lee

Still, there was a weird sense of déjà vu standing outside Liz Allan’s house again. Same warm string lights flickering in the window, same throb of music and laughter spilling out through the cracks in the doorframe. The winter air nipped at your cheeks as you shifted your fingers to re-interlock them with Peter’s, your other hand buried in your coat pocket.

Peter stood beside you, both gift bags cradled in one arm—yours, which looked normal-sized and respectable, and his, which was noticeably bulkier and slightly crushed from the weight of whatever he shoved inside.

“Why is your bag so huge?” you asked, eyeing it. “Now I feel like I didn’t bring enough.”

Peter glanced down at it, then shrugged like he hadn’t just broken the ten-dollar limit. “It’s not big. It’s just… well-endowed.”

“Did you just call your gift bag well-endowed?”

He nodded solemnly. “Presentation matters.”

You rolled your eyes. “Size doesn’t.”

Peter grinned. “Bold of you to say when you’re dating me.”

You opened your mouth to respond—likely with something scathing—but before you could gag directly in his face, the front door flew open. Liz stood in the doorway partially barefoot, one sock sliding down her ankle and a half-full glass of something bubbly in hand. Her hair already looked slightly mussed.

“Drink the fuck up!” she shouted, grabbing both your wrists and yanking you inside like this had all been rehearsed.

You stumbled forward with a laugh, catching yourself just in time to avoid knocking into Peter. The paper bags he held crinkled as he adjusted his grip, one arm flexing slightly under their weight.

When you reached the kitchen threshold, Liz waved both of you in with grand jazz hands. “Bar’s open, lovebirds,” she announced, gesturing toward the kitchen island like she was unveiling a magic trick.

You stepped in and immediately slowed, blinking at the sheer spread in front of you. The island was covered from end to end with bottles, mixers, and seltzers stacked like a convenience store display. There were neat bowls of garnishes—lime wedges, maraschino cherries, salted rims—and Liz had even lit one of those tacky cinnamon-sugar holiday candles that made the whole room smell like a cookie factory.

“You,” you said, blinking at the setup, “make me genuinely concerned for your liver.”

Peter laughed behind you, the warm sound brushing the back of your neck. You felt his hand settle low at your back, just above your waistband. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your sweater as he leaned in, eyes scanning the lineup of alcohol like he was shopping.

From somewhere down the hallway, Liz called out cheerfully, “Some nights are made for bad decisions! For example: Christmas and New Year’s.”

You raised your eyebrows, deadpan. “Whose bright idea was it to combine those two?”

“Mine, bitch!” she yelled gleefully, and a doorbell chime echoed through the house. “Ooh—that must be Cindy!”

You watched her bolt from the kitchen like she was greeting a soldier home from war. Cindy barely had time to tug her scarf off before Liz swept her into a full spin-hug.

Turning back to the chaos of the island, you took in the crooked pyramid of Surfside cans and tequila bottles sweating under the overhead lights. A charcuterie board sat shoved between plastic chip bowls and mini corn dogs, looking extremely out of place. You cracked open a strawberry lemonade Surfside, the soft hiss of carbonation breaking through the music from the living room. You took a sip and let it fizz over your tongue before holding the can up, offering it blindly behind you.

“Want some?”

Peter leaned in, his lips brushing close to your ear as he took a sip. “This tastes like a Capri Sun.”

You smirked. “Mhm. That’s how they get ya.”

He edged in a little closer, the warmth of his body now brushing against yours. His voice dropped low, just for you. “I’ll be okay though. Fast metabolism. Y’know—radioactive spider and all.”

You snorted and gave him a look. “Lucky me. My boyfriend has superpowers.”

“Mmhm.” His tone turned teasing, light but cocky. “Super strength. Super speed. Super endurance. Comes in handy, huh?”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder. “You’re so annoying. Why are you so horny all of a sudden?”

“Am I wrong?” he asked, eyes twinkling, stealing another sip from your drink like it was owed to him.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his chest with the back of your hand, already fighting a grin. “I literally can’t take you anywhere.”

Before you could say anything worse, someone cleared their throat nearby. You turned, and there was Ned in the doorway, clutching two awkwardly wrapped presents and wearing a slightly crooked Santa hat. He had New Year’s glasses perched on his nose that made him look like a misguided youth pastor.

He blinked at you both like he’d just walked into a crime scene.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear the part about…” Ned waved vaguely between you and Peter. “You know. The, uh… stamina comment.”

Your hand flew up to your mouth, eyes wide, a snort escaping before you could swallow it back. Peter groaned beside you, dragging a hand down his face like he could wipe away the secondhand embarrassment.

“Dude,” Peter muttered. “Seriously?”

“No judgment!” Ned said quickly, shifting the gifts in his arms. “Happy for you guys. Love is beautiful, whatever. Just—maybe keep the sex metaphors away from the food?”

You wheezed out a laugh and leaned your head into Peter’s shoulder. “Or maybe you could stop eavesdropping, nosy.”

Ned looked around theatrically, whispering like he was smuggling government secrets. “Kinda hard not to eavesdrop when I’m the guy in the chair and I have to monitor everything.”

Then he stepped a little closer, lowering his voice and raising an eyebrow at you with a knowing look. His tone shifted from playful to pointed, his voice soft.

“So… I’m assuming you know?” he asked with a slight tilt of the head towards. “Like… know know?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, taking another sip of your drink as you leaned forward on your elbows, glancing sideways at Peter beside you.

Ned eyed the two of you with interest, head tilting. “Wait—so how’d this happen? Did you figure it out or did he actually tell you?”

Peter shook his head before you could answer.

You grinned, still a little warm from the alcohol. “You want the short version or the drunk girl version?”

“Oh wow,” Ned muttered. “How’d you not freak out?”

“She did freak out,” Peter said, nudging you with his elbow, a smile tugging at his mouth.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up. Your dumb voice gave it away.”

Peter turned toward you with mock offense. “You didn’t know the first time we met.”

“I literally said you sounded familiar.”

“That doesn’t mean you knew.”

“I had a hunch,” you said, matter-of-fact, “and my hunches are always right.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and he mirrored it back without hesitation, stealing another sip of your drink as retaliation.

“He barely even tried to disguise it,” you added.

Ned threw his hands up, looking personally betrayed. “Dude, are you serious? How am I keeping this secret better than you?”

Peter shrugged, turning back toward you. “Didn’t know you had my voice memorized.”

You gave him a look. “Of course I do. You’re my boyfriend, you dunce.”

“Not that it’s a competition or anything,” Ned cut in, “but I’ve known since, like, sophomore year.”

You raised your can toward him with a lopsided smile. “Damn. You’ve got seniority.”

“Damn right I do,” Ned said proudly. “I’ve seen things.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please don’t elaborate.”

You smirked, about to prod Ned for whatever deeply humiliating anecdote he was clearly holding back—but Liz’s voice rang out from the other room like she’d just been handed a megaphone.

“White elephant in five!” she bellowed, loud enough to make the garland on the staircase tremble. She stood in the center of the living room, gesturing everyone over.

You groaned softly and took another sip from your drink. “The living room’s gonna give me PTSD.”

Peter raised a brow, shifting the bags in his arms. “Why? You didn’t have a good time with me in the closet?” he asked, smug.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Ned grimacing in disgust. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing and mouthed a quick sorry, which he responded to with a disappointed shake of his head.

“I did,” you said. “But the person I sat next to smelled really bad.”

Both boys instinctively sniffed themselves.

“You were both across the room,” you added, deadpan.

They exchanged a look. “Oh,” they said in unison.

You smirked and tipped your head toward the hallway. “C’mon. Before Liz starts roll call.”

Peter snagged a random, unopened can from the island and fell into step beside you while Ned trailed behind, still balancing his wrapped gifts like props in a sitcom.

As the three of you joined the slow-moving group funneling toward the living room, Ned leaned toward Peter and nudged his elbow. “You know this is the exact moment we realized you had game, right?”

Peter shot him a look. “Had game? I’ve always had game. You just never got to witness it firsthand.”

Ned snorted. “Yeah, and I thank God for that daily. You’re lucky she’s into nerds.”

“I’m charming,” Peter said, turning to you for backup.

You shrugged, sipping your drink. “I mean… I am here, aren’t I?”

“Seven minutes was just our hard launch,” Peter added casually.

Ned raised a skeptical brow but let it go, shaking his head as he wandered toward an open La-Z-Boy.

You didn’t say anything, just smirked. The lie still sat between you and Peter—the one where everyone assumed you’d made out in that closet, when in reality, you barely even touched. Just fake-moaned, squirmed around like idiots, and waited out the clock. You’d silently agreed to keep that part to yourselves. Partly because it was funnier that way. Mostly because explaining the trajectory from “seven minutes in heaven” to “casual hookup” to “not speaking” to “actually dating” would’ve required a whiteboard and a PowerPoint presentation.

“Hey, babe,” Betty called, wedging herself beside Ned. 

You and Peter squeezed into a barely-two-person section of the couch. His arm slid easily around your shoulders, your thighs pressing together. He dropped your gift bags at his feet, and you took another sip of your drink as the room hummed around you—overlapping voices, the fizz of a soda tab, a crash in the kitchen that definitely sounded like someone dropped an entire tray of cups.

Liz had pushed the coffee table to the center of the room, and people were settling into a circle—half on couch cushions, half on the rug—like some weird ritual was about to begin. You ended up half in Peter’s lap, your body angled toward his, his arm resting across your back, fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm.

Betty leaned in, her spiked cider already halfway gone. She nodded toward you and Peter, basically tangled together.

“This,” she said, gesturing between you two. “Adorable. Like I said.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. When you turned to Peter, he was already looking at you, pulling you a little closer. You leaned into him without thinking—his touch warm and easy. Betty raised her brows dramatically once Peter looked away, mouthing something about marriage and babies. You barely held back a laugh, hiding your smile behind your can.

Then Liz clapped, standing in the middle of the circle with the kind of energy only someone wearing a glittery cowboy hat and wielding a spreadsheet could possess.

“Alright!” she announced, slicing through the noise. “Ground rules are simple. Pick a number, open a gift, or steal one.”

Peter’s arm shifted, his palm flattening against the curve of your coat. His thumb brushed along your side, light but grounding. You barely noticed until Betty caught it from across the couch, her brows lifting again, lips tugging into a soft smile. She placed a hand over her heart and mouthed adorable again.

You rolled your eyes but felt your mouth tug into another reluctant smile.

“Okay,” Liz called, now wearing the cowboy hat with absolutely zero irony. “I’m calling numbers.”

She shook a Solo cup filled with crumpled slips of paper and passed it around. Peter squeezed your hip before reaching in. You followed, unfolding a tiny square marked with a smudged Sharpie “Six.”

“Who’s got number one?” Liz asked, scanning the group.

Across the circle, MJ raised a hand, her expression unreadable as ever. She sat cross-legged on the rug, chewing her gum like this was a documentary.

“Cool,” she said flatly. Her eyes drifted over the pile of gift bags and boxes until she plucked the sloppiest one—rainbow Santa sleds, scotch tape barely holding it together. She peeled it open one-handed, tugging the paper until she revealed a floppy gray elephant g-string, complete with a plush trunk and googly eyes.

There was a long beat of silence.

“What the fuck,” MJ said, expression unchanging as she held it up. She flicked the trunk experimentally—and it blared a tinny, obnoxious tune you couldn’t even place. Circus music, maybe?

MJ blinked. “What the fuck,” she repeated, now more confused than annoyed—but her mouth twitched.

“I need that,” Flash called from the couch. “Mine’s too big for regular undergarments.”

“Congrats on having the biggest micro-penis,” MJ fired back who immediately received an aggressive scowl from him.

“Who brought this?” MJ asked, still holding it away from herself like it might bite.

Cindy raised a hand, looking unapologetic. “Okay, in my defense—it was five bucks, and it came with a keychain.”

“You’re done,” MJ declared, tossing the waistband back into the box.

Peter leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “I had my eye on that bag.”

You gave him a look. “I’m glad you didn’t get it.”

He smirked. “What, you don’t think I’d look good in it?”

You took a sip of your drink, completely unfazed. “You’re cute, but I’m not trying to think about Zootopia when we’re having sex.”

Peter grinned. “Still gonna try and steal it, though.”

Naturally, the rest of the gifts only got weirder. Ned ended up with a bag of a hundred rubber ducks, which was arguably the tamest gift of the night. Flash stole a Bluetooth speaker shaped like a pineapple from Jason and paraded it around like it was a trophy. Cindy unwrapped a bag of gummy dicks you’d grabbed from Spencer’s on impulse. Brad, of course, went for the frozen DiGiorno Betty opened which somehow, was still ice-cold, and he cradled it like a prize roast.

You didn’t fare as well. After a few steals, you were left with a sad, toilet-shaped mug. A few other gifts passed hands until finally, it was Peter’s turn.

He let out a dramatic sigh, slumping forward like the moment had been haunting him all night. “This better be good,” he muttered as the room quieted slightly, all eyes turning to him.

You leaned back to give him space, sipping your drink as he approached the coffee table with theatrical dread.

Only one gift remained—a small, crumpled brown paper bag. Peter grabbed it without hesitation, peeked inside, and pulled out a Ziploc bag labeled PREMIUM AIR in bold Sharpie.

He stared at it.

“…Dude,” he said flatly. “Is this a fart?”

Across the circle, Flash was already losing it, face red with laughter. “Nah, man,” he wheezed. “It’s premium air. Just open it.”

Peter looked up, deadpan. “Flash.”

“It’s vintage!” Flash insisted. “Predates graduation. Get a whiff.”

“Absolutely not.” Peter pinched the bag like it was toxic.

“C’mon, it’s sterile!” Flash snickered.

“Yeah, because you’d know what sterile means,” MJ muttered from the rug.

Someone else grumbled, “So much for maturity.”

Flash rolled his eyes, flopping back dramatically. “Y’all don’t get comedy.”

Peter didn’t respond. He returned to the couch, dropped the biohazardous bag at his feet, and turned to you.

With everyone’s turns complete, the game dissolved into casual chaos—side conversations, mock trades, and people parading their weird prizes. You stayed curled into Peter’s side, his arm draped across your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm now and then. You talked about nothing—the weather, the subway, whether lava lamps counted as furniture or decor. Your legs tangled together like they’d done it a hundred times. His voice stayed low, his breath soft against your ear, and the rest of the party blurred around you.

Gradually, the room began to shift. Some people trickled into the kitchen, others drifted upstairs or out to the porch. The couch cushions shifted as bodies disappeared, and the volume mellowed to a low hum—laughter echoing faintly from the hallway, the edges of the party softening.

You glanced at the clock.

11:54.

You leaned closer to Peter, voice low beneath the buzz of the room. “Hey. Wanna get some air?”

He turned to you immediately, eyes soft. “Yeah. Of course.”

He shifted to stand, balancing his weight with one hand on your thigh for a second before scooping up the oversized bag he’d brought his gift in.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you still have that? We all threw our trash away.”

He shrugged, casual. “I like to recycle myself.”

“Look at this environmentally friendly loser over here.” you pointed at him with your thumb with a voice, sarcastic.

“And you’re dating me, so what does that make you?”

“Deeply unwell.”

He grinned and reached for your hand. “C’mon.”

Fingers laced through his, you wove your way through the crowded house. The front door creaked open, letting in the crisp night air, and you both stepped out onto the porch. The cold hit immediately, sharp and bracing, laced with the faint bite of snow on the wind.

You sat on the front steps and patted the space beside you. Peter dropped the crinkling bag with a quiet thud and sank down next to you. You leaned your head on his shoulder, still warm from inside, and he tipped his just enough to rest it against yours.

For a while, you didn’t say anything.

The outside world felt suspended. The stillness of late December wrapped around you both—quiet, cold, full of that hush right before a snowfall. The house behind you pulsed faintly with music and laughter, dulled by the thick walls. You breathed in slow, the air stinging your lungs in the best way. Beside you, Peter exhaled in sync, fogging up the air between you.

“Good air. Grateful it’s not ‘premium.’” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Peter made a face. “Yeah, I’m never opening that thing. Ever. I’m throwing it away the second we get home.”

“Or,” you said, grinning lazily, “you could pop it open right in his face. Let him bask in the glory of his own creation.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re kind of evil.”

“Only a little.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Still a genius, though.”

You sank into him a little more, content to let the silence return and stretch out around you again. For a while, it was just the sound of the distant party and the occasional squeak of someone laughing too hard inside. Then Peter shifted, just enough for you to lift your head, and you felt him pull away gently.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got something for you.”

You blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Hm?”

Peter turned slightly, pulling out a small package wrapped in soft tissue paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon—carefully done, like he’d retied it at least twice to get it just right.

“I know it’s not Christmas anymore,” he said, a little sheepish, “and I’m like… a week late. But—uh—open it.”

You hummed softly, curious now, as you carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the wrapping. Beneath the folds, in the dim porch light and faint glow of the stars above, was the scarf. The scarf. The one you’d fawned over weeks ago in that boutique window, when you were both too cold and too tired to be sensible. You froze, fingertips grazing the edges of it. The wool was just as soft as you remembered—finely stitched, cream-colored with little flecks of navy and rose woven through the thread. Your eyes snapped to his, wide.

“Peter—holy shit. This was so expensive!” you breathed, stunned.

He grinned, running a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed. “Mr. Stark started paying me. Said I was doing enough hands-on work in the lab to count as a junior research assistant. It’s not, like… crazy money. But I wanted to get you something nice. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner. Things were just—kind of a mess.”

You stared at him, heart swelling in that painful, giddy way affection sometimes came. “This is—you’re—God. You’re stupidly sweet. I adore you. So, so much.”

He took the scarf gently from your lap and looped it around your neck, fingers brushing your jaw as he adjusted it. His hand lingered afterward, cupping your cheek, thumb tracing lightly across your skin.

“Anything for you,” he murmured. “Always.”

Your breath caught, eyes stinging a little from the sudden, overwhelming warmth. “I love you, Peter.”

“Ditto,” he said, soft and sure—and the sound of it made your stomach flutter. You giggled under your breath, eyes shining.

Inside, the music dimmed just enough to catch the rumble of a countdown starting—Liz’s voice rising above the rest, slightly slurred but enthusiastic “Sixty!” and the chorus of people picked it up from there. You both turned slightly, watching through the frosted window as the crowd scrambled back into the living room. Flash was already at fifty-two, counting loudly like he’d been training all year for it.

You looked back at Peter. “Wanna go inside?”

His eyes didn’t leave you. “Not really.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Forty-seven.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath you.

“You cold?” he asked softly.

“Not really,” you said. “You run hot.”

“That’s the radiation.”

“How comforting,” you teased, nudging your nose gently against his cheek.

Thirty-five.

He turned to look at you, hand still warm on your waist. “Is it weird?”

“What is?”

“How happy I am right now. Feels like I shouldn’t be allowed.”

“You should,” you said immediately, your fingers curling into his sleeve. “We both should.”

Twenty-four.

Peter leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for making me happy.”

“You’re being such a sap,” you mumbled, nose scrunching. “But thank you too. For making me stupid-happy.”

He pulled back and gasped, mock-offended. “Can’t believe you’re being affectionate.”

“Keep talking and I’ll stop.” You furrowed your brows at him, though your voice was soft. He just retucked the scarf a little tighter around your neck.

“I do love you though, y’know.”

He nodded, a gentle smile on his face. “Of course I know. Even when you’re pretending to hate me.”

“Especially then,” you grinned.

Ten.

“Ready?” he murmured.

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Always.”

Five.

Four.

Three.

He leaned in slowly, one hand cradling your face, the other steady on your waist.

Two.

One.

His lips moved against yours like he was trying to tell you something without saying anything at all. And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid of what came next. You weren’t pretending anymore. You had him—and he had you. It was so stupidly simple, it almost made you laugh.

But you’d had your seven minutes. And somehow, you got everything after, too.

And then—Peter.

His breathing was soft behind you, a slow rhythm against the back of your neck, and you could feel the weight of his arm draped around your waist. His chin was still tucked over your shoulder, the way it had been when you fell asleep. You turned slightly, squinting just enough to see his face in the morning light. Eyes shut. Lips parted slightly. His lashes casted long shadows across his cheeks, and his features had softened in sleep—like all the weight he carried had melted off with the night.

That, you thought, was real.

You let yourself breathe into the stillness for a moment, your head sinking deeper into the pillow, willing your brain to catch up. Your thoughts shuffled slowly back into place like someone flipping through a deck of half-shuffled cards.

You’d gone out last night. That was true. The club, the drinks, the lights, the bass-heavy music that vibrated your teeth. You remembered dancing with Betty, her laugh echoing in your ears, the glitter of sweat and tequila on your skin.

And then—you were on a rooftop.

And then you were taking off Spider-Man's mask.

And then it was him.

Peter Parker.

The boy you'd known since high school. The boy you kissed in quiet doorways and in your own bed. The boy who’d pulled away from you, too. The boy who was Spider-Man.

Your eyes fluttered open again as you felt him shift behind you.

A sleepy hum rumbled in his chest as his hand slid up your side, the heel of his palm resting just beneath the curve of your breast. His voice came next—low, hoarse, still tangled in sleep.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your bare shoulder before pressing a lazy kiss to your collarbone.

“Morning,” you whispered back, a soft smile tugging at your lips. You wriggled back against him, greedily soaking up the warmth of him beneath the blankets. “That suit can’t be comfortable to sleep in.”

Peter made a sleepy, grumbly noise. “Nah, it’s not bad. It’s nanotech. Feels like pajamas. Multi-billion dollar pajamas.”

“Still feels like you’re fully clothed,” you mumbled. “I’d rather you be naked. I like skin.”

That made him chuckle—warm and hoarse and just barely awake. “Yeah? Noted.”

His fingers started tracing soft little shapes on your side, absentminded and sweet. A circle, a star, then a triangle. You let the silence stretch for a moment, but your heart was already starting to speed up again—memories crawling their way back into your chest, curling in behind your ribs.

“Pete?”

“Mm?”

“Did you mean it? What you said last night?”

He was quiet for a second, then spoke, barely above a whisper, “That I love you?”

You nodded, turning toward him fully now. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy with sleep, but they met yours anyway.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “Of course I meant it.”

You swallowed, a hand moving to rest lightly against his cheek. His skin was warm and all too familiar.

“I meant it then,” he continued, voice low, “and I meant it before. Like—way before. I think I was already gone for you when we were just friends. You just didn’t know.”

Your eyes prickled unexpectedly, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“I didn’t know,” you admitted. “I thought I was the only one.”

Peter gave a half-smile, crooked and tired. “Nope. Lucky for you, I’m totally obsessed with you.”

You laughed, quiet and wet. “God, you’re such a cornball.”

“Your cornball.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t let go of his face. “I love you, too. By the way.”

Peter’s eyes softened like a sunrise. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your nose, then finally to your lips—slow and careful, like it still didn’t feel entirely real.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet as he pulled back just enough to see you clearly. His fingers still lingered at your waist like he didn’t want to lose contact. “For everything. For acting like none of it mattered. For shutting down when you came to say goodbye. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You gave a small shake of your head, lips twitching with a sad sort of smile. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I do,” he said, and this time his tone was firmer—gentle but steady, like he needed you to hear him. “That night on the bench… when you were talking to me—Spider-Man me—you said you were thinking about stuff, and I just… panicked. I didn’t know what you meant, and I got it in my head that you were already pulling away. That I’d already messed it up.”

You looked at him for a long second, chest heavy. Then, flatly: “Peter, that was really dumb.”

He gave a long, dramatic sigh. “I know. I’m very dumb.”

“No, I mean like… epically dumb.” You scooted in a little, resting your hand over his chest where his heart was still thudding a little too fast. “Thinking this was ever nothing? That we could just hook up and walk away like we’re not both hopelessly emotionally repressed and conflict-avoidant disasters?”

That drew a sheepish laugh from him, soft and warm against your cheek. “When you say it like that…”

“You were doomed from the start, Parker,” you teased, thumb brushing a lazy circle against his shirt. “But I love you. I do. A lot. Like, the kind of a lot where it freaks me out a little if I think about it too hard. But I want this. All of it. Even the mess, but especially the mess.”

Peter’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, wide and glassy like he wasn’t totally convinced this was real.

“So you wanna like… date me?” he asked, hopeful, hesitant—like he was bracing for gravity to fail him.

“Yeah, loser.” You gave his shoulder a playful shove. “I wanna like date you.”

The grin that spread across his face was instant and dopey and fully Peter—like you’d handed him the moon and he was still double-checking it wasn’t made of cheese. But before he could get too comfortable, you kept going.

“—But not like this,” you said, motioning to the rumpled sheets and the red and blue suit still clinging to his body. “I want the whole shabang. A big gesture. Flowers. A hot air balloon. I want skywriting. I want a flash mob.”

He groaned and flopped back dramatically. “You know I can’t draw, baby.”

You poked him in the side. “Figure it out. Use your webs. I wanna see my face in the clouds.”

“You’re trying to make me bankrupt.”

“That’s the plan,” you said, grinning. “But also—I’m gonna pretend I didn’t say any of this. So when you do ask me out, I can act surprised and pretend it wasn’t entirely my idea.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes serious but playful. “I would’ve done it anyway. This is just… pre-sale booking.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I’m serious.” He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “You’re too special to not do this right. Like—obviously I was gonna make it official. You think I’d let someone else get to you first? No way.”

You tilted your head at him, pretending to think it over. “Wow. Kind of hot that Spider-Man was talking me up to me and I didn’t even know.”

Peter let out a breathy laugh, ducking his head like he was embarrassed, though his ears had already gone pink. “Couldn’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re… you. Perfect in all ways. My girl.”

Your grin softened then, melted into something slower and more sincere. Something that caught in your throat a little.

“You mean that?” you asked. “Like, for real this time?”

He met your eyes again, this time with nothing but honesty behind his own.

“I meant it now. I meant it before. I was just—scared to say it out loud cause that would make it real. Scared of screwing it all up.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers gently through his curls, letting them slip between your fingertips. “Well. I think you gotta seal the deal now.”

He blinked, smirking. “Seal it with what?”

You smiled. “A kiss. Or maybe more.”

Peter’s breath caught for a second—and then he was already leaning in.

The kiss started slow and barely there, just the soft press of lips and the weight of everything you hadn’t said until now. But then your hand curled behind his neck and he tilted his head, deepening it, mouth slanting over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. You could feel it in the way his fingers slid down your side, careful but sure, his body curling into yours under the blanket.

The warmth of him was overwhelming in the best possible way—his mouth hot and seeking, his chest pressed to yours as your hands curled instinctively at his sides. The texture of the suit was unfamiliar, soft but slightly slick beneath your fingertips, not quite skin but not far from it either.

You tugged gently at the material at his waist, lips brushing his between shallow breaths. “Wait—how do you even get this thing off?” you murmured, breathless. “It’s like… fused to you.”

Peter pulled back just enough to flash you a smug little grin, that boyish sparkle flickering to life in his eyes. “Wanna see something cool?”

You nodded, your fingers still grazing his side as he leaned up on his knees. With a smooth, practiced motion, he pressed the emblem at the center of his chest. A soft mechanical whir filled the air, followed by the shimmer of movement. You blinked as the suit melted off him in a fluid ripple of nanotech, folding back and disappearing into the device at his wrist like water down a drain.

Your jaw dropped. “What the hell,” you breathed. “No way.”

“Told you,” he said, his grin bordering on cocky now.

Your eyes trailed over the newly revealed skin—golden under the morning light filtering through your bedroom window, faint freckles scattered across his chest like constellations. He was only in his briefs now, the shape of his abs catching the light in a way that made your mouth go dry. His arms flexed slightly as he adjusted, and you had to consciously stop yourself from whimpering.

“God,” you muttered under your breath, almost laughing at yourself. “I can’t believe I slept with Spider-Man.”

Peter laughed and hooked his arms around your waist to pull you into his lap. “Wanna make it happen again?”

You kissed him again in answer, grinning against his lips. “Talk later,” you murmured. “Fuck now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He wasted no time, yanking your shirt off in one smooth movement, grinning when you giggled at the clumsiness of his hands as he fumbled with your bra clasp. But once it was off, the mood shifted again. His mouth moved to your chest, slow and hungry, lips closing around your nipple, warm tongue flicking as you let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the contact.

“Fucking love the sounds you make,” he murmured against your skin. His voice was low, slightly hoarse, every word brushing hot against your breast as he sucked gently, one hand palming you, the other sliding to your hips and gripping tight.

You muttered inaudible nonsense into his hair in response, breath catching as your hips rocked instinctively into his lap. Your fingers dug into his shoulders for balance, the muscles there flexing beneath your palms.

“You drive me insane,” he said, mouth moving to your other breast, lips wrapping around it with just as much care. “So fucking insane.”

You could barely respond—not when his hand dipped lower, dragging under the waistband of your shorts and slipping into your underwear. His fingers found your heat easily, dragging through the slick folds with a soft, almost reverent hum before pushing two fingers inside you. Slow, purposeful, and curling just right.

Your head tipped back. Breath caught. Mind fuzzed.

His rhythm was maddening, unhurried but precise, his fingers hitting that spot deep inside that made your thighs tremble. And still, his mouth stayed busy, peppering kisses up your chest to your jaw, then your neck—suckling gently over the marks he'd left before, as if he meant to reclaim them.

“Want you to remember how good I make you feel,” he whispered against your skin, his thumb circling your clit with practiced, careful pressure as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. The tension coiled tighter in your stomach, impossible to ignore.

You tried to nod but ended up gasping instead, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder. You bit down softly to ground yourself, overwhelmed by the building heat threatening to overtake you.

“Peter—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he said, voice dark and sure.

And you did. With a soft cry muffled into his shoulder, your body arched into him as you came hard, pleasure sparking behind your eyes, through your fingertips, your thighs trembling around his.

He kept his hand there as you rode it out, easing you through the high with slow, gentle thrusts. When he finally withdrew, his fingers slid from you with a slick sound that made your face warm. But all he did was settle his hands on your waist again, rubbing soft circles along your sides as your body relaxed, boneless in his lap.

You pulled back after a moment, forehead damp, hair sticking to your skin. Peter was watching you with a crooked smile, his fingers still ghosting over your hips like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

“Didn’t know you liked to bite,” he teased, nodding toward the faint mark on his shoulder.

You snorted, breathless. “Shut up. That was an accident.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dunno how you accidentally bite someone. Were you an ankle biter as a kid?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No, I was not an ankle biter! You’re ruining the mood.”

“Ouch,” he gasped dramatically.

You rolled your eyes, fingers drifting down to the hard bulge pressing against you through his briefs. “You’ll live. But I need dick now. Please and thank you.”

Peter groaned, hips shifting into your palm. “Do whatever you want to me.”

You leaned forward, dragging your fingers up his stomach, then down again, watching his face as you slid off his lap. “Good answer.”

He let out a small whine when you pulled your hand away, but it was quickly replaced with anticipation as you stood and peeled your shorts and underwear off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside before crawling back toward him. Peter had shifted back against your headboard, his legs spreading instinctively to make room for you. His eyes followed you like you were the only thing that existed. You settled between his thighs, palms braced on his hips.

“Anything?” you asked, voice low as you settled between his thighs, your fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns across the taut muscles of his stomach. You kissed your way down, soft and teasing, until you reached the waistband of his briefs.

“Anything,” he breathed, the word barely escaping his lips. His hips jerked instinctively, the hard line of him brushing against your cheek. The contact earned a satisfied hum from you.

You dragged your nails lightly along the waistband, letting them dip just beneath the fabric before snapping it playfully against his skin. Your mouth pressed featherlight kisses just above where he clearly wanted your attention most—around the deep grooves of his hips, his V-line flexing beneath every touch.

“Needy, needy,” you murmured, looking up at him with a smile. Peter met your gaze and nodded quickly, eyes wide and glazed with anticipation.

Satisfied, you tugged his briefs down slowly, deliberately, the fabric clinging to him for a moment before releasing. His cock sprang free with a soft slap, brushing against your cheek again as it smacked lightly against your skin. You didn’t flinch—just grinned and held his gaze as you leaned in.

You licked a stripe from the base to the tip, your tongue warm and slow, tasting him, savoring the slight salt of his skin and the slick bead of precum gathered at the head. One hand wrapped gently around the base, gliding upward with an easy rhythm, thumb pressing just under the head to spread the wetness.

Peter let out a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “Fuck—feels so good,” he panted, his voice rough, almost disbelieving.

You swirled your tongue around the head again before taking him into your mouth, slow and shallow at first, teasing. When you popped off with a soft, wet sound, your lips were slick, your eyes gleaming.

“Too much?” you asked with a smirk, thumb dragging over the tip again, spreading the wetness down his length to make your strokes smoother, slicker.

“No,” he groaned, voice pitching slightly. “Not even close.”

You dropped your head again and took him deeper, your mouth moving in tandem with your hand. One hand stayed at the base, twisting and gliding while your mouth worked up and down, the sounds between you filthy and soft, punctuated by the way his breath kept catching every time your tongue flicked just right.

Your other hand steadied on his thigh, fingers flexing into the muscle as you bobbed your head, a wet slide of mouth and breath and rhythm. Then you took him deeper, pushing forward until the tip hit the back of your throat and your gag reflex fluttered tight around him. Peter choked out a moan, his hand finding your hair and curling into it gently—not guiding, just needing something to hold.

“Shit—I’m gonna come if you keep—” he started, voice cracking.

You pulled off with a loud pop, replacing your mouth with your hand in a slow, teasing stroke. “Not yet,” you murmured, thumb sweeping under the head again. “Wanna make it last.”

Peter let out a ragged exhale, his hips twitching at the torturous pace. “You’re killing me,” he said, brushing the hair from your face with a hand that shook slightly.

“Don’t want you to come yet,” you repeated softly, stroking him just slow enough to keep him right on the edge. “Wanna say sorry.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Thought I’d make it up to you.”

Peter laughed, breathless and wrecked. “Okay… how you gonna do that?”

You paused your movements. “Got a condom?”

His eyes widened slightly. He blinked up at you like his brain short-circuited. “Shit—I don’t think I do.”

You made a thoughtful hum and started stroking him again, slow and steady, watching the way his head fell back with a soft curse. “I’m on birth control,” you said after a beat. “I’m good with it if you are.”

“Fuck, yeah. I’ll pull out,” he managed, already lifting his hips into your hand like he couldn’t help himself.

You nodded, then gently pushed him back so he was more reclined against your pillows. His legs opened for you automatically, and you climbed into his lap, knees on either side of his hips. You looked down at him, flushed and messy and wide-eyed beneath you.

His chest rose and fell quickly, hands gripping your hips like he needed you close, needed you now, just as much as you needed him. You leaned in, your forehead resting lightly against his as your breaths mingled in the narrow space between your mouths. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as your fingers curled between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.

And then, you sank down.

The stretch was overwhelming in the best way, your breath catching, a broken moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Peter didn’t bother holding his in—his head dropped back slightly, an unrestrained groan spilling out as his hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbled, already breathless.

You bottomed out slowly, adjusting, your thighs trembling slightly as your walls fluttered around him. He filled you so completely it made your vision haze at the edges, the fullness dizzying, all-consuming. You paused for a beat, chest pressed to his, trying to breathe through it—and then you started to move, lifting your hips just enough before rolling back down again, setting a rhythm that built gradually.

The friction was heady, your breath coming hot against his jaw as you moved. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, nails digging in slightly for balance. Peter’s grip tightened, guiding you as your thighs started to tremble from the effort.

You leaned forward instinctively, letting your weight fall onto him as you kept riding him—your breasts bouncing just in front of his face, his mouth finding them without hesitation. His lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking against it, and it made your back arch as a gasp ripped from your throat.

“Peter,” you breathed, nails raking lightly down his arms, “you feel so good—”

Your movements started to falter slightly, your legs beginning to burn, pace slipping, but Peter noticed immediately. He let out a low chuckle, hands steadying you before he took control. With a quick shift, he started thrusting up into you, using his grip on your hips to drive himself deeper.

You clenched around him involuntarily, and he swore under his breath. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around you and flipped you over effortlessly. The mattress shifted beneath your back, cool air licking across your sweat-slicked skin as he settled above you, never pulling out. He adjusted your leg around his shoulder, the new angle making your breath hitch as he began to thrust again—harder now, deeper, more precise.

“Oh my fucking God—” you choked, fingers reaching to brace against the sheets.

Peter’s hand found your breast again, instinctively, like muscle memory. His hips snapped into yours, cock hitting that perfect spot with each stroke. The sounds in the room were obscene—skin against skin, the wet slap of your bodies, the breathy moans and curses between you.

Your fingers fumbled for his free hand and guided it up to your throat, your eyes locking with his as your mouth parted on a shaky moan. He raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and rough as his hand curled around your throat—not tight, but just enough to hold you there.

You nodded, words slurring through the haze. “‘M close. So close. Please—don’t stop.”

Peter groaned, the sound guttural, desperate. “God, I can feel you. You’re so fucking tight when you’re like this.”

Your body tightened instinctively, your hips meeting his thrusts with renewed urgency. “Right there—just like that—fuck—Peter—”

Your back arched off the bed as your orgasm crested, white-hot and crashing. Your vision blurred, the breath caught in your chest as you came, stars bursting behind your eyelids. Peter’s hand slipped from your throat to cradle your jaw as you came undone beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, thrusts slowing just slightly. “So beautiful when you come. Wanted to see this—wanted to see you like this—”

You were still catching your breath when he pulled out suddenly, his chest rising and falling fast. He stroked himself quickly, barely lasting another second before he spilled across your stomach, thick and hot. He let out a guttural sound as his climax overtook him, jaw slack, brows drawn together in pure bliss.

His hand moved slowly, pumping every last drop out onto your skin before his wrist fell limp at his side. He collapsed next to you a moment later, still panting, cheeks flushed.

You looked down at the mess on your stomach and laughed weakly, chest heaving. “I am covered.”

Peter turned his head to look at you, still flushed and blinking like he was coming back into his body. A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah, uh… my bad,” he said, voice still hoarse with leftover arousal. Then, gently, he leaned in and kissed your shoulder—light, tender, almost reverent. “Give me a second. Pretty sure I just astral projected.”

You turned your head toward him, smiling sleepily as you reached over and brushed your fingertips against his. He didn’t hesitate to lace his fingers through yours, both of you quiet for a beat, just lying there in the soft afterglow.

Eventually, Peter stirred, dragging himself upright with a groan that made you giggle. He shuffled toward your hamper, grabbing a clean towel from the shelf on the way, and returned to clean you up. His touch was gentle, his expression focused in that way he always got when he was doing something for you—like even wiping you down with a towel to clean off his mess was a task he wanted to do right.

As he tossed the towel into the laundry basket, you caught sight of another one already in there—two now. One from two nights ago, and now a fresh addition. Your nose wrinkled in disgust at the thought: two dirty cum towels sitting in the same hamper as the rest of your clothes. Yeah, it was definitely time to do laundry.

Peter tugged on his briefs and reached down to scoop up the scattered clothes from the floor, tossing your shirt and underwear toward you in an underhand throw that made you yelp when you caught them awkwardly.

“Here, thought you might want these back,” he said with a smirk.

You slipped them on quickly, the cotton clinging slightly to your warm skin. As soon as you were dressed, Peter climbed back into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world and curled around you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t stand to have you more than an inch away.

You pressed your hips closer, draped an arm across his waist, and tangled your legs with his. Every inch of you touching like you were afraid you might float away if he let go.

His fingers drew soft, aimless circles on your bare hip, his voice low and lazy. “I like this.”

“Me too,” you murmured.

“Can you spoon me now?”

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already grinning as he rolled over to face away from you. “You’re warm. I wanna be the little spoon.”

You laughed but didn’t argue. You rolled over and curled yourself around him from behind, your arm slung loosely over his middle, eliciting a sigh like he had just come home after a long day of work.

But now that you were facing the rest of your room, the warmth of the moment was slightly dulled by what you saw. Your room looked like a crime scene.

“Peter,” you said, poking his back, “this place is a disaster.”

Your voice cut through the soft hum of the room like a sigh—less annoyed and more resigned. You sat up slowly, your arm dragging off his chest, and scanned the wreckage: blankets half on the floor, your comforter bunched at the end of the bed, flour still clinging faintly to the floorboards like ghosts of cookies past. A pair of socks hung off your desk lamp, and a suspicious smear of frosting glistened faintly on your nightstand from two nights ago. You didn’t even remember putting frosting there.

Peter followed your gaze, blinking blearily as his curls flopped into his eyes. He sat up beside you, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked around at the room with a sheepish squint. “Yeah… I didn’t wanna say anything, but.”

“And the kitchen’s still trashed,” you groaned, sitting up slowly, pushing hair out of your face. 

Peter sat up beside you, his curls even more chaotic than before. “I mean… to be fair, we were distracted.”

“Yeah, you distracted me.”

“And I’d do it again,” he said with a wink.

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you pulled on a hoodie over your shirt. “C’mon. If I don’t start now, it’s just gonna keep piling up.”

“I’ll do the kitchen,” Peter offered, already standing and stretching his arms over his head. “You go handle the laundry.”

You nodded, yawning into your sleeve as you moved toward the overflowing laundry hamper in the corner. There were clothes—mostly yours, but definitely a hoodie of Peter’s in there too—and the two towels that you really didn’t want to think about.

You gathered the towels, added a few stray shirts and underwear, and started a load of laundry in the closet just off the hallway. As the machine rumbled to life, you stood in front of it for a beat, arms crossed, zoning out to the familiar low thud of the cycle kicking in.

The kitchen, you realized as you stepped back into it, had already started to take on the clean, warm smell of dish soap and hot water. Peter, still half-naked, was elbow-deep in the sink, scrubbing at a mixing bowl like it had personally wronged him. There were flour smudges still on the counter, and sprinkles glittered faintly under the cabinets like spilled confetti, but the kitchen was slowly becoming recognizable again. He hummed something under his breath as he worked—off-key and low, probably not realizing he was doing it—and had that slight furrow between his brows he always got when he was focused.

You leaned against the doorway for a second, watching him. There was something stupidly endearing about seeing Peter in your kitchen like that, arms wet, curls flopping, serious as ever about stacking clean bowls into the dishwasher. It almost made you forget the ache that had settled in your chest after he left that night and the way your parents had looked at you the next morning like you were breaking apart.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a sharp ding.

The sound cut through the quiet like a dropped fork. It was followed by another chime, then a third. You and Peter both froze, instinctively looking toward the counter where your phones were sitting side by side.

Peter’s hands paused mid-scrub, water dripping off his knuckles as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

You raised an eyebrow, wiping your hands on your shorts absently as you padded over to the counter. Your phone was lit up. Notifications stacked on top of one another.

“Huh,” you murmured, reaching for it.

And then—still not quite thinking—you picked it up to see what it said.

Liz: hiiii we should hang before we leave again!

Liz: i can host for nye

Liz: but i also wanted white elephant for a late xmas thing! thoughts???

You stood in the kitchen, barefoot and pantless, floor warm beneath your toes from the sun slipping through the blinds. Your phone buzzed again in your palm, the group chat lighting up with heart reacts and thumbs-ups. Your thumb hovered over the screen, debating a reply, when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind—familiar and easy now.

Peter leaned in, peering over your shoulder. His chin rested lightly against your temple, his breath warm as he read the message.

“Liz again?” he asked.

You hummed. “She’s trying to get us all slobbered again.”

He made a noise in his throat. “Is Flash going?”

You gave him a dry look. “Of course he’s going.”

Peter groaned. “Do you think it’s too late to fake a concussion?”

You snorted, setting your phone down on the counter as you turned in his arms. “C’mon. It’ll be funny. We don’t have to stay long.”

“Only if you promise not to abandon me,” he said, eyes soft but teasing.

You slid your hands up his chest, fingertips settling just over the steady beat of his heart. “Not planning on it.”

For a moment, you just stayed there, quiet, letting the silence stretch before pulling back slightly to look at him.

“Mmm,” you hummed, trailing your fingers up the back of his neck, slow and absentminded. “Still waiting on that dramatic love confession. Y’know, the one spelled out in webs across the Manhattan skyline.”

Peter tilted his head like he was considering it, eyes playful. “Tempting. But if I go that public, someone might try to steal you.”

You raised a brow. “Oh yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know,” he said, all faux-casual as he brushed his nose against yours. “An Avenger?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “As if you're not an Avenger.”

His smile widened at that, and you leaned in just a little, voice softer now. “I’m not going anywhere, Peter.”

Peter looked at you then and for a moment, the kitchen felt impossibly still. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing slowly against the hem of your sweatshirt, and his eyes, soft and a little awed, didn’t move from yours.

“Good,” he said finally. “Because I don’t think I could let you.”

You didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, deeper, like a promise. Your stomach fluttered and your heart kicked up against your ribs, but instead of trying to suppress it like you always did, you let it rise, let it spread.

Because this time, it felt safe to want something. Because this time, you wanted him and for once, that wasn’t terrifying—it was everything.

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

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

So she came with you because she always did.

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

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

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

“Don’t say that name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

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

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

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

You shook your head. “Nuh uh.”

“Okay,” she said, and that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stepped outside instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flinched.

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

Red and blue. Webbing. Mask.

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

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

“Hey,” came a voice—soft, careful.

You blinked.

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

But this wasn’t that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

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

He didn’t press.

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

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

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

“Can I take you somewhere?”

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

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

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

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

You frowned. “Nevermind.”

He held out a hand to you. “C’mon.”

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

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

“Only when ‘m sober,” you muttered.

He snorted. “That makes two of us.”

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

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

You opened your eyes slowly.

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

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

“This is nice…” you said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him again, longer this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nudged him again. “I’m teasing.”

“I know.”

Silence for a beat.

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

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced at you. “She is.”

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

“I think she doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause I keep messing it up.”

You frowned. “Don’t do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

“Is that a bad thing?”

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

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

There was a pause.

“Just with you,” he said.

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

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

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

“That’s not true.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…How do you know my name?”

He didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t stop you.

So you pulled.

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

Big. Brown. Doe-like. Glassy.

You blinked. Your mouth parted. Your stomach dropped.

“Peter.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he said softly.

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God. I’m gonna throw up.”

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

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

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

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

“I fucked Spider-Man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “You lied.”

“I technically omitted.”

“You liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed into his chest. “’S okay.”

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

This time, though, really felt like it might be.

You weren’t in a rush to leave. You’d only stayed back for Betty, mostly. It felt wrong to let her suffer the last final alone, especially after the semester you’d both had. And maybe a little because Peter was still around too, lingering on campus even though his finals had ended a week ago. He claimed it was because of his internship—some end-of-semester wrap-ups, nothing too exciting. You didn’t question it.

The night after your unexpected run-in with Spider-Man, you texted Peter about it—partly because it felt too surreal not to share, and partly because you told him everything now.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard longer than usual, trying to decide how to phrase it without sounding like you were fishing for a reaction, even though you kind of were. It had been late, and you figured he’d be asleep already, so you assumed you wouldn’t get an immediate response. 

You: ur never gonna believe who i just ran into

You expected at least a hint of excitement when you woke up. Curiosity. Maybe even a joke. But all you got was one single, half-asleep line:

Peter: who?

You blinked.

You: fucking spider man

Peter: oh yeah?

Peter: that’s cool

You: can u believe it

You: we deadass spoke for like 20 minutes

You: do u think he goes here lmao

Peter: who knows

Peter: i thought he was middle aged

You stared at the screen, waiting for… more. Anything. His tone was so indifferent, so completely unmoved, it genuinely threw you off.

“Cool.”

Like you’d mentioned seeing a guy in a banana costume or watched a squirrel steal a slice of pizza. It was such a non-reaction that it left you blinking at your screen in confusion. Before you could even follow up, he changed the subject entirely. Something about it being the last grilled cheese Sunday of the semester and asking you to accompany him.

Now, three days later, the dining halls were shuttered, the grilled cheese was a memory, and Betty was finally free. Her last final had left her half-conscious, mumbling about ionic bonds and a dystopian short story in the same breath, but she’d still managed to pack her suitcase with the militant precision of someone trying to flee the country. You were set to leave with her as soon as she finished taping the last zipper, but there was one more thing you needed to do first.

Peter’s dorm wasn’t far—just across the quad and down a side path. A three-minute walk if you weren’t dragging a suitcase behind you, five if you were. The wheels knocked rhythmically over the salted pavement, loud in the early afternoon quiet, like the sidewalk was offering commentary you didn’t ask for. His building loomed up ahead, identical to yours in every way except for the cracked light over the front entrance that still hadn’t been fixed.

You buzzed in and made your way up the narrow stairs, the air inside warm and slightly stale, thick with the scent of end-of-semester takeout and industrial-strength cleaning spray. The hall leading to his room was quieter than usual, most of the doors propped open to reveal stripped beds and overflowing trash bags, echoes bouncing off tile. You reached his door and knocked twice.

When he opened the door, it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—shirt on inside out, hair a mess, and eyes puffy.

“Hi,” you said, too brightly. The cheer in your voice landed wrong even to your own ears—too sing-song, too forced—and your smile felt a little too stretched, like your face hadn’t gotten the memo that something was off. You weren’t even trying to be fake; you were just excited to see him. And maybe a little nervous. You didn’t know which part made your grin feel more like a reflex than a real thing.

“Hey,” Peter said back, voice flat, like he was still buffering or trying to remember how greetings worked. He offered something close to a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and it definitely didn’t stick. 

You stood there in the threshold for a second too long, purse in one hand, the other gripping the handle of your suitcase, unsure if you were waiting for him to step aside or say something else or maybe just act like he wanted you there.

“Am I… allowed in?” you asked, only half-joking.

He blinked like you’d startled him, rubbed the back of his neck, and shuffled backward to give you space.

“Yeah. No, yeah. Come in,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact, his voice a little too casual in that way that only drew more attention to how not-casual he was being. The air between you felt heavier than usual—denser, muted, like the frequency had shifted and neither of you had adjusted your tuning.

“I’m leaving with Betty soon,” you said, stepping inside like the floor might vanish beneath you if you moved too fast. “Just wanted to see you before I left.”

You kept your tone light, but there was a waver under it that didn’t go unnoticed—not by you, and not by him. You rocked on your heels slightly, trying to make it feel like a normal visit, like you weren’t suddenly aware of how weird this was.

Peter nodded, lips pressing into a tight line. “Okay. Get back safe.”

That was it. No “we should hang soon.” No kiss. Not even a hug. Just a flat, dismissive kind of farewell that felt like a hand closing a door in your face. You stared at him for a second, eyes narrowing as the silence dragged out longer than it should’ve.

“You good?” you asked, finally, voice gentler now. Less teasing, more concerned.

He looked up, startled by the question like you’d pulled it out of nowhere. “Yeah. I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

​​“I dunno,” you said, shrugging a shoulder. “You just seem kinda… unbothered.” You huffed a quiet laugh, aiming for light. “Thought I at least cracked the top five people you’d pretend to miss.”

Peter’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, not quite. “Sorry. I’m just really tired,” he said, and you could tell he meant it, even if it wasn’t the full story. “Been up late working on some stuff for Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner. Lab projects and… yeah.”

He scratched the side of his jaw, eyes flicking down to your suitcase and then back up again. “Text me when you get back safe?”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag. “Okay.”

There was a beat. Another moment where it felt like you should say something, or maybe he should. Like there was a thread hanging loose between you and neither of you could tell whether to pull it or let it dangle.

“You can talk to me,” you added quietly. “If something’s wrong. You know that, right?”

He glanced at you then, just for a second, and his expression flickered—as if something slipped through the cracks before he caught it and tucked it away again. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

You gave him a small smile that felt more like a peace offering than anything else. “Alright,” you said, voice soft. “See you.”

“Later.”

The word felt empty like an afterimage of something that should’ve had weight. You turned without another glance, your suitcase wheels squeaking faintly on the cheap tile as you headed down the hall toward the elevator. And it wasn’t until you were halfway down the corridor that you realized what the silence had reminded you of.

It felt like leaving a room you hadn’t realized had already been emptied.

The train ride home was quieter than usual. Betty was curled up beside you, her head resting on her scarf against the window, but she cracked an eye open eventually, sensing the shift in your energy like she always did.

"You’re quiet. Despite just seeing your boyfriend," she said, eyes still closed.

You shrugged with a sigh, watching the city bleed past in smudges of light through the window. "Am I supposed to be over the moon about not seeing him for break?"

"You’re acting like you’re not gonna hang out while you’re home.” she paused and sat up straight. “Are you not?"

“...I don’t know.”

Betty turned fully toward you, frowning now. “Girl. You live, like, what—ten minutes apart? You’ve literally walked to each other’s places before.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” You exhaled. “Things feel off.”

“Off like... something happened? Or off like you’re in your head about it?”

“I don’t know. We said goodbye and it felt weird.”

Betty narrowed her eyes. “Did you guys fight?”

“No? It’s just… he wasn’t acting like himself. Or like how he usually is with me.”

“Maybe he’s stressed?” she offered. 

“Maybe,” you echoed, not convinced.

Betty watched you for a moment longer, then reached out and squeezed your leg. “It’s probably nothing. You guys like each other a lot and that doesn’t just go away.”

You didn’t answer right away. The words caught in your throat like a too-large pill.

She peered at you. “Have you said it yet?”

“Said what?”

“You know. That you love each other.”

You nearly choked. "Betts. No. Jeez. We’re not—we’re not there… yet."

She huffed and flopped back in her seat. "You’re killing me. I’ve already planned our matching weddings."

"I’m so sorry to disappoint."

The rest of the ride blurred into a stream of chatter and changing scenery. She talked about the weddings, about what she was gonna order for dinner, about seeing Ned that night and crying in his arms like they’d been apart for years instead of days. You let her talk and smiled when appropriate, but something about the way Peter hadn’t looked you in the eye was stuck in your chest like a stone.

When you finally hugged her goodbye and started the walk home, your limbs felt heavier than they should. Your room looked the same, smelled the same, the bed even creaked the same when you collapsed into it—but none of it felt right. The ceiling above you used to feel high and open. Now it pressed down. And for some reason, the image that kept flashing behind your eyes wasn’t of your house, or Betty, or your suitcase still half-zipped on the floor.

It was Peter, standing in the middle of his dorm like a stranger.

Something had changed.

And you couldn’t figure out when.

You hated how awkward things had gotten. The quiet, the space. The way everything that used to feel easy now felt like navigating a room in the dark, hands outstretched and still bumping into walls. You’d always been a big believer in communication—Peter knew that. Even before things had shifted between you, before the lines blurred into something less easily defined, you’d been open with him. About everything. He knew you didn’t like guessing games. He knew that if something was wrong, you’d say it.

So this? The silence? It wasn’t you. And the worst part was not knowing what changed. You kept retracing your steps, combing through every conversation, every look, every joke you might’ve misread, but you came up empty. You hadn’t done anything. At least, nothing you could name, but Peter was different now anyway. He was distant in a way that didn’t feel like a fluke or bad timing—it felt intentional.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because if he was choosing to put space between you, then it wasn’t some misunderstanding. It was deliberate. And if he wasn’t going to give you a reason, then fine. You could be stubborn too.

You didn’t reach out much over break—not out of pettiness exactly, though that was part of it, but because your life got loud in other ways. Friends who hadn’t seen you in months. Family gatherings. Christmas shopping in overstuffed stores with tinny music blaring from ceiling speakers and long lines that gave you too much time to think. It wasn’t that you were avoiding him. It was just easier not to try, especially when he wasn’t trying either.

Still, even in all the chaos, the distance always crept back in at night. Lying in your bed with the lights off and your music playing low, the hum of your phone lighting your face, it would hit you all at once. That hollow feeling like something was supposed to be there and wasn’t. That’s when the questions started to spin—had you misread everything? Had you said too much, or not enough? Had you pushed too hard without meaning to?

You thought about that moment in his dorm before you left—how you’d told him you wanted to see him, without really explaining what you meant. It had slipped out, honest and quiet. And he hadn’t done anything with it. He hadn’t asked and he most definitely didn’t try to stop you when you left. He just let you go.

Peter wasn’t doing much better.

Like Betty said, you were only a few minutes apart, barely even a neighborhood away, but lately, it felt like you were on opposite ends of something much heavier than distance. Something too thick to see through and too quiet to fight.

He hated it too. The silence. The stillness. The absence of your voice in the middle of his day. The way everything had felt slower since you left. He kept thinking about the look on your face that night when he spoke with you on campus as Spider-Man. The way you’d said you’d been thinking, the way your voice had dipped just enough for him to wonder if it meant more. He’d gone over it a hundred times since, dissecting it like it was a riddle, trying to decode whether there had been something there or if he’d just imagined the weight in your words.

Peter had never been good with his emotions. He felt too much too fast and then shoved it all into a box he never planned to open. That was why he liked patrolling—moving, swinging, reacting. It made things feel manageable. Tangible. It kept him from spiraling. He tried to keep Mr. Stark’s advice in mind, tried to believe that this wasn’t as fragile as it felt—but he kept getting stuck in the same loop: what if he liked you more than you liked him? What if he liked you and you didn’t see him that way? What if what mattered to him was just… a phase to you?

He hadn’t tried to see you since you left, not because he didn’t want to—God, he wanted to—but because he didn’t know how to reach for you without feeling like he was overstepping. As if he was asking for more than he had any right to ask for because you weren’t together. But he remembered how your hand found his under the blanket that night in the same bed he was in now. How you’d slept curled against him like his heartbeat kept you grounded. That had to mean something.

Right?

He tried to distract himself. He spent most of break at May’s, running errands she didn’t ask for, picking up groceries, reorganizing the hall closet like it might give him clarity. He watched too many movies, did half a puzzle, him and Ned helped MJ hang lights in her apartment when she threatened to do it with a folding chair if no one helped. But his mind always drifted.

Always back to you.

To your breath on his shoulder in the dark. To the way you laughed when he made fun of candle names. To the way your expression faltered just slightly before you told him you were fine. He didn’t know how to fix it or even if it was his to fix. All he knew was that something was different, and the space it left behind was starting to feel permanent.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later that he finally broke. He stared at his phone for ten straight minutes before typing anything.

Peter: you home

You: yeah

You: why?

Peter: was gonna see if i could come over

Peter: got you something

He reread your texts more than he’d admit. There weren’t many. But still—he knew them by heart now. Waiting for your response was torture. He half-expected a no.

You: my parents won’t be back tn

You: so sure

Peter: cool

Peter: be there in 15

He told himself he was trying to seem casual, but his hand was already on his coat before you even responded. He didn’t want to make it a big thing since he just wanted to see you. To sit across from you and breathe the same air for a little while. 

4:21 p.m.

He grabbed his shoes.

May was folding towels, humming along to some old Stevie Wonder song playing faintly from her phone speaker. She looked up just as he grabbed a box of chocolates from the kitchen counter.

“You going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging on his jacket. “Just heading over to a friend’s.”

She raised an eyebrow, didn’t even pause in folding. “The friend?”

Peter hesitated, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”

May grinned but didn’t press. “Tell her I say hi.”

He didn’t answer and just ducked his head and pulled his hood up over his curls, cheeks warm despite the chill. He grabbed the wrapped, gold box of chocolates he’d packed earlier that afternoon and slipped out the front door, the soft click of it shutting behind him echoing a little louder than he’d expected.

The air outside was sharp and dry, biting at his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and the sky was already darkening into that soft slate gray that the city always seemed to wear this time of year. The streets were quieter than usual, the city in its pre-Christmas hush, lights blinking from apartment windows and holiday music trickling from a few open shops. He walked block after block hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. It gave him time to think, not that it helped much. His thoughts were loud, jittery, and full of what-ifs and maybe-you’re-not-ready and why-did-I-wait-this-long.

By the time he reached your building, his fingers were stiff with cold. He rubbed a thumb over the side of the small box tucked under his arm, like it might steady his nerves.

He’d planned on getting you a Christmas gift, of course—but after the weird silence between you two, showing up empty-handed felt worse than usual. He hadn’t wanted to overdo it. Flowers felt like too much. Jewelry was definitely too weird—not that he even knew if you liked gold or silver, or what kind of styles, or sizes, or anything, really. So he’d landed on something simple, small, and safe. He figured chocolates would be sweet enough and maybe said all the things he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud yet.

I missed you.

I hope you’re okay.

I care. Probably more than I should.

He shifted the box, adjusted his coat, and knocked.

The sound of your footsteps was faint but familiar, and when the door opened, you were standing there—lit from behind by the soft glow of the hallway light, wrapped in something oversized and warm, eyes wide like you hadn’t fully believed he was coming until he was standing right in front of you.

“Hi,” he said, voice quiet, almost sheepish. He offered a small smile—gentle, cautious—like he wasn’t entirely sure he was welcome.

“Hey, Peter.” You stepped back and gestured him inside, your own smile slow to form, but real. The warmth of your house greeted you both as the door clicked shut behind him, muffling the outside world. He hesitated in the entryway, shaking off the cold, while you reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear—more out of nervous habit than necessity.

Your eyes flicked down to the box in his hands.

Peter noticed immediately and shifted, extending it toward you with both hands like it might tip over if he wasn’t careful. “For you,” he said, his voice low and unguarded, laced with sincerity beneath the awkward delivery.

You stared at the box for a second too long, arms crossed loosely as if you were still deciding what kind of moment this was going to be. Then you looked back at him, expression unreadable.

“What’s this for?” you asked, not accusatory, but measured.

He glanced down, then licked his lips, trying to find the right balance of lighthearted and real.

“I just…” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Realized I was being weird. And dry. And kind of an ass. And we haven’t really talked. So I got you a ‘sorry I was being an emotionally constipated idiot’ apology gift.”

A short laugh escaped you, and some of the tension in your shoulders softened. You looked down at the poorly wrapped box again—wrinkled edges, tape struggling to keep the ends down—and bit back a smile.

“Well,” you said, tone dry, “glad you’re self-aware.”

“I’ve been working on it,” he replied, just as dry.

There was a beat.

“I started thinking it was me.”

Peter shook his head immediately. “You’re perfect and can do no wrong, yes, I know,” he cut in, deadpan, parroting the exact phrase you always used when you were being playfully cocky.

That made you smile for real.

There was a small pause before your voice softened. “Thank you.” It came out quieter than you meant, but still full.

“Of course,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You do know I plan on eating some of them too, right? This wasn’t a totally selfless act.”

“I figured this was more of a ‘sorry to me’ gift for you.”

“You caught me,” he said with a crooked grin.

You led the way into the kitchen, the overhead lights bright and cozy against the cool-toned holiday decorations strung up in the corners. A candle flickered on the counter, something warm and cinnamon-spiced filling the air. Peter trailed behind you, hands in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or hover.

You set the box down on the island, peeled off the wrapping, and lifted the lid. Inside was a neat array of too-fancy chocolates.

“How’s your break been?” he asked as you studied the flavors.

You shrugged, squinting at the label. “Fine. Busy. You know I love Christmas shopping.”

“Am I allowed to ask how much you’ve spent or are you gonna lie about that?”

“Sir, I’d like to plead the fifth,” you said, plucking out a dark chocolate truffle filled with raspberry puree. You popped it into your mouth and your eyes widened the moment you bit down. “Oh, fuck—this one’s so good. Try one, Peter,” you managed to say around a mouthful, covering your mouth with your hand as you chewed.

Peter laughed, grabbed one of the same, and immediately made the exact same face. “Damn, yeah. Good job, me.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Wanna make sugar cookies for Santa?”

He raised a brow. “How’s he supposed to get them? You don’t have a chimney.”

“I have a fireplace,” you countered.

“It’s electric.”

“Santa has his ways, Peter. You’re just bitter because you’re on the naughty list.”

“Nuh uh. I’ve been on the top of his nice list for years, just so you know.”

You shook your head and moved to grab bowls and mixing utensils, opening the cabinets with practiced ease. Peter stepped in beside you without asking, opening cabinets and pulling random ingredients off the shelf.

“My parents are at a friend’s place tonight,” you said, measuring out flour while Peter unwrapped a stick of butter. “And we’re going to my grandparents’ tomorrow, so I figured I’d make cookies for them while I still had a clean kitchen.”

“Am I being forced into this?” Peter asked dryly, though he was already rolling up his sleeves.

“I locked the doors, so you’re trapped in here,” you said with a shrug, turning your back to him as you reached for the cookie cutters.

The kitchen was awash in warm, golden light from the overheads and the soft glow of the candles burning along the windowsill. A low hum of holiday jazz played from the speaker on the counter, muffled slightly by the sounds of flour being sifted, utensils clinking, and the quiet rhythm of two people falling into sync without needing to speak much.

The scent of vanilla and sugar quickly filled the air, dusted into every corner like powdered snow. You moved around each other with casual familiarity, brushing shoulders occasionally, sharing glances over the rim of the mixing bowl. The dough came together slowly. Your hands brushed again when you both reached for the same cookie cutter but he let you take it.

Flour dusted the countertops, your clothes, your hair. You weren’t even trying to stay clean anymore.

Once the cookies were finally laid out in careful rows on the baking tray, you slid them into the oven, both crouching down instinctively to watch through the tiny fogged-up window. The heat from the oven seeped against your faces, making your cheeks glow as the shapes began to slowly expand and rise—softening at the edges, darkening just slightly as the sugar caramelized. You watched them, side by side, knees brushing, close enough to breathe the same quiet air while exchanging jokes or comments here and there

When they were done, the smell was heavenly. You transferred the delicate cookies to a rack to cool, and Peter pulled out the frosting and sprinkles you’d left on the counter.

The decorating was slower, messier. You dipped a knife into the frosting, spreading it carefully over one of the tree-shaped cookies, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Peter followed your lead, though his cookies looked uglier—over-iced, haphazardly sprinkled, too much red in places where green probably made more sense. You didn’t tell him that because he looked too proud.

At one point, while you were carefully swirling a bit of white frosting over a snowman’s hat, you caught him staring at you from across the counter.

You blinked, half-smiling. “What?”

“Hold still,” he murmured as he reached out. His thumb brushed gently over the tip of your nose, wiping away a smudge of frosting you hadn’t realized was there. The touch was light, but it left something in its wake. Your eyes met his and stayed there, neither of you speaking for a second too long.

“Had a little something,” he added, smirking as he licked a tiny smear of frosting off the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

Peter’s hand dropped back to the counter. You looked down, suddenly aware of how warm your cheeks were for a reason that had nothing to do with the oven.

Then, still avoiding his eyes, you picked up a half-decorated gingerbread man and held it out to him.

“You gonna help me finish these, or just keep staring?”

“Keep staring,” he replied like it was the obvious choice.

You snorted under your breath, but looked at him fully then. It hit you all at once: how much you’d missed him. In the quiet comfort of standing beside him. In how he smelled like sugar now, and a little like the laundry detergent you love. You missed his voice in your ear and his hands on your waist and how he curled around you like he was scared you'd disappear just a week prior.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth before you could stop yourself and then back up to his eyes.

Peter stepped toward you like something magnetic had finally pulled him in, and the moment before his lips touched yours felt thick with held breath. When he kissed you, it was slow and gentle, like he was trying to apologize without words or asking if it was still okay.

You answered without hesitation. A soft sound in the back of your throat escaped and the way your hand tugged lightly at the edge of his hoodie made him smile into the kiss. 

He kissed you like you were something to be handled carefully. His hands didn’t grip or grab, but instead held you steadily. He tasted like buttercream and cinnamon and something warm you couldn’t name.

When you finally pulled back, Peter blinked at you, then glanced down at the smear of flour still on your apron. “I think I have frosting in my eyebrow,” he murmured.

You laughed—light, breathless. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I have flour in my bra.”

Peter’s eyes flicked down, slow and deliberate. “Want me to check?”

You shot him a look, grinning. “Pretty sure you’ve got an ulterior motive.”

He shrugged, all mock-innocence and that crooked little smile. “Hey, I’m just trying to assess the situation. Can’t make a call without a full inspection.”

“Shut up,” you muttered through your smile, batting him lightly on the chest with the back of your hand.

The two of you stood there for a moment, surveying the flour-dusted disaster zone that had once been your kitchen. Bowls were stacked like abstract art, measuring spoons forgotten under streaks of powdered sugar, and sprinkles decorated every surface like confetti from a party neither of you had realized you were throwing.

“I’m gonna have to deep clean this apartment,” you murmured, dragging your sleeve across the counter. A small puff of flour rose like it was laughing at you.

Peter leaned back against the fridge, arms crossed, something sweet still smudged along his jawline. “Honestly? There’s probably flour in your sheets from when you ran in to get your speaker.”

You groaned, scrubbing at your face. “Shit, you’re right. There probably is.”

He tilted his head, trying to suppress a smile. “Guess we better go check that too, huh?”

You turned to him slowly, one brow raised. “You’re about as subtle as a car alarm.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “it’s working.”

His hands found your waist like they belonged there. He kissed your jaw first, then lower—closer to your neck, where your pulse jumped under his mouth. You didn’t mean to lean into him, but your body moved on instinct, your hand catching the back of his hoodie like muscle memory.

“You’re such a little shit,” you muttered, though your grip tightened.

He laughed softly against your skin. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t register the moment your feet left the floor, only that his hands were under your thighs and your legs were around him, and suddenly he was carrying you—effortless, like he didn’t even need to think about it. He kissed you through the hallway, like he was following the shape of your mouth to get where he was going, and when your back hit the edge of the bed, it was only because he’d been too busy kissing you to notice you’d arrived.

“Fuck,” you muttered with a laugh as you pulled off your apron and tossed it aside. “It’s a crime scene in here now.”

Peter chuckled, standing above you as he pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing the soft stretch of his stomach before it disappeared under the hem of his T-shirt. “There’s flour on your pillow now,” he said, pointing, voice full of amusement.

“I’m gonna be finding sugar in weird places for days.”

“Then we gotta be careful, yeah?” Peter replied, tossing his hoodie onto your desk chair, then toeing off his socks before climbing onto the bed beside you. His jeans had smears of dough across the thighs and were already half undone, zipper halfway down like he’d forgotten about it mid-kiss.

“I think I do see some flour there.” Peter pointed down at your bra with a lopsided grin.

You glanced down, then back up at him with a smirk. “You gonna clean that up for me, Peter?”

“Anything for you.”

His voice dropped with the words. The pads of his fingers found the clasp at your back like he’d done it a hundred times before now. Your bra slipped away and the air changed—soft and thick, buzzing with something heavier than warmth. You shifted back on the bed, letting him settle between your legs. Both of you stripped down to your underwear, flushed and slightly breathless, the kitchen light spilling in through the cracked door, throwing long shadows across the room.

Peter’s gaze dragged over you, reverent in a way that made your stomach pull tight. His hand slid slowly along your thigh, thumb brushing the crease where your leg met your hip.

“You’re getting flour on my comforter,” you whispered, flicking a bit of sugar from your fingertip onto his shoulder.

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “I said I’d clean it.”

“You better,” you said, your voice barely there.

His mouth moved down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to bite gently before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hand slipped lower, easing beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers brushing over you like he already knew exactly how you wanted to be touched. You gasped when he found the right spot, hips twitching, and Peter smiled against your skin like he’d been waiting to hear that. He kissed down your chest, down your stomach, leaving flour-smudged fingerprints along your waist, and when he tugged your underwear off, it was with a care that felt closer to worship than urgency.

“Still think I’m not subtle?” he asked, voice low as he shifted further down.

“Shut up,” you whispered, not meaning it. Your hands were already in his hair. “Use that mouth of yours to good use.”

He nodded and his mouth replaced his fingers with a patience that made your chest ache. Slow, unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to get you off as much as he was trying to learn you—every twitch, every stuttered breath, every sound pulled from the back of your throat like he wanted to know what it meant. His tongue dragged in steady, careful circles, soft and wet and just right, and your thighs trembled around his head before you could even stop them.

Peter hummed like it pleased him, like your reaction fed something in him. His arms slid beneath your hips, pulling you closer with an ease that felt less like strength and more like devotion. Like he didn’t just want you, he needed you—closer, always closer. One of his hands gripped the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of it, of you, while the other splayed against your stomach to steady you against the slow build he was coaxing from you.

It was overwhelming. 

Your head tipped back into the pillow, eyes glassy and unfocused, your fingers still tangled in his hair—tugging slightly now, not to guide him, but because you needed something to hold onto. He kept glancing up through his lashes, pupils blown and jaw flexing with every subtle shift of his mouth. He didn’t look away, even when your lips parted around a gasp, even when your hips bucked slightly into his face. His gaze stayed on you like he needed to see it—see you come apart from the inside out.

And when your stomach clenched and that heat finally crested into something sharp and bright, you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, voice breaking around the words. “God, I missed you—so much—”

It came out low and wrecked, barely audible, not at all how you meant to say it. For a second, you froze, as if you could swallow it back down, but Peter didn’t stop.

If anything, he held you tighter. Slower now. Gentler, like he wanted to draw every last tremor out of you. And when it hit, it hit all at once. Your whole body curling in on itself, going soft in his hands, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin sparking like static beneath his touch.

You were still trembling when it passed, clinging to him, dazed and a little undone. That word—missed—still lingered on your tongue, like it had come from somewhere deeper. And you knew he’d heard it. He didn’t say anything, just kissed his way up your body, warm and slow, lips dragging over your skin like he couldn’t quite let go. When his mouth found yours again, you could taste yourself on his lips—but more than that, you felt it:

The softness in the way he touched your sides. The slight tremble in his exhale. The way he kissed you like he was trying to memorize it—your breath, your mouth, like he’d missed you, too.

Your hands trailed down his stomach, slow and deliberate, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his briefs. He gasped softly against your mouth, the sound quiet but gutting, and you smiled into the kiss as your hand wrapped around him.

He was already hard—aching, warm in your palm—and the moment you started to stroke him, slow and teasing, his hips jerked just slightly, his mouth parting in a low, unfiltered groan.

“Fuck. Keep going,” he mumbled against your jaw, voice gravel-soft and breathless, his hands skimming your sides like he didn’t know where to touch first. But you did. You touched everywhere.

He leaned in again, kissing you like he was dizzy with it, and his hand slipped back between your legs—familiar now, practiced in the way his fingers dragged over your clit, slow and soft and perfect. You whimpered at the contact, your thighs falling open like muscle memory, chasing the friction.

“Peter,” you breathed, voice catching somewhere between a gasp and a whine. “Fuck. Just—fuck me. Please. Need you.”

He froze, just for a second. Pulled back enough to see your face.

“Are you… are you sure?” he asked, and it wasn’t shy so much as awed.

You blinked up at him, lips parted, heart still racing from the afterglow. “Wait—sorry, not if you’re not—”

“No.” His voice was firm this time, steadier. “I want to. I just… gimme a sec.” He fumbled around for his jeans somewhere at the foot of the bed, breath shaky, and when he finally found what he was looking for, he held up the little silver foil packet.

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “So you came prepared.”

Peter’s ears flushed immediately. “I—uh. Yeah. Thought it might be… smart.”

Your brows lifted. “Smart?”

He cleared his throat. “You know. Just in case.”

“Where’d you even get it?” you teased, brushing a finger over his arm. “Didn’t know you were that kind of Boy Scout.”

Peter huffed, eyes darting away like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “It was a gift.”

Your eyes narrowed. “A gift?”

He nodded, clearly regretting saying anything.

“From who?”

He hesitated just a beat too long.

“…Peter,” you warned, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Who gifted you condoms?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Mr. Stark.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. “You’re telling me Tony Stark gave you condoms.”

“He—he noticed a huge hickey you gave me. And he got weird about it and then threw a whole bunch in my bag.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “So these are the newest Stark Industries inventions?”

Peter groaned, already bracing himself.

“And we’re the lucky test subjects?” you added, voice teasing as you let your fingers trail lightly down his arm.

“Please don’t say that while I’m holding it,” he muttered, ears burning.

You laughed, soft and breathless, the heat between you crackling again as your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed skin there.

“Then,” you murmured, lips ghosting just beneath his ear, “fuck me so hard I forget.”

That knocked the air out of him. He let out a rough sound and his hands were already gripping your waist, tugging you underneath him like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

“Yeah?” he breathed, tearing the foil open with trembling fingers. His eyes dragged up to meet yours—dark, hungry, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. “Gonna make you forget everything but me.”

He leaned in, hovering just over your mouth, his breath warm.

“Say my name.”

Your lips parted, breath catching in your throat.

“Peter,” you whispered, like it was a surrender.

His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching. “God, you make me so—” He didn’t finish the sentence, already fumbling for a foil packet with fingers just slightly too shaky.

You watched him, heartbeat fluttering, as he opened it with careful precision. His eyes flicked up to yours like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening—like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that you wanted him, just like this. You reached up to brush his hair from his forehead, then gently took over when he struggled with the condom. You gave his cock a teasing lick on the way down and kissed the head softly before rolling it on. He let out a wrecked sound, hips twitching, chest rising like he’d sprinted here.

His breathing was already uneven, chest rising and falling like he’d run here, and when he leaned down to kiss you again, it was slow and full of something new—something deeper. You kissed him like you didn’t want to leave anything unsaid, like you wanted to swallow every trace of hesitation.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, voice taut with restraint. “Just—tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I want you,” you murmured, firmer than before. “Need you so fucking bad.”

The look on his face made your chest squeeze—like you’d knocked the wind out of him. He settled over you, gaze raking down your body, reverent. One hand slid between your thighs to part them while the other braced his weight, and he dragged his cock slowly along your wet cunt, teasing.

“Peter,” you gasped. “Fuck me. Please.”

He pushed in slow, careful, eyes locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second of the way you came undone for him. When he bottomed out, he let out a shaky, open-mouthed sound that might’ve been your name.

“Shit,” he breathed, hips twitching once before he caught himself. “You feel so fucking good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, hands splayed along his back and let out a guttural moan. “Please, Peter, just—fuck me.”

He obeyed, rocking into you in steady, deep thrusts, one hand coming up to cup your breast while the other clutched your waist. His rhythm was slow, deliberate—like he wanted to feel everything. Like he wanted you to feel everything.

You moaned through gritted teeth, fingers flexing in his hair. “Touch me.”

Peter let out a soft groan, dipping his head to kiss along your neck, your collarbone, his hips rocking into you in slow, tentative rolls. Every thrust dragged another gasp from your lips, each one a little louder than the last. He was clearly trying to take it slow, but there was a reverence to it. Every movement felt full of care, of awe, like he couldn’t stop thinking this is you, this is us.

“Still good?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You nodded, voice wrecked. “So fucking good. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His hands slid under your back to pull you closer, thrusts gaining purpose, more focused now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and it tumbled out before he could stop it. “Can’t believe you’re real. That you’re mine.”

You pulled his face down to kiss him again, wet and hot and a little desperate, your hips rolling to meet his now, slow and languid. Each thrust made your breath stutter, your moans soft but growing in urgency, your hands now in his hair again. He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle, and the next thrust dragged something sharp and bright through you—your back arched and a whimper spilled from your throat before you could stop it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, adjusting the angle, driving deeper until you arched with a cry.

“There—fuck, there—don’t stop,” you begged, clutching at his shoulders.

He groaned low in his throat, his pace steady but intense now, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. His thrusts deepened, slow but purposeful now, every movement calculated to hit that spot again and again, and the tension in your stomach coiled tight. He pressed his forehead to yours as he continued to mumble sweet nothings into your ear, each time cutting himself off with another kiss, pouring everything into it.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, letting yourself say all the little things you didn’t dare say out loud before this. Your breath caught, but then another thrust sent a wave crashing through you, and your body took over. Your voice caught in your throat, legs tightening around him, head falling back as everything blurred—your name, his breath, your whole body arched into him, pulsing around him as you came.

Peter cursed, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. When he came, it was with a guttural sound, your name falling from his lips like a secret. He thrust deep once more and stilled, panting against your skin, trembling just slightly and breathing hard against your cheek, before plopping down, partially on top of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, the air heavy and quiet. His skin was hot against yours, his hand resting over your heart like he couldn’t quite let go. Neither of you spoke for a moment, just tangled up in each other, hearts racing, skin warm and sticky and pressed together like you didn’t want the moment to end.

But eventually, Peter shifted. His arm curled tighter around your waist, the press of his chest warm against your back. He exhaled softly, lips brushing your shoulder.

“…You okay?”

You nodded against the pillow, voice barely above a murmur. “Yeah. You okay?”

He hummed, low and satisfied. “Better than okay.”

You felt him smile against your skin before he sat up carefully, reaching for the comforter kicked to the floor. He pulled it over both of you, then looked down, brushing a bit of hair from your cheek with a tenderness that made your throat ache.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Lie back.”

He disappeared for a moment and you heard him pad toward the bathroom. When he returned, he had a warm, damp washcloth and the softest look on his face like this—this—was the part that mattered most. He cleaned you gently, his touches featherlight.

Neither of you said much, just the quiet rush of breath, the faint ambient hum from the hallway light still bleeding in from the door. When he finished, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder before slipping his briefs back on and tossing the cloth into your laundry basket. You leaned on your elbow, watching him. His curls were mussed, his skin flushed and golden in the low light. There was a smear of flour still on his hip.

“You’ve got…” you gestured, a sleepy grin tugging at your lips.

He looked down, snorted, and tried brushing it off with the heel of his hand.

You rolled onto your back, groaning softly. “I’m gonna have to wash my sheets tonight.”

Peter climbed back into bed beside you, smiling, one arm flopping across your waist as he dropped a kiss to your cheek. “It was worth it, no?”

“Mhm.” you hummed into his skin.

You curled into his side, letting your leg drape over his. He was warm and solid and still a little out of breath.

“You think we should actually finished those cookies?” you mumbled against his chest.

His fingers traced lazy shapes over your bare arm. “Nah.”

You blinked up at him.

“I don’t wanna move. I wanna keep looking at you,” he said softly.

And then, quieter, “You’re so pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest stuttered.

“I’m serious,” he murmured. “You’re… perfect.”

Your stomach twisted.

Don’t do that, you wanted to say.

Don’t look at me like that.

Don’t say things like that.

But instead, you just swallowed, your fingers curling in the sheets.

“Stop,” you said lightly, voice pinched around the edges. “You’re making it weird.”

Peter blinked. “I—I’m not trying to. I just meant—”

“No, I know,” you cut in quickly, sitting up a little. “I just… we should get up.”

Peter frowned. “Why?”

“Because this is…” You shook your head, pressing your fingers to your temple. “God, I don’t know.”

He sat up slowly. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” You breathed in, then let it out through your nose. “You’re just too—”

You stopped.

Peter’s eyes searched your face. “Too what?”

“Too nice,” you said, and it came out sharper than you meant. “Too sweet. It makes everything harder.”

“What do you mean?”

You groaned, feeling your eyes warm and beginning to well with tears. “Why do you always make me say it?”

“Because I never know what you’re thinking.”

“Exactly. That’s the whole fucking problem,” you snapped, the sheet slipping down your chest. “You keep looking at me like I’m this—this perfect version of something. Like I’m not gonna ruin it. And I am. I already have. I’m a mess, Peter.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, hurt flickering across his face before he could hide it. “I know you’re a mess,” he said softly. “You think I don’t see you?”

You looked away. “I think you see what you want to see.”

He went quiet. Your chest was tight before you even breathed in again.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tripping over themselves. “I didn’t mean that. I just—I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling without sounding like a bitch. Or without hurting you. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he said immediately, firm, his hand gently reaching up to wipe a tear threatening to spill.

“Well, I do. All the time. I’m mean to you without even meaning to be. I pick fights, I shut down, I pretend like I don’t care when I do, and you—you just keep being good to me and I don’t know how to handle that.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, but his voice was soft. “Maybe I’m good to you because I care about you.”

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his brows furrowed and you could see the hurt and confusion in his face, mirroring your own.

“Because this wasn’t supposed to mean anything!” you blurted, the words tumbling out faster than you could catch them. “It was supposed to be casual. Neither of us wanted this to get… weird. Just us fucking around. And now—now I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

Peter didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at you, his jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The silence stretched. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

“You think I don’t get that?” he said finally, voice low. Not sharp or defensive, just tired like every word cost him something.

You didn’t answer.

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling hard through his nose like he was trying to steady something—his breathing, maybe. Or his voice. Or the part of himself that had gotten too close.

“Maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” he said finally. “That it was changing.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the faint trail of light from the hallway slipping in through the cracked door as you fought back the tears. “Yeah. Well. Me either.”

Your voice came out dull, flattened. Worn down by the weight of everything you didn’t want to say.

Peter didn’t answer right away. You felt him still beside you, felt the quiet shift in his breathing before he moved—slowly, gently untangling his arm from around your waist and sitting up. He pressed his palms to his thighs like he didn’t trust them to stay still otherwise, his bare back curving forward slightly, spine bowed with something that looked too much like resignation.

“Do you want me to go?”

It was soft. No edge to it. Just a quiet, careful question from someone who already knew the answer—or thought he did.

Your breath caught.

Not because you wanted him to leave, but because the second he said it, something inside you folded in on itself. Your chest tightened, your stomach twisted, and suddenly there was too much space between you and not enough air. You didn’t want him to go, but you didn’t know how to ask him to stay without unraveling completely.

So you said nothing.

And that silence—your silence—felt louder than anything else.

Peter waited a beat. Then two.

And when you still didn’t answer, he nodded once, just barely. Like it hurt to move. Like it confirmed something he’d been afraid to say out loud.

“Okay,” he said, eyes down. “I’ll give you space.”

He moved gently, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment more than he already had. He reached down to grab his jeans off the floor. You watched him slide them on with quiet efficiency, shaking out the wrinkles and brushing away a smear of dough from the pocket. There was sugar dusted along the hem, sparkling faintly in the light. Evidence of where he’d been. Where you’d touched.

It was everywhere.

The pillow still bore the shape of his shoulder. The comforter was rumpled, caved in where your hips had rocked into each other. A dusting of flour clung to the curve of your thigh. There was a fingerprint—barely visible but unmistakable—ghosted along the soft skin of your waist, like a memory pressed into flesh. You hadn’t noticed it when he left it but you couldn’t unsee it now. and you most certainly couldn’t stop staring because it meant he had touched you. And now he wasn’t anymore.

You felt suddenly, stupidly cold.

He grabbed his hoodie and shoved his arms through the sleeves without looking at you. His curls were still messy from your fingers. There was a flush climbing up his neck, and one single hickey—too high, too obvious—bloomed against his collarbone like a mark that didn’t belong. His shoulders were hunched, muscles drawn tight like a pulled wire.

You sat up, the sheet yanked up to your chest, fingers curled white-knuckled around the fabric. “Peter.”

He froze, hoodie halfway over his head. His face appeared slowly from the collar, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined your voice.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice cracking like glass.

Something in his expression shifted—surprise, maybe. Or sadness, soft and subtle and far too kind.

“I know,” he murmured. “You don’t have to explain.”

But you felt like you did. Like if you didn’t, it would sit in your throat and rot there, choking you from the inside out.

“I didn’t mean for it to get this far,” you said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” he replied, too quickly. Then, softer, more careful: “I’m just… confused. I thought we were okay. I thought we were more okay than we’ve been in a long time.”

Your chest squeezed. You looked away, blinking hard. “That’s the problem,” you whispered. “You always think we’re okay.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, like he didn’t know what to say or maybe didn’t trust himself to say it right.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

You looked at him, and for a split second you hated him—for being so sincere. For still looking at you like you were something soft. Something he could hold. Something worth holding.

“I don’t either,” you said. “I really don’t.”

Peter nodded, just once, like that was the answer he’d been expecting all along. Then he turned away from you for good.

You watched him gather the rest of his things—his socks, his phone, the silver condom wrapper discarded at the edge of the bed. He picked it up and tucked it into the trash like it mattered, like cleaning up neatly would make it hurt less. And God, you hated how gentle he was. Even now. Even like this.

He moved toward the door, slow and quiet, his fingers brushing the fram. The bedroom door hadn’t been fully shut, and he didn’t close it now. He just walked out, careful not to make noise, like he didn’t want to wake something—like he didn’t want to wake you, but you were already wide awake. Every part of you.

You didn’t tell him to stay. You didn’t tell him to go. You just sat there, wrapped in the same sheet he’d pulled around your waist an hour ago, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then you heard the soft, unmistakable click of the front door shutting. And just like that, he was gone.

The apartment was silent, but the air still smelled like him—warm and sharp and dizzyingly familiar. Sugar and sweat. Skin and breath. Something good. Something too good. The sheets were still warm beneath you, sticking in places where your bodies had fit too perfectly together. Your bra was hanging off the back of your desk chair, dusted with flour like a forgotten prop from a dream that had gone too far. None of it felt real.

You pressed your palms to your face and exhaled slowly, but it didn’t help. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what you were feeling.

You’d already been confused—before tonight, before he touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear, before he kissed you like he wanted every part of you and called you his like it meant something. Before you let him inside like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t change everything.

But it had. And you’d known it would. You’d known this would be messy.

It always was.

But you let it happen anyway. Because you were selfish. Because he felt too good. Because something inside you—loud and aching and stupidly human—had wanted to be wanted. Fully. Desperately. Without hesitation.

And Peter gave you that. He gave you everything.

And now you didn’t know what to do with it.

You curled tighter beneath the sheet, your body still trembling, your thoughts knotted and spinning. You stared at the open space where he’d just been, where something quiet and real had cracked apart. Where softness had been mistaken for safety. Where something broke.

And you wished, God, you wished—

You wished you’d never kissed him in that closet. You wished you hadn’t started pretending becayse pretending had been so much easier than this.

Than feeling.

He landed atop the Empire State Building like he’d done it a hundred times before, feet finding their place on cold metal, chest rising and falling with each breath. For a while, he just stood there, the wind tugging at his mask as the city unfolded beneath him in glittering constellations of car lights and distant windows. It was beautiful. It was loud. It was too much and not nearly enough.

Down below, the world carried on without him—people stumbling out of bars, cabs honking, someone smoking in a doorway while talking too loudly on the phone. And up here, it was just him, surrounded by noise that couldn’t touch him and silence that wouldn’t leave him alone.

When he was younger, swinging had fixed everything. He’d launch himself across boroughs, dive between buildings like he didn’t care what happened when he hit the ground, and the chaos was enough to drown out the rest. But now, no matter how fast he moved or how low he dropped, even skimming so close to the rooftops that his fingers brushed rusted railings, nothing shook the thoughts loose. His mind kept circling back, playing the same three words over and over like a skipping record.

You were right.

He was an idiot.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just told May the truth—that you weren’t actually dating. It wouldn’t have taken much. One sentence. Two seconds. But when she’d asked him, eyes soft and proud in that quiet way she always got when she thought he was becoming someone real—someone worthy of being loved—he couldn’t bring himself to correct her. He didn’t want to. That was the excuse, anyway.

That maybe a little pretending wouldn’t hurt.

But that had been the same excuse when he let you kiss him in Liz’s closet. When he let you teach him how to kiss. When his fingers found your skin and your mouth found his and you moaned his name like it belonged to you. So how could he keep lying to himself now, telling himself it was nothing when it had already become something he couldn’t explain?

It wasn’t just convenient anymore. It wasn’t just physical. But it wasn’t something solid enough to name either, and that space in between felt like a trap—one he kept walking into with his eyes wide open.

His thoughts had been circling like vultures since the moment he dropped you off at your dorm. The ride back from Queens had been quiet—not tense, but not comfortable either. Like the silence itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to say something you weren’t quite ready to say. There was weight to it. Fog, maybe. Or truth with no shape yet.

He’d woken up with your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wound around your waist like instinct, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. May hadn’t come in—probably out of mercy or fear—but even if she had, all she would’ve seen was you, asleep and safe in his arms like you’d always belonged there. And that should’ve been comforting. Instead, it scared the hell out of him.

Because there had been nothing overtly intimate. No jokes. No pressure. Just warmth. Just closeness. Just the kind of emotional intimacy he didn’t know how to navigate.

And that—more than anything—terrified him.

Because he didn’t know what it meant now. Didn’t know what you were to him. Didn’t know how to name it.

Just you. Just him. And a thousand messy, complicated moments strung between.

Watching the city from above wasn’t helping. The distance felt too big and the thoughts too loud. So he jumped again.

The city, for all its talk of being sleepless, didn’t stay fully awake. Not really. After the trains slowed and the bars cleared, it settled into something quieter. Not still, but hushed. Like a heartbeat instead of a pulse. Peter moved through that hum easily, the suit tight to his body, swinging low over quiet streets and amber-lit avenues, the wind a constant against his skin. Lower Manhattan was mostly empty now—just bodega clerks locking up and the occasional cluster of college students leaving someone’s too-loud apartment in puffer coats and backward hats.

He helped a girl find her dorm—clearly drunk, clearly trying to pretend otherwise. She’d dropped her phone twice and tried to open the wrong door three times before he offered help, deepening his voice with the suit’s modulation. She nearly cried at the sight of him and kept thanking him like she thought Spider-Man had saved her from some great peril. He smiled politely and left before it became a whole thing.

A few blocks later, he stopped some guy from smashing a car window. Webbed his hand to the handle and walked away as the alarm blared through the night, immediately regretting it. He could already hear the morning headlines about Spider-Menaces disturbing the peace, and he made a mental note to circle back and apologize if he had time.

None of it was serious. Nothing worth calling in backup. But it kept his hands busy. Kept the quiet from creeping in.

He swung over the Williamsburg Bridge, the metal cold and groaning underfoot, and didn’t stop until he found himself back in Midtown. He crouched low on a rooftop near Bryant Park, perched like he was part of the architecture, breathing slow and even as he stared down at the street below.

But even now, even here, the image of you wouldn’t leave him alone.

The way your hair had curled near your jaw, the way your mouth parted slightly in sleep, the way his hand had stayed on the small of your back the whole night like it had every right to be there. It wasn’t just about touch anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. And pretending otherwise wasn’t helping—especially when every thought of you felt like it tugged loose a thread in the center of his chest.

He sighed through the mask and stood.

“Karen,” he muttered, voice low against the synthetic fabric.

“Yes, Peter?” Her voice chimed sweet and even in his ear, unfazed by the late hour.

“What time is it?”

“It is currently 2:04 a.m.”

The number didn’t surprise him, but it still settled into his gut like a weight. He didn’t feel tired. He didn’t really feel anything, except maybe restless in the kind of way that couldn’t be solved with movement.

His gaze drifted east, toward the familiar silhouette of Stark Tower cutting through the sky. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving.

It took him less than five minutes to reach the Tower. He landed lightly on the terrace just above the main labs, heart still racing in that restless, uneven way that had nothing to do with the swing. The building glowed from the inside, warm light pouring through the windows and spilling onto the steel like a lighthouse in the middle of everything else.

That’s when he saw him—Tony. Inside. Back turned, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with something on the workbench. A few flickering projections hovered in the air above him, all faint blue light and shifting numbers.

Peter didn’t hesitate.

He tapped two fingers against the glass like a kid knocking on a fish tank—just loud enough to be noticed. Then he swung forward, stuck himself to the wall, and nudged it open like he belonged there.

“Hey,” he said as he stepped in, trying for casual but falling somewhere short. The lab smelled faintly like metal and whatever Tony had last burned through a soldering iron. Weirdly comforting.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

Tony didn’t look up. “Too late. You’re already here.”

Peter smiled, soft and crooked, stepping further inside as the city sounds slipped behind the glass. Tony was hunched over a screen, glasses low on his nose, a half-full mug of something too dark to be tea clutched in one hand. He finally glanced over, raising a brow like he’d already scanned Peter’s brain on the way in.

“Let me guess—cyou couldn’t sleep, your legs were twitchy, you went for a swing and ended up here, haunting my lab, instead of dealing with whatever emotional meltdown’s chewing a hole in your chest.”

Peter blinked. “I mean—yeah. Pretty much.” 

Tony sipped. “Figured.”

There was something grounding about how easily he said it. No drama. No pity. Just a quick glance at Peter’s wind-mussed hair, his damp suit, the lack of blood or bruises—then right back to whatever he was working on.

He rotated the screen toward Peter. “Tony turned the screen with a flick of his fingers. “I was about to recalibrate the phase shielding again. Banner’s algorithm’s good, but it still dips under load. Want to run it with me?”

Peter let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

They slipped into rhythm easily, the way they always did when they were too tired to talk and too wired to sit still. Tony pointed out where something was glitching, and Peter helped stabilize the interface—tightening things, smoothing out the feedback, rerouting a few loose connections. It wasn’t anything too fancy or urgent, but at least it was something for him to focus on. And that was what made it so comforting.

It didn’t take long to fix whatever was acting up. They ran the loop again—this time, everything stayed steady with a soft, stable hum.

Peter leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair, curls sticking up worse than before.

Tony tapped on a notepad, eyes scanning the latest readouts. “So. You want to talk about it now, or are we going to pretend I didn’t see you swing into my building like a broody raccoon at two in the morning?” 

Peter huffed out a laugh, tired and sheepish. “You really don’t miss much, do you.”

“I miss a lot of things. Not Parker-brand guilt. That stuff practically glows.”

Peter winced. “Fair.”

Tony finally looked at him, one brow raised. “This about the girl? The one who gave you those bruises?”

Peter’s face flushed instantly. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”

Tony waited.

“The relationship,” Peter clarified. “It’s not… it was fake. It started out fake. She was helping me with something, and then Ned thought we were dating and we didn’t really correct him, and it just kind of… kept going.” 

Tony nodded once, slowly. “And now?”

Peter hesitated, picking at the edge of the console. “Now it’s… confusing. It doesn’t feel fake anymore, but we never really talked about what it is, and I didn’t tell May the truth, either. She thinks it’s serious, and I just… let her believe it.”

Tony didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him, eyes sharper than they had any right to be at this hour.

“You’re in deep, huh.”

Peter let out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Okay. So, first things first—don’t lie to May again. That woman sees through bullshit like it’s laminated.” 

Peter groaned. “Believe me, I know.”

“Second,” Tony added, his tone softer now, “you didn’t screw anything up beyond saving. You’re scared. That’s not the same thing.”

Peter nodded, slow.

“You’re what, nineteen?”

“Nineteen,” Peter confirmed quietly.

Tony gave him a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “I was still blowing things up on purpose when I was nineteen. You’re already ahead.”

Peter gave a weak smile.

Tony leaned on the table. “Look, if it feels real to you now, it probably is. Doesn’t matter how it started. Don’t let that stop you from saying what you actually feel.”

Peter’s throat tightened. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

Tony shrugged. “Then at least you know. And you stop torturing yourself swinging around the city like a wind-up emo action figure at 1AM. Maybe you’ll get a decent night of sleep after.”

Peter let out a quiet laugh. “You have a way with words.”

“Occupational hazard,” Tony said, brushing him off with a small smile. He clapped a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve got good instincts, kid. Trust them. You’ll know what to do..”

Peter nodded, something easing behind his ribs. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Now get out of my lab before I put you on the payroll.” 

Peter snorted, pulling his mask back into place and heading for the exit. The night still buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, but something about his chest felt lighter now. Less tangled.

The wind caught him the second he stepped outside, rushing past his ears, cool and fast and steady. He didn’t pause. He launched himself back into the air and swung forward, cutting clean through the sky like muscle memory. The city blurred beneath him again—streetlights, rooftop murals, rusted fire escapes. But for the first time all night, something in him relaxed.

He aimed toward campus, instinct guiding him there like it always did, even when he didn’t plan it. Patrolling around ESU was trickier—too many lights, too many students still awake. Even at two in the morning, the sidewalks were alive with scattered laughter and hoodie-clad chaos. He kept to the rooftops, scanning for anything off. Most of it was the usual mess—someone crying too loud on FaceTime, someone else fighting a vending machine, a pizza box being fought over by a raccoon and a very drunk guy who was definitely losing.

Ned, bless him, had left the window cracked again—his unspoken signal that Peter could sneak in without knocking. Peter made a mental note to buy him a sandwich. But just as he was about to swing through the window, he caught sight of something below. A figure curled up on a bench just off the main path, half-hidden in the glow of a nearby lamppost.

It was you.

His stomach pulled tight.

You were bundled in your jacket, knees tucked up, earbuds in. He recognized the song—it was muffled, but the beat was familiar. Couldn’t place the name, but he knew it. Your eyes weren’t closed, just distant. Not upset and it didn’t seem like you had been crying. Just… elsewhere.

He stayed still for a beat, crouched low on a rooftop ledge, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. You didn’t look like you needed saving, but you didn’t quite look okay, either.

He sighed and webbed down to a nearby lamppost, landing soft on the grass.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped closer—just blinked and looked up slowly, like you weren’t sure if you were dreaming him or not.

“You okay, ma’am?” came a voice above you—low, hesitant.

You startled a little, blinking up from the bench. Spider-Man stood just a few feet away, half-lit by the glow of the nearby lamppost. His posture was casual, but his tone was… off. Familiar, somehow. Not the usual deep, modulated voice from those viral clips online.

You took out one earbud slowly, brows furrowing. “Do I… know you?”

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for you to see his stance stiffen slightly.

Then he cleared his throat and dropped his voice awkwardly. “Uh—nope. Definitely not. Just your friendly neighborhood… Spider-Man.”

You squinted. “Okay, but why do you sound like someone trying to do a Batman impression after a cold?”

He shifted his weight, hands half raised like that would help. “I have allergies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Chronic. Year-round. Very tragic.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. “I don’t think that’s how allergies work.”

“I don’t think you’re a doctor,” he shot back, and then seemed to realize that probably wasn’t a great deflection. “Sorry, that came out ruder than I meant. I’m not good at… normal conversations when I’m wearing tights.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you. You tucked your other leg up on the bench and gave him a slow once-over. “Do you usually lurk around college campuses at night? Or is this a new patrol route?”

He shrugged. “City never sleeps.”

“Uh-huh,” you repeated, leaning your head back.

There was a pause.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked after a moment, quieter now.

You glanced at him again. Something about his presence wasn’t unnerving like it should’ve been. Warm, in a way that made your throat feel tight. “Yeah. Head won’t shut up.”

“I get that.”

You gave a faint, lopsided smile. “What, Spider-Man got licensed as a therapist now?”

“I dabble,” he said with mock humility. “I also do weddings, DJing, minor tech support. I’m very versatile.”

You huffed. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Yeah, well. Beats sitting around letting your brain eat itself.”

You looked at him a little more carefully, something about the way he said it landing too close to home. The silence between you stretched. Not awkward—just weighted. Then your music, still softly playing from your single earbud, crackled into something familiar.

Peter tilted his head. “Is that… Yot Club?”

You blinked. “You know Yot Club?”

“I mean—I’ve heard this one before. My girl—uh, a friend of mine, played it for me a while ago. I forget what it’s called.”

“You know what I mean.”

He paused. “Know what?”

You blinked once, then let out a laugh. “No, that’s the name of the song. ‘YKWIM.’”

His eyes—those mechanical lenses—widened slightly. “Oh. Right. Okay. I was like, wow, I didn’t think I was being that vague.”

You grinned. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I try to make up for the awkwardness with raw charm.”

“Mm. Jury’s still out.”

“Brutal.”

“Fair.”

You tugged out your other earbud and glanced at the empty quad. “You know, sometimes I forget Spider-Man’s just… a person. You’re like a dude. Who knows indie music and makes bad jokes.”

He raised his hands like he’d been caught. “Guilty.”

You looked back at him, tone a little softer now. “That friend of yours. She’s got good taste.”

His answer came too quickly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

“She your girlfriend?”

He scratched the back of his head, as if remembering halfway through that there was no hair to scratch through the mask. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ah. You too, huh.”

That seemed to surprise him. “You?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out across the quiet campus, eyes catching on nothing in particular. The pause stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. Then you gave a half-shrug, noncommittal but not cold.

Peter’s gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, thoughtful. “Is that why you’re out here?”

“Something like that,” you said with a dry smile. “Everything’s just situationships nowadays.”

He let out a breath. “That sounds... familiar.”

For a moment, the silence between you felt softer. It wasn’t awkward, but more familiar in a way that snuck up on both of you. Something about him felt less like a stranger and more like a reflection.

Eventually, you pushed to your feet and gave a stretch, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans.

“Well,” you said. “I should get back before someone thinks I’m trying to seduce Spider-Man outside the dorms.”

He barked a laugh. “Honestly, could be good for my image.”

You started to walk away, footsteps light against the pavement, then paused halfway across the quad. Your eyes narrowed a little as you turned back toward him, head tilted. “Hey… are you sure we haven’t met before?”

His spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Pretty sure,” he said, trying for casual. “I guess I’m just…friendly and familiar?”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Oh, totally. Very familiar.”

He stayed still as you lingered for one more beat, grinning like you were onto something. “Be safe, Spider-Man. And, y’know, maybe don’t head back to your dorm by swinging around campus or anything—wouldn’t want anyone thinking you actually go here. That’d be way too subtle.”

He huffed softly behind the mask, warmth curling at the edges of his chest despite himself. “Noted.”

Peter stayed crouched against the shadowed edge of the rooftop as you turned and walked away, your figure small against the soft amber wash of the quad lights. He didn’t move until the dorm doors closed behind you, until a familiar window on the third floor flickered to life.

Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He took the long way back, darting between chimneys and ducking low across rooftops, sticking to shadows until he reached his own building. There was a small ledge just beneath the roof, and he crept along it with practiced ease, flattening himself to the brick and cracking open the window Ned always forgot to lock. He slipped through silently, landing in a crouch between a laundry basket and a chair stacked with textbooks.

The dorm was quiet. Ned’s steady breathing filled the dark room, and the air smelled faintly of kettle corn and air freshener—cheap and vaguely citrusy. Peter peeled off the mask, moving slowly, like his limbs were made of something heavier than muscle. He sank onto the edge of the mattress still fully suited, legs swinging off the side, the taste of the night still fresh in his mouth.

His heart hadn’t slowed down.

And the way you’d looked just then—your voice soft, your smile not quite as sure as usual—it lodged itself in his chest like something half-formed and dangerous. A thought. A hope. A knowing.

He let his head tip back against the wall and closed his eyes.

A moment later, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You: ur never gonna believe who i just ran into

Peter stared at the screen, a slow, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. There was something almost sacred about it—this quiet, glowing thread stretched between your room and his, between who he was with the mask and who he was without it.

He read the text again, then shut off the screen and rested the phone on his chest.

There was no sleep waiting for him on the other side of this night.

Only questions.

Only you.

Peter just shrugged, already brushing past you and into your dorm like he lived there. You stared at the cup suspiciously, holding it like it might explode.

“You didn’t poison this, did you?” you asked, eyeing the lid.

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “If I did, I wouldn’t have spent seven dollars on it.”

“Thanks…?” you said, the word slow and unsure as you closed the door behind you. Still, you took a cautious sip. It was your usual order which you didn’t know he had memorized.

Peter was already making himself comfortable—flopping onto your bed with a dramatic sigh and sinking back against your husband pillow like it was custom-molded to his spine. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crinkled white pastry bag.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you seriously about to eat on my bed?”

He froze mid-bite, croissant inches from his mouth. “...No?”

“Parker.”

He groaned loudly like you were asking him to sacrifice a limb, but finally rolled off the bed. “Your beanbag sucks,” he muttered as he dropped into it anyway.

You watched him for a second. Something about him was off—not bad, not weird, just… off. You’d spent enough time with Peter lately to recognize the rhythms of him, and this wasn't his usual pattern. He didn't just show up unannounced with croissants and caffeine unless there was a motive.

Your eyes narrowed. “What’s your deal?”

He blinked at you, mouth full. “What?”

“You just—showed up. No text, no warning. With breakfast.”

Peter swallowed and wiped his hands on a napkin from the pastry bag. “I’m not allowed to bring you stuff now?”

“You’re allowed,” you said slowly. “It’s just... weirdly thoughtful. And you’re only that thoughtful when you’re hiding something. Or trying to butter me up.”

He tilted his head. “Can’t I just show up ‘cause I felt like it?”

You raised a brow. “Can you?”

Peter held your stare for a second, then took another sip of your coffee like that was answer enough.

You rolled your eyes and walked back to your desk, leaning one hip against it as you drank. “What’re you up to today?”

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” he said through a mouthful of croissant. “Any plans?”

“Actually, yeah. I was gonna ask you if you were free.”

“See?” he pointed his croissant at you triumphantly. “Aren’t you glad I came now?”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself. “I wanted to check out this boutique I saw in SoHo.”

“I’ll take you,” he said without missing a beat.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah. I’m free all day.”

You stared at him for a moment. Normally, this was where he’d start with the excuses—homework, tired, "isn’t SoHo just a bunch of influencers in ugly boots?" But he looked genuinely unfazed, like spending his Saturday wandering around overpriced shops with you was actually his idea of a good time.

“Huh,” you said finally. “I thought I’d have to guilt-trip you.”

“I like watching you get mad at price tags,” he said, reaching for the coffee again and sipping it like it wasn’t supposed to be yours. “It’s cute.”

You squinted at him. “I thought that was mine?”

“I bought it.”

You rolled your eyes and stood up. “Give me like, an hour. I basically just woke up.”

“Take your time,” Peter said, already making himself more comfortable in the beanbag, legs stretched out like he owned the place.

You grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste from the desk drawer where you kept all your skincare and got up, heading toward the bathroom tucked just off the dorm’s entryway. As you turned the corner, you tossed a look over your shoulder.

“And keep your food and drinks off my bed until you’re done eating. I’m not trying to wake up next to a family of rats.”

Peter made a noise of offense. “Wow. So much trust.”

“I’ve seen how you eat.”

“You've kissed this mouth,” he called after you, voice muffled by another bite of croissant.

“You’re making me regret that,” you replied, flipping on the bathroom light with a grin.

Shopping was one of your guiltiest pleasures. Spending money on things you didn’t need felt like a form of therapy—cheaper than the real thing, arguably more satisfying. And walking through SoHo on a crisp weekend afternoon, your bags swinging from your arms and the city buzzing around you, made you feel like Rebecca Bloomwood. Window shopping turned into actual shopping the moment anything sparkled the right way, and today nearly everything was sparkling.

You weren’t sure what was more surprising: that Peter had agreed to come with you so easily, or that he hadn’t complained once. Not when you dragged him into five stores in a row, not when you made him hold your bags, not even when you led him through an aggressively scented candle aisle that left him blinking like the fumes were singeing his brain. By the third lavender-bergamot blend, he was rubbing his temple and muttering, “I think my sinuses are shutting down,” but still didn’t try to stop you.

Even more surprising? He was kind of good shopping. He offered genuine opinions. He helped you pick out a necklace for Betty. He even got some perfume for May. He looked entirely too domestic walking beside you with shopping bags in both hands, his curls dusted with melting snow, his nose red from the cold.

After four straight hours of weaving through SoHo’s maze of boutiques and pop-ups, your legs ached, your fingers were frozen, and the wind had turned your face numb. You finally stopped at a halal food cart near Prince Street, the smell hitting you before you even saw the menu. Grilled lamb, toasted pita, hot oil, spices—it all curled into the air like sin. Peter paid while you grabbed the lamb over rice, the warmth of the takeout box practically steaming through your gloves as you started walking again, weaving around slow tourists and people clutching shopping bags like they were Olympic torches.

You cradled the box close like it was a newborn. “It smells so fucking good,” you said, voice low and reverent. “I’m literally about to come.”

Peter choked on his breath, shooting you a look. “Jesus. Vulgar, much?”

You didn’t slow down. “I’m just being honest.”

“Do you talk like that around everyone’s food truck, or am I just lucky?”

You grinned. “You’re just lucky.”

Peter stepped closer to your box and took a whiff, only to pull back with a dramatic wince. “I think you burned out my nose earlier. I still can't smell anything.”

“Your fault for letting me test twelve candles back-to-back.”

“You said we were narrowing it down. I didn't know that meant smelling every scent in the store. Twice.”

He carried a greasy brown paper bag filled with curly fries and a chicken gyro as you both made your way to a nearby bench tucked into the edge of a small park. The metal was cold beneath you, but the warmth of the food containers on your knees made it bearable. Steam curled up between you like a little wall of comfort.

Peter sat beside you and peeked into your container. “You always get lamb?”

You nodded, already mid-bite. “Every single time. It's perfection.”

He looked down at his gyro, then at your steaming container of lamb and rice. “Should’ve copied you. Mine’s looking kinda sad.”

“You want a bite?”

His brows lifted. “You’re actually offering your food? You never do that.”

You gave him a deadpan look, but the corners of your lips twitched. “I’m being nice. Take advantage of me before I change my mind.”

He leaned over slowly, fork in hand, and scooped a bite with exaggerated care, like he was expecting you to change your mind at the last second.

“You really are full of surprises,” he said after chewing. “One second you’re drowning me in scented candles, the next you’re sharing food? Who are you?”

“Multifaceted,” you said, flicking your eyes toward him. “Also your personal stylist, in case you forgot.”

Peter smirked, nudging your leg with his knee. “Right, and I’m just the guy who carries all your bags.”

“You're catching on.”

The wind nipped at your cheeks again, signaling it was time to move. After scraping the last bits of rice from your container, you both wiped your hands with the kind of napkins that felt more like tissue paper than anything actually useful, then tossed everything into the nearest bin. Your stomach was warm, your legs slightly less sore, and your fingers less frozen—though not enough to pass up one last shop.

You tugged Peter’s wrist gently. “One more stop. Promise.”

He followed without protest as you led him around the corner, through a slim doorway tucked between a closed gallery and a boutique selling vintage lighters. The bell over the door chimed softly as you stepped into a quiet boutique that smelled faintly of chamomile and expensive leather. Everything inside was soft and quiet and handpicked, thoughtful pieces on warm oak hangers, pressed linens, delicate jewelry under glass domes, and soaps swirled with gold leaf that looked too pretty to use. Even the air felt softer, padded by the calm of jazz playing from hidden speakers.

You drifted toward the back of the boutique, fingers skimming along a table stacked with neatly folded scarves. Everything in the shop looked like it had been placed just so—curated, not stocked. The lighting was soft, golden. The kind of place that made you want to whisper even though no one else was around.

One scarf caught your eye: cream-colored, simple but elegant, with a subtle stitched pattern along the edges that looked almost hand-done. You reached for it instinctively, pressing it between your fingers. It was soft—too soft. The kind of fabric that made you wonder how anyone could justify paying for it… until you touched it.

“This is so pretty,” you murmured, not quite to him but loud enough for him to hear.

Peter looked up from where he’d been inspecting a shelf of incense sticks with labels like Wild Fig & Cashmere and Rain on Marble. His eyes found you easily.

You held the scarf to your neck and turned slightly toward the mirror nearby. It framed your reflection in warm light—lively cheeks, windswept hair, the cream of the scarf sitting softly along your collarbone.

“Isn’t it?” you asked, adjusting it lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice a little softer. “Very.”

You glanced at him, catching the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. But then your fingers found the price tag tucked just beneath the fold.

Your expression dropped. “Two hundred dollars? Yeah, okay.”

You unwound it gently, folding it back the way you found it. “Never mind. I should’ve known. Everything here looks like it belongs in a Vogue gift guide.”

Peter didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you carefully placed the scarf back in its spot. Then he quietly stepped beside you, hands in the pockets of his coat, and gave the table a final glance before following you toward the door.

You stepped back out into the cold, the boutique door clicking shut behind you. The wind nipped at your cheeks and your scarf-less neck, and your sigh came out in a thin puff of air. Before you could dwell on the lingering feel of cashmere between your fingers, Peter nudged your arm with his elbow, his hands buried in his coat pockets.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the next storefront. “You picked every place we went today. I want to stop in that bookstore we passed when we came in.”

You gave him a look. “Okay, nerd alert.”

“Yet you keep hanging out with me,” he shot back, already steering you toward the door.

You rolled your eyes but followed. The bell above the entrance jingled as you stepped inside, warmth hitting your skin in waves. The place smelled like old paper and wood polish—cozy, cluttered, and alive with quiet energy. Shelves tilted slightly with age, and narrow aisles twisted between precarious stacks of novels and old hardcovers. He wandered toward the sci-fi section while you poked around the bestsellers table, flipping through titles and losing track of time.

Eventually you glanced over your shoulder. “Hey. I gotta use the bathroom. Meet me outside?”

Peter nodded, nose still buried in a paperback. 

When you came back outside, the air had gotten colder, the sky dimmer. Peter was standing just off to the side, rocking on his heels, holding a crisp white paper bag with the bookstore logo.

You raised a brow. “What’s that?”

He grinned. “Got you something.”

Your eyes narrowed, curious. “Why?”

He shrugged and handed you the bag. “Open it.”

Inside was a tiny Beanie Baby—a gray koala with wide, mismatched eyes and a slightly squished face. You blinked.

“...Seriously?”

“Yeah. Reminded me of you.”

You stared at him. “Because it looks mildly concussed?”

Peter laughed. “Because it’s cute. And its eyes are kinda like yours. All big and judgy.”

You stared down at the koala, heart strangely warm. “He’s so ugly. I love him.”

Peter grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

You tucked the koala back in the bag and bumped your shoulder against his. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Anytime.”

You walked a few paces in silence, the street quieter now. Then, almost like a new idea struck him, he spoke up.

“Hey, you wanna go visit my aunt for a bit? She’s been wanting to see me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait—you haven’t been by? It’s winter break, Pete. You’ve got nothing better to do.”

Peter shrugged, a little sheepish. “I’ve been busy with the… Stark internship.”

“You’re an awful nephew,” you teased, shaking your head.

He grinned wider, proud as ever. “Hey, I’m her pride and joy.”

“Sure you are,” you said with a smirk.

Peter smiled, then started leading the way. “I am. Come on. Train’s this way.”

You followed, the soft weight of the paper bag in your hand and something lighter, warmer, blooming quietly in your chest.

By the time you reached the apartment building, the sun had slipped below the skyline, leaving the hallway washed in dim gold from flickering overhead lights. You followed Peter down the narrow corridor, passing scuffed wallpaper and slightly yellowed doors that all looked the same. When you reached his door, the warm smell of something sweet hit you first—brown sugar, maybe cinnamon—and you blinked in surprise.

“Did she bake something?” you asked, squinting toward the door.

Peter chuckled, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Yeah, I think she’s been stress-baking. She’s been sending me pictures nonstop. Last week it was banana bread, and the week before, molasses cookies or something.”

Before he could unlock it, the door swung open—like she'd heard your voices. May stood there in a red long sleeve and slippers, eyes going wide when she saw Peter. “Honey!” she beamed, and without hesitation, she pulled him into a hug so tight his eyes bugged a little.

“Hi, May,” he said, voice muffled against her shoulder.

She finally let him go—just barely—and turned to you with wide eyes and a bright, delighted grin. “Is this her?” she asked, voice dipping into a conspiratorial hush, like she was in on a secret no one else was.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” she said, practically beaming. And before you could process what was happening, she swept you into a hug that smelled like vanilla and powdered sugar. Her arms were warm and soft and entirely sincere. “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.”

You stiffened slightly, your eyes darting toward Peter over her shoulder. He was doing a lot of not-looking-at-you. What did you tell her? you mouthed silently, but he just gave you a sheepish half-smile and gestured for you to come inside.

May released you from the hug, but not from her excitement. “I can’t believe you guys went to high school together and Peter never mentioned you.”

You raised a brow, surprised. “Seriously? Nothing?”

“Not a peep,” May said, shaking her head like she still couldn’t believe it. “I always asked him about the girls in his class—wanted to know if he had a crush or was seeing anyone—but he just gave me radio silence. Turns out he was hiding you the whole time!”

“I wasn’t hiding her,” Peter cut in quickly, cheeks flushing red as he awkwardly stepped around you both and made a beeline for the kitchen. “I just… don’t love talking about girls with my aunt, May.”

You snorted. “That tracks.”

“Hey,” he said, pointing a spoon at you like it was a weapon. “You know I’m right.”

May just waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. When you’re dating someone that cute, it’s a crime to keep it to yourself.”

You blinked again, fully unprepared for that comment. Peter looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“May,” he groaned. “Please stop.”

But she was already moving back toward the kitchen, waving you both after her like she was hosting royalty. “I was just about to start dinner when Peter texted me,” she said, bustling with easy energy. “But then he said you two already ate—so I baked instead. Hope that’s okay.”

You followed her in, the smell hitting you in full as she lifted a dish from the stove. Warm brown sugar and butter and apples, all cozy and golden.

“Are you kidding?” you said, stepping closer. “This smells amazing. Thank you.”

“Apple crumble,” she said, glowing with pride. “I added walnuts this time. And extra cinnamon.”

Peter hovered behind you, hands jammed in his pockets, looking like he might actually combust from secondhand embarrassment.

You turned to Peter’s aunt with a grin. “If I’d known there were baked goods involved, I would’ve shown up weeks ago. You might be the real reason I keep him around.”

May laughed, waving a hand. “Oh, please. Call me May, sweetie.”

Across the kitchen, May was already pulling plates from the cabinet, but she paused just long enough to mouth to Peter, She’s a keeper, before giving him a pointed look. Don’t mess this up.

Peter, already blushing, looked like he’d rather climb into the pantry and stay there. Instead, he sank into the kitchen chair with the defeated air of someone who knew he’d never live this down.

May dished up generous servings and handed you each a plate, then settled in across from you with a mug of something warm in her hands. The three of you ate in an easy rhythm, chatting lightly about school, the weather, and whether or not Peter still knew how to use a laundry machine.

“I swear I taught him how to separate colors,” May said, mock-offended.

“Don’t drag me in front of company,” Peter said, pointing a fork at her. “You’re making me sound like a heathen.”

“Just saying,” she teased. “If your whites turn pink, it’s your own fault.”

You snorted softly, and Peter gave you a betrayed look.

After a few more minutes, May stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick. Be right back.”

As soon as she disappeared down the hallway and the door clicked shut, you turned to Peter with narrowed eyes.

“What did you tell her?” you hissed, leaning across the table the second May disappeared down the hall.

Peter’s hands flew up defensively, like you were aiming a weapon. “Okay, listen—”

“She said she’s heard so much about me, Peter,” you whispered, eyes wide. “What the hell did you say?”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, already flustered. “I didn’t say anything… not really. We called the other day and she just—asked, because Ned mentioned it to her sometime apparently—and then she smiled at me and I… panicked.”

You squinted at him, not buying it for a second. “So what, you just let her believe we’re actually dating?”

Peter winced. “I didn’t not let her believe it.”

“Peter.”

“I know. I know. It was dumb.”

You leaned back slowly in your chair, processing, your fork hovering midair. “I thought this whole thing was just to get Ned and Betty off our backs. Now your aunt thinks this thing is real?”

He nodded sheepishly, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure May hadn’t suddenly developed super-hearing. “Yeah. It kinda… snowballed. But I swear I was gonna say something. I just didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You’re literally a genius,” you deadpanned. “And you couldn’t think to just tell her the truth?”

“I panicked,” he repeated, dragging his palm down his face.

You stared at him a moment longer, then let out a low breath, rubbing your fingers across your forehead. “This makes things way more complicated. Like—how do we even fake a breakup now without it being this whole dramatic thing?”

“I’ll fix it,” Peter said quickly, leaning in. “I’ll talk to her. Tonight, even. I’ll figure it out.”

You shot him a look—equal parts exasperated and reluctantly amused. “You really planned this out well, huh?”

“I never plan these things out,” he said earnestly, like it was supposed to be comforting.

You shook your head with a quiet scoff and nudged his knee under the table. “I swear, if she starts picking out baby names, I’m telling her you wet the bed.”

“That’s not even true!”

“So is our relationship,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. It came out sharper than you meant it, heavier. You saw it hit him—just the faintest shift in his expression, the slump of his shoulders like the wind had been knocked out of him.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but before you could—

The bathroom door creaked open and May walked back in, cheerful and completely unaware of the tension thick in the air like static.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked, looking between the two of you with an arched brow.

“Totally,” you said too fast.

“Yup,” Peter echoed, just as unconvincing.

May paused for a beat, like she was deciding whether or not to call you out, but then smiled and sat back down at the table as if nothing had happened.

Peter cast you a quick sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. You kicked him under the table.

Hard.

You’d been told that May had always been warm, but the shift in energy after your whispered argument with Peter made everything feel a little stickier, like the air had thickened. You could both pretend nothing had happened, but the fact that you'd spoken at the same time like a rehearsed scene in a sitcom didn’t help your case. May smiled anyway, folding herself back into her chair like she hadn’t just walked in on some weird tension bubble and brought a pin. She talked animatedly about the new apple cinnamon scones she'd experimented with—too much nutmeg, she decided—and neither of you said a word about the awkward silence that had stretched between you just moments before.

You and Peter played along, nodding and humming like two very well-behaved liars. He passed you the last cookie without a word, and you took it with a muttered thanks. Your knees knocked under the table. You didn’t move them.

It was past midnight before the conversation started to taper off, and by then May was stretching her arms overhead with a yawn that made her whole body rock slightly in her seat. “It’s almost midnight,” she said, stretching. “You two should just stay the night. I’ve got extra blankets. It’s freezing out, and the subway this late is miserable.”

Peter sat up straighter, immediate. “Oh—no, it’s fine. We can head back, I don’t want to—”

“I insist,” she interrupted, waving him off as she stood to collect mugs. “It’s silly for you to leave now. Just crash here.”

Then she looked at you, bright-eyed. “You don’t mind, do you sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened—then closed again. Panic flared behind your eyes like a match being lit. It was so much harder to say no to her than it should’ve been, and Peter was watching you with a look that screamed don’t cave but your instincts betrayed you.

You smiled, tight-lipped. “Uh—yeah, okay. Sure. Would… love to.”

Peter gave you a look, lips twitching, eyes narrowing with mock betrayal. Hypocrite, the expression said, wordlessly.

Later, while brushing your teeth in the hallway bathroom, Peter handed you a new toothbrush—still in the box—and leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable but vaguely amused.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, like it was obvious.

You looked at him in the mirror, foam still in your mouth. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m not gonna make you sleep in the same bed as me.”

Before you could respond, May’s voice rang out from the kitchen with a chipper, unfiltered volume, despite the time: “You’re dating. Just sleep in the bed together! You’re both adults. I don’t care—just use protection!”

Peter choked so hard he nearly dropped his toothbrush. “May!” he cried, mouth full of toothpaste, a thin dribble streaking down his chin in a white, messy strip. You reached over and wiped it off with the hem of your sleeve as Peter flushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

“She’s kidding,” you said, even though you knew she definitely wasn’t.

“Definitely not,” he groaned.

The toothbrush went back in with a half-hearted grumble, and the two of you finished getting ready in silence—at least mostly. You exchanged glances in the hallway, then headed into his room, where the bed was already made and a folded blanket sat at the end like May had planned all of this from the start.

The lights were dim now, just the soft orange glow from the bedside lamp casting a kind of quiet over everything. Peter climbed into his bed first, staying politely close to the edge like he wasn’t sure if the mattress would combust if he crossed into your half. You slid in beside him, the two of you lying flat on your backs like strangers.

You both stared at the ceiling.

It was a few long moments before he broke the silence.

“You know you could’ve said no,” he said, voice low, eyes on the ceiling.

You turned your head toward him. “She’s hard to say no to.”

Peter looked over at you and gave a small, crooked smile. “Now you get it.”

There was another pause, this one softer.

“I’m sorry,” you said eventually, voice quieter. “For what I said earlier. It was mean. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was just… overwhelmed.”

Peter turned fully onto his side, propping his head on his hand, expression unreadable in the low light. “It’s okay. I get it. I shouldn’t have let it spiral, either. I guess I liked how happy she sounded.”

You smiled faintly at the ceiling. “Your aunt’s pretty cool.”

“She likes you,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer at first. Just rolled toward him, nestling under the covers until your nose nearly bumped his. “C’mere.”

Peter hesitated like he always did—like he thought he needed permission twice—but then he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in, pressing your foreheads together in the quiet. You didn’t kiss. You didn’t speak. You just breathed in sync, the bed warm, the air still, the city outside buzzing on without you. It was so easy to pretend this meant nothing.

You told yourself a lot of things before you finally closed your eyes.

It was winter break now. You were finally free from lectures and exams, though not from the tangle of feelings that had somehow slipped into your fake relationship without permission. You’d hung out with Liz a few more times—once with Peter—and she’d grinned and teased you both, commenting on how she never thought she’d see the day you were openly affectionate in public.

“Not one for PDA,” she’d said, nudging you knowingly, “but I’m glad Peter changed that.”

You had just laughed, because what else could you do?

The irony was cruel. Because as much as you hated that people were perceiving you and Peter as together, there was some part of you—buried, bruised—that didn’t hate the illusion. Maybe that was the worst part. The fact that pretending had never really stayed pretending. The way your lips found his in quiet corners, the way his hand settled naturally on your waist when you were with friends, the way you’d stopped wearing a bra around him altogether. It had never been about sex. You hadn’t even had sex. But you were still doing everything else, tangled up in each other night after night, bodies memorized and boundaries blurred.

And somehow, despite it all, there was still guilt simmering in your chest. Guilt for liking it too much. Guilt for wanting his touch in a way you’d never craved anyone else's. Guilt because it all felt too intimate for something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You started to wonder if maybe the sex wasn’t the line. Maybe this—the softness, the ease, the care—was.

Because he knew your body now, too. Knew it better than you wanted him to. He knew how you liked to be touched, what made you gasp, what made you squirm, how to kiss you so slowly you forgot your name. And it was maddening that he was getting so good at it. So careful. So giving.

And still, you kept going back. Like a bad habit. Like an itch only he could scratch.

Which is why, on a quiet Wednesday afternoon in his dorm room, you found yourself in his lap again—your arms loosely looped around his neck, your nose brushing his as he sat back in his desk chair, legs spread just enough for you to slot right in. You rocked your hips slowly, teasingly, feeling the very clear bulge beneath you.

“Someone’s up,” you said, smirking.

Peter narrowed his eyes, his voice low and dry. “I was trying to work, but someone decided they were suddenly very hands-on.”

You grinned. “Want me to stop?”

He leaned in, teeth grazing your jaw. “Not even a little bit.”

You didn’t need any more encouragement. Your mouth found his, lips crashing in like a wave you didn’t want to surface from. You kissed him hard, pulling at his hair with the hand tangled at the back of his neck while your hips kept rolling slow, even circles against the strain in his jeans. Peter kissed you back with practiced ease—hungry, eager, matching your rhythm without losing control. But you should’ve known better. Peter liked to be in charge.

Just when you were settling into the pace, his hands gripped your hips, strong and assertive, and forced your movement to a halt.

“Let me,” he muttered, the growl in his voice making your spine straighten and your panties soak in record time.

You let him. Let him guide you. His hands were firm as he rocked you against him, grinding you slow and deep, his fingers flexing around your waist. He pulled you tighter with every drag of your hips, until you could feel every inch of him pressing into you through the layers of fabric.

His mouth broke from yours, trailing down to your neck—his new obsession. He’d confessed that your neckline was his weakness, that there was something about the slope of your shoulders that made him want to ruin you. So you tilted your head obligingly, giving him more room, and whimpered when his mouth latched on, sucking and kissing and biting in uneven intervals that left your skin burning.

“Peter,” you gasped, gripping his biceps, which flexed deliciously beneath your touch.

He hummed against your skin, dragging his hands up your back, fingers slipping under your shirt to find the curve of your waist. No bra again—you’d stopped bothering when you knew you were going to see him. And when he realized that, his hands immediately cupped your breasts from under your shirt, making you cry out softly. He teased your nipples gently with his thumbs before cupping your tits in both hands and kissing you harder. You ground against him with more urgency now, both of you far gone.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your back arching into his palms.

His lips made their way back to yours as you clawed at the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Peter stared for a second, eyes wide and reverent, like he’d never seen you like this before even though he had—more times than you could count.

“So pretty,” he whispered, like it was just for him.

You rolled your eyes, even as your thighs clenched tighter around him. But before you could make a snarky comment, his mouth latched onto your breast, kissing and licking and swirling his tongue over your nipple until you were keening, your hips grinding harder against him. One of his hands continued kneading your other breast while the other slid down to your lower back, pressing you even closer.

Just when you reached down to tease the waistband of his sweats—your fingers slipping under the elastic, grazing the skin of his stomach—a sharp buzzing sound filled the room.

Peter groaned into your chest, pulling back just barely. “What the hell—”

You looked over your shoulder and saw the name on the screen. You blinked. “Is that—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said, tone instantly sobered. “He never calls me.”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing? Answer it!”

Peter cursed under his breath, quickly shifting his phone off the desk and holding it up to his ear with one hand, the other still cradling your back like muscle memory.

“H-Hey, Mr. Stark.”

“Are you busy?” Tony’s voice was clipped, casual, but definitely not a social call.

Peter’s voice cracked a little as he straightened in the chair. “Um—kind of. Studying. With a friend. Like for… school?”

“Right.” There was a pause on the line. “Well, I need you at the Tower. Something’s come up. Now.”

Peter met your eyes, wide and alarmed, his hand still braced against the small of your back like he’d forgotten how to let go.

You, however, were not as quick to let the moment pass. Not when his pants were still strained with the shape of his hard-on and you were still seated right on top of it. With a wicked smirk, you rolled your hips forward—agonizingly slow—watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles tightening their grip against your bare skin. He blinked rapidly, then shot you a look that said please have mercy and this is not the time but also do not stop.

“Wh—what happened?” Peter asked, voice cracking slightly at the end as you ground against him again, this time lingering. The friction hit just right and his jaw clenched tight, nostrils flaring slightly.

On the other end of the call, Tony didn’t skip a beat. “I’ll tell you when you get here. It’s classified. Tick tock, Parker. I’m not your guidance counselor and this isn’t your high school tardy slip. Move it.”

Peter’s mouth opened—probably to respond like a responsible intern—but you tilted your hips just so, slow and deliberate, pressing down with more pressure. His breath hitched audibly.

“Yes—sir,” Peter answered, and it came out embarrassingly high-pitched like someone had punched him directly in the diaphragm.

There was a pause on the other end. “What happened to your voice? Are you going through puberty again?”

“No!” he squeaked, trying to clear his throat and play it cool while simultaneously not combusting under your weight. “No, I’m fine. I’ll be there in like—twenty. Less. On my way now.”

“Good. Don’t make me send Happy.” The line clicked and the call ended.

Peter let the phone drop to the desk with a clatter, his head thunking back against the chair as he groaned. “You’re evil,” he muttered.

You only grinned, eyes dancing as you leaned in to brush your lips against his ear, your breath warm against the shell of it. “I liked seeing you flustered. Did I ruin your very important intern call?”

He looked at you like you were both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him. “You did,” he deadpanned. “Pretty sure Stark thinks I’m a prepubescent boy again.”

You laughed, loud and unbothered, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small dorm. “Well, maybe don’t keep me on your lap next time if you don’t want to sound like a prepubescent boy.”

“I didn’t keep you on my lap,” he protested, eyes narrowing, though his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile. “You climbed on.”

You tilted your head with mock innocence. “Did I? Hm. Weird.”

Peter shook his head, still breathless, still very much flushed in the face and slightly dazed. “I really do have to go.”

“Guess so,” you said softly, watching the way he still hadn’t stopped touching you, even though time was ticking and his phone was buzzing again with some kind of follow-up notification. His hands slid around your waist once more, like muscle memory.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice quiet and sincere this time, his fingers squeezing your ass gently before pulling you close for one last kiss. It was less frenzied now—still warm, still deep, but slower like a tether.

When he finally pulled away, you exhaled through your nose, steadying yourself. “Go do your little big boy errands,” you said, giving him a teasing nudge on the chest as you tugged your shirt back down. “Tell your boss I said sorry for being such a distraction.”

“Oh yeah,” Peter muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he stood. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna tell Tony Stark.”

You smiled smugly at that, walking backwards toward the door, still fixing your hair and straightening your clothes. “Be safe, Intern of the Year.”

He gave you a lazy wave, already fumbling for his hoodie and sneakers, eyes still drinking you in as you turned the knob. He waited until he heard the dorm door click shut behind you before exhaling sharply, muttering something about you’re the actual worst under his breath. Then, with a sharp turn, he grabbed his suit from its hidden compartment in the closet, shoved the mask under his arm, and climbed out the window with his pulse still racing from the girl who had just walked out of his room, and the marks you left behind.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, the familiar coolness of the Tower's lower lab greeting Peter like a bucket of cold water to the face. He stepped inside, still slightly flushed from everything that had happened before he left campus, running a hand through his hair to tame it down.

Tony was already mid-sentence when he looked up. “Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” he said dryly, tossing Peter a stylus without looking.

Bruce turned from the lab table with a polite smile. “Hey, Peter.”

Peter caught the stylus with a quiet thwack against his palm. “Sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

“Must’ve hit some traffic,” Tony quipped, clearly unconvinced. “Did you stop to take the scenic route?

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. No way in hell he was admitting that he was late because a girl had been grinding on him while Tony Stark was calling. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

Bruce glanced at Tony before answering. “It’s not urgent, urgent, but it’s weird. Tony ran some diagnostics on the new stabilizer prototype for the vibranium synth-reactor.”

Tony cut in. “The math says it should work. The simulation says it should work. The prototype says, ‘go to hell, I’m gonna combust instead.’”

Peter blinked. “Combust?”

“Spontaneous energy feedback. Not enough to level the floor, but enough to fry a few systems and make sparks shoot out of Banner’s hair.”

Bruce sighed. “It singed the sleeve of my favorite sweater.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, stepping toward the holoscreen Tony had flicked up. “So you want me to—?”

“Help us brainstorm, bug boy,” Tony said, gesturing with his drink toward the screen. “This is cutting-edge micro-channeling for vibranium-laced energy cores. You did a whole paper on particle phasing using the polymer shield grid tech we designed last year, didn’t you?”

Peter blinked. “Yeah, for Dr. Martinez’s quantum interfaces class. You read that?”

“I read everything you put into the system, kid,” Tony said with a shrug. “And this is the exact kind of nerd nonsense I know gets you out of bed in the morning.”

Peter looked between the two of them, taking it in. The hovering data sets, the whiteboard crammed with equations, the components spread out across the work table like puzzle pieces from hell. It wasn’t a mission. No city needed saving. No dimension was collapsing. Just a very, very complex piece of technology refusing to do what it was told.

“…This is what you called me in for?” Peter said after a beat, brows raising. “This is why I had to swimg across Manhattan?”

Tony squinted at him. “What do you mean, that’s all?”

Peter opened his hands. “I just thought it’d be—I don’t know. Bigger.”

Tony gave him a look like he’d just asked if Einstein ever used a calculator. “This is big. The kind of big that rewrites energy storage tech for the next fifty years. You should feel flattered that I invited you to troubleshoot this with the two smartest people on the planet.”

“Technically,” Bruce added mildly, “Shuri might be smarter than us.”

Tony waved a hand. “Semantics.”

Peter tried not to smile, but it tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. “Okay. Yeah. I’m flattered.”

Tony clapped him on the back as he passed. “Good. Now get over here, Einstein Junior. We’ve got a combustion-happy stabilizer to fix before it takes out the espresso machine again.”

Peter glanced back at the holoscreen and let out a low whistle. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

He stepped up beside Bruce, eyes scanning the translucent blueprints suspended in the air. The stabilizer core schematic floated in multiple layers, projections curling around the central axis like a mechanical galaxy. The diagnostics flickered with highlighted stress points, real-time energy feedback loops, and a lot of angry red warning symbols.

“Okay, so… the vibranium matrix is overloading during compression,” Peter said, tilting his head as he walked a slow circle around the hologram. “Why not just widen the phase delay between energy pulses?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Tried that. It delays the overload—doesn’t stop it.”

“What if you recalibrate the synth-reactor’s waveform dampeners to absorb the spikes before they get to the matrix?”

Bruce perked up. “That could work, but it might destabilize the secondary flow channel. We’d need to simulate it.”

“Cool. Let me pull up the software.” Peter moved toward the console, fingers flying over the interface. “You know this kind of reminds me of that Stark Mini Core you designed in 2017. Same surge issue, different material structure.”

Tony looked mildly impressed. “Didn’t realize you read my backlogs that closely.”

Peter flushed a little. “I, uh, might’ve printed it out. For fun. One summer.”

Tony snorted. “Jesus, you’re worse than Banner.”

Bruce smiled gently. “I think it’s refreshing.”

“You would.” Tony leaned back against a workbench and took a sip of something that was definitely not coffee. “So, show me the pulse model, Peter.”

He nodded, voice slipping into something focused and technical as he spoke. “If we fine-tune the timing down to the nanosecond, the wave dampeners could catch the overflow before it cycles to the synth-layer.”

The room filled with the sound of rapid keystrokes, metal shifting, and the soft hum of Stark tech at work. For a while, no one spoke—just ideas passed back and forth in shorthand, notes scribbled on digital pads, a stream of Peter mumbling to himself as he analyzed energy readouts and cross-checked specs from older models.

He was in the zone now. All the heat from earlier had faded into the background, replaced by the intoxicating rhythm of solving something no one else could. This—being here, working like this—always felt like a strange dream. Like he didn’t quite belong, but they hadn’t figured that out yet.

A loud clunk echoed down the hallway beyond the lab. Heavy footsteps thudded across the metal floor.

Peter’s head turned sharply. “Was that—?”

A tall figure strolled past the glass wall, red cape billowing and golden chestplate gleaming under the overhead lights. Mjölnir—or maybe it was Stormbreaker—was slung casually over one shoulder.

Tony didn’t even look up. “Don’t get distracted. Eyes on the prize, Goldilocks walks through here all the time.”

“Was that Thor?” Peter hissed.

Tony raised his brows. “You gonna ask him for a selfie or help me keep Banner from accidentally short-circuiting the East Coast?”

Peter turned back quickly, cheeks pink. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be useful,” Tony muttered, snapping on a pair of gloves as he approached the physical prototype on the main table.

Peter moved beside him, both of them now standing over the reactor core—encased in a transparent shell the size of a basketball, pulsating faintly with blue light.

Bruce joined them with a handheld scanner. “If we redirect the pulse here,” he said, pointing, “we’ll need to buffer this whole section. Otherwise, we’ll just redistribute the overload.”

Peter nodded, stepping forward. “I can try recalibrating the containment lattice. Might take a few tweaks to the thermal isolator code.”

“Do it,” Tony said. “Use the delta string values from the last run. Don’t start from scratch unless you want to be here all night.”

Peter rolled his eyes playfully. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep you past bedtime.”

Tony gave him a look. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Peter’s hands were already working as they bickered, tweaking the calibrations. He glanced toward the tablet where Bruce was adjusting the field parameters, and the three of them fell back into the ebb and flow of deep tech conversation—interrupted only by the occasional quip from Tony, or Peter slipping into wide-eyed amazement at some ridiculous algorithm Bruce had casually coded into the containment sequence.

They worked in sync now—three minds pushing at the edge of something intricate but solvable. Bruce murmured about the microfluctuations in the heat distribution while Peter replicated the diagnostics on his own tablet, nodding and tossing out adjustment theories. Tony, perched on a nearby stool, one leg crossed over the other, monitored the readings as Peter synchronized the phase-delay with the dampening sequence.

“Try syncing the pulse to .04 microseconds behind the main surge,” Peter suggested, eyes darting between lines of code and the gently pulsating prototype. “It should keep the vibranium matrix from overcompensating.”

“Banner, pull up the field strength graphs,” Tony said. “Let’s see if the kid’s right.”

Bruce tapped the screen, and a moment later, the projections updated. The jagged peaks of the previous readings smoothed into manageable waves. The internal temperatures stabilized. The red stress markers blinked off one by one.

Peter’s eyes widened, breath catching. “Wait—did that…?”

“Run the stress simulation,” Tony ordered.

Bruce ran it. For a second, they all just watched.

The core held.

Peter let out a triumphant laugh. “Yes! Oh my God, it worked!”

The simulation looped, steady, clean. No overload. No flickering. Just a smooth hum of stability that had eluded them all night.

Tony stood, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Not bad, Underoos. You might actually be useful after all.”

Peter beamed, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. His hoodie shifted as he moved—slipping a little where the collar had been pushed down during the excitement—and exposed a sliver of skin just above his collarbone.

Tony’s gaze caught it.

So did Bruce’s.

There, on the left side of Peter’s neck, was a very fresh, very obvious hickey. Peter didn’t notice at first—not until Tony tilted his head and gave him a knowing smirk.

“So this the kind of studying you meant earlier?” Tony drawled.

Peter blinked, then froze. “What?”

Bruce was already biting back a grin. “That doesn’t look like textbook work.”

Peter reached up instinctively, tugging at the neck of his hoodie, but it was too late.

Tony whistled, shaking his head as he turned back toward one of the side benches. “Kid’s been busy.”

“I—it’s not—” Peter stammered, bright red and flustered. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Bruce raised a brow. “Really?”

Tony opened a drawer casually, rummaging through it as if looking for a stylus or some wire—and then tossed something small into Peter’s backpack hanging off the side of the desk. Peter heard the slight zip and turned, confused.

Tony looked him dead in the eye. “Be safe. Science first, fun second.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, then he checked his bag and immediately yelped. “Mr. Stark—did you just put a condom in my backpack?!”

“I put a few, actually. You're welcome.”

Peter groaned and dragged a hand down his face, mortified. “I wasn’t even—God.”

Bruce coughed politely and returned his attention to the holoscreen, clearly trying to be professional but his mouth twitched at the corners.

Tony just smirked and raised a brow. “You show up to my lab with love bites, and I reserve the right to assume you’re making reckless teenage decisions. I’m just doing my part as your totally underpaid mentor.”

“I wasn’t—” Peter stopped, defeated. “Okay. I’m going home.”

“After all that help?” Tony called as Peter grabbed his things, still flustered. “Some gratitude would be nice.”

Peter shot him a withering look and flipped his hood up. “Thanks. For the… safety gear.”

Tony gave a mock salute. “Anytime.”

And with that, Peter slipped out of the lab—back into the elevator, back into the quiet of the late city night, heart still hammering from both the adrenaline of the lab and the embarrassment currently burning under his skin.

The prototype was stable. The simulation was complete. And somewhere back on campus, you were probably curled up in bed, unaware that Peter Parker had just saved a vibrating chunk of the world’s most powerful metal from exploding—all while still slightly smelling like your shampoo.

Tony looked over to Bruce and lifted a brow. “Kids these days.”

Bruce just nodded. “Hormones.”

“At least he’s still doing his homework,” Tony muttered, cracking his knuckles as he turned back to the console.

He paused mid-keystroke. “Wait—he told me he was on break?”

The movie—To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before—had been her pick. A classic comfort rewatch, according to her. But to you, it felt almost painfully ironic. Watching it now, of all nights, was a little too on the nose—like the universe was in on the joke, or maybe it was just your brain trying to make sense of whatever strange, tangled mess you’d gotten yourself into. You’d referenced that movie to Peter the night this whole fake relationship started. Now it felt like a full-circle moment you weren’t quite ready to process.

So yeah, this was funny. Hilarious, even.

“You can’t keep a secret relationship from me and expect me to just sit here and watch a rom-com without asking a single question!” Betty said, eyes practically glowing with chaos.

You sighed and dropped back onto the pillow. “It’s not a secret relationship.”

“Right, okay. Sure. That’s why you’re whispering about it like a Victorian mistress.”

You covered your face with the blanket. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Everything with you is complicated,” Betty groaned, grabbing a pillow and lightly whapping you with it. “But this? This is Peter. My boyfriend’s roommate. So just tell me—how long?”

You peeked out from under the blanket, defeated. “I dunno. We’re… taking it slow.”

“That’s not a real answer,” Betty said, eyes narrowing. “That’s a smokescreen. Try again.”

“A while. Like, sort of recent,” you added lamely.

“Those are vague estimations, not answers,” Betty grumbled, sitting up straighter. “Why are you being so cryptic? Is he a good kisser?”

You threw a pillow at her. “What happened to watching the movie and being normal?”

She caught it midair with a grin. “That was before I learned my best friend was dating Peter Parker.”

You groaned and flopped onto your side. “I’m not trying to be cryptic. It’s just… weird. With the dynamic. You’re dating his roommate.”

“You’re dating his roommate. That makes it adorable, not awkward.”

“You think everything is adorable.”

“Because it is!”

You gave her a look. “You’re so annoying.”

Betty leaned her head dramatically onto your shoulder, eyes already half-closed like she was preparing to faint. “Just admit you’re in love with him so I can die in peace.”

“You’re being so dramatic.”

“And you’re being so cagey,” she shot back. “Spill it, woman. I’m literally begging on my hands and knees.”

You tried not to smile. Truly, you gave it your best effort. But it was crawling its way onto your face anyway—soft at the corners of your mouth, traitorous in how warm it made your chest feel.

“I like Peter,” you said quietly, voice low and clipped. The quickest lie you could think of. Not a total lie, but enough of one to feel safe and realistic.

Betty gasped like you’d just confessed to high treason in a federal court. One hand flew to her chest. The other latched onto your forearm in a white-knuckled grip, like she could physically extract the rest of the sentence from you if she squeezed hard enough.

You winced. “Okay, okay,” you muttered. “I’m elaborating. For the sake of my circulation.”

She loosened her grip slightly but stared with wide, eager eyes—lips pressed together like she was holding back a scream.

“He’s…” You took a breath, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “He’s sweet. Like… actually sweet. Not performative, not when-he-wants-something sweet. He’s just... good. Gentle. Thoughtful. He makes me feel—”

You stopped. That part felt too close. You waved it off with a sigh.

“He treats me really well.”

Betty immediately released your arm and clutched both hands to her heart like she was playing a swooning debutante in a Jane Austen adaptation.

“Oh my God. I knew it,” she whispered like it was sacred. “I knew it. I knew it.”

“You’re being very unhelpful.”

“I’m being incredible. You have no idea what this means to me.”

You gave her a pointed look. “Why are you acting like you predicted an eclipse?”

“Because I did! He’s a total golden retriever. I knew from the beginning that you liked him—you’re so bad at hiding it, by the way—but you’re still holding out on me.”

You groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and smashing it against your face. “Why do I even talk to you.”

“Because we’re best friends forever,” she said sweetly. “Sisters for life. You’re the godmother of my future children, the maid of honor in my wedding, and the person who pulls the plug if I’m ever in a coma.”

“I will pull the plug,” you muttered from under the pillow. “This is a nightmare.”

Betty smirked, tugging the pillow away from your face. “It’s not a nightmare, it’s so adorable! You’re dating someone I already like. That’s the dream.”

“Says who?”

“Says me! And I am reacting with the appropriate emotional depth.”

You groaned again but didn’t retreat this time. You stayed where you were, curled up in the covers beside her, heart quietly thudding in your chest.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “It still feels weird.”

Betty tilted her head. “Weird how?”

You shrugged, eyes flicking down to your hands. “We’ve been friends for a while. It’s just strange to cross that line, you know? It’s not bad, it’s just… new.”

“You guys have been fake-hating each other across the couch for months, sneaking looks when you thought no one noticed, playing it all cool while me and Ned made popcorn and pretended not to see all the sexual tension simmering off you in waves. It’s like watching a rom-com in real life.”

You gave her a look. “Betty—”

She held up a finger. “I have an idea.”

“No. Whatever it is, no.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“I already know what you’re gonna say and the answer is no. We’re not going on a double date.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “That was only part of the idea. Keep up.”

“Uh huh.”

“What if…” She leaned closer like she was revealing state secrets. “We switch rooms.”

You blinked. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“No!” she said quickly, throwing both hands up. “No, babe, that’s not it at all. I just meant—like—not permanently. Just sometimes. Then we both get privacy. Me and Ned get to cuddle without you walking in and making gagging sounds. You and your boyfriend get your own time to… ‘study.’”

You winced at her phrasing. “Please don’t call him my boyfriend. You’re giving me hives.”

“But he is your boyfriend!”

You huffed, dragging a hand down your face. “You know I hate labels.”

“I’m just saying,” she said, clutching the pillow to her chest now. “I think this could be a win-win.”

“Oh totally,” you said, standing abruptly and sliding off the bed. “You just want me out so you can do the nasty twenty-four-seven. Just admit it.”

Betty turned bright red, swatting at your arm. “Oh shut up! That is not what I meant. Me and Ned are, like… very respectful. We light candles and talk about our feelings, okay?”

“Uh huh.” You crossed your arms. “So respectful that your boyfriend didn’t even knock before entering the room.”

“In his defense, it was his room.”

You gasped. “You’re taking his side?! I knew it. I’m literally gonna pack my bags right now since that seems like what you want.”

“Ugh, enough already.” Betty grabbed your hand and yanked you back onto the bed, flinging the blanket over both your legs like she was trapping a wild animal. “Come back. I was warm, the laptop was perfectly balanced, and I promise I won’t call him the B-word again if it makes you spiral.”

You sighed and relented, sinking back into the warmth of her comforter. The laptop was still warm where it rested on your thighs. Your head leaned naturally into her shoulder again.

“I’m just excited,” she said, voice gentler now. “I mean, I’m your best friend. You’ve been so weirdly private lately and I get it, I really do—but I know you. You like him.”

You rolled your eyes. “That is—”

“And he likes you. You’re good together. You’re bitch in a sad little way and he’s awkward in a sad little way. It works.”

You snorted. “Such a glowing endorsement. You should do our wedding vows.”

“Already planning the bachelorette weekend.”

You turned your head into her shoulder, hiding your grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t argue either.

She nudged you with her elbow. “So, like. Actual question.”

“Oh no.”

“Is he a virgin?”

Your head snapped up so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“Betty.” You said it like a warning, voice low and sharp, eyes wide.

She just blinked at you innocently. “What? It’s a valid question!”

You gawked at her, utterly scandalized. “You are deranged.”

Math had never been your strong suit. Numbers, you could handle. Letters trying to be numbers? Not so much. You’d long given up trying to genuinely understand what was going on in Statistics and instead developed a more practical solution: sit next to Peter Parker and pray for the best.

He always took good notes—color-coded, neatly sectioned, even with tiny post-its that stuck out of the sides like mile markers. Your own notebook was a war zone of half-written equations and unfinished doodles in the margins. It wasn’t ideal, but Peter’s brain was big enough for both of you, and you had no shame riding his academic coattails.

It also helped that, ever since accidentally getting into a relationship and Ned’s very public mouth running wild, everyone now knew the two of you were a thing. It wasn't true, but it had smoothed out the weird tension between you. You didn’t have to explain why you were always walking to class together or why Peter’s hoodie had lived in your laundry basket for two weeks. People had already filled in the blanks, and now the performance of coupledom had just become convenient.

You were halfway into a particularly compelling zoning-out session, staring at the frog-shaped eraser on the desk in front of you like it was a portal to another world, when you felt a nudge on your elbow. Peter’s voice, soft and low, cut into your focus.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Did Betty ask you about… anything?”

Your gaze shifted, and you blinked slowly, pulling yourself out of frog world.

“Yep,” you murmured.

His mouth pulled into a wry, knowing twist. “Ned too. He practically demanded I spend the night with you.”

You snorted. “Of course he did. Betty said the same thing.’”

Peter rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile behind it. “They’re so schemey.”

“They’re the worst.”

“So now what?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair like the conversation was already settled. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

Peter nodded, resigned. “Yeah. You’re right.”

There was a beat of silence before you tilted your head slightly toward him. “Wanna get food after this?”

Peter didn’t even look up—just tapped the end of his pencil against the edge of his desk and gestured vaguely toward the front of the room, where Professor Harding was launching into yet another thrilling tangent about statistical modeling.

“As long as you pay attention this time,” he said under his breath. “I can’t keep supplying you forever.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned closer. “But you’re such a smart and generous boyfriend,” you whispered, overly saccharine, “who would do anything for me. Isn’t that what you said? Or was that not in the NDA?”

Peter fought a grin, lips twitching into that lopsided smile you’d come to recognize as trouble. He shook his head, still facing forward, and pointed his pencil at the front again in the most exaggerated focus gesture you’d ever seen.

You let out a dramatic sigh and sat back, forcing your eyes up toward the whiteboard, pretending to pay attention. But Harding’s voice quickly became background noise—blurring into static while Peter tapped his foot against the floor, some vague rhythm that almost sounded like Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen.

You traced the edge of a faded coffee ring on the desk with the cap of your pen, your eyes half-lidded, thoughts nowhere near class. The minutes ticked by in slow, painful succession, each second dragging like molasses. It was like time had decided to take a nap just to spite you.

Finally—finally—after what felt like an actual decade of torture, the class was dismissed. You practically leaped out of your chair. Peter stood more calmly, adjusting his backpack, and grabbed a textbook you’d left half-stuffed in your bag like it was second nature. You both moved together, shoulder to shoulder through the dense, end-of-class crowd.

Dinner at the dining hall was… fine. It was always fine. The line was long, and the food smelled like burnt rice and Clorox wipes. Peter grabbed two plates without asking and handed one to you as you reached for cutlery. You bumped his shoulder as a quiet thanks, and he bumped you back, that wordless communication you’d fallen into taking care of the small things.

You claimed your usual corner table near the window, tucked away from the chaos. There, with the ambient hum of trays and voices all around, you ate and talked about whatever came to mind—some random video Betty had sent you, how terrible your TA was, the guy in your class with the emotional support frog eraser. Normal stuff.

By the time you made it back to your dorm, the sun was beginning to dip below the treetops, casting warm streaks of amber and violet across the floor like brushstrokes. The sky was the color of sherbet through your dorm windows, and the air carried that early evening stillness—like everything outside had paused for just a second.

You walked in first, unlocking the door with a twist of your wrist and flicking on the desk lamp. A warm pool of light lit the space, casting shadows in the corners. Your keys hit the desk with a familiar clatter as you kicked off your shoes and let out a long, quiet sigh. Peter stepped in behind you, soft-footed like always. He hesitated at the threshold, standing just inside like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome—even though he’d been here a dozen times, even though he’d fallen asleep on your floor once and half your snacks had migrated to his backpack.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Come in, weirdo.”

He blinked, snapped out of it. “Right. Yeah.”

He toed off his sneakers and made his way across the room to the beat-up beanbag in the corner—the one that squeaked anytime someone dared shift even an inch. He dropped into it with a soft oof, curling his legs up, trying not to take up space he already had permission to fill.

You moved to the dresser and tugged open the second drawer, rummaging around with one hand while the other pulled your hoodie up over your head. You tossed it toward the bed, now left in just a ribbed tank top that hugged your body a little too well and offered no coverage beneath it.

Peter noticed immediately.

You felt the weight of his eyes for a second before he jerked his head away so fast it was almost comical, cheeks blooming red as his ears practically glowed. He stared intensely at the floor, pretending to fiddle with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans like it was the most important mission he’d ever been assigned.

You glanced over and caught the flash of panic in his face and grinned, tossing a pair of shorts onto your bed before shimmying out of your jeans. “Seriously?”

“I—sorry—I wasn’t—” he stammered, still looking anywhere but at you. “I didn’t mean to—”

You tugged your shorts on, adjusting the waistband casually. “You’ve literally seen me in a bra.”

Peter covered his face with one hand. “Yeah, but I don’t mean to be a creep.”

You laughed under your breath and padded over to the bed, throwing yourself onto the mattress in a sprawl. “You’re being so shy,” you said, half-mocking, half-playful. “You’ve slobbered all over my face.”

Peter raised a brow, but you didn’t stop. 

“Make like a good fake boyfriend and come cuddle me.”

Peter hesitated. “Are you asking or commanding?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to beg, Parker?”

Peter looked at you for a long second—his hair a mess from the wind outside, his expression unreadable.

He stood, crossed the room, and crawled onto the bed beside you without a word. You shifted instinctively to make room for him, but he left just enough space between your bodies that you could feel the absence more than the presence.

And you didn’t love that.

So, with the same quiet confidence you always used to get your way, you shifted—hips nudging back until they met his, spine pressing into his chest as you reached for his hands and tugged them forward, wrapping them securely around your waist. His body stiffened at first, like he wasn’t sure if this was okay, but he softened just as quickly—exhaling against your shoulder as his thumbs grazed your sides.

You pulled out your phone without ceremony and opened YouTube, scrolling through your feed with one hand as he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, peering at the screen.

“MatPat?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

You huffed. “I miss him, okay? His videos are nostalgic.”

“You’re acting like he die when he just retired.”

“That’s dead enough to me. Now hush, he’s talking.”

Peter snorted quietly and fell into comfortable silence. You both stared at your phone screen as the familiar intro music played, MatPat’s voice filling the room the otherwise quiet room.

You didn’t know how long you watched—long enough for the sky outside to dim to a deeper blue, long enough for the warmth of his body to start feeling like it was part of you. Eventually your eyelids started to droop. You blinked slowly, then sighed and locked your phone, setting it on besides your pillow.

Peter shifted slightly behind you. “I was watching that, y’know,” he said, voice teasing.

But you didn’t move. You just turned in his arms to face him, blinking sleepily as you narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Wanna play Truth or Dare?”

Peter blinked at you, suspicious. “What’s up with all these games lately?”

You shrugged, letting your cheek sink into the pillow as you turned toward him. “Got anything better to do?”

He gave you a squint that clearly said this is a trap, even as the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “This feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” you confirmed, grinning. “So, yes or no?”

He sighed like he was being forced to carry a moral burden, then rolled onto his side to face you fully. His knee bumped yours under the blanket, and neither of you moved away. “Fine. But I want it on record that I went into this under duress.”

“Duly noted,” you said, lifting your pinky to solemnly seal the deal. He hooked his around yours with a little smirk, and the game was on.

You both adjusted until you were laying across from each other on the bed—bodies mirroring, legs loosely tangled without thinking. The moonlight filtered softly through the blinds, throwing slashes of night across his jaw, making his skin look highlighted but soft.

“Truth or dare, Parker?”

“Truth,” he said. “Warm me up. Go easy.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Okay… if you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?”

Peter let out a low groan. “That’s your warm-up? That’s so tame.”

You shrugged. “Answer the question, dork.”

He sighed dramatically. “Alright. Probably Mr. Stark. But only if he’s in a good mood and not, y’know, trying to destroy my self-worth in the name of mentorship.”

You smiled softly. “I’d die to meet the Iron Man. Pretty, pretty please, would you introduce him to your girlfriend… pretty please?”

Peter snorted. “I think he’d spontaneously combust if I told him I had a girlfriend. So no, sorry sweetheart.”

You pouted, and he laughed under his breath.

“My turn,” he said, rolling his shoulder into the mattress to get more comfortable. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” you said without missing a beat. “This guy told me he was taking me to a ‘nice restaurant.’ We pulled up to Five Guys where he told me the Earth was flat and also that he didn’t believe in tipping.”

Peter made a noise like he was physically pained. “Wait, was it the same guy who wore socks with sandals you told me about once?”

You gave him a long, exhausted nod. “The very one.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Tell me about it.” You shook your head and gave him a sly smile. “Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Let’s go dare.” He puffed his chest out slightly, clearly trying to seem braver than he actually was.

You gave him a slow, calculating look. “Okay. I dare you to give me your best pickup line.”

Peter’s face crumpled. “You would.” He exhaled dramatically. “Alright. Brace yourself.”

“I’m braced.”

He thought for a second, then cleared his throat. “Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re—”

“Cu-Te,” you interrupted, grinning. “Try again.”

He pointed a stern finger at you. “That was a classic! Show some respect.”

“Show some originality.”

“Fine,” he said, sitting up slightly like he was preparing for a monologue. “Are you the square root of -1?”

You squinted at him. “Because… you can’t be real?”

“Exactly,” he said, proud of himself.

You flopped back against the mattress with a groan. “That was worse than the first one! I literally answered it for you.”

“You asked for this!”

The game went on, growing sillier and more comfortable with every round. You dared him to do a British accent for a full minute—he ended up sounding like someone who'd watched Love Island on mute. You confessed your childhood fear of mannequins. He admitted he once walked into the wrong lecture hall, sat through half a class, and even took notes before realizing he was in astrophysics, not psych. At one point, you were laughing so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder.

By the time the light outside had fully dipped into a soft dark haze and your limbs were tangled lazily under your blanket, the dares had slowed.

Peter’s eyes found yours. “Your turn.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

Peter’s smile faltered—just slightly. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the dare dropped like a pebble in a still pond. It rippled between you, stretching that warm, playful tension until it started to thread into something else entirely.

“That doesn’t really feel like a dare,” he said eventually.

You tilted your head, your voice quieter now. “Then it should be easy.”

Peter’s breath was shallow, and you could feel the way his chest rose and fell when your legs brushed under the blanket. He was close. Close enough that if you leaned forward an inch, your nose would graze his. Close enough that you could feel his hesitance like static in the air between you.  His hand was resting lightly on your hip—his thumb brushing, barely, against the fabric of your shirt and you could feel his pulse in it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered, then flicked back up.

You arched a brow, voice barely above a whisper. “You gonna make me wait all night?”

And finally, he leaned in.

His mouth was on yours instantly—hot, eager, and unrelenting. There was no shy lead-up this time, no hesitant brush of lips or waiting for you to set the rhythm. His tongue slid against yours with a kind of hunger that startled you—like he’d been craving this, craving you, and couldn’t hold back any longer.

You’d told him to just follow your lead before. But now? Now you were the one struggling to keep up. His confidence had bloomed into something feral and addictive, and instead of guiding him, you were slipping under, letting yourself be undone by the way he kissed you—open-mouthed and deep, slow at first, then sloppier as your bodies tangled closer.

You sighed into his mouth, your fingers sliding along the sharp line of his jaw, brushing the slope of his cheek as your thumb traced the corner of his mouth before you kissed him again. Longer this time. Slower. You tasted the soft groan he gave in return, low and involuntary, like he couldn’t help it, and the sound lit a spark low in your belly.

His hand found your waist under the blanket, fingers curling there like he needed to hold you—anchor you as your legs brushed fully and your thighs pressed together. His grip tightened, tugging you closer, and you shifted more onto your side, chest flush to his. You could feel the steady thrum of his heart where it pressed against yours, both of you warm and too-aware of how little space there was between you.

Peter’s hand slid from your waist to the curve of your spine, his touch slow and careful, almost reverent. He traced your back like he was trying to memorize it, fingers trailing over the dip of your waist, the edge of your shirt riding higher with every pass. His other hand hovered—tentative—near your ribs, brushing the side of your chest with maddening restraint.

You could feel him holding back. Testing. Wanting.

So you gave him permission the only way you knew how—your leg hooked over his, drawing him closer, your knee sliding up along his thigh. The movement was subtle, but it lit a fuse in him. His breath caught, and then his hands moved.

Lower.

He kissed you harder, messier now, and you met him with equal hunger. His hand drifted down again, brushing your outer thigh, thumb dragging over bare skin just below the hem of your shorts. You shivered, and he felt it—responded by ghosting his fingers higher. The pads of them skimmed dangerously close to the heat between your legs.

You gasped softly against his lips, your hips twitching in response, and he groaned—deep and wrecked, like the sound had been yanked from his chest.

“Fuck, Peter,” you whispered, breaking from his mouth, breathless.

His hand froze, hovering just shy of where you needed him.

“S’okay?” he asked, voice rough and low against your lips.

You nodded, your voice trembling. “Are you okay with this?”

Peter nodded too, barely, his forehead pressing to yours. “Only if you want to.”

“I shouldn’t want to,” you admitted, breath catching. “Because then it’s not just kissing anymore.”

He paused. Looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the room. “Then let it be more.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

“Touch me,” you whispered. “Please. Now.”

He swallowed. “I… I don’t know how to make you feel good.”

“You already are.” Your voice was soft, earnest. “Just do what you want. I need you.”

He kissed you again then—hard, like he was grounding himself. His hand slid beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers shaky but determined. He paused just before touching you, waiting. But your hand found his and guided it lower, until his palm was pressed against your clothed cunt.

You sighed at the contact, hips tilting up instinctively. That was all he needed.

His fingers began to move—hesitant at first, then with more purpose, tracing slow, deliberate paths up and down your seam, pressure building until your breath stuttered and your thighs clenched around his hand.

You moaned softly into his mouth, and the sound made his hips jerk forward against you, like he physically couldn’t help it. His fingers slid beneath your underwear then—skin on skin, so light it made your whole body throb.

Peter groaned when he felt you—wet and hot and already pulsing beneath his touch.

“God,” he murmured, voice ragged, “you’re so—”

You gasped again, cutting him off as his fingers found your clit, slow and gentle but insistent. His touch was careful but not timid, learning your rhythm with every breath you took, every tiny moan you let slip against his lips.

You buried your face in his neck, panting against his skin, gripping his shirt like you might fall apart if you didn’t hold onto something. He murmured softly into your hair, things you couldn’t quite hear but felt—encouragement, awe, desire.

Your hips rocked against his hand, chasing the friction, and he adjusted instinctively—his fingers tightening, circling, stroking.

“Please, Pete,” you whimpered, your voice barely a breath.

Without a word, Peter slipped a finger inside you.

Your breath hitched, mouth parting as your body instinctively arched into his hand. He moved slowly, gently—like he was afraid to break you or do something wrong, but the warmth and tightness around him made him groan quietly, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Shit,” he whispered, like it was a confession, “you feel…”

You whimpered as he curled his finger ever so slightly, and your hips jerked in response. He stilled, checking your face, your breath, your eyes.

“Keep going,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, your voice wrecked and desperate. “Please.”

So he did.

Peter pulled out just enough to add a second finger—still slow, still cautious, but more confident now that you’d told him what you wanted. The stretch made your thighs twitch, and he kissed you softly, as if to soothe you. But your body welcomed him, slick and warm and aching.

He began to move his fingers again, shallow at first, easing you open, adjusting to the rhythm your hips were begging for. His thumb found your clit again, circling in slow, steady strokes—like he was learning you second by second, breath by breath.

Your breath came faster, body curling toward him, every muscle humming with tension as your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt.

“Pete,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “Right there—don’t stop.”

His name on your lips made him groan again, like it did something to him. His hand moved faster now—his fingers stroking deeper with each thrust, his thumb more deliberate as you arched against him. You were so wet, the sound of it barely muffled by the sheets or your gasps, and he couldn’t stop watching your face—the way your lips parted, how your eyes fluttered, how completely undone you were becoming in his hands.

“Jesus,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the edge of your mouth. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You let out a broken moan, your hips grinding helplessly against his hand as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. You were close. And he could feel it.

“Is that good?” he whispered, voice strained. “Am I… am I doing it right?”

You nodded frantically, unable to speak, just barely managing to gasp out, “So good—don’t stop—Peter—please—”

He didn't stop.

He thrust his fingers deeper, faster, thumb working perfect circles against your clit as your thighs trembled and you clung to him like you’d fall apart if he let go. Your body went taut—tight, desperate, on the verge—and he kissed you again, messy and soft and breathless.

And then you came.

It hit you like a wave, like your body had been straining toward it for hours. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your back arched, and you let out a long, broken moan into his neck as your orgasm crashed over you in pulsing waves.

Peter didn’t stop moving his fingers until you were gasping and twitching and pulling at his wrist, too sensitive. Even then, he slowed instead of pulling away entirely—easing you back down with soft, gentle strokes that made you whimper into his skin.

When he finally pulled his hand away, your body sagged against him, warm and trembling. He kissed your shoulder, your temple, cradling you as if you’d break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, looking at you like he was witnessing something sacred.

You blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, breathless. “Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“You can definitely stay the night.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, low and breathless. “Really now?”

You looked up at him, still half-dazed, eyes glinting with mischief. “Yes, really.”

He grinned at you, the corners of his crinkled which made your heart do a weird little skip. But before he could reply, you shifted, your fingers trailing downward—down his chest, past the soft dip of his stomach, stopping just at the waistband of his pants.

His breath hitched, and you heard it—felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

You glanced up at him, your fingers playing lightly with the hem of his waistband. “Do you not want to?”

Peter’s eyes went wide, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Fuck, no—I do. I really want to.”

You smiled like you already knew. “Do I need to give you a better reason to stay?”

He swallowed, his voice rough. “Show me the reason.”

You didn’t need more encouragement.

“Take your shirt off,” you whispered, and he obeyed immediately—sitting up just long enough to strip the fabric over his head, revealing the lean muscle beneath, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. You reached for the drawstring of his sweats next, your knuckles brushing the hardness already straining beneath the fabric. His breath stuttered when you tugged them down.

He shifted, helping you slide both his pants and briefs down, the fabric pooling around his ankles before he kicked them off. You took him in fully—hard and flushed, the head glistening with precum, his cock resting against the plane of his stomach.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in to kiss him—slow and tender, lips brushing his, your hand wrapping gently around the base of his cock.

Peter gasped into your mouth.

You stroked him softly at first, just enough to make his hips twitch, his hands flying to your waist like he needed something to anchor him. His lashes fluttered, his lips parted in a silent moan as your hand moved up and down in a slow, firm rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered. “That feels—fuck—”

You bit your bottom lip, watching him fall apart. His eyes squeezed shut, his brows furrowing like he was trying not to finish just from your touch. You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, your voice low against his skin.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured. “All flushed and wrecked.”

He let out a helpless groan. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your strokes picked up pace, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room. His hips began to roll into your hand without him even meaning to, chasing every stroke, his stomach flexing with each pass of your thumb over the swollen head. His fingers dug into your hips, and he leaned his forehead against yours, panting.

“I’m close,” he gasped. “Fuck, I’m—”

Before he could finish, you let go.

His eyes flew open, confused and desperate—until he saw you shifting, moving downward, settling between his thighs.

“Wait—wait, are you—”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned in and took him into your mouth.

Peter’s entire body went stiff. His head dropped back against your pillow, and a sound ripped from his throat—deep and broken, like he couldn’t believe this was real. Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling gently before you took more of him in, your hand stroking the base in tandem.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathed, his voice high and shaking. “That’s—oh shit—”

You hummed around him, and the vibration made him choke on a groan. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair—not pushing, just there, like he needed to touch you to stay grounded.

You moved slowly, deliberately—lips gliding down his shaft, tongue tracing the sensitive underside as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His thighs trembled under your hands. He was panting now, chest heaving, one hand clutching the sheet beside him.

“I’m gonna—” he warned, voice strained. “—shit—I can’t—”

You took him deeper.

And that was it.

He came with a choked cry, his hips jerking slightly as you held him there, swallowing around the hot pulse of him spilling down your throat. His whole body was shaking—tense, then slowly unwinding as you eased off him and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh.

He looked completely undone—chest still rising and falling, curls damp against his forehead, eyes hazy with something between awe and disbelief.

You crawled back up beside him and tucked yourself against his chest, your lips brushing the curve of his jaw.

“Convinced yet?” you murmured, teasing.

Peter let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m staying.”

Afterward, everything had gone quiet.

Peter laid on his back, one arm loosely curled around you while the other rested across his stomach, rising and falling with each slow breath. The glow of your desk lamp painted him in soft amber light, tracing the curve of his jaw and the gentle slope of his throat. You lay beside him, half-draped over his chest, cheek resting against the warm skin just beneath his collarbone, your hand trailing slow, absentminded lines over the faint dip of his ribs. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the air still thick with leftover heat, though neither of you made any move to adjust. You just stayed there, breathing in sync, hearts still too loud in your ears.

Peter hadn’t moved much since you’d curled into him, though his fingers idly traced over the bare skin of your back like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. It was a slow, absent rhythm, steady and warm, and it made you feel safer than you probably should’ve. You wondered if he was overthinking this too—lying there with that furrow between his brows, staring up at the ceiling like the shape of the drywall could make sense of whatever the hell just happened.

Your heart was still unsteady, even though the rest of you had gone quiet. There was a part of you—small but insistent—that wanted to reach for him again. Not out of lust this time, but out of something softer. Something dangerous. So you didn’t move. You just pressed your cheek more firmly into his chest and tried to slow your breathing to match his, as if that could make the questions in your head fade away.

This didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

You had an arrangement. You were playing pretend. You were giving Peter some experience, easing him into things. Friends helping friends. Easy. No strings.

Then why did it feel like something had shifted? Why did your chest ache in a way that didn’t feel physical?

Peter’s fingers were still moving along your spine, slower now, more like a comfort than anything else. He hadn’t said a word since you curled into him. You hadn’t either.

Maybe silence was safer.

You let your eyes slip closed, convincing yourself that if you stayed like this—tangled in blankets, pressed against him, skin still humming from the memory of his hands—you could pretend it was all just part of the plan. That this didn’t matter. That this was just one more secret tucked under the label of friends with benefits. So as long as you both stayed quiet, neither of you had to admit it felt like more.