Welcome to My Domain

JUNE, 2024

"Do you think that dreams are alternate realities?"

The question kind of came from nowhere. Well — it had been on your mind a lot, and especially recently. Especially on patrol, especially when you were sat, legs dangling off the edge of the high risers in lower Manhattan, with him sat next to you. You don't know why you thought about it more when he was around, you just did. And you could barely even explain yourself without giving everything away.

Spiderman turns to face you, mask covering his face because you don't know who he is, but you can still tell — he's got his eyebrows furrowed at you. He's confused. The two of you had been sat in silence for the past ten or even fifteen minutes and then suddenly you blurt that out. You couldn't even help it. It just… happened. And now you would be forced to explain yourself.

You don't know Spiderman. You know him in the sense of you fight crime together, you meet up on rooftops in the middle of the night and scout out people doing wrong and sort it out, save people from danger, etc.

But you don't know him. You don't know his favourite colour, or what he does for work, or hell, even school. You don't know his likes and his dislikes. You don't know who his friends are, what motivates him to get up in the morning.

You don't know who he is.

So then why do you feel like you do? It doesn't make any sense. It keeps you up at night, trying to figure it out. You don't know who he is and he doesn't know who you are, so why does it feel like you've been friends for years and years? Why does it feel like he knows you like the back of your hand? How you manage to work so smoothly together as heroes if you've only been doing it a month or two — it didn't make sense.

"What?" He asks, perched on the edge of the building next to you, literally on the edge, not worrying about falling because well — the spider thing, you know.

You shrug, stumbling over the beginning of your sentence, trying to figure out out exactly to word it without sounding crazy because if you were being honest… it was crazy. "Well… you know the theory, surely? That when we dream, we're just experiencing other realities in the multiverse that different versions of us are actually living. I mean — we know so little about the unconscious mind that I reckon it's pos—"

Spiderman chuckles a little, shaking his head but still not letting his eyes leave you. "Alright, okay. Yeah, I know the theory. What's brought this on?"

Here we go.

Because there's been this guy. That's all he is. You think. You don't know and — that's the problem. Around 85% of the dreams you've had in the past year or so (you know, you've done the maths), there's been this guy in your dreams.

Holding your hand, kissing your cheek, taking you on dates to the movies and sitting next to you in class. Laughing along with you, hell — even meeting your parents. And it all feels so real. It all feels like something you've experienced before. It all feels like something that has happened to you before and somehow your brain has just forgotten.

But how could you forget something like that? Something so incredible, so real, so full of love and care and everything you wish you could have.

You explain it to Spiderman, making sure not to look him in the eye because you think you would die of embarrassment if you saw his reaction. But who else were you supposed to tell? In fact, it was probably best for you to tell someone that had no idea who you were, because if you were ridiculed for this, made fun of by Spiderman — which would be crazy but you're ready for any reaction — you had no obligation to stick around with him.

Once you've finished, your voice calms, having rambled on for quite a bit, only stopping once you realised you've probably said a bit too much. You don't tell him everything. You don't tell him what this guy looks like, you don't tell him about the more… explicit dreams. You don't tell him about how whenever you wake up it feels like part of you has just been ripped away.

You keep it as… normal as this situation could possibly be.

Spiderman stays quiet for a moment. You're considering just getting up and leaving, never coming back, that whole ordeal. But something in you begs to stay and hear him out. Just for a little. Just to see what he thinks.

Then he speaks, just like normal. "And you're saying this guy is in like, 85% of your dreams?"

You nod, simple. "Yeah, I, uh… I did the maths. It's like 84.567% but rounding, you know." You stutter, blabbering on again. Fuck.

"Do you know his name?"

"No."

"You don't refer to him in the dreams?"

You shrug, finally looking at Spiderman. "Not really. If I do it's with some cringy petname or something. Like baby or sweetheart. Something sickly sweet, you know."

Spiderman hums, nodding slightly. He stops perching, instead sits down properly, not closer to you, exactly the same distance, but there's something different about it. Like he's less on watch and more interested in this conversation now. Then softly, he turns to you again, and you wish now more than ever that you could see what he looked like under the mask. "Do you know what he looks like?"

You blink, head whipping up from his hands to his face, so fast you would nearly have given yourself whiplash. "What?"

"Well sometimes people in dreams are just like… faceless blobs. Is he a faceless blob?"

Swallowing thickly, you turn away, gaze darting across the New York skyline, following as lights from different apartments turned on and off, the car lights driving down the streets. Anything but looking at him. "No. He's not a faceless blob. I— I know what he looks like."

"And?"

"Brown hair, brown eyes. Nice smile but I'm probably bias." You laugh your way through describing this mystery man, acting as if you thought it was so stupid as well, and that it was all bullshit.

Spiderman goes quiet. Just nods along.

Then you hear police sirens and you're both up and following the noise. The cars are on a street a block or two down and are heading towards a bank a mile or so out from your house. Spiderman is already moving so you follow, quickly and swiftly, just like you trained.

You shouldn't, but you're thankful for the distraction. Part of you regrets telling him anything.

SEPTEMBER, 2024

Peter didn't realise that you would be here. In fact, you were the last person he expected to be here. Sure, MJ and Ned, they were supposed to be here, it was an MIT building that the landlord rented out to students for a cheaper rate and without ever knowing Peter Parker, they had gotten into MIT with flying colours. But you?

You'd never showed interest in going to MIT. Did you know someone going to MIT? Who were they? Why had you even moved to New York? He supposed your dad still got ill, you still came here to live with your mother. Had you still been involved in everything with Thanos? Had you still known Tony?

Peter still had all his memories, the ones with you in them, the ones where you noticed him, where you liked him hell— even loved him. You didn't have those memories.

Peter didn't know if he was willing to relearn you. Not with the memory everything before.

Because there you were, in that gorgeous black dress, that fit you perfectly, that made his heart soar. You'd put make up on, a rare but brilliant occasion, with his favourite coloured eyeshadow, the specific shade that made your eyes pop, even in the darkness of the apartment. And— were you looking at him?

You're talking to MJ and Ned. You shook their hands, smiled and laughed at something Ned said, and Peter can only think of the first time he introduced you to the two of them. Then there's a glance, to your left, directly in his direction.

It happens as quick as it stops. Peter doesn't know what to do with himself.

When you finish the conversation with MJ and Ned, Peter watches you head straight towards the alcohol. Since when did you..? You never drank before. You refused, never went near even a drop of the stuff. Peter watched you b-line for the table, pour yourself a nice big glass of whatever you've chosen, take one more glance towards him before taking a big gulp. Peter can't figure out what the hell is going on. There has to be a reason you keep looking at him, he can't just be going crazy.

Now, Peter needs a drink. He's not stupid. He waits until you leave the table before heading over to it. He doesn't even know if he can ever work up the courage to talk to you again, especially this early on.

Courage. And what have you both just given yourself? Liquid courage.

It doesn't take long for the alcohol to kick in. An hour, maybe two. You've had a couple drinks by now, someone you've only just met dared you into a shot, and now you're sipping a lovely glass of wine. Not only have you had a lot, but you've been mixing, too. Bad idea.

Peter, on the other hand, isn't as bad. He's had a bit, he's slurring his words, attempting to talk to someone he didn't know previously, avoiding you, MJ and Ned like the plague. He's still not well-minded though. He's still glancing at you every time you walk into the kitchen and back out again, and he's definitely still noticing every time you stare at him. Spidey senses, or whatever. That's what he tries to tell himself it is, but Peter thought both then and now, that even if he had never been bitten, he would have found you either way.

Then suddenly, even though he's been avoiding you so much it's been killing him, you pop up behind him, and Peter realises just how drunk you really are.

"You're cute." You say, the first half of the sentence so slurred that Peter has to take a second to figure out what you said. Cute, yeah, he's fucked.

Peter's lips part, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you. "Uh—" Fuck, what does he even say?

You hiccup, leaning against the doorframe like if you didn't have something to hold, you would be on the floor instead. "M'sorry, I don't even know you, y'just, cute. Had to say something."

"Thanks." Because, what else is he even supposed to say. If he even tries to string a sentence together, it'll come out all jumbled and while you certainly don't care about that, he doesn't want to risk spilling anything at the moment. Perhaps never.

"I've actua'y been avoidin' you al'night."

What?

"Didn' wanna say somethin' I shouldn't've." You shrug, smiling up at him with big eyes and Peter can almost feel his insides melt. It's the exact same look you used to give him when you'd convince him to do something he knew was a bad idea. Fuck. "But, then I stop'd caring'. Dunno why."

"Maybe the alcohol?" Peter squeaks.

Then you're gasping, the gleeful glint in your eyes only getting brighter as in your drunken haze, remember the existence of alcohol, even though it's running through your system like crazy. "Oh m'god-! Yes! Alcohol! Love it s'much. Need some more…"

Peter can't help himself then. He's so used to lending you a helping hand, comforting you when you need it, being by your side and doing anything for you that the second you mention more alcohol, he protectiveness kicks in. He grabs your hand as you attempt to run off towards the kitchen and you pause in your hastiness.

"Woah, maybe we should get you some water instead, hey?" Peter says, keeping his voice soft and trying to push through the less alcohol in his own system in order to help you.

You look up at him with those big eyes again and sigh dreamily. "Y'cute and carin'? Are y'single? There's no way you're single, right, cutie? Someone has to have… you know, ugh. I can never find the right guy."

Peter rubs a palm against your shoulder, doing his best to ignore your question. Of course he's single, he would never be able to be with anybody else. "Come on, towards the kitchen."

Carefully, Peter guides you towards the kitchen, grabbing an empty cup from the side and heading towards the tap. He makes sure it's cold but not too cold and hands it to you. He tries not to take notice of the way you can't stop staring at him. How he managed to get into this situation, he doesn't know, but all he knows now is that he can't just leave you, drunk out of your mind, with no way home.

It's late into the party now. A couple people have gone home but it doesn't look like it's going to quieten down any time soon. Peter takes a glance at the clock and is shocked by the time, any other day and he'd be perched on a rooftop beside you — without you even knowing it was him.

Still, you're here. Somehow, still with him. It was a joke you always used to have. You said it from the beginning of your relationship and it was the last thing you ever said to him, knowingly. We find each other in every universe. No matter what. And you were right.

Once you'd finished the water, you chucked the cup into the bin next to the sink and turned back around to Peter, a pout on your face that was going to be the death of him. You're leaning against the counter, but this time not out of drunkenness but instead with how tired you are. The hyper-ness of the alcohol has been very quickly replaced by sleepiness.

"I'm gonna go t'sleep." You murmur, leaning further towards Peter, your eyes fluttering shut.

Peter stops you, holding you up by the shoulders. "Can't sleep here, I'm sorry. Do you have a way to get home, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, the pout reappearing at both remembering how your friend abandoned you and how Peter didn't let you go to sleep. "M'friend was gonna drop me off, but she's gone home with a guy, I don't know."

"Okay, where do you live? I'm more than happy to walk you home."

"Upper Manhattan." You grumble, beginning to lean into Peter, rather than the counter and not realising that that was much too far away to walk and Peter couldn't afford you an Uber. He also didn't trust you on the other end of a taxi. "But, s'okay, right? Can just sleep at yours. Don't you live in th's buildin' cutie?"

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at you, genuinely concerned. "You don't know me."

You shrug, smiling up at him, trying to stay awake. "I dunno, feel safe around you. Feels like I've known y'longer than I actually have. And if you try anything, I'm a fantastic archer."

Yeah, he knows, Peter smiles at that. You were fantastic at everything but you always found most pride in the archery thing. Always looked up to people like Hawkeye, always helped as many people as possible with a skill so mundane, in your eyes. In Peter's eyes, it was the least mundane thing ever. He thought you were so cool, and he was so proud of you. Even if you had no idea anymore.

"Okay, sweetheart, let's go." He says, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone as he guides you towards the door. He only lives downstairs, so it doesn't take very long until you're standing in his apartment. You've never been in here before, it's weird. Though Peter always imagined that you had been. That you'd been here countless times, that he'd cooked you dinner, that you had your own drawer of clothes and your toiletries were in the bathroom.

Peter heads towards his drawer, grabbing some sweatpants and a spare shirt, a stupid nerdy one that has some dumb physics joke on it. When he reaches you again, he finds you looking at a photo on the mantle of a canal in Venice, it's bland, it's boring, but anything else would have to have had you in it. He only had one of them, and it wasn't going to leave that in his apartment.

"Here, go into the bathroom and change, there's a spare toothbrush in there. I, uh, don't have any make up wipes or cotton pads, I'm sorry." Peter stammers, letting you take the clothes he folded just to give to you.

You smile, still drunk, still tired, but something more real settled behind your eyes. "Thanks, this is more than enough."

Peter watches you stumble off to bathroom, unable to take his eyes off you. Even with everything that went wrong, you were still here with him. Different, and you didn't really know him, but you were in his apartment and you felt safe around him, even if you didn't know why, and Peter felt something settle in him. You'd be here. He'd be here. Always.

He drags himself to the bedroom, grabbing his favourite pillow (leave one for you) and the blanket he left draped at the edge of the bed, and headed back towards the sofa. By the time he had set everything up, you had come back out of the bathroom, make up a little cleaner with simply water, and in his clothes.

In his clothes.

Peter almost burst into tears in that exact moment. In another universe, you would be his. You would be wearing his clothes because you liked the smell, not because you were drunk and had nowhere else to stay. You'd be in his apartment because you would practically live there, not because you bumped into Peter at a party.

It dawns on Peter just now weird this situation actually is.

His heart aches, but he puts on a smile, and nods in your direction. "Bedroom's just through there. I'll be out here, if you need anything."

"Thanks." You mumble, eyes all cute and droopy. "See ya in th'morning."

And just like that, you're gone, off to sleep in his bed, without him.

When you wake, it's to a headache, and an apartment that isn't your own. It's to the sunlight streaming in through the window and bedsheets that smell like home, even though they aren't yours. It's that familiarity, like in your dreams, and suddenly you're sat up, looking around the room you find yourself in.

It's somewhat decorated, the walls are a simple cream but there's the odd poster, a corkboard with post it notes scattered on it, and the flooring is a dark wood with a simple rug half underneath the bed.

Then you start remembering everything.

It comes back in waves, it always does. First seeing him when you first arrive, introducing yourself to the host, MJ? You think. It's still blurry. Then seeing him throughout the night, watching him watching you. Why was he watching you so much?

And then… oh fuck. You've actually gone and fucked it now, for definite. Is this his fucking apartment?

Oh my god, did you sleep with him?

No, because where is he? You woke up in the middle of the bed, so he couldn't have slept in here with you. And you still had clothes on, not yours, true, but not the type you put on after sex. Proper clothes.

So where is he? You drag yourself out of bed, feet dangling over the edge of the bed while they adjust to the cold flooring. It's a particularly cold September.

As you swing the bedroom door open, a great weight is lifted off your shoulders as you spot the pillow and blanket made up on the sofa. The man is still nowhere to be seen, which scares you a little bit, but then you spot the piece of paper left on the kitchen counter.

His handwriting is messy, cute, all of that. Its a short message, scrawled onto an open page in the notebook he's left out and reads the following.

Morning, hope you're okay. Make yourself at home, there's painkillers in the bathroom if you need them and help yourself to some breakfast. It was nice meeting you last night, I would have stayed to meet you properly this morning but work calls. — "Cutie" as you called me.

You reckon you're actually going to end it. I mean, obviously you're not but you might as well. You've embarrassed yourself in front of this guy who you don't even know, but you've been dreaming about for the past year. Now you're sober and he's not even in the apartment.

It would be easy to leave, right now, it would. You could just get up, go, and it would mean nothing. You'd never have to see him again and you could forget all of this.

But then you catch it by the door. A worn leather wallet, on the counter by the door, left in a bowl. Jackpot.

Because even after last night, you didn't know his name. You didn't know who he was, but now you could find out.

You hesitantly step over to the door, picking up the wallet and letting it sit in your hand for a bit before opening it. This is a big moment, this isn't just a guy you met last night, this is a guy you've actually, non-metaphorically been dreaming about for the past year.

Slowly, you open the wallet. The first thing you see is his ID, perfect. Slipping it out of the folder, you scan through the information.

Peter Benjamin Parker. Born August 10th, 2001, Queens, New York. Aged 18.

After all this time, you had his name. Peter, of course. It made sense. He looked like a Peter.

But there was more. Something you had noticed immediately, too impatient to find out his name. All wallets had that little clear folder, made for a little photo. Usually loved ones, if you were a parent, it had a kid in it, or grand-kids, or just partners.

In that little folder, was a photo of Peter, next to you.

Not just a photo of you, a photo booth photo, with your lips pressed against his cheek, a grin on his face. It must have been a while ago, you only look 16, he looks a similar age too. And the worst thing wasn't even the fact that you were in this photo.

The worst thing was that you had this memory too.

You had dreamt about it. Last May, it must have been around the. He'd taken you on a date to the movies, and they'd just put in a new photo booth at the theatre and he insisted on getting a set with you, even though it was five dollars and he didn't have a job yet.

Oh, you need to sit down. You reach for the nearest chair, a single wooden, uncomfortable chair by the table, and you practically collapse into it. You can't stop looking at the photo, why does he have it? Why do you remember it? Have your dreams been real this whole time?

Then there's a jangling of keys on the other side of the door, and it swings open. There he is, in a jumper with his shirt collar hooked over the wool, backpack on one shoulder, cheeks heated and eyes stressed.

"Hey I forgot my wallet—" He cuts himself off when he sees you with his wallet. You stand from your seat.

"You're Peter Parker?"

He nods. "Yeah. Can I have- my wallet back?"

"Too late." You shake your head, turning it around. "Explain this photo to me, now."

Peter chuckles nervously, holding his hands out as be shuts the door completely. "Uhh, it's a photo?"

You blink, unfazed. "Why do you have a photo of me in your wallet?"

"Its complicated"

"I've got nowhere to be." You shrug. Peter doesn't quite know how to deal with this. You've never actually been angry at him before. You've been disappointed before, you've been worried that has manifested itself as angry, but never properly angry.

So Peter nods curtly, removes his backpack and sits it by the other chair. He drags it out and takes a seat, urging you to do the same.

You sit, sliding the photo out of the folder and chucking the wallet back to him. He's not getting that photo back unless he's got a completely valid reason.

"Okay, just under a year ago I made the biggest mistake of my life got into a lot of trouble. At first, everyone I loved was in danger and then the whole world was. So, a friend of mine, a sort of… sorcerer, had to bail me out, majorly. I owe him my life and he doesn't even know." Peter explained, eyes dashing between your gaze and where he hands were clasped on the table. "It was difficult, but he had to make everyone forget who I was. Everyone forgot the name Peter Parker."

You furrow your eyebrows at him, frowning. "Everyone?"

He nods. "Everyone. It was the only way I could save everything. So everyone forgot me."

"That sounds… lonely."

"It has been… well, there is someone but, again, complicated." Peter shrugs, and you have no idea who he is referencing, but for some reason, it makes your stomach twinge with jealousy. "Anyway, before he made the spell, I asked him one thing. Just one thing."

Your features have softened, no longer full of anger but instead just warmth. You couldn't be angry at him. "What was it?"

Peter sighed, looking down at his hands. "I asked him to keep this one photo, the one I kept in my wallet. That it would be enough and would get me by without anyone else. The photo of my and… my girlfriend."

"Your…"

"Girlfriend." Peter nods, finally looking up at you. "You were my girlfriend. For 3 years. I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea you would be at that party, I wasn't even planning on talking to you, and then you spoke to me and couldn't get home and I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I didn't help you."

"Peter." You speak, voice soft as you struggle to find the words. You don't know what a normal person would even say in this situation. There's nothing that makes enough sense, nothing that could help your brain process all of this. And you still haven't taken those painkillers. "You said there were painkillers in the bathroom?"

He furrows his eyebrows, but then nods. "Yeah, cabinet above the sink, help yourself."

"Thank you."

Swiftly, you get up and head to the bathroom, making it clear you don't want Peter to follow. There's nothing you can even conjure up that would even make a bit of sense. Hey, you know me really well but I don't remember much of that, only a couple moments, but you're still cute and we clearly get along so I'm willing for this to be a thing again?

What kind of nutter were you. Not only did you stand in the bathroom for ages while taking the painkillers, you also stood above the sink, splashing your face with water. You thought that maybe this was some form of dream, but it wasn't. It actually wasn't. This was real.

So, where to start? All of the dreams you've been having over the past year have been real. You haven't made them up, and you in another universe experienced them for real. But that version of you is you, and now you've met the guy that you apparently forgot. How much of your relationship had you forgotten? Were they just the main moments? Were they the ones you held dearest to your heart or were they just random?

Peter's explanation hadn't exactly been direct. He had told you what you needed to know in order for him to explain the photo but you could tell it hadn't really been everything. Because now you had two following questions, worse than any prior questions:

Why did he need everyone to forgot him?

How was he friends with a sorcerer?

And you need an explanation for these. The only sorcerer that people really knew about was Dr Strange, but then how would this random dude know Strange? You'd met him a couple years ago during a run in with a couple bank robbers, but he'd handled that. The only way you would be able to know Strange well enough for him to bail you out like that was if you were a superhero.

You sighed, took one last look in the mirror and left the bathroom, praying that the painkillers would kick in sooner than it said on the box. When you stepped out of the bathroom, you immediately spot Peter with his forehead against the wood of the table. He looked a little stupid but you can tell he's attempting to regulate his breathing. Then quietly, you hear him murmur, over and over under his breath,

"Stupid, stupid stupid. Just tell her. She's gonna find out either way. I mean, she's a genius, she'll find out eventually. And if you don't tell her now, she's gonna be so mad when you do."

You scoff a little under your breath, then say, louder, "Peter?"

He jumps up, sighing as he sees you. "Christ, scared me."

"Sorry." You murmur, sitting back down in your seat and fiddling with your hands in your lap. "What were you mumbling to yourself there, huh?"

Peter shakes his head, an internal debate over whether he should tell you. He must decide quicker than you had expected because then his lips are parting and he attempting to form the correct sentence. The correct way to say whatever he's planning on saying. Jeez, how life changing could this be. "There's more. That I should tell you, about… well, us, I guess. Well, me."

You nod, curt, unsure. "Go on."

"I know about your dreams. About me." He says, and then realises that he must sound like an absolute creep, so he stammers, trips over his words a bit before finding the correct foot again. "I mean, you've told me about them, but you didn't even realise it—"

Of course. There was only one way he would have been told about your dreams, if you had told him yourself. That's why it felt like you knew him better than you actually did. It's why he didn't want to take the mask off, he was the one that implemented that rule, not you. That was why he'd asked if you knew what he looked like, or his name. It's how he knew Strange. Everything had come together, so easily, so perfectly. How you hadn't realised in the first place, you didn't know.

"Are you Spiderman? "

Peter looks up at you, that warm, hopeful look settled into the brown of his eyes, and he nods, soft and sweet. "You were always a genius."

You blink at him, leaning forward in your seat because of course, everything makes sense now. "So that's how you know Strange? And that's why it felt like I knew Spiderman better than I should, because I did."

"Yeah."

"I mean, what are the chances the one person I go to tell about my dreams, just so happens to be the exact guy I'm dreaming about." You laugh to yourself, sitting back in your chair, head in your hands, partly embarrassed, partly unable to process this information.

"Yeah." Peter chuckles a little this time.

"So."

Peter pauses for a moment, just looking at you, who doesn't seem to be thinking. You'd just stopped talking, sat with everything for a minute. Peter cleared his throat. "So?"

You shrug, lips parted and brows furrowed hesitantly. "I don't know… where we go from here."

"That's fair."

Slowly, you lean forward in your seat, looking towards Peter, then away, then back at him; like you can't decide what to say, what to do. Like everything is still so jumbled but you don't seem to know how to even start untangling it. Peter understands. It's a lot of information to take in. Even if you just wanted to leave forever and never see him okay, he would understand.

And that was what you had realised. From your dreams, from the way he acted as Spiderman, from even just your conversation with him now. Peter cared. Deeply. Unlike anyone you'd ever met before. Even when he was still in love with you (—okay, you're assuming here, but to him, everything still happened, so), he cared for you. He would do whatever was comfortable with you, no matter what. He'd disregard his own feelings completely if it meant you were okay.

Which means something, especially considering everything he's gone through.

"If you want, I'll give you my number, and if you are ever able to properly process this and want… something out of it, friends, more, I don't know, I don't mind, you text me." He offers, showing his maturity, showing his politeness, showing how much he cares. "You don't have to, it's just a suggestion."

You look up at him, and for the first time, your eyes are soft. You're looking at him like you look at him in your dreams, like how you look at Spiderman. "No."

Peter nods. "Whatever makes you—"

"Shut up." He purses his lips, holds in a laugh, which makes you laugh as well, even if you're trying to hide it too. You've got a finger held up to him, supporting your statement, but you're still giggling as you speak. "Shut up. I… am willing to get to know you again."

You can see the way Peter's eyes light up just from pure hope at your words, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Okay."

Lowering your finger, you swallow thickly, still not completely sure if you're making the right decision here but still going through with it. "You're cute, I didn't lie to you last night. And… clearly we get along. I don't have very many people, not that I'm close with. And you seem funny, and I'd like to get to know you."

"Thank you." Peter breathes. "Take as much time as you need, we're going your pace, whatever makes you most comfortable, okay? And… I'll try not to be weird about knowing everything about you already. Just habit. Things I couldn't really forget—"

"Peter." You breathe, stopping him mid-sentence, reaching a hand over to rest against his which gives him no choice but to look you in the eyes. "It's okay."

He nods, sheepish, it being obvious there's still something on his mind. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks. And uh… it's really nice hearing you say my name like that again."

You smile, then, soft and warm.

Because maybe he knows more about you than you do of him, but that doesn't matter. You can see the care. You can see the potential. You have some memories of what the two of you used to be like and you can relearn him. You're willing to relearn him, after all this time. Even if it's a rocky start, even if there are problems, or you get frustrated with the knowledge differences.

You're willing to relearn him. Even with no memory of before.