laura

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

"Miss you, May," Peter quietly murmurs as he lingers in front of May's grave for a moment longer.

As he stares at May's name, a memory pops into his head, one that he hasn't thought about for ages. It was one of Peter's birthdays when it was just him and May.

It was Peter's 15th birthday, and May had tried baking Peter a cake. It ended up being a slightly burnt, lumpy little thing, but Peter loved it. As Peter leaves the cemetery, the sound of May's voice singing Happy Birthday lingers in the back of his mind.

Peter is met with silence as he enters his dingy apartment. For some reason, the silence is more deafening than usual. A constant reminder that Peter is alone.

Alone, again on his birthday.

Peter sighs as he sits down in front of his computer and monitors. He starts going through his backlog and listens to a voicemail from DeWolff. He soon loses himself in the recent crime reports. E.V needs to say his name several times to get his attention.

"..Peter."

"Hmm?" he hums, continuing to stare at the computer screen, looking, but not really retaining anything.

"I said, happy birthday, Peter," E.V's cheerful voice floats around the room.

"Thanks, E.V." A small smile crosses his face. He guesses he's not technically always alone.

"Even though it's your birthday. I can't help but detect a drop in your serotonin and dopamine levels, which are still very low."

"...uh, thanks, E.V."

It's quiet for a moment. The highly intuitive AI is trying to find ways to boost Peter's mood.

"It's your birthday-"

"E.V, I know," Peter calmly replies, trying not to get annoyed at the only company he has.

"Why don't you go out?"

Peter frowns as he flops back against his chair and stares up at the ceiling.

"I went out."

"Peter," E.V lightly chastises. "That's not what I meant, and you know that."

Peter slowly spins his chair around. "I'm fine, E.V. I'll probably go out later and see what DeW-"

"You should do something fun," she cheerfully butts in.

"What?" he deadpans.

"I've found some fun night markets in Brooklyn, or you could go see a movie in the park."

A screen to Peter's left changes, showing some festival flyers that E.V. found on various social media sites.

"E.V..." While they do sound interesting, Peter has no interest in being around people.

A bit ironic.

"Or what about a puppy or cat cafe? Those have significant-"

"Whoa, whoa, stop. What are you trying to do?"

It's quiet for a moment.

"Peter, you shouldn't be alone on your birthday," the AI quietly replies.

"You haven't been pushy in the past about me being alone on my birthday," Peter mutters as he looks at the flyers on the computer screen.

"You seem sadder than usual."

Sometimes Peter regrets making E.V so blunt, or maybe that's the creation of his own subconscious.

"I'm fine," Peter lies, about to get back to work.

"How about I order you pizza? That seems to always give you a little serotonin boost."

"Yeah, yeah, fine. How about you throw a birthday cake as well?" Peter sarcastically drawls as he dives back into the crime footage.

He only says it to get E.V off his back.

"You got it, Peter!" E.V. chirps.

Peter doesn't remember falling asleep at his computer, but he's woken by a dinging noise followed by a knock. Groaning, he sits up, his hand going to his slightly stiff neck.

The knocking starts up again, and Peter quickly checks his door cam. He frowns, squints, and moves closer to the screen. He thinks you look familiar, but he can't be sure. He notices you holding something, and at first he mistakes you for pizza delivery. He vaguely remembers telling E.V to order him pizza.

Peter is about to ignore you and wait for you to leave it at the door, but you keep knocking.

"Really?" Peter mutters, getting up and throwing on the first shirt he sees on his bed.

You're on the other side of the door, starting to get impatient. You're about to knock again when the door flies open, and you take a step back, slightly startled.

This is the first time you've seen P. Parker up close, and you feel a little bad. It looks like you've woken him up.

"Thanks," he mumbles, reaching out and taking the two boxes in your hand. "You coulda just left it at the door. Oh-sorry, did E-I... uh, forget to tip?"

You stare at him for a moment as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

"Oh... I'm your upstairs neighbor. The delivery person left this at my door, so..." you trail off as Peter finally focuses his attention on you.

"Um, thanks."

An awkward silence lingers between you and Peter. He wishes he were better at talking to people when he's not behind a mask.

"I-"

The awkward silence is getting to you, and your flight instinct kicks in. "Anyway, um... happy birthday, Parker," you rush out and are about to dash back to the stairs.

"Wh-what'd you just say?" His voice stops you. He sounds quite taken aback.

Slowly, you turn around. He still has that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face, mouth slightly open.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but the bakery decorated the outside of the box with cute birthday stickers."

He continues to gape at you. "Huh?"

You walk back over with a slight smile on your face. "The bakery," you reply, pointing to the pink box underneath the white pizza box.

Peter follows your gaze, and he almost forgot what he was holding. There it was: a pastel pink box with a familiar bakery logo. The bakery was literally around the corner. E.V, Peter thinks.

"I'm gonna go, you're probably having people-"

Peter doesn't know what possesses him to blurt out what he does next. "I'm-I'm Peter, Peter Parker." He holds out his free hand towards you.

You weren't expecting a sudden introduction, but you're not opposed. You're new to the city and are looking for new friendly faces. Your smile widens, and you tell him your name. "I'm pretty sure we moved in the same month, but it's good to finally put a name to a face," you finish as you drop his hand.

Another silence follows, but this time not so awkward.

"Anyway, I should probably..." you trail off, hooking a finger over your shoulder, indicating you're going back upstairs. "Happy birthday, again, Peter."

"You wanna come in?" he blurts out.

"Oh, I don't wanna intrude or anything-"

"You're not," he insists, kicking the door the rest of the way open.

You hesitate. "Don't you have friends or family coming over?"

Peter's face falls for a second, and you start to feel bad for accidentally bringing up what looks like a sensitive topic.

"Nope. Just me," he sighs.

A few minutes later, you're sitting on his couch, looking around the place. Peter feels his face getting warm as he anxiously searches the kitchen for plates or anything to put the pizza and cake on.

You're the first person who's been inside his apartment since he moved in, and he's starting to realize how much his place is lacking in common household items.

He heaves a sigh of relief when he spots some paper plates. He joins you on the couch. "If I knew I was gonna have company over, I would've tidied up," he jokes as he opens up the pizza box.

You take another look around the very bare living room. "I like it, very minimal, almost looks like no one lives here," you reply in a slight teasing tone.

Peter quietly laughs as he passes you a slice and then rubs the back of his neck. "Heh. Yeah, work takes up a lot of my time."

"No need to explain. Work life is brutal. Although my place is the complete opposite of yours. I literally moved to New York with two suitcases and somehow managed to clutter my apartment in a matter of months," you ramble before taking a bite.

Peter takes in every word as you tell him why you moved here, and he tries his best to answer your questions while also making up some fibs on the spot.

About an hour later, you find yourself lighting up the two candles on his cake.

"What kinda cake did you get?" you question as you sit back before moving the cake closer to Peter.

Peter flushes again, something he's been doing the moment you stepped foot into his apartment.

"Um, I told the bakery to surprise me," he easily lies.

He's about to lean forward to blow out his candles without a care when you stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait! We have to do this the proper way," you excitedly exclaim.

Peter watches as you get up, slightly confused. You rush over and turn off the singular lamp, drowning the room in semi-darkness. The only light comes from the flickering candles.

"Okay," you sigh, sitting back down. "Don't judge me. I had zero plans on singing happy birthday to my new neighbor and friend."

"You don't really need-"

"Peter, I said we're doing this the proper way," you firmly cut in, there's a slight semi-stern expression on your face. You take birthdays very seriously.

"Okay, okay," he laughs, sitting back and slightly motioning for you to continue.

Now it's you starting to get warm in the face. You're no Ariana Grande or Rihanna, but you're praying your high school choir days come through.

Peter sits up and watches fondly as you quietly start to sing "Happy Birthday" to him. The candlelight softly highlights your features. As you watch him, he can't help but think about May, Ned, and MJ, but especially May.

At least when he visits her tomorrow, he'll finally have something happy to tell her.

"Okay, stop staring, before I burst into flames." Your voice cuts into his inner thoughts.

"Can't the birthday boy soak in the ambiance?" he jokes.

You playfully narrow your eyes. "As long as you're not judging my singing skills.

"Never." Peter grins.

You and Peter end up using chopsticks to cut into his birthday cake.

The night ends with Peter walking you back to your apartment. You insist he doesn't have to since you literally live right above him, but he brushes it off, saying it's the neighborly thing to do.

"Well, this is me," you murmur as you and Peter stop at your door. "I guess I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, definitely," he replies.

Peter is about to head back down the stairs when your voice stops him.

"Happy 22nd birthday, Peter."

As Peter heads back to his bedroom, he doesn't realize he's still smiling as your parting words play in his head.

"I see your serotonin levels are higher than usual," E.V voices.

Peter rolls his eyes before stripping off his shirt and sweatpants. Crime doesn't stop just because it's his birthday.

"You're welcome," E.V sassily adds as Peter tugs at his suit.

"Yeah, yeah, just get DeWolff on the phone," Peter gripes back, but the smile still hasn't dropped from his face.

You find a good stopping place to dog-ear the page of the book you’re determined to finish tonight before rolling off your bed. Bare feet hit the freezing wood of your apartment, silently cursing yourself for being too lazy to put socks on after your shower. Hopping across your bedroom using your area rugs like the floor is lava, the paneling creaks under every tip toed jump. Stopping near the side of your window, your curious eyes peek from behind the curtain, secretly hoping to see him. And when you find exactly what you’re looking for, your heart beats a little bit quicker in your chest.

His name is Steve, at least that’s what it says on his shop window that you’ve been too shy to step into since he moved in. Some days though, that you won’t admit are your favorites, the two of you share a small smile and a wave as you walk past that never fails to send butterflies tickling through the spaces of your ribcage. Making it nearly impossible to actually work up enough courage to go in and introduce yourself.

A dark brown smock is tied over the thick heather grey sweater covering his broad chest. A pair of scissors pokes out of the front pocket, the red handle facing up, probably shoved in there after hours of trimming. His dark amber, almost brown hair seems messier than usual, like he had been running his hands in it all day. And as the sunset hits your block just right, kissing everything in a pink tangerine, it makes the silver that weaves through his thick locks shine too.

Chestnut loafers cover his feet, the leather worn in from years of use with black socks that peek out from under the rolled up bottoms of his dark washed jeans. Long thick fingers hold his cigarette, a gold band around his middle gleams in the last bit of sun, making his tanned skin glow.

Thin silver rimmed glasses hang down the slope of his sharp nose, and a dusting of a five o’clock shadow peppers his strong jaw that he usually keeps clean shaven. You decide you like him best like this, something about him being a little disheveled endearing you.

The screen of his phone lights up catching his attention, and he quickly texts whoever it is back, his cigarette dangling dangerously from his plush bottom lip. His cheeks hollow as he takes another drag, shoving his phone deep in his pocket. And then it all happens so quickly, you don’t have any time to duck and hide when he looks up unexpectedly to exhale.

Heat spreads like wildfire across your skin when your gazes meet temporarily clouded from the smoke dissipating into the sky. It only gets worse when his full pink lips stretch wide revealing a perfect set of teeth.

It's so big that it pushes up the two moles that dot his cheek, and deepens his crows feet under his midnight hazel eyes. There’s a sweetness inside of it like his flowers and you can’t stop the shy one that pulls up your own in return. His kind greeting only lasts for a moment, smile dropping once he realizes he’s been smoking a cigarette right outside your apartment window.

”Oh wow, this is — this is so rude of me. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize your window was open.” He apologizes quickly, stomping out his nicotine fix on the sidewalk.

It’s the first time you’ve really heard his voice, and it drips like warm honey, helping you work up the courage to find your own.

”It’s okay, really. I should honestly be thanking you.” You manage, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, and you swear he watches the movement.

”Oh? And why’s that?” He finally grins again, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes a step back to the edge of the sidewalk to get a better look.

Craning his neck to meet your gaze, the unruly strand across his forehead that he always seems to be pushing back flops out of his face all on its own, giving you a good look at just how handsome he really is. The realization has you shamelessly check his hand for any sign of a wedding band, your pulse quickening when you find none.

”Ever since you opened, my apartment has never smelt better. You’re actually saving me a lot of money on candles.”

This earns you a laugh that floats up the space between you, his eyes glittering with something that makes your cheeks glow.

“Yankee might be mad at you though.”

”I think I can handle their legal team if need be.” He plays along, broad shoulders relaxing a little more before finally introducing himself. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

”I had this weird feeling that might be it.” You grin, still a little nervous and thankful that he can’t see the way your hips sway with giddiness.

“Really? What gave it away?”

His lips twitch at the sound of your giggle, a pink tongue darting out to wet them.

”It’s very nice to meet you, Steve.” You say sweetly, leaning forward just a little more, sucking at your bottom lip to stop the stupid smile that tries to split your face in two.

”It’s nice to meet you too, honey.” He agrees with the slightest hint of pink dusting his stubble covered cheeks.

There’s a brief moment of silence filled with the low hum of cars returning home from work and the last songs of the birds before retiring to their nests in the trees that line your block. Steve looks like he’s contemplating what he wants to say next, and there’s a part of you that becomes unsure if you should just say goodnight.

“You’ve never come into my shop, have you?” He finally says, breaking the tension with a card of his rebellious hair.

”No.” You smile sheepishly, before adding, “I’ve been meaning to but it always looks so busy, or I’m on my way to something.”

They sound like excuses, because they are.

”Well how about you come down now, and I can give you something that’ll get that nasty cigarette smoke out of there. I mean, I just trimmed some lavender and lilac for a wedding. No crowd cause we’re all closed up for the night.”

He’s full of reasons not to say no, and the playful wiggle of his thick eyebrows stops your conscious effort not to let your smile split your face in two. So with cheeks pushed up so high they almost hurt, you don’t.

”Let me put on my shoes.”

You’re not expecting to feel this shy when you meet him at the bottom of your staircase. But having him standing right in front of you and not waving from behind the shop window makes him feel a lot more real.

Steve is somehow even more handsome up close like this, the kind of handsome you only see in old Hollywood movies. Smoke with a hint of amber cling to the fabrics of his clothes, mixing with the sweet scents of the flowers he mentioned, and it’s intoxicating despite the way they clash.

”Hi, again.” He smiles, white teeth gleaming in the golden glow of dusk.

”Hi.” You smile back, stomach swooping at the sight.

He sticks out a large hand for you to shake, warmth unfurling over every inch of your skin when you slide your palm into his, watching his fingers envelope your hand completely.

“Maybe now you won’t be such a stranger.” He winks, shaking your hand a few times before letting you go too quickly for your liking.

”And now, maybe you won’t smoke under my window.” You add with an arch of your brow, trying desperately to regain your composure.

”Look, I don’t know how else to apologize for this besides forcing you to take some of the flowers I just spent the last three hours trimming.” He laughs softly, something playful in his stare. “I hope my physical labor is enough to show you just how truly sorry I am.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You tease him with your own wink, relishing in the almost bashful way he shakes his head, before side stepping to open his shop door.

”After you.”

Stepping in, the entrance bell still rings, echoing in the dimly lit shop as a heady earthy smell surrounds you. The misters quietly hum, keeping the soil damp for the lush green ferns and pothos that spill out of their pots lining the walls. Flowers hang from the ceiling, their petals still vibrant in the low light making you realize why the smell was always so strong in your home. It's impossible not to take a deep breath to try and soak it all in.

”Wow Steve, it's really beautiful in here.” You gape, taking in every inch of it with wonder in your eyes.

”Thanks honey,” He says shyly as he closes the door behind you. The lightest press of his palm finds your lower back almost making you jump before your body begs you to lean into it. “Let me wrap those up for you and I’ll be right back.”

Walking away, Steve’s fingertips feel like a whisper dragging across where his palm just was, leaving goosebumps pebbling in their absence. You use this moment alone to let out the deep breath you’d been holding, as you watch this casual crush barrel down the path towards a real one. Tugging nervously at the bottom hem of your loose fitting sweater, your eyes trail over his front desk area nosely.

A half-drunk ‘Hawkins Tigers’ coffee mug sits on a stack of paper work leaving a dark brown ring on something you hope isn’t important. Next to it are a few half sharpened pencils scattered over what looks like wedding schedules, with a pile of pink eraser shavings next to it, like he had just had to change something. From the looks of it, something big. That’s when a small Polaroid tapped to his laptop right next to the mouse pad catches your gaze.

Glancing towards the back area where he’d disappeared through thick foggy plastic, you lean forward to get a closer look. It’s a younger version of him beaming with tears in his eyes next to a curly haired boy on what looks like graduation day.

The boy clings to him like you would with someone who is important in your life, and by the way it looks iron clad, you’d say the person who means the most in it. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, the sweetness of it all tugs at your heart and the edges of your mouth.

”Okay, I hope this is enough.” Steve says distractedly, coming out of the back still mid paper wrap, making you jump, because the bouquet he’s holding is so big that it nearly covers his entire head.

“Enough?” You gasp incredulously, “is there any left for the wedding?!”

This makes him snort, moving the flowers to the side so you can see his handsome face again.

“They’re in full bloom, it looks like way more than what it is. I promise there is plenty left for the wedding.” He grins, waving you off setting the bouquet down on his desk.

Steve holds the end of it with one big hand while pulling a roll of beige twine from his smock with the other. His knuckles move underneath his tan skin gripping the stems tighter as starts to twirl the string around pulling the flowers together. His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, forearms flexing with each movement, and once he can let go, he replaces the twine for his scissors.

He cuts it so quick that if you blinked you’d miss it leaving himself a little slack before shoving it back in the front pocket he grabbed it from. His thick fingers move expertly, using them to tie a simple knot that's just tight enough to keep them in place. Lifting his handy work to his face, he adjusts the twine with the pads of them so it wraps perfectly stacked, finally handing it over to you once he’s satisfied.

”These are — wow, these are so pretty Steve. Thank you.” You whisper in awe of them up close.

Your fingers brush together during the pass off, the contact sending an electric jolt thrumming through your veins. A deep blush kisses the tips of his ears like he felt it too.

“It’s no problem at all sweetheart. I’m sorry again.” He smiles softly, hands hovering instinctively for a second to make sure you have a good grip.

“All is forgiven.” You whisper with your own smile, taking a big whiff, looking up at him from between the petals.

His eyes linger on you for a moment, taking in the lines and dips of your face like he’s trying to memorize this before clearing his throat.

“Now, you better start coming in to say hi. Or I’ll be forced to leave flowers at your doorstep till the guilt eats away at you.”

His joke takes you by surprise, earning a deep bellied laugh that lights up his whole face.

“I promise I’ll start saying hi.” You grin, adjusting the bouquet so you can see all of him while he’s still in front of you.

The two of you stand there, somehow so close the tips of your shoes touch. A charged silence falling between you as something new sparks and catches fire.

“I- I should get going.” You stutter out, tearing your eyes from his full mouth that you swear begs to be kissed.

“Yeah - yeah, of course. I’ll walk you out.” He coughs dryly, catching himself doing the same.

You try not to overthink how his palm finds the small of your back again. Or the way he lightly scratches at your spine when he says his final goodbye on your way out. The two of you stand at your respective doors, bumbling out one more flustered goodnight before you finally disappear behind yours.

the first thing you remembered about the mind stone was the color.

gold wrapped in blue.

it was everywhere when you opened your eyes, swallowing the room in a blinding light that made everything feel impossibly far away. the last thing you remembered before that was your father’s hand around yours and the sound of him telling you to stay behind him.

then as the scepter touched you, the world disappeared.

when you came back to yourself, you were floating several feet above the floor.

glass hung suspended in the air around you. metal equipment had been ripped from the walls and was slowly circling your body as if gravity had stopped existing. the lights overhead flickered violently, and somewhere in the distance, an alarm was screaming.

tony stark stood completely still and for once, he had nothing clever to say.

“kid?” he called carefully, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “hey, look at me. can you hear me?”

the moment your eyes found his, everything dropped. glass shattered against the floor, equipment crashed down around you, and your body followed immediately after.

tony caught you before you hit the ground, dropping to his knees as he held you against his chest. “i’ve got you. you’re okay, you’re okay,” he murmured, one hand moving carefully through your hair. “don’t worry about anything else right now. just breathe.”

you started crying.

“dad, i broke everything.”

tony looked around at the destroyed room before looking back at you. despite the fear still written across his face, he managed a small smile.

“we can buy new stuff. that’s what money is for.”

you sniffled against his chest, and he held you tighter.

“really?”

“really. things are replaceable, you aren’t.”

you didn’t understand it then, but that was the first promise tony ever made about the mind stone— you were not replaceable.

of course, the years that followed were spent learning how to live with what had been left inside you.

telekinesis came first. sometimes you could lift something as small as a pencil without touching it, and sometimes an entire room would shake because you got angry. telepathy came next, although tony tried desperately to teach you boundaries before you accidentally started hearing everyone’s thoughts all the time. teleportation appeared during one particularly bad nightmare, when you woke up halfway across the compound and nearly gave yourself a heart attack.

invisibility was the one that frightened you most. it happened whenever you became overwhelmed. your body would simply disappear, leaving everyone around you searching frantically until you managed to calm down.

tony and pepper never treated you like you were broken when they could have. even god knew there were enough people willing to tell him that he should.

scientists wanted to study the changes in your brain, doctors wanted scans, and specialists suggested procedures that might stabilize your powers permanently. tony rejected every single one, making headlines and articles.

“she’s not a science experiment,” he told one doctor, his voice sharp enough to make the entire room go silent. “she’s my daughter, and i’m not putting her under machines and knife because you think you can make her more convenient.”

the doctor tried to argue that they were only trying to help.

tony leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “then help her learn to live with it. don’t try to erase the part of her that scares you.”

“touch my daughter and the avengers will no longer answer to anyone. even in great danger.”

so you trained to prove your dad’s point to many.

tony taught you the basics of combat himself. he taught you how to focus your breathing when your powers became unstable, how to use telekinesis defensively, and how to teleport without panicking when you felt trapped.

he’d remind you you weren’t an avenger, no, at least not officially.

but you were a stark.

that was enough for peter parker to eventually find his way into your life whom you met in the training room when you were fourteen.

tony stood between the two of you, looking far too pleased with himself, “peter, this is my daughter. daughter, this is peter. he’s spider-man.”

you looked at the boy standing awkwardly in front of you in his homemade suit. “i know.”

“oh.”

peter blinked.

tony pointed at the two of you. “you’re going to train together.”

“together?” peter repeated, looking at you.

you smiled sweetly. “scared?”

“no. i mean, obviously not. i’m spiderman.”

“great. then you won’t mind if i start.” before he could ask what you meant, you teleported behind him and kicked the back of his knee.

peter stumbled forward and barely managed to catch himself with a web. he turned around with wide eyes. “what the hell?”

you folded your arms. “you said you weren’t scared.”

“i’m not scared. i’m jus–”

“you fell.”

“strategically.”

“you fell into a wall.”

peter glanced at the wall behind him. “that wall came out of nowhere.”

“this was a mistake.” tony sighed from across the room.

but even after years, he’d let you and peter still train together. cautiously.

according to him, quote unquote, he doesn’t want to be a young grandfather and he made it obvious he doesn’t want spiders as grandchildren.

the difference in training was that peter had learned to control his abilities through repetition, while yours still had a tendency to react to your emotions before your mind could catch up.

tony had spent years trying to teach you not to fear that, but you had spent years failing to believe him.

that night in the lab was supposed to be another training session. pepper was there because tony had asked her to help monitor your vitals. you stood in the center of the room while several pieces of equipment measured the fluctuations in your brain.

“again,” tony instructed from behind the glass.

you exhaled slowly and raised your hand, the metal sphere in front of you lifted from the table.

“good,” tony said. “don’t force it. just let it move.”

“i’m not forcing it.”

“you’re clenching your jaw.”

“because you’re annoying me.” you clicked your tongue as you rolled up your sleeves before returning to your proper stance.

pepper smiled from beside him. “she gets that from you.”

tony pointed at her without taking his eyes off you. “don’t encourage her.”

you almost laughed, then the sphere started shaking, which made your smile disappear. the air around you is starting to feel wrong. overstimulation. you could feel everyone’s thoughts suddenly pressing against your mind at once. tony’s concentration, pepper’s concern, the faint hum of the machines, your own heartbeat.

it was all too much. you dropped the sphere and it hit the floor.

“stop,” pepper said gently. “we can try again tomorrow.”

“uh, no,” you swallowed hard. “i can do this.”

tony stepped out from behind the glass and approached you slowly. “you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“i’m not trying to prove anything.”

“then stop.”

you looked at him. “i can’t.”

your voice cracked, the lights flickered.

tony immediately stopped moving, a concerned look on his face. “kid, look at me.”

and you tried.

“breathe.”

“i am breathing.”

“not like you’re supposed to.”

your hands began shaking, which didn't go unnoticed by pepper who stepped closer.

“hey, it’s okay. we’re right here.”

your powers surged involuntarily and pepper reached for you instinctively. but the reaction was immediate. you watched a wave of telekinetic energy tore through the room and sent pepper flying backward.

she slammed into the edge of the worktable. everything suddenly stopped and you stared at her.

tony was already moving. “pepper!” he rushed to her side.

you stood completely frozen, your hands were still trembling, your powers flickering uselessly around your body as you watched your father kneel beside pepper.

he looked at her first. just for a second, but it was enough.

“kid, wait.”

you took a step backward. “i didn’t mean to.”

tony looked up.

“i didn’t mean to. i swear.” you shook your head.

pepper tried to sit up, wincing as she touched her side. “_____, tony, i’m okay. it was just my hip–”

but you weren’t listening anymore, your breathing became faster, “it’s just getting too much.”

“hey, come here. we’re going to figure this out.” tony stood.

“dad, you always say that.”

“because it’s true.”

“what if it isn’t?”

tony stopped when you stared at him through tears. “i hurt pepper! what if one day i really hurt someone?”

“you won’t.”

“you don’t know that.” the words came out quieter than you intended. “what if this is who i am now?”

tony shook his head. “no, this is something you have. it isn’t who you are.”

you looked at pepper, then back at him.

“i’m sorry for being reckless.”

“that’s not what happened.” tony’s expression fell.

you wiped your face with the back of your hand. “i hurt her, i hurt the mother figure i promised to protect with my very own hands.”

“by accident.”

“i still did it.”

“and we’re going to learn from it.” tony looks into your eyes, seeing himself in you.

you shook your head. “i can’t stay here.”

“what?” tony’s eyes widened. “where are you going?”

“away.”

“kid, no.” he moved toward you. “you’re not leaving.”

you backed away. “dad–”

“you don’t have to do this alone.”

“i already am.”

the words broke something in his face. you heard the voice before you even understood where it came from.

run.

your eyes widened after tony took another step. “_____?”

run.

you disappeared.

“kid!” tony ran toward the place you’d been standing, but there was nothing left.

pepper pushed herself upright despite the pain.

“tony, please. let’s talk it out with her.”

he turned toward her, helping pepper up who insisted with worry, “go after her.”

he doesn’t hesitate, but by time tony made it outside, there was nothing left to chase. not even a trace of where you had gone.

as your father, he knew not to send out the stupid robots he knew you hated. he trusted you’d find your way back to him and pepper.

you didn’t know where you were going, either.

you only knew you couldn’t stay.

the rain had been falling for three days when frank castle found you.

you were sitting beneath the awning of a closed convenience store, soaked from the knees down and staring at the pavement like it had personally offended you.

you had no phone, no money, and you had no idea where you were going.

frank stopped across the street when he noticed you, he watched for a moment before crossing. “you hungry, kid?”

you looked up while he held out a paper bag.

“food.”

“why?” you stared at it suspiciously.

“because you’re sitting outside in the rain looking like you haven’t eaten in two days.”

“maybe i like rain.”

frank looked at you. “you look miserable.”

“i can be miserable and enjoy rain.”

“fair enough.” he held the bag out again.

you hesitated before taking it.

“what’s your name, kid?”

“none of your business.”

“okay.” then frank turned to leave as the rain poured harder.

you frowned.

“that’s it?”

he glanced back. “you didn’t want to tell me.”

you looked down at the bag.

“it’s complicated.”

“most things are.” he started walking away again.

after a few seconds, you stood, shouting. “wait!”

frank stopped in the rain and you looked at him.

“where are you going?”

“home.”

you swallowed. “can i come with you?”

frank studied your face. he didn’t ask who you were running from, and he didn’t also ask why you were alone, yet he simply nodded.

“yeah.”

even as years passed since that night, frank never tried to replace tony, not even knowing how, because as he’d say, he didn’t have tony’s money or technology or endless collection of ridiculous jokes. he had a small house under a warehouse full of machines, a terrible attitude, and an uncanny ability to appear whenever you were about to make a terrible decision.

you knew you grew stronger as time passed, and that you learned how to control your abilities, because frank taught you how to fight while you taught him how to use a smartphone. he considered that an even trade.

“you know,” you said one night while watching him struggle with his phone, “for someone who can dismantle an armed group by himself, you’re losing to autocorrect.”

frank glared at the screen. “this thing hates me.”

“you typed ‘good night’ and it changed it to ‘good knight.’”

“maybe i was talking to a knight.”

you laughed. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re still here.”

“yeah.” you looked at him.

frank put his phone down. “good.”

you smiled at the old man, knowing that was as close as he got to saying he loved you. and you understood anyway. somewhere along the way, frank had become home. not because either of you had ever said it, but because you simply stayed.

you didn’t know what you were about to face together. you loved that for a little while, life was almost quiet.

then the blip came.

the world disappeared, and when it came back, it came back wrong. people you knew vanished. people you loved disappeared. and when they returned, nothing was the same.

but your father—tony stark—died in exchange for the lives of many.

including yours. including frank’s.

you knew when you watched his funeral in your invisible form. you didn’t let anyone see you, or hear you cry. and that same night, you stood outside alone.

though frank found you, because he knew you.

you didn’t look at him. “i should’ve stayed.”

“you don’t know that.” frank stood beside you.

“he died.”

“he was going to die fighting whether you were there or not.”

you swallowed. “i never told him i was sorry.”

“he knew, kid.” frank looked at you. “i’m sure he knew.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i know fathers.”

you finally looked at him. “you’re not him.”

“no.” frank’s expression softened slightly despite the jab in his chest at that comment. “but i’m here, kid. your dad also is, but spiritually. i think.”

you nodded, letting tears stream down your face freely. and he let you weep, even when it took you months to stop.

the world slowly learned how to move forward after the blip, but for you, the hardest part had never been the five years you lost.

it was losing your father.

tony stark was gone, and no amount of time could make that feel any less strange. you learned to live with the silence he left behind, carrying the memories of him in places you never expected to find them.

frank stayed. he simply remained beside you through the worst of it, until somewhere along the way, life began to feel almost normal again.

and after your twenty-second birthday, you were sitting on the couch when the front door opened.

“i brought someone.”

you looked up, seeing a young man standing beside frank in a red and blue suit, with a spider in the middle, which made something inside your chest twist, but you couldn’t explain why.

frank looked between you.

“you kids know each other?”

you frowned. “do we?”

“uh,” spiderman went completely still at the sight of your frown, which is why you shifted to smile a little.

“hi.”

“hey.” he swallowed, you’re sure an awkward smile was on his face beneath his mask.

there was something about the way he looked at you through the eye lenses that made you uncomfortable despite not being seen. not because it was threatening. it was sad. so you stood to walk closer to him, deciding not to do anything to him with your abiligies or trying not to, “i’m sorry. have we met?”

spiderman looked at frank, then back at you.

“uh, no.”

“sure?”

he smiled faintly. “yeah.”

“i’m sorry.” you searched his mask-covered face, almost invaded his brain, but stopped because you didn’t want to scare him. so nothing.

spiderman shook his head.

“it’s okay.”

you didn’t know why those words made your chest hurt, and why he kept stealing glances at you from across the small space of frank’s house. there was something different between you now— something neither of you had acknowledged, but neither of you seemed capable of ignoring.

those wide white lenses on his mask are so weird, you thought.

maybe it was the way he had looked at you when you shift places. maybe it was the way he always seemed to know what you thought, even before you said a word.

and then jean grey was captured days after meeting spiderman.

you went after her, and unbeknownst to you, the masked boy went too.

neither of you questioned why you naturally moved together during the fight. how he would duck when you lifted your hand, how you teleported exactly where he needed you, and how he caught an attacker before they could reach you.

weird. because you didn’t remember ever training with him. but your body did.

the fight finally ended.

spiderman landed a few feet away from you, breathing heavily as he looked around at the damage. “okay,” he muttered. “i think that’s everyone.”

you nodded, catching your breath while you watched him through your peripheral vision. how he reached up and pulled his mask off.

showing a face you had never seen before, and yet you froze.

you didn’t recognize him at all, and there was no sudden memory, no flash of a forgotten moment. nothing came rushing back. just that strange feeling.

the same one you had felt the first time you saw him standing beside frank.

you looked away to glance at the iridescent waves of psychic energy. thoughts filled with questions about who he is, who jean grey is, who he is again, and only snapping out of your trance when you heard frank over the comms.

“stay back.”

you turned, but he was far away. too far. somehow you knew his gun was raised and he was aiming at jean. you weren’t sure. but spiderman is not his enemy. at least, not anymore.

“frank, don’t!”

but he fired beforehand without a second thought. that’s how he is. the bullet entered the iridescent field and you saw it coming.

without thinking twice, you teleported. just in time as the bullet for jean grey hit you, breathing deeply when pain ripped through your chest. your eyes briefly met the younger girl’s whose eyes were wide before you collapsed.

peter caught you before you hit the ground.

your body went limp against him, the sudden weight of you nearly sending him stumbling backward. his arms immediately tightened around you, instinctively keeping your head from hitting the floor as he lowered you carefully onto the ground.

for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

the noise of the sirens continued around you, but it felt impossibly distant. the only thing you could focus on was the unbearable pressure spreading through your chest. every breath came shallow and uneven, each one sending another sharp wave of pain through your body. your fingers twitched against peter’s suit while warmth slowly spread beneath your clothes, the blood soaking through the fabric and staining his hands as he tried to keep pressure over the wound. the sight of it barely registered in your mind. you were too focused on breathing, too focused on the strange heaviness settling over your entire body.

jean remained frozen several feet away.

she stared at you as if she couldn’t understand what had just happened. moments ago, the bullet had been headed directly toward her. then you had appeared in front of her, taking the impact without hesitation.

your vision began to blur at the edges when peter’s face hovered above you, his expression completely different from the usual ease he carried. panic had settled into his features as his eyes moved between your face and the wound in your hip. his hands trembled despite his attempts to keep them steady.

you tried to move.

even the smallest shift made pain shoot through your chest, forcing your body to tense beneath him. your breathing became more strained, your lungs seeming to struggle against the pressure building inside them.

“no, no, no. stay with me.” peter lightly tapped your cheek.

you looked at his face covered in tears and you frowned at the sight. “why are you crying?”

he laughed shakily.

“because you’re bleeding all over me.”

“that’s disgusting.” you tried to smile.

“yeah, well, i’m having a really bad day.”

you looked at him for a moment, his words ringing inside your head, stirring something inside your mind after milliseconds of processing his words.

a brief and blurred memory of standing under the heavy rain after a long training that night showed, an upset frown on his face as he puts his hand in yours, “i’m having a really bad day.”

you remembered the warmth of his hand despite the cold rain, the way his fingers gently intertwined with yours as you stood beside him in the quiet. there was something so simple about the memory, so small and sweet, yet it lingered like something precious.

“i love you, stark.”

the rain, the exhaustion, and the world around you disappeared. all that remained was the feeling of his hand in yours.

“i love you, parker.”

“peter?”

his face changed, eyes flickering to your chest slowly losing rhythm as it would irregularly rise and fall every breath you took in his arms. “y…yeah?”

you closed your eyes.

“i know you.”

“you do?” he froze, and you were sure you felt him stiffening under your weakened body.

you smiled weakly. “i think.” your voice faded. “yeah, i think i knew you well.”

the ground beneath you felt cold, and everything else seemed strangely warm. you blinked slowly, trying to keep your eyes open as the ceiling above you seemed to sway. the sounds around you continued fading in and out, sometimes painfully loud and then almost completely silent.

then the darkness finally swallowed everything.

on the eighth night of your hospitalization, which apparently had nothing to do with being shot, but overfatigue.

“so is my daughter waiting for a true love’s kiss or is she just braindead by now?” frank asked. almost interrogated the doctor outside your room.

while jean sat beside you and closed her eyes.

your mind was different from everyone else’s after the mind stone had altered it completely. the spell hadn’t erased your memories.

it had buried them.

deep beneath layers of thoughts that no longer belonged where they were supposed to, memories sat scattered throughout your mind like fragments of broken glass. some were vivid, some were blurred, and some existed only as feelings without faces or names attached to them.

jean could sense. she could feel the walls around your memories the moment she reached into your mind, recognizing the familiar shape of telepathy but immediately realizing that whatever had happened to you had changed the way your mind worked.

her powers moved through your thoughts naturally, like water flowing through a river. though yours did not. your mind responded to her presence on its own.

the remnants of the mind stone pulsed beneath your thoughts, almost defensive, reacting to another psychic presence as though it had been taught to protect everything hidden inside you. memories shifted away whenever jean reached for them, disappearing behind layers of static and light before she could grasp them.

so she stopped trying to force them open. instead, she followed them.

jean found the first memory.

it came to her like a flicker of light in the darkness, faint and unstable, almost as though the memory itself was struggling to remain intact.

you were laughing with peter.

the sound echoed through the memory, soft and familiar, untouched by the years that had passed. jean watched as the scene slowly came into focus around you, the walls of your bedroom forming out of the darkness.

peter was standing in the middle of the room. more specifically, he was standing beside your window, surrounded by broken glass and looking far too innocent for someone who had very clearly just fallen through it.

your younger self stared at him in disbelief. “peter, you broke my window.”

“i know.”

your eyes moved toward the lamp lying shattered across the floor.

“you broke the lamp my dad made.”

“mr. stark made that??”

you folded your arms across your chest, desperately to look annoyed despite the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“you’re paying for both.”

peter scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the broken window before looking back at you.

“i’m a friendly neighborhood spider-man. i’m not exactly rolling in money.”

you laughed.

the memory brightened. jean felt something shift inside your mind as the sound of your laughter lingered around her. it wasn’t just a memory anymore, and jean understood why your mind had buried these memories so deeply. they weren’t meaningless moments. they were pieces of you.

the memory shifted.

suddenly, there was a rooftop beneath jean’s feet. the city stretched endlessly beyond it, glowing beneath the night sky. the wind moved through your hair as you stood beside peter, close enough that your shoulders brushed together.

neither of you said anything.

because you didn’t need to.

the memory shifted again.

peter’s hands were around yours. his fingers were intertwined with yours, holding you carefully as though you were something fragile.

it was your first kiss. full of nervousness and giddiness, almost clumsy, followed by the two of you pulling away with matching smiles before leaning back toward each other.

“i love you.” peter looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

your voice answered almost immediately.

“i love you too.”

jean’s chest tightened. the memories were coming faster now.

your laughter and his smile. the late nights in the quietest moments. the arguments that always ended with one of you giving in with his hand finding yours. your head resting on his shoulder— all the little moments you had forgotten but your mind had refused to let disappear completely.

jean finally opened her eyes.

you were still lying in the hospital bed, completely unaware of everything unfolding inside your own mind.

she looked at you for a long moment.

“you loved him.”

inside the memory, your younger self stood beneath the familiar night sky. this time, you turned toward jean.

you could see her. really see her. your expression softened as you looked at her, as if some part of you already understood why she was there. “i still do, jean.”

jean smiled.

there was something almost sad about it, but there was warmth there too.

she reached toward the memory, not touching you, only watching as the world around you began glowing brighter.

“then remember.”

jean’s fingers slowly left your temples.

the pain came first, and then the memories.

they crashed into you all at once— years you had lost, moments you had forgotten, people you had loved and buried somewhere deep inside yourself. it was overwhelming, almost unbearable, but beneath all of it was one face you couldn’t stop seeing.

peter.

you remembered everything. but then, exhaustion took over.

your eyes opened the next morning. the room was quiet. someone was asleep in the chair beside your bed.

your peter.

you stared at him. all the memories came rushing back at once. you remembered his laugh, his hands, his terrible jokes, the way he used to fall through your window, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, the way you loved him.

your voice came out weak.

“peter.”

his eyes opened immediately. he stared at you. “what?”

“you still sleep like a dead person.” you smiled.

“what?” he froze. his eyes brimming with tears the second he realized you remembered.

you nodded at him silently. “hi, peter parker.”

he stood so quickly the chair nearly fell over.

“you remember me?”

“yes.”

“you remember us?”

“yes, peter. i remember you.” you smiled through your tears.

he covered his face with one hand, while you reached for him, laughing lightly and being cautious about the gunshot wound.

“come here.”

he took your hand and held it against his cheek. “i thought you were gone.”

you looked at him confused.

“but i was.”

“please don’t say that.” he shook his head.

“...but i’m here now again.”

peter paused as he leaned down. pressing his forehead against yours lightly. “i missed you, stark.”

you smiled hearing that.

“i missed you too, parker.”

by the time you were allowed to leave, the memories had settled into something less painful.

not easier, just familiar.

you remembered peter. you remembered the life you had tried so desperately to forget. and, eventually, you remembered your father.

for years, tony stark had existed in your mind as fragments.

his voice, his hands, the smell of the lab, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. you had buried those memories so deeply that sometimes you wondered if you had simply imagined them.

now, you remembered everything. which meant there was one place you needed to go.

the cemetery was quiet that afternoon.

you walked slowly between the rows of graves, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your jacket as the wind brushed against your face. peter and frank had stayed behind at the car, giving you the space you’d asked for.

you knew exactly where you were going, because you had visited before years ago, when you hadn’t been able to get any farther than the entrance.

this time, you kept walking.

when you finally reached the familiar stone, you stopped.

anthony edward stark.

a father to ______ stark and morgan stark, a husband to virginia stark, and a friend to all.

your father’s name stared back at you.

for a few seconds, you couldn’t say anything.

you had imagined this moment so many times. you thought you’d have something prepared. something profound, something worthy of the man who had once built an entire suit of armor around his heart and somehow still managed to love you more fiercely than anyone else.

instead, you crouched in front of his grave and let out a shaky laugh. “hi, dad.”

your voice cracked immediately.

you wiped beneath your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “i know. great opening. you would’ve made fun of me for that.”

the wind moved gently through the trees.

you rested your hand against the stone.

“i’m sorry.” your smile disappeared. “i know i’ve said that before, but i don’t think i ever actually explained what i was sorry for.”

you swallowed.

“i wasn’t just scared of hurting people. i was scared of myself.”

your eyes dropped to the grass.

“after what happened with pepper, i couldn’t stop thinking about what i’d done. i kept hearing the sound of her hitting that table. i kept seeing your face when you ran to her.”

you took a shaky breath.

“i know then, and i still know now that you weren’t choosing her over me. she was hurt, and you were trying to help her. i know that. but i was already terrified, and when i saw you hesitate, my brain decided it meant something else.”

a tear rolled down your cheek.

“i thought you were finally seeing me the way i saw myself.” you laughed quietly, though there was nothing funny about it.

“a dangerous kid who couldn’t control her own powers.”

your fingers tightened against the stone. “and the worst part is that i knew i could make people, even myself forget things.”

your voice softened.

“so i did.”

you stared at your father’s name.

“not all at once. not completely. but whenever something scared me, i’d push it away. i’d bury memories. i’d make myself forget how badly i’d hurt someone because i couldn’t stand knowing what i was capable of.”

you took a slow breath.

“i even buried parts of you.”your smile turned sad. “because remembering you meant remembering what i’d done to you. it meant remembering that you were still waiting for me to come home.i convinced myself that forgetting was safer. i thought if i couldn’t remember how much i loved people, i couldn’t hurt them.”

a quiet laugh escaped you.

“which is probably the stupidest thing i’ve ever done, and i’ve done a lot of stupid things.”

you wiped your tears. “you would’ve told me that. you would’ve said something like, ‘kid, that’s not how feelings work.’ you would’ve told me that being afraid of hurting someone doesn’t make me dangerous. it makes me human.”

you stared at his name for a long moment.

“i wish i’d listened.”

the words that came next were barely above a whisper. “i’m glad to be one of the people who knew you had a heart.” you laughed through your tears. “you spent your whole life pretending you didn’t, but you really did. you had a huge one, actually. annoyingly huge.”

your fingers brushed over the stone.

“you loved pepper. you loved morgan, who is a wonderful kid by the way. you loved the avengers. you loved peter. and you loved me even when i made it really difficult.”

the silence around you felt strangely peaceful. “i love you too, dad. i’m sorry i didn’t say it enough.”

gravel shifted behind you, and you turned slightly where peter stood several feet away, his hands tucked into his pockets. he gave you a small, apologetic smile.

“can i?”

you nodded. watching him as he walked over and crouched beside you, staring at the grave for a moment before clearing his throat. “hi, mr. stark.”

you smiled despite yourself.

“i know we’ve met a lot of times before,” peter continued, glancing briefly at you, “and i’m pretty sure you already know who i am, but i figured i’d introduce myself properly anyway, in case heaven is affected by dr. strange’s spell.”

you covered your mouth, trying not to laugh.

“i’m peter parker. i’m dating your daughter.”

“peter.” you nudges his shoulder lightly, frowning at your boyfriend.

“what? i’m being respectful.”

“you’re talking to a gravestone.”

“exactly! high-pressure situation.”

you shook your head, smiling. and peter looked back at the stone, his expression softening.

“i hope you don’t mind. i’m taking care of her very well. like what you berated me about during those nights in the lab.”

you looked at him. “you remember that?”

“how could i forget?” he smiled faintly. “your father gave me a thirty-minute lecture about making sure you ate properly.”

“he gave you a lecture?”

“multiple.”

peter pointed toward the grave. “he once told me that if i ever made you cry, he’d find me.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you made me cry.”

“i know.”

“more than once.”

“i know.”

“you’re talking to a gravestone, peter.” you nudged his shoulder.

peter stared at you incredulously. “that is possibly the worst thing you could’ve said at his grave.”

you burst out laughing.

“i’m sorry.”

“you should be.”he smiled before turning back to the grave. “but seriously, i’ll take care of her.”

you looked at him and his eyes remained on the stone.

“i know you can’t hear me, but i wanted to say it anyway. i’ll make sure she remembers she’s allowed to stay. i’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to run whenever she’s scared.”

your throat tightened after hearing the words come out of him before he reached for your hand. “and i’ll remind her that she’s not what happened to her.”

you squeezed his fingers.

peter looked at the grave one last time.

“you did a good job, mr. stark. she’s pretty amazing.”

your eyes filled again, resting your head against peter’s shoulder. “you don’t have to tell him that. he already knew.”

peter laughed softly, pressing a kiss on your head. you both stayed there for a while, your hands intertwined.

the sadness was still there, and you know deep inside it probably always would be, but it didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

for years, you had believed that remembering your father meant remembering your guilt. now, you understood that memory could hold something else, too. love.

"Thank you for this," he said.

You turned to face him, your eyes softening. "I'm always happy to put you back together." You murmured it while applying a thin layer of antibacterial ointment before smoothing a butterfly closure over the cut. "You know, you're going to have to come up with a better cover story than boxing."

Peter looked up at you, his brown eyes wide, completely unblinking. "It's what happened."

You paused, holding a fresh adhesive strip between your fingers, and leveled a look at him. "Peter. I'm a third-year med student in the middle of trauma block. Do you honestly think I don't know the difference between a gloved punch to the ribs and a blow from a metal pipe?"

He laughed nervously, his face shifting into that boyish, sheepish expression that always made your heart do a quiet flip. "Would you believe me if I told you it was a no-rules cage match?"

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Alright, Peter. I'll pretend I believe that. But this underground ring or whatever it is? Bad vibe. Seriously dangerous. The money cannot be worth it...and you need to start going to a real hospital."

"I don't have insurance," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "You're all I have."

You smirked, taping the final strip down. "My own fault for accepting alternate forms of payment." You stepped back, pursing your lips. "Go sit on the couch. I'll bring you something to eat."

Before you could turn away, Peter reached out, his warm, calloused hands sliding around your waist. You froze, looking down at him, his chest rising and falling evenly. "I think my bill is due," he murmured, pulling you onto his lap and leaning in toward your lips. You caught his chin gently, turning your face so his lips pressed against your cheek instead.

"Not tonight, Peter. You're split open in five places."

He held you a little tighter, a playful flash of teeth. "I'm fine."

"Go sit down. Rest, okay?"

He let out a soft sigh, his hands slipping from your waist, but he gave you a warm, grateful nod. "You're always taking such good care of me. Thank you." He leaned up slightly, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your cheek before heading to the living room.

You didn't see much of Peter the rest of the week. He didn't make it to Tuesday movie night, sending a quick "so sorry I can't make it tonight, let's reschedule for this weekend if you're free." The pizza you'd ordered for two sat in your fridge for three days. He didn't show up on your fire escape at two in the morning asking to spend the night either.

By Thursday night, the faint smell of rubbing alcohol sat in the back of your throat. It had been a grueling nine-hour shift dominated by fractured collarbones from silly bike accidents and run-of-the-mill kitchen mishaps. You leaned heavily against the nurse's station, scrolling through class notes on your iPad, desperately waiting for the day to end.

Then the double doors of the ambulance bay were violently kicked open. A man burst into the emergency room, hyperventilating, his dark clothes completely soaked with blood. In his arms he was carrying a limp, heavy body clad in a red and blue suit. Everyone in the room recognized the figure immediately.

"Level 1 Trauma Activation! Trauma Bay One, right now!" blared over the hospital speakers.

Doctors and nurses ran from every direction, wheeling a metal gurney into position. The man dropped the masked figure onto the mattress, shouting frantically until hospital security gently but firmly pushed him back out of the zone. You ran too. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the exhaustion completely evaporating. The attending Trauma Surgeon, the intimidating man you'd spent weeks trying to impress, snapped his eyes directly to you.

"Get him exposed right now!"

You pulled the heavy trauma shears from the wall mount. Stepping to the side of the gurney, your hands slipped once against the handle before you steadied them. You guided the flat safety tip under the stiff collar of the suit and began the difficult task of cutting through the material. The shears struggled against the fabric. Standard blades should have sliced through heavy leather easily, but this material was incredibly resilient.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered to yourself.

Using every ounce of strength in both hands, you finally managed to cut down to the torso, peeling the heavy material aside to expose his chest. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, you recognized the familiar torso. Your eyes traced the hard lines of the abs you had run your hands over countless nights and in countless showers. You spotted the healing, yellow-purple bruising along his ribs, the exact, specific pattern of injury you had carefully tended to in your kitchen just three days ago.

"Does the amateur boxing champion of Queens feel a little sore?" A playful, echoing memory of your own voice flashed through your mind.

Before the impossible math of the situation could be processed, a nurse shoved you aside. "Step back!" The medical team swarmed the bed, applying heavy pressure to a severe wound in his lower abdomen and establishing IV lines. At the head of the bed the physician prepared to secure the airway.

"Get this mask off!"

The fabric of the mask was carefully cut away, revealing the bloodied face beneath. There was no denying it anymore. Your Peter lay on the table, pale and unconscious, fighting for his life.

When the world went dark, the last thing Peter thought of was sunlight. He blinked awake, warm light everywhere, he rolled over, searching for you only to find the space beside him empty. Peter sat up slowly just as you walked back into the room, wearing nothing but his Star Wars t-shirt.

"You're up early," he said, opening his arms for you. You climbed into them, pressing a kiss to his lips as you straddled him.

"It's 11am, the morning is gone."

He pulled you against him. "Well in that case, we might as well stay in bed."

"Peter! You said you would go to the farmer's market with me."

He laid back against the pillows, closing his eyes. "We can go after a few more minutes."

"Wake up, Peter," a small smile came to his lips as you gave his chest a playful push, and then your voice faded away. "Wake up, Peter!" he heard more urgently. "Wake up!"

His eyes opened slowly, the harsh white light of the hospital room hitting him like a fist. His head was pounding, a deep, dull throb behind his eyes that made the fluorescent lights unbearable. Everything was stiff, his body heavy and resistant when he tried to move, the kind of ache that settled into your bones after something had gone very wrong. He lay still for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, letting the beeping of the monitors orient him.

I have to tell her was his first and only thought.

Hours later, still bruised and slightly limping, he raised a fist to knock on your door. He could hear you shuffling inside. In his right hand he held a bouquet of flowers that trembled with his hands, stems still wrapped in the market's brown paper. The words he had so carefully rehearsed sat on the tip of his tongue. I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I only wanted to keep you safe.

The lock clicked. You appeared in the frame, a worn oversized NASA sweater swallowing your shoulders, grey sweat shorts riding low, platform Uggs making you look taller and somehow more distant. Peter's chest tightened.

"Hey." His voice cracked. "I'm so sorry I've been gone. Can I come in? I need to tell you something important."

You said nothing. He held up the flowers. "Oh, and these are for you. From the farmer's market."

You stepped aside coolly, swinging the door open wide. He shuffled past into the living room and you took the flowers wordlessly, your fingers brushing his. "Thanks," you muttered, voice flat enough to sting. You carried them into the kitchen and knelt to fill a vase, no glance his way.

Peter swallowed, each heartbeat shouting in his ears. All the rehearsed words crowded together, impossible to separate. He paced, one foot tapping against the hardwood, half of him wanting to force the words out, the other half already retreating. You turned around from the. The room felt too quiet, charged with every unspoken thing between you. Arms crossed over the NASA logo, you waited.

"Well, then," you said, voice cool but eyes searching. "What is it you wish to tell me, Spider-Man?"

Now, he was just a shadow in your life. One standing on rooftops, watching you pull your coat tight against the snowy wind.

He wasn’t stalking you per se, no. He was watching. Mindfully. That was what he told himself.

He knew your new coffee order. He knew you still took the long way home past the bakery because you liked the smell of fresh bread at dusk. He knew you locked your door twice every night.

He watched over you from the edges, starving for a glimpse of the girl who still held his heart in her hands.

Until the night he couldn't just watch.

You were two blocks from your apartment when a man stepped out of the shadow of an alleyway, shoving you back hard against the brick wall. Your purse was yanked violently from your shoulder, the strap snapping with a crack that echoed in the street. You gasped, stumbling, your back hitting the cold brick as the man turned to run.

Then Peter was there.

Not in the suit. Just Peter. Wearing his old hoodie and a look of pure panic that had nothing to do with fear for himself.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, stepping directly into the mugger’s path.

The man swung wide, a wild punch aimed straight at Peter’s jaw. Peter could have caught his fist easily. He could have broken his wrist with a twitch of his fingers or webbed him to the nearest streetlamp before the guy even blinked. But he didn’t. Not with you standing there, eyes wide with terror. He had to be normal. He had to be small.

So Peter let the fist land. The force cracked against his cheekbone, splitting his upper lip against his teeth, but Peter barely flinched. He grabbed the guy’s jacket, slammed him back against a metal dumpster with just enough force to knock the wind out of him, and snatched your purse back.

“What the fuck, man!” the mugger scrambled to his feet, cursing loudly before running away.

Peter stood there, breathing heavily, the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue. He turned around, holding your purse out to you with a hand that was shaking—not from the hit, but from the terrifying proximity to you.

You were staring at him with wide eyes, clutching your coat around yourself as you stumbled forward. Your hands trembling as you took the bag from him. “Oh my god,” you breathed, stepping right next to him before he could even think about retreating back. “Are you–are you okay?”

It was the first time in two years your voice had been directed at him. Peter froze, his lungs seizing up as your hands hovered over his shoulders.

“I’m fine, I’m totally fine,” Peter stammered, scrambling to sit up, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed the back of his hand to his cut lip, tasting copper. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said softly, taking the purse, your eyes never leaving his face.

Your hand dove into your coat pocket, instinctively pulling out a crumpled packet of tissues. Before Peter could take a step back, before he could put up a single guard, your fingers gently reached up. The soft paper brushed against the corner of his jaw, dabbing softly at the fresh blood running down his lip.

Peter stopped breathing entirely. The touch was so familiar, so frighteningly close to the way you used to tend to his battle scars, that he felt a lump form in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird, every nerve ending screaming at the familiarity of your touch. It took every ounce of his restraint not to lean his face into your palm, not to grab your hand and press your knuckles against his chest, not to let out a broken exhale and whisper your name into the freezing air.

You didn't know him. He had to keep reminding himself. To you, he was just a guy who chased a mugger away.

“That was crazy. You were crazy,” you murmured, a small chuckle escaping you as you doused his cut. “You could have gotten really hurt over a bag.”

Peter stared at you, his brown eyes shining under the streetlights. “It was yours,” he blurted out simply, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. “I mean—you were in trouble. I couldn’t just stand there.”

You smiled, warm and genuine, setting off a quiet explosion inside his chest. “Well, thank you, hero. Honestly…” You looked up at the sky, where the distant red blur of spiderman usually swung, then back to the guy sitting on the pavement in front of you. “Who needs spiderman when you’re here?”

The words hit Peter like a physical blow, slicing clean through his ribs and carving into his heart. The irony was suffocating. Here you were, thanking the man in front of you, completely unaware that the hero you were offhandedly dismissing was the exact reason you were alive, breathing, and safe—and the exact reason you had no idea who he was.

He swallowed hard, the taste of copper thick on his tongue, his chest aching so deeply he thought his ribs might snap under the pressure.

“Yeah,” Peter swallowed hard, his voice barely audible over the noise of city traffic. He managed a bittersweet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah… who even needs spiderman?”

You frowned slightly at the sudden shadow that fell over his face, sensing a shift in the air even if you couldn't put a name to it.

“Well, I’m glad you were here,” you paused, giving him time to introduce himself, but when the silence stretched between you, you let out a soft huff of amusement. “I’m guessing you have a name? Or…?”

A knife twisted in his gut. My name is Peter Parker. You used to scream it when I swung us over the Brooklyn Bridge. You used to whisper it against my neck at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.

“Peter,” he forced out, the syllable fragile, almost sharp as it left his mouth. “It’s... it’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated, testing the weight of it.

“Well, Peter,” you started, offering a firmer smile as you motioned down the sidewalk. “You just took a fist to the face for my purse. The least I can do is… I don't know, buy you a coffee? some food?”

Peter's instant impulse was to say no. To retreat into his shell and never speak to you ever again. But as he looked at you, at the way you were looking at him with genuine curiosity—the selfish, starving part of him won.

“Food sounds... really good, actually.”

“Good.” you turned to walk beside him, keeping a slow pace. “Lead the way, Peter.”

That night opened a door Peter knew he should have kept locked, bolted, and buried. But he was weak. God, he was so weak when it came to you.

He tried his best to stay away. He really did.

But then a week passed. And then two.

It started with “accidental” run-ins. A brief wave as you left for work, a cup of coffee from the cart when he just so happened to be standing in line behind you. Then walks home after your evening shifts. Then, sitting on the steps of your brownstone at midnight, sharing a single umbrella against the rain while you talked about everything and nothing.

You found out he was alone. No family, no close friends to keep in touch with, nothing. Yet the more you learnt, the more you wanted to pull him into your warmth.

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”

He looked up at you then, eyes so filled with longing that it made your throat close for a second.

“I don’t think I have a choice.” His voice cracked slightly toward the end.

“Everyone has a choice,” you reassured back, closing the distance between you. Your hand reached out, hovering for a split second before gently resting against his jaw—the same place you had touched him the night you reconciled. “Let someone in, peter. Let me in.”

The touch did it for him.

Peter let out a shuddering exhale, closing his eyes as his head naturally inclined into the cradle of your palm. He was drowning, and you were the air he had been denied for years. He knew he was playing a dangerous game. He knew that every laugh you shared, every soft glance, every time you reached for his hand while crossing the street was a lie built off a life he had been forced to erase.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled against your skin. “You have no idea how much I don’t want to hurt you.”

You shook your head almost immediately. “You won’t. I trust you, Peter.”

That single phrase broke whatever was left of his resistance.

And for the next five months, he gave in to his desires.

He let himself become someone to you.

Holding your hand on the crowded subway, walking you to your apartment after your shift, taking your bag off your shoulder without asking, sitting on the floor of his living room eating pizza while you laughed at a stupid rerun.

To you, it was a sweet, organic romance with a ridiculously attentive guy who looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

To Peter, every single day was a miracle waiting to be destroyed.

He was constantly walking a tightrope between absolute bliss and terror. And yet, the thing that broke his heart the most—the thing that proved just how deeply you cared for him—was the way you handled his routines.

He would disappear for hours at a time. His phone going straight to voicemail in the middle of the afternoon, or he would have to suddenly bolt out of the apartment at midnight with a vague excuse about “work.”

He would return carrying fresh injuries, and you never once interrogated him.

You would simply sigh, take his trembling shoulders in and guide him to the edge of his bed.

You would press a soft kiss to the top of his head while you wrapped a bandage around his ribs, resting your cheek against his shoulder as he exhaled into your neck.

The trust you had in him was so complete. So complete that it killed him. You gave him a safe place in a world that constantly demanded he be bruised and bleeding.

Every night you spent pressing ice to his skin without question was a reminder of what a monster he felt like for lying to you every second he was in your arms.

“You’re doing that thing again.” You laced your fingers through his as you both leaned on the railing of his fire escape.

Peter blinked, pulling his eyes away from the neon lights reflecting in the distance. “What thing?”

“You get this look in your eyes,” you explain, turning your body to face him, resting your chin on his chest. “Like you’re standing right here… but then you’re also really far away.”

His grip on your hand tightened, his heart flipping painfully. He forced a reassuring smile, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo.

“I’m right here.” He lied straight through his teeth because it was the only way to keep you safe from the truth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

By the fifth month, his sneakers lived by your front door. His spare hoodie sat folded on the back of your armchair. You were a couple in every sense of the word—except for the bedroom door that Peter kept carefully closed.

He had been so careful. Every time things got too heavy, every time your kisses turned breathless and his hands started dragging your shirt up your torso, Peter would gently pull back, resting his forehead against yours. He told himself it was respect. He told himself it was pacing.

But deep down he knew he was terrified of taking the next step. Of letting you in completely.

Which made the night it all collapsed hit like a train.

It was a friday when a torrential downpour had caught you both a few steps from your building, leaving you two drenched to the bone by the time you burst through the apartment door, laughing and shivering.

You kicked off your soaked shoes, your hair clinging to your neck, water dripping off the hem of your sweater. Peter stood by the entryway, his curls plastered to his forehead.

When he looked at you all flushed, laughing, breathless… something in him snapped. The supposed pacing he had insisted himself on over the months crumbled to dust.

He didn’t pull back this time.

Peter crossed the entryway, framing your face in his cold hands, kissing you like a man starved. You let out a light gasp against his lips, arms instantly flying around his neck, pulling him as close as humanly possible.

The heat between you detonated.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your sweater was pulled over your head and tossed onto a chair. Your back hit the mattress as Peter hovered over you, his own chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with need as he looked down at you. “You’re so beautiful…”

His mouth trailed down your jaw, tracing a path down the side of your neck, pulling soft, needy whimpers from your throat.

His hands slid down your waist, fingers digging gently into your skin. You arched into his touch, your legs tangling with his, your fingers pulling at his damp shirt until he effortlessly tore it off.

Skin on skin. The weight of his body on yours was suffocating in the best way possible.

“Peter.” your nails pressed into the firm muscles of his bare back, pulling him down so his chest was pressed flush against yours. “Peter, look at me…”

He lifted his head, pausing the kisses he was leaving all over your collarbone. He was drowning in you, in the smell of your skin. He slid his hand down to the button of your jeans, his thumb brushing your hip, his knee nudging your thighs apart.

He lowered his head to capture your lips, his lips grazing yours in a teasing manner.

But the urge to speak your thoughts took over.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones, his eyes locking onto yours with so much love.

Or so you thought.

“I love you.” The words came out of your lips before you could stop.

Peter froze. His hand stopped dead on the denim. His pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks of horror.

I love you.

The sentence echoed through his head, multiplying, morphing instantly into memories that haunted his nightmares—your voice as you bled on the scaffolding, Aunt May’s voice fading in the air of Happy’s apartment.

Every single person who loved Peter Parker ended up broken.

Panic doused the heat in his blood in an instant. He looked down at you, your bare shoulder, the outline of your skin, your parted lips waiting for him to say it back.

A voice screamed inside his head, sharp, brutal, unforgiving.

He had brought you right back to the edge of the cliff he had sacrificed his life to drag you away from. If somebody with ill intentions found out about him, about this—if his life as spiderman spilled over this tiny, warm room, you would be the one to pay the price.

“Peter?” you whispered, your sweet smile faltering as you felt the rigidity in his body. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

Peter yanked his hands back as if your bare skin had turned into scorching iron.

He scrambled off you so fast he nearly fell, his knees hitting the floor beside the bed. He dragged himself backward, his back slamming against the wall, hands shoving into his hair as a hyperventilating breath tore from his throat.

“No,” he choked out. “No. Please, no–”

“Peter,” you sat up instantly, clutching the bedsheet around you, your heart dropping straight to your stomach. Your skin was still warm from his touch, your chest rising in confusion and fear. “W..what happened? Did I push too fast? I’m sorry, I tho–”

“Stop! Don’t apologise!” peter choked once more, refusing to look at you. He wouldn’t, no, could not bear to look at the devastating confusion written all over your face. If he did, he’d shatter completely. “Don’t say that. Don’t apologise to me, please.”

“Peter, you’re having a panic attack, please, sit down–” you swing your legs off the bed, reaching out to touch his arm.

“No, no,” he muttered. You pulled your hand back, sitting half dressed on the edge of the mattress, trembling as tears instantly filled your eyes.

“I don’t understand,” you stammered, voice shaky. “We’ve been together for five months, Peter. We were just… what did I do wrong?”

“No! No, it’s–it’s not you.” he almost yells as he grabs his shirt off the floor. “It’s all me. It’s–I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here.”

“What? What are you talking about?” a tear spilled over your lashes as you pleaded. “Just talk to me, please! Tell me what’s going through your head–”

“I’m sorry.” His brows drew together as he backed toward the window. “I can’t be what you need… I’m so sorry.”

“Peter, wait–!”

He didn’t. Swiftly unlatching the window, he stepped out onto the freezing fire escape, and faded into the dark.

The icy wind whipped through the open window, snapping the curtains back, filling the warm bedroom with freezing rain.

He left you standing in the center of the room, staring at the window frame while tears streamed down your face, your heart squeezing violently.

A week passed. Seven endless days.

Peter returned to his routine. The suit felt like knives pressing into his skin, but the lenses served one vital purpose. They hid the bloodshot wreckage of his eyes.

He spent every night crouched on the brick across from your building, watching your window.

You hadn’t left the apartment. Not once.

Your friends came, only to be sent away in under three minutes.

From his view, Peter watched the fallout of what he had done. He saw the way your lights stayed off almost all day. He saw you call in sick to work, your shadow pacing back and forth in front of the glow of your phone before you gave up and collapsed back onto the bed.

The only sign of life was the single delivery bag a courier left outside your door. A bag Peter watched sit in the hallway for hours before you finally opened the door to drag it inside, untouched.

You were rotting in your own grief, paralysed by a heartbreak that made no sense.

Every night, he watched through the slit in your curtains as you sat on the edge of the mattress—the exact same spot where he had abandoned you.

You would wrap his faded hoodie around your shoulders, burying your nose into the fabric to hunt for a scent that was rapidly fading, and just stare at the open window.

Waiting for a boy who was never coming back. Searching for an explanation that didn’t exist.

The realisation tore through Peter’s soul with unrelenting force. He had erased your memories to save you from the damage of his life. He had sacrificed his own existence so you wouldn’t have to bleed for him.

And yet, here you were, bleeding anyway.

A ragged sob caught in his throat beneath the fabric of his mask. He raised a hand, pressing his palm onto the wall, desperately trying to regain his composure.

He wanted so desperately to swing across the narrow street, to unlatch that window, to pull off the mask, and to drop to his knees beside your bed. He wanted to kiss your tear stained cheeks, hold you until your breathing evened out, and scream the truth until his vocal cords gave out.

But he couldn’t. He had already ruined you twice. Touching you again would be destruction.

So Peter Parker stayed on his rooftop, high above the pavement, condemned to watch you struggle. He watched as you turned off the bedside lamp, wrapping yourself in his hoodie in the dark, while he sat in the freezing rain, keeping watch over you.

As the last light in your apartment clicked off, the lenses of his mask zoomed in slightly through the slit in your curtains, catching a tiny detail on the chair beside your bed.

Sitting right there, illuminated only by the streetlamps outside, was the leather purse from the night you re-entered his life. The strap—snapped clean in two during the mugging—had been meticulously hand stitched back together by you.

that's the deal. you photograph and interview spiderman, and he makes sure he's where you want him to be. in return, your career keeps growing and he gets a small cut (crime fighting doesn't pay the bills).

after doing this for so long, it's become a friendship, sort of. you don't know his face, don't know anything else about him except that he is spiderman. but that's all the information you need from where you stand.

and, currently, that's on the roof.

the commotion is close enough now that you can hear it. a few more blocks and you could see it.

"you wanna step back from the edge?" spiderman asks you.

"i'm okay," you answer and sit down, legs dangling over the edge. you've photographed him in this position before. a candid picture, where he's playing with an ipod or something before he heads off to fight crime.

a car comes flying down the street towards your building. you reach for the camera resting on the rooftop behind you and hold it up, ready.

"i was thinking we could go for breakfast after this," you say, the phone hold between your shoulder and your ear.

you see him then, a flash of red on top of a car. holding your camera in front of your face, you zoom in. it's a little blurry, but it seems more intentional than anything else.

"how is spiderman supposed to eat breakfast?" he asks you, grunting as he jumps from the car. he lifts a hand, webs shooting form his web shooters.

your shoulders raise in a shrug and you snap another picture. "come back to mine," you suggest. "we can order in. i'll start my article and you can eat with your face obscured like a weirdo."

spiderman laughs, but you might've imagined it. "it's not weird," he tells you. a whoa leaves his lips as he dodges some ridiculous supervillain weapon. "it's about anonymity."

"drop the anonymity thing and i'm pretty sure they'll start paying you for this whole crime fighting thing. then you won't have to take handouts from friendly reporters."

"this is a handout?"

you laugh, feet hitting the bricks as you kick then. "no, not a handout," you say. "we're just two buddies helping each other out because we both benefit from it."

"that's more like it."

"okay, so breakfast after this?" you push again. "i don't know if you've tried that new place on elmhurst but it's good."

another laugh. "yeah, sounds good," he says. "i should be done in a few minutes."

"got it, spidey."

you hang up and let your phone drop onto the top of the building beside you. this has become your normal routine, listening on the police scanner for where spiderman will be so you can snap a picture. you don't know when the phonecalls started or how you got his number, but they're part of it now. you can't imagine doing this without hearing his voice.

you keep snapping pictures, some for your article and some for the blog you run outside of work. occasionally, you make little notes of the fight, things you can recount later. but the important part of the article is the-

something hits the building beneath you.

it all happens so fast. a shake that feels like the building should collapse, your body shifting forward without your permission, the building disappearing from beneath your ass.

you scream, scrambling for anything to hold. but you're falling fast, with no hope of rescue as the ground gets closer and closer. you close your eyes, as if that will slow you down. or speed you up, you're not sure what you'd prefer. you don't think you have the time to decide.

but you do. you have all the time in the world to think when arms grab you. "easy," he says over the thwip of his web shooters.

for a moment, you can't reply. you're too busy trying to catch your breath, coming to terms with the fact that you're not dead, that you're not gonna die.

he swings until you're back on your rooftop, standing safely in the centre of the roof. "told you not to stand on the edge," he says, his arms still around you.

you're still trying to breathe. "fuck," you manage, hands on your knees as your head drops forward. "that was so fucking scary."

there's still commotion on the ground below you. but you can barely hear it with how heavily you're breathing. and spiderman stands there, his hand on your back. "you okay?" he asks, getting to your level.

you shake your head and wave him off. "i'm fine. i'm fine," you reply. your legs shake, refusing to take a step forward. you just need to grab your camera and get downstairs for an exclusive interview.

and spiderman needs to go and save the city.

"seriously, i'm fine," you tell him, standing up straighter. "go ahead, spidey."

he moves across the roof and picks up your camera. "wait up here, okay?" he says, backing towards the edge. "i'll come and get you, okay?"

"okay," you reply.

he pauses at the edge of the roof. "i mean it. don't move."

"good luck, spidey," you say and he finally moves. he steps off the edge of the roof and swings towards the action.

you watch as best you can from the middle of the roof. your articles aren't often about the action, more about the exclusive interview you get afterwards. you still watch, watch in case.

***

most people will tell you 1pm is too late for breakfast. your argument is 1pm is a weird time for a bank robbery, but here you are.

your interview is done. spiderman sits on the floor, his knees up as your tv plays. this might be the only time he sees footage of himself, when he's sitting in your apartment, waiting for your mid morning breakfast.

you sit on the couch behind him, watching him.

your foot touches his shoulder. in less than a second, he moves, grabbing your ankle and holding you still. spidey senses, you coined the term in your spider web column.

"you okay?" you ask, unable to read his expression behind his mask.

he lets go of you and stares at the tv again. not really watching it, just looking at it for something to look at. "yeah," he answers. "yeah, i'm fine."

you slide onto the floor beside him and copy his pose. knees pulled up, arms draping over them. "have you got anybody, spiderman?" you ask him. "i mean, anybody outside of your work."

he takes a moment to think about it, which you take as a bad sign. your heart clenches for him.

"i did have," he answers, his head hitting your couch. "i had my best friends and my aunt." he lets out a fond laugh at the thought of them and it eases you slightly. but the laughter stops and his head drops forward. "something happened. to keep them safe, i made sure they forget me."

your arm stretches out across his shoulders. you lay your arm on him, pulling him against you and squeezing him. "now, you have me."

a snort leaves his nose. "so long as i give you the exclusive interviews, right?"

you punch his shoulder, sure he barely feels it. "shut up," you say and roll your eyes. "would i be sitting here waiting for breakfast with you if it was about the interviews?"

"guess not."

Peter had gotten very good at pretending things didn’t hurt.

It was a useful skill, really. Necessary, considering his life had become a long succession of things he couldn’t change. There had been a time when grief had knocked the air out of him so completely that he wasn’t sure he’d ever figure out how to breathe again. Now, he had learned how to carry it. He could wake up with the emptiness sitting beside him and still get dressed. He could walk through neighborhoods filled with people who had once known him and remind himself that it wasn’t their fault. He could hear a familiar laugh from across a street and keep walking.

He had learned that sometimes surviving meant becoming very good at living with the things you couldn’t have back.

That was why Peter was sitting at Ned and MJ’s kitchen table on a gray Saturday afternoon, repairing a broken cabinet hinge as though his entire life were perfectly ordinary.

Rain had been threatening all morning, turning the windows into dull sheets of silver. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and whatever Ned had burned in the oven twenty minutes earlier. MJ was moving around the kitchen with the sort of casual confidence Peter had started associating with her, humming quietly while she searched through the refrigerator.

This was what normal looked like now.

Not the old normal. Never that.

But something.

Ned still knew him. MJ still knew him. They didn’t know everything, of course. They didn’t know Peter Parker was Spider-Man. They didn’t remember standing beside him on rooftops or fighting beside him or losing people beside him. They didn’t remember the boy who had grown up alongside them.

But they knew Peter.

Sometimes that had to be enough.

“You know,” Ned said from across the table, “most people would just buy a new cabinet.”

Peter glanced up from the screwdriver in his hand. “Most people don’t have my incredibly specific skill set.”

“Your incredibly specific skill set is being cheap.”

“I’m resourceful.”

“You’re cheap.”

It was strange how easily moments like this could make him forget.

For a few seconds, he could almost pretend the spell had never happened. Almost pretend he hadn’t watched the world erase him from itself. Almost pretend there wasn’t a version of his life somewhere in his head that no longer existed anywhere else.

He finished tightening the hinge and leaned back in his chair.

“There,” he said. “Fixed.”

Ned opened the cabinet and tested it. “Okay, that’s actually impressive.”

Peter gave him a smug look.

“I hate that you’re good at this.”

“Thank you.”

MJ appeared from around the corner with a mug in one hand. “What’d he fix?”

“The cabinet.”

She looked at Peter, then at the cabinet, and shrugged. “Useful.”

Peter smiled.

Then MJ turned back toward the refrigerator.

It was such a small thing.

If Peter hadn’t been looking in that direction, he might never have noticed.

She opened the refrigerator, moved a carton of milk aside, and a white envelope slipped loose from underneath a magnet. It fluttered to the floor.

MJ bent to pick it up.

“What’s this?”

Ned looked over. “Oh, that’s—”

He stopped.

Peter’s eyes had already landed on the envelope.

He recognized the handwriting.

He didn’t know why.

Not consciously.

It was just ink on paper. A name written in elegant black lettering. A name that shouldn’t have meant anything to him anymore.

But his entire body went still.

MJ held the envelope between her fingers.

“Is this yours?”

“No,” Ned said. “That’s for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. I forgot to give it to you.”

MJ turned the envelope over.

Peter couldn’t see the name anymore.

He didn’t need to.

Something cold had already started spreading through his chest.

“Who’s getting married?” he asked.

His voice sounded normal.

That was the strange part.

Ned looked at him.

“No one you’d know.”

Peter laughed softly, almost automatically. “I know a lot of people.”

MJ looked at the invitation again.

Then she said the name.

(Y/N).

For one second, Peter genuinely forgot how to breathe.

The screwdriver slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a sharp metallic sound.

Ned frowned. “You okay?”

Peter didn’t answer.

The name moved through his mind like something waking up.

Not a memory exactly. Not at first.

Just a feeling.

A strange, aching familiarity that made his chest tighten before his brain had caught up.

MJ was still talking.

“We went to school with her.”

Peter stared at her.

Went to school with her.

The sentence should have been harmless.

Instead, it felt cruel.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

Ned pulled the invitation from MJ’s hand and looked at it.

“She’s getting married Today.”

Today.

Peter’s eyes dropped to the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.

Hours.

Hours until a person he had once known better than almost anyone would stand in front of a room full of people and promise her life to somebody else.

Somebody Peter didn’t know.

Somebody who knew her.

The thought made something twist violently inside him.

He hated it.

He hated that he cared.

He hated that he was standing there feeling like someone had reached into his chest and pulled something loose.

Because she was happy.

At least, she was supposed to be.

And that was what mattered.

“That’s great,” Peter managed.

MJ smiled. “Yeah. She seemed really happy when I talked to her.”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

“When did you talk to her?”

“A few weeks ago. She came by the apartment.”

Peter nodded.

He didn’t ask what she’d said.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he forced himself to smile and reached for the screwdriver again.

“Good for her.”

The words tasted wrong.

He stayed another twenty minutes.

Long enough to finish the cabinet. Long enough to help Ned carry a box from the hallway. Long enough to pretend that nothing had changed.

Then he left.

The rain had finally started.

Peter stood beneath the awning outside the apartment building, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as water streamed along the curb. The city looked blurred around him, all headlights and wet pavement and people rushing beneath umbrellas.

He should have gone home.

Instead, he stood there thinking about a girl he hadn’t thought about in years.

Except that wasn’t entirely true.

He had thought about her.

He realized that now.

Little things.

A joke that would have made her laugh. A song she’d hated. A coffee order he still remembered without knowing why. A particular corner near their old school where she’d always waited for him.

He remembered her sitting beside him when he was having a bad day.

He remembered her stealing food off his plate.

He remembered her laughing at him when he insisted he could fix something and inevitably made it worse.

He remembered the way she used to look at him.

Or maybe he remembered imagining it.

Peter shut his eyes.

The rain grew heavier.

For years, he had believed MJ was the answer to every question he’d ever had about love. Even after everything, some part of him had held onto that. Maybe because she had been the person he’d chosen. Maybe because Peter Parker had always needed something to believe in.

But MJ didn’t remember him.

She didn’t remember loving him.

And he couldn’t blame her for that.

He had already accepted that.

So why did the idea of Reader getting married hurt more?

Peter opened his eyes.

The answer was waiting somewhere just beyond the edge of his understanding.

He simply wasn’t ready to look at it yet.

………

Five days later, you woke up to someone knocking softly on your bedroom door.

For a moment, you stayed beneath the blankets, staring at the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. The sky outside was the color of watered-down milk, bright but strangely cold, and the city beyond the window was already awake. Cars moved along the street below. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rose and disappeared between the buildings.

You had always liked mornings when you didn’t have anywhere to be.

This morning, you were supposed to be getting married.

The thought should have filled you with something.

Excitement, maybe.

Nerves.

Happiness.

Instead, there was only that familiar ache sitting quietly beneath your ribs.

“Come in,” you called.

The door opened and your mother stepped inside, carrying a cup of coffee. She smiled when she saw you sitting up.

“Today’s the day.”

You smiled back because that was what you were supposed to do.

“I know.”

She crossed the room and handed you the coffee before sitting beside you on the edge of the bed. Her eyes moved around the room, taking in the dress hanging from the wardrobe, the shoes sitting neatly beside it, the flowers someone had delivered the night before.

Everything looked perfect.

You had spent months making sure of that.

Your mother reached over and squeezed your hand.

“How are you feeling?”

There it was.

The question you’d been avoiding for weeks.

You looked down at your coffee.

“Fine.”

She laughed softly.

“That’s not an answer.”

You tried to laugh with her, but it came out weaker than you’d intended.

“I’m nervous.”

It was an easy answer. Everyone expected you to be nervous. Every woman you had spoken to in the last month had told you the same thing. The butterflies. The sleepless nights. The sudden urge to cancel everything. It was apparently normal to question your entire life when you were standing this close to the altar.

Your mother seemed satisfied.

“Of course you are.”

She leaned over and kissed your temple before standing.

“You’ll feel better once you’re dressed.”

You watched her leave.

The door clicked shut.

Silence returned.

You looked toward the dress.

For months, you’d imagined this moment.

You’d imagined putting it on.

You’d imagined walking down the aisle.

You’d imagined seeing him waiting for you at the end of it.

And every time you had pictured that moment, something inside you had gone strangely quiet.

You had convinced yourself it was fear.

Now, sitting alone in your bedroom with the morning light crawling across the floor, you weren’t so sure.

You got out of bed and crossed the room.

The dress was beautiful.

There was no denying that.

You had chosen it because it was exactly what you’d always imagined wearing. Soft fabric, delicate details, nothing too extravagant. When you’d first tried it on, you’d cried.

You had thought those tears meant you were happy.

Maybe they hadn’t.

You opened the wardrobe and reached inside.

The garment bag rustled beneath your fingers.

Something fell from the shelf above it.

A small wooden jewelry box hit the floor.

You frowned.

You didn’t recognize it at first.

Then you did.

Barely.

It had belonged to you for years. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d opened it.

You crouched down and picked it up.

Dust covered the lid.

Your name was written across the top in faded ink.

You sat on the floor.

For some reason, you didn’t open it immediately.

You simply stared at it.

There was a strange sensation building in your chest.

Not fear.

Something closer to anticipation.

As though some part of you already knew what was inside.

You lifted the lid.

There were old earrings you hadn’t worn since high school. A movie ticket. A photograph folded in half. A handful of coins. A friendship bracelet made from faded thread.

And beneath all of it—

A bracelet.

You froze.

It was simple.

Cheap, really.

A thin piece of worn material with a tiny metal charm attached to it.

You picked it up.

The second your fingers touched it, something happened.

It wasn’t a thought at first.

It was a shift.

Like the world had tilted slightly out of place.

You were somewhere else.

Not your bedroom.

Not now.

A school hallway stretched around you, bright with afternoon sunlight. Lockers lined the walls. Voices echoed somewhere nearby, too loud, too close, like they were coming from inside your skull.

You were younger.

Much younger.

And someone was standing in front of you.

A boy.

Brown hair.

Soft eyes.

A smile you knew in a way that made your chest ache instantly, even though you didn’t understand why.

You knew that smile.

You didn’t know how.

Your fingers tightened around the bracelet.

The memory snapped away like a thread pulled too hard.

You gasped, suddenly back in your room, the air sharp in your lungs.

Your heart was pounding.

You looked around wildly, as if the hallway might still be there, layered over your bedroom walls.

Nothing.

Only silence.

Only the dress.

Only the box in your lap.

Your hands were shaking now.

You looked down again, slower this time, as if the bracelet might change if you stared at it long enough.

And then another memory came without warning.

You were sitting on the steps outside school.

The same boy was beside you.

He was talking too fast, hands moving as he explained something you couldn’t quite follow. You were laughing at him, not because you understood, but because he looked so serious about something so small.

The sun was warm on your face.

His shoulder brushed yours.

And it felt… familiar.

Like it had always been there.

Like it belonged there.

A name surfaced before you could stop it.

Peter.

Your breath caught so sharply it hurt.

Peter.

The name didn’t feel like a new thought.

It felt like something returning.

Something that had been taken.

You closed your eyes, and the memories didn’t come gently anymore.

They came in pieces that didn’t ask permission.

Peter stealing food from your lunch because he forgot his.

Peter showing up late, apologizing too much.

Peter laughing so hard he had to bend over, hands on his knees.

Peter sitting beside you when you cried and not saying anything at all because he knew words wouldn’t help.

Peter.

Peter.

Peter.

Each repetition made your chest tighter, like something inside you was trying to remember how to breathe around him again.

You pressed your hand to your forehead.

“Who are you?”

The whisper felt too small for what you were feeling.

And then, somewhere deep in your mind, something answered without sound.

I’m Peter.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room felt different now.

Not changed.

Just… revealed.

Like a curtain had been pulled back.

You looked at the bracelet again, and suddenly you remembered giving it to him.

You remembered teasing him about how crooked the charm was.

You remembered him insisting it was supposed to be that way.

You remembered smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

And then—

You remembered loving him.

The realization didn’t arrive gently.

It hit like something breaking open.

You loved him.

You had loved him.

For years.

Your gaze drifted across the room, landing on the wedding dress hanging so still it almost felt like it was waiting for you to make a decision about it.

But now it didn’t feel like yours.

Not wrong.

Not ugly.

Just… disconnected.

Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t known what it was missing.

You stood slowly, the bracelet still clenched in your hand.

More memories came as you moved, unsteady, like your body was trying to catch up to your mind.

Peter walking you home in silence that never felt empty.

Peter waiting outside classrooms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peter calling you just to hear your voice.

Peter looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

And then the memories changed.

They turned heavier.

You remembered MJ.

You remembered understanding, even back then, that Peter’s heart wasn’t fully yours.

You remembered the way it hurt in a quiet, private way you never let anyone see.

You remembered telling yourself it was enough just to have him in your life at all.

You remembered choosing to stay anyway.

Even if it meant standing slightly to the side of his world.

Even if it meant loving him without being chosen.

Your throat tightened.

Because now you could also remember something else.

The way Peter looked at you when he thought no one was watching.

Not the way you had once hoped.

Not the way you had imagined.

But something softer.

Something uncertain.

Something that made your chest ache with the possibility that you had never allowed yourself to believe.

Your knees weakened.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, the bracelet still in your hand like an anchor keeping you from falling apart completely.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

Once.

Then again.

A message from your fiancé.

Can’t wait to see you.

You stared at it for a long time.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, but you didn’t move.

Because in your mind, another image had already formed.

Not the man you were supposed to marry.

Not the life you had planned.

But Peter.

Standing somewhere you couldn’t see yet.

Waiting.

And suddenly, the emptiness you had been carrying for months made sense in a way that hurt more than confusion ever had.

You hadn’t been uncertain about your wedding.

You had been grieving something you couldn’t remember losing.

A knock came at your door again.

Your mother stepped inside, smiling at first.

Then she saw your face.

Her expression changed immediately.

“There you are. Everyone’s getting ready downstairs.”

You looked up at her slowly.

Like you were coming back from somewhere far away.

She paused.

“What’s happened?”

You looked at the dress.

Then at the bracelet.

Then back at her.

And when you spoke, your voice didn’t shake from fear.

It shook from certainty.

“I can’t do it.”

Her smile faltered.

“What?”

You stood fully this time.

“I can’t get married.”

Confusion turned quickly into concern.

“It’s nerves. That’s all. We talked about this.”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than you expected.

Your eyes filled, but you didn’t look away.

“It’s not nerves.”

Silence stretched between you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And in that silence, something inside you finally settled into place.

Not peace.

Not clarity.

Recognition.

You looked down at the bracelet one more time.

And for the first time in years, you could see his face without it slipping away.

Peter Parker.

And there was only one thought left, clear enough to cut through everything else.

You needed to find him.

You didn’t know where he was.

You didn’t know what he had become.

You didn’t even know if he would remember you.

But you knew, with a certainty that felt older than memory itself, that he had always been there.

Even when you forgot.

Especially when you forgot.

………

Peter didn’t go home.

He walked for nearly an hour without knowing where he was going, letting the city carry him wherever it wanted. The rain had stopped sometime after he’d left Ned’s apartment, but everything was still wet. Pavement reflected the lights of passing cars, storefronts glowed against the gray afternoon, and people hurried around him with umbrellas tucked beneath their arms.

New York had always been loud.

Peter had once found comfort in that.

There was something reassuring about being surrounded by millions of people who didn’t know his name. Nobody expected anything from him here. Nobody looked at him and saw Spider-Man or the kid who had lost everyone or the boy who had once saved the city.

He was just another person walking down the street.

Except today, everywhere he looked, he kept seeing you.

Not literally.

That would have been easier.

Instead, he saw pieces of you everywhere.

A girl laughing with her friends outside a café reminded him of the way you used to laugh when you were trying not to. A yellow umbrella made him remember the one you’d once forgotten at school, leaving you to walk home beside him in the rain. A bookstore window made him remember the afternoons you’d spent pretending to study while he actually did his homework.

It was ridiculous.

He hadn’t seen you in years.

He shouldn’t remember this much.

Peter stopped at a crosswalk and stared at the red light.

He remembered your birthday.

He remembered your favorite movie.

He remembered how you hated when people interrupted you while you were talking.

He remembered the face you made whenever you were trying to decide whether something was a terrible idea.

He remembered you knowing when something was wrong with him before he said a word.

He remembered you.

And suddenly, he realized he had never actually stopped.

He had simply gotten used to not having you.

The light changed.

Peter didn’t move.

Someone behind him muttered something and stepped around his shoulder.

He barely noticed.

His mind had gone somewhere else entirely.

He thought about MJ.

He thought about the conversation they’d had weeks ago.

MJ had been kind.

That was what made it worse.

She hadn’t rejected him cruelly. She hadn’t told him she didn’t like him. She hadn’t laughed in his face or told him to leave her alone.

She had simply looked at him with sadness and confusion and explained that she couldn’t love someone she didn’t remember loving.

Peter had understood.

He’d pretended it didn’t destroy him, but he’d understood.

He couldn’t ask her to fall in love with a stranger simply because he remembered being her boyfriend.

So he’d let her go.

He’d told himself that was what love was supposed to look like.

Letting someone choose.

Even when their choice wasn’t you.

And maybe that was why the wedding invitation hurt so much.

You were choosing someone else.

And Peter suddenly couldn’t pretend that didn’t matter.

He finally crossed the street.

He found himself outside a small coffee shop and stopped in front of the window. The place was crowded, warm and golden against the damp afternoon. Someone inside was laughing.

Peter looked at the tables.

And there you were.

Not really.

Just a girl with your hair.

The resemblance was enough to make his heart jump.

He almost walked inside.

Then he stopped himself.

What would he even say?

Hi. It’s me. You don’t remember me, but we used to be best friends, and apparently I’ve just realized I’m in love with you five days before your wedding.

Peter almost laughed.

It sounded insane.

Because it was.

He walked away.

By the time he reached his apartment, the sky had begun to darken.

His room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Peter dropped his keys onto the counter and stood in the middle of the tiny apartment, staring at nothing.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the invitation.

Eventually, he pulled it from his jacket.

He’d taken it without realizing.

The paper was slightly bent now from being carried around all afternoon.

Your name was printed across the front.

Peter traced his thumb over it.

And then something clicked.

Not a memory.

A realization.

He remembered the other Peters.

He remembered sitting with them beneath the Statue of Liberty. He remembered hearing about their lives, their losses, their loves.

He remembered one of them talking about the person he had loved.

You.

Another universe.

Another Peter.

Another version of him who had somehow found his way to you.

At the time, Peter had thought it was strange.

Interesting.

Maybe even funny.

He had never asked why the idea had unsettled him.

Now he knew.

Because somewhere inside him, there had always been a part that recognized you.

He sat down on the edge of his bed.

The room seemed to close around him.

He remembered you standing beside him at school.

You sitting on his bedroom floor.

You falling asleep against his shoulder.

The distance after Peter had chosen MJ.

And suddenly, the years of memories rearranged themselves.

Every moment he’d dismissed as friendship suddenly looked different.

The way he’d always searched for you in a crowded room.

The way he felt calmer whenever you were around.

The way he had hated seeing you hurt.

The way he’d always wanted to tell you things first.

The way losing you had somehow felt different from losing everyone else.

Peter covered his face with both hands.

“Oh, God.”

His voice broke.

He lowered his hands.

There it was.

The truth he’d somehow managed to miss his entire life.

He loved you.

He loved you.

And you were getting married today.

Peter stood so quickly that his knee struck the edge of the table.

He barely noticed.

He started pacing.

There were a thousand reasons not to do anything.

You didn’t remember him.

You were engaged.

You had chosen someone.

Peter couldn’t just show up and demand that you throw away your entire life for him.

That wasn’t love.

That wasn’t fair.

But then another thought came.

What if you weren’t happy?

What if the reason he’d felt something was wrong the moment he saw that invitation was because some part of him knew you were missing something?

Peter stopped.

His heart was pounding.

He looked toward the window.

Outside, the city stretched endlessly beneath the evening sky.

Today.

He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so certain.

He only knew he couldn’t sit in this apartment and wonder.

Peter pulled his mask over his face.

He stepped onto the roof of his apartment building and looked across New York.

For a moment, he stood completely still.

Then he jumped.

The city rushed beneath him.

And somewhere far below, you were running through the same streets.

………

You didn’t know how long you’d been running.

Your shoes were completely wrong for it, your lungs burned with every breath, and the bracelet kept slipping down your wrist as you pushed through the crowded sidewalks. You had tried calling Peter’s name into your phone more than once, only to stare at the screen afterward and realize you didn’t even know what number you were supposed to call.

You didn’t know where he lived.

You didn’t know where he worked.

You didn’t know where he would go.

You only knew that you had to find him.

The city seemed impossibly large now.

Every street looked the same. Every face belonged to a stranger. Every time you caught a glimpse of brown hair in the crowd, your heart leapt before disappointment dragged it back down.

You kept going.

Because somewhere inside you, beneath the panic, there was an impossible certainty that Peter was looking for you too.

Across the city, Peter swung between two buildings and landed hard against the side of another.

His hands caught the brick automatically.

For a second, he hung there, breathing heavily.

He had no idea where he was going.

That had never stopped him before.

He pushed away from the building and swung again.

The city opened beneath him.

Cars crawled along the streets. People moved like tiny shadows beneath the evening lights. The sky was turning dark, the last traces of sunlight disappearing between the buildings.

Peter had spent so much of his life running toward danger.

This felt different.

This time, he was terrified of what would happen if he arrived too late.

He didn’t know what he would say.

He didn’t know what you would say.

He didn’t even know if you remembered enough to understand why he was coming.

But he couldn’t stop.

He couldn’t let another person disappear from his life.

Not you.

Never you.

You turned down another street.

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know why.

There was no reason for it.

Nothing had changed.

But suddenly, the bracelet around your wrist felt warm.

You stopped walking.

The noise of the city continued around you.

Cars passed.

People talked.

A bus groaned as it pulled away from the curb.

And somewhere above you, something moved.

You looked up.

At first, all you saw was the darkening sky.

Then a figure swung between the buildings.

Your heart stopped.

The figure disappeared behind a rooftop.

You stared.

You knew.

You didn’t know how you knew.

But you knew.

You started running again.

Peter landed on a rooftop several blocks away and looked toward the street below.

Something had changed.

He could feel it.

That strange instinct that had saved his life more times than he could count pulled hard in his chest.

He turned his head.

And there you were.

Standing halfway down the street.

Peter froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The city continued around you as though nothing had happened.

But Peter couldn’t hear any of it.

He couldn’t hear the traffic.

Couldn’t hear the people.

Couldn’t hear the sirens in the distance.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat.

You were staring up at him.

And he knew.

He knew before you said anything.

The way you were looking at him was different.

Not like a stranger.

Not like someone trying to place a familiar face.

You looked at him like you’d been searching for him your entire life.

Peter’s mask came off almost before he realized he’d reached for it.

His hands were shaking.

“Peter.”

His name broke out of you like a sob.

He jumped from the roof.

You barely had time to move before he landed several feet away.

Then you were running.

So was he.

Neither of you stopped to think about whether this was the right thing to do.

You crashed into him.

Peter caught you with both arms, and the impact stole the air from both of you at once. You didn’t even stumble—you just collapsed into each other like gravity had finally given up pretending it didn’t belong to him.

And then it happened.

No pause.

No hesitation.

No space for thought.

His mouth found yours like it had been pulled there.

You kissed him back instantly.

Desperately.

Like something inside you had been waiting years for the exact pressure of his hands on your face, the exact way he breathed your name against your lips without sound.

The world didn’t slow down.

It disappeared.

There was only him.

Only you.

Only the way he held you like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.

Only the way you pulled him closer like you were trying to make up for every second you’d been apart without knowing it.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because you wanted to.

It was because you had to breathe.

Peter’s forehead dropped against yours immediately, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.

You were both shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

Because there was too much in the silence already.

His hands stayed on your face like he was memorizing the fact that you were real.

Your fingers curled into the front of his suit like letting go would undo everything.

“I—” he started.

But it broke apart before it became a sentence.

You shook your head slightly, still too close to think clearly.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

Not because you didn’t want answers.

Because you didn’t want anything to interrupt this moment of finally.

Peter let out something between a laugh and a breathless exhale.

And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Still desperate.

But no longer searching.

Just knowing.

When you finally pulled back, your hand stayed on his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing under your palm.

Peter looked at you like he was afraid to believe it.

Like if he said it out loud, the universe might take it back.

“You found me,” he said quietly.

You nodded, tears still on your face.

“I found you.”