tyler didn’t get scared– Tyler didn’t get hurt. Tyler drove into oncoming tornadoes and stayed strong. 

To your absolute despair, all you could do in the upcoming hours while you waited for any sort of news, was hope to God that was still the case. 

Eventually, you found a home on the kitchen floor– back against the cabinets and knees hugged tightly to your chest to try and withstand the dread raging inside of you. 

…

Tyler put his truck in park outside of the house before running a hand through his damp, windblown hair. After the day he’d had, he’d never been happier to be home. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d flipped in the truck. Thanks to the roll cage, they wound back upright with next to no damage– but Tyler knew it’d been his fault. The stupid rods had malfunctioned again– something Tyler had been meaning to take a look at for the past month. Except every time they got stuck, he’d managed to fix the jam before the storms actually hit. But this time, he’d been too late. 

Luckily, his two passengers were even bigger adrenaline junkies than he was. The truck had barely landed back on its wheels before Boone was hollering and pounding his fist against the ceiling in excitement. And Lilly wasn’t far behind him. Meanwhile, all Tyler could do was look down at his shattered cell phone and hope to hell you wouldn’t need to reach him for the rest of the night. 

As soon as Tyler walked through the front door of your shared house, he noticed signs of you everywhere. The lamp near your reading chair was turned on, and the blanket you always used was strewn across the couch messily. He noticed the mug resting on the coffee table, thinking to himself that it was almost certainly half full of the tea you always insisted on making at night but never finished. 

He smiled to himself, as he bent over to untie his muddy boots, eager to spend the rest of his night holding you close. 

He had barely managed to toe off his final boot when he heard shuffling from the kitchen. 

“Tyler?” 

He could instantly tell that something was off– your voice sounded so muffled and choked up.  

“Hey,” he said, turning to offer you a smile. But it faded from his face at the sight of you. Your body was trembling, shoulders slumped and arms wound tightly around yourself. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy from what looked like hours of crying. 

“Baby?” he said. 

In response, you covered your mouth and hunched over just in time for a sob to escape your lips. 

Instantly, Tyler’s stomach dropped to the floor. 

“Hey,” he said, hurrying forward. He hesitated, hands hovering near your shoulders. He’d never seen you like this– so fragile and broken and obviously devastated over something. But he had no fucking idea what it was– which meant, he had no fucking idea how to fix it. 

Your hair had fallen in your face, but he could still see the tears rolling steadily down your rosy cheeks as you gasped for air. 

“Hey,” he repeated gently, tilting his head down so that he was closer to your height. 

“I-I saw– And I thought–” you stammered frantically, jumping to the next sentence without finishing the first. 

In that moment, Tyler decided against his earlier hesitation and risked reaching for you. Just standing there and watching you fall apart went against every instinct he had– he wanted to protect you, keep you safe from anything that could cause this kind of harm. 

But as soon as his hands grazed your shoulder, Tyler knew that he’d made the wrong choice. The moment he made contact, you lunged forward– hands planting themselves on his chest before you gave him a shove. 

“You asshole!” you yelled through a sob. 

Tyler staggered backwards– more from being caught off guard by your sudden burst of anger, than from how hard you pushed him.

But he barely had time to recover before you were lunging for him a second time. Using what little energy you had, you shoved him again. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” you shouted. 

Tyler took a simple step back, eyes scanning the length of you– trying to decide what the hell he should do. When you attempted to push him for a third time, your arms barely had any energy left in them.

“Hey–” he breathed, gripping your wrists when they landed on his chest a fourth time. 

“Let go of me!” you yelled, wiggling from his grasp. “You’re an asshole, Tyler!”

“Stop,” he begged, releasing your wrists to wrap his arms around your shoulders. You fought his hold, fists colliding with his chest instead. But this time, he didn’t let go. 

“No!” you sobbed, but he could already feel you slowing down. Not like your shoves or fists hurt before, but with each pound, the impact grew lighter and lighter. 

“Stop,” he repeated, forcing you to his chest, despite your resistance. You were pushing him away– but everything about your demeanor screamed that you needed his comfort. 

Finally, whether it was his persistence or your exhaustion, you gave up fighting and let your body melt against his.  

Tyler planted one palm between your shoulder blades firmly and used the other to cup the back of your neck, anchoring you to him securely. As soon as Tyler tightened his hold on you, you erupted into a fit of sobs– like all the dam inside of you needed was just a little bit of pressure to break. The trembling turned into violent shaking, and you began gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it. 

And Tyler had no fucking idea what to do– 

So, he did the only thing he could do, which was hold onto you tightly and let you stain the front of his plain gray shirt with your tears. 

“I got you, baby,” Tyler whispered as he pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head. “You’re okay, I got you.” 

Eventually, he heard you take a ragged breath and pull away just enough to look up at him. Tyler cupped your jaw with his large hand and used his thumb to stroke your cheek. “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

You bit down on your quivering lip before speaking. “I-I was watching– I was watching Boone’s livestream when it cut out– and then, your phone– I couldn’t reach you. I- I called like– so many times, but you didn’t answer– I thought– I thought something had happened– I thought you were hurt– or-or worse–”

“Oh, baby,” Tyler exhaled, guilt spreading through him at the thought of you having to see whatever got streamed from the accident earlier. He was the reason you were so distraught in your shared kitchen at eleven o’clock. He was the reason your eyes were red rimmed and swollen. He was the reason your cheeks were stained with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“I thought I was gonna get a phone call– from the hospital or- or your mom or something– I didn’t think you’d- I didn’t think you’d come home, I thought you died,” You broke on the last admission, like something inside of you had cracked. You collapsed in on yourself, hunching over and wracking with heaving sobs.

Tyler pulled you back into his embrace, like he was the only thing preventing you from drowning. Gradually, his soft touch and gentle murmurs brought you to the surface again. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he repeated, lips ghosting along your temple. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

“But- the truck– it flipped–”

He nodded above you. “It did– I couldn’t get the screws bolted down in time. But we have the cage, the truck rolled right back upright. Everyone is fine. I mean, Boone might have a few loose screws, but there’s no tellin’ if that’s from the rolled truck–”

Your tone immediately hardened as you sharply pulled back again. “Are you seriously making jokes right now, Tyler?” 

And truthfully, Tyler wasn’t entirely sure how to react. He looked down at you pathetically, chest aching to see you so upset. You being this angry with him was uncharted territory. 

“You could have died!” you said loudly. “I know you think you are, but you’re not invincible, Tyler! This isn’t some movie where you get to drive into tornadoes completely unscathed ten times out of ten. This is our lives! I-I mean, what the hell were you thinking?”

”Everything’s okay–”

“Everything is not okay! I’m not okay! Do you know how helpless I felt? Watching that stupid livestream? I tried to call, but– but you didn’t answer, I couldn’t do anything but wait here! I mean, what if that had been me? What if you’d seen a video of me crashing my car– and then had no way to reach me? What if you had to spend all night wondering if you were going to get a call that I was dead in a ditch God-only-knows-where?”

For once, Tyler had no response. Because the truth was, he knew everything you were saying was right. He’d be equally angry and frustrated and horrified if the tables were turned. 

You wiped the tear falling down your cheek, lip quivering. “I– I can’t live in a world without you in it, Tyler. I really can’t–”   

In the deafening silence, he sighed. “I know,” he said quietly, stepping forward to bring you back into his embrace. He was surprised when you willingly let him wrap his arms around you, head falling to rest on his chest. 

Tyler’s hand ran through your hair. “I know. I’m okay, baby. I’m right here, I got you.”

He was okay. He was alive and he was right here– you could hear his heartbeat beneath you–  feel his breath against the side of your neck. He was alive and unharmed. 

You kept your eyes closed and tried to memorize the sound of his heartbeat. You let it seep into the cracks of your heart and heal whatever had been broken in the last few hours of worrying– wondering if he was alive. You focused on the way his arms felt around you– impossibly warm, and so, so safe. 

Gradually, your breathing and your mind slowed. Until all that was left was Tyler. 

Your voice was shaky when you finally pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you exhaled. “I didn’t like not being able to reach you.”

Tyler’s hand stroked your hair gently, “Baby, I’m so sorry I made you worry– my phone broke when we rolled. I’ll get a new one tomorrow, I promise.”

You nodded slowly and placed your hand against Tyler’s chest. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

You blinked a few times, realizing how tired you were. “Yeah–” you said, nodding. You felt Tyler’s heartbeat beneath your palm.   

Each beat reminding you that he was here and he was alive and he was okay. 

“Can you–” your voice cracked slightly, making you wince. “Can you please just stay with me the rest of the night? I just–” you glanced down at the floor, embarrassed to admit how much you needed him. “I just need to be close to you tonight.”

Tyler’s eyes softened. “Of course, baby. Where else would I be?”

You nodded slowly. 

Tyler grabbed your hand and led you towards the couch. He took the blanket you’d left sprawled out from earlier and wrapped it around your shoulders before pulling you down beside him. He laid back against the cushions and made a spot for you. Without even hesitating, you curled up between his legs and rested your head back against his chest. 

“I need you to promise me you’ll be careful,” you pleaded. “I know you love chasing, and I’d never ask you to give that up, but I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you.”

You felt Tyler sigh beneath you, his chest rising and falling steadily. “I promise.” 

“And I need you to promise me you’ll get those damn screws fixed. That’s like the third time this month you’ve told me that they’ve jammed.”

You felt his chest rumble as he chuckled softly. “I will. Believe it or not, I didn’t like rolling in my truck, either.”

You lifted your head from his chest so that you could get a good look at Tyler’s face. Even after all these years with him, he still managed to leave you breathless.  

“Well then maybe it’s time you take a break and just stay home for a little while,” you teased, lips curling into a soft smile. 

The corner of Tyler’s lips tugged upward as his green eyes sparkled under the dim light. “You know what, that might not be a bad idea.” 

You raised your eyebrow skeptically. You knew you shouldn’t get your hopes up, and yet, that was exactly what you did. “Really?” 

Tyler’s hand tucked a loose strand of your hair from your face before his thumb grazed across your wet cheek. He nodded sincerely. “Really.”

You were a mess– eyes puffy, lips cracked. You were exhausted and so shaken up from everything that had happened. And who knew how long Tyler would have to put extra effort into helping make you feel safe.