the guy across from you is completely oblivious. his hands are all over you, touching and grabbing like you’re his already. his eyes have that boyish glint in them, like he just won the lottery—they always look like that at first. this is the part where you almost feel bad. but your pride is huge—ego even bigger—and you’d be damned if you let frank beat you. so, you grab onto the poor guy’s hand and lead him out of the bar.

you aren’t planning on bringing him home, just walking toward it. frank, who has every route to your apartment mapped, notices right away. you are really pushin’ it this time. he grunts. his steps are heavy as he follows a few feet behind.

a few giggles later, and a figure behind you clears their throat. your stomach is already buzzing as you turn around. frank stands there, annoyance apparent in each micro-expression. his eyes flick to the guy. then back to you.

“ok.” he says in his gruff, sexy voice. “times up.” he crosses his arms, showing off those muscular forearms. were they always that big?

you smile, twirling a piece of your hair. “ok?”

the guy frowns. “uh-”

frank doesn’t even look at him. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. they drag up and down slow, taking everything in. “get outta here, bud.” is all he says.

you bite the inside of your cheek, looking up at frank with doe eyes. the guy sizes up frank and visibly swallows. “you know this guy?” his voice is absent of the cockiness it once held.

“unfortunately.” you sigh, rolling your eyes, even though a grin still graces your lips.

frank’s jaw tightens. “very funny.”

you smile sweetly, making his pants feel tighter. “thank you.”

the guy finally gets the hint and screws off. he mutters something under his breath and speed walks the opposite way.

you watch him go. then look back at frank. “you scared him.”

“good.” he growls, lifting his arm and checking his watch. “he had an hour.” an hour too long that is.

you raise your eyebrows. “oh, so you’re timing it now?” a sense of triumph heats your skin. yeah, you’re definitely winning. as you move closer, you drag your finger up the tanned skin of his arm.

“no.” he mutters. you hum in reply as he looks the other way. something burning hot creeps up the back of his neck and slithers its way down to his pants. suddenly, he grabs your hand.

that just makes your smirk deepen. “you’re obsessed with me.”

he scoffs, taking a moment before replying. “‘course i fuckin’ am.” his bluntness sends electricity through you. frank stares. you stare back. neither of you look away. finally, he sighs. “’m tired of this shit.”

your smile fades a little. “what shit?”

“this.” he gestures toward your skimpy outfit. “you going out. doing this. tryin’ to piss me off.”

you shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. “but it’s fun.”

he stifles a laugh, shaking his head. unbelievable. “you’re something else, you know that?” the roughness of his skin touches yours as he strokes your cheek.

you giggle and nod. “i’ve been told.”

this apartment is far too neat to be dick’s. it also has books…meaning it’s definitely not his. you look around. huh. dark paint stains the walls, each absent of any decor. a desk sits tucked into the corner of the room with exactly one journal and one pen in the center. there’s no pictures hung on the walls, just a framed wayne family photo on the nightstand—probably a housewarming gift.

that’s when the memories flood back. jason. your face immediately heats up. oh god. you remember pieces of last night. the party…and running into him…and telling him he was pretty. you touched his face at one point? somewhere there’s a vague memory of him carrying you?

you bury your face in your hands. “oh. my. god.” getting placed into his car is the last thing you can recall. you groan into your hands and stay there for a while. jason is so sweet. he could’ve left you at dick’s to fend for yourself, but he didn’t. heat blooms on your cheeks. if you didn’t have a crush on him before, you definitely do now.

“jason?” you call out, still halfway under the covers. no response. slowly, you get out of bed—albeit not gracefully—and check the bathroom, then the living room.

there’s nothing. no jason. no note. no glass of water. not even an advil sitting somewhere on the counter.

you stare at the empty apartment for a few seconds. “okay.” disappointment settles in your stomach like a pit. he probably had somewhere to be. he’s a busy man. he doesn’t owe you anything either. after all, he’s the one who helped you.

“okkkk,” you sigh, trudging back to his room to collect your belongings. it’s fine. before you leave, you take one last glance around the apartment. just the same as before.

you don’t see him for three weeks after that.

~

the manor is crowded when you finally see him again. you’d almost forgotten how easy it was to go weeks without seeing jason—almost.

you’re walking into the living room when you spot him. he’s sitting in one of the armchairs, flipping through something on his phone. your face immediately brightens. “jason.”

his eyes lift. for half a second, something flickers across his face. it’s gone before you can analyze it. “hey.”

that’s it.

you slow down. maybe the excitement isn’t mutual. “…hi.” you smile anyway, though your voice is weaker than before.

he’s probably just tired or he’s having a bad day. your mind brings you back to that morning, waking up confused and sad. there has to be some perfectly reasonable explanation for why he disappeared after that night.

you stop a few feet away from him. “i haven’t seen you in forever.” you gush with a giggle

“yeah.” he murmurs, already looking back down at his phone.

suddenly, you’re far too aware of yourself standing in front of him. you swallow, clasping your hands behind your back. either bruce raised the thermostat, or embarrassment is eating you alive. you wait anyway. “so, how’ve you been?”

“fine.”

you shift your weight and nod. “good.” he hums, not bothering to look up from his device. you try again. “um…” an awkward laugh escapes you. “i wanted to thank you.”

his eyes lift again. “for what?”

“for taking care of me that night.”

his jaw tightens. “you don’t have to.”

the sentence catches you off guard. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. still, a smile stays on your face. “i know.” embarrassment creeps into your cheeks. “but i wanted to.”

he looks away. “you were drunk. i did what anyone would’ve done.” when he looks back at you, his gaze is hardened—the exact opposite of how he looked at you the other night.

something in your chest sinks a little. “right.” you nod. “of course.” he probably doesn’t remember it all. that’s for the better. except then you remember the way he looked at you. the way he laughed. the way he carried you like you weighed nothing. you smile softly. “i hope i didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

“you did.” he retorts blankly. the smile you’d been holding onto slips before you can stop it. he doesn’t even look up. “you were a mess.”

“oh.” for a second, you don’t know what to say to that. so you laugh, quiet and awkward, hoping it’ll make the moment feel less uncomfortable. “well. that’s comforting.”

“you shouldn’t drink that much.” something in his voice has changed. it’s colder now. “you could’ve gotten hurt.”

the words make it uncomfortable to breathe properly. “i know.” hesitantly, you nod. you blink faster, hoping he doesn’t notice your glassy eyes.

“good.” and that’s it. no apology. no little smile to let you know he’s teasing. nothing.

you look down at your hands, suddenly very interested in the way your fingers are tangled together. you should’ve just said thank you and left it alone. “well…” you pull your mouth into something that hopefully resembles a smile. “it was nice seeing you.” you turn before he can see how quickly it disappears.

“you too.” he replies, causing you to stop. for some reason, that hurts more than it should. you look back and he’s still staring at his phone. like he can’t even bother to look at you.

you deflate with a sigh. “bye, jason.”

“bye.”

the second you’re out of sight, jason drops his phone onto the armchair. his hands drag over his face. “fuck.”

he wanted to say hi. he wanted to ask if your head hurt the next morning. he wanted to apologize for leaving without saying anything. he wanted to tell you that he hadn’t left because you were annoying or because you’d embarrassed yourself.

he left because waking up next to you had scared the hell out of him. for one night, he let himself forget who he was. he let himself have something nice. then he looked at you sleeping peacefully in his bed and realized exactly what kind of life you’d be stepping into if he let you get close.

all the violence. the secrets. the blood. the nights where he didn’t come home. the parts of himself he still didn’t know how to fix.

he wasn’t dick. he wasn’t charming and funny like him. he can’t hold his temper like him. he’s not pure of heart like he is. you deserve someone like that—someone jason will never be.

he looks toward the hallway you disappeared down. his chest aches. he knows he’s already hurting you. imagining that makes him ill.

and he’s still doing it anyway.

has always been observant. being spider-man practically requires it. remembering faces, routines, exits, all the tiny details people don’t realize they’re giving away. but he’s not sure if he started seeking you out, or if it happened coincidentally.

lurks outside of your work during lunch time just to see you shuffle across the street to your favorite cafe. it should end at that, but it doesn’t. he knows which route you take home. he knows which days you seem tired. he knows your position at work. he knows your full name and address.

tells himself it’s harmless. he’s spider-man. he’s just keeping civilians safe. it’s part of the job. except…he’s not just protecting you. he’s observing and waiting. waiting for his chance.

becomes irritated when you change your routine. he won’t admit it, but he’ll spend half the night wondering where you went. he’ll even swing across the city telling himself he’s going to check one thing. one thing becomes two. then suddenly he’s perched on a rooftop across from your apartment, staring at your naked silhouette through your sheer curtains.

beats a guy half to death and frames him as a burglar after he sees you out with him. the police don’t question it because why would they? your friendly neighborhood spider-man is keeping the city safe.

notices that you’re becoming paranoid. you keep turning around, watching behind your shoulder. he stays out later because of that. watches you closer. it takes him a week before he realizes you’re becoming paranoid because of him.

jason barely moves. you, however, stumble backward like you’ve just collided with a brick wall.

“oops,” you slur, losing your balance and heading straight for the floor boards. before you can even come close to falling, he catches your elbow.

“you okay?” his eyes soften, pupils dilating like they always do when he sees you.

you look up at him. your cheeks are flushed, eyes a little glassy, and you’re smiling way too brightly. “mhm.” you nod.

“ok, good.” he nods back. a few moments pass and you’re still staring at him through your lashes. he furrows a brow.

“hi, jason.” you gape. liquor runs through your veins, making your vision wobbly and your judgement cloudy.

something warm creeps up the back of his neck. he clears his throat and murmurs, “hi.” two minutes he mentally notes. he’s been holding eye contact with you for two minutes.

you continue flutter your lashes at him. he waits. you don’t seem to have any intention of moving. “you just ran into me.”

“i know.” heat floods your cheeks.

“you sure you’re okay?”

“yes.” you nod again. then immediately sway sideways.

jason’s hand tightens around your arm. “right.” he looks at the red cup dangling loosely from your other hand. “how much have you had?”

you squint at it, swirling it in your cup. “this?” you ask, still swirling the liquid and coming dangerously close to staining your adorable white dress that’s been driving jason absolutely crazy. “i don’t know.”

“jesus,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. you smile and giggle. he sighs, though there’s no real irritation behind it. “where’s dick?”

you immediately point across the room. “there.”

jason follows your finger. dick is passed out on the couch. or, more accurately, approximately half of dick is on the couch. his torso is sprawled across the cushions, one leg hanging over the armrest and the other somehow wedged underneath the coffee table. jason stares. “uh, is he alive?”

“mhm.” you nod, tucking hair behind your ear. “probably.”

jason looks back at you. you’re already staring again. “great.”

you smile up at him. “you look pretty.” you reach out and touch his cheek.

he coughs, nearly choking on his own spit. “what?” electricity shoots through his skin. hopefully you won’t notice that he’s burning up underneath your hand.

“pretty.” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “your hair.” your fingers stay on him, but drag up to his hair. goosebumps raise on his skin as you brush through his hair. “and your eyes.” your digits return back to his face, brushing his cheekbones.

jason’s expression goes blank. he opens his mouth a few times, but his throat is as dry as a desert. “you’re drunk.” he manages to sputter out.

“i know.” you reply absentmindedly, still running your fingers across his skin.

“very drunk.” he emphasizes. his pupils must be the size of the moon right now.

you lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “but it’s true.”

he swallows, looking to the side. his fingers drum against his pants. he could just leave you here. tuck you into dick’s guest bed and leave some advil and water. that’s that right thing to do. distancing himself is the right thing to do. instead, he motions his head toward the door, “c’mon.”

“where?” you ask, but you’re already following him like a lost puppy. when he starts walking, you grab onto his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

he looks down at your angelic hands intermingled with his. it should be a sin that he can touch you. “to my apartment.”

your eyebrows lift. “you have a home?”

he gives you a look. “yes.”

“i thought you lived in a cave.” you reply blankly. “like batman.”

“i’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.” he exhales sharply. you giggle again, bringing the plastic cup to your lips. before the liquor can touch your tongue, jason’s confiscating it. “give me that.” he mutters, setting it on a counter nearby. when he turns back, you’re staring at him like he kicked your puppy.

you jut out your bottom lip slightly, eyes filled with…sadness? “jason!” you exclaim, tugging against his hand and stopping him from walking.

“you’ve had enough.” he says calmly, running his thumb over your knuckles.

for a second you just stare at him. your eyes are doe and glassy. he swears you’re about to cry. he even squints his eyes, bracing for impact. then, you simply say, “okay.” and you’re smiling again.

“what?”

“you’re so nice.” you gush, stroking up and down his bare arm.

he looks down at you, completely puzzled, and just laughs. “sure.” he looks toward dick again. still unconscious. then back at you. yeah, he’s on his own. you’re swaying slightly where you stand, eyes following him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. his expression softens despite himself. “can you walk?”

“yes.” you say. then an amazing thought pops into your mind. “but can you carry me?” you’re grinning ear to ear.

he chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “c’mon, princess.” he leans down, scooping you into his arms bridal style. this is definitely not distancing himself.

you squeal as he lifts you up like you weigh nothing. now this is a real man. no argument or excuse, he just picked you up, no questions asked.

he walks toward his car trying to ignore the zoo in his stomach. focus, jason. one foot in front of the other. he’s repeating that in his mind when he feels pressure around his bicep. he looks down. “uh, are you squeezing my bicep?”

you don’t respond. instead, you reach forward to move hair out of his face. your fingers drop from his hair to his jaw. you trace the skin until he melts into your touch. but just as he began to get comfortable, you’re already off the bed, slipping on your shirt, and searching for wherever your jeans landed.

“we work because we’re casual,” you say blankly, grabbing your pants. “we work because there’s no strings attached.” you button the denim, zipping up your fly before looking at him again.

he’s leaning on his arms, covers low enough to show his defined v-line. “we would still work if you stayed the night once in a while.” he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for you to piece together.

“and when i start staying the night, that’s when feelings and attachments form.” you retort, grabbing your phone off his bedside table and slipping it into your bag. “i’m happy with this. with us.”

“there’s barely even an ‘us’!” he snaps, running a hand through his messy hair. his gaze falls to his stomach. his eyes trace the old bruises fading and new bruises forming.

“dick,” your voice is softer than before. you place your bag down and sit on his bed. he shudders as you run your nails up and down his arm. slowly, he lifts his gaze to yours. “i like you.” you press a soft kiss to his cheek. “i like our situation.” then a kiss to his forehead. “with you always on patrol and me having the worst work schedule, we wouldn’t have time for each other. you know that.”

he nods, although the muscle in his jaw twitches. he wants to say that he’d make time for you. that no matter what, he’d make you feel loved and appreciated. instead, he just hums in agreement, leaning forward to catch you in a haste kiss.

“see?” you smile, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “this is why we work.”

his head snaps toward you. confusion flickers across his face before something else replaces it entirely. his eyes widen, hands shooting to his face. “d-don’t look!” he jumps up, tripping over his own feet as he turns away from you. “mask! m-my mask,” he rambles, standing in the corner of your living room, facing the wall like a kid in timeout. “where’s my mask?” his voice comes out rough, still heavy with sleep.

“relax, it’s right here,” you chuckle, bare feet padding on the floor as you make your way toward the coffee table. “there.” you toss the mask toward him, and he catches it without looking. “not going to matter much, anyway. i saw your face when i was stitching you up.”

his shoulders go rigid. “you what?”

you hum. “you were bleeding through your mask when you swung through my window.” you explain, “you fainted on my floor. it was pretty hard to get you on the couch.”

slowly, he turns around. the mask is still clutched in both hands, though he hasn’t put it back on yet. he just stares at you like you’ve informed him the moon exploded while he was asleep. “you saw my face?” his throat bobs.

“i did,” you nod with wide eyes, “and…i am.”

he tries to say something, but he stops. he turns his head, exhaling deeply, and looking back at you. “all of it?”

your lip twitches. “is there another face under there?”

he lets out a sound that lands between a groan and a whine before dragging both hands down his face. “oh my god.”

“look, don’t worry.” your hands fly up in surrender. “i don’t even know your name, and i wasn’t planning on doing a police sketch of you.”

“wow,” he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “that is oddly specific.”

“yeah, i guess so.” you nod, a grin tugging at your lips. “i make jokes in tense situations.”

that sounds too all familiar to him. when peter opens his eyes, he really looks at you again. gosh, he was too busy panicking to realize how beautiful you are. you’re clad in some sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, but to him that was a ballgown. his mouth falls slightly agape as he ogles you.

“earth to, spidey,” you wave your hands back and fourth. “you there, crazy?”

he blinks a few times. “uh, i should go.” he clears his throat, almost choking on his own saliva.

you tilt your head, brows furrowing. “already? those stitches are pretty fresh.”

“yeah. i, uh…” he gestures vaguely toward your open window. “crime.”

“crime?” you purse your lips to stop amusement from flooding your features.

“the…stopping kind.”

you cough to hide a giggle, “righttttt.” you nod with a knowing look.

he hums in a high-pitched manner, a bright blush creeping onto his cheeks. “yeah.”

you watch him hobble toward the window, one hand pressed against his ribs. “you know,” you call after him, “most people use the front door.”

he pauses and looks at the front door. then he glances back toward the window. “habit.” he shrugs, scratching the back of his neck.

“sure.”

he pulls the mask over his face, wincing as it brushes the stitches. “thank you.” he murmurs. before you can answer, he swings one leg over the windowsill and hops down.

you jog to the window, peaking your head out. “hey,” he cranes his head to look at you from the ground. “try not to bleed on anyone else’s floor.”

nodding rapidly, he stumbles backwards. “i-i’ll do my best.” he yells back before firing a web and jumping. it’s almost a cool exit, until he smack’s directly into someone’s fire escape. he hits the ground with a thud and you wince. when he springs to his feet, he peaks back to see if you were still looking—you were. he mumbles a string of curses, sending you a haste wave, before disappearing into the city.

you stand there for another moment, staring at the empty street where he was standing. “weird guy.” you shake your head, heading back to bed.

~

a few days later, peter convinces himself he is not avoiding your neighborhood. he’s just taking a different route. a route that happens to go three blocks out of his way…definitely has nothing to do with the fact that there is a very nice and gorgeous girl who knows his face and he has no idea how to act around her. yeah, completely unrelated.

he tells himself that as he walks down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. he keeps his head down due to blooming purple mark under his partially healed stitches. his phone buzzes in his pocket. right, he needs to get flowers for may. that’s the only reason his phone vibrates these days.

may always liked flowers. every sunday she’d pick up a fresh bouquet and decorate the kitchen counter with them. it’s been so long that he doesn’t remember what she used to like. now he’s standing outside a flower shop staring through the window like he’s studying for an exam.

was it lilies or roses? maybe orchids. he doesn’t even know what orchids mean frankly. with a sigh, he pushes open the door. the little bell above him rings. the shop is warm and quiet. there are flowers everywhere, filling every corner with color. sunlight spills through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

you’re behind the counter, trimming stems and organizing a bouquet when you hear the bell. you snip a few stems before placing them down and tending to the customer. “welcome in, do you need any help-” your voice cuts off.

peter freezes. when he lifts his head, he nearly drops a lovely bouquet of tulips. for a second, neither of you says anything. apparently the universe thinks it’s funny to put the one person he’s been actively trying not to think about directly in front of him. “you,” is all he can manager to say.

your eyebrows lift, eyes lighting up, “you!”

his brain catches up seconds later. you know his face. you know he’s spider-man. you saved him. and while spider-man talks to women daily, peter parker hasn’t talked in a long time.

like a reflex, he begins stepping backward. “i should go.” he blurts.

you narrow your eyes. “what?”

“i just, yeah.” he moves closer to the door, keeping eye contact.

“wait-”

“have a good day.”

“don’t-”

too late. he turns around and walks straight out the door. he doesn’t run—running would be weird. although, he does walk as fast as he can.

“wait!” you call out again because what else can you say? you don’t know his name and you can’t just yell spider-man down a crowded new york street. he keeps going, feigning obliviousness. you scoff before picking up the pace. it takes dodging multiple angry new yorkers, and ten muttered apologies, but you catch up to him. grabbing his wrist, you tug his arm back. your efforts don’t do much considering the super strength, but he stops anyway.

shit.

he exhales slowly before turning around. you’re standing a few feet away, out of breath, and completely confused. “what are you doing?”

he opens his mouth, andddd nothing. every possible explanation sounds insane. hi, sorry, i panicked because you’re the first person who’s seen me without the mask in a long time and i don’t know how to have normal conversations anymore. yeah, no. “i just-” he gestures vaguely back toward the shop. “you.”

you point to your chest. “me?”

“not like-” he immediately realizes that was the worst possible start. “you know who i am.” you hum in agreement. “and i just thought maybe you were-” he thinks about the word, and knows it’s the worst possible one to use in this situation, but his mouth is already moving. “a fan.”

silence ensues. complete silence. you stare at him, pulling your shoulders back. “what?”

peter’s eyes widen. “wait not like-”

“a fan?” you repeat, scoffing. “you think i’m stalking you or something?”

“no.” he shakes his head, eyes still wide. every alarm in his body starts going off. “no, i mean-”

“you do realize that you crashed through my window, right?” you continue, crossing your arms over your chest. your breathing picks up. “i didn’t go out looking for you.”

“i know,” he squeezes his eyes shut.

“so what? do you think i’m some crazed fangirl with a shrine of you or something?”

he runs a hand through his hair. “no!” he looks genuinely frustrated with himself. like he’s trying to pull the words out of his brain and replace them with better ones. unfortunately, he has never been particularly gifted in that department. “i just meant that sometimes people…want things from me.” jeez parker, was that really any better? “no, i mean like,” he sputters, “people use me.”

your face contorts. “and you thought i wanted to exploit you or something? is that really how i seem?”

his face falls. “no!” he exclaims, brows lifting. “not at all, i just-”

“just what? you are just worried that i’m spider-man’s biggest fan or something?” rolling your eyes, you take a step back. “i don’t even pay attention to you! i could care less about some masked vigilante. i had you on my floor, in pain, and i helped you!”

“no, i know, i know,” he rambles, holding his hands up. “you helped me a lot, and i’m very thank-”

at that point, you’re already checked out of the conversation. who is he to insult you after a good deed? you don’t need his apology, nor do you need his validation.“whatever.” you grumble, already turning back toward the shop.

“i wasn’t trying to-”

the bell above the door cuts him off. you’re already halfway through the door when you glance back at him. “good luck with the flowers.” and you slam the door.

“well shit.” he runs a hand over his face. now he’s alone, upset, and flowerless.

~

the city blurs beneath peter…or maybe it’s his vision. it’s getting hard to tell. scorpion’s tail caught him harder than he expected. once across the ribs and twice across the shoulder. the last hit sent him through the side of an apartment building before he managed to web himself free. he’s been bleeding ever since. his web swings get sloppier with every block.

don’t pass out. not now. not above traffic. he lands on the edge of a rooftop, one knee hitting the concrete. he’s had worse—probably. honestly, he’s not feeling optimistic enough to compare.

his hand presses harder against his side as he swings over another rooftop. it’s warm beneath his palm. he lands awkwardly on the edge of a rooftop, one knee slamming into the gravel. his breathing comes harder than he’d like. as he peels his hand away from his side, he can see the pool of crimson. “cool.” he sighs, dropping his head back and exhaling sharply.

his apartment is another fifteen minutes away if he keeps swinging. there’s no way he makes it. he could go to the hospital, but, well, he snorts at the thought. “yeah,” he mutters. “that’ll go over well.” he leans forward, forearms resting on his knee as he tries to steady his breathing.

f.e.a.s.t.? closed. frank? he can barely take care of himself, let alone another person. happy? he would, if he remembered who peter is. his eyes squeeze shut. think.

“oh.” his eyes shoot open. your apartment is only a few blocks from here. but he’s already embarrassed himself twice, and he’s pretty positive the last thing you want is to see him again.

except…you stitched him up once already and you seemed to know what you were doing and you were the only person he could think of.

“…sorry,” he mumbles to absolutely no one. before he can change his mind, he fires another web and pushes himself off the rooftop. by the time he reaches your block, he’s somewhat numb to the pain. he drops onto the sidewalk harder than intended, one hand catching himself against a brick wall.

through the corner of his eye, he sees a flower stand. he almost walks right past it. “crap,” he stops, shoulders sinking. he owes you an apology—a good one at that. he’s already walking toward the stand before his brain can make sense of it. flowers make apologies better…don’t they?

the vendor looks up as a very injured spider-man stumbles over. “you okay, buddy?”

peter glances down at himself. his voice is weak. his suit is torn near his ribs, showing a deep gash. he’s swaying slightly where he stands. “great.” he mumbles absentmindedly. “can i get,” he looks down at the flowers. “those.”

the vendor follows his finger. “the daisies?”

“yeah, sure.” he doesn’t know if you even like daisies. he doesn’t know anything about flowers. he just knows showing up at your apartment bleeding again feels significantly ruder without them.

by the time he reaches your building, the flowers are a little crushed. one stem is bent nearly in half. “sorry,” he whispers to them, smoothing them upwards like that’ll make a different. just as he aims for your window, he stops. probably a better idea to take the stairs this time. windows are apparently how you end up accusing nice girls of being your biggest fan, and he’d like to avoid repeating history.

standing outside your door, he stares at the bouquet for a long moment. “please work,” he mutters before letting his knuckles meet the wood of your door.

“one sec!” you call out. there’s a series of random rustling and bangs, before you pull open the door, still drying your hands on a dish towel. “sorry, i was just-” the rest of the sentence dies in your throat. “oh.”

peter smiles behind his mask. “hi.” he lifts the bouquet a few inches. “these are…for you.”

your eyes drop to the flowers. one daisy is hanging on by a thread. half the bouquet is crushed. “did you bleed on my apology flowers?”

he follows your gaze. there’s blood on the paper wrapped around the stems. “a little.” you stare at him. he stares back. then his knees buckle. he catches himself on your doorframe before he can collapse completely.

your irritation fades. “seriously?”

“i know.”

“you’ve got awful timing.”

“also aware.”

you sigh through your nose. “you know, most people apologize with a text.”

“didn’t…have your number.” he laughs lightly. the action makes him wince. he clutches his side tighter.

you pop your hip, arms crossed as you take him in. how bad of a person would you be considered if you closed the door and forget this ever happened? yeah…you already know the answer to that. “how bad?” you sigh.

he glances down at himself again. the fabric below his ribs is completely soaked through with blood now. “pretty bad.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “ok, come in.” you step aside. “don’t make me regret this.” his shoulders relax as he takes wobbly steps into your apartment. before he can fall, you catch his wrist. “c’mon.” you tug him toward the couch a little more aggressively than you should.

“ow.”

“don’t you have super strength or something?” you point out, giving him another tug.

he whimpers at that (which may or may not make your head feel fuzzy) “still hurts.” he murmurs, gently lowering himself into your familiar couch. when he gets comfortable, he tugs off his mask, taking a deep breath.

you disappear down the hall before returning with a medical kit. when you walk back into the room, you can’t help the chill that runs up your spine when you see him. was he always this pretty? clearing your throat, you tip the kit upside down.

he watches dumbfounded as you dump the contents onto the table with practiced movements. to him, it was a pile of random tools; to you, it was a routine that you’ve practiced one too many times.

“shirt.” you state bluntly, staring at him like he was already wasting your time.

“what?” he blushes.

“take it off.” he stares at you like you’re speaking a different language. “unless you’ve figured out how to disinfect a wound through fabric.”

“right.” his face goes from pink to maroon. then, he’s fumbling with the torn suit, somehow managing to make taking it off look like the hardest task known to mankind.

you busy yourself with the disinfectant, pretending the broad stretch of his shoulders isn’t directly in your line of sight. when his torso is completely bare, you start working.

“this is gonna sting.” you warn, already pressing the disinfectant to the wound before he can process anything. he hisses through his teeth in reply. “wasn’t lyin’.”

he grunts. “i’m peter by the way.” it’s a feeble attempt at a distraction from the pain. you mumble your name in reply, pressing harder against the wound. he hunches forward slightly.

you clean the wound in silence for a minute. he watches your hands move like a man possessed. he can’t help but be mesmerized by you. it’s like you’ve done this a hundred times before. “how’d you get so good at this?”

you don’t look up. “practice.”

“that’s it?” he retorts, catching your hand. his hardens his grip when you try to pull away.

you look up at him through narrowed eyes. “i’m a nursing student.” he raises a brow, looking for more. “and i work at the flower shop part time.” you say while tugging your hand out of his.

“really?”

“mhm.”

“that explains a lot.” he smiles. “you’re really good.”

“thanks.”

the more you talk, the shorter your answers get. he probably deserves that. “you’re still mad.”

you pause just long enough for him to realize the answer before you even say it. “what gave it away?”

“what didn’t?” he chuckles.

you don’t answer. instead, you reach for another piece of gauze. “hold this.” he does. you press another strip of tape over the gauze, smoothing it down with the side of your thumb. “there.” you lean back onto your heels. “try not to get stabbed by any giant mechanical tails for at least…twenty-four hours.”

he lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. “i’ll see what i can do.”

“good.” you start gathering the wrappers and used gauze into a small pile, avoiding his eyes.

“i am sorry.”

your hands don’t stop moving. “i know.”

“no.” he shakes his head, watching you fold the gloves into themselves. “i mean…really sorry.”

you sigh quietly. “i know what you meant.”

he rubs the back of his neck, wincing when it pulls at the bruises scattered across his shoulder. “i just,” he lets out a frustrated breath. “i keep replaying what i said outside the shop, and every time i do, it somehow sounds worse.”

you tip your head to the side, squinting at him for a second before humming. “it was pretty bad.”

“yeah.” he smiles weakly. “fair.”

you finally glance up. he isn’t looking at you. he’s staring down at his hands, turning the crushed bouquet over in his lap. one of the daisy petals falls onto his jeans. gently, he brushes it back into the bouquet like somehow that’ll fix it. “i didn’t think you were some crazy fan,” he says quietly. “honestly, i don’t even know why i even hinted at that.”

“could’ve fooled me.” you mutter, pursing your lips.

his eyes squeeze shut for a second. “i know.” the apartment falls quiet again. “i haven’t really talked to people in a while.” the words come so quietly you almost miss them. your fingers pause over your medical kit.

“who knew new york’s favorite celebrity crush was lonely.” you mumble under your breath. he presses his lips into a tight line. maybe you should work on your comedic timing.

“yeah, it’s ridiculous. believe me, i know.” he laughs once, but there’s nothing funny about it. “some stuff happened and,” he searches for the words, eyes still fixed on the floor. “after everything, i got kind of used to keeping people at arm’s length.” his shoulders lift in a small shrug. “turns out if you don’t have actual conversations for long enough, you forget how to have them.”

you study him for a long moment. the stitches on his cheek are almost healed. a few new bruises litter his jawline. his bloodshot eyes are glassy. but it’s not just physically. he carries himself like a shell of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“peter, i’m sure you have more burden than i could ever imagine. and i can see that you’re exhausted and stressed beyond belief.” he nods immediately. “but it doesn’t magically make what you said okay.”

“i know.”

“as childish as it sounds,” you murmur, “you hurt my feelings. i mean, i did something nice and you repaid me by rushing out the door and basically insulting me.”

that finally makes him look up. his eyes soften. his lips pull downwards into a frown “i’m really sorry. if you want me to just leave, i will.”

you sigh, closing your medical kit with a click. rising to your feet, you sit on the couch cushion next to him. for a long moment, you stare at him. “you’re an idiot.” you say and his shoulders sink. “but,” he looks back up again. “that doesn’t make you a bad person.” for the first time in a while, hope fills his eyes. your lips curl into a grin and you nod toward the sad excuse for a bouquet resting in his lap. “you’re still buying me new flowers though.”

his eyes flicker between the flowers and you. “these don’t count?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

you raise an eyebrow. “look at them.”

he does…and nods. “that’s…fair.” he concedes, carefully straightening the bent stem.

you snort and warmth fills his chest. wow, that’s a nice feeling. he hasn’t experienced that in four years. he fidgets with the paper wrapped around the flowers before clearing his throat. “can i ask you something?”

you lean against the arm of the couch. “depends if it’s another accusation.”

his eyes widen. “never again.”

“then go on.” you laugh, heat rising up your neck.

he nods to himself once, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “would you let me make it up to you?”

you tilt your head with a smirk. “how exactly were you planning on doing that?”

“coffee.” he says, testing the water. “or dinner.” your reaction doesn’t give him much, so he immediately starts talking faster. “or lunch. breakfast. brunch even. honestly, i’m not picky. whichever meal you want-”

you bite your lip to hold back a chuckle. “peter,” you interrupt, “i’d love to go on a date with you.”

for a moment, no one moves. peter just stares like he didn’t fully comprehend your words. “what?”

“was i speaking another language?”

“uh, no.” he laughs once, looking forward. “i just,” he runs his hand through his hair. “i spent the last five minutes preparing for you to say no.” when he looks at you again, he still isn’t entirely convinced you aren’t joking. “so…that’s a yes?”

you smile. “peter, i literally said i’d love to.”

“right.” he bites his lip and looks down. “right.” slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “wow.”

you tilt your head. “wow?”

“yeah.” he lets out another disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “can i give you my number?” you stare at him, utterly amused, before nodding. “okay, good. just making sure we were on the same page.” you laugh, shaking your head.