Honeymoon Darling

The barista knew her order by heart now: iced latte, extra shot, oat milk if they had it. She'd claim her usual table by the window, the one with the wobbly leg that she'd learned to steady with a folded napkin, and spread her kingdom of chaos across the scratched wooden surface. Highlighters in every color, index cards covered in her cramped handwriting, and always—always—that worn photo tucked into her calculus textbook. Her and her mother at her high school graduation, wide smiles on their faces, both of them knowing it was the beginning of something that would either save them or break them entirely.

When the offer letter from Columbia arrived a year ago, granting her a full academic scholarship, it had been a dream come true in every sense. But dreams, she'd learned, often came with nightmares attached. She'd planned on attending a junior college, working double shifts at whatever job would have her, saving every penny for a couple years at a small state school. Maybe covering the rest with loans that would haunt her for the next decade, following her like ghosts through every paycheck, every birthday, every moment she tried to breathe freely.

She'd grown up with next to nothing, and nothing had a way of clinging to you like smoke. Her father never paid child support, not once in eighteen years, as if she and her mother were just a bad dream he could pretend never happened. Her mother barely scraped by on a waitress's salary, her feet swollen every night, counting tips on the kitchen table while the bills stared at them from the refrigerator door. Some nights, they ate cereal for dinner. Some nights, they didn't eat at all.

But her mother never complained. Never blamed her for the scholarships that didn't come, the opportunities that passed them by. Instead, she'd smooth her daughter's hair back from her forehead and whisper, "You're going to be something, baby. Something bigger than this." The weight of those words had carried her through every rejection letter, every sleepless night, every moment she wanted to give up.

So when Columbia said yes, she made herself a promise: she'd do whatever it took to keep her GPA high enough to hold onto that scholarship. Even if it killed her. Even if she had to sacrifice everything else—friends, fun, sleep, sanity—she would not let this slip through her fingers.

Engineering, however, was kicking her ass with the thoroughness of a street fight. Most nights she stayed at the campus library until security had to chase her out, her eyes burning under the fluorescent lights, her back aching from hunching over textbooks that might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian. She had a few friends, thankfully, so it wasn't as painfully awkward as high school had been, when she'd been the scholarship kid in a sea of designer backpacks and casual references to spring break trips she couldn't afford to dream about. But nearly all of her free time went to studying, to fighting entropy and thermodynamics like they were personal enemies who had wronged her family.

And sometimes, when the library walls felt like they were closing in and the equations started swimming together in her vision, a change of scenery made all the difference.

Hence the little coffee shop downtown. It wasn't anything special. Kind of outdated, desperately in need of a design refresh and a younger crowd. The mismatched furniture looked like it had been rescued from garage sales, and the walls were painted an unfortunate shade of beige that made everything look vaguely sepia-toned. But the coffee was good, rich and bitter and real in a way that the campus café's burnt offerings never were. The people were quiet, lost in their own worlds of laptops and loneliness. And the Wi-Fi was free, which mattered more than she cared to admit.

She first noticed the boy in the coffee shop about two weeks into her routine, the way you notice a new crack in a familiar wall, suddenly obvious, like it had always been there waiting for your attention. 

Well—"boy" wasn't quite right. He was around her age, maybe a year or two younger, caught in that awkward space between teenager and man where some boys looked like they were still waiting for their voices to change and others looked like they could bench press a small car.

He fell into the latter category, though he seemed determined to hide it. Nerdy, but attractive in that quietly devastating way that some guys managed without even trying, surprisingly fit underneath his rotation of corny science T-shirts and hoodies that were just a little too big. Like he was trying to disappear inside them. She figured he might be secretly athletic, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and the corded forearms she'd glimpsed once or twice when he pushed his sleeves up to type. There was a precision to the way he moved, like every gesture was calculated, controlled. Like he was stronger than he wanted anyone to know.

His face was the kind that would age well. Sharp cheekbones that were still settling into themselves, a jawline that had recently lost the last traces of boyish softness. Warm brown eyes that should have made him look approachable but instead made him look haunted. Hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be brown or auburn, curling slightly at the ends in a way that suggested he'd given up trying to tame it.

But what really caught her attention, what made her look up from her differential equations and thermodynamic cycles, was how often he pined after one of the baristas with the intensity of someone trying to solve the universe's greatest mystery.

She was a pretty girl, probably around their age—all willowy lines and wild curls that defied gravity in ways that made other women secretly envious. Her nametag read "MJ" in cheerful bubble letters that seemed at odds with her dry sense of humor and the way she moved through the coffee shop like she owned it. Beyond that, she didn't know much about her. Just that she had the kind of effortless cool that some people were born with, the kind that made everything look easy even when it wasn't. And that she was often visited by a heavyset Asian guy named Ned, who'd come in to chat with her during his breaks from whatever job required him to wear a polo shirt with someone else's name embroidered on the pocket.

The boy—whose name she still didn't know—seemed to spend more time watching them than drinking the coffee he ordered each visit: black drip, with just a splash of milk and sugar. Not enough to make it sweet, just enough to take the edge off. She'd watched him nurse the same cup for hours, letting it grow cold while his attention drifted again and again to the girl behind the counter.

But it was MJ he watched most. "Watched" was putting it lightly. Stared was more accurate, with the kind of focus usually reserved for final exams or impending disasters. It was almost obsessive, but not in a creepy way. Nothing predatory or entitled about it. It was... sad. Sweet, in a way that made her chest ache with recognition. A lovesick kind of staring, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and imagined conversations and the particular agony of wanting someone who might as well exist on another planet.

The kind of gaze that said he wasn't just nursing a crush—he was nursing a wound. Like she had broken his heart once, maybe without even knowing it, and he couldn't stop looking at her, hoping she'd change her mind. Hoping she'd see him. 

She recognized that look because she'd seen it in mirrors, on the rare occasions when she'd been foolish enough to let someone matter. But more than that, she recognized it from her mother, after dates that started with nervous laughter and careful makeup and ended with a slammed door. Muffled crying that lasted until dawn, and weeks of silence before the next hopeful soul came along. The look of someone who kept believing in love even when love kept failing them.

She'd never been one for relationships herself, had made peace with that particular sacrifice early on. They were distractions when you couldn't afford distractions, dead weight when you were already drowning in credit hours and desperate to keep your head above water. Besides, what could a boyfriend possibly offer her that she needed more than her next meal or next semester's tuition? Unless he was a genius in thermodynamics who could explain why entropy always increased and why that felt like a personal insult to her efforts to create order in her life, romance was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She was drowning in thermodynamics at the moment. Specifically the way heat always flowed from hot to cold, the way energy always found a way to dissipate, the way the universe seemed fundamentally committed to chaos. It felt like a metaphor for everything in her life she was trying desperately to control.

After a month of watching the boy pine with absolutely no progress — if anything, he seemed to be getting worse — more hopeless, more resigned to his fate as a professional coffee shop lurker, she finally decided to intervene. Maybe it was the engineer in her, the part that believed every problem had a solution if you just applied the right principles. Maybe it was simple human decency. Maybe she was just procrastinating on problem sets that made her want to cry.

She closed her laptop with more force than necessary, gathered her courage like armor, and walked over from her usual table to slide into the chair across from him with what she hoped looked like casual confidence rather than manic determination.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, wide with surprise and something that might have been panic. He jolted like she'd touched him with a live wire, blinking rapidly like he couldn't process what was happening. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his T-shirt hung loose like he'd lost weight recently. The particular exhaustion that came from wanting something so badly it consumed you.

Before he could speak—before he could stammer out some excuse and flee—she beat him to it.

"You gonna ask her out anytime soon?"

The effect was immediate and devastating. He gawked at her like she'd just asked him to rob a bank and donate the proceeds to charity, his brow furrowing in confusion so deep it was almost geometric. Up close, he was even more attractive than she'd thought. Probably around nineteen, with those warm brown eyes that looked like melted chocolate and currently held about the same level of coherent thought.

"I...what girl? Who even are you?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word, which would have been endearing if it hadn't been so obviously mortifying for him.

She stuck out her hand, undeterred by his deer-in-headlights expression, and gave him her name with the kind of confidence that came from having nothing left to lose. "I'm talking about the barista. The pretty one at the front counter. I've been coming here every Sunday for a month, and every time I see you, you spend the majority of your visit staring at her like she's Juliet and you're auditioning for Romeo. Except Romeo actually talked to Juliet, so maybe you need to work on your method acting."

"I wasn't—I mean, I don't—Juliet?" he stammered, glancing nervously toward the counter like MJ might have heard and would suddenly materialize to witness his complete social breakdown.

She raised an eyebrow, settling back in her chair with the satisfaction of someone who had successfully lobbed a conversational grenade. "So you don't think she's pretty? Or you do, and you're just hoping she'll develop telepathic abilities and read your mind eventually? Because I have to tell you, the success rate on that strategy is historically pretty low."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, his brain clearly buffering like an old computer trying to run too many programs at once. "I… I just come here to do homework."

She gave him a flat look that could have cut glass and leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough to make him lean forward despite himself. "Do you also do homework with your eyes? Because you spend more time staring at her than at your laptop. I'm pretty sure I saw you drool once."

His face went crimson in a way that suggested his entire circulatory system had just rerouted to his cheeks. "What? No, I wasn't drooling! I was drinking coffee!"

"Uh-huh. Through your eyeballs?"

"I wasn't…look, she doesn't know me," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in what was clearly a nervous habit. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and suddenly he looked younger, more vulnerable. "She's cool and... and she's got her life together, you know? And I'm just some guy who sits in the corner nursing the same cup of coffee for three hours because I'm too chicken to actually talk to her. It's not like she'd be interested. Now, at least."

The last part caught her attention—the now, at least—but she filed it away for later analysis. Right now, he looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and disappear forever.

She tilted her head, studying him with the kind of clinical interest she usually reserved for particularly challenging physics problems. "Okay, that's tragic but fair. Still, you might be surprised. Girls can't read minds either, by the way. If we could, the world would be a lot more efficient and significantly less mysterious."

The boy looked like he was trying to disappear into his hoodie, pulling the drawstrings tighter like he could create a fabric fort around himself. "This is… the weirdest conversation I've had before 10 AM. Ever. Also pretty invasive, if we're being honest."

She shrugged, unrepentant. "I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, consider this your intervention. Ask her out or I'm going to have to keep sitting here every week giving you pep talks and increasingly creative metaphors about your tragic love life."

He stared at her like he wasn't sure whether to laugh, run, or check if she was having some kind of psychological episode. There was something almost familiar about his expression, like he was used to people saying unexpected things to him, but not quite this unexpected.

"Your move, Romeo."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. His brain was clearly short-circuiting, and she could practically see him calculating the physics of rejection in real time. The trajectory of humiliation, the velocity of embarrassment, the probable outcomes of various social interactions.

She tilted her head like a curious bird. "Want some help?"

His head snapped up so fast she thought he might give himself whiplash, his eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like terror. "What—no! No, no, no help. Absolutely not. No help required or desired or—just no."

She blinked, deadpan. "Okay, relax. I wasn't going to push you into traffic and make her perform CPR or anything. Though now that I think about it, that would probably work..."

He sputtered, red creeping up his neck like spilled wine on white fabric. "I didn't—I just meant—I don't need help. I mean, I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's… totally fine."

"Wow. You sound very not fine. Like, impressively not fine. Should I be concerned about your blood pressure right now?"

"I am fine," he insisted, clearly unraveling faster than a cheap sweater. "I just, look, I don't even know her, okay? What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, I've been staring at you every Sunday like a socially inept raccoon, wanna get coffee sometime?' Because that's definitely going to go over well."

She snorted, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. "Honestly? It would be memorable. The raccoon line needs a little work, but it's got charm. Shows self-awareness. Girls appreciate self-deprecating humor, within reason."

He groaned and dragged both hands down his face, leaving red marks in their wake. The gesture was so full of frustrated despair that she almost felt bad for him. Almost.

"Why are you doing this? Seriously, what did I do to deserve getting psychoanalyzed by a stranger on a Sunday morning?"

She shrugged, brushing some imaginary crumbs off his table just to give her hands something to do. "It's entertaining. You're entertaining. Also, it's either this or go back to reviewing thermodynamics, and between you and entropy, you're currently winning. Barely, but still."

He stared at her like she was some kind of benevolent chaos demon who had materialized specifically to torment him, which wasn't entirely inaccurate.

"I just thought," she continued, tapping the edge of his table with one finger, "you might like a wingwoman. I could casually mention that you're probably not a serial killer. Girls respond better to flirting when they have another girl vouching for them. Like a reference letter, but for romance."

He continued staring at her like she had grown three heads, possibly four. "Do you do this often? Interrogate strangers in coffee shops about their nonexistent love lives?"

"Only the ones who look like they're about to die of unrequited feelings and caffeine overdose. It's a public service, really. I should probably put it on my resume."

He huffed a small, defeated laugh that was more air than humor, finally dropping his forehead to the table with a soft thunk. "God, this is so weird. My life is so weird."

"And yet, you haven't told me to leave."

He lifted his head just enough to glare at her from under his floppy hair, which was now thoroughly messed up from the table encounter. "You sat down at my table without asking."

"Semantics."

He let out another groan and rested his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers written in the water stains. "You know, I came here for a quiet morning. Just me, my textbook, and the blissful anonymity of public spaces."

"Clearly," she said, gesturing to his untouched coffee with theatrical flourish. "Nothing screams inner peace like silently pining for the girl behind the counter while stress-vibing into your laptop. Very zen. Very healthy."

He gave her a look that could have powered a small city. "Do you always narrate other people's lives like this, or am I just lucky?"

She took a deliberately loud sip of her latte, savoring both the coffee and his obvious discomfort. "Only when I get bored. And you're significantly more interesting than my heat transfer notes, which is saying something because those notes are riveting. Really edge-of-your-seat stuff."

"That's a really low bar," he muttered, but there was something almost like amusement in his voice now.

"You'd be surprised. Engineering textbooks have all the emotional depth of a parking meter."

He exhaled a small laugh before glancing at her again, still wary but no longer looking like he was planning an escape route. "Okay, serious question: are you messing with me? Is this some kind of social experiment? Are there cameras?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully, considering the question with the gravity it deserved. "Not entirely. Messing with you, I mean. There might be some mild entertainment value involved, but I'm mostly sincere about the tragic pining situation."

"Awesome. Super reassuring. Really putting me at ease here."

"Look, I'm not trying to ruin your life," she said, and for a moment her voice lost its teasing edge, becoming almost genuinely gentle. "I just think it's kind of tragic, the way you look at her. Like she's the last Pop-Tart on Earth and you're stuck on a desert island with nothing but stale crackers."

He covered his face with both hands, but not before she saw his face paint itself crimson again. "Please stop. I'm begging you. Have mercy."

"No promises," she said cheerfully, her good humor restored by his obvious mortification. "But I'll dial it back if you admit I'm right about the staring situation."

"I'm not going to…ugh." He peeked at her through his fingers like a child watching a scary movie. "What are you even studying, anyway? Aside from the human condition and the art of maximum embarrassment?"

"Mechanical engineering, fourth year. You?"

He hesitated for just a beat too long, like he was editing his answer in real time. "Biophysics. Maybe biochemistry down the line, I'm still figuring it out. Where do you go?"

Her eyebrows rose, genuinely impressed despite herself. "Ambitious. That's serious stuff. I go to Columbia. Got a full ride, which is the only reason I can afford to drink overpriced coffee and psychoanalyze strangers."

"No kidding?" He perked up slightly, something shifting in his expression. "I go there too! Just started this year, actually. And yeah, scholarships don't maintain themselves. Trust me, I know."

At that, something in her expression softened around the edges. She recognized something in his voice, the particular weight that came with knowing exactly how much everything cost, how precarious it all was. "Yeah. I get that. Really get that."

They sat in silence for a moment, and it wasn't entirely awkward anymore. Just quiet enough to feel like a temporary truce had formed between them, like they'd found some common ground in the shared terror of potentially losing everything they'd worked for.

He picked up his coffee at last and took a careful sip, making a face at how cold it had gotten. "I'm still not asking her out."

She smiled, and it was the first entirely genuine expression she'd worn since sitting down. "That's okay."

"…Really? Just like that?"

"Sure." She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "I can just keep showing up here every week and giving you unsolicited emotional coaching until you either break down and do it or transfer schools to avoid me. I've got time."

He gave her a sidelong glance that was equal parts horrified and reluctantly amused. "You're kind of terrifying, you know that?"

"And yet," she said, smirking in a way that suggested she was quite proud of that fact, "you still haven't asked me to leave. In fact, you seem almost relaxed now. It's like you enjoy being terrorized."

He rolled his eyes, but she caught the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite his best efforts. "You're… persistent. I'll give you that."

"I prefer 'motivationally gifted,'" she replied with a theatrical wink. "Also, you still haven't told me your name, Romeo. Are we going to stick with Shakespeare references, or can I get something to call you besides 'the guy who has a staring problem'?"

For the first time since she'd sat down, he actually grinned. Not the nervous, half-formed smiles from before, but something real and bright that transformed his entire face. For a moment, she could have sworn there was more light in those brown eyes than she'd seen in all her weeks of observation, like someone had just turned on a lamp in a room that had been dark too long.

He reached out his hand across the small table, and she noticed his fingers were long and surprisingly steady despite everything. "Peter Parker. And maybe I'll start studying up on my Shakespeare if it means you'll keep coming up with increasingly elaborate metaphors for my social failures."

She laughed—actually laughed, bright and genuine—as she took his hand. His grip was warm and firm, confident in a way that his voice hadn't been. “Just ask a girl out sometime and we can call it even.”

.

.

.

Columbia wasn't a huge campus, not by state school standards anyway. Compact for an Ivy League, really, tucked right into the heart of Manhattan like a secret garden hidden behind wrought iron gates. Dense and self-contained in a way that made it feel both intimate and impossibly vast depending on your mood. The Gothic Revival buildings rose from the urban landscape like something out of a fairy tale, all limestone and red brick and the weight of centuries pressing down on students who were just trying to figure out how to do their laundry without turning everything pink.

She'd lived on campus every year since her freshman orientation, when she'd arrived with two suitcases and a terror so profound it made her physically nauseous. It saved money—a lot of money—especially since she didn't have a car and probably never would. Even with the occasional bartending shifts she squeezed in between exams and study sessions, serving overpriced cocktails to people who spent more on a single drink than she had for groceries in a week, there was no way she could afford New York rent on top of tuition, books, and the thousand small expenses that nobody warned you about when they handed you that scholarship letter.

The campus had become her entire world by necessity, a carefully contained universe where she could control the variables, predict the outcomes, and manage the chaos of her life within clearly defined boundaries.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when, a few days after officially meeting Peter Parker—though she'd been thinking about him more than she cared to admit, wondering if he'd actually work up the courage to talk to MJ or if he'd spend another month perfecting the art of longing stares—she ran into him again. This time at a quarter past eleven in the campus library, in the basement level where the fluorescent lights hummed like dying insects and the air smelled perpetually of old books and desperation.

He was hunched over his laptop at one of the long wooden tables, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to physically shield himself from the world. A Red Bull sat to his left, the can sweating condensation onto a growing pile of napkins, and a teetering stack of textbooks rose to his right like a paper tower threatening to topple at any moment. Faded jeans that had seen better days, scuffed sneakers that were more holes than shoes, and a dark blue hoodie that was either genuinely vintage or had been worn so often it achieved that soft, broken-in quality that money couldn't buy.

The dark circles under his eyes were visible even from across the room, purple-black smudges that spoke of too many late nights and not enough sleep. She recognized the look because she wore it herself most days. The particular exhaustion that came from pushing your body past its limits in service of academic survival.

She approached quietly, noting the way his fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising speed and precision, the way his brow was furrowed in concentration so intense it looked almost painful. For a moment, she hesitated, remembering how skittish he'd been at the coffee shop, how easily he'd startled.

Then she slid into the seat across from him, leaned forward with a predatory grin, and tugged one of his earbuds out with the casual confidence of someone who had already decided they were friends whether he liked it or not.

"We meet again, Romeo."

Peter jumped in his chair like she'd just set off a small explosive, his hand flying to his chest as he blinked rapidly at her with those wide brown eyes. For a second, he looked genuinely panicked, like she might be a hallucination brought on by caffeine overdose and sleep deprivation. But then recognition dawned, followed immediately by what looked suspiciously like relief.

"You— I… you go here?" he stammered, his voice doing that thing where it pitched upward mid-sentence, cracking slightly on the last word in a way that made her want to simultaneously tease him and wrap him in a protective blanket.

She gave him the kind of flat, unimpressed look she usually reserved for particularly stupid thermodynamics problems. "I told you I go here the last time we met. Like, explicitly. With words and everything."

"I know, I remember—I meant—" He winced, already flustering himself into a corner like a particularly anxious butterfly. "That came out wrong. I know you go here, obviously you go here, I just didn't expect to see you here here. Like, this specific library. This specific floor. Not that you don't belong here or anything—obviously you do, you're clearly smarter than me based on our previous conversation and probably most conversations—"

She held up a hand like a traffic cop, fighting back a smile. "You're spiraling."

He exhaled, his shoulders deflating like a punctured balloon. "I am. God, I am."

She smirked and gestured to the Red Bull with the kind of theatrical concern usually reserved for interventions. "Is that your second or third today?"

He looked down at the can like he'd forgotten it existed, then back at her with something that might have been shame. "...Fourth."

"Impressive. Bold. Dangerously unhealthy. Are you actively trying to give yourself a heart condition, or is that just a happy accident?"

"I like to live on the edge," he deadpanned, and there was something in his delivery—dry and perfectly timed—that made her suspect Peter Parker might actually have a sense of humor underneath all that nervous energy. Or maybe he was just totally serious. 

She snorted, genuinely delighted. "Right. The edge of cardiac arrest. Very punk rock of you."

He cracked a tired smile, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses in a gesture that was becoming familiar. She noticed his hands — long fingers, calloused in weird places, like he did manual labor or played an instrument or had some hobby that required precise, repetitive motions.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, leaning back in his chair for the first time since she'd sat down. "I figured you'd be at your coffee shop, terrorizing other unsuspecting customers."

"Well," she said, settling back in her own chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she studied him with renewed interest, "most coffee shops aren't open at—" she checked her phone "—less than an hour before midnight. Revolutionary concept, I know, but apparently even baristas need sleep."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Right. Obviously. Time is... a construct I've been ignoring lately."

"I actually go to this library a lot," she continued, noting the way his eyes darted around the room like he was cataloging exits. "It's the closest to my dorm on campus, and the basement level is usually pretty dead. I just usually camp out on the top floor to avoid as many people as possible. Less distracting when you're trying to convince yourself that engineering makes sense."

He shifted at that, looking away nervously, and something in his body language made her narrow her eyes. There was recognition there, maybe even guilt.

"Just like how you avoid talking to women you develop crushes on when they're within a ten-foot radius of you," she added with a grin that was equal parts teasing and fond.

Peter groaned and dropped his head to the table with a soft thunk that echoed in the quiet space. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the wooden surface. "You're never letting me live that down, are you?"

"Not a chance," she said, and her tone was cheerful enough to power a small city. "It's too good. Plus, it's character building for you."

He lifted his head just enough to peek at her, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his glasses slightly askew. The effect was simultaneously pathetic and endearing. "You gonna bring it up every time you see me? Because I'm starting to think you might be stalking me."

"Only when it's funny. Or convenient. Or when I'm bored, which is often." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. "Speaking of which—did you ask her out yet? MJ? Make your grand romantic gesture? Recite some Shakespeare under her window?"

His face fell—barely, but noticeably if you were watching for it. His shoulders slumped a little, and he looked back at his laptop screen like it might save him from the conversation. The light from the screen cast harsh shadows under his eyes, making him look younger and more fragile than she'd expected.

"No," he muttered, and there was something final in the way he said it, like a door closing.

She blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his mood. She'd been prepared for stammering, for excuses, for the same lovesick rambling from the coffee shop. This quiet resignation was something else entirely.

"Still planning your Shakespeare monologue?" she asked, and her voice was softer now, gentler, like she was approaching a wounded animal.

He gave a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just a hollow sound that made her chest tighten unexpectedly. "I dunno. It's... stupid. She won't... she doesn't even know I exist. And even if she did..."

He trailed off, shaking his head like he was arguing with himself.

"Peter," she said, and her tone was flat enough to cut through whatever spiral he was starting. "You've got the emotional energy of a brooding romantic poet and the bone structure of an early 2000s rom-com star. Trust me, she knows you exist."

He laughed again, genuinely this time, but it was short-lived. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like pain.

"Yeah, well. Doesn't matter. It's... complicated," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice—raw and quietly defeated—that caught her completely off guard.

This wasn't the theatrical angst of a college kid with a crush. This was real hurt, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than unrequited coffee shop attraction. The kind that spoke of history, of loss, of wounds that hadn't quite healed.

She found herself studying his face more carefully, noting the way his jaw tightened when he thought she wasn't looking, the way his hands had curled into loose fists on the table. Whatever was going on with MJ, it was bigger than she'd realized.

So she pivoted, because she didn't know him well enough to push, and because bringing down someone who was already clearly struggling felt unnecessarily cruel.

"Anyway," she said, injecting false brightness into her voice, "speaking of tragic losses that might actually ruin my life—thermodynamics."

That got his attention. His head snapped up, brown eyes focusing on her with laser-like intensity.

She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her backpack and slapped it onto the table like it had personally insulted her entire family. The paper was covered in her cramped handwriting, equations crossed out and rewritten so many times it looked like a mathematical crime scene.

"This assignment is currently destroying my will to live," she announced dramatically. "I've done this problem five times, and either I'm fundamentally broken as a human being or the universe has a personal vendetta against me. Possibly both."

Peter straightened slightly, his whole demeanor shifting as he leaned forward to squint at the page. It was like watching someone flip a switch. Suddenly he was alert, engaged, his previous melancholy temporarily forgotten in the face of what appeared to be an academic challenge.

"Can I see?" he asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice now, the kind of interest that people usually reserved for things they actually cared about.

"Knock yourself out," she said, pushing the paper across the table. "But fair warning, I'm pretty sure this problem was designed by sadists who hate joy."

He pulled it toward him, eyes scanning the equations with the kind of focused intensity she usually associated with people reading medical test results or legal documents. Then, without a word, without even asking for a pencil, he flipped the paper over, grabbed a pen from seemingly nowhere, and started writing in the margin.

She watched, fascinated despite herself, as his hand moved across the paper with smooth, confident strokes. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just pure, methodical problem-solving that looked almost effortless. Less than a minute later, he pushed it back to her with a small smile.

She frowned and looked at the paper. He hadn't just solved the problem—he'd identified the exact moment where she'd made an incorrect assumption about internal energy, traced her error through the entire equation chain, and corrected her work with the kind of clarity that made her original attempt look like chicken scratches in comparison. The solution was clean, elegant, and probably correct in a way that made her want to both thank him and throw something at his head.

She looked up at him, genuinely stunned. "Okay, that was deeply disturbing."

Peter shifted in his seat, suddenly looking embarrassed again, like he'd just realized he'd shown off in a way that might be socially inappropriate. "It's not that hard once you know where to isolate the variables. You were actually really close. You just got tripped up on the boundary conditions."

She blinked at him, processing. "Are you secretly a robot? Because that was not human-level problem solving. That was something else entirely."

He shrugged, and the gesture was so casual it was almost insulting. "No, I just... like this stuff, I guess. It clicks for me."

"'Clicks,'" she repeated, her voice completely deadpan. "Peter, I just watched you dismantle a thermodynamics midterm question like it owed you money and insulted your mother. That's not 'clicking.' That's wizardry."

He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture she was starting to recognize as his default response to any kind of praise or attention. "I mean, it's kind of my thing. Science. Math. Physics. Always has been."

"Your thing," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "God, you're such a nerd."

His face fell again, just a little, like he wasn't sure if she meant it as an insult or an observation. Like maybe he'd been called worse things and was bracing himself for impact.

But then she smiled, not her usual smirk or grin, but something genuine and warm. She reached across the table to pat his arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. Physical comfort wasn't exactly her strong suit, but he looked like he needed it.

"It's impressive," she said simply. "Really impressive. I've been beating my head against this stuff for weeks, and you just... solved it. Like it was nothing."

Peter blinked, clearly surprised. "Wait, was that... a compliment? From you? Should I be documenting this moment for posterity?"

She leaned back in her chair and raised her nearly empty coffee cup in a mock toast. "Don't get used to it, Parker. I have a reputation to maintain."

He grinned, the first genuinely happy expression she'd seen from him since sitting down. "Noted. I'll treasure it forever."

"You better." She paused, then leaned forward again, studying him with renewed interest. "So. Do you, uh... want to help? With thermodynamics? Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail this class without some kind of intervention, and you seem to have an unfair advantage in the 'understanding how the universe works' department."

He hesitated for just a second, like he was afraid she might be joking or setting him up for some kind of elaborate prank. "You'd actually want my help? I mean, I'm already practically living in this library anyway, so I might as well be useful for something."

She narrowed her eyes, like she was studying him for signs of sarcasm or ulterior motives. Then she nodded decisively. "Okay. You're hired."

"Hired?" he asked, and there was something almost pleased in his voice, like the idea of being needed for something was novel and welcome.

"As my academic emotional support tutor," she announced with the gravity of someone offering a prestigious position. "Payment is limited to mild sarcasm, the occasional coffee, and my eternal gratitude. Which, fair warning, might not be worth much in the current market."

Peter smiled again, this time brighter, more genuine. She had a sinking suspicion he didn't know many people at Columbia yet, hadn't made the easy friendships that some people seemed to fall into effortlessly. Maybe he was just lonely, or maybe there was something else. Some reason why a kid who was clearly brilliant and not entirely unfortunate-looking was spending his nights alone in the library basement, subsisting on energy drinks and academic problem-solving.

"Deal," he said simply, and something in his voice made her think this might be the best offer he'd gotten in a while.

They settled into a rhythm after that. With him explaining concepts in that fast but remarkably clear way that only came from genuine understanding, his hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible diagrams in the air that somehow made more sense than anything in her textbook. And her scribbling furiously in her notebook, occasionally muttering creative insults at entropy like it was a personal enemy who had wronged her family.

After a solid forty-five minutes of progress that felt almost miraculous, she leaned back in her chair and let out a low whistle.

"Okay, Parker. I'm officially impressed. Like, genuinely concerned about your brain's processing power."

"Thanks," he said, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses with the heel of his palm. "You're actually a pretty fast learner when you're not busy composing death threats to thermodynamic principles."

"Years of perfectionism and childhood trauma," she said cheerfully. "Builds character and study habits. Mostly study habits." She paused, then glanced at him with the kind of curiosity that had gotten her into trouble more than once. "So. What's your deal, anyway?"

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "My... deal?"

"Yeah. You know, what's your backstory, Romeo? Where'd you grow up? What's your tragic academic origin story? How does a kid end up being able to solve thermodynamics problems like he's ordering coffee?"

He hesitated for a second too long, and she caught it. There was something there, some story he wasn't sure he wanted to tell.

"I mean, if it's classified information, I can pretend I never asked," she added, trying to keep her voice light. "I'm good at selective amnesia when necessary."

"No, it's not—" he shook his head quickly, like he was clearing cobwebs. "I just don't usually get asked that. People don't usually... want to know."

She tilted her head, studying him more carefully. There was something vulnerable in the admission, something that made her chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You don't talk to people much, do you?" she asked gently.

Peter gave her a tired little smile that was more sad than happy. "Not lately. Not really."

That gave her pause. She'd been thinking of him as shy, maybe socially anxious, but this felt like something different. Like he'd withdrawn from people deliberately, or maybe people had withdrawn from him.

She didn't push, though. Just leaned back in her chair and sipped the last of her coffee, giving him space to decide how much he wanted to share.

"I grew up in Queens," he said finally, his voice quiet in the library's hush. "Forest Hills, specifically. Nice neighborhood, quiet. Good schools."

"Ah, a city kid. That explains the subway navigation skills I assume you have."

"Yeah." He tapped his pencil against his notebook in a rhythm that seemed unconscious, nervous. "It was just me and my Aunt May and Uncle Ben, growing up. My parents died when I was really little—car accident. I don't really remember them."

Her expression softened around the edges, though she didn't interrupt. She'd learned early in life that sometimes people needed to tell their stories in their own time, their own way.

"May raised me," he continued, and there was warmth in his voice when he said her name, the kind of love that came from years of shared jokes and scraped knees and bedtime stories. 

"She was... she was amazing. Strongest person I ever knew. Could fix anything. Cars, broken hearts, impossible math homework. She always said I got my brain from my dad, but my heart from her."

The past tense hit her like a physical blow. Was. Could.

"She passed away a little while ago," he added quietly, not looking at her. “And Uncle Ben... he died a few years back. Heart attack."

She felt her own heart stop for a moment. When she'd made that joke about tragic backstories, she'd been thinking about failed classes and unrequited crushes, not actual tragedy. Not the kind of loss that reshaped your entire world.

"Shit," she breathed, and it came out softer than she'd intended. "Peter, I'm so sorry. That's... God, that's awful."

He shrugged one shoulder, but the gesture was too careful, too controlled. Like he'd practiced it in mirrors until it looked casual instead of devastating.

"Yeah. Thanks. It's been... it's been a weird year," he said, and there was something in his voice that made her think 'weird' was a massive understatement.

She studied him for a moment, noting the way his shoulders had curved inward again, the way his hands had gone still on the table. The dark circles under his eyes suddenly made more sense, as did the energy drinks and the late nights and the general air of someone who was barely holding himself together.

"You live with anyone now?" she asked carefully.

He hesitated again, and she was starting to recognize that pause as a sign that he was editing his response in real time.

"No. Just me," he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Seriously? What are you, like, twenty? You live alone in New York? That's... that's actually kind of terrifying."

He almost smiled at that. "I'm almost nineteen, actually. And yeah, I know how it sounds. But I'm good at taking care of myself. I've had to be."

"Do you even know how to do laundry without turning everything pink?" she asked, trying to inject some lightness back into the conversation. "Because that's like, Advanced Adult Skills 101."

"Yes, actually," he said, and there was something almost proud in his voice. "And I can cook. Real food, not just ramen and cereal. May taught some some stuff before..."

He trailed off, but she got the message. Before she passed. Before she couldn't teach him anymore.

"Alright, points for basic life skills," she said with exaggerated approval. "Though I'm still suspicious. Most nineteen-year-olds I know can barely manage to shower regularly, let alone maintain an entire apartment."

"I'm just really independent," he said with a small smile, but there was something a little sad behind it. Like independence hadn't been a choice so much as a necessity.

She watched him for a moment, taking in the careful way he held himself, the practiced ease with which he deflected concern. Peter Parker, she was beginning to realize, was carrying a lot more weight than anyone his age should have to bear.

"Okay, tragic lone wolf," she said finally, deciding not to push any further. "Let's get back to entropy before I start psychoanalyzing you and we both end up crying into our textbooks."

Peter looked genuinely relieved. "Please. I'd rather discuss the heat death of the universe than my feelings."

"Deal," she said, flipping open her notebook. But as they bent over the physics problems again, she found herself stealing glances at him, wondering what other stories he was carrying, what other wounds he was hiding behind that careful smile and those impossibly steady hands.

They bent over the notebook again, heads close together as he explained another equation. This time, though, she noticed how quickly he caught her mistakes. Not with impatience, but with the kind of gentle precision that made her wonder if he'd done this before. How patient he was in explaining every step, even when she made him repeat it twice, three times. His voice never carried that edge of frustration she'd grown used to from other study partners.

And every once in a while, she'd glance up to find him already looking at her, brow furrowed in concentration — not at the problem, but at her. Like he was still trying to figure her out, piece together some puzzle she didn't even know she was presenting.

The study dates became a routine. A quiet kind of habit that settled into her bones like warmth. Some nights she'd find him already at their usual corner table in the library, half-asleep over his notes with a Red Bull clutched like a lifeline in fingers that trembled slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Other days, he wouldn't respond to a text until late morning or mid-afternoon, his replies apologetic and vague —“sorry, was out late,” or, “phone died, long night”.

She never pried. But she assumed he had some kind of late-night job. Something exhausting and unrelenting that drained him in ways she could see carved into the shadows beneath his eyes. It would explain the chronic dark circles that no amount of concealer seemed to touch, the worn-out jeans that never seemed to change, and the borderline dependence on caffeine that had him reaching for another energy drink before he'd finished the first. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn't getting much rest. Some nights he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, moving with a careful stiffness that spoke of hidden bruises and aching muscles.

She would never admit it out loud. Definitely not to him, and barely even to herself, but Peter had quietly become one of her favorite people. A friend, sure. But one that had snuck under her skin in a way few others had ever managed. 

He made her laugh without trying, listened when she rambled about her classes, and had this way of making even the most mundane moments feel lighter. And she felt for him, truly. He lived alone in what she imagined was some cramped studio apartment, didn't seem to have much family beyond vague mentions of his aunt, and carried himself like he was used to being on his own—even when surrounded by people, there was something almost untouchable about his solitude.

So, she started bringing him food.

At first it was leftovers. Takeout she hadn't finished, extra spring rolls she'd ordered on a whim. She claimed it was no big deal, just extra. But the first time she set a slightly soggy Thai food bag in front of him, he stared at it like it was a gift from the heavens, his whole face lighting up in a way that made her chest tighten.

"Wait... this is for me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, fingers hovering over the container like he was afraid it might disappear.

She shrugged, keeping it casual, but something about his reaction—so surprised, so genuinely touched—made her throat feel thick. "I wasn't gonna eat it. Don't let it go to waste."

He looked weirdly emotional about it, blinking rapidly as he opened the container. Like maybe no one had brought him food in a while. Like maybe no one had thought of him in small, everyday ways that mattered. Which, of course, only made her feel more obligated to keep doing it.

Soon, it escalated. She started cooking actual meals, not gourmet stuff, but real food. Simple things that filled you up and warmed you from the inside. Pasta with homemade sauce, rice bowls loaded with vegetables, stir fry that she'd learned from watching YouTube videos. Nothing fancy, but always warm, always enough for two. She'd buy extra groceries "by accident," then insist he take half because she'd "totally miscalculated portions again." Dropped off 'extra' laundry detergent without asking, left it by his backpack with a casual "found this on sale." Bought him a couple cases of beer once, too, because he looked like he needed it. Like he needed something to take the edge off whatever was wearing him down.

He turned bright red and stammered, "I'm not—I mean, I'm not even old enough to—"

She rolled her eyes and waved him off. "Then don't drink it. Display it as a cautionary tale about underage drinking. Either way, it's yours now."

She left it on the table and went home without waiting for thanks, but she caught the way his face softened, the quiet "thank you" he whispered to her retreating form.

And through it all, Peter never stopped pining after MJ.

Every week, the same tired routine. He'd sneak glances at her behind the coffee shop counter, eyes soft and hopeless, like he was living out some tragic indie film where the protagonist never got the girl. The wistful sighing when she'd laugh at another customer's joke. The long, aching looks when she'd tuck her hair behind her ear or smile at something on her phone. She was this close to asking MJ out for him just to end the suffering. His and, increasingly, her own.

It was starting to get on her nerves in ways she didn't want to examine too closely. The guy could solve advanced thermodynamics in under sixty seconds but couldn't string together a full sentence to the girl he liked? It didn't add up. And the way he'd get that dreamy, faraway look whenever MJ's name came up in conversation made something twist uncomfortably in her stomach.

Honestly, she didn't know what was more tragic—his one-sided crush, or the fact that despite everything she was doing for him, despite all the time they spent together, MJ was still the one he couldn't stop looking at. Not that she liked him, or anything. He was becoming one of her closest friends, and he was still just a kid, really. She just wanted him to get over this phase so they could both move on with their lives. So she could stop feeling this weird jealousy that had no right to exist.

But life, especially in New York, waited for no one. And the city made it hard for people like her to get on with her life when superheroes were a very real thing, when danger could find you on any ordinary night.

It was just past midnight when she got off her bartending shift, the streets quieter than usual for a Thursday. Rain clung to the pavement like a threat, not quite falling but heavy in the air as she adjusted the strap of her backpack and turned toward campus. The weight of the night shift sat heavy in her bones, hours of mixing drinks, dodging grabby hands, and smiling through exhaustion had left her drained and eager for her bed.

The walk wasn't far, ten blocks, maybe twelve. Usually manageable, a peaceful end to a long night. And she had missed the last bus, her manager having her stay longer than usual to clean up after some fraternity boys had decided to celebrate someone's birthday by making as much mess as possible. But something about the night felt... off. Wrong in a way that made her skin crawl and her pulse quicken.

It started with the echo of footsteps behind her. Unhurried. Deliberate. Too perfectly timed with her own to be coincidental. She slowed at the corner of Amsterdam and 114th, pretending to scroll through her phone while her eyes flicked to the darkened storefronts reflected in the screen. Three shapes moved behind her, their footsteps faltering when hers did.

Three of them. Young, maybe early twenties. One with a hood pulled low over his face. Another chewing a toothpick, sauntering like he had nowhere to be and all night to get there. The third kept his hands in his pockets, but there was something about his posture that made her stomach drop. She picked up her pace, heart hammering against her ribs.

"Hey," one called after her, voice oily and confident in the way that made her skin crawl. "You got the time?"

She didn't answer, didn't even turn around. Just kept walking, faster now, her breath coming in short puffs that fogged in the cool air. She knew exactly where this was headed—had heard enough stories, seen enough news reports—and all she could do was hope they got bored of her and found an easier target.

"Hey—hey, don't be rude, sweetheart. We just wanna talk."

The shuffle of footsteps turned into a jog. She felt her stomach plummet, panic flooding her system like ice water. Campus was so close now. Half a block, maybe less. But it was late, the streets empty except for the occasional taxi, and the dull throb in her feet from hours behind the bar made it hard to move any faster.

A hand caught her backpack strap and yanked hard.

She stumbled, twisted, and the next few seconds were chaos. A flurry of motion, of hands grabbing at her clothes, her bag, one voice shouting to check her pockets while another reached for her phone. She managed to elbow someone in the gut, heard a satisfying grunt, barely broke free for a moment. But not fast enough, not strong enough.

A fist slammed into her side, hard and fast, knocking the breath clean out of her lungs and sending stars dancing across her vision.

She hit the sidewalk with a painful thud, her head bouncing slightly off the concrete with a sound that made her ears ring. The world spun in sickening circles. Her backpack was ripped away, and before she could scramble to her feet, a knee pinned her down, pressing into her chest with enough force to make breathing a struggle.

"Shouldn't have made it difficult, sweetheart," the guy above her sneered, his breath hot and sour in her face, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes.

She thrashed beneath him, nails clawing at his arm, trying to twist her body sideways, to get leverage, to get free. Her heart pounded wildly, panic and adrenaline flooding every nerve ending, making her movements jerky and desperate. She bit down on the inside of her cheek and screamed, hoping someone—anyone—was close enough to hear, close enough to help.

The man's hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her voice.

And then—

A split second later, the guy on top of her was yanked backward so violently he crashed into a parked car with a metallic bang that echoed through the empty street, his scream cut off by a sudden spray of webbing across his face.

The remaining two didn't even have time to react. One was caught mid-turn and hoisted straight off the ground by a sticky net that pinned him to a lamppost like a fly in a web. The other tried to run, but a web shot out faster than lightning, wrapped around his ankles, and sent him face-first into the pavement with a wet smack.

Silence settled over the street like a blanket.

She lay frozen for a beat, breathing hard, blinking up at the night sky through the fog of adrenaline and disbelief. Her ribs ached, her head throbbed, but she was alive. Safe.

A figure dropped down from above. Fast, precise, landing in a crouch beside her like it was the easiest thing in the world.

She didn't live under a rock, she knew exactly who it was before he even fully straightened. Spider-Man. She'd seen him all over the news, on TikTok, Reddit, what used to be Twitter, even in a few over-dramatized BuzzFeed listicles about New York's most eligible superhero. But never in person. Never crouched five feet from her like some kind of spandex-clad guardian angel, concern radiating from his masked face.

He straightened slowly, masked face tilting toward her with an almost familiar gentleness. "You okay?"

She stared at him, still gasping, eyes wide with shock and lingering fear. The adrenaline hadn't worn off. Her hands were shaking, her pulse still racing like she was running for her life. That could explain why she sat there gaping at a literal superhero like a mute moron, mouth hanging open somewhere near her shoelaces.

Spider-Man tilted his head again, a gentle tilt to the left that reminded her of something she couldn't quite place. He was clearly scanning her for injuries, his attention focused and careful. "Er... are you okay, ma'am?"

Her brows furrowed despite everything. Something about his voice... "Are you making your voice deeper on purpose?"

He jumped like she'd poked him with a taser, head snapping up in what looked like panic. "I—what? No. Why would I—this is my normal voice. Totally normal. Everyday voice."

"No, it definitely sounds like you're faking it," she said dryly, blinking rapidly as her heart rate started to drop from 'Olympic sprint' to 'mild jog.' She could still feel the phantom touch of those guys' hands,like ants crawling across her skin. But she shoved the feeling aside, locked it in a mental box, and focused on something she could actually process.

Which was, apparently, mocking a superhero.

"I'm not faking it," he insisted, sounding almost insulted now, his voice cracking slightly. "I've got... a cold. It's been going around. Normal people get colds."

"Do normal people also swing around New York in pajamas and beat up muggers at one in the morning?"

If she could see through his mask, she would bet money he was gaping at her right now. "That's slander. This suit is very high-tech."

"Oh, my mistake. It just looks like it was made by Under Armour and blind faith."

He huffed and crossed his arms like an offended teenager. "You know, most people say thank you when they get rescued."

"Most people don't get rescued by someone doing a Batman impression," she countered. But she cracked a smile then, tired, but real. The first genuine expression she'd managed since this whole nightmare started. "Still. Yeah. Thanks. For the whole... dramatic entrance and life-saving thing. I appreciate it."

Spider-Man relaxed a little, visibly, his shoulders dropping. "No problem. Happy to help. You, uh... sure you're okay?"

She nodded, brushing dirt and grit off her jacket with hands that were finally starting to steady. "Yeah. Bruised ribs, maybe a lifetime of repressed trauma, but I'll walk it off."

There was a beat of silence. Then she stepped closer, eyes narrowing under furrowed brows as something nagged at her. He seemed... young. The way he talked, the way he carried himself, even the way he'd gotten flustered when she'd teased him…it was all wrong for what she'd expected from a seasoned superhero. "You know... you're my age, aren't you?"

He tensed again, and she could practically feel his anxiety spike.

"That's... weird," she said slowly, circling him like she was trying to solve a puzzle, studying the lean lines of his build, the nervous energy radiating from him. "I always assumed you were older. Like, at least late twenties. The vibe you give off online is way more emotionally repressed than this."

He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it made something tickle at the edge of her memory. "Social media doesn't always capture nuance."

"Or personality, apparently." She tilted her head, that nagging feeling growing stronger. Something about him... "Wait—hold up. You feel weirdly familiar. Do I... know you?"

He went completely still. So still she could have counted his heartbeats if she'd been close enough.

"...No," he said way too fast, way too high-pitched. "Nope. Definitely not. I just have one of those friendly, neighborhood faces."

She squinted at him, studying the tilt of his head, the way he held his shoulders.

"Also the mask," he added quickly, gesturing at his face. "Very generic. Really blends in."

Spider-Man, whoever he was, cleared his throat before she could respond, still clearly panicking beneath said mask. "Okay, uh, you probably shouldn't be walking home alone after that. Or walking at night in general. I can take you back."

She blinked, confused. "Take me?"

He nodded, then realized how weird that sounded and quickly shook his head. "I mean—not like take you take you. Just, you know. Escort. Safely. Friendly neighborhood-style. Uh. Hero protocol."

She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You can't just walk me onto campus. People will notice. There'll be photos. A meme within five minutes of 'Spider-Man drops off random college girl.'"

"I wasn't gonna walk," he said, with just a little offense in his voice. "Come on. What kind of Spider-Man do you think I am?"

She blinked, realization dawning. "Wait. Are you serious?"

He held out a hand, gloved fingers flexing in what she was starting to recognize as nervousness. "Give me your address."

She hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand like it was radioactive. There was no way she was just going to swing through the city with a superhero she didn't even know. That was insane. That was—

"You trust me, right?" he added, voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "I did just punch a guy for you."

She sighed, muttered her dorm building under her breath, and placed her hand in his. His fingers were warm even through the fabric of his suit. "If you drop me, I swear to God—"

"I've never dropped anyone in my life," he said, cutting her off with the kind of confidence that should have been reassuring, and then before she could object again—

Her feet left the ground.

A strangled noise burst out of her as he wrapped an arm securely around her waist and launched them skyward. Literally launched, like gravity was just a suggestion he'd decided to ignore. She was mid-threat one second and hurtling between buildings the next, wind whipping past her ears and her stomach in complete freefall.

"Oh my god! Oh my—PUT ME DOWN."

"Uh, definitely not mid-air!"

"This is insane! This is literally a lawsuit waiting to happen!"

"You said yes!"

She clung to his shoulders with a death grip, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to scream and definitely trying not to vomit all over New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But after a few more swings, once the initial shock started to wear off and she wasn't certain she was going to die, something else crept in.

Excitement.

Adrenaline, sure. But also a rush she couldn't explain, couldn't have prepared for. Her heart pounded, her skin buzzed with electricity, and the city lights blurred around her like fireworks, like magic. She peeked open one eye... then both.

The view was incredible. Manhattan spread out beneath them like a glittering circuit board, alive and beautiful in a way she'd never seen from ground level.

Spider-Man whooped softly beside her, one hand expertly shooting a webline as they curved around a tall building with the kind of grace that spoke of years of practice.

She laughed. She didn't mean to, it just came out. Loud, surprised, delighted.

He glanced down at her, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "See? Kinda fun, right? Told you I don't drop people."

"Shut up," she said, still laughing, her fear transforming into something bright and exhilarating. "You're such a show-off."

"But like... in a fun way?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning now, her cheeks aching from it. "Just don't Spider-Man me into a building, and we're good."

He chuckled, adjusting his arm around her waist in a way that made her suddenly aware of how close they were, how easy it would be to just… "No promises."

They landed on the rooftop of her dorm with a surprisingly gentle thud, his grip loosening just enough for her to get her feet under her. The whole journey had taken maybe five minutes. Less time than it would have taken her to walk two blocks.

She stood there for a second, wobbling slightly, trying to process what had just happened. "Okay. Not gonna lie. That was... kinda awesome. But I still feel like I need to throw up."

"Normal," Spider-Man said brightly, like he was discussing the weather. "Usually goes away after the third or fourth swing."

She blinked at him. "How many people are you swinging around New York?"

"I mean, not like a lot, it's not an Uber service. I don't have a punch card or anything—" He caught himself rambling and scratched the back of his head, which was just fabric, so it mostly looked like he was smacking himself. "Sorry. Nervous energy."

"Clearly."

She crossed her arms, still catching her breath, heart pounding like a jackhammer against her ribs. Below them, campus was quiet, peaceful, the occasional glow of a window cutting through the night. She glanced sideways at him, this masked figure who had just saved her life and given her the most terrifying and exhilarating experience of her existence.

"So... what now? You Spider-Batman your way into the shadows?"

He gave a little shrug, suddenly seeming younger again. "I mean, I was gonna do a cool web-swing exit, but now I feel kind of self-conscious about it."

"Don't let me ruin your dramatic moment." She paused, her voice growing softer. "But... thank you. Again, really. If you hadn't been there..."

She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

"Hey, don't mention it. All part of the job," he said, but his tone was light, almost dismissive in a way that felt practiced. Now that they were standing face to face (mask), she realized he was more human than she had thought from all those videos and news reports. He was only a few inches taller than her, probably average height for a man, and wasn't corded with muscle like Thor or Captain America. Instead, he was lean, fit. A young man's build, athletic but not intimidating.

There was a short pause, both of them awkwardly standing on the rooftop, neither quite moving toward goodbye.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "You, uh... gonna head out?"

"Yeah," he said, and then didn't move.

She raised an eyebrow.

He pointed toward her. "You're sure you're okay?"

"I was until a guy in red pajamas yeeted me through Manhattan like a human bungee cord, but yeah. Fine now."

He let out a laugh, shoulders relaxing, and the sound— real and unguarded—made something shift in her stomach. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You know... for a guy in a mask, you're weirdly familiar."

His whole body stiffened again.

"Like your voice," she continued, eyes narrowing as pieces of a puzzle she couldn't quite see started to shift in her mind, "and the way you say things. That's not normal superhero vocabulary. It's more... normal. Everyday. Like someone I might actually know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said too quickly, backing toward the ledge like he was preparing to bolt. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

She tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. "Do you know me?"

"What? No. Definitely not. Why would I—bye!" And before she could say another word, he launched himself off the building faster than thought, vanishing into the night like he'd never been there at all.

She stared after him, arms crossed, jaw slack with disbelief and something that felt suspiciously like disappointment.

"...Okay, what the hell was that?" she muttered to the empty rooftop.

.

.

She walked to class with Peter the next day, buzzed off way too much caffeine solely because she'd been up all night replaying every moment of her encounter with Spider-Man, analyzing every word, every gesture.

Naturally, the second she spotted him that morning, she'd grabbed him by the arm and launched into the full dramatic retelling.

"I'm telling you, Pete, he just dropped out of nowhere. Boom. I was on the ground, thinking I was going to die, and suddenly Spider-Man is there, asking if I'm okay like we're in some action-comedy-meets-CSI episode—"

Peter, who was walking with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and an annoyingly calm expression, gave her a small nod. "That's definitely cool."

She stopped walking so abruptly that a guy behind them nearly crashed into her back. Blinked, frowned, and stared at Peter's completely nonchalant expression.

"Cool?" she repeated, incredulous. "That's all you've got? Cool?"

He shrugged again, like he'd just been told there was free pizza in the dining hall instead of hearing about her near-death experience and subsequent rescue by a literal superhero. "I mean... yeah. I've met him before."

Her jaw dropped so fast she was surprised it didn't hit the sidewalk. "You've met Spider-Man?"

"Well, yeah," Peter said, still infuriatingly nonchalant. "Kind of hard not to when you interned for Tony Stark."

She blinked at him so hard her contact lenses nearly popped out. "What?!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that was becoming more familiar by the day, looking sheepish now. "Yeah, it was—uh, kind of unofficial. Just a short thing. Did some tech stuff. Helped out on a couple projects."

She gawked at him, her brain tripping over itself trying to process this information. "You interned for Tony freaking Stark?! And met Spider-Man?!"

Peter nodded, his expression softening at the edges, pride and something deeper flickering across his face. "Yeah. I, uh... met a lot of people through him."

Then, the grin he'd been wearing faltered. Just for a second. Barely enough for most people to notice, but she did. His shoulders drew in slightly, like he was protecting himself from something. His voice lost that spark of amusement and went quiet, distant.

She remembered, then, with a pang of sympathy that hit her like a physical blow.

Tony Stark had died defeating Thanos.

Her excitement dimmed as she looked at Peter, really looked at him. The way his face had changed, gone soft with grief that was still raw around the edges. He was quiet now, his gaze distant, like he was seeing something she couldn't.

"You... you must've really liked him," she said gently, her voice softer than it had been all morning.

Peter gave her a smile. Small, real, but cracked with grief like a broken window that still somehow held together. "Yeah. I did."

She didn't say anything for a moment, just fell into step beside him, letting the weight of his loss settle between them. "He seemed like the kind of guy who left a big hole when he was gone."

Peter laughed once, under his breath, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah, that's... that's one way to put it."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, a gentle gesture of comfort. "Well, for what it's worth, you probably made a really good intern. You've got the whole boy-genius thing going for you."

He snorted, and some of the tension leaked out of his posture. "I once spilled coffee on one of his prototypes and set off an alarm that called Pepper in from another city."

"Oh." She grinned, relieved to see a hint of his usual self returning. "Yeah, that sounds more accurate."

Peter smiled again, a little more full this time, a little more real. They walked on together, her caffeine buzz finally giving way to something warmer, calmer. There was something about Peter that did that to her, made even the most chaotic mornings feel manageable. Even studying with him brightened her day in a way that hadn't happened with a friend ever before.

Before she could continue the conversation, her toe caught a crack in the pavement. She pitched forward with a startled yelp, arms flailing uselessly—and then didn't hit the ground.

Peter had caught her, one arm around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder. It wasn't dramatic, not really—but the way she landed against him, the solid warmth of his hoodie, the way his hand flexed slightly like he was making sure she was steady and safe…

They froze for a second, closer than they'd ever been. She could feel his breath against her forehead, could smell the faint scent of his soap — something clean and simple. He was looking at her, eyes wide, like he hadn't meant to grab her but also had definitely meant to grab her.

He smelled like peppermint, she realized. She had never noticed that before.

"Thanks," she muttered, hoping she didn't look as flustered as she felt, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn't as obvious as it seemed.

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice slightly hoarse, throat working as he swallowed hard. His eyes, molten brown behind his surprise, were locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. "Uh. Gravity's a menace."

She blinked, processing his words. "Is that a pun?"

"Nope." He helped her upright and cleared his throat, stepping back like she was suddenly made of static electricity. "Okay, maybe."

She snorted, brushing her sweater off and trying to ignore the way her skin still tingled where he'd touched her. "You're lucky I was the one who tripped. If you'd tried that on MJ, she probably would've decked you. She looks like the type who doesn't want to be swept off her feet."

Peter's smile slipped again, just for a second, so quick she almost missed it.

She glanced over, curious about his reaction. "Have you... talked to her lately?"

He nodded, but something in his expression seemed forced now. "Yeah. I did. I... got her number too, actually. She gave it to me. Willingly."

She smiled, trying not to read into the weird thud in her chest, the way her heart seemed to stumble over itself. "That's great. I'm glad. Make sure you call her. Get the ball rolling on this grand love affair."

She meant it. Sort of. Maybe. The thing was, she'd never met MJ properly, never had a real conversation with her. But lately, something about the name coming out of Peter's mouth made her stomach do something stupid and complicated. Something she immediately blamed on too much coffee and the emotional whiplash of late-night superhero encounters.

By the time they got to class, she was mostly back to normal. Kind of. She was just settling into her usual seat when a smooth voice called out:

"Hey. Mind if I sit here?"

She turned to see a tall guy—good-looking, clean-cut, probably about her age—standing beside the empty chair next to her. He wore a varsity jacket with a Columbia logo and held a few textbooks in one hand like they weighed nothing.

She blinked, surprised. "Uh. Sure."

"I'm Robbie," he said, sliding into the seat beside her with an easy confidence. "You're in my Physics section, right? I've seen you around."

Peter, halfway into the seat to her left, paused mid-motion. She could feel his gaze like laser pointers behind her shoulder, though he said nothing.

She gave Robbie a small smile. "Yeah. I'm usually the one trying not to scream during thermodynamics."

Robbie chuckled, and the sound was warm, genuine. "Same. Professor Matthews might actually be part Terminator. Definitely related to that cop from the second movie."

She laughed, surprised by the reference, charmed despite herself. It wasn't the funniest joke ever, but something about his delivery, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, got her.

Peter cleared his throat behind them, just once, but sharp enough to cut through their conversation.

She turned halfway to glance at him with a frown, wondering what his problem was. He looked very focused on his laptop screen. Very deliberately so.

"Everything okay, Pete?" she asked.

He didn't look up, but his tone was dry as dust. "Yup. Great. Love class."

She narrowed her eyes, studying his profile. Something was definitely off.

Robbie leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "Friend of yours?"

"Yeah," she said, and she didn't know why she felt the need to add, "A good friend."

She didn't know why she said it like that. Like she was staking a claim, like she was making a point. But she did.

.

.

.

That night, she sat cross-legged on her twin dorm bed, surrounded by papers, a half-eaten protein bar, and a truly unhinged number of highlighters in every color imaginable. Her physics textbook was open in her lap, though she hadn't successfully read a full paragraph in at least twenty minutes.

She had no idea what had gotten under Peter's skin since class. He hadn't whispered to her once during the lecture, not a single sarcastic comment or dumb joke to make her snort during Professor Matthews' monotone drone about entropy. He didn't even slide her one of his ridiculous doodles, usually some stick figure Spider-Man battling evil thermodynamics equations. Instead, he'd kept his head down, scribbling notes like she didn't exist, like she was just another face in the crowd.

Robbie, however, had spent the entire class trying to get her attention. Passing her notes with terrible physics puns, making faces when the professor wasn't looking, finding excuses to lean over and ask questions about problems he clearly already understood.

She wasn't sure what had sparked the sudden interest. Maybe the chaos of last night had given her some weird adrenaline glow-up, or maybe he'd just noticed her for the first time. But she wasn't complaining. Robbie was handsome in that clean-cut, all-American way, sharp-eyed, easy to talk to. He walked her out after class and asked for her number "for section work," he'd added with a wink that made her laugh despite herself.

And she'd given it to him, smiling.

Normally, she would've brushed off any sort of male attention. College-aged guys were flaky at best, allergic to commitment, and usually vanished the second homework or actual effort entered the chat. But if Peter was pursuing MJ, maybe she should try the same. Let someone pursue her for once. See where it led.

Peter had disappeared the second Robbie stepped up beside her after class. Just sort of melted away down the hall like he didn't want to intrude, like he was being thoughtful. She figured he was trying to give her space. Nothing killed a flirt faster than a guy friend hovering like an overprotective older brother.

Still... he could've said goodbye.

She texted him once she got back to her dorm, asking him if he wanted to study. The message sat there, unread, no response. It bugged her more than she wanted to admit. She looked forward to spending time with him, looked forward to his goofy memes that he sent randomly throughout the day, the late-night phone calls she had with him occasionally when he went on his mysterious late-night runs (at least, she assumed from how much street noise she could hear around his heavy breathing). So him just ignoring her felt... wrong. Out of character.

She was mid-yawn, finally starting to make sense of a particularly brutal thermodynamics problem, when a soft taping at her window startled her out of her skin.

Her heart jumped into her throat. She glanced at the door, then slowly turned toward her window and promptly forgot to breathe.

Spider-Man was crouched on the other side of the glass like some kind of red and blue gargoyle.

"Jesus—" she whispered, flailing so hard she sent a stack of flashcards flying across her tiny room. "Are you kidding me?"

He waved, and she could practically see the sheepish smile under the mask.

She scrambled over and yanked the window open, cold night air rushing in. "You can't just knock on people's dorm windows like that! This is not a superhero drive-thru."

"I didn't think everyone in the dorm would react well if Spider-Man knocked on your door," he said, already swinging himself lightly inside with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of lots of practice. "Didn't want to give anyone else a heart attack."

She blinked at him, still half in disbelief that this was her life now. "Do you just... window-hop to check in on civilians regularly?"

"No. Just you."

She blinked again, something warm and complicated stirring in her chest at his words.

He cleared his throat quickly, like he'd realized how that sounded. "I mean…because you got attacked last night. Not like a—not a thing. I'm not stalking you. I swear. That's not…this isn't weird."

She crossed her arms, quirking an eyebrow at his obvious panic. "You're in spandex. In my room. It's at least a little weird."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Fair."

She sighed, stepping back to let him fully inside, trying not to notice the way he moved. Careful but confident, like he belonged in her space. "Okay, so why are you actually here?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright," he said, his voice softer now, more sincere. "After last night. Sometimes the shock hits later, you know?"

Something about that hit her square in the chest. Not because she wasn't used to people checking in on her, but because most people who did weren't swinging across rooftops at night to do it. Most people sent a text.

"I'm okay," she said, and to her surprise, she meant it more than she'd expected. "Just... jumpy. I flinched when a guy opened a Snapple bottle too loud in the dining hall earlier."

Spider-Man nodded knowingly. "That's normal. Adrenaline doesn't care that the bad guys are gone. Your body's still trying to protect you."

She studied him for a second, tilted her head. "You always this emotionally intelligent, or did you take a psychology class at Avenger University?"

"I've been through... stuff," he said, voice dropping lower, carrying weight she could feel even if she couldn't see his expression.

She didn't press. She'd seen all of his escapades online, knew he'd been one of the Avengers who had disappeared during the Blip, knew that he'd been one of the ones who directly fought against Thanos. Of course he'd been through more than the average non-superhero young man. More than most people could imagine.

Instead, she sat back down on her bed and gestured at the chaos of books and papers. "Well, I was studying thermodynamics before a masked vigilante startled me into cardiac arrest. Want to help?"

He hesitated, but she caught the way he perked up, like the offer genuinely excited him. "I'm actually kind of good at physics."

She looked at him flatly. "Spider-Man is good at physics. Wow. Mind blown."

"Not all superheroes are just brawny jocks," he chided, moving toward her desk chair and spinning it around backward before settling into it, arms crossed over the back like he wanted nothing more than to hang out with a college student and a stack of textbooks.

They spent the next hour hunched over her work. Her on the bed, him in the chair, close enough that she could see the way his mask moved when he talked, could catch hints of his expressions underneath.

"No, no—" he said, leaning forward, pointing at her notebook. "You don't want to integrate that part yet. You're missing the constant."

She squinted at her scribbled equations, trying to follow his logic. "I swear I'm trying. But if entropy increases every time I mess up, the universe should be imploding right now."

"That's not how entropy works," he said, laughing, a sound that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Though, honestly? Fair point."

She gave him a mock glare. "You're very smug for someone in pajamas."

"I am not in pajamas. This is a tactical—"

"It's a onesie."

"It's a suit."

"With built-in toe socks."

"Okay, that's..." He paused, tilting his head like he was considering. "Not inaccurate."

She grinned, sitting back and chewing the end of her pen. "You're kind of a nerd, you know that?"

He leaned his chin on his arms, still smiling behind the mask. At least, she liked to pretend he was. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She tilted her head, studying him with growing curiosity. "It's not. Just... unexpected. I mean, you punch bad guys for a living."

There was a brief silence as she wrote something down, then looked up at him with renewed interest. "So. You're smart, kind of funny, weirdly good at physics, and apparently fight crime in your free time. What's your deal?"

"My deal?"

She grinned, tucking one leg under herself. "Yeah. Who are you, Spider-Man? Like, what's your origin story? Your tragic backstory? Your deepest fears?"

He stiffened just slightly. She caught it, the way his shoulders went tense.

"I mean—" she added quickly, sensing his discomfort, "—not like literally. I know you've got the whole secret identity thing going on. I'm not about to pull off your mask and ruin your life or anything."

He relaxed a little, though his voice was still a shade quieter. "Thanks. That's... that means more than you know."

"But seriously," she went on, voice softer now, more genuine, "you don't... feel like a stranger. Not completely. It's weird, but I feel like I know you. Or like I should know you."

His hands fidgeted at the edge of the desk, drumming against the wood. "I get that sometimes. From people."

She narrowed her eyes playfully, leaning forward. "Wait. Do I actually know you? Are you someone I pass in the dining hall or something? Oh my god, do you sit behind me in chemistry? Are you the one who keeps stealing my usual seat in the library—"

"No!" he blurted, voice cracking slightly. "Definitely not me. Nope. I sit... far away. Very far. Other side of campus. I mean... if I went here. Which I don't. I don't go to Columbia. Or college. Or any educational institution... really."

She grinned, giving him a pointed look that said she wasn't buying a word of it. "So... you want me to guess which part of that obvious lie is actually the truth?"

"Hey, I'm trying to protect my identity here!"

"Mmhm." She smirked, twirling her pen again. "Whatever you say, Wall-Crawler."

He shifted in the chair, glancing around her dorm like he needed a distraction, then grabbed her stress ball off the desk and started bouncing it between his hands. "Anyway. You said you didn't grow up around here, right?"

She smiled at the obvious subject change, even if it was clumsy. "Yeah. Small town in upstate New York. Really small. Quiet. The kind of place where the biggest excitement was when the Dairy Queen got new flavors. No superheroes dropping by to save the day. If someone climbed in your window at night, it was probably just a raccoon looking for snacks."

"Sounds peaceful."

She gave him a wry look. "It was boring. I spent most of high school sneaking into the garage to read books in the car just so my little brothers wouldn't bug me every five seconds. Then I got a scholarship to Columbia, and here I am. Living the dream in the big city."

He nodded slowly, the stress ball still bouncing between his palms. "That's really cool. You made it out. That takes guts."

She shrugged, but something about his tone, how sincere he was, made her cheeks warm. "Barely. I'm still not sure if I actually belong here. But it's getting better. Slowly."

Their eyes met for a second, and something unspoken hung in the air between them—understanding, maybe, or recognition.

Then she cleared her throat and pointed at her textbook. "Okay, masked tutor. You've got ten more minutes before I start charging you by the hour. Help me finish this page."

.

.

.

Things began to escalate rather quickly after Spider-Man started doing homework on her bed.

Peter had grown steadily more distant since that night, and she was starting to notice it in ways that made her chest tight with worry. Not dramatically distant. He still studied with her most afternoons, still walked her to class on Tuesdays like clockwork, grabbed lunch on Fridays, and always insisted on their Sunday morning coffee ritual like it was sacred and unbreakable. But something fundamental had shifted between them, something she couldn't quite name but could feel in every interaction.

He was more distracted, more irritable. Like his brain was always buffering somewhere just behind his eyes, processing information she wasn't privy to. He'd zone out mid-conversation, staring at nothing with this intense, troubled expression. When she'd wave a hand in front of his face, he'd snap back with a start, blinking like he'd forgotten where he was.

Which was weird, considering he was finally talking to MJ more. He'd even mentioned taking her out to lunch the other day — news she had reacted to with what she hoped looked like genuine, over-the-top excitement but felt more like swallowing glass. But Peter hadn't given her many details about their date. In fact, when she'd launched into a flurry of questions (What did you eat? Did you sit inside or outside? Did you talk about books? Did you hold her hand? Oh my God, did you kiss her?), he'd just shrugged and muttered something about it being "nice."

That was it. Nice.

For a guy who had been pining after the same girl for what she assumed was roughly half his natural lifetime, he was giving her absolutely nothing to work with.

She tried not to read too much into it. Maybe MJ had a dry personality that didn't translate well to storytelling. Maybe she talked exclusively about astrology or insisted on putting oat milk in everything. Maybe she ate like a raccoon digging through a garbage bin. Who knew? Certainly not her. Peter had his lips zipped tighter than a bank vault these days.

Meanwhile, Robbie had entered her life like a golden retriever in human form—friendly, enthusiastic, persistently charming. He texted her constantly throughout the day, little messages that made her smile despite herself. Called her too, just to chat about nothing important. And every single time her phone lit up with his name during one of her study sessions with Peter, Peter would stare at it like it had personally insulted his ancestors and kicked his dog.

Usually this happened while they were hunched over textbooks or splitting a muffin at their usual café spot. And sure, she could understand it being annoying, nothing like trying to solve integrals while someone's phone buzzed like an angry wasp hive next to you. So, in an effort to clear the air and maybe understand what was bothering him, she decided to just ask.

"What do you think about Robbie?"

Peter had looked up from his laptop with the slow, measured blink of a man bracing himself for an exam he hadn't studied for. Then he nodded once, crossed his arms, and gave her the tightest, most forced smile she'd ever seen on a human being. "He's alright. Seems like a good guy."

She raised an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup. "Okay, but... what's your actual deal with him? Are you annoyed that he keeps calling when we're studying? Because I can tell him to text instead, or call earlier, or—"

"No, it's not that," Peter said quickly, eyes darting back to his screen like it held the secrets of the universe. "He's fine. Really. I like him. He's... he's good for you."

That last part came out weird. Strained. Like he'd forced the words through a pasta strainer of emotional repression and they'd come out mangled on the other side.

She studied his profile for a long moment, taking in the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against his laptop. "Pete—"

"Really," he said, still not looking at her. "You should go for it. You deserve someone who... who can give you what you want."

There was something in his voice. Something sad and resigned that made her stomach twist with an emotion she didn't want to name.

She left it alone after that. If Peter didn't want to talk about it, she wasn't going to force him. Guys didn't usually care that much about their female friends' dating lives anyway, right? Maybe this was just garden-variety disinterest mixed with stress from whatever late-night job was wearing him down.

Still, she didn't tell him when Robbie officially asked her out on a real date.

And she definitely didn't tell him she'd said yes. No point in bringing it up if Peter barely seemed to care anyway.

Oh, and Spider-Man kept visiting her at night.

He showed up a few nights a week now, in no particular pattern that she could discern, for really no concrete reason at all. Sometimes it was after midnight, when the campus was dead quiet and she was the only light still on in her building. Sometimes it was just after dinner, when she was settling in for a long night of studying. Once, memorably, he'd knocked on her window at four in the morning holding two halves of a very sad-looking bodega sandwich and the unshakable belief that she'd be awake to split it with him.

(She was. She ate the sandwich. It was terrible. They didn't speak of it again.)

Most of the time, he just came to talk.

Sometimes he'd help her with assignments, though Peter usually had that covered already. Peter had somehow become her unofficial TA without either of them discussing it. She still wasn't sure how it had happened, but he was alarmingly good at rewriting her thesis statements and remembering the names of philosophers she could never spell correctly.

Other times, Spider-Man would just sit in her desk chair and listen to her ramble about her day, her classes, her worries about whether she was smart enough to belong at Columbia. He was a surprisingly good listener. He asked follow-up questions, remembered details from previous conversations, and never made her feel like her problems were too small or silly to matter.

It was curious, though. A literal superhero, fresh from battles with New York's most chaotic villains, choosing to spend his precious downtime hanging around a random college student. One with no money, no important connections, and a tendency to fall asleep mid-sentence if it was past eleven on a weeknight.

She had asked him once, lightly, what exactly he got out of these visits.

"I just like being around you," he had said with a shrug, voice muffled behind the mask but somehow still sincere. "You're... cool. Easy to talk to. You don't expect anything from me."

Cool. Sure. She was a girl with overdue library books, dirty laundry on her floor, and a toxic relationship with her GPA — but apparently Spider-Man thought she was cool.

She didn't entirely believe him. Not even as the weeks passed and their odd friendship deepened into something that almost resembled intimacy. Not romantic, of course. At least, not anything either of them had acknowledged out loud, but familiar in a way that made her feel like she was being stitched into someone else's world one careful thread at a time.

She still didn't know who he was under the mask.

Didn't ask, either. It wasn't her business, and she wanted to respect the whole secret identity thing. The city probably frowned upon random civilians knowing who was swinging from their bridges and stopping their bank robberies, after all.

Still, she had to admit, it drove her quietly insane sometimes. The curiosity ate at her, especially when he did something particularly human. Like laugh-snort at one of her terrible jokes. Or crack his knuckles before tackling a difficult math problem. Or slouch in her desk chair and groan about the steadily rising price of decent takeout.

He was awkward in the most endearing way, but he gave absolutely nothing away. Not his real name, not where he lived, not even what kind of music he liked. She'd asked once, and he'd told her he liked "whatever was on the radio," which was possibly the vaguest, most suspicious answer a person could give—especially in an age where everyone had carefully curated Spotify playlists.

So eventually, she just accepted it. He was a mystery wrapped in spandex, and she was...weirdly okay with that.

Until the night he showed up bleeding.

It was past midnight when the knock came. Harder this time, more urgent. Not the usual polite tap-tap-tap that had become familiar. This one made her heart jump straight into her throat.

She rushed to the window and yanked open the curtain, expecting to see his usual relaxed crouch.

Instead, Spider-Man was slumped against the frame, one arm clutching his side, the other braced weakly against the sill. His suit was shredded at the shoulder and torn along his ribs, dark stains that could only be blood spreading across the red fabric.

"Hey," he rasped, trying, and failing miserably, to inject his usual casual charm into his voice. "So, funny story..."

She didn't wait for the punchline. She grabbed his wrist and hauled him inside with every ounce of strength she possessed, using the window frame as leverage to drag all however many pounds of injured superhero into her room.

He tumbled onto her bed with a pained grunt, knocking half her carefully arranged pillows to the floor.

"Oh my God — okay, okay—" she stumbled back from the window, slamming it shut before sprinting toward her tiny bathroom. "Do not die on my bed! My RA will literally kill me, and then I'll be dead too, and that helps no one."

"No dying," he mumbled, and she could hear the exhaustion in his voice even through the mask. "Promise. But I might... just gonna close my eyes for like... a minute..."

"NO NAPPING," she called from the bathroom, frantically digging through her medicine cabinet.

She reappeared with her first aid kit — a sad little plastic box that usually lived under her sink and contained nothing that she could remember beyond Band-Aids she would reach for when she cut her legs shaving. Tonight it felt like her only lifeline.

She dropped to her knees beside the bed, hands already shaking. "Okay. Okay. What do I do? I've never—you're bleeding so much, there's so much blood—"

"Hey." His voice was softer now, steady despite his obvious pain. "You're doing great. You're the best nurse-slash-panic-case I've ever had."

"That is not helping."

He lifted a shaky, gloved hand and pointed at her pathetic first aid kit. "Alcohol wipes. Should be in the top part. We need to clean the wounds first, see how bad they actually are."

She found them with trembling fingers, tore one open. Her heart was racing like she was running a marathon inside her own dorm room. "This is going to hurt."

"Everything already hurts," he said with a weak attempt at humor. "Go for it. I trust you."

She blinked at those last three words, at the simple sincerity behind them, but pushed the surge of emotion aside. Now wasn't the time. She pressed the wipe to a deep gash across his ribs, and he hissed in pain, every muscle in his body going taut, but he didn't pull away.

She worked carefully, methodically, cleaning away the worst of the blood with hands that gradually stopped shaking as she focused on the task. "Why didn't you go to a hospital? Or call one of your superhero friends?"

"Explaining the suit's... complicated," he managed, attempting what she assumed was his usual crooked grin beneath the mask. "Also, co-pays are killer."

"You're making jokes right now?" She tossed a blood-soaked wipe into her trash can. "You are actively leaking bodily fluids."

"Leaking's fine. It's arterial spray you gotta worry about."

She groaned, reaching for more supplies. "You're absolutely insane."

"I've been called worse."

When she reached for gauze, he caught her wrist gently, his touch warm even through the fabric of his suit. "That one—the gash on my side—it's too deep. Needs stitches."

She blinked, staring at him. "Stitches? Like... with an actual needle? And thread?"

"Yeah. There should be a curved suture kit in the red pouch." He gestured weakly toward what looked like a small medical bag she hadn't noticed him carrying. "I keep emergency supplies for situations like this."

"Who are you, a Boy Scout?"

"Something like that. Just one who gets beat up more than most."

He shifted with obvious difficulty, turning just enough to give her better access to his right side. She sucked in a sharp breath at the sight—a deep, angry cut that ran from just above his hip nearly to his ribs. The suit was torn wide open, blood soaking through the fabric and streaking across skin that was pale and torn beneath.

But under the mess, she couldn't help but notice the lean definition of his torso, the way his muscles moved beneath unmarked skin. Not that she was surprised, she'd suspected as much from watching him move. But still. He was fit. Not bulky like a bodybuilder, more like a swimmer or a gymnast. All controlled strength and fluid motion.

Not exactly the time or place to be checking out the bleeding superhero, she reminded herself sharply.

She shook her head and dug through the medical pouch with wide eyes, pulling out the sterile packet he'd mentioned. Her hands were trembling again. "I've literally only ever sewn a button back onto a jacket. Once. And I did it wrong."

He let out a breathy laugh that turned into a wince. "Same basic concept. Just... the button is my flesh, and if you mess up I might die."

She felt all the color drain from her face. "Oh my God, that's not helping—"

"I’m just kidding, I won’t die. It will just get infected and then I might die. I'll walk you through it," he promised, and despite everything, his voice was calm, reassuring. "Step by step. You've got this. You're good at everything you try."

And somehow, impossibly, that helped.

She opened the packet with hands that were getting steadier by the moment, sterilized her hands as best she could, and threaded the curved needle. He coached her through each step—softly, patiently—telling her where to pierce, how deep to go, how tight the stitches should be. She focused on the rhythm of his voice, on the way he still managed to encourage her even while his blood was soaking into her favorite duvet.

By the third stitch, her hands had stopped shaking completely.

By the sixth, she realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to breathe normally.

By the eighth, her heart rate had finally slowed to something approaching normal.

She tied off the final knot with hands that felt surprisingly steady, pressed clean gauze down gently over her work, and sat back on her heels. He was still now, mask turned toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling with careful, measured breaths.

She exhaled slowly and grabbed the last clean pillow from the floor, tucking it beneath his head with gentle hands.

"You better not be dead," she whispered. "Because if you are, I am going to kill you myself."

The mask shifted slightly. She caught the hint of movement that suggested he was smiling underneath. "You can't kill someone who's already dead. That's not how death works."

She let out a shaky laugh. Part exasperation, part relief that he was conscious enough to argue semantics. "I'll figure out a way. I'll call one of your Avenger friends, have them bring you back to life just so I can murder you properly. Twice, if they're feeling cooperative."

He actually chuckled at that, a sound that was getting stronger by the minute. "They can do a lot of cool things, but resurrection's not really in their skill set. Time travel, though, that might work."

She paused, frowning. "What?"

"Don't worry about it," he mumbled, not bothering to move but turning his head just enough to keep her in his line of sight. She wished—not for the first time—that she could actually see his expression behind that mask. "But seriously... thank you. You were incredible. I definitely owe you one. Maybe several."

Her heart did something complicated at the sincerity in his voice, and despite everything—the blood, the panic, the surreal nature of stitching up a superhero on her dorm room bed—she smiled. "I didn't do anything you couldn't have done yourself with a mirror and some very flexible arms."

"Trust me, that's way harder than it looks. And you did it perfectly." He was quiet for a moment. "We'll call it even for all the homework help."

She was cleaning around the smaller cuts with careful hands, trying to distract both of them from the gravity of what had just happened, when she said, "You know, most normal people would go to an actual hospital for this kind of thing."

He gave a low, strained chuckle. "Yeah, hospitals ask inconvenient questions. And I didn't have time to Google 'how to explain getting stabbed by a guy with mechanical arms and a serious grudge.'"

She snorted despite herself. "Fair point. But still, you must have... someone. Like an Avengers medical hotline? Super-doctor on speed dial? That guy with the metal arm seems like he'd know about field medicine."

"Nope," he said, voice going softer, more serious. "You were the only person I thought of. The only one I wanted to see."

She paused mid-cleaning, looking up at him with wide eyes. "...Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Something warm and complicated bloomed in her chest at his words, but she tried to keep her tone light. "You don't have a girlfriend who'd patch you up? Someone who knows your blood type and your tragic backstory and how you like your coffee?"

He was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice carried a weight that made her chest tighten. "I used to. But not anymore."

She hesitated, gentleness creeping into her voice. "What happened to her?"

He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on some point beyond her ceiling. "She forgot me."

That stopped her cold. "...Forgot you?"

"Yeah." He tried to keep his tone light, casual, but she could hear the cracks in it—pain that hadn't quite healed, maybe never would. "Magic stuff. Whole big multiverse crisis thing. Doctor Strange had to cast a spell to keep reality from completely falling apart. The catch was…everyone who ever knew my real identity had to forget I existed. Forget…my real identity…ever lived."

The room fell into heavy silence. She stared at him, stunned, her mouth suddenly dry. Her heart was doing something painful and complicated in her chest.

"Forgot..." she echoed, voice barely above a whisper. "You mean... no one who knew you remembers you exist?"

He let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so sad. "Well... to be completely honest, there weren't that many people left in my life to begin with. My last family member died a few months before, and most of my friends..." He trailed off, shrugged. "The world still knows who Spider-Man is. They remember the hero. But the person underneath... she wouldn't even know me if I stood right in front of her without the mask."

She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. The idea of being erased from the memories of everyone you'd ever loved—forgotten, completely alone—was almost too devastating to wrap her mind around.

"God," she breathed, voice thick. "I... I don't even know what to say to that. I can't imagine how that must feel. How are you…are you okay? I mean, how does someone even begin to be okay after something like that?"

He didn't answer right away and instead, seemed to be considering his words carefully. "It's... it is what it is. I don't regret it, not really. It was for something bigger than me. To protect everyone, everything. The entire universe, actually." His words were steady, honest, but there was still that deep ache beneath them, a loneliness that seemed to permeate everything. "And I'm doing better now than I was right after. Having someone to talk to helps more than you probably realize."

"Of course I care," she said quickly, almost too quickly, sitting up straighter like it could somehow convey the depth of her concern. "You've been... God, you've been there for me since that first night. You literally saved my life, and then you just kept showing up, helping with homework, listening to me complain about professors and boys and every stupid little thing that bothers me."

That pulled a real smile from him, judging by the way his mask shifted. She leaned forward, balancing her elbow on the edge of the bed, chewing the inside of her cheek as a thought occurred to her.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Did I..." she hesitated, voice growing softer, more uncertain. "Did you know me? Like... before? As your real self?"

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and even though his mask still hid his expression, something about the way he turned toward her felt incredibly raw, vulnerable.

"No," he said gently. "I didn't know you then. We never met before that night when I saved you." He paused, seeming to be weighing his next words carefully. "But I think... maybe I was supposed to. Maybe that's why I keep coming back here. Why I feel so... comfortable with you."

She didn't know what to say to that, how to respond to the quiet intensity in his voice. Her heart was doing complicated things, and she was suddenly very aware of how close they were, how intimate this moment felt.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged with something she couldn't quite name.

Then, almost casually, like he was asking about the weather: "So... do you have a boyfriend?"

The question caught her completely off guard. She blinked at him. "What?"

He shifted slightly, and she caught the hint of nervousness in his posture. "I mean... are you seeing anyone? Interested in anyone special?"

Her brows lifted, amused despite the strange flutter in her stomach. "Are you planning on setting me up with some other superhero? Because I have to tell you, my track record with guys in masks is pretty limited."

"Depends," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice now. "Would you say yes if I did?"

She laughed, but something about his tone made her cheeks warm. "I don't know. Are we talking about someone with better health insurance than you apparently have?"

That got a real laugh out of him, and the sound made something bright and warm unfurl in her chest.

"But to answer your question," she said, looking down at her hands, suddenly feeling shy, "no, I don't have a boyfriend. This guy in one of my classes—Robbie—asked me out, though. First time anyone's asked me on a proper date in... a really long time, honestly."

She glanced up and caught the way his whole body had gone still.

"Wait. Robbie asked you out?" There was something in his voice she couldn't quite place. Surprise? Concern?

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Yeah. You say that like you know him or something."

"I mean, no, I don't. Know him personally, that is." He was trying to sound neutral, but she didn't miss the edge in his voice. "Just surprised, I guess. Thought you were probably... too intimidating for most college guys."

She blinked, taken aback. "Too what?"

He seemed to realize what he'd said and shifted uncomfortably. "You're beautiful," he said simply, like it was an obvious fact rather than a compliment that made her breath catch. "Really beautiful. And smart. Funny. Independent. The kind of person who's got way too much going for her to settle for some average guy who probably doesn't even know how lucky he'd be."

Heat crept up her neck at his words. She'd never thought of herself as particularly intimidating, but the way he said it, with such certainty and sincerity, made something flutter dangerously in her chest.

"Okay, you have no idea if he's average," she said, heat creeping up her neck. Not from what he'd said about Robbie, but from the earnest way he'd complimented her. Like he meant every word. She'd never thought much of her appearance, but coming from him, the praise felt startlingly real. "Besides, he seems nice. I mean... I don't really know him yet. But isn't that what dating is for? Finding out if someone's worth your time?"

"I'm sure he's nice," he said, voice dry as autumn leaves. "But seriously, guys probably don't ask you out because they're intimidated. They know they'll stumble over their words or say something stupid."

"Like calling me intimidating?" she teased, unable to suppress a smile.

Beneath the mask, she caught the edge of his grin. "Exactly."

She ducked her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture felt oddly vulnerable. "Well... thanks, I guess."

The quiet stretched between them, comfortable but charged. Then, softer: "So... do you like him?"

"Robbie?" She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "He's sweet. I'm looking forward to the date. But I don't know if there's any... spark yet."

"Spark?"

"Chemistry," she said, fidgeting with her sleeve. "I've never really had that thing where someone touches you or kisses you and it's like your whole body comes alive. I guess that's how you're supposed to know if it's real."

He went very still. "You've never felt that before?"

The question was barely above a whisper. She shook her head, cheeks warming. "Not really. I haven't exactly had a lot of experience."

The silence that followed felt different. Heavier. 

Then: "Do you want to find out if we have one?"

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. "What?"

"A spark," he said quickly, but his voice carried an undertone that made her stomach flutter. Despite the tears in his suit and dried blood on his skin, he shifted closer on her bed. "Just to test the theory. For science. No pressure. I just..." His voice dropped. "I've wondered."

She stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came. He looked nervous—terrified, even—but he didn't take it back.

"Okay," she breathed, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. "For science."

The words hung in the air like a held breath. The room felt smaller, quieter. As if the world itself was waiting to see what would happen next.

She couldn't look away from him. His mask concealed his eyes, but something in the tilt of his head, the careful way he watched her, made her pulse stutter.

"For science," she repeated, softer this time. The teasing edge had vanished from her voice.

"Yeah," he said, and his laugh was barely audible. "Science."

Neither moved for a heartbeat. She remained perched on the edge of her bed, facing him, their knees almost touching. His breathing was careful, controlled. Whether from his injuries or nerves, she couldn't tell.

Then, with infinite gentleness, he reached out and touched her forearm.

It was nothing, just his fingers ghosting over her sweatshirt sleeve. But the contact sent electricity racing up her spine. He traced the line of her arm with his knuckles, a reverent exploration that traveled from her wrist to her elbow, then higher to her shoulder.

She sat frozen, barely breathing, mesmerized by the careful way he touched her.

His hand continued its path along her collarbone, up the curve of her neck, then threading into her hair. His fingertips brushed her scalp, and her eyes fluttered closed. It felt like he was memorizing her by touch alone.

"Can you...?" His voice was rough, barely steady. He gestured to his face. 

She understood. With trembling fingers, she reached up and rolled the bottom half of his mask up, stopping just past his nose. Her fingertips grazed his jaw—stubble, warm skin, wonderfully real—and her heart performed acrobatics at the sight of his mouth.

God. He was flesh and blood beneath the suit. The revelation was jarring and intimate and perfect.

He hesitated. So did she, her pulse racing like a trapped bird. Then, slowly, he leaned in.

Her hand flew to his chest, stopping him mid-motion. He froze, head tilting in question, confusion pulling at his visible features.

"Before we do this," she said, "please tell me you're not in high school."

His mouth curved into a smile, the first time she'd seen his real expression. "What if I told you I was an eighteen-year-old senior?"

"We are not doing this—"

"I'm kidding!" He laughed, catching her arm before she could pull away completely. "I'm over eighteen. And definitely not in high school."

She rolled her eyes, but relief flooded through her. "Okay. Good. You have permission to proceed."

He shook his head, still smiling—God, his smile was beautiful—then took a breath and leaned in again.

The first kiss was a disaster.

She angled wrong. He bumped her nose. They pulled apart simultaneously, awkward laughter bubbling between them.

"Sorry—"

"My fault—"

They tried again.

This time, he approached with more certainty, one hand still tangled in her hair, the other braced carefully beside her hip. Their mouths met in a soft, hesitant press—warm and shy, the way two people kissed when they were learning each other.

Then something shifted.

Her fingers curled into his suit. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly, and she followed his lead, responding with a soft sigh that made his breath hitch.

The awkwardness dissolved. It transformed into something sweeter. Curiosity, longing, and heat built between them within just a few moments. His hand moved from her hair to cup her jaw, angling her face just right. Her arms slipped around his neck, thumbs brushing the edge of his mask.

The kiss deepened, and it was like a circuit completing.

Not just a spark. A full current humming between them. His lips moved with growing confidence, still gentle but hungry in a way that made her pulse race. His hand slid from her jaw to her neck, then lower, grazing her ribs, her waist. Every touch ignited something new under her skin.

She made a small, surprised sound against his mouth. He answered with a low murmur, like he was just as overwhelmed.

Before she could catch her breath, he shifted and gently guided her back against the mattress.

Her gasp was swallowed by his kiss as he followed her down, deliberate but careful. His arm cushioned her descent, but her heart hammered like it was trying to escape her chest. He braced himself on his forearms, hovering over her, their bodies barely touching—but close enough to make her skin sing with awareness.

She looked up at him, dazed. His lips were pink and slightly swollen, his breathing unsteady. Even with most of his face hidden, she could see he was flushed and nervous — just like her.

He kissed her again.

Deeper this time. Her hands found his sides, fingertips exploring the lines of muscle beneath his torn suit. He was solid and warm and alive under her touch. When his palm slipped under her shirt to rest against her waist—skin to skin—her entire body lit up in response.

She gasped into his mouth.

No one had ever touched her like this. No one had ever made her feel like every nerve ending was awakening for the first time. Each kiss, each caress felt like too much and not enough simultaneously. She wanted more, and the intensity of that want terrified her.

But she didn't stop him.

His hand traced her waist, her ribs, reverent and curious, like he was mapping uncharted territory. When his fingers brushed the edge of her bra, she arched beneath him involuntarily, breath catching.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips barely separated from hers. "You okay?"

His voice was deeper than before, roughened with want. She nodded, searching his partially hidden face. "Yeah. It's just... I haven't done this in a long time."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her jaw, then just below her ear. "Me neither," he murmured against her skin.

Her hands shook as she traced the broad line of his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the heat radiating through his suit. He kissed her again, harder now, and she responded without hesitation. The tension between them coiled tighter. Warmth and nerves and desperate want.

When they finally broke apart to breathe, they were both gasping.

She stared up at him, dazed. He looked back like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, still flushed and breathless.

Then reality crashed down around them.

He shifted above her, suddenly uncertain, the confident intimacy evaporating. His eyes darted away from her face, and he moved like he didn't know what to do with his hands anymore. The electric tension that had felt so perfect moments before now hung in the air like an approaching storm.

She remained still, caught in her own breathless haze, trying to process what had just happened.

"So..." His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. "Was there a spark? You know, for... science?"

She pushed herself upright slowly. The movement created distance between them, and he immediately sat back on his heels, retreating as if trying to undo the intimacy they'd just shared.

"It was..." she fumbled, "a nice kiss."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed under his mask as he rubbed the back of his head and rose to his feet, stepping away from the bed like it had become dangerous territory. She watched, disappointed, as he pulled the mask back down over his mouth. "Yeah. Nice. Good word for it. So... no spark, then."

No spark?

There had been a wildfire. Her skin still tingled, her lips felt swollen from the intensity. She'd felt like she was flying, and now here she was, crashing back to earth in the worst possible way.

But his reaction—awkward, distant, like he couldn't get away fast enough—made her stomach plummet. He hadn't felt it. He didn't want this.

How could she have been so foolish?

He was Spider-Man. Heroic, extraordinary, probably experienced with women far more sophisticated than her. She was just the girl who barely knew what to do with her hands, who hadn't kissed anyone in over a year, who'd gotten swept away like some naive fool.

She bit the inside of her cheek, summoning what remained of her dignity. "Yeah," she said, forcing brightness into her voice that felt like swallowing glass. "No spark."

It was the lie of the century.

.

.

.

For the next three days, she saw neither Spider-Man nor Peter.

Spider-Man simply vanished. No late-night visits, no tapping at her window, no soft thuds on the fire escape. She told herself he was probably busy. Crime didn't take breaks, after all. Maybe there was some citywide emergency only he could handle.

But every news app on her phone told a different story.

She'd enabled every notification, set up keyword alerts, tracked every mention of "Spider-Man" obsessively. The results were disappointingly mundane: a car accident, a Midtown protest, a rescued kitten in Queens. No masked hero. No sign of him swinging through the city.

Just... nothing.

The silence was deafening.

Had the kiss really been that awful? She replayed it endlessly in her head. His hands in her hair, the heat of his mouth, the way he'd touched her like she was precious. She'd felt something profound. She was certain of it. But maybe she'd misread everything. Maybe he'd simply gotten caught up in the moment.

Worse than Spider-Man's absence was Peter's.

Peter, who ignored her texts. Peter, who stopped appearing at the library. Who missed their shared class entirely. Who let every call go to voicemail, unanswered and unreturned.

She called until she lost count, her heart racing with each ring, crashing when it hit the automated message. She texted until her thumbs ached: “Are you okay?” “Did I do something?’ “Please, just let me know you're alive.”

Nothing.

By the second day, desperation drove her to his apartment. She knocked, then pounded, her knuckles aching. When no one answered, she called his name until a neighbor threatened to call the police.

He was gone. Completely, deliberately avoiding her.

It hurt more than she'd expected. She hadn't realized how much space Peter occupied in her daily life until that space became a void. His sarcasm, his coffee breath, the way he tilted his head when concentrating, the way he made her laugh when everything else felt overwhelming—all of it, gone.

She missed him in every empty moment he used to fill.

Three days after knocking on Peter’s door to no avail, Robbie picked her up for their date.

She'd made an effort, really tried. Her hair had taken forever to cooperate, and despite not being much for makeup, she'd carefully applied foundation, blush, mascara. Even added highlighter to her cheekbones and wore her best red lipstick.

Her dress was simple but elegant: black, long-sleeved, high-necked, hitting just below her knees. She'd wobbled down the dorm stairs in unaccustomed heels, muttering curses until she spotted Robbie at the curb.

"Wow," he said as he opened her door. "You look amazing."

She smiled and thanked him, but the compliment felt hollow. It didn't create the slow-burning warmth she'd felt when Spider-Man had called her beautiful, his voice rough with sincerity.

The restaurant was perfect. A cozy Italian place with dim lighting and exposed brick, nestled between a bookstore and wine bar. Robbie held doors, pulled out chairs, was unfailingly polite.

Everything was... nice. Perfectly, predictably nice.

They discussed classes, professors, campus food, favorite movies. All safe, surface-level topics. She found herself editing her responses, catching sarcasm before it fully formed, realizing Robbie didn't share her dry sense of humor. When she joked about their TA being a secret lizard person, he blinked and changed the subject to basketball.

She forced laughter and stirred her pasta, feeling like she was performing rather than connecting.

Robbie was sweet. Normal. Safe. But he didn't make her feel electric. He didn't challenge her or see through her carefully constructed facade the way Peter did.

She shouldn't be thinking about Peter. Or Spider-Man. Or the way masked hands had felt cupping her face.

She was forcing down another bite of penne when the restaurant door chimed. Instinctively, she glanced toward the sound.

And froze.

Peter stood in the entrance, looking exactly as he always did—messy hair, soft sweater, scuffed sneakers. But he wasn't alone.

MJ walked beside him, effortlessly stylish in a brown trench coat and combat boots. They waited to be seated, MJ's arm brushing Peter's casually as he laughed at something she'd said. He looked happy. Unburdened by the week of silence between them.

The sight hit her like a physical blow.

Peter's eyes found hers across the restaurant. They both froze, caught in an electric moment that buzzed louder than the surrounding conversation.

"Hey, isn't that your friend?" Robbie turned curiously. "Peter, right?"

She tore her gaze away, forcing casual indifference into her voice. "Yeah, but maybe we shouldn't—"

Too late. Robbie was already waving enthusiastically. "Yo! Parker!"

She wanted to disappear into the floor as Peter approached with obvious reluctance, MJ trailing behind with an expression of mild interest.

"Hey." Peter's voice was carefully neutral, his eyes avoiding hers entirely. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Full of surprises lately, aren't you?" The words came out sharper than intended, sweetly venomous. "Not answering texts, skipping class, ghosting people. It's a whole new side of you, Peter."

Robbie's brows knitted, clearly sensing undercurrents he couldn't identify. "So is this your girl, Pete?"

Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably. "No, this is... MJ, meet—"

"We've met," MJ interrupted with a slight wave. "Coffee shop, right?"

"That's me." Her smile felt like it might crack her face. "And you're Peter's date."

"I am." MJ's tone was matter-of-fact, not unkind.

The four of them stood trapped in awkward silence until Robbie laughed nervously. "Well, we should let you guys eat. We were just about to leave anyway."

"Right. Yeah." Peter's relief was palpable. "Enjoy your evening."

"You too," she replied, meaning the opposite.

As soon as they walked away, she excused herself to the bathroom, hands trembling as she gripped the sink. Cold water did nothing to calm her racing pulse. In the mirror, her lipstick had faded and mascara smudged slightly.

What a disaster. Here she was, on a perfectly nice date, still orbiting Peter Parker like a satellite. And he'd acted like she was a stranger. Worse, like she was an inconvenience.

She'd replayed their last interaction a thousand times, searching for some offense she might have committed. But there was nothing concrete. Just the growing certainty that she'd somehow driven away both Peter and Spider-Man simultaneously.

The bathroom door opened behind her. In the mirror, she saw MJ enter.

Their eyes met in the reflection.

"Hey." MJ's voice wasn't hostile, just resigned. "Sorry about the awkwardness out there."

She grabbed an unnecessary paper towel, focusing on drying already-dry hands. "Wasn't your fault."

MJ leaned against the counter casually. "I recognized you from the coffee shop. And from Peter's stories."

She paused mid-wipe, mouth going dry. "Stories?"

"He talks about you constantly." MJ's smile was wry. "Like, obsessively."

"We're friends," she said quickly. "Were friends. Something."

MJ raised an eyebrow. "Right. Sure."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. The faucet continued running.

"On every date we've had," MJ said conversationally, "your name comes up at least three times. Physics lab, bio homework, 'she said this hilarious thing'—it was cute at first. Now, it’s just confusing."

The words hit like a revelation. She stared at MJ directly now.

"I like him," MJ continued. "Thought maybe we had potential. But guys don't spend dates talking about other girls unless they'd rather be with them."

That landed like a physical blow.

"Then why is he with you?" The question came out rawer than intended.

MJ shrugged with studied casualness. "He's trying to figure that out. Or avoid figuring it out. Either way, it's not really my problem anymore."

"You guys broke up?"

"We were never really together. Few dates, nothing serious. He's sweet, but..." MJ pushed off the counter, moving toward the door. "He's not over you."

"There's nothing to be over. We never—"

"I didn't say he understood it rationally."

The bathroom felt claustrophobic now, too bright, too exposed.

MJ paused at the door, hand on the handle. "For what it's worth, he looked like he wanted to say something back there. But I think you scared him. Or…I think you just scare him in general."

With that enigmatic statement and a small smile, she was gone.

And she was left alone with her reflection, makeup slightly askew and heart somewhere between her throat and the tile floor, wondering what the hell she was supposed to do with that information.

.

.

.

Robbie offered to walk her back to her dorm after parking in the campus lot, and she didn't have the energy to refuse. The night air was crisp against her bare arms as they crossed campus, their conversation reduced to halfhearted comments about professors and midterms and the perpetually broken vending machine in the library.

By the time they reached her dorm steps, she was gripping her keys like a lifeline, desperate for the safety of solitude.

"Well," she said, turning to face him with a polite smile that felt painted on. "Thanks for tonight."

"Yeah." Robbie rocked slightly on his heels, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. "It was good. You're funny. And way smarter than me."

She managed a soft laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't know about that."

"You definitely are," he said with genuine warmth, then his expression shifted slightly. He glanced at her lips, stepped closer, and she braced herself for what she knew was coming.

The kiss was... adequate. Quick, sweet, tasting faintly of mint gum and cologne. His lips were soft, his approach respectful. It wasn't unpleasant.

It just wasn't anything at all.

No flutter in her stomach. No electricity. No spark whatsoever. When he pulled back, stepping away with a sheepish smile, she felt nothing but a strange burning sensation on her lips. Like her body wanted to reject even the memory of his mouth on hers.

"I'm really glad we did this," he said earnestly.

"Yeah," she replied, fighting to keep her smile in place. "Me too."

"But," he added gently, and her stomach dropped, "I think you might be interested in someone else."

She stared at him in shock. "What?"

He chuckled, raising a hand in a gesture of reassurance. "Hey, it's okay. I had a great time. But I'm not blind—I saw how you looked at Peter tonight."

Her mouth opened, but no words emerged.

"And," Robbie continued with surprising kindness, "I saw how he looked at you. You two have... something. History, chemistry, unfinished business. I don't know what to call it."

She remained frozen, stunned not because it wasn't true, but because both Robbie and MJ had noticed what she'd been too scared to acknowledge.

"Look, I just wanted to be honest," Robbie said with a self-deprecating smile. "You're incredible. Beautiful, brilliant, funny. But you're already spoken for, even if neither of you has said it out loud yet."

Her throat constricted. "Robbie, I—"

"It's all good," he interrupted gently. "Really. No hard feelings. I just figured I'd call it like I see it." His smile turned almost sad. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

He turned and walked away, hands tucked into his jacket, footsteps fading into the quiet night.

She stood alone on the steps, wind tugging at her dress, mind reeling from his words. The way you looked at Peter. The way he looked at you.

Had it really been that obvious?

She'd spent so long burying her feelings, smoothing them over with sarcasm and casual friendship. But apparently, everyone else could see what she'd been hiding from herself. The way her heart stumbled whenever Peter smiled at her, the way he remembered every small detail about her life, the way it had physically hurt tonight when he'd acted like she didn't matter.

And maybe MJ was right. Maybe he did feel something too.

She took a shaky breath, looking up at the stars barely visible through the campus light pollution. Something restless and determined was building under her skin. The edge of a decision she'd been too afraid to make.

No more silence. No more avoidance. No more wondering.

She turned on her heel and started walking with purpose.

.

.

.

Peter's apartment was a subway ride and ten-minute walk from campus. Her heels were torturing her by the time she reached his building, and the stares from late-night commuters had made her clutch her purse like armor. But frustration had carried her forward like momentum, boiling in her chest as she pounded on his door.

Muffled sounds came from inside. A thump, footsteps, then a pause.

The door cracked open.

Peter stood there blinking, clearly half-asleep. He wore faded sweatpants and a worn Midtown Science t-shirt, his hair sticking up comically on one side like he'd been passed out on the couch.

His brows furrowed as he took in her appearance. "What are you doing here? It's—" He glanced behind him for a clock. "It's nearly midnight."

"Yeah," she said, pushing past him into the apartment without invitation. "I'm aware."

He blinked in confusion, reality sharpening. "Wait, did you take the metro here? Alone?"

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "No, Peter, I brought my personal bodyguard. Of course I came alone!"

His eyes dropped to her dress, lingering on how it hugged her figure, and his expression darkened. "You walked here dressed like that? At midnight? Are you out of your mind?"

She gaped at him. "Are you serious right now?"

"You could've been hurt," he said, voice rising. "Or followed. Or worse. Do you have any idea how dangerous—"

"Oh my God, Peter!" Her frustration exploded. "I made it here just fine. I don't need you lecturing me like I'm some reckless child."

"Well maybe if you didn't act like one—"

Fire flashed in her eyes. "Excuse me?!"

"I didn't mean—" He stopped himself, running both hands through his hair, clearly trying to backtrack. "I just—don't you understand it bothers me? Knowing you were out there alone like that?"

"I think you don't get to be concerned about me," she shot back, voice shaking with anger, "when you've spent a week pretending I don't exist. You can't ignore me completely and then act protective the second I show up."

Peter stared at her, breathing hard, mouth opening and closing without sound. She took his silence as permission to continue, stepping deeper into his small studio.

"Is everything okay?" he finally managed. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, you mean besides you completely ghosting me?" she snapped, spinning to face him. 

"Besides tonight, when you looked at me like I'd personally ruined your evening just by existing?"

Peter's mouth worked soundlessly. "What?"

"You've ignored every text, every call, for an entire week," she said, hands flying up in frustration. "Then tonight you act like I'm some stranger crashing your romantic dinner. When, surprise, I was there on a date too."

His jaw tensed visibly. "Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn't have picked that place if I'd known you were going there with Robbie Robertson."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

He crossed his arms defensively, muscles clearly defined through the thin fabric. "Dead serious."

"You're mad at me for going on a date," she said incredulously, "when you've been pining over MJ for months while I played supportive best friend?"

"That's not the point!" The words burst out of him. Peter never raised his voice unless someone was about to jaywalk or she admitted to never seeing Star Wars.

He groaned and rubbed his face, then closed the door with a resigned click. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be weird, I just—"

"Oh, so this is you not being weird?" she interrupted, gesturing dramatically. "God help us when you really commit to it."

Peter shot her a look. "Will you let me finish?"

"By all means," she said with exaggerated courtesy. "Let the man explain why he abandoned his friend without explanation."

He made a strangled noise. "First of all, I didn't 'abandon' anyone—"

"Right, because you have a better word for ignoring all my attempts to contact you?"

"—and second, I didn't know you were going to be at that restaurant! I'm not upset about the location. I'm just—"

"What, jealous that Robbie has better taste in restaurants?"

"Okay, now you're just being mean."

She pressed her palms to her temples, head pounding from the emotional whiplash. "Look, if you don't want to be friends anymore, just say it. I'll be devastated and confused and probably eat my weight in ice cream, but I'll deal with it."

Peter's face crumpled like she'd physically struck him. "What? No! That's not—God, why am I so terrible at this?"

"Pete, it's fine. I don't understand, but eventually I'll—" She gestured helplessly. "Can you please just tell me what I did wrong?"

Peter stared at her from just inches away, his eyes flickering between frustration and something softer, more vulnerable. "I just said I don't want to stop being friends."

"Then what's the problem?" she exclaimed. "You've been avoiding me since Robbie asked me out. And tonight, both he and MJ told me you have feelings for me—"

"What!" Peter yelped, stumbling backward like she'd electrocuted him. His face turned crimson in real time. "They both said that?"

She blinked at his reaction. "Don't be so dramatic. Robbie mentioned it after he kissed me, and MJ said something in the bathroom—"

"He kissed you?"

"Yeah," she said, watching his face carefully. "At the end of our date."

Peter's mouth opened and closed silently. The color drained from his face so dramatically it was almost impressive. He swayed slightly, like the mere concept of Robbie's lips on hers was enough to destroy his will to live.

"Don't look too thrilled about it," she muttered.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Peter croaked, turning toward the kitchen like he was actually searching for something to throw up in.

"Okay, relax," she called after him. "It was just a kiss, not a marriage proposal. You're acting like he marked his territory."

"I didn't think that far ahead," Peter shouted from behind the refrigerator door, voice muffled by clinking glass. "I didn't realize he'd want to kiss you!"

She crossed her arms. "Wow. The flattery just keeps coming, Parker."

He emerged from behind the fridge, water in hand. "Don't mock me. You know what I mean."

"You're being ridiculous," she snapped, her own irritation flaring to match his. "You've been weird for days and this is why? Because Robbie kissed me?"

Peter slammed the refrigerator door. "That's not why I've been avoiding you!"

"Then what is it, Peter?" she shouted, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Because I've been losing my mind trying to figure it out. Did I say something? Do something?"

He scrubbed his face with both hands like he wanted to peel off his skin. "No! God, it's nothing you did. It's just…it's complicated."

"No, it's not," she shot back. "You're upset that I went out with Robbie. You're upset that he kissed me. You're upset that people think you have feelings for me. So either admit that you do, or just…say something, because this silent treatment isn't working."

"I can't say it," Peter muttered into his hands.

"Why not?"

"Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real."

She stared at him, something clicking into place. Her voice softened slightly. "Pete, I think it's been real for a while. I just didn't realize it until tonight."

He looked up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she said, her hands twisting together nervously, "that maybe I like you too, okay?"

Silence crashed down like a collapsed building.

Peter blinked. Stared at her with his mouth slightly open.

That wasn’t what he had been about to say.

She winced. "Oh God."

"You what?" he asked faintly, his voice cracking like a teenager's.

"I said what I said," she muttered, already turning toward the door, her face burning. "Don't make me repeat it. I'll spontaneously combust."

Peter remained frozen, stunned into complete silence.

"Great," she said, throwing her hands up. "Perfect. I've just completely humiliated myself. This is going well."

She shook her head and stalked toward the exit, reaching for the doorknob in a flurry of mortification.

"Wait…hey, wait!" Peter scrambled after her, nearly tripping over his own socks. "Don't leave like this."

"I have to," she huffed, yanking the door partway open. "It's either that or I curl up in a ball and scream into your carpet for six hours."

"You can't leave to scream in my hallway," he insisted, skidding to a stop beside her. "The acoustics are terrible."

She took a deep breath, knuckles white on the doorknob. "Peter—"

But then he moved.

In one fluid motion, he slid in front of her, close enough that she could smell his familiar scent of laundry detergent and something uniquely him. Using his back, he gently pushed the door closed, the lock clicking softly. Her hand remained on the knob. His arms braced on either side of her against the door.

"Please don't go," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "Not yet."

She was acutely aware of his proximity. The warmth radiating from his body, the way his breath hitched when their eyes met, the familiar comfort of his presence that she'd missed desperately.

She swallowed hard. "Pete..."

"I didn't mean to avoid you," he said, hands lifting in a helpless gesture that made his shirt ride up slightly. "I didn't know how to act around you after... everything. I thought if I gave it space, these feelings would just disappear."

She blinked, trying to process his words while simultaneously trying not to stare at the strip of exposed skin at his waist. Her eyes flickered down—and froze.

Just beneath the hem of his shirt, near his hipbone, she caught sight of something that made her world tilt on its axis.

Stitching. Uneven, slightly crooked stitching that she recognized intimately because she'd done it herself just days ago, mending a tear in Spider-Man's suit.

Her exact handiwork.

Time seemed to stop. The room spun around her like she'd stepped onto a carousel while 

Peter continued talking, his voice fading to white noise as her mind raced to piece together connections she'd been blind to for weeks.

The dark circles under Peter's eyes, weeks of sleepless nights. The way Spider-Man understood her physics homework with the same intuitive grasp Peter had. The quips, the awkward posture, the way both of them stood too close before backing away like they'd burned themselves.

His sudden, intense interest in her life. The way Spider-Man's voice had that same slight rasp as Peter's when he was tired.

Her eyes darted from the telltale stitching back to his face—his jaw, his lips, his eyes. The same warm brown eyes that had looked at her from behind a mask.

God, how had she been so blind?

"Are you even listening to me?"

She blinked hard, the carousel screeching to a halt.

Peter stood in front of her, brow furrowed with concern, clearly having been talking while she had her revelation. She studied his face with new understanding — the same stubborn cowlick, the same expressive eyebrows, the same mouth she'd kissed while he wore red and blue.

"When you said you didn't plan on ending up at the same restaurant as me tonight," she said slowly, her voice strange and distant, "you didn't seem surprised that I went on a date without telling you about it first."

Peter tilted his head, confusion flickering across his features. "I mean... yeah, I was surprised, but I didn't—"

She cut him off, her voice gaining strength. "That's because I already told you I was going on a date with Robbie."

Peter opened his mouth, then hesitated. There it was. That telltale pause, that split-second of panic that gave everything away.

"I don't think you mentioned it?" he said too quickly, too casually. "Maybe I just... lucky guess?"

"Oh my God," she breathed, half-laughing, half-gasping as the final pieces clicked into place. "You absolute idiot."

Peter blinked rapidly. "I—okay, that's unnecessarily harsh—"

She kissed him.

Not gently. Not tentatively. It was fierce, testing, a challenge pressed against his lips that caught him completely off-guard. He made a startled sound mid-sentence, eyes flying wide as his brain short-circuited.

For a heartbeat, he stood frozen like a deer in headlights.

Then something snapped into place, and he kissed her back like he'd been drowning and she was air. His hands found her waist with muscle memory, pulling her closer as he pressed her back against the door with the solid weight of his body.

One hand slid up her spine, anchoring her to him, while the other braced beside her head. His mouth moved over hers—urgent, desperate, real. This time there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just Peter kissing her like he'd been holding back for months and finally let the dam burst.

Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, right over that familiar stitching that had given him away.

Same guy. Same mouth. Same hands that had touched her so carefully in her dimly lit room.

Holy shit.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard and flushed, she stared up at him in wonder.

"Well," she whispered, voice slightly dazed. "That settles that question."

Peter's eyebrows were still drawn together in confusion, pupils blown wide with want. "What just happened? What question?"

She tapped her finger against his chest, directly over the crooked stitching. "Got anything you want to tell me? Maybe a couple of things?"

The change in his expression was immediate and devastating. He followed her touch down to the faint line of thread, then back up to her face. The panic faded, replaced by something quieter and infinitely sadder. The look of someone whose last secret had just been discovered.

"I guess I didn't think that one through," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion.

She huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, letting her hand settle gently against his side. "You've been him this whole time? For how long?"

"Mr. Stark recruited me in high school. I was fifteen." He exhaled slowly, heavily. "But I started even before that, right after I got my powers."

She bit her lip, hesitant to voice the next question. "And everyone forgot who you were? The spell you mentioned?"

His smile was bitter, worn thin at the edges. "Yeah. Everything I told you was true. I got this place after the spell, after Aunt May died." His eyes flickered away from hers. "Finished high school completely alone. Got into Columbia on scholarship money. Started over from nothing."

"And MJ?" she asked quietly, though part of her already knew the answer. "She was your girlfriend before all this?"

He nodded once, the motion heavy with old grief. "Yeah. Before the spell. Before everything got erased."

She didn't speak for a moment, just stared at him while her mind raced. It all made horrible, perfect sense now—the way he watched MJ like she was a ghost from another life, the terror in his eyes whenever someone got too close, the guilt that seemed to follow him like a shadow.

"But..." Her voice came out smaller than she intended, raw with vulnerability. "You're dating her again now. You got her to notice you. So why did you kiss me?"

Peter swallowed hard, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Because I couldn't help it," he said, his voice rough like he was dragging the confession out of some deep, buried place. "It wasn't part of any plan. I didn't expect it to happen. But it did, slowly, without me even realizing it was happening."

She remained silent, stunned by the raw honesty in his voice.

"At first, you were just... you," he continued, words tumbling out now like a dam had burst. 

"Smart, funny, kind of terrifying if I'm being honest. When you walked up to me in that coffee shop, I couldn't believe someone like you wanted anything to do with someone like me. Someone so…beautiful. So perfect. Then we started studying together. You began waiting for me after classes, bringing me snacks like you didn't even notice you were doing it. You'd smile at me like I'd actually made your day better just by existing."

His voice grew quieter, more vulnerable. "I went out with MJ on what was technically our second first date, and halfway through dinner I realized I was comparing everything she did to you. How she talked, how she laughed, the way she saw the world…I kept thinking about how much more alive I felt when I was with you. How natural everything was between us. How you made even the ordinary moments feel extraordinary."

He looked up at her then, his expression raw and unguarded. "It was insane. I'd spent so long convincing myself that if I could just get MJ back, I'd feel whole again. But sitting across from her, all I could think was... she's not you."

She felt her breath catch, but remained quiet.

"You laugh at my terrible jokes," he said, voice growing stronger with conviction. "You challenge me, call me out on my bullshit, see me for who I actually am—not Spider-Man, not some tragic figure from a sob story, just Peter. And I didn't realize how desperately I needed that until it was already too late."

He ran both hands through his hair, cheeks flushed with emotion. "That's why I was so weird after we kissed. I thought you felt nothing, and it terrified me. I thought I'd ruined the one genuine connection I'd made since the spell. So I panicked and tried to go back to MJ, tried to convince myself I was just confused."

His gaze locked with hers, unflinching and vulnerable.

"But I wasn't confused," he said, barely above a whisper. "I fell for you before I even understood what was happening. And I didn't say anything because... you're a senior. You're confident and experienced and brilliant, and I'm just some freshman with too many secrets and a suit full of holes. And I cared about MJ but now…I realized she was just my past. You…you’re my present. And I want you to be my future."

He took a shaky breath. "When I put on the mask... I guess I thought maybe that version of me was enough. Stronger, more confident, someone who deserved to kiss you without being afraid of the consequences."

Her chest ached at the pain in his voice, but she let him finish.

"After I kissed you that night as Spider-Man," he continued, voice tightening with remembered hurt, "you said there was no spark. So I figured that was it — confirmation that you didn't feel anything. And maybe I didn't react well after, but that wasn't because I didn't want it. It was because I was scared out of my mind that I'd just destroyed any chance I might have had with you."

Her eyes widened. "Peter—"

"I avoided you because I couldn't stop thinking about it," he interrupted, like he had to get it all out before he lost his nerve. "About the kiss, about how right it felt, about how much I wanted more. And when I saw you with Robbie tonight..." His jaw clenched. "I was stupidly, irrationally jealous, and I hated myself for it because you never owed me anything."

She stepped closer, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Peter, I only said there was no spark because you went completely blank afterward. You acted like you regretted it immediately. I thought I'd misread everything and embarrassed myself."

He stared at her like she'd just rewritten the laws of physics.

"I was mortified," she continued softly. "But the spark? God, there was definitely a spark. There still is."

They stood there in the charged silence, breathing the same air, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"You felt it too?" he asked, voice barely audible, like he was afraid to hope.

"I felt it," she confirmed, her own voice rough with emotion. "I still feel it."

Peter's breath caught, his eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

She took another step closer, close enough that her chest brushed his with each breath. "So do something about it this time," she whispered. "As Peter."

That was all the encouragement he needed.

His hands came up slowly—one curling gently around her waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with infinite tenderness. When she didn't pull away, when she actually leaned into his touch, he leaned down with deliberate care, giving her every opportunity to stop him.

She didn't.

This kiss was everything the first one should have been. No hesitation, no doubt, no fear. Peter kissed her like he meant it, like he'd been holding himself back for months and was finally free to show her how he really felt.

She melted into him immediately, arms winding around his neck, fingers sliding into his soft hair. He deepened the kiss with a soft groan, tilting his head to fit their mouths together perfectly. Her back met the wall behind her as he pressed closer, like he couldn't bear even an inch of space between them.

When he pulled back just far enough to breathe, his forehead rested against hers, both of them flushed and breathing unsteadily.

"Still no spark?" he whispered against her lips, and she could feel his smile.

"Shut up," she laughed breathlessly, and kissed him again.

This time he kissed her deeper, more confidently, like he was finally allowing himself to believe this was real. His hands roamed with growing boldness—one pressed into the small of her back, the other slipping just under the hem of her dress to rest against the bare skin of her thigh. The contact sent electricity racing up her spine.

Her fingers gripped his shoulders, then slid down to rest over his chest, directly over the stitching that had given away his secret. "I still can't believe it," she murmured against his mouth. "You're really him. Spider-Man."

Peter laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah, I... that used to surprise people."

"No, seriously," she said, pulling back to look at him with wonder and disbelief. "It was right there in front of me the whole time. You literally had Iron Man stickers on your pencil case."

His grin was boyish and proud. "Those were limited edition, thank you very much."

She shook her head, laughing as he began walking her backward toward his bed with gentle pressure. 

"The pencil case should have been my first clue."

"Hey, don't mock the pencil case," he said, eyes dancing with mischief as the backs of her knees hit his mattress. "That pencil case has sentimental value."

She gasped as he lifted her easily, his enhanced strength making it effortless to settle her on the bed before following her down. Their legs tangled naturally as he braced himself above her, both of them grinning like idiots.

"Still think I'm just some dorky freshman?" he asked, voice low and teasing as he pressed kisses along her jaw.

"I mean..." Her breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear. "You are technically still a teenager. This makes me practically a cougar."

"Factually incorrect and deeply offensive," he murmured against her throat, his hands spanning her waist. 

"And I'm pretty sure I just used my superhero reflexes to get you onto this bed, so I'm definitely earning some points for style."

She reached up to frame his face with her hands, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. "Yeah," she said softly, her eyes tracing every familiar feature with new understanding. "You're definitely not just a kid anymore."

Something heated flashed in his eyes at her words. He leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time but with an intensity that made her toes curl. One of his hands slid up under her dress, fingers ghosting over the bare skin of her thigh, while her own hands explored the solid muscle of his back and shoulders beneath his thin t-shirt.

Every touch felt electric, charged with months of unacknowledged tension finally finding release.

"I still can't believe I didn't figure it out sooner," she breathed as he kissed down the column of her neck, her hands fisting in his hair.

"I was very carefully sneaky," he said between kisses, his voice muffled against her skin.

"You literally deepened your voice on purpose the first night you saved me."

"Okay, mostly sneaky," he conceded, and she could feel his smile against her throat.

She laughed, the sound dissolving into a soft sigh as he found that perfect spot where her neck met her shoulder. She arched into him instinctively, her legs wrapping around his waist as he settled more fully against her.

Peter pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his expression serious despite the heat between them. 

"Tell me to stop and I will," he said quietly, his voice rough with want and something deeper. "Just say the word."

She reached up to brush his messy hair off his forehead, her thumb lingering at his temple. Her heart felt like it might burst from the tenderness in his gaze, the careful way he was looking at her like she was something precious.

"Don't you dare," she whispered.

He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking her face in. A bright smile lit up his face. 

And he didn't.