They’d met when he’d been apartment hopping after his college graduation, and Harry said he had a place, (because of course he does, rich bastard) but his friend was staying in it, and they’d need to share.

Peter didn’t mind roommates, but a warning would have been nice when Harry’s friend, who he’d be sharing an apartment with, was just about the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on.

He still remembers how he stumbled over his words when they met, how when she asked his name, he forgot to say his last and barely remembered his first, and the first time he heard her laugh, the sound he keeps chasing ever since.

They got on well, better than he had with anyone he’d ever known. She was easy to like, the kind of lovely it’s easy to lose hours to. She laughed at his jokes, a really, truly honest kind of laughter, head tipped back and his silly little thoughts, watching TV on a hand-me-down couch. He wants to say they were friends, and in a way, she became his best friend.

But they were never friends.

Because he never made it that hidden how he felt about her. She wasn’t the kind of person he knew how to want halfway.

It happened too fast, the way he fell in love with her. It was all it once, a domino crash from the moment she first smiled at him tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear with that warm disposition. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful (but she was, so beautiful that it was distracting, even if she wasn’t present), but more her kindness, a warmth that followed her every step. She made him coffee, even on the early mornings she didn’t have to be up, and watched TV with him, even if she’s seen every episode before.

She had to have known how he felt. Because he remembers it, the way they would sit together on that damn couch, the way she wouldn’t even hide it. She’d curl into his side and he’d have his arm around her, and Peter would think over, and over that if he would just ask, he could be her person.

He’d be able to kiss her.

It was all so stupid, because he thought he’d seen the look in her eye, thought she also felt it, the way they fit together.

He can’t keep thinking about this,

Her boyfriend’s an asshole. Peter would think that even if the only thing he wanted in this godforsaken world was the guys’ girlfriend. He’s watched it, how Brad (the guy’s fucking name is Brad) is always late for dates, cancels last minute, and never looks at her. Never tells her she’s beautiful. Never holds her hand when they’re out. She thinks no one sees, but Peter does. He sees how she’ll reach her pretty fingers out to be held, only to be told it’s not the time.

She doesn’t complain, of course.

It’s when he’s stewing over this, the ugly jealousy brewing in his chest like an unabating ache, when she walks in his direction. It’s a rooftop party, and he was in the quiet section, looking over the city.

She’s a welcome presence.

“Hey stranger,” her voice is a low drawl, and she looks at him with a kind smile. She’s got such a pretty voice, and he’d give anything to get back to those nights where he was laying in her lap, her fingers combing through his hair. Her lips are painted a deep red, and he has a hard time remembering that she’s not his girl.

She’s his the what-if that won’t stop haunting him.

“You look beautiful,” Peter says, instead of a greeting. It’s only half-conscious, and the satisfaction of seeing her preen, watching the flattery bloom into that beautiful smile, is worth every bit of social faux pas.

“Thank you,” she replies, a half giggle, “You clean up nice.”

He spent an hour picking his suit jacket because she’d see it.

“Not as well as you, sweetheart.”

He’s not supposed to be saying that to a taken woman, but the selfish part of him wants her to be taken by him. Besides, when they were supposed ‘friends’, he’d call her that all the time.

She scoffs, and then props herself on the railing.

“Careful with that, smooth talker.”

“What, Brad getting protective now?”

Her face falls and his heart drops to his shoes. He hates the guy, but Peter- he’s weak for her happiness, would sacrifice his own a million times for it.

He doesn’t know if he’s pushed it lately, standing too close to her at bars, when Harry and him go out with her and Brad, or when he still grabs her hand to pull her somewhere. She’s always reacted positively to him.

“Why do you do that?”

She sounds heartbroken.

And he can’t- he can’t have hurt her. It’s the last thing he ever wants to do, the thing he tries to avoid more than anything.

“Honey,” and there it is again, him talking to her like he’s got a right to use endearments, “Do what?”

She looks down, wordless, with a bitter smile, and horrible taste hits the back of his throat.

“I think me and Brad broke up.”

The world stops spinning for a moment. The globe falls off its’ axis.

“You could pretend to be upset.” she says, “He had a lot of good traits!”

She’s smiling, and so he doesn’t feel like he needs to not laugh. And he wants to laugh, feels light as air, like the idea of hope is no longer frivolous, but overwhelmingly present.

“He’s got fuckin’ impeccable timing, I’ll give you that.”

She quirks her head, and it’s so fucking cute, and he’s drunk on the knowledge of possibility. She smells like rose perfume, the one he bought her for her birthday, and he wonders if she called him hers in her head too.

He’d give anything for that to be true.

“What do you mean?”

The asshole did have good timing.

“The night you told me about you two,” he closes his eyes, because the memory is pressing, “I had this whole plan laid out.”

He did have a plan. Bought flowers, her favorites. The lease was about to end, and he knew she was going to bring it up, what they wanted to do about it. He practiced the speech over, and over, and he was going to tell her about Spider-Man, where he goes those nights he comes home at 3 in the morning.

He was going to kiss her on the top of the Chrysler building. She deserved that kind of magic.

“Honey, I’m home!” He sing-sang as he walked through the door, looking out for her. The flowers were damp in his hand, and his heart rate was incredibly high, but he was determined.

“Hey Peter,” she replied from the living room.

“I made plans for us tonight, you’re gonna love em’, just wait-“

He didn’t actually know what made him stop in his tracks. It might’ve been the look on her face, or the way her folded hands were fidgeting, nervous energy pulsing in her form.

“Sweetheart, is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Totally good. I just wanted to tell you something.”

Fuck.

“I’ve been seeing this guy, the last few weeks, and well- it’s official! He asked me to be his girlfriend!”

Fuck.

“I was gonna ask you out, that night.”

“No you weren’t.” She says back, deadpan.

“Yes I was,” He repeats slowly, “Why do you think I brought flowers?”

“I don’t know? Maybe for one of the girls you kept coming home late from, but you were not going to ask me out.”

And- what the hell? He hasn’t talked to anyone but her since they met. Not even when she had Brad. She doesn’t sound mad, just- frustrated, and now, now it’s clicking.

She thought he was- out, when he was patrolling.

She thought he came to her, came home to her embrace, to movie nights and almost-kisses, to inside jokes and the first place that’s ever felt like home since he was a little kid, after being with other girls.

Can he even blame her? It’s not like oh, he’s Spider-Man, is the logical conclusion.

“I was,” he whispers, and he’s way too close to her to be anything but someone who wants her, far too inappropriate for the setting, “I bought flowers, I had a whole night planned, I-“ a sharp inhale, “I never wanted anyone but you.”

Her ex-boyfriend of about five minutes is here. It’s a business party for his best friend’s dad’s company. It’s totally inappropriate.

She’s about three inches from him, and he’s holding her, and everything in him is desperate. Desperate for the moment to last, for the opportunity to hold. To not lose her again.

“I didn’t know that.” She says, so low it’s almost a whisper.

He can smell the champagne on her breath, and he well and truly cannot help himself, he reaches out and holds the side of her face, drawing her in by her jawbone.

“What would you have said?”

She’s always got this grip on him, this draw to her that keeps him near, that he makes him want.

“I would’ve said that we’re friends-“

“We’re not just friends and you know that,” it’s a whisper, eyes fluttering from the proximity. It’d taken nothing, the tiniest push to kiss her. It’s intoxicating.

“And that I loved you.”

“Loved?”

“Love.”