⭐️🎱GREY🎱⭐️

"You sure it's okay?"

"I'on know how many times i've gotta tell you, kid." Frank grumbles, boots thudding on the linoleum.

The incessant beeps and chatter wraps around you, lives on standby even as bodies move as if powered by machine — really just a culmination of adrenaline and SharkFire Energy.

Your thumbs wipe against the rough cardboard of the carrier, one cup sits warm in the divot, numbers sprawled messily on the side with a stubborn sharpie and spontaneity, meanwhile the other's clasped in Franks hand. He doesn't sip yet, holding it by his side by the lid, and you can't help your eyes from glancing down, nervous for a spillage that never comes. You feel out of place, as if taking up too much room, as if another person should be in your spot. But you cant stop the glaring ache in your chest as you walk the ling stretch of hallway, florescence glaring down, paling the already white walls.

"Sorry." You mumble back, already turning in on yourself as the noise dims into a hum and clicks of pens bleed into muffled chimes of monitors.

"Eh, don't be," he shrugs with a wave of his arm, holding an ease of nonchalance you cant help but be intimidated and impressed by. "All I know, and all you gotta know is that he'd be happy to see you."

Happy.

The last time you saw Peter he was anything but.

In the days after, no matter how hard you'd shut your eyes and repeat his name as if you were Dorothy wishing her way back home, no memory seemed to have conjured. No flicker of a face, a body part, even the still of familiar waves. But your body seemed to have something your brain didn't, and that was… good? Right?

"I don't know, Frank," You sigh. Pausing at the wall, you tip your head back and stare at the lights. It hurts, all of it. Your chest bares a memory that your mind cant seem to process, to will. "Last time, I couldn't remember anything — I still don't — and I just, I can see that look in his face, you know, the one where his jaw does that thing and… and his eyes…"

You trail off with hands gesturing to nowhere in particular. Frustration wracks up your spine and settles on your shoulders.

Frank watches, nodding slowly, because he gets it. And it pisses you off.

"I don't wanna make him sad again."

"I get it. I do. But one thing I'm sure about is that he'll be happy you showed up," a firm hand pats your shoulder, settling warm through your hoodie. He keeps it there with a soft squeeze to keep you in the present. "It shows you care, yeah?"

He shakes your shoulder, so you nod and hum. You care. Your body cares.

"Course you do, s'why you showed up."

The glint of a smile hovers over your lips and you huff. The tiniest glint if hope in the smallest bits of affection, the hints that you can gather the bits of the puzzle once smashed back into a thousand pieces, no matter how far they've strayed, and put it back together.

You shrug abashedly. "Just need my mind to catch up."

"You're, what, twenty-ish?"

"Twenty-two."

"Hell, you've got the rest if your life to catch up," he says. "Even then, you've got the rest of your life to," his free hand moves aimlessly. "Do whatever it is you wanna do. Make new memories with the kid."

"An' if not," he sucks his teeth, "he'd just want you happy."

Frank doesn't miss the flex of your chin and the wobble of your lip, no matter how hard you tried to bite the inside of your cheek.

"Man, don't cry on me, shit's above my pay grade and I already got my ass whooped by the Hulk."

It sets free a rickety and wet laugh, unstable yet minutely freeing as your chest starts to loosen and shoulders slack. Even when tiny pricks of tears threaten to fall, you wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"Fine," you sniffle, voice croaky and soft. But you inhale and exhale, clear your throat into your elbow and straighten. "What's rooms he in?"

With a nod of his head, Frank beckons you forward with a quiet 'cmon'. The overheads feel less like spotlights, even as they glare down and hum, but its all background noise as you begin box breathing and keeping up with Frank's strides.

Heart monitors are so pretentious, you cant help but think it as you stand stiffly at the foot of the bed.

Hospital rooms are all the same, a copy of a copy, white and baby-blues culminated into a saturated grey, always does if you stay long enough for your eyes to only focus on one thing in particular. The taps from the linoleum, restless, robotic sounds of machines working overtime. You let your eyes flicker around once just to gather, and your heart twinges sweetly at the assortment of cards and balloons on his right. A weak breath expels from your nose, lighthearted and heavy.

The fact Peter was Spider-Man wasn't lost on you, but it felt infinitesimal through the forgotten memories and the way your bones creaked with the need to remember. It's as if the blue and red that streaks the homemade cards beside him and the fabric of his suit that laid on the base of the cot hadn't registered.

Because this was all Peter. With his mask off, beaten and bare in a hospital room that smells like sickly, sweet anti-septic and lemon cleaner.

A thin, white bed-sheets laid crumpled just over his chest, a hospital gown baggy around his arms, but you stayed locked to his balmy face. Soft with rest, yet you can see the twinge of muscle between his eyebrows and your fingers tingle with the need to calm it. His dark auburn hair was knotted with sweat, his skin pale yet ruddy with cuts and afflictions.

Frank moved around him with a quiet sturdiness and a flex in his jaw, moving a chair from the far corner to his bedside, next to his own with so much of a grunt. And with a pat to the backrest, he talks.

"Sit 'own." It's not a demand, but you can't fault him when it sounds like one, or when you immediately take his request and stiffly sit, setting the lone cup of coffee by the bedside, still in it's carrier.

"Listen, I — ah," he nods to himself, walking out back from behind, keeping a firm hand to the back of your chair. "I'm gonna give you guys some space. Jus' sit and be with him, talk to him,"

With one last sigh and a pat, he walks back to the door, catching the handle before leaving you both alone. "Call me when he wakes up."

As the heavy door clicks shut, you don't miss a beat, turning your head to the man beside you. He looks aggravatingly restful, calm and serene, even under an oxygen mask and dim white lights overhead.

It all gets lodged in your throat. The picture in front of you, how soft he looks, how his chest rises and falls, how his hands stay empty beside him.

And it feels automatic when you reach for one. The scrape of the scratchy fabric lost in the whirr of machinery and murmurs of the crowd in the parking lot outside. Your fingertips move first, a brush over the back of his hand where his skin feels extra silky. Tiny hairs stand from your touch, right where you caress and up his arm, before you fully envelop his palm to yours. Fingers intertwined.

A deep heaviness seeps into your bones where the embrace begins, latching onto your wrist like a tonne of bricks.

Recognition. The annoying kind where you know, you just know, but nothing will appear in your head. No matter the amount of references, how hard you search or try to repeat a quote like a mantra, nothing will change.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his hold as you breathe. Shakily, in and out, and again, and again. Until the weight envelops your body. Liquid through your limbs, and the stress of remembrance, of the day, of the hand in your own, pulls your eyelids down.

The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up, eyes achy, head still dully pounding, is the weight in his hand.

His eyes are still shut when he realises, as he groans softly and the noises slowly start to separate from the cacophony outside of the square room. Fingers twitch minutely, settling the warmth in his body and it feels like everything was a bad dream. It's all comfort, and good.

But the incessant beeps, the crowd and the chorus of shoes and heels clicking on plastic start to wrap around him, as well as the tightness around his mouth.

The mask comes off first, still averse to move his hand from the safe position it's found, like it was always meant to be there. The elastic tangles slightly, but it snaps off the back of his head and Peter begins to look.

Grey and white, yet the array of motley cards and balloons beside him catches his eye.

His thumb grazes the heat between his instinctively, and suddenly a grunt pulls him out of his reverie, head snapping to where the sleepy sound pulled from.

It's enough to make all the air in his lungs run. Your figure balled up on a chair, both legs up, face scrunched and tired, aggravated by the pain in your neck and back, and the sudden pull from unconsciousness.

Peter watches on. Memories of tired study nights with you, Ned and MJ, energy drinks clicked open, half-drunk or already crushed down and tossed to the side, arrays of textbooks open midway, citations highlighted, sticky notes scribbled — only to be stuck to foreheads in a jittery game of heads up. He remembers how you grumbled through the whole thing, feigning sleep even as your head found refuge on his shoulder and your eyes closed and breath evened out.

He remembers the exact crease between your brows and the pout of your lips when he softly nudged you up, how you whined and he laughed softly, only to guide you on top of his bed where you spent the rest of the night catching up on dreams while the others kept playing and tossing screwed up flashcards at each other.

Peter also remembers the widening of your eyes when you realised where you were and how long you were out. How he didn't keep you awake and how you were gonna fail (but you didn't).

It's the same as now. Hand still in his, albeit balmy, but God, does it feel nice. And your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, a kid caught in the pantry.

He gets lost in it for a moment. Memorising the colour as if he hadn't been thinking about it since the last time he saw you, held you and spoke to you like a companion. Not a lost memory or a stranger.

Willing his throat to move, to relieve himself of dryness, he speaks softly.

"Hi."

"Hi," you copy, equally as breathless. Your fingers flex, sweaty and warm, your thumb grazes the soft side of his knuckle, suddenly realising your hands have been entangled together. You pull back as fast as you figured out. "Oh, God. Sorry."

"Don't be," He cuts in with a breath. As much as Peter wants to chase, his lips stick together before moving to a stiff smile. "It was nice."

"Yeah," Gulping thickly, you nod.

It was nice. Heavy with one sided memories. With an annoyed body that understands and wants the brain to realise. It aches your gums and stings through your spine like restless needle pricks.

Your palm lays cold, bare in a way you didn't realise it could be until now, ripped away from his in a moment of weakness.

Slowly you ease your hand back up to the mattress, itching closer to his in a silent question he has no problem answering.

It's not a full clasp, not sleepy palms rested against another — it's more shy, like a timid whisper of pinkies while tip-toeing past inevitable. The tips of your fingers touch his and it feels more full and safe than any hold could bring; it's a breath of fresh air, falling from a height only to be caught by firm hands and gentle oaths

Silence slips between the two of you in an amalgamation of comfort and questions left unanswered, hope quietly withering and chests equally weighted.

Your fingertips tap on his own, fiddling with a crease in your brow and a knot in your stomach.

"I know you," you whisper to yourself, and Peter's heart lurches. "I know I do, I just don't remember."

It dissipates as quick as it came. Dissolving like starch, thickening in his chest. "It's okay."

"It's not," a short breath leaves you like a punch, "It's really not okay, Peter."

An ache crawls through his arms with a phantom touch, from his hands to his shoulders, he needs to hold you. To shush you into his chest and embrace you like he used to. Mumbling words into your hair with his chin sat atop your head, saying something stupid to make you laugh wetly into his shirt.

"Can I…" he falters for a moment, rethinking his words with a sharp inhale of breath. "Look this is gonna sound real weird but… do you want a hug?"

A chuckle leaves your lips, wet and suppressed like if you laugh too hard you'll disturb the nursery on the next floor.

He hates how full everything feels now. Loves it, too. Loves hearing your voice again, soft and tired, hates that it quietly lacks familiarity. The laughter from deep in your chest. Your eyes on his. Your hands. And now…

You pause before nodding. "That would be nice, thank you."

It isn't cinematic. No burst of colour once you stand up and lean in, because he's still tired and achy, even though he wants to lunge up and breathe you in. There's no orchestra, or 'aww's from a few passersby. It's just you and Peter, and the weight of the past, the crowd outside, the AC blasting and the heart monitor beeping.

But it's you. And you're warm. And you feel different, surer and stronger, older in a way, and you smell the same.

His hands fist at the back of your hoodie, one to your middle, the other rubbing light lines up and down, and its instinctive how he inhales so deeply. You don't wear the same perfume anymore, its less sweet, more natural and woodsy, but underneath its all you.

And when your hand finds the nape of his neck through the embrace, Peter realises he's a goner. You fiddle with the tufts the same, even though his hair's a little matted with sweat and blood, your fingers are light on the fuzz of tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he can feel your inner dialogue.

Can you bury your hand in his hair? Should you?

But you pull back before you could decide on a possibility. Keeping your hand on his neck for a moment longer, his own hands on your biceps and forearms, just looking, before you step back into the chair with a sigh.

Your fingers find his again.

"Thank you." You whisper. Throat tight, unable to fully talk.

Peter just nods, a shy smile on his face. "Don't mention it."

It makes you laugh. You wonder how easy he used to do that before. How often he'd poke your sides, or tell you a joke or pun about chemistry that had your cheeks hurting and eyes rolling.

"You give good hugs, Peter."

His chest caves at that. Chin dimpling in restraint, swallowing, unblinking as if the stale air could dry the wetness threatening his waterline.

"Yeah, well," he hums, tilting his head back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling, but he can't stop looking at you. "You ain't seen nothing. Just wait until I get out of this bed,"

He cringes with a crease of his face. "That sounded so weird, it was better in my head—"

"No, no, please," You giggle again, and your face hurts. "I wanna see what the fuss is about now."

Soft laughter dissipates into a thick, deep silence.

"Can I say something," he swallows. "About before."

You nod, shuffling in the chair. "Of course."

Peter inhales. The ceiling his sanctuary, it's incredibly interesting. He stares and breathes, picking and choosing what to say, what to bring up.

"I remember you told me I give good hugs the first time we," he gestures, hands up, holding around the air in an embrace. You hum in acknowledgement. "Sorry, it just reminded me."

"Don't be sorry, Peter."

"It's my fault you don't remember," his throat works. "I'm stuck with my own memories and you, Ned and MJ, don't remember anything."

You sigh. Unable to say anything, comforting words cant fix the pain, like bringing a bandage to open heart surgery.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Memories to be made. A life to live. Starting now, restarting. Would it be so bad?

"I wouldn't mind possibly, hopefully, making new memories with you," You say. Gulping away at the thickness in your throat, the weight of which your hand goes back to his with more confidence this time, balmy skin to balmy skin. "If, I mean, if that's okay… with you?"

"That's, I…" Peter gulps through a dry mouth, eyes hesitant to blink or tear away from your own. he shakes his head almost disbelieving, smile already aching his cheeks.

"That's all I ever wanted," his eyes begin to water and his voice catches. "Thank you."

You nod. Twin smiles on each of your faces, eyes twinkling under the florescent lights, and it almost feels like colour flushes through the room, between the two of you.

"Thank you,"

"I should, uh," you swallow and look back at the door. "I should get Frank. Bring him in"

Peter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

There's an easiness to him now. Tension shed to reveal a lighter coating of the Peter Parker beneath the suit, now hospital gown.

The both of you stare down at your hands, not unable to move, more reluctance. To you its a familiar kind of feeling, sweet nostalgia that makes the sun shine a little brighter. To Peter its a soft kind of finality. It's you, again. After years of working up the courage, and figuring out times and dates and the tiniest details, only for the universe to push him to the deep end — it's a chance to be by your side again.

"Your coffee's probably cold." He cuts through, quietly through the comfort.

Your eyebrows tug in question, but you quickly turn to your side to find the lone cardboard cup.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, snorting under your breath. You smile in mild embarrassment, shrugging. "I, uh, got that for you, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but," you brush it off with a wave. "It's cold now. S'what I get trying to make a small gesture."

Peter shrugs to, pulling his lips in indifference. "I mean, I don't mind iced coffee, so."

A small, shy laugh tugs from your lungs, but Peter just watches. Enamoured by the modesty.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you nod. Giving his hand one last squeeze you stand, making your way to the door. "My numbers on the side of the cup, by the way."

Peter smiles as he turns to look, only getting the first couple digits before your writing curves on the other side.

"Are you leaving now?"

"I'm just getting Frank," you reiterate, pointing outside from over your shoulder. "But, I mean, I can stay."

"That would be nice," with a stutter he adds. "Maybe we could get more coffee, later, I mean—"

"That would be nice." You nod, cutting into his ramblings like a knife through butter.

The door clicks open, a wave of noise and light flash through the crack before your presence is swallowed up behind it. Peter's giddy. Light in his chest, bulky and fresh, he doesn't know what to do with it other than sit in the cot and gulp, fingers fiddling with the thin bed-sheet while one palm tingles with your ghost.

New memories start now.

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"Hi," you breathed back.

The lamp on his nightstand cast everything in low gold light. His hands were warm where they slid under the hem of your shirt, careful, like he was memorizing the shape of you even though he'd done this a hundred times before. You helped him get your shirt over your head, and he paused for a second just to look at you, the way he always did, like he still couldn't quite believe you were there.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"More than okay." You pulled him back down by the collar of his own shirt, and he laughed against your lips, easy and warm.

Clothes came off slowly, unhurried, punctuated by soft laughter when his elbow caught the lamp and nearly sent it toppling, by the way he apologized into your skin like it mattered, by the little noises you couldn't help when his mouth found your throat. Everything about it felt safe. Familiar in the best way. Like coming home.

When he finally settled over you, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes found yours in the dim light and held there. There was something almost reverent in the way he looked at you, like you were something he still hadn't gotten used to having.

"You good?" he whispered.

"Yeah," you said, and you meant it, the word coming out breathless. "Steve-"

He moved slow at first, like always, watching your face for every shift, every catch of breath, adjusting like he had some kind of internal compass permanently tuned to you. Your hands found his shoulders, his back, the dip of his spine, and he groaned low against your ear, murmuring your name like it was something precious.

It built the way it always did between you two, unhurried and then suddenly not, his breath ragged against your neck, your fingers curling into his hair, the two of you finding some rhythm that felt less like choreography and more like conversation, like you were saying things to each other that didn't need words.

Except then you did use words. It slipped out before you'd even fully processed the thought forming, carried on a breath, soft and unguarded in a way that stripped away any filter you might've had.

"I love you."

You felt him go still.

Not still like he was savoring it. Still like something had short-circuited. His whole body seemed to lock up above you, his breath catching in his throat and staying there, his hips stopping mid-motion. For a second you thought maybe you'd imagined it, but no, his eyes had gone distant, fixed on some point just past your shoulder, like he was looking through you instead of at you.

"Steve?"

He didn't answer right away. His jaw was tight, his eyes doing that thing where they were open but not really seeing what was in front of him. You reached up, touched his cheek, and he blinked like you'd startled him out of somewhere far away.

"Hey," you said quietly. "Where'd you go?"

"Sorry- sorry, I'm-" He pulled back, sitting up slightly, putting a few inches of space between your bodies that felt like a canyon. His chest was still rising and falling too fast, but not from anything good anymore. "I'm here. Sorry."

You sat up too, pulling the sheet up around yourself, some instinct telling you the mood had shifted into something you didn't have the shape of yet. "Steve, what's going on?"

"Nothing, I just-" He raked a hand through his hair, and you watched him try to find his footing, watched him come up short. "I got in my head for a sec. It's fine."

It very clearly wasn't fine. You could see it in the way his eyes kept sliding away from yours, in the tightness around his mouth, in how his hands had gone still in his lap instead of reaching for you the way they usually did.

Somewhere in your chest, something sank. He hadn't said it back.

You'd said the truest thing you knew how to say, in the middle of the most unguarded moment two people can share, and he'd gone quiet and far away instead. Whatever ease had filled the room ten minutes ago had drained out of it completely, replaced by something awkward and cold, and neither of you seemed to know what to do with it now that it was there.

"We don't have to, I mean, we can stop," you said, hating how small your voice had gotten. "If you want."

"Yeah," Steve said, too fast, and something in you flinched at how quickly he agreed. "Yeah, maybe that's- let's just. Let's go to bed."

So that's what you did. You dressed again in silence, the kind of silence that felt loud, and slid under the covers a careful few inches apart from each other instead of tangled together the way you usually fell asleep. He turned off the lamp. The rain was still going outside, softer now, and it should have been peaceful, but it just underscored how much space had opened up between you in the dark.

You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying it. The way he'd frozen. The way his eyes had gone somewhere you couldn't follow. You thought about the words again, I love you, turning them over, wondering if you'd misjudged something, wondered too soon, wanted too much.

"I'm sorry," you finally whispered into the dark.

You felt him shift beside you. "For what?"

"I don't know. For, however I made you feel back there. I didn't mean to make things weird." Your throat felt tight. "I just felt it, and it came out. I wasn't trying to put you on the spot."

"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice was quiet, careful, like he was picking each word up and checking it before he set it down. "It's not you."

"It kind of feels like it's me," you admitted.

"It's not." He said it firmly this time, but he still didn't reach for you, didn't pull you against his chest the way he usually did when you were upset. He just lay there, close but not touching, and you felt the absence of his arms around you like a physical thing.

"Okay," you said, because you didn't know what else to say, and because pushing felt like it would only make whatever this was worse.

Neither of you said anything else. Eventually his breathing evened out into something that might have been real sleep or might have been a good impression of it, and you lay awake a long time before you finally drifted off too, the space between your bodies feeling wider than it had any right to.

Steve didn't sleep. Not really.

He lay there long after your breathing had slowed, staring at the same crack in the ceiling he'd been staring at for two years, and let himself finally feel the thing he'd been holding at arm's length since the second those three words left your mouth.

I love you.

He hadn't heard those words directed at him, meant, not performed for anyone else's benefit, genuinely meant, since Nancy said them to him in his kitchen a lifetime ago, right before everything with them had come apart at the seams. He'd loved her so hard and so completely that when it ended, it hadn't just hurt, it had rearranged something fundamental in him. He remembered exactly what it felt like to hand someone everything he had and watch them decide it wasn't enough. He remembered the specific quality of silence in his house afterward. He remembered thinking he wasn't built for this, for being loved back the way he needed to be, for being someone's whole answer instead of someone's almost.

He'd told himself he was over it. Mostly, he was. He didn't lie awake missing Nancy anymore, didn't compare you to her, didn't feel the phantom ache of her absence the way he used to. That part of it, he'd genuinely healed from.

But apparently some doors didn't close all the way. Apparently there was still a version of him, nineteen years old, freshly gutted, standing in a kitchen that used to feel like his future, who came roaring back the second someone he loved said those words to him in a moment that mattered. His body had just locked up before his brain could catch up, some old alarm going off that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a version of him that hadn't trusted this feeling in a long time.

And now you were lying next to him thinking you'd done something wrong.

He wanted to fix it. He wanted to turn over and pull you against his chest and tell you the truth, that he loved you too, that he'd probably loved you for months, that what happened had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a scar he thought had healed better than it had. But every time he opened his mouth in his head to rehearse it, his throat closed up the same way it had earlier, and he was left just lying there, wide awake, saying nothing.

He told himself he'd say it in the morning. That felt easier, somehow. Everything felt easier in daylight.

But morning came and he still couldn't find the words, and instead of reaching for you the way he usually did, instead of pulling you close over coffee or pressing a kiss to your temple on his way out the door, he found himself keeping a careful, cowardly distance. Not because he didn't want you. Because he didn't trust himself yet to open his mouth without either saying too little or completely falling apart.

He hated himself a little for it. But he did it anyway.

The distance didn't go away over the next two days. If anything, it settled in deeper, quiet and persistent, the kind of thing that didn't announce itself so much as accumulate.

Steve wasn't cold to you, exactly, he still called the house phone most evenings, still asked how your day was, still showed up when he said he would. But something had gone careful in the way he held himself around you. He didn't linger in doorways to steal one more kiss before leaving. He didn't reach for your hand without thinking about it first. When you sat next to him on the couch the second night, he didn't automatically pull you into his side the way he usually did, and you noticed, God, you noticed everything now, hyperaware in the way you only get when you're afraid you've broken something you can't see the size of yet.

You replayed the moment on a loop. The way he'd frozen. The look on his face, somewhere between panic and grief, like you'd said something that hurt him instead of something that was supposed to feel good. You started to build a story around it without meaning to, that you'd moved too fast, felt too much too soon, put a weight on him he wasn't ready to carry. That maybe what he felt for you didn't match what you felt for him, and you'd just embarrassed yourself by saying it out loud in the middle of sex like some kind of confession he hadn't asked for.

By the second evening, the ache of not knowing had turned into something closer to certainty, and certainty made you brave in a sad kind of way.

You found him in the Harringtons' kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water he wasn't really drinking, the fridge humming behind him, staring at nothing in particular. He looked up when you came in, and something crossed his face, guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." You wrapped your arms around yourself, even though the kitchen wasn't cold. "Can we talk?"

Something flickered in his expression, but he nodded, setting the glass down. "Yeah. Of course."

You took a breath, and the words came out in a rush before you could second-guess them into something gentler. "I think I crossed a line the other night. Saying that, in the middle of, I mean, that's not really fair, is it? To just drop something like that on you when you can't exactly process it or respond how you'd want to." Your voice wavered, and you pushed through it anyway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel cornered into anything. If you're not there yet, that's okay, I just- I don't want this to be weird between us. I'd rather take it back than lose you being weird about it forever."

"Take it back?" Something sharpened in his voice, an edge you didn't often hear from him.

"I don't mean I didn't mean it," you said quickly. "I just mean- I don't want you to feel like you have to say it back before you're ready, or like I'm keeping score, or-"

"Stop." He said it quietly, but it landed like a full stop anyway. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had cracked open, something he'd clearly been holding together for two days finally giving way. "God, you think this is about you crossing some line?"

"Isn't it?"

"No." He said it so firmly it surprised you. He came around the counter, closing some of the distance that had been sitting between you for two days, though he stopped short of actually reaching for you, like he wasn't sure yet if he'd earned that. "It's not about you at all. I've been an idiot about this, I just, I didn't know how to explain it without it sounding..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was trying to physically push the words out. "It's not that I don't feel the same. That's not what happened."

"Then what did happen, Steve? Because you froze up and then barely touched me for two days, so forgive me for filling in some blanks."

He flinched, but he didn't look away. "Nancy," he said finally, quiet, like the name cost him something to say. "The last time- the last time I really meant it, with someone, the last time I let myself go all in like that, it ended, and it ended bad. And I know that's not- I know you're not her, I know this isn't that, but when you said it, some part of my brain just went straight back to standing in my kitchen while she-" He stopped himself, breathing out hard through his nose. "It wasn't a rational thing. It was just old, and it was loud, and it happened before I could stop it."

Something in your chest loosened, just slightly, understanding starting to bleed into the hurt. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"

"Because saying it out loud makes it real, and because I felt like garbage that my brain did that to you when all you did was tell me something good." He rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time in two days, he looked like himself again instead of someone performing an okay version of himself. "You told me you loved me and I acted like you'd said something that scared me, and that's- that's not what I wanted you to walk away thinking. I've just been trying to figure out how to fix it without making it worse."

"So fix it," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, more plea than challenge.

He finally closed the last of the distance between you, hands coming up to frame your face the way they used to before all of this, forehead dropping to rest against yours. He was quiet for a second, like he wanted to make sure the words came out exactly right this time.

"I love you," he said, low and unsteady, like it had been sitting in his chest for two days waiting for permission. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let two-year-old baggage make you think for one second that I didn't. You didn't do anything wrong. You said something brave and I fumbled it, and I've hated myself for it every second since."

Your eyes stung, relief crashing into you all at once. "You could've just told me you were freaking out. I would've understood."

"I know. I know that now." He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "I panicked twice, basically. Once when you said it, and then again trying to figure out how to explain the first panic without sounding like a complete disaster."

"You are a bit of a disaster," you said, but you were smiling now, something easing loose in your chest for the first time in two days.

"Yeah, well." He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there in a way that felt like an apology and a promise both. "I'm your disaster. If you'll still have me."

"I already told you I loved you, Steve. I think that ship's sailed."

He laughed, actually laughed, the sound rough with something like relief, and pulled you into him properly for the first time in two days, arms wrapping all the way around you, chin dropping to rest on top of your head, like he was trying to make up for forty-eight hours of distance in one long overdue hold. You let yourself sink into it, into him, feeling the tightness that had lived in your chest since that night finally start to unwind.

"For what it's worth," he murmured into your hair, "I've loved you for a while. Longer than I probably should've kept it to myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His arms tightened slightly. "Wasn't planning on you finding out like that, though. Figured I'd do something less humiliating. Flowers, maybe. Not going catatonic mid-"

"Okay, we don't need to relive it," you said, laughing despite yourself, and felt him smile against your hair.

"Fair," he said. "I love you. That's the part that matters."

"I love you too," you said again, easier this time, no hesitation in it at all, and this time, when the words settled between you, nothing froze. Nothing went quiet or far away. He just held you tighter, like he was finally letting himself believe he got to keep this.

Outside, it had started raining again, soft against the windows, the same steady sound from two nights before. But this time it didn't feel like the backdrop to something breaking. It just felt like home, finally settling back into place.

He keeps his chocolate-brown eyes trained on yours for a solid minute before sighing in defeat, succumbing to your adorable face. "Alright, alright. But you better pick a good animal to represent me. Don't make me a dragon or some shit."

"Woah, spiderdragon," you tease. "I just might, Petey."

He tsks. "Do not," he grumbles, but he bites back a smile as he follows you back to the furry displays.

It takes you a bit, but eventually you settle on a simple blond curly bear. You grab an empty fur from the pile and approach the worker. "I'm ready," you chirp.

Peter watches from a distance, leaning against the wall as you go through the whole process: letting the worker stuff the bear up just enough to be a cozy cuddle-buddy, giving it a big squeeze to test, nodding enthusiastically to confirm that it's perfect, and—"

"Pete! Come!"

He blinks, pushing off the wall to walk over to you. "It's time for the heart," you explain. "I want you to bless his heart with me. You're his dad, after all."

Fuck. Peter's heart aches violently in his chest at how fucking cute you are. He only nods. "Okay, baby."

The employee guides you through the whole process, instructing you both to rub the faux heart in your hands, on your forehead, and your knee. Next, you're told to wish on the heart; you and Peter turn to each other, whispering to one another until you come to an agreement on a wish. Peter says the wish in his head, as do you.

Lastly, you're instructed to give the heart a kiss. You giggle, smooching your lips against the fabric before holding it up to Peter, who mimics your actions.

"Okay, okay," you grin as you drop the heart into the bear," giggling excitedly as the worker stitches him up. You turn to Peter. "I'm so excited."

"I can tell, sweets," he chuckles, leaning to press a soft kiss to your forehead, smoothing his hand over your hair. Soon enough, your perfect blonde boy is placed in your hands. You thank the employee, then move to the computer to make his birth certificate.

"What should we name him, baby?" you ask.

"Peter?"

"Ew, no, babe. That's weird. You're my Peter."

"Hm. Spiderman?"

"Boring."

"Spidey?" He offers.

"Ooh!" you grin, typing it in. "Perfect. Okay, parents: Pete and Y/N. Birthday: August 10th, 2026. Yes, yes. Okay, aaand...print!"

You whip around to look at Peter. "We're officially mommy and daddy!"

Peter cringes, giggling. His hand drops to your hip as the birth certificate is handed to you. "To a toy."

"Still, we're parents now, Petey. Our boy needs clothes. C'mon."

You circle right back to where you found the spiderman suit, yanking it off the rack and dressing Spidey up. "Awweee! My baby," you coo at the stuffie.

"You better not start to love that thing more than me," your boyfriend teases. You two walk up to the counter to pay for your baby, and Peter fishes his wallet out of his pocket.

"Oh, hon, you don't need to—"

"Shh," he hums, already tapping his card against the reader. "You birthed the baby, least I can do is pay the bill," he jokes, though he immediately cringes after. "Why'd I say that?" he sighs.

It's all worth it once he hears the laugh that tears from you. "You're cute, Pete. Never change." He accepts the receipt from the employee, nodding a quick thank you before exiting into the rest of the mall with you.

"Let me hold my son," he insists, snatching the plush from you. "Hey, little man."

You laugh. "Food court?"

"Food court," he nods.

"I want a cheesy pretzel!" you squeal, hurrying ahead of him to the food court.

Peter sighs fondly, looking comically at Spidey the Bear. "Your mother's a crazy woman, child. Get used to a lot of that."

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

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

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

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

Alone, again on his birthday.

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

"..Peter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's your birthday-"

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

"Why don't you go out?"

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

"I went out."

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

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

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

"What?" he deadpans.

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

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

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

A bit ironic.

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

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

It's quiet for a moment.

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

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

"You seem sadder than usual."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, thanks."

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

"I-"

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

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

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

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

He continues to gape at you. "Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

Another silence follows, but this time not so awkward.

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

"You wanna come in?" he blurts out.

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

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

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

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

"Nope. Just me," he sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't really need-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never." Peter grins.

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

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

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

"Yeah, definitely," he replies.

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

"Happy 22nd birthday, Peter."

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

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

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

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

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

Peter didn’t think getting punched by a purse snatcher would be the thing that finally took him out.

Not the multiversal villains, alien invasions, super-powered psychopaths, or even the multiple occasions in which he’d been hit by a train and somehow lived to complain about it afterward. No, apparently his downfall was going to be a guy in a Yankees cap with a metal pipe and surprisingly decent aim.

It had started with a scream somewhere below him, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone yelling for help. Peter had been halfway through patrolling the neighborhood, swinging lazily between buildings while mentally running through the list of assignments he had absolutely not finished, when he spotted the guy tearing down the sidewalk with a woman’s purse clutched under one arm. It should’ve been easy, most muggings were easy.

He landed on the roof of a low building just as the thief glanced over his shoulder, saw Spider-Man standing there, and apparently decided the appropriate response was to swing a metal pipe directly at his head.

Peter barely had enough time to register the movement.

The impact cracked against the side of his mask hard enough to make his entire skull feel like it had been shaken inside his helmet. White exploded across his vision, followed by a sharp ringing in his ears and the nauseating sensation that the entire rooftop had suddenly tilted beneath him. He stumbled backward, one hand flying instinctively toward his head, his heel catching the edge of the roof as his spider-sense screamed a warning that arrived several seconds too late to be useful. Peter managed to fire a web toward the nearest chimney and yank himself forward before he could go over the edge, but the sudden movement only made the world spin harder.

The thief, apparently deciding that a temporarily incapacitated Spider-Man was his best opportunity to escape, took exactly three steps before Peter’s hand shot out. The web hit him squarely in the chest, and the man slammed against the brick wall with a startled grunt, the stolen purse still clutched in his hand.

Peter stood there for another second, blinking heavily at him.

“Stay,” he managed.

The thief stared.

Peter pointed vaguely in his direction. “Just…stay there.”

He did, mostly because several layers of webbing were currently holding him against the wall.

Peter finally sank against the nearest air-conditioning unit, pressing his gloved fingers to the side of his head. The metal felt cold even through the suit, which was probably the only reason he didn’t immediately throw up. His stomach was rolling unpleasantly, his vision still swimming at the edges, and every heartbeat seemed to send another dull pulse of pain through his skull.

“Ow,” he whispered.

Everything hurt.

His head hurt, his eyes hurt, and his stomach had that horrible, unsettled feeling that usually meant he was either concussed or about five minutes away from being concussed enough to make someone else notice. Considering the number of concussions he’d accumulated over the years, Peter wasn’t entirely sure why this one surprised him.

But he was Spider-Man.

And, well, everything always hurt.

So naturally, he did what Peter Parker always did when something was probably medically concerning.

He ignored it.

By the time he got back to his apartment, the sharp pain had dulled into a persistent throb behind his right eye. It wasn’t unbearable, which was what Peter decided mattered. It was just annoying, like a headache after studying too long or the aftermath of staying awake until three in the morning watching quantum mechanics videos when he had an exam the next day. He peeled off the suit carefully, wincing as the fabric pulled against his shoulder, and tossed it over the back of his desk chair.

His apartment looked exactly as he expected: books stacked in precarious towers, textbooks spread across his desk, a half-empty mug of coffee that had probably developed its own ecosystem, and enough laundry scattered across the floor to suggest he’d officially given up on the concept of furniture being used for its intended purpose. Nothing looked wrong or felt particularly different.

That was probably why he didn’t notice.

Peter swallowed two painkillers with the last of the water beside his bed and wandered toward his desk, rubbing absently at the sore spot on his head. His eyes landed on the calendar hanging crookedly above it.

October.

He stared at it for a moment.

Huh?

He could’ve sworn it had still been August.

“Weird,” he murmured, scratching the back of his neck.

He blamed exhaustion immediately because that was easier. Between university, assignments, patrols, trying not to get killed every other night, and whatever social life he’d apparently agreed to maintain, Peter had barely slept in days. He’d probably just lost track of time. It happened. He’d once spent almost an entire week convinced it was Wednesday when it was actually Saturday.

So October wasn’t particularly alarming.

His brain was just tired, that was all.

Peter yawned, glanced once more at the calendar without really seeing it, and headed for bed, completely unaware that somewhere between the impact of that metal pipe and the moment he’d walked through his apartment door, several weeks of his life had quietly disappeared.

He went to sleep without giving it another thought.

***

The next morning, Peter walked onto campus feeling strangely disconnected from everything around him.

Not lost, exactly. He knew where he was. He knew the buildings, recognized the familiar brick paths and the coffee cart near the library, knew which staircase had the broken third step and which vending machine ate dollar bills even though he was fairly certain he’d never actually gotten his dollar back. His feet seemed to know where to take him even when his mind wasn’t entirely sure why, guiding him through the campus almost automatically. That was the strange part.

Everything looked familiar.

But familiar wasn’t the same thing as remembered.

People passed him with smiles, nods, casual greetings, and little waves that Peter returned automatically, his smile appearing before his brain could figure out who he was smiling at. Every now and then, someone would call his name and he’d have to search through his memory for a face that should have been there, only to come up with a vague impression instead. It was unsettling, but Peter had spent enough of his life dealing with things that were unsettling to convince himself it probably wasn’t worth worrying about yet. Maybe he was tired or maybe college had finally broken his brain. Honestly, those were both equally plausible explanations.

“Peter!”

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

He startled so badly that his entire body reacted before his brain caught up, his hand twitching as though he might actually shoot a web at whoever had grabbed him. Peter stopped himself just in time and turned around.

Harry.

“Hey,” Peter said, forcing a smile.

Harry grinned and gave his shoulder another squeeze before falling into step beside him. Something about seeing a face he recognized immediately loosened the strange knot in Peter’s chest. Harry made sense, he belonged here and Peter knew him, knew the sound of his voice and the way he walked and even the particular expression he made when he was about to complain about something.

“Where’ve you been?” Harry asked. “I’ve been trying to text you since yesterday.”

Peter hesitated for half a second, his fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack.

“Busy.”

It was vague enough to be true and believable enough that he hoped Harry wouldn’t ask anything else.

Harry gave him a skeptical look but, thankfully, didn’t push. Instead, he started talking about something Peter only half listened to, nodding at the appropriate moments, grateful for the distraction.

A moment later, Mary Jane fell into step beside them, an iced coffee in one hand and her bag slung over one shoulder. She took one look at Peter and immediately frowned.

“You look terrible.”

He glanced at her.

“Thanks.”

“No, like…” MJ tilted her head, studying him with the bluntness that had always made Peter slightly afraid of her. “Medically.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have a bruise.”

Peter instinctively touched the side of his head, his fingers finding the tender spot hidden beneath his hair.

“That?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Peter. The giant bruise on your head.”

“It’s nothing.”

She stared at him for several seconds, clearly unconvinced. Peter gave her his most innocent smile, which had never worked on Aunt May and apparently wasn’t going to work on his friend either. Eventually, she sighed and took another sip of her coffee.

“Fine.”

Peter relaxed slightly.

Then another familiar figure appeared at the far end of the walkway.

You.

Peter noticed you before he consciously realized he was looking for you.

You were walking quickly toward them, one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag and the other holding a coffee cup, your hair slightly messy from the morning wind. Your eyes found Peter almost immediately, and the second they did, your entire face softened into a smile.

Something in his chest gave a strange little twist but he didn’t know why.

“There you are,” you said, slightly breathless as you reached them.

Before he could even think of an appropriate response, you slipped your hand into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peter’s brain immediately short-circuited.

His gaze dropped to your hands, his fingers automatically curling around yours before he even consciously decided to let them. Your palm was warm against his, your fingers fitting between his with an ease that suggested this wasn’t the first time you’d done it. In fact, judging by the complete lack of hesitation on your part, it probably wasn’t even remotely unusual.

Peter looked down.

Then at you.

Then back down again.

You didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis. You were already walking, casually pulling him along with you while you started talking about something that had happened in class.

“You okay?” you asked when you realized he wasn’t keeping up.

“Hm?”

You glanced over your shoulder at him.

“You stopped walking.”

“Oh.”

Peter immediately started moving again, his face feeling suspiciously warm as he tried to act like he hadn’t just experienced a minor existential crisis over something as simple as holding hands. “Sorry.”

You smiled and gave his hand a tiny squeeze before turning your attention back to the conversation.

Peter stared ahead.

Okay.

Maybe you were just affectionate.

Some people were.

Some people held hands with their best friends. It was probably normal. Maybe it was a New York thing he hadn’t paid attention to before. Maybe it was a you thing. Maybe—

Best friends held hands all the time.

Peter decided they probably did and tried very hard not to think about it again.

Unfortunately, the day seemed determined to make that impossible.

At lunch, you stole fries directly from his tray without asking, reaching across the table with the kind of confidence that suggested you had done it so many times that the concept of asking permission had long since become unnecessary. Peter stared at your hand disappearing back toward your side of the table, then looked at his fries, then at you.

“You just took those.”

You looked at him innocently. “I know.”

“Those were mine.”

“I know.”

Peter waited for an apology.

None came.

Instead, you ate the fry and smiled.

For some reason, that made him smile too.

Later, during chemistry, you leaned your head against his shoulder halfway through the lecture, apparently deciding that his shoulder was more comfortable than the perfectly functional back of your chair. Peter spent the next twenty minutes trying to take notes with one hand while keeping perfectly still with the other, terrified that moving would wake you or, worse, make you lift your head.

And then, after class, you casually borrowed his hoodie.

Peter watched you pull it over your head, the sleeves falling past your hands, and felt another tiny piece of his brain detach itself from reality.

“You always leave it in my apartment anyway,” you explained when he stared.

Peter stopped walking.

“What?”

You looked at him.

“What?”

He pointed vaguely at the hoodie.

“You said…your apartment?”

“My apartment?”

“No.” He frowned. “You said I leave it in your apartment.”

You laughed, apparently thinking he was joking.

“A few times.”

“A few?”

“Peter.”

“What?”

You adjusted the hood, smiling at him with the kind of fond amusement that made him feel strangely embarrassed. “I literally have your toothbrush.”

Peter stared.

For a second, he genuinely thought he’d misheard you.

“…You do?”

You laughed again, shaking your head.

“I bought it.”

“You bought me a toothbrush?”

“Because you kept forgetting yours,” you explained, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Peter blinked.

He looked at the hoodie you were wearing.

There was something deeply unsettling about the casual way you said it. Not because having his toothbrush at your apartment was inherently strange, but because you said it like it had been there for months. Like there was a whole collection of tiny routines between the two of you that he had somehow forgotten.

“…That’s actually kind of smart,” he finally said.

You laughed and Peter found himself staring.

Oh, cute laugh.

He’d forgotten how cute your laugh was.

Actually…he couldn’t remember ever noticing how cute your laugh was.

That was weird but he decided to ignore it.

Because apparently that was his strategy now: If something didn’t make sense, ignore it until it became someone else’s problem.

***

That night, Peter sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor.

He’d spent the entire day collecting strange little details without meaning to: Your hand in his, the fries, your head on his shoulder, the hoodie, the toothbrush. None of them were individually alarming, but together they formed a picture Peter couldn’t quite see.

He rubbed his palms over his face and sighed.

Maybe you two had simply gotten really close.

Best friends could get close.

Probably.

He finally looked around his room, hoping the familiar space would settle something inside him.

Instead, it made everything worse.

There were photographs pinned to the wall above his desk, some old and some clearly recent. Pictures of his friends. Pictures of family. A few of his parents that he remembered well enough to make his chest ache.

And then there were the pictures of you.

A lot of them.

Peter leaned forward slightly.

There was one of you asleep against his shoulder, your face tucked comfortably against his neck while he looked at the camera with an embarrassingly soft smile. Another showed you wearing his beanie, far too large for your head, with the edges folded up awkwardly while you made some ridiculous expression at whoever had taken the picture.

Then another.

You laughing so hard you were bent almost completely in half while Peter stood beside you covered in flour, looking absolutely horrified.

Peter stared at that one for several seconds.

His mouth twitched.

“…Huh.”

He picked up the photograph from the desk and turned it over, expecting maybe a date or some explanation written on the back.

Nothing.

Just his handwriting and a tiny heart drawn in the corner.

Peter frowned at it.

Maybe you two had gotten really close, and he just couldn’t remember when it had happened.

***

The next evening was movie night at Harry’s apartment, and Peter, at least, remembered having those with his friends. That was something good and familiar. He’d spent most of the day trying not to think too hard about the strange gaps in his memory, about the people who seemed to know him better than he knew them and the little pieces of his life that felt like they belonged to somebody else, so the idea of sitting on a couch with people he actually recognized, eating snacks and watching a movie he probably wouldn’t remember five minutes later, was comforting.

Normal.

He needed normal.

Everyone was already sprawled across the couches when he arrived. Harry had somehow claimed the recliner despite the fact that there were clearly other people who could have used it, one leg hanging over the armrest while he argued with the girl sitting nearby about what movie they should watch. She had the unmistakable expression of someone who would rather be absolutely anywhere else, but Harry seemed completely oblivious to it. MJ had settled herself at one end of the couch with the bowl of popcorn she had brought herself, eating straight from it with the protective determination of someone who had already warned everyone not to ask for any. Peter knew better than to test that boundary. So he quietly took the remaining spot at the opposite end of the couch, sitting carefully with his hands folded between his knees and trying to let the familiarity of the room settle over him. This, at least, made sense. These were his friends. Movie night was something they did. He remembered that much.

It was normal again.

Or at least, Peter desperately wanted it to be.

The front door opened a few minutes later, and you walked in carrying a large bowl of chips against your hip. Your eyes immediately found him, and your expression brightened in a way that made something strange flutter in Peter’s chest before he could figure out why. You crossed the room toward him, glancing around at the already occupied couches before looking back at him with a small, amused smile.

“There you are,” you said, shifting the bowl in your hands. “There wasn’t any room.”

Peter followed your gaze around the apartment. Harry was taking up most of the recliner, MJ had surrounded herself with pillows, and every remaining patch of couch was occupied by someone’s jacket, bag, or snack.

He nodded slowly because, yes, there really wasn’t much space.

“Oh.” It was the only thing he managed to say before you set the bowl down on the coffee table and, without a second thought, turned back toward him.

Then you sat directly on his lap.

Peter stopped functioning.

There was no other way to describe it. Every coherent thought simply evacuated his brain at once, leaving behind nothing but a strange, overwhelming awareness of the fact that you were suddenly sitting on him as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Your back settled comfortably against his chest, your legs tucked neatly to one side, and you shifted once or twice until you found a comfortable position. Peter, meanwhile, sat so stiffly that he looked less like a person sitting on a couch and more like somebody had carefully arranged him there for a museum exhibit. His hands hovered uselessly beside your waist because he had no idea where they were supposed to go, and he became painfully aware that his heart was beating much, much too fast.

You didn’t seem to notice.

You simply reached toward the bowl of popcorn in MJ’s lap and stole a handful without asking.

She barely glanced at you before moving the bowl slightly closer, as though this happened so often that it wasn’t even worth acknowledging anymore.

Peter stared.

Okay.

So apparently you did this.

Apparently you just…sat on people’s laps.

Except you weren’t sitting on anyone else’s lap.

You were sitting on his.

And Peter had absolutely no idea what the rules were here.

“Peter?” you whispered after a moment, turning your head slightly to look at him. Your voice was soft enough that it was almost lost beneath Harry’s complaints about the movie selection.

He blinked down at you. “Hm?”

“You can breathe, you know.” There was the faintest hint of amusement in your voice.

“I am breathing,” he whispered back, although even he could hear how defensive it sounded.

You raised your eyebrows. “You haven’t inhaled in, like, twenty seconds.”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it again, and then took such a deep, exaggerated breath that his chest expanded behind you. The movement was dramatic enough to make Harry glance away from the television.

“…You okay?” Harry asked.

“Yep,” Peter answered immediately, his voice cracking embarrassingly halfway through the word. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing himself to sound casual. “I am…perfectly…okay.”

Harry stared at him for a second, clearly unconvinced, before eventually turning back toward the television. Peter exhaled quietly, grateful that the lights were already dimming. At least nobody could see how warm his face had become.

You, however, were still looking at him.

You tilted your head back just enough to catch his eyes, studying him with an expression that was equal parts concern and amusement. “You sure?”

Peter nodded far too quickly. “Mm-hm.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you looked at him for another second, and then you smiled. “You look red.”

Before Peter could defend himself, MJ answered from the other end of the couch without even looking up from her popcorn. “It’s warm.”

Peter immediately latched onto the explanation. “Yeah. It’s warm.”

You seemed satisfied with that answer and turned back toward the television, shifting slightly against him as you tried to get comfortable. Peter nearly forgot the concept of oxygen all over again. He stared determinedly at the screen, his hands still awkwardly suspended at his sides until, eventually, one settled cautiously against the edge of the couch rather than anywhere near you.

The movie finally started.

Peter absorbed absolutely none of it.

He tried, genuinely tried. He stared at the screen and listened to the dialogue and even attempted to figure out what was happening, but every tiny movement you made registered with painful clarity. Your hair brushed against his chin whenever you shifted your head. Your shoulder rested comfortably against his chest. He could feel the warmth of you through his shirt, could smell your shampoo whenever you moved, and every few minutes you adjusted yourself just slightly, settling more comfortably against him as though his lap had always been where you were supposed to sit.

Peter had no idea what the movie was about.

There was an explosion at some point, someone laughed, Harry made a sarcastic comment, MJ told him to shut up and Peter missed all of it.

Then, sometime during the first twenty minutes, you reached one hand backward without looking.

Your fingers found his almost immediately.

Peter looked down.

You didn’t seem to notice what you were doing. You simply intertwined your fingers with his, your hand settling comfortably against his palm as though you’d done it a hundred times before. Your thumb brushed absently over his knuckles while your attention remained fixed on the movie.

Peter nearly passed away.

He stared at your joined hands, then at the side of your face, trying desperately to find an explanation that made sense.

Maybe this was normal.

Maybe you were just affectionate.

Maybe best friends held hands.

Maybe best friends sat on each other’s laps.

Maybe best friends stole each other’s popcorn and wore each other’s clothes and looked at each other like—

Peter stopped that train of thought immediately.

No.

***

For the next three days, Peter was convinced of one thing: you were flirting with him.

Not subtly, either. Almost aggressively.

At first, he tried to convince himself he was imagining it. Some people were naturally affectionate, and you had always been close, apparently, even if Peter couldn’t quite remember exactly how close. But then you kept holding his hand, stealing food from his plate, leaning against him whenever there was a perfectly good empty chair nearby. You had called him cute twice, hugged him from behind while he was trying to make coffee, and, on one particularly confusing morning, walked into his apartment without knocking, kissed his cheek, and complained that he was using the wrong brand of coffee. Peter had stood there staring at the door after you left, coffee spoon still in his hand, wondering if this was a normal thing best friends did or if he had somehow wandered into an alternate universe.

But…why?

That was the part Peter couldn’t figure out.

Because Peter knew he loved you. He’d apparently been in love with you for years, although he had no idea why he had decided that keeping such a monumental piece of information to himself was a good idea. Knowing himself, though, it made sense. Peter Parker had never exactly been gifted in the area of romantic confidence. He’d spent years convincing himself that saying something would ruin the friendship, that you didn’t feel the same way, that being your best friend was better than risking losing you entirely. And he was pretty sure he’d been subtle. Very subtle. So subtle, apparently, that you’d somehow missed it for years. Which raised another question: if you had never noticed his feelings before, why were you suddenly acting like you knew?

By the fourth day, Peter couldn’t take the uncertainty anymore, so he cornered MJ outside the library. She was sitting on the low stone wall beside the entrance with a book open in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading when Peter approached her.

“I need advice.”

MJ didn’t even look up from her book.

“About?”

Peter hesitated, glancing around as though the answer might somehow be hiding behind one of the trees.

“…Her.”

MJ’s eyes remained on the page, but her expression changed slightly. “What happened now?”

Peter exhaled.

“I think she’s developing feelings for me.”

Silence.

MJ slowly lowered the book and stared at him, looking genuinely unsure whether she should laugh.

Peter immediately caught the expression and added, “I’m serious. I don’t know what to do.”

MJ frowned.

“Why?”

Peter looked at her as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Because I’ve been in love with her for years.”

“Peter.”

“And if she tells me she likes me, I don’t know how to explain that I’ve always—”

“Peter.”

He frowned, frustrated.

“What?”

MJ closed her book.

“You’ve been dating for almost a year.”

Peter stared at her.

“No, we’re best friends.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Peter.”

“We’ve always been best friends,” he insisted, his voice carrying the stubborn certainty of someone who genuinely believed what he was saying.

MJ watched him for a moment, and whatever she saw in his expression seemed to make the last trace of amusement disappear from her face.

“And boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Peter laughed, but it was a nervous, confused sound that barely resembled a laugh at all. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking,” she said, completely serious.

His smile slowly faded. Peter stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she was messing with him, but there was nothing there. No teasing. No sarcasm. Just concern.

Finally, MJ sighed, pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and shoved it into his hands. Her wallpaper was a picture from Harry’s Christmas party. Peter recognized the apartment immediately, recognized Harry and MJ, recognized himself...and then saw you. You were sitting comfortably on his lap, one arm loosely around his shoulders while Peter kissed your cheek, your left hand cupping his face, your fingers disappearing into his hair. Both of you were smiling so hard your eyes were closed.

Peter’s smile disappeared.

He stared at the picture for several seconds before looking at MJ. “This is…”

“Christmas.”

Peter looked down again. “Why am she's sitting on my lap?”

“Exactly.”

He swallowed. “We’re wearing matching sweaters.”

“Yes.”

He stared at the picture again, visibly trying to fit it into the version of reality he had been carrying around in his head for the last few days. Then, almost instinctively, he pulled out his own phone, unlocked it, and opened his gallery.

There were pictures.

So many pictures.

You eating. You sleeping. You laughing. You reading. You making faces at the camera. You wearing one of his hoodies. You standing in his kitchen. You sitting on his bed. You asleep with your head on his shoulder. You smiling at him. You looking away from the camera because you hadn’t realized he was taking the picture.

Peter kept scrolling, his thumb slowing more and more with every photograph as something cold began settling in his stomach.

Then he stopped.

There was a picture of you kissing him.

Not his cheek.

Not his forehead.

His mouth.

Peter stared at it, completely still. The picture wasn’t posed; it looked like someone had caught the two of you in a moment that seemed so natural and intimate that he felt like he was looking at strangers.

Except they weren’t strangers.

They were him and you.

His hand went instinctively to the side of his head, fingers brushing over the tender spot where the bruise from four days ago was still hidden beneath his hair.

MJ noticed immediately. Her expression shifted from confusion to concern. “Peter.”

He didn’t answer.

“Peter,” she said again, quieter this time.

He finally looked at her, his face gone completely pale. “I…” His eyes dropped back to the phone. “I don’t…”

His thumb moved through another picture.

“I don’t remember any of this.”

MJ stepped closer. “How much do you remember?”

Peter looked at her, and for the first time since waking up four days ago, there was no attempt to laugh it off, no explanation about exhaustion, no insistence that everything was fine. His eyes were wide and frightened as he glanced down at the photograph of you kissing him again.

“The calendar said October,” he whispered. “I thought it was August.”

MJ went still.

Peter rubbed his temple, wincing as a dull pulse of pain moved through his skull. “I thought I was just tired. I thought maybe I’d lost track of time, but…” His voice faltered. “I don’t remember dating her. I don’t remember Christmas. I don’t remember any of these pictures.”

Oh no.

***

By the time Peter and MJ made it back to his apartment, he had gone unusually quiet. A deeper silence that made her keep glancing at him as they walked. He had spent the entire way there staring down at his phone, scrolling through photograph after photograph as though somewhere between the hundreds of pictures of you and the pictures of the two of you together, his memories might suddenly click back into place.

They didn’t.

He recognized himself in every photograph. He recognized the apartment, the streets, the people around him. He recognized you, that was the strangest part. He knew who you were, knew your name, knew that you mattered to him, but none of it carried the emotional weight it apparently should have. It was like looking through a window into somebody else’s life and somehow knowing that the person on the other side was supposed to be him.

When they reached the apartment, you were already there. You were sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging one leg idly while Harry searched through the cabinets for something to eat, occasionally complaining that there was nothing in the apartment despite the fact that he was currently staring directly at a shelf full of snacks. The second you saw Peter, your expression brightened automatically, the familiar smile appearing on your face before you could stop it, but it faltered almost immediately when you noticed MJ’s expression and the way he lingered just inside the doorway instead of walking farther into the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sliding off the counter and immediately looking between them.

Peter didn’t answer.

He was looking at you, and for a moment everything else in the apartment seemed to disappear. You smiled at him instinctively, but there was something cautious beneath it now, something that told him you already knew this wasn’t normal. His stomach twisted.

MJ exchanged a quick glance with him before quietly saying, “We need to tell you something.”

You went completely still. “What happened?”

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His eyes dropped to the floor before lifting back to you, and you noticed the way his hand unconsciously went to the side of his head, fingertips brushing the spot beneath his hair where the bruise had begun to fade.

Your expression changed immediately.

“Oh.”

The word was barely audible.

Peter swallowed. “You knew?”

You stared at him for a moment before your eyes softened, and there was something in that expression that made his chest ache despite not understanding why. “I knew something was wrong.” Your voice was quieter now. “You’ve been looking at me like I’m a stranger.”

Peter looked away.

“And,” you added carefully, “you’ve been acting really weird whenever I touch you.”

His face flushed.

“Right.”

You were watching him too closely, trying to figure out how serious this was from the little things he wasn’t saying.

Peter shoved both hands into his pockets, suddenly unsure of what to do with them. “Somehow I hit my head a few days ago, and I…” He hesitated, struggling to put something so impossible into words. “I don’t remember a couple of things.”

MJ made a small sound under her breath.

“A couple?” she repeated.

Peter gave her a look.

You didn’t say anything.

“I don’t remember us,” Peter finally admitted.

Your lips parted slightly, your shoulders dropped, and for a second you looked like you’d forgotten how to breathe. You swallowed and glanced down before forcing yourself to look back at him.

He noticed.

And suddenly, for the first time, he understood that this wasn’t just frightening for him.

You had spent almost a year with him. Almost a year of routines and inside jokes, of falling asleep beside each other, stealing his clothes, sitting on his lap during movie nights, holding his hand without thinking about it. You knew how he took his coffee, what he did when he was nervous, which side of the bed he preferred, what made him laugh when he was having a terrible day. And now he was standing three feet away from you with no idea what any of those things felt like.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.

You immediately shook your head.

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Peter.” Your voice softened. “I don’t need you to remember everything tonight.”

He looked at you carefully, almost as if he was trying to memorize your face.

“You’re not mad?”

“At you?” You gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “No. Just worried.”

Peter nodded slowly, looking down at his shoes. “Because apparently I’ve forgotten almost a year of my life.”

“Apparently,” you said, then frowned slightly. “And you didn’t go to a doctor?”

Peter winced.

“I didn’t know I needed one.”

You and MJ stared at him.

Peter lifted his hands defensively. “I know how that sounds.”

“It sounds like you got hit in the head and decided the appropriate medical treatment was painkillers and sleep.”

“I was tired.”

“You were concussed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Peter’s shoulders relaxed at the sound.

“I’ve been acting like you’re flirting with me,” he admitted.

That made you blink.

MJ immediately coughed into her hand from across the room, very obviously trying not to laugh.

You looked at Peter.

“Wait.”

Peter’s face turned red.

“Yeah.”

“You thought I was flirting with you?”

“For three days.”

You stared at him and then you laughed.

Not because it wasn’t serious. It was serious. You knew that. But the image of Peter Parker spending three entire days convinced that his girlfriend was suddenly developing feelings for him was simply too ridiculous to resist.

He looked offended.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is a little funny.”

“I thought you suddenly liked me.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“I suddenly liked you?”

“Yes.”

You covered your mouth, trying to suppress another laugh, while Peter looked increasingly embarrassed.

“I didn’t know we were dating!” he protested. “And you sat on my lap.”

“You usually complain if I don’t.”

Peter blinked.

“…I do?”

“Yes.” You smiled despite yourself.

He stared at you.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

For the first time since he’d walked into the apartment, Peter smiled.

“Okay,” you said gently. “We’ll start small.”

Peter tilted his head.

“Small?”

“You don’t have to remember everything at once.”

You stepped closer, but stopped before you reached him, giving him the choice to close the distance himself. Then you held out your hand.

“Can I?” He asked.

You nodded.

“Of course.”

His fingers slipped carefully between yours.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Peter stared down at your joined hands, his thumb moving almost unconsciously over your knuckles. It was still strange. He didn’t remember doing this. He didn’t remember the countless times he’d apparently held your hand, didn’t remember what it felt like to reach for you without thinking.

But it didn’t feel wrong.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as terrifying as he’d thought.

he slides the window shut, muting the cool winds of queens. instantly, the room wraps him in a quiet tranquility only associated with you. his gaze softens as it lands on the bed. you’re carelessly sprawled under the covers, completely buried in one of his oversized midtown high hoodies. no matter how many times he comes home to find you in his room—your room, since you've moved in—his heart does a quiet, happy flip.

he plops his bag on the floor, and the soft thud catches your attention.

"peter?" the way you sleepily coo his name falls from your tongue like a spell. a sudden timid warmth creeps up peter's neck. he feels like a criminal being caught red handed, rather than a boy coming home to his person. he carefully treads to the side of the bed, dropping to his knees to be closer to you.

"uh-huh?" he hums, his voice barely above a whisper.

your arm lazily emerges from out of the plush covers and tugs weakly at his synthetic suit. "'wanna see your face." you mumble and squint your eyes at him with a pout of disapproval due to seeing spider-man, rather than peter parker.

peter gladly obliges, slipping off his mask in one swift motion, his brown curls tossed free. the familiar article is left strewn across the floor, waiting to be tidied up later, because all that matters now is the careless, lazy smile tugging at your lips. finally, eye to eye.

"happy birthday, peter." the words spill from your lips as gentle as can be. in the same instant, your fingers card through his hair, gaining purchase on his brown curls to draw his face closer to yours. assuming you're leaning in to kiss him, peter expectantly closes his eyes and parts his lips—but all he's met with is a quiet giggle, warm against his cheek.

oh. embarrassing.

you clear your throat to stifle your laughter. "pfft, sorry petey. that—that's just too cute." peter furrows his brows, though a flush paints his cheeks. he isn't annoyed—far from it. whenever you get giggly because he's done something you find endearing that he finds embarrassing, it completely undoes him. he loves the way you look at him whenever he nerds out, laughing under your breath only after he's finished talking.

"uh-huh," he grumbles, letting his forehead face-plant directly into the soft mattress in front of you. with how delirious he is from exhaustion, he could honestly fall asleep like this—on the floor.

but then, you press a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head. the gentle touch snaps him out of his faux moping. peter flicks his head up, brown eyes wide and staring into yours.

"now you kiss me?" he pouts, brows furrowed in a childlike manner.

your smile widens. "yup. for motivation, so you can change n' get in bed with me."

get in bed with you. that's certainly motivating.

peter is struck with a newfound sense of urgency. trying to be as quick as possible, though stumbling through his fatigue, he scrambles to the dresser. he shuffles through the drawers, snagging a random pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, which sports a graphic from your favorite film. as he wrestles to get his suit off, he catches you watching him with that frustratingly fond look of yours. it makes his hands clumsy. the shirt gets momentarily stuck on his head, and his foot tangles in the leg of his sweatpants. he wants to blame it on his fried brain, because it's too embarrassing to admit that is the sort of effect you have on him.

finally dressed in soft cotton, peter walks back over and stands by the edge of the mattress. a spark of mischief shines in his eyes, causing an expression of mock suspicion to cross your face.

"don't you dare," you scold gently. "i mean it, peter."

you don’t mean it at all. he can tell by the way the corners of your mouth curve up, and by the fact that you’re already lifting the heavy comforter, inviting him in.

and so, accepting the invitation, peter flops directly on top of you. he sinks into your space, his weight and muscle serving as a weighted blanket. though really, it's a massive weight that might crush your bones—but the first option is far more romantic.

a soft huff of air leaves your lungs at the impact. "shithead…" you murmur, "told you not to… heavy as hell…" the rest of what you say becomes indiscernible to peter, your dramatics cut off by the peppering of lazy kisses on his face.

as you pull the blankets securely over the both of you, your arms snake around his back, sliding under his shirt to rest against the warm skin of his waist. peter melts. he's always loved your unspoken honesty—the way your body language gives away what you're thinking when you feign annoyance. peter embraces you tighter.

but with his head nuzzled safely in the crook of your neck, a realization dawns upon him.

"were you waiting for me?" peter asks softly, his warm breath fanning against your neck.

all he gets is a withdrawn grumble against his hair.

you were waiting for him. probably just to be the first person to wish him a happy birthday. the thought brings upon a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. peter considers himself lucky that you cant see the pink heating his face. ultimately, he decides against teasing you, and instead plants a kiss on your neck, burying his burning face even deeper in its curve. god, he loves you.

"you totally were." he whispers into your skin. the comment isn't a vaunt, but rather a quiet reassurance for his own heart.

and despite your coy behavior from before, you let out a susurrated, "mhm."

peter closes his eyes, his breathing falling in line with the gentle, steady rhythm of yours. he was finally home. and when he woke up, you'd make him fall in love all over again.

surely with you, next year's birthday will be just as perfect.

"You sure it's okay?"

"I'on know how many times i've gotta tell you, kid." Frank grumbles, boots thudding on the linoleum.

The incessant beeps and chatter wraps around you, lives on standby even as bodies move as if powered by machine — really just a culmination of adrenaline and SharkFire Energy.

Your thumbs wipe against the rough cardboard of the carrier, one cup sits warm in the divot, numbers sprawled messily on the side with a stubborn sharpie and spontaneity, meanwhile the other's clasped in Franks hand. He doesn't sip yet, holding it by his side by the lid, and you can't help your eyes from glancing down, nervous for a spillage that never comes. You feel out of place, as if taking up too much room, as if another person should be in your spot. But you cant stop the glaring ache in your chest as you walk the ling stretch of hallway, florescence glaring down, paling the already white walls.

"Sorry." You mumble back, already turning in on yourself as the noise dims into a hum and clicks of pens bleed into muffled chimes of monitors.

"Eh, don't be," he shrugs with a wave of his arm, holding an ease of nonchalance you cant help but be intimidated and impressed by. "All I know, and all you gotta know is that he'd be happy to see you."

Happy.

The last time you saw Peter he was anything but.

In the days after, no matter how hard you'd shut your eyes and repeat his name as if you were Dorothy wishing her way back home, no memory seemed to have conjured. No flicker of a face, a body part, even the still of familiar waves. But your body seemed to have something your brain didn't, and that was… good? Right?

"I don't know, Frank," You sigh. Pausing at the wall, you tip your head back and stare at the lights. It hurts, all of it. Your chest bares a memory that your mind cant seem to process, to will. "Last time, I couldn't remember anything — I still don't — and I just, I can see that look in his face, you know, the one where his jaw does that thing and… and his eyes…"

You trail off with hands gesturing to nowhere in particular. Frustration wracks up your spine and settles on your shoulders.

Frank watches, nodding slowly, because he gets it. And it pisses you off.

"I don't wanna make him sad again."

"I get it. I do. But one thing I'm sure about is that he'll be happy you showed up," a firm hand pats your shoulder, settling warm through your hoodie. He keeps it there with a soft squeeze to keep you in the present. "It shows you care, yeah?"

He shakes your shoulder, so you nod and hum. You care. Your body cares.

"Course you do, s'why you showed up."

The glint of a smile hovers over your lips and you huff. The tiniest glint if hope in the smallest bits of affection, the hints that you can gather the bits of the puzzle once smashed back into a thousand pieces, no matter how far they've strayed, and put it back together.

You shrug abashedly. "Just need my mind to catch up."

"You're, what, twenty-ish?"

"Twenty-two."

"Hell, you've got the rest if your life to catch up," he says. "Even then, you've got the rest of your life to," his free hand moves aimlessly. "Do whatever it is you wanna do. Make new memories with the kid."

"An' if not," he sucks his teeth, "he'd just want you happy."

Frank doesn't miss the flex of your chin and the wobble of your lip, no matter how hard you tried to bite the inside of your cheek.

"Man, don't cry on me, shit's above my pay grade and I already got my ass whooped by the Hulk."

It sets free a rickety and wet laugh, unstable yet minutely freeing as your chest starts to loosen and shoulders slack. Even when tiny pricks of tears threaten to fall, you wipe them away with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"Fine," you sniffle, voice croaky and soft. But you inhale and exhale, clear your throat into your elbow and straighten. "What's rooms he in?"

With a nod of his head, Frank beckons you forward with a quiet 'cmon'. The overheads feel less like spotlights, even as they glare down and hum, but its all background noise as you begin box breathing and keeping up with Frank's strides.

Heart monitors are so pretentious, you cant help but think it as you stand stiffly at the foot of the bed.

Hospital rooms are all the same, a copy of a copy, white and baby-blues culminated into a saturated grey, always does if you stay long enough for your eyes to only focus on one thing in particular. The taps from the linoleum, restless, robotic sounds of machines working overtime. You let your eyes flicker around once just to gather, and your heart twinges sweetly at the assortment of cards and balloons on his right. A weak breath expels from your nose, lighthearted and heavy.

The fact Peter was Spider-Man wasn't lost on you, but it felt infinitesimal through the forgotten memories and the way your bones creaked with the need to remember. It's as if the blue and red that streaks the homemade cards beside him and the fabric of his suit that laid on the base of the cot hadn't registered.

Because this was all Peter. With his mask off, beaten and bare in a hospital room that smells like sickly, sweet anti-septic and lemon cleaner.

A thin, white bed-sheets laid crumpled just over his chest, a hospital gown baggy around his arms, but you stayed locked to his balmy face. Soft with rest, yet you can see the twinge of muscle between his eyebrows and your fingers tingle with the need to calm it. His dark auburn hair was knotted with sweat, his skin pale yet ruddy with cuts and afflictions.

Frank moved around him with a quiet sturdiness and a flex in his jaw, moving a chair from the far corner to his bedside, next to his own with so much of a grunt. And with a pat to the backrest, he talks.

"Sit 'own." It's not a demand, but you can't fault him when it sounds like one, or when you immediately take his request and stiffly sit, setting the lone cup of coffee by the bedside, still in it's carrier.

"Listen, I — ah," he nods to himself, walking out back from behind, keeping a firm hand to the back of your chair. "I'm gonna give you guys some space. Jus' sit and be with him, talk to him,"

With one last sigh and a pat, he walks back to the door, catching the handle before leaving you both alone. "Call me when he wakes up."

As the heavy door clicks shut, you don't miss a beat, turning your head to the man beside you. He looks aggravatingly restful, calm and serene, even under an oxygen mask and dim white lights overhead.

It all gets lodged in your throat. The picture in front of you, how soft he looks, how his chest rises and falls, how his hands stay empty beside him.

And it feels automatic when you reach for one. The scrape of the scratchy fabric lost in the whirr of machinery and murmurs of the crowd in the parking lot outside. Your fingertips move first, a brush over the back of his hand where his skin feels extra silky. Tiny hairs stand from your touch, right where you caress and up his arm, before you fully envelop his palm to yours. Fingers intertwined.

A deep heaviness seeps into your bones where the embrace begins, latching onto your wrist like a tonne of bricks.

Recognition. The annoying kind where you know, you just know, but nothing will appear in your head. No matter the amount of references, how hard you search or try to repeat a quote like a mantra, nothing will change.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his hold as you breathe. Shakily, in and out, and again, and again. Until the weight envelops your body. Liquid through your limbs, and the stress of remembrance, of the day, of the hand in your own, pulls your eyelids down.

The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up, eyes achy, head still dully pounding, is the weight in his hand.

His eyes are still shut when he realises, as he groans softly and the noises slowly start to separate from the cacophony outside of the square room. Fingers twitch minutely, settling the warmth in his body and it feels like everything was a bad dream. It's all comfort, and good.

But the incessant beeps, the crowd and the chorus of shoes and heels clicking on plastic start to wrap around him, as well as the tightness around his mouth.

The mask comes off first, still averse to move his hand from the safe position it's found, like it was always meant to be there. The elastic tangles slightly, but it snaps off the back of his head and Peter begins to look.

Grey and white, yet the array of motley cards and balloons beside him catches his eye.

His thumb grazes the heat between his instinctively, and suddenly a grunt pulls him out of his reverie, head snapping to where the sleepy sound pulled from.

It's enough to make all the air in his lungs run. Your figure balled up on a chair, both legs up, face scrunched and tired, aggravated by the pain in your neck and back, and the sudden pull from unconsciousness.

Peter watches on. Memories of tired study nights with you, Ned and MJ, energy drinks clicked open, half-drunk or already crushed down and tossed to the side, arrays of textbooks open midway, citations highlighted, sticky notes scribbled — only to be stuck to foreheads in a jittery game of heads up. He remembers how you grumbled through the whole thing, feigning sleep even as your head found refuge on his shoulder and your eyes closed and breath evened out.

He remembers the exact crease between your brows and the pout of your lips when he softly nudged you up, how you whined and he laughed softly, only to guide you on top of his bed where you spent the rest of the night catching up on dreams while the others kept playing and tossing screwed up flashcards at each other.

Peter also remembers the widening of your eyes when you realised where you were and how long you were out. How he didn't keep you awake and how you were gonna fail (but you didn't).

It's the same as now. Hand still in his, albeit balmy, but God, does it feel nice. And your eyes wide like a deer in headlights, a kid caught in the pantry.

He gets lost in it for a moment. Memorising the colour as if he hadn't been thinking about it since the last time he saw you, held you and spoke to you like a companion. Not a lost memory or a stranger.

Willing his throat to move, to relieve himself of dryness, he speaks softly.

"Hi."

"Hi," you copy, equally as breathless. Your fingers flex, sweaty and warm, your thumb grazes the soft side of his knuckle, suddenly realising your hands have been entangled together. You pull back as fast as you figured out. "Oh, God. Sorry."

"Don't be," He cuts in with a breath. As much as Peter wants to chase, his lips stick together before moving to a stiff smile. "It was nice."

"Yeah," Gulping thickly, you nod.

It was nice. Heavy with one sided memories. With an annoyed body that understands and wants the brain to realise. It aches your gums and stings through your spine like restless needle pricks.

Your palm lays cold, bare in a way you didn't realise it could be until now, ripped away from his in a moment of weakness.

Slowly you ease your hand back up to the mattress, itching closer to his in a silent question he has no problem answering.

It's not a full clasp, not sleepy palms rested against another — it's more shy, like a timid whisper of pinkies while tip-toeing past inevitable. The tips of your fingers touch his and it feels more full and safe than any hold could bring; it's a breath of fresh air, falling from a height only to be caught by firm hands and gentle oaths

Silence slips between the two of you in an amalgamation of comfort and questions left unanswered, hope quietly withering and chests equally weighted.

Your fingertips tap on his own, fiddling with a crease in your brow and a knot in your stomach.

"I know you," you whisper to yourself, and Peter's heart lurches. "I know I do, I just don't remember."

It dissipates as quick as it came. Dissolving like starch, thickening in his chest. "It's okay."

"It's not," a short breath leaves you like a punch, "It's really not okay, Peter."

An ache crawls through his arms with a phantom touch, from his hands to his shoulders, he needs to hold you. To shush you into his chest and embrace you like he used to. Mumbling words into your hair with his chin sat atop your head, saying something stupid to make you laugh wetly into his shirt.

"Can I…" he falters for a moment, rethinking his words with a sharp inhale of breath. "Look this is gonna sound real weird but… do you want a hug?"

A chuckle leaves your lips, wet and suppressed like if you laugh too hard you'll disturb the nursery on the next floor.

He hates how full everything feels now. Loves it, too. Loves hearing your voice again, soft and tired, hates that it quietly lacks familiarity. The laughter from deep in your chest. Your eyes on his. Your hands. And now…

You pause before nodding. "That would be nice, thank you."

It isn't cinematic. No burst of colour once you stand up and lean in, because he's still tired and achy, even though he wants to lunge up and breathe you in. There's no orchestra, or 'aww's from a few passersby. It's just you and Peter, and the weight of the past, the crowd outside, the AC blasting and the heart monitor beeping.

But it's you. And you're warm. And you feel different, surer and stronger, older in a way, and you smell the same.

His hands fist at the back of your hoodie, one to your middle, the other rubbing light lines up and down, and its instinctive how he inhales so deeply. You don't wear the same perfume anymore, its less sweet, more natural and woodsy, but underneath its all you.

And when your hand finds the nape of his neck through the embrace, Peter realises he's a goner. You fiddle with the tufts the same, even though his hair's a little matted with sweat and blood, your fingers are light on the fuzz of tiny hairs on the back of his neck, and he can feel your inner dialogue.

Can you bury your hand in his hair? Should you?

But you pull back before you could decide on a possibility. Keeping your hand on his neck for a moment longer, his own hands on your biceps and forearms, just looking, before you step back into the chair with a sigh.

Your fingers find his again.

"Thank you." You whisper. Throat tight, unable to fully talk.

Peter just nods, a shy smile on his face. "Don't mention it."

It makes you laugh. You wonder how easy he used to do that before. How often he'd poke your sides, or tell you a joke or pun about chemistry that had your cheeks hurting and eyes rolling.

"You give good hugs, Peter."

His chest caves at that. Chin dimpling in restraint, swallowing, unblinking as if the stale air could dry the wetness threatening his waterline.

"Yeah, well," he hums, tilting his head back, staring at the tiles on the ceiling, but he can't stop looking at you. "You ain't seen nothing. Just wait until I get out of this bed,"

He cringes with a crease of his face. "That sounded so weird, it was better in my head—"

"No, no, please," You giggle again, and your face hurts. "I wanna see what the fuss is about now."

Soft laughter dissipates into a thick, deep silence.

"Can I say something," he swallows. "About before."

You nod, shuffling in the chair. "Of course."

Peter inhales. The ceiling his sanctuary, it's incredibly interesting. He stares and breathes, picking and choosing what to say, what to bring up.

"I remember you told me I give good hugs the first time we," he gestures, hands up, holding around the air in an embrace. You hum in acknowledgement. "Sorry, it just reminded me."

"Don't be sorry, Peter."

"It's my fault you don't remember," his throat works. "I'm stuck with my own memories and you, Ned and MJ, don't remember anything."

You sigh. Unable to say anything, comforting words cant fix the pain, like bringing a bandage to open heart surgery.

You have your whole life ahead of you.

Memories to be made. A life to live. Starting now, restarting. Would it be so bad?

"I wouldn't mind possibly, hopefully, making new memories with you," You say. Gulping away at the thickness in your throat, the weight of which your hand goes back to his with more confidence this time, balmy skin to balmy skin. "If, I mean, if that's okay… with you?"

"That's, I…" Peter gulps through a dry mouth, eyes hesitant to blink or tear away from your own. he shakes his head almost disbelieving, smile already aching his cheeks.

"That's all I ever wanted," his eyes begin to water and his voice catches. "Thank you."

You nod. Twin smiles on each of your faces, eyes twinkling under the florescent lights, and it almost feels like colour flushes through the room, between the two of you.

"Thank you,"

"I should, uh," you swallow and look back at the door. "I should get Frank. Bring him in"

Peter nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

There's an easiness to him now. Tension shed to reveal a lighter coating of the Peter Parker beneath the suit, now hospital gown.

The both of you stare down at your hands, not unable to move, more reluctance. To you its a familiar kind of feeling, sweet nostalgia that makes the sun shine a little brighter. To Peter its a soft kind of finality. It's you, again. After years of working up the courage, and figuring out times and dates and the tiniest details, only for the universe to push him to the deep end — it's a chance to be by your side again.

"Your coffee's probably cold." He cuts through, quietly through the comfort.

Your eyebrows tug in question, but you quickly turn to your side to find the lone cardboard cup.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, snorting under your breath. You smile in mild embarrassment, shrugging. "I, uh, got that for you, actually."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but," you brush it off with a wave. "It's cold now. S'what I get trying to make a small gesture."

Peter shrugs to, pulling his lips in indifference. "I mean, I don't mind iced coffee, so."

A small, shy laugh tugs from your lungs, but Peter just watches. Enamoured by the modesty.

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you nod. Giving his hand one last squeeze you stand, making your way to the door. "My numbers on the side of the cup, by the way."

Peter smiles as he turns to look, only getting the first couple digits before your writing curves on the other side.

"Are you leaving now?"

"I'm just getting Frank," you reiterate, pointing outside from over your shoulder. "But, I mean, I can stay."

"That would be nice," with a stutter he adds. "Maybe we could get more coffee, later, I mean—"

"That would be nice." You nod, cutting into his ramblings like a knife through butter.

The door clicks open, a wave of noise and light flash through the crack before your presence is swallowed up behind it. Peter's giddy. Light in his chest, bulky and fresh, he doesn't know what to do with it other than sit in the cot and gulp, fingers fiddling with the thin bed-sheet while one palm tingles with your ghost.

New memories start now.

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The apartment feels too quiet. You leave the fairy lights on and eventually curl up on the couch, phone still in your hand, the room blurring as sleep pulls at you.

You’re not sure what time it is when the door finally opens. Soft footsteps. A quiet, tired sigh. The couch dips beside you. Warm arms slide around your waist, careful not to wake you. He pulls you against his chest, chin resting on top of your head. He smells like night air and something metallic you can’t name. His heart is still beating too fast. You stay still, half asleep, pretending you don’t notice.

Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin stripes. Peter wakes first. He reaches across the couch for you and finds only empty space and a cooling indent in the cushion. He sits up slowly, runs a hand through the messy curls at the back of his head, and follows the smell of coffee into the kitchen.

You’re standing at the counter in yesterday’s pajamas, mug between both hands, staring at the chipped tile backsplash like it might give you answers. Your eyes feel grainy. Your chest feels tight.

“Mmm, good morning ba—”

“Where’d you go last night?”

The words come out flatter than you mean them to. He stops in the doorway.

“What do you mean?”

You set the mug down harder than necessary. The sound is sharp in the quiet kitchen. “Last night, Peter. Literally last fucking night. You said you were going to get the food and just… disappeared. Like you always do. This is getting so tiring.”

He steps closer, palms half-raised like he’s approaching something that might bolt. “The delivery guy got the wrong address. I was waiting and trying to sort it out, but he—”

“Cut the shit.” Your voice cracks on the last word. You can feel the anger rising, hot and shaky, mixed with something that feels too much like heartbreak. “Are you cheating on me?”

“What?— No, I—” He reaches for you. You move back, putting the counter between your bodies.

“Get. Away.”

He freezes. The look on his face is pure wounded confusion, the same expression he used to get when a lab experiment went wrong and he couldn’t figure out the variable.

You start listing everything because if you don’t say it now you’ll never say it. Your voice is rising, trembling, the words spilling out too fast.

“The museum trip. You vanished the second things went wrong and somehow Spider Man was there instead. The times you left in the middle of movies. The late night texts that go unanswered for hours. The way you sometimes come back smelling like you’ve been outside for so long—God, sometimes I swear I smell blood. How many times have I waited up for you? How many times have I told myself you were just busy or stressed or helping Aunt May? I keep making excuses for you, Peter. I keep telling myself the boy who blushes when I hold his hand wouldn’t do this to me. But it feels like I’m dating a ghost. And it hurts. It breaks me because I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. And I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to look me in the eye and lie.”

Tears are already sliding down your cheeks. You hate that they’re falling. You hate that your voice is shaking and your body is slightly shaky by this confrontation. You hate that part of you still wants him to cross the kitchen and fix it.

“Peter… whatever it is, you just need to tell me. Please. I’d rather you tell me than lie to my face.”

Silence stretches. He stares at the floor, parting his lips slightly like he’s about to say something, then at you, then at the floor again. When he finally speaks his voice is small and rough, like the words are being pulled out of him.

“I’m…I’m SpiderMan.”

You laugh once. It’s short, disbelieving, almost mean. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t make a joke right now.”

“I’m serious.” He doesn’t move closer. His hands trying to reach out for you. “The-The museum. The times I leave. Last night—there was a fire three blocks over. People were trapped on the third floor. I couldn’t just… ignore it. I thought I’d be ten minutes. It turned into something longer. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You shake your head. The kitchen suddenly feels too small. “That’s not funny, Peter.”

He looks at you for a long second. Then he bends his knees and jumps.

It’s not a normal jump. It’s effortless, silent, the kind of movement that shouldn’t be possible in a cramped kitchen. His finger tips press against the ceiling. He hangs there for a moment, looking down at you, curly hair falling toward the floor, pink Hello Kitty pants somehow still the most ridiculous part of the image.

Your breath catches. Your mind tries to reject it. This is Peter. Soft, awkward, science nerd Peter who still gets nervous when you kiss him. He can’t be—

He drops back down as quietly as he went up. You take an automatic step back. Your heart is slamming against your chest hard enough to hurt.

“Still don’t believe me?” His voice is gentle, almost sad. He lifts one hand. A thin strand of web shoots out, wraps lightly around your wrist, not tight, not trapping, just enough to tug. He pulls you forward in one smooth motion until you’re flush against his chest. His arms come around you carefully, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to hold you. You can feel the solid warmth of him, the slight tremor in his hands.

“I never wanted you to feel like this,” he whispers into your hair. “I thought if I just kept it separate I could keep you safe. From the people who want to hurt SpiderMan. From the nights that go wrong. From everything I do. But that was selfish. I know it was. But every time I looked at you I just… I couldn’t stand the idea of you getting pulled into it or getting hurt. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I was trying to protect that…I-I can’t lose you.”

You’re crying properly now, face pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt that smells like him. Your hands fist the back of it. The anger is still there, tangled up with relief and fear and something that feels dangerously close to love.

“You should have told me,” you manage, voice muffled and raw. “I would’ve been scared. I still am. But I would’ve stayed. I am staying, no matter what, you don’t get to decide that for me. I wouldn’t have been overthinking there was someone else getting parts of you I couldn’t see.” His arms tighten. You feel him nod against the top of your head. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You stay like that for a long time, standing in the middle of the kitchen while the coffee goes cold on the counter. Eventually you pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red. There’s still a faint green smudge on his jaw from last night’s face mask.

“I’m still mad,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“And I’m still scared.”

“Me too, baby.”

You reach up and brush a curl away from his forehead. Your voice is softer now, but steady. “But I’m here. And you’re going to stop disappearing on me—Or. At least just let me know when you’re leaving, answer my calls even if you’re on a… mission. I just need to know you’re okay. You’re going to let me worry about you the same way you worry about me. Deal?”

Peter’s smile is small and shaky and real. He leans in and presses his forehead against yours.

“Deal,” he whispers.

It’s not fixed. It’s not simple. The city is still out there, and so are the things that make him put on the suit. But for the first time in a long time he’s not running toward the next emergency with half his heart left behind. He’s here, arms around you.

you glance up at the clock—it appears only a minute has passed since you last checked the time. still five whole hours to go.

the morning shift is always a drag. usually steve keeps you going, making jokes and informing you of every thought that crosses his mind, leaving the actual work part of your job on the back burner. even on the quietest of days, there's never a spare moment that steve won't spend finding you. you used to find that highly annoying, never being able to just sit in the silence, but you had to admit, you've grown to enjoy it. crave it, even. especially right now—the meds don't seem to have done anything to relieve your sinuses. if anything, you only feel worse. you could really use steve to distract you from the dull ache growing at the back of your head.

however, today of all days, he's busy at the back, leaving you working the front desk and robin on the other end of the store, shelving tapes. you try and focus on auditing the tapes, doing your best to blow your nose discreetly every so often.

after what feels like hours, steve finally emerges from the back room carrying a huge cardboard box, filled to the brim with worn, old tapes. the second you lay eyes on him, you feel your heart settle back into place. just being in the same room as him has that effect on you.

"hey," steve comes up to the front of the counter and sets the box down heavily. "haven't seen ya all morning. keith's got me cleaning out all the broken tapes. there's gotta be hundreds back there. this is just one box," he pats the box, which rattles. "what've you been up to?"

"audit, usual stuff." you respond, clearly congested. you cringe at how your voice sounds.

"woah. are you ok?" he turns fully to you, and inspects your face.

"yeah, i'm fine. just allergies." you try to play it off.

he places the back of his hand against your forehead. even in your indisposed state, the contact of his hand sends shivers through your skin, and makes your stomach flutter.

"allergies don't give you a fever. you're not well."

"i don't have a fever. and either way, it's fine. the meds will kick in soon."

"how long ago did you take them?"

"three hours ago—" a sneeze interrupts you.

"yeah. no way. i'm taking you home. get your stuff."

"what? no, we still have all day."

"exactly. you need to rest and get better. wait here."

steve hurries to the back and returns a minute later with your bag. "come on."

"steve, i appreciate your concern, but i'm fine, really."

"y/n, you really don't look well. you're only gonna feel worse at the end of the day. plus, don't think i haven't noticed the mountain of tissues in the trash," steve points to the small trash can under the desk. your cheeks flush—the absolute last thing you'd want steve to see.

"and anyways, it's noon on a monday, it's hardly peak time for customers. we'll do just fine without you."

"but- we can't leave robin all alone" you try as a final excuse.

steve turns and yells "hey, robin!"

she pops up from behind a shelf, busy shelving away tapes.

"yeah, dingus?"

"i'm taking y/n home. she's got a fever. will you let keith know when he gets back? 'kay, thanks bye!"

"steve!!" robin yells annoyedly, but then defeatedly adds, "feel better, y/n."

the door closes behind you as the two of you walk to the beamer.

you make it five feet before you stop.

"what if we get fired? just walking out of work in the middle of the day? we should at least wait to tell keith in person." you suggest.

"keith could be back in two minutes or two hours, you know how he is. let me worry about that, okay?"

you feel bad, making any of this steve's problem. but you're more concerned with the shiver that has settled over you.

"okay... is it just me or is it chilly out here?" you say through chattering teeth.

steve looks at you with concern, then walks you faster to the car. "that would be just you. there's no way you could've lasted all day in there."

he opens the passenger side door for you and you drop in.

"oh shit. i can't go home. i don't have a key." you rub your eyes with the heel of your hands.

"what do you mean, you don't you have a key?"

"my mom usually gets home before me, so she unlocks the door when she gets home and i just go in. i don't have my own key."

steve runs a hand through his hair, quiet for a minute. "not a problem. we'll get you home."

he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.

your fever starts to get to you, not to mention the headache, so you decide to stop fighting it and let steve do whatever he's about to do. you won't admit it, but you're happy steve dragged you out of there.

you let your eyes close for the ride.

you hear steve turn the car off and you force yourself to open your eyes. immediately the unfamiliar house before you has you thinking if your illness has you hallucinating.

"we're here" steve says, taking the keys out of the ignition.

"...but, this isn't... you said you were taking me home?" your voice comes out slow and shaky.

"oh, not your home. my home."

"steve, what?" you say, sleepy and shivering. "i thought you were taking me to my home. that's usually what people mean when they say 'home'."

"yeah, well, unless you wanted to try breaking into your own house, which you're in no condition to, this was the next best thing. now come on, let's fix you up."

you're too sick and tired to protest. and what else could you even do? it's not like he'd take you back to work.

you unbuckle your seatbelt and steve opens your door for you. "sure, i'll be a willing participant in being held hostage at your house."

"never seen someone be so snarky even all shivering and snotty."

"ugh please don't bring that up, the... snottiness." you cringe. this is the last state you'd wanted steve to see you in, all icky and feeling gross. but you were too far in now.

"well, i mean, you are. can't deny that" he boops your nose and you glare at him grumpily.

"ok, not in the mood. got it." he unlocks the door and lets you two in.

you barely get to take in the fact that you're in steve's house. you try to get a look at your surroundings as he helps you to his room.

he sits you down on the edge of his bed, and you can't help but feel your heartbeat flutter, even if it's not the exact way you'd imagined you'd ever be doing so.

"wanna put on something more comfortable?" he pulls open his drawers and pulls out a hoodie and pajama pants. "you put these on, i'll get you some meds."

"what? no steve, i'm not gonna put your clothes on. that's absurd."

"why's that absurd?"

"they're- they're gonna get all coughed on and possibly snotted on, which is like really gross." you say, punctuating your point by coughing into your elbow almost on cue.

"well you're not getting into my bed with your family video vest on, that's for sure."

you look at him incredulously. "i'm not getting into your bed either. you have a couch, i can take that."

"please. just let me take care of you." he looks down at you with his big puppy dog eyes, and you've already lost the battle. there's no saying no to those eyes.

you take the clothes from him.

"good girl. i'll be right back. put them on," he points at the bundle in your hands again before closing his bedroom door behind him.

you put on his clothes, and naturally you're drowning in them. you had to admit, they felt great. your outfit had started sticking to you from the fever, and you already felt so much better being out of it. you would give anything to be able to have your nose clear up for even five seconds so you could bury it in his hoodie and drink in his scent.

it starts to sink in—you're in his room. you decide to take a little advantage of the situation. you have a look at the plethora of hair products scattered on his dresser, chuckling to yourself. going over to his desk, you see a stack of cassettes. you're about to look through them when you hear his footsteps approaching.

"hey, can i come in?" steve's voice comes from the other side of the door.

"yeah, i'm done," you say, padding back over to his bed.

he opens the door, pausing for a moment when he lays eyes on you. his eyes drift down your body, his hoodie swallowing your form. his face softens as he looks at you, a smile spreading across his face. heat rushes to your face as he walks into the room.

"alright. this should bring the fever down. but it's gonna make you pretty drowsy" steve hands you a pill and a glass of water. you take it without protest, wanting the icky feeling to leave you as soon as possible.

"that'll take about ten minutes to fully kick in. do you need anything? heating pad? cool cloth? tissues? blanket?"

you look up at him, aching with gratitude for the man in front of you, taking care of you even when he had no obligation to. instinctively, you pull him into a hug.

"thank you," a major understatement, but it's all you can manage to say at the moment.

"it's no problem," he moves his hands to your arms. "woah, you really are burning. good thing the medication's already in your system."

he pulls back his comforter, and you get in. you feel better just being under the covers, and the fact that it's steve's bed somehow makes it cozier.

"i'll be back right after the shift. feel free to go make something to eat or watch TV or anything, alright?"

you nod, your eyes half-lidded and sleep finally taking over you.

steve is quiet for a moment, then does something which catches you off guard, and softly moves the hair out of your face, gently holding the side of your head. the way he's looking at you is unlike he ever has before.

"see you later, sweetheart."

your heart skips a beat at the name. you're so sleepy you almost think you've dreamt it.

"bye, steve." you say softly. you close your eyes, and you're out before steve even leaves the driveway.

"hey sleepyhead", steve gently rubs your arm over the comforter. you stir, blinking open your eyes. it takes you a second to remember where you are.

"there she is," says steve, as you sit up.

"hey, steve." you say drowsily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"how are you feeling?"

you test out a breath through your nose, and surprisingly you can breathe. and your headache is gone.

"much better, actually."

"that's great news," he says brightly, with that same soft look on his face. he walks around the bed to sit next to you on the other side. "what did you get up to while i was out?"

"i think i was knocked out the whole time," you reply.

"wow, you slept for like five hours. you really needed the rest." steve brings out a plastic bag and pulls out a takeout container. "i got you some soup. went with chicken noodle, hope that's alright. plus it was the soup of the day at the diner." steve says sheepishly as he hands you the polystyrene cup.

you feel your heart swell in your chest. of course he'd go the extra mile and get you soup too, on top of everything he's already done.

"chicken noodle's perfect. thank you," you say gratefully. "how was the rest of the shift?"

"same as the morning, barely any customers. told you we'd do fine without you. if there ever was a convenient day for the flu to strike, it would've been today." steve rambles, and you're right back in your usual dynamic with him.

"ok, that's good. was keith okay with me leaving early unannounced?" you ask, slightly afraid to hear the answer.

"yeah, he came back about an hour after i got back. to be honest, he was a little upset at first. but i talked it out with him. it's all good now, you don't have to worry about it."

you drop your head into your hands for a second, before responding, "oh my god, i know you're probably leaving out keith having a small hissy fit. i'm so sorry for making you do that—for this whole situation in fact. for majorly imposing on you like this."

"hey, remember this was my idea. you're not imposing on anyone. i wanted to do this."

you decide to ask the question boggling your mind since all this started, "why are you doing this?"

"what, helping you?"

"it's not just 'helping' me, you've gone insanely above and beyond. i'm in your clothes, for goodness' sake. don't get me wrong, i'm eternally grateful, but... i'm just your coworker. you could've just let me wait it out."

"you're not just my coworker. you're my... friend." there's a slight hesitation on the word 'friend'. "and i couldn't just let you suffer in silence. besides, you look cute in my clothes."

"even with my nose all red and my face puffy and generally being all gross?"

"you always look cute."

you both look at each other for a moment. you're trying to read his face, find the meaning behind his words. you set the soup down on the bedside table and face him fully.

"hey like i'm in a weird state right now, so this might be the meds talking, but that was... super flirty, right? or was that just to make me feel better about being unwell."

steve runs a hand down his face. "well, okay, let's see—you're in my house, in my bed, in my clothes and i got rid of your fever. have you ever seen someone do that for just their coworker?"

"see you're gonna have to spell it out, or i'm just gonna assume you're just really generous."

he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "goddamn it, i guess i'm doing this now. i like you. a lot. you're my favourite part of every day. and working that job really sucks sometimes but you're there so its really great. and yeah, i'd... i'd do anything for you, even... this." he gestures to you in his bed. "that spelled out enough for you?"

you're quiet for a moment, as you look at him. your heart has just about exploded in your chest.

"if i wasn't sick right now, i'd totally kiss you." you say. you blame your sudden boldness on your medicated state.

steve lets out a sigh of relief. "good, 'cos i thought i might've just made things really awkward if you didn't." he pulls you against his chest and kisses the top of your head, lacing his fingers between yours. "this'll do just fine."

“would i ever do anything to put you in danger?” you shake your head softly. “you’ve seen me fight guys three times your size with these webs, right?” you feel heat creeping up your neck as you realize how silly your concern must seem to him.

“sorry,” you mumble, wiping your sweaty palms on your thighs, “just nervous.”

“don’t be, I’ve got you, he whispers, “ready baby?”

you take a deep breath, throwing your arms around his neck and nodding. peter lifts his mask quickly, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek before lowering it and grinning.

his grip on your is firm, even if you tried to get loose you don’t think you’d be able to. a nervous smile on your lips as he steps forward with you in his arms. you gulp as he shoots a web to the building across the street.

peter expects a shriek or a terrified cry to leave your lips as he runs forward and leaps off the building, but it never comes. you gasp at the sensation in your belly, immediately smiling when the warm summer breeze hits your face and runs through your hair.

“oh my god!” you gasp out, laughing slightly, “this is amazing!” your grip on peter is still iron clad, but the nerves you’d once felt had completely been left behind. you watch as peter shoots web after web, swinging the two of you gracefully through the busy new york streets.

“havin’ fun?” he watches you from the corner of his eyes, taking in how awe-struck you looked, smiling fondly as you giggle at the reflection of the two of you on a skyscraper.

“yes!” you shriek happily, your legs wrap tighter around his waist as the two of you free fall momentarily, squealing when he shoots a web and propels the two of you up quickly.

peter laughs at your small noises of excitement, cheeks dusted pink as he looks at you again. you were in complete and unbridled joy, and it was all because of him. the thought makes his heart flutter, and his grip on your tightens a fraction.

“that’s where I stoped the bank robbery! and that’s where I got my ass handed to me,” he points out different locations as the two of you swing, a small story with every ‘thwip.’

you listen intently, reprimanding him when he mentions haphazardly bandaging himself after being on the brink of death.

“okay, we’re here,” peter swings the two of you to the top of a building, landing softly and immediately wrapping both arms around you to keep you steady. “you okay?” he asks quickly, giggling when your legs wobble slightly as you stand.

“yeah, just a lot of adrenaline,” you admit sheepishly. your arms are still looped around his neck as you stare up at him. the vibrant red mask looks down at you. if you stare long enough, maybe you could trace out his features…

peter doesn’t give you the chance, one large hand splayed across the small of your back while the other reaches for his mask. your eyes immediately widen when you see him grab the hem of it.

“peter what if-” his giggles cut you off, morphing your concerned expression into a confused smile.

“what if someone sees me? this high up in the air?” he teases, pulling his mask off as he finishes talking. his brown curls are sticking every which way, and the gash he’d gotten on his nose two days ago is almost fully healed. his eyes practically sparkle as he looks down at you with a smile.

peter grins, looking around and humming. you do the same. there’s only a rogue pigeon and the empty roofs of buildings surrounding the two of you.

“I don’t think our pal over there would sell us out,” he motions to the fast asleep pigeon, you smack his chest lightly. Peter smiles, smoothing your hair down before kissing your forehead.

the two of you watch the sunset on the rooftop, hands intertwined as you rest your head on his shoulder. peter fidgets with your fingers as he speaks, telling you about new tech ideas he has and how his new enhanced abilities were coming along. you listen to him intently, soaking up his words and smiling as the golden rays from the sun enshroud the two of you.

“thank you,” he adds after a beat of silence. you furrow your brows, sitting up straighter and looking at him.

“for?”

“coming with me. doing this with me,” he makes a vague motion to himself and the city with his arms, “i know it’s a lot, so thank you.” his stomach flips when you give him a sweet smile.

“thank you for letting me in,” you reply, loving the way his breath hitched in his throat as you leaned in. your noses touched before you glanced up at him, smiling as you pressed your lips to his gently.

peter immediately kissed back, one hand snaking to the back of your neck and the other to your waist, smiling when you accidentally clash teeth.

“sorry,” he mumbles, face flushed as you pull away.

“‘s okay,” you mumble, running your fingers through his hair before letting your hand settle on his cheek. your thumb brushes his cheek softly, his eyes flutter shut at the feeling. peter can hear your heart rate pick up, his eyes open to meet yours.

“y’know i love you right?” you say quietly, swallowing harshly as he stares back at you. Peter’s own heart rate increases as a smile breaks onto his face.

“yeah, i love you too,” he replies easily, melting into your touch and smiling.

The sun was lighting the Parker flat in Queens.

Peter Parker only had 15 minutes before Aunt May came bustling in to wake him up or his screeching phone alarm went off. Whichever came first.

He silently and slowly opened his eyes, wincing as a dull throb pulsed behind his temples. God, they were hurting. It was entirely understandable, after having spent the entire night being swung all over the city by his webbing.

He groaned softly into the quiet morning air before kicking the duvet off his legs. He sat on the edge of his mattress for a few minutes, staring blankly at the floorboards. He slowly stood up.

It had been a long night. Scratch that, it had been a long week. To be honest, it felt like every criminal waited for this exact week to wreak havoc. Muggings, car chases, warehouse heists... you name it, Peter had stopped it. And Peter was EXHAUSTED. He felt like he could die from tiredness right there. But despite the bags under his eyes and the bruised ribs hidden beneath his hoodie, he had to get ready for school. Great. Actually, just brilliant.

After a whirlwind 10 minutes of pulling on a crumpled hoodie, wolfing down a piece of slightly burnt toast Aunt May shoved into his hand, and running flat-out to catch the Underground, Peter made it.

The heavy glass front doors of Midtown High swung open, slammed lockers were making Peter’s Spider-Sense prickle, and the corridors were crammed with teenagers navigating the morning rush hour of gossip, last-minute homework copying, and sleepy groans.

He checked his phone. 8:14 AM. One minute left before the first bell rang.

He walked down the familiar corridor and turned sharply towards the first-period Chemistry class. He flung open the door, and the air conditioning blasted into his face like a refreshing stream of cold water.

And then, right in the second row, sitting at the usual lab desk with an open notebook and a perfectly arranged row of pens, he saw you.

Suddenly, the ache in his ribs didn't feel quite so bad. The heavy bags under his eyes felt a little less heavy. Peter forced his face into what he hoped was a casual smile.

He slid onto the stool right beside you, letting his rucksack fall to the floor with a dull, heavy thud that betrayed just how much heavy metal gear was hidden deep in its bottom pocket.

"Hey," Peter murmured, leaning his elbow onto the desk and resting his chin in his hand, looking at you with tired but ridiculously fond eyes. "Tell me we aren't doing a pop quiz today. Please."

You looked up from your notebook and Peter was sure he'd have a heart attack when your eyes met his.

You smiled at him. "No, you're lucky today, Petey," you said, the last word delivered with a teasing tone. And oh, Peter loved your teasing tone. And your speaking tone. Okay, everything about you, to be honest. But to be fair, you weren't making it any easier. Like, how could a human being in the world look bloody brilliant all the time?

He realised he was staring at you with a stupid smile on his face for a few moments and he faked a cough. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he must have looked like a freak at that moment.

"Peter? Uhm... Y'alright?" you said worriedly, a slight frown on your face while you were looking at him.

He faked a cough again. "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. I'm completely alright. I'm just... a little bit knackered, y'know? Life has been a little... no actually it has been extremely exhausting lately." Well, it wasn't actually the truth, but it wasn't actually a lie either. He changed the subject. "And you're a lifesaver, Y/n. Seriously. I'll buy you a coffee. Or a bagel. Or my soul. Whatever you want."

"I'll hold you to the bagel," you chuckled, watching as he tried (and failed) to suppress a massive yawn.

"Did you even sleep last night?" You frowned again. "You look like you've been run over by an Underground train."

Oh, if only you knew... he thought with a dry, internal laugh. Remembering the runaway train he had to stop at 2:00 AM.

"Stark Internship," he mumbled, letting his head drop heavily onto his folded arms against the desk. His voice came out muffled by the fleece of his hoodie. "Huge project. Lots of... dead-end research. Broke a few things. Rebuilt a few things. You know how it is."

"Right. The mysterious 'internship' stuff again," you murmured softly. "You know, one of these days, Parker, you're actually going to have to give me details. I'm starting to think this 'internship' is just an excuse for you to sleep through my favourite class."

Peter lifted his head an inch, resting his chin on his crossed arms to look up at you. His brown eyes were bright, tracing every detail of your face as you spoke. Hearing you call it your favourite class brought a tiny, crooked smile back to his lips.

"Someday," he whispered softly, his voice dropping the playful banter for a brief, incredibly genuine second. "I promise. I'll tell you everything. Just... not today."

Before you could press him on it, the morning bell echoed through the room.

The afternoon sun was starting to dip behind the Queens skyline. School had been over for five minutes, and students were leaving the building.

Mr Harrington entered the laboratory. "Alright, alright, settle down, class!" the teacher called out, clapping his hands together. "Open your exercise books! We have a lot of ground to cover before midterms!"

---

You were walking towards the exit, too, until you heard two familiar voices speaking in hushed, urgent tones in an empty classroom. Ned and Peter.

You were about to step in there and wave, maybe tease Peter about surviving the rest of the day, when Ned’s voice made you freeze in your tracks.

"Mate, you have to be careful," Ned was saying, his voice laced with genuine panic. "If this gets out, it ruins everything. You're completely obsessed with them!"

"I know, Ned, okay? I know!" Peter’s voice sounded stressed and overwhelmed. "I can't help it. Every time I look at them, my brain just stops working! I spent half the night up late thinking about them while..." He looked around him, and you took a few steps back so you couldn't hear what he said.

A few moments later, you got closer to the door again. "Peter, you're losing your mind," Ned hissed quietly. "Does Aunt May know? Does anyone else know?"

"No! Are you mad? Nobody can know!" Peter lowered his voice to an agonizing whisper. Every word hit you like a physical punch. "It's complicated, Ned. They're just... perfect. Brilliant, beautiful, impossible to ignore... I literally fall a little more in love every single second I'm around them. But I can't just say it. What if they don't feel the same way? What if I ruin everything we have?"

Ned sighed heavy and deep. "Man... you've got it so bad. You're proper hooked."

"I am," Peter admitted softly, his tone dripping with a helpless, quiet devotion that made your heart ache. "I'm completely, totally in love. But until I know for sure... it has to stay a secret."

You felt your heart breaking in your chest.

Someone else.

There was someone else. All those soft looks... the tired smile he gave you every morning... was just... Peter being Peter. Friendly. Sweet.

His heart belonged to someone else. Someone brilliant. Someone who kept him up all night.

You ran away from there as quietly and quickly as you could, your trainers making zero sound on the linoleum floor. You clutched your rucksack straps until your knuckles turned white, forcing yourself to breathe past the sudden, sharp sting behind your eyes.

Completely unaware that around the bend, Ned was currently shaking his head at a bright red, stammering Peter.

"Mate," Ned muttered, slapping Peter's shoulder. "You're talking about Y/n like they're a literal superhero. Just ask Y/n out already."

"I can't!" Peter groaned, burying his burning face in his hands. "What if Y/n says no?!"

You sat cross-legged in the centre of your bed, your knees pulled tightly to your chest.

Every word of that conversation kept replaying in your mind on an endless, agonizing loop.

“You're completely obsessed with them!”

“I can't help it. Every time I look at them, my brain just stops working!”

“I literally fall a little more in love every single second I'm around them.”

You buried your face in your knees, a quiet, frustrated sob catching in your throat. It all made a painful kind of sense now. You had foolishly convinced yourself that the way he looked at you meant something special.

Turns out, he was just a guy with a massive, secret crush.

Just... not on you.

He had spent half the night thinking about her. Staying up late, losing his mind, agonizing over whether she felt the same way, while you sat in Chemistry sharing bagels and trading sarcastic banter, thinking you were the centre of his world. You weren't the muse. You were just the safe, friendly classmate he vented to when he wasn't busy drowning in his feelings for someone else.

“So that was what he was mentioning in the lab,” you whispered bitterly into the fabric of your jeans.

The exhaustion that wasn't just from his mysterious Stark internship, but from a heart beating wildly out of control for a girl who didn't even know he cared.

A sharp buzz from your phone on the mattress startled you.

You flinched, staring at the lit-up screen as if it were a venomous spider.

[Text from: Petey 🧪]

Hey! You left pretty fast after the bell. Everything okay? Also... about that bagel I promised you, is tomorrow still good? Let me know!

Your chest tightened until it physically ached. A fresh wave of heat pricked behind your eyelids. He was being sweet. He was always sweet. He was so naturally affectionate, so deeply caring, that it was impossible to tell where friendship ended and his secret devotion to her began.

You wanted to type out something angry. But you couldn't. You had no right. Who were you to him? You were just his lab partner.

Instead, you locked your phone, letting the screen fade to black.

He stared down at the glowing screen of his phone, his thumb hovering over the conversation thread as the screen timed out and went dark. He tapped it again. Still no read receipts, no typing bubble, no answer.

Peter’s brow furrowed. That wasn't like you at all. Usually, you were quick to respond. But today? You were acting weird. You didn't even wait for him after the last bell.

"She hasn't texted back?" Ned asked, leaning over the back of Peter’s sofa with a half-eaten bag of crisps in hand.

"No," Peter groaned, staring up at his ceiling. "Nothing. Zip. She definitely saw it, Ned. I know she saw it. What if she’s ignoring me? Did I say something weird in Chemistry? Was my breathing too loud? Did I smell like burnt toast?"

"Mate, relax," Ned said, rolling his eyes as he chewed. "You were running on two hours of sleep and looking like a zombie. Maybe Y/n just... had somewhere to be. Or maybe your texting vibes were off."

"My 'texting vibes' were perfectly fine!" Peter sat up abruptly, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "I offered a bagel! Everyone loves bagels!"

He looked down at his phone again, his chest tightening with a sudden unease. It wasn't his spider-sense, but his heart felt heavy. He couldn't shake the memory of the way you'd looked in class: so close, so bright, so completely out of his league.

And now, there was a strange distance between you that hadn't been there hours ago.

"I have to check on them," Peter muttered, already reaching for his hoodie on the floor.

"Wait, right now?" Ned blinked. "Peter, it's six o'clock. Are you gonna go over there as Peter or... as Peter-in-a-mask?"

"As Peter!" He slipped his phone into his pocket. "I'm just gonna walk by. Drop off a bagel. Or- or just see if everything's okay."

"You-" Ned was about to say something before Peter cut him off.

"Shut up, Ned. I'm going."

Twenty minutes later, Peter was standing in front of your flat. He had looked up at your window before entering the building. The light was on.

He knocked on your door, a hesitant and quiet three-count rhythmic knock that you’d know anywhere, before his anxiety could talk him out of it...

"Y/n?" he called out softly through the door, his voice laced with genuine concern. "It's... it's Petey. Are you okay? You kinda disappeared after school, and... well, I was just worrying about you."

Inside the flat, silence hung thick in the air. Peter leaned his ear slightly closer to the door, his enhanced hearing easily picking up the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing on the other side. And the faint, unmistakable sound of a sniffle.

His heart instantly plummeted to his stomach.

"Y/n?" Peter’s tone dropped all hesitation, instantly replaced by worry. "Are you crying? Did something happen? Please, open the door."

"Y/n? Are you crying? Did something happen? Please, open the door." Peter's voice echoed in the living room.

You answered his question in your head, but you didn't even move a little bit.

Yes, I am crying.

Yes, something happened. But I can't say that to you because if I do, our friendship will be over.

No, I won't open that door until you go back to your flat. Even if I know that you know I am inside and ignoring you.

"Y/n, please, talk to me. Are you okay?" He knocked again.

You finally sniffed and stood up. You gave yourself a few minutes before walking towards the door.

You took a deep breath before answering. "Yes, Peter. I'm alright. I'm just having a terrible headache. I wanna sleep. Please go back to your flat."

Who were you to be angry at him?

Peter didn't believe you for even a second. He rested his forehead against the door.

"You know, Y/n, I am bad at chemistry and I know you're smarter than me, but I'm not that dumb," he said in a gentle tone. "I am smart enough to know headaches don't sound like that."

After a five-minute-long silence, he started talking again.

"If you want me to leave, I will. But not like this. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, just let me come inside."

You took a long breath again before answering after a few seconds. "Peter, I'm alright, just exhausted. It's been a long and... weird day." You gulped. "Just... go home, we will talk about this later."

Peter winced at the heavy, final tone in your voice. He looked at the brown paper bag in his hand. The warm, slightly smashed bagel he'd practically sprinted three blocks to buy.

He knew he should turn around, walk down the stairs, and give you space. But the thought of leaving you alone in the dark, crying over something he couldn't protect you from, felt ten times worse than taking a punch from a supervillain.

"Okay," Peter said quietly, his voice laced with defeat. "Okay. I'm going."

You heard his footsteps slide backward, heard him take a shaky breath.

"I'm leaving a bagel on the floor by the handle," he added, trying for a chuckle that completely fell flat. "It's, uh... everything bagel. Extra cream cheese. The kind you like. Just... eat something, okay? Even if you hate me right now."

Silence stretched between you.

"I don't hate you," you whispered to the door, barely loud enough for a normal human to hear.

But Peter wasn't normal. His breath hitched.

"Then why won't you let me in?" he asked, the absolute raw vulnerability in his voice stopping you dead in your tracks. "Did I... did I do something wrong, Y/n? Did I say something stupid in class? Did I push too hard about the internship stuff? Just tell me. Please. Whatever it is, I'll fix it. I promise I'll fix it."

The utter desperation in his tone tore right through the angry, protective wall you had built up over the last two hours. It wasn't fair. He was sitting out there acting like he was the one who had made a mistake, completely unaware of the knife he’d shoved into your chest after school.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out and unlatched the deadbolt.

The click echoed loudly in the quiet hallway.

Peter froze. Slowly, the door swung inward.

You were standing there in your oversized sweatshirt, eyes red-rimmed and nose flushed, looking fragile in a way Peter had never seen before.

Peter’s eyes widened, his chest aching at the sight of you. Without thinking, he took a step forward, his hands coming up instinctively as if he wanted to reach out, pull you into his arms, and shield you from the rest of the world. But he caught himself at the last second, letting his arms drop awkwardly to his sides.

"Y/n..." he breathed out, his brown eyes overflowing with concern. "Hey."

"You're an idiot, Peter Parker," you said, your voice thick with unshed tears, though there was no real venom in it. Just exhaustion.

Peter blinked, taken aback, but he accepted the insult without hesitation. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. But... why am I an idiot this time?"

You looked down at his socked feet, then at the brown paper bag he was clutching tightly in his hand like a lifeline, and finally up into his wide, honest eyes.

"Because you're so damn sweet," you sobbed softly, wiping your cheek with the sleeve of your jumper. "You bring me bagels, you look at me like I'm the only person in the room, you promise to tell me your secrets... and the whole time, you're literally losing your mind over someone else."

Peter stopped breathing. The hallway seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.

"What?" he squeaked, his voice cracking violently.

"I heard you," you confessed, the words spilling out of you in a rushed, painful stream before you could lose your nerve. "After school. In the chemistry room. I was coming to see if you wanted to walk out together, and... you and Ned were talking."

Peter’s brain completely short-circuited. The empty classroom.

"You... you overheard us?" Peter stammered, his face instantly draining of all colour, only to flush a violent, burning crimson a second later.

"I heard enough," you snapped quietly, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. "I heard you telling Ned how you stay up all night thinking about her. How she's perfect, brilliant, and beautiful. How you fall more in love with her every second you're around her! And how you're terrified to tell her because you don't want to ruin everything!"

Fresh tears spilled over your lashes, blurring your vision.

"I felt like such a fool, Peter," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I actually thought... I thought maybe all those looks you give me meant something. But you were just being friendly. You were just stressing out over some perfect girl while I was sitting next to you dreaming up things that aren't real."

Peter stood entirely frozen, his mouth slightly open, processing your words.

He listened to you describe the 'secret girl.' He listened to you call yourself a fool. He listened to you tear your own heart apart over a conversation that had been entirely, utterly, 100% about you.

Slowly, the terror in Peter’s eyes melted away, replaced by a wave of shock, followed immediately by an overwhelming, helpless wave of tenderness.

"Y/n..." Peter began softly, stepping across the threshold and closing the door behind him with a quiet snap. He set the paper bag down on your entryway table, never taking his eyes off you.

"Don't," you begged, taking a step back into your living room. "Please don't pity me, Petey. Just... go. I just needed to say it so I could move on."

"Y/n, look at me," Peter said, his voice quiet, steady, and incredibly firm.

You blinked through your tears, refusing to raise your head.

He didn't force you. Instead, he took two slow, careful steps until he was standing right in front of you. He reached out, his warm, slightly calloused fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb softly brushing away a stray tear on your cheek.

Your breath hitched at the touch.

"You didn't hear the end of the conversation," Peter whispered, his thumb still tracing your cheekbone, his touch so unbelievably tender it made your knees feel weak.

"What?" you breathed.

"You ran away before Ned finished talking," Peter said, a tiny, nervous, trembling smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "If you had stayed... five more seconds... you would have heard Ned tell me to stop acting like a coward and just ask you out."

You blinked, the world tilting slightly on its axis. "What?"

"The girl," Peter murmured, his brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. "The girl who keeps me up all night. The girl who makes my brain stop working every time she smiles at me in Chemistry. The girl who is brilliant, and beautiful, and completely impossible to ignore..."

He leaned down just an inch, his breath warm against your skin, his eyes searching yours with pure, unfiltered adoration.

"It's you, Y/n. It's always been you."

Did you hear that right? Or was your tired brain playing tricks on you after a long, agonizing evening?

"Me?" you managed to choke out, your voice barely a squeak.

"Yes, you, you dork," Peter laughed, a sound that was half-sob and half-relief. He brought his other hand up to gently frame your face, his fingers threading into your hair.

"Who else could it possibly be? You think I buy bagels for just anyone? You think I suffer through Mr Harrington’s lectures running on zero sleep just to sit next to anybody?"

"But... Ned said you were obsessed," you stammered, your hands coming up instinctively to grip the wrists resting against your cheeks, desperately needing something to ground you.

"I am obsessed!" Peter admitted freely, his cheeks burning red, though he didn't look away this time. "I am completely, undeniably, embarrassingly in love with you, Y/n. I've been in love with you for months. I was just... I was terrified. You're so smart, and so incredible, and I'm just... Peter. I didn't want to ruin our friendship if you didn't feel the same way."

You stared at him, taking in the faint bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the honest, desperate warmth radiating from him. The heavy knot of pain that had been twisting in your chest for hours suddenly unravelled, leaving behind a sudden, sweeping rush of warmth.

A small, watery laugh escaped your lips.

Peter’s eyes lit up at the sound. "Are you... are you laughing at me?"

"No," you smiled, wiping away the last of your tears as a real, genuine grin spread across your face. "I'm laughing because we are both absolute idiots."

"Hey, I already agreed to being an idiot," Peter grinned, his shoulders visibly dropping all the tension he’d been carrying since he knocked on your door. "Does this mean... you don't hate me?"

"I could never hate you, Petey," you whispered.

Before he could process the words, you leaned up on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder.

Peter let out a soft breath, his arms immediately wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world, burying his face in your hair and inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of your shampoo.

"So," Peter murmured into your hair, his arms tightening around you just a little bit more. "About that bagel..."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. "Is it still warm?"

"Probably a little squished," Peter admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while keeping the other firmly rested on your waist. "But I promise it was bought with pure, unadulterated affection."

"Good," you murmured, leaning in and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his warm cheek.

Peter instantly froze, his eyes going wide, a deep blush spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. His heart tapped out a frantic, wild rhythm against his ribs. A rhythm you could feel clearly where your hand rested on his chest.

"Okay," Peter squeaked, his voice cracking again. "Okay, wow. Yeah. Best bagel ever."

"We don't like each other."

"You don't like him?"

You turn slowly.

Robin grins.

"Shut up."

"Oh my God."

"Robin."

"You totally like him."

"I will kill you."

"You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The face people get when they're hopelessly in love with my extremely annoying best friend."

You shove a VHS tape into her hands. "Alphabetise something."

Robin is still laughing when Steve finally wanders back over, muttering something about Dustin being the reason he'll have a heart attack before thirty. He stops when he notices the two of you looking at him, suspicion immediately narrowing his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say too quickly.

Robin's grin widens. "Absolutely nothing."

Steve looks between you, then fixes his attention on Robin. “What did you say?”

“Why do you assume I said something?”

“Because you’ve got that look in your eye you get right before you make my life significantly worse.”

You snort before you can stop yourself, and Steve’s gaze shifts towards you at the sound. Something strange happens to his expression then, the familiar annoyance loosening for half a second as though your laughter has caught him unprepared, and for one brief, dangerous moment he looks at you with something so close to fondness that your chest aches.

Then Robin, incapable of leaving anything alone, says, “I was just telling her my theory.”

Steve’s face changes. You feel the shift before he even speaks, the softness retreating so quickly it is almost violent. “What theory?”

“That maybe all this-” Robin gestures vaguely between the two of you. “-isn’t exactly what it looks like.”

“Robin,” you warn.

Steve’s eyes flick towards you again. You can practically see the panic moving behind them, his mind racing towards whatever conclusion he is most desperate to avoid. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Robin says, apparently delighted by the danger, “that sometimes people are mean to somebody because they don’t know how to act around them.”

The silence that follows is brief, but not brief enough.

Steve laughs. It is not a kind sound.

“Right,” he says, shaking his head as he moves behind the counter. “Or maybe I’m mean to her because she’s annoying.”

Robin’s smile vanishes.

Your fingers tighten around the tape in your hand.

Steve notices. You see the precise moment he does - the tiny falter in his movement, the colour draining from his expression - but whatever instinct might have prompted a normal person to apologise is immediately smothered beneath his embarrassment.

You should leave it there. You know you should.

Instead, because humiliation has already begun burning through your chest and anger has always been easier to carry than hurt, you say, “You know, nobody’s forcing you to be around me.”

“I’m aware.”

“Could’ve fooled me, considering you follow me around correcting everything I do.”

“I don’t follow you around.”

“No, of course not. You just mysteriously happen to be standing over my shoulder every time I breathe incorrectly.”

Steve exhales sharply. “See? This is exactly what I mean.”

“What, that I answer back when you treat me like shit?”

“That you turn everything into a whole fucking thing.”

Robin looks between you. “Okay. Maybe we should all-”

“No,” you interrupt, eyes still fixed on Steve. “Go on. Tell me what else is so unbearable about me. You’ve clearly been keeping a list.”

His jaw tightens. He should stop. Even Steve knows he should stop, but fear has already curled itself around his ribs, vicious and irrational, because Robin’s theory is hanging there between you and the possibility that you might look at him and realise it is true feels more dangerous than any argument.

So he reaches for the cruelest thing available.

“You want the truth?” he asks. “You’re always there.”

The words fall heavily between you.

You stare at him.

Steve hears them properly only after they have left his mouth, and the regret is instant, sharp enough to hollow his expression. He knows what they sound like. He knows exactly which private insecurity he has just found and pressed his thumb into.

But you are already nodding, once, your face settling into an awful, composed blankness. “Right.”

“That’s not-”

“No, I understand.”

“You don’t.”

“I said I understand, Steve.”

You place the tape down with extraordinary care, because if you move too quickly you think your hands might start shaking, then step out from behind the counter.

Robin says your name softly.

“I’m taking my break.”

“You took it twenty minutes ago,” Steve says, because apparently some diseased part of his brain is still committed to making everything worse.

You stop beside him. When you look up, your expression is calm enough to frighten him. “Then take it out of my pay cheque.”

You walk away before either of them can answer, disappearing through the staff door without once looking back.

Silence settles over the shop.

Robin turns towards Steve. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Steve stares at the closed door. Too many answers rise immediately, none of them remotely good enough. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How exactly did you mean it?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Robin’s expression hardens. “She looked like she was about to cry.”

The shame in Steve’s stomach turns nauseating. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Robin lowers her voice, though there is nobody nearby to overhear them. “You don’t get to keep acting like she’s some massive inconvenience and then lose your mind every time somebody else upsets her. Pick one.”

Steve drags both hands through his hair, staring at the door as though he might somehow reverse the last thirty seconds by looking hard enough. “I screwed up.”

“Yeah. You did.”

He considers following you.

The urge is immediate, almost painful. He pictures finding you in the back room, sees himself apologising, imagines what might happen if you ask him why he cares enough to be sorry.

Fear closes around his throat.

Steve looks away. “I’ll talk to her later.”

Robin studies him with open disgust. “Sure you will.”

He does not.

Later becomes the following day, and then the day after that, every missed opportunity making the apology feel larger and more impossible until the two of you settle back into the same brittle pattern as before - except now, whenever Steve complains that you are in his car or standing too close or talking too much, he watches the memory of his words shutter behind your eyes.

And every time, he hates himself a little more.

The worst part is that you stop seeking him out.

You no longer sit beside him unless there are no other seats. You stop lingering at Family Video after Robin’s shifts finish. When everybody gathers at somebody’s house, you choose whichever side of the room places the greatest distance between you and him, and if Steve drives you home, you thank him politely before leaving without the old argument about his music or the teasing complaint that he takes corners too fast.

He wanted distance.

Now that you have finally given it to him, he discovers it feels remarkably like grief.

Still, he says nothing.

Because Steve Harrington has spent years convincing himself that wanting you is dangerous, and cowardice, when practised for long enough, can begin to resemble restraint.

The Upside Down does not care about complicated feelings.

It doesn't care that Steve has spent three years pretending your laugh irritates him when he could identify it across a crowded room. It doesn't care that you once cried in your car after he told you to stop following him around, or that Steve spent the entire night afterwards staring at his bedroom ceiling feeling so violently ashamed of himself that he nearly drove to your house at three in the morning.

It doesn't care that every cruel thing Steve has ever said to you has been followed by the same sick feeling in his stomach.

Most importantly, it doesn't care that Steve Harrington has convinced himself distance can keep you safe.

The Upside Down has never been particularly interested in keeping anybody safe.

"Stay close."

Steve's voice cuts through the oppressive silence as the group moves deeper into the woods, torchlight trembling over blackened trunks and creeping vines. The air is thick enough to taste, damp particles floating everywhere like diseased snow, and somewhere beyond the reach of the light comes a distant, wet clicking noise that nobody acknowledges.

You glance at Steve. "Wasn't planning on sightseeing."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

His jaw tightens. "Could you, for once in your life, just listen?"

There it is.

You look away. "Yeah. Sure."

Something in your voice makes Robin glance between you.

Steve hears it too. Of course he does.

His grip tightens around the nail-studded bat.

He should apologise.

Instead, because Steve has apparently never met an opportunity for emotional self-sabotage he couldn't enthusiastically embrace, he mutters, "Jesus Christ."

You stop walking. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No. Go ahead."

"We don't have time for this."

"For what? You treating me like I'm some fucking inconvenience again?"

Nancy turns around several feet ahead. "Guys."

Steve exhales sharply. "Can we not do this here?"

You laugh, but there's absolutely nothing amused about it. "You started it."

"I told you to stay close."

"And I said I would."

"Then why do you have to argue about everything?"

"Because you speak to me like I'm an idiot."

"I didn't say you're an idiot."

"You don't have to."

"Guys," Nancy repeats, firmer this time.

You stare at Steve for another second before shaking your head and walking past him.

His stomach twists.

Robin waits until you've moved ahead before stepping beside him.

"Nice."

"Don't."

"You're an asshole."

"I know."

"No, seriously. What is wrong with you?"

Steve watches you disappear into the darkness beside Nancy.

Too many answers rise immediately. He settles for the easiest one. "Nothing."

Robin looks at him as though she'd quite like to introduce his skull to a tree. "You're gonna figure your shit out eventually, right?"

Steve adjusts his grip on the bat. "There's nothing to figure out."

Even here, surrounded by decay and monsters and the remnants of a world trying to kill them, Robin manages an extraordinary eye roll. "Sure."

Steve ignores her.

He has become exceptionally good at ignoring things.

Unfortunately, the Upside Down is about to make that impossible.

It happens too quickly.

Later, Steve will replay those few seconds so many times that they become something separate from memory, worn smooth around the edges from constant handling.

A sound behind him. Nancy shouting. Robin screaming your name.

Steve turns.

And you're gone.

Not entirely. That's worse.

You're still there, except the ground beneath your feet isn't.

The earth has split open where you'd been standing, a rotten section of root and soil collapsing into a fissure hidden beneath the vines. Your torch hits the ground first, spinning wildly as its beam cuts frantic circles through the darkness, and Steve catches one impossible glimpse of your face before you disappear over the edge.

He doesn't think.

He runs.

Your name tears itself out of him so violently that his throat hurts.

Steve hits the ground on his knees at the edge of the fissure and looks down.

For one terrible second, he can't see you.

Then the torch settles.

Twenty feet below, tangled amongst a writhing mass of vines, is your body.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

You're moving.

Thank God.

Steve is already lowering himself towards the edge when Nancy grabs the back of his jacket.

"Steve."

"Let go."

"We don't know what's down there."

"She's down there."

"I know, but-"

"She's down there."

Something in his voice makes Nancy release him.

Steve climbs.

He barely remembers doing it. Roots tear beneath his hands, dirt crumbles beneath his shoes, somebody is shouting instructions from above, but all he can hear is the blood pounding behind his ears and the horrible, strangled sound of you trying to breathe.

Because the vines are moving.

One is wrapped around your ankle. Another coils across your waist. A third has found your throat.

"No."

Steve drops the final few feet hard enough that pain shoots through his ankle.

He doesn't feel it.

Your fingers are clawing desperately beneath the vine around your neck, eyes wide and terrified as it tightens.

Steve swings the bat. Once. Twice.

The vine recoils with an inhuman shriek, black fluid spraying across his arms.

"Steve-" Your voice is barely sound.

"I've got you." He swings again. "I've got you."

Another vine lashes towards him. He barely ducks before driving the nails through it, wrenching the bat free and turning back towards you.

Your face is changing colour.

"No, no, no." The words tumble out without permission.

Steve drops the bat and grabs the vine with both hands. It's warm. Alive. It pulses beneath his palms.

He pulls. Nothing.

"Come on!"

The vine tightens.

Your eyes find his.

And there it is. The moment that ruins him.

Because you're frightened.

Not monster frightened. Not the familiar terror all of you have learned to carry through impossible places.

You're dying.

Steve sees you understand it.

Your struggling begins to weaken. Your hand slips from the vine.

And something inside Steve Harrington simply ceases to exist.

Every excuse. Every carefully constructed reason. Every stupid, cowardly lie he has spent years telling himself about why keeping you away was better.

Gone.

There is only you.

Your laugh. Your stupid arguments. The way you always steal the cherries from his milkshakes because you know he doesn't like them. The little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating. The sound of your voice saying his name.

The possibility that he might never hear it again.

Steve pulls until his palms tear.

"Don't." His voice breaks.

The vine doesn't care.

"Don't you fucking do this."

Your eyes flutter.

Steve feels something close to hysteria claw its way up his throat.

"Look at me."

You barely manage it.

"Look at me. Come on."

He wedges both hands beneath the vine.

"I need you to stay with me."

Your lips move. He can't hear you.

"What?"

Another whisper.

Steve leans closer.

"Steve."

His name. That's all.

It nearly destroys him.

"I'm here." His vision blurs. "I'm right here."

Then Nancy lands beside him. Robin follows.

The next thirty seconds become violence.

Nancy hacks at the vines with an axe while Robin drags at the one around your ankle, and Steve keeps both hands wedged between your throat and the thing trying to crush it. When it finally gives, splitting beneath Nancy's blade with a wet, hideous snap, your entire body collapses forward.

Steve catches you.

You don't breathe.

One second passes. Then another.

"Hey."

Nothing.

"No."

He lowers you onto the ground.

"Hey."

Your head lolls against his arm.

"Come on."

Somebody says his name. He doesn't know who.

Steve presses trembling fingers against your neck.

Nothing.

Or maybe his hands are shaking too badly.

He can't tell.

"No, no, no, no-"

Then you gasp.

The sound is horrible. Wet and ragged and painful.

It is also the most beautiful thing Steve has ever heard.

Your whole body jerks as air finally tears its way back into your lungs, and Steve folds over you so quickly he nearly crushes you himself.

"Oh my God."

His hand cups the back of your head.

"Oh my God."

You're coughing against his chest.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Steve presses his face into your hair.

And for the first time, with your heartbeat fluttering weakly against his palm, he allows himself to understand exactly what losing you would mean.

Everything. It would mean everything.

When you wake properly, the first thing you notice is pain.

Your throat feels scraped raw from the inside. Every breath aches. Your ribs protest when you move, and something beneath your shoulder blade feels as though somebody has driven a railway spike through it.

The second thing you notice is Steve.

He's sitting beside the bed. Of course he is.

You recognise the Wheelers' basement slowly around him, a lamp glowing faintly in the far corner, a glass of water and several bottles of painkillers cluttering the bedside table. Someone has thrown a blanket around Steve's shoulders, though he's barely wearing it properly. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles have gone white.

There's dried blood beneath his fingernails.

You remember why.

"Hey."

His head snaps up.

The relief that crosses his face is so naked that you almost don't recognise him.

"Hey." His voice cracks.

You swallow painfully. "How long?"

"Few hours."

"Everyone okay?"

"Yeah."

"Robin?"

"Fine."

"Nancy?"

"Fine."

You nod.

Silence.

Steve looks awful.

His hair is filthy, his shirt streaked with black blood and earth, a bruise blooming along his jaw that you don't remember him getting. His eyes are red.

You look away.

"Why are you here?"

The question hits exactly where you intend it to.

Steve's mouth opens. Closes.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay."

"I know."

"So you can go."

He flinches.

Good.

You hate yourself immediately for thinking it.

Steve looks down at his hands. "Can we talk?"

A humourless laugh scrapes painfully against your throat. "Now you want to talk?"

"I deserve that."

"You deserve considerably worse."

"I know."

Something about the lack of argument makes your anger sharpen.

For years, you've imagined this conversation. Imagined finally telling Steve exactly what he'd done to you, exactly how many times you'd gone home after one of his comments and wondered what was so fundamentally irritating about your existence that simply being around you seemed to put him in a bad mood.

You'd never imagined having it with bruises around your throat.

"What do you want, Steve?"

He looks at you.

And for once, there is nowhere for him to hide.

"I thought you were dead."

Your anger falters. Only slightly.

"But I'm not."

"I know."

"So?"

His jaw tightens. "So I thought you were dead, and I..." He stops, staring at the floor. "There was this second where you weren't breathing."

You remember his hands.

His voice.

Look at me.

"I know."

"And I knew."

Your brow furrows. "Knew what?"

Steve laughs once, miserably. "Everything."

You stare at him.

He rubs both hands over his face before pushing himself upright, restless energy carrying him halfway across the room before he turns back.

"I love you."

Silence.

The words you've wanted for years enter the room and somehow manage to feel like a slap.

Steve watches your expression change.

His face falls.

You laugh. You can't help it. It hurts your throat, but you laugh anyway.

"You're unbelievable."

"I know."

"No, you don't." You push yourself higher against the pillows despite the pain. "You don't get to do that."

"I know."

"Stop saying you know!"

He goes silent.

"You've treated me like shit for years."

"I know."

"Steve."

"Sorry." His voice breaks. "Sorry."

You stare at him, furious tears burning behind your eyes.

"I loved you."

His face crumples.

You hate that too.

"I loved you when we were seventeen. I loved you when you were still obsessed with Nancy. I loved you when you started driving everybody around and pretending you hated it. I loved you through every stupid haircut and every shitty job and every time you made me feel like the most annoying person you'd ever met."

"I never thought that."

"You made me think it."

Steve closes his eyes.

That lands. Good.

"You were cruel to me."

"I was."

"And now I nearly die and suddenly you love me?"

"No." His answer is immediate.

You stare at him.

"No," he repeats, quieter. "I didn't start loving you down there."

"Then what?"

"I stopped being able to lie about it."

The room stills.

Steve's eyes are wet now. He doesn't wipe them.

"I've loved you for..." He laughs shakily. "Jesus, I don't even know. That's the pathetic part."

"Then why?"

There it is. The question that has lived inside you for years.

"Why were you so horrible to me?"

Steve looks down.

For several seconds, you think he isn't going to answer.

Then, "Because I fuck things up."

Your anger stutters. "What?"

"I fuck things up." His voice is quieter now. "People. Relationships. I say the wrong thing, or I don't say anything, or I try too hard and make everything worse. And you..." He finally looks at you. "You mattered too much."

Your eyes burn. "That's bullshit."

"I know it is."

"Then don't dress it up like you were protecting me."

"I'm not." Steve moves closer, then seems to think better of it. "I thought I was."

You stare at him.

"I thought if I didn't let myself get too close, then I couldn't screw it up. Couldn't hurt you. Couldn't..." He swallows. "Couldn't lose you because of something I did."

A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.

"You still hurt me."

Steve nods. "Yeah."

"You idiot."

"I know."

"Stop-"

"Sorry."

Despite everything, something dangerously close to laughter catches in your chest.

Steve notices. A tiny, devastated smile appears.

You glare at him. "Don't."

"I'm not."

"You're smiling."

"I'm really trying not to."

"You're an arsehole."

"I'm pretty sure that's established."

You look away because, infuriatingly, you almost smile too.

Then Steve speaks again.

"I was scared."

The humour disappears.

"I know that doesn't excuse it. Nothing does. I made you feel unwanted because I was terrified of how badly I wanted you, and that's..." He shakes his head. "That's mine. You didn't deserve any of it."

You look back at him. "I can't just forget it."

"I'm not asking you to."

"You can't say you love me and expect everything to be fixed."

"I don't."

"And if you're only saying this because you watched me nearly die-"

"I'm saying it because watching you nearly die made me realise I could spend the rest of my life being scared, or I could stop making that fear your problem."

Silence.

Steve takes one cautious step closer. "I don't expect you to forgive me today." Another. "I don't expect you to believe me because I finally figured out how to say the right thing." He stops beside the bed. "But I'm done punishing you for something you never did."

Your throat tightens for an entirely different reason.

"And I'm done pretending I don't love you."

You stare at him for a long time.

Then, quietly, "You really are an idiot."

Steve exhales something halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah."

"The biggest idiot I've ever met."

"Probably."

"You have a lot to make up for."

"I know."

This time, you let him say it.

"And you're not allowed to be mean to me anymore."

"Never again."

"That's unrealistic."

"Okay." His mouth twitches. "I'll probably still tell you when you're being annoying."

"Steve."

"But affectionately."

You roll your eyes.

He smiles. And there he is. The Steve you've always known existed somewhere beneath all that armour. The one you caught glimpses of whenever he forgot he was supposed to be pushing you away.

You hold out your hand.

Steve stares at it. Then at you.

"Don't make me regret this."

His fingers close around yours with extraordinary care. "I won't."

"You probably will."

"Okay, I probably will at some point, but I'll apologise immediately."

A laugh escapes you. It hurts. You wince.

Steve's entire expression changes. "Shit. Sorry. Don't laugh."

"Then stop being stupid."

"I've got twenty years of habit to undo. Give me a minute."

You shake your head. But you don't let go. Neither does he.

For a while, that's enough.

Then Steve's gaze drops briefly towards your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

You notice. Obviously.

"Are you seriously thinking about kissing me right now?"

His ears turn pink. "No."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I've had a rough night."

"So have I."

"Yeah, yours was probably worse."

"Probably?"

"Definitely. Way worse."

You look at him.

Three years.

Three years of wanting him and resenting him and wondering whether the tenderness you occasionally glimpsed was something you'd invented because you wanted so desperately for it to be there.

Now he's standing beside your bed looking terrified to touch you.

You tug gently on his hand.

Steve steps closer. "Can I?"

You let him wait for half a second.

Perhaps that's cruel. Perhaps he's earned it.

Then you nod. "Yeah."

Steve kisses you like somebody who has finally understood that wanting something and deserving it are not the same thing.

Carefully.

No desperation. No attempt to turn the moment into something it isn't. One hand settles lightly against your cheek, avoiding the bruising around your throat, and his mouth brushes yours with such impossible gentleness that your anger doesn't disappear so much as make room for something else beside it.

When he pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests carefully against yours.

"Still mad at me?"

"Furious."

"Okay."

"I might be furious for a while."

"That's fair."

"You'll have to work for it."

"I will."

You study his face. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever decide to protect me by making me hate you again, I will personally send you back into the Upside Down."

A breath of laughter escapes him. "Got it."

"Alone."

"Okay."

"Without the bat."

"Jesus."

You smile despite yourself.

And Steve, still holding your hand as though the memory of almost losing it has been carved permanently into him, smiles back.

For years, he'd believed loving you meant staying far enough away that he could never hurt you.

It had taken almost losing you to understand the obvious flaw in that logic.

Distance had never kept either of you safe.

It had only made you lonely.

So when you shift carefully across the mattress and Steve settles into the chair beside you, your fingers remaining intertwined in the narrow space between, neither of you pretends everything has been magically repaired.

Tomorrow, there will be apologies to repeat and wounds that take longer to heal than the bruises around your throat. There will be years of hurt to unpick, habits to relearn, trust to rebuild slowly enough that it actually means something.

But tonight, when sleep finally begins pulling you under and Steve's thumb moves unconsciously across your knuckles, you don't have to wonder whether he'll still be there when you wake.

For once, Steve Harrington isn't running from the thing he's most afraid to lose.

dividers: @saradika-graphics