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It's hard for Peter to wake up sometimes.

More often than not, he falls asleep at his desk in the attic, leaving his bed sheets tucked in and symmetrically folded, exactly like how May taught him. His mattress doesn't make him feel any more rested than the chair in his makeshift lab. It's hot and then cold, his wrists are itchy as hell, and his mind is scrambled eggs.

Every day there is another crook in his neck, and no matter how expensive a pillow was, it never provided the same comfort as before. Before, when May was down the hall, you, Ned, and MJ were down the street, and his only concern was correcting his swing so he wouldn't slam into his window in the dead of night and wake up his aunt.

His mornings now are concerned with finding enough food scraps for breakfast and his freelance programming work. It's mindless and makes enough to get by. People aren't too worried about letting someone remotely help their computer programs anymore. It's been years since Ultron, and the possibility of their computer growing a brain is no longer deemed a concern. Peter could totally do that. But he won't. Obviously.

People aren't also too worried about him only being able to accept cash in the mail to a PO Box.

E.V. sends a notification on his phone: Bring flowers to May. Peter is already one step ahead of schedule.

It's getting colder outside, and the sky is more grey than blue. His cheeks are surely tinged pink, and his puffer vest is starting to unthread around the pockets. Winter will come, and the snow soon after. If New York is lucky (or unlucky, depending on who you ask), the city will get a blizzard. Schools will cancel, delis will be empty, and people will decide to stay in for the day—or at least until the streets are plowed. But Peter will continue to make this trek, even as the cold grows into the new year.

His walk to May's grave is long. He'd get there quicker if he swung over, but the walk gave him an excuse. He had to get the flowers from somewhere.

The automatic doors glide open—one takes a little longer than the other. His senses jump into autopilot, taking in all the little noises and movements of the drug store. A woman is on FaceTime near the beauty wall. A mom is consoling her son as he cries near the front counter. Pictures are being printed, a passport is being taken, and in the far back, pills are being counted by fives.

Peter snatches up a half dozen roses. He knows he should go and check out. He knows he should quickly pay, walk out of the store, and make his way to his aunt. It's not healthy. It's time to move on. He knows all of this. And yet his feet take him to the back.

He's stocked up on first aid for the next week. He has enough Neosporin to last a lifetime for a small family. He doesn't need more bandages, and yet he's found himself right next to them, in an aisle that has the perfect view of the pharmacy.

Your scrubs are the standard blue color, but with the weather cooling down, you've started wearing long sleeves underneath. Crescent moons litter along the sleeves, peaking out under. Your nametag is decked out in star stickers and planet pins to represent some of your personality. It's all so you, and Peter's heart thumps.

He found out from your graduation posts that you changed your intended major to astrophysics. He was so happy for you. The space talks you both had after the blip were passionate, but it was mostly you geeking out that Peter had been on a whole new planet. You repost on social media almost every new piece of information sent out about moon explorations.

"Are you finding everything okay?" Oh shit.

You are looking right at him. A smile on your face and an easy tone. The perfect representation of customer service. Hundreds of people have seen this exact expression, but Peter's foolish heart lets him believe it's just for him.

"Oh! Um-" quick quick quick, "I was just looking to get one of those."

Peter points over your shoulder to where the behind-the-counter medicines are. His finger lands on a random cold and sinus medication. Twenty liquid-filled capsules. Non-drowsy. Sure, whatever.

"Oh, sure." It's an easy reply. You turn around and reach above to grab a box. "Just one?"

Peter swallows. "Just the one." He doesn't even get sick anymore.

You turn back to one of the registers and scan the back of your badge. It's a casual movement from you, and Peter is entranced. You look at ease with everything around you, even with the nearby coworker having issues at the drive-thru, who is gradually getting louder and repeating 'say that again' into the phone. After scanning the box, you look up at him. "Do you have your I.D?"

It's like a slap to his face, and he is awake. Peter pretends to fidget with his pockets. "Um, no. I-uh, I must've forgotten it."

You shrug your shoulders and tap something on the screen. "That's fine. You look over eighteen anyway." You have another smile on your face. It's different from the professional one you had a few seconds ago. This one is familiar. It's the one where it feels like you're sharing a secret with only him.

Peter steps forward, closer to the counter. His eyebrows are pinched together as he talks low with worry, "You're not going to get in trouble, are you?"

You chuckle and go back to typing something on the screen. Probably a fake birthday to get past the age restriction. "Nah. They need me here." You look down at his hands. "Did you want me to ring you up for those too?"

"Wha-," Peter looks down and remembers the flowers. "Oh! Yes, please."

You hum in acknowledgment, and pull the scanner over to him, searching for a barcode. Your gaze meets his. "Can you just..."

"Oh! Sure!"

Peter scrambles with the bouquet, searching himself for a barcode on the plastic. He flattens out the plastic so it's easier to scan. Once the barcode reader beeps, you pull away and set it down. "Thanks."

His heart is racing out of his chest. "Of course!" He knows he sounds way too enthusiastic about this. It'll weird you out; he'll be embarrassed about this later, but right now? His mind is only focused on you.

"Your total is 32.98."

Peter nods and fumbles again to search for his wallet. He quickly realizes that him still holding the flowers prevents him from searching one of his pockets. Sheepishly, he places the bouquet on the counter. You have a polite smile on your face, but there's humor in the crinkles around your eyes.

He finds his wallet and pulls out two twenties. Peter is very careful to hand them over on one end, so when you grab them there's no chance of your hands touching. As soon as you do, his hands are straight back into his vest pockets. He tells himself it's just precaution. He doesn't want to get stuck to your hand, that's all. But Peter hasn't had a problem getting stuck to things randomly since he was first bitten.

"Your change is 7.02," you say, waiting for the receipt to print. When it does, you grab it, fold it, and reach over to hand it to him. You wait for a moment, blinking. "Um, sir?"

For the tenth time in the span of not even five minutes, Peter embarrasses himself again. "Oh right! Sorry!" He flings both hands out, cupping them in front of you, waiting for his change.

Your eyebrow raises a little at the awkward exchange, but you hand him his bills and receipt before placing the quarters into his outstretched palm. Only the slightest touch of the tips of your fingers has him flinching. You pull back quickly, eyes wide and alert to Peter's sudden reaction. His heart drops, and Peter swears to himself. Why is he sweating?

"S-Sorry! I didn't mean to-it's not you, I swear- uh, it's just-your uh- your hands were just a little cold! That's all!"

Make that eleven times.

You blink again. "Oh. Sorry."

Peter waves his hands at you, change still in one. "NO-no it's not your fault at all! I'm just a little um-sensitive, I guess." His free hand goes to collect the flowers and medication from the counter. "I'll see you around! Thank you!"

Peter whips around and all but runs out of your sight. He rushes past the woman talking on her phone, the mom and her son, and suddenly he's back out in the cold on the streets of New York.

The crowds around him force Peter to continue his walk to the cemetery, despite him wanting to crouch down and put his head in his hands. Maybe cry out of shame and embarrassment. Peter wants to go back to his apartment and just lay down on his bed for the first time in forever. But like with everything else in his life, Peter has to keep going.

By the time Peter reaches May, it's darker than he intended it to be. It'll be safer to swing back, he decides. The bouquet is unwrapped from the plastic and replaces the flowers from before. They aren't terribly wilted, so Peter walks over to the grave next to May and places them in front of the tombstone of a girl named Gwen who died young. He brushes off the dirt on her name too.

Back to May, Peter crouches down in front of her and rests a hand on top of her tombstone.

His sorrow is still unbearable, even four years later. Peter has long shed all of the tears possible and more, but the heaviness in his heart will never go away. There's so much to say to her, always. Peter tells her about the people he's saved that day, about how the sunset over Upper Bay was even better last night, about how much he misses her.

But today Peter is silent. He’d dig a grave in the earth with his bare hands and crawl inside to take May’s place.

The last hour of your shift is always the real kicker.

Sometimes, if you're lucky, it'll go by quick and easy. No one asks for unreasonable things, the tills have already been taken care of by the front of the store staff, and there's not too much reorganizing to do.

Other nights are like this one. Open bottles of empty and half-used medication lie around the tables near the scales. Despite the pharmacy closing in three minutes, there's still a line of at least six people in front of the only working register. The shift pharmacist is gently reminding a patient that they do flu shot walk-ins at any time of the day, so she'd be better off coming back first thing tomorrow morning and not right before the entire store shuts down for the night. And for some reason, there's a person in the drive-thru line trying to get a hold of someone, despite the shutters being down over the window and the sign reading "closed."

It's almost twenty minutes past closing when you're finally able to clock out. And now you get to open tomorrow morning. How great.

Your coat does close to nothing when you step outside. The breeze quickly lets you know it's only going to get worse with every step home.

Because it's late and cold, and it's already been the perfect night, an uneasy feeling starts to spread in your chest after making eye contact with someone standing near the street. He's tall, dressed dark to blend in, and looks like he's had better days.

Of course, after you walk by, he starts to trail behind you. Of course, when you speed up, so does he. Of course, he grabs the back of your jacket and yanks you against the closest wall. Several people around you start to cause a scene to rush back, with a few brave ones getting closer, but they too quickly scatter away once a knife is shown. Of course.

You still your defiance and your breaths get shallow. The sharp end of the knife is nowhere near anything valuable, but you still would rather not have a wound—especially one caused by something so dirty.

"I spy somethin' pretty shinin' in the dark," the slimy-looking man says. His fingers start to pull your coat back. "Wanna show me what'cha got?"

You try to pull his fingers back away, heart racing and ready to burst, before your eyes stop. There's something underneath your jacket that is catching the light.

It's your fucking pins on your work badge.

The one that's causing the most reflection is the tiny silver rocket next to your name. You look back at the man who surrounds you, about to tell him it's nothing of worth before his body is flung away from you.

The friendly neighborhood hero.

Spider-Man is webbing up your attacker in no time against a street lamp, the knife now dropped somewhere else, far out of his reach.

"Let me out!" The man squirms, pulling against the webs and flinging his head.

"Yeah, I think I'm okay," Spider-Man quips back, turning to face the crowd of a few who hung around to watch one of New York's mightiest. "Okay, people! Shows over! Get home safe!"

He turns around, obviously to do his mandatory check-in on the victim. He stops, like he doesn't expect it to be you. "Oh."

He says nothing for a long moment. Despite it being cold out, you start to sweat a little. What is going on?

"Um," you start, but you feel your throat is dry. After months of staring at Ned's 'Spidey Tracker' on his wall, it's entirely different seeing him in person after almost half a decade.

"Are you okay?" Spider-Man asks, his voice muffled behind the mask but threaded with a frantic sort of energy. He takes a half-step toward you, then stops himself. Spider-Man's posture is rigid, shoulders pulled tight, and for a second, he looks like he might bolt into the night air just as quickly as he appeared.

"I'm fine," you manage to choke out, pulling your coat tighter around you as if to shield yourself from the sudden, intense scrutiny of his gaze. "Really. Thank you. You, uh, you came out of nowhere."

"Yeah. Just, uh, patrolling. You know. Neighborhood stuff," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand.

You nod like it's the easiest thing in the world to understand. "Of course." There's another incredibly awkward pause. Who knew a hero could be so shy? "Well, I should get going."

"R-Right," Spider-Man nods back. Even though you can't see his eyes, you can almost sense how far away in thought he is. You give him one more look before turning away and trekking down the street.

It was easy to pretend as if nothing happened. Things like this happen every day. Worst things happen every second. You got lucky—really lucky—and all you want to do now is get back home to Ned and tell him all about this. He'll freak.

"Um! Excuse me!"

You almost don't turn around. The shrill voice sounds nothing like what Spider-Man sounded like a few moments ago. But sure enough, the hero is rushing over to you.

"I should take you home. It's obviously not safe out tonight," he insists, his voice tight with an urgency that makes your breath hitch. He’s standing entirely too close.

You want to tell him that you’re a grown woman who has walked these streets alone for years. That you have pepper spray buried in your bag that you were going to grab and that man had just been too fast, but the words die in your throat.

Up close, the red and blue suit is worn, the seams looking as if they've been mended over and over and over. He looks entirely too human.

"I live two blocks away," you offer, your voice barely a whisper.

Spider-Man stiffens, his head tilting to the side as if he’s listening to a frequency only he can hear. When he looks back at you, the lenses of his mask seem to focus with a piercing intensity. "Two blocks is long enough for something else to happen. Please, just...let me walk with you."

It’s the 'please' that does it for you. The way he says it isn't like a hero addressing a citizen. He sounds vulnerable. Desperate. You realize then that this isn't just about your safety. There is a frantic, fraying tether of anxiety radiating off him, and for reasons you can’t quite name, you feel like if you say no, he might shatter right there on the sidewalk.

You nod slowly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. "Okay. Two blocks."

Spider-Man doesn't ask for your address, and he doesn't lead the way. Instead, he falls into step beside you, a silent, hulking shadow that keeps a protective distance. He seems hyper-aware of every sound, every shift in the cold wind, every person walking past you on the sidewalk. He’s looking for threats that aren't there, and not for the first time, you wonder how much of this intensity is part of the job and how much of it is just him, trying to keep the city from crumbling around him.

As you reach the steps of your apartment, you turn to face Spider-Man. He stops a few feet back, his gloved hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"This is me," you say, reaching for your keys. You hesitate, your fingers brushing against the cold metal. "Spider-Man?"

He pauses, one foot already tensed to spring toward the rooftops. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. Truly."

He stands perfectly still for a heartbeat, his head bowing slightly. He doesn't say 'you're welcome,' nor does he make one of his usual quips. He just gives a single, sharp nod before he launches himself upward, disappearing into the dark of the New York skyline as quickly as he had arrived, leaving you alone, wondering even more than before.

Peter feels ashamed. He's crossed a line. He promised himself years ago that he'd be content watching from afar.

Swooping in and saving someone from a robbery was the standard Spider-Man service in New York. There was nothing new about it, and as far as Peter was concerned, he'd be stopping thieves until he was dead and buried.

What Spider-Man didn't plan for was it being you only hours after talking to you for the first time in years as Peter Parker.

His bed is now a sacred comfort to him. His pillow has kept all of his tears and pleas over the past few days. He wishes and wishes and begs for whatever spell Strange cast years ago to break suddenly. He wants May back. He wants Ned back. He's becoming desperate to have you again.

That night, from the rooftop across the street, Peter watched in silence as you entered your apartment building. It was torture being so close to you, like before, only to not touch you at all.

Peter slumps in his chair at his desk. E.V. says something to him about his blood pressure, but he chooses not to acknowledge it. His eyes catch on his most recent letter.

After the first one, it became somewhat therapeutic to write to you. He told you the same things he would Aunt May, but with you, he'd share a little more.

The guilt starts to creep back in. Peter hasn't exactly not seen you since he saved you a few days ago. In fact, he's seen you every day since.

In hindsight, it was probably the dumbest thing he'd ever do. Peter stayed perched across the street from your apartment the entire night. He was there when the sun came up, he was there when you left early for work, and he was there when you clocked in.

Eight hours later, he was there when you clocked out.

"Hi, what's the last name?"

Your gaze is focused on the screen in front of you, not bothering to look up at whoever is next in line. You already have your fingers poised to type another surname into the search bar. Three hours into your shift, but the pharmacy never sleeps.

"I don't have a prescription," the familiar voice chimes in. You look up to see an even more familiar face. "I was just hoping to get something behind the counter."

"Oh, right," you nod at him. "I remember you."

His eyes widen and his hands fidget with his also-familiar vest.

"Yeah, you were here a few days ago. Are you feeling better?"

He chokes. "W-What?"

You tilt your head at him, seemingly just as confused as him. "You bought some pretty heavy cold meds. Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Right!" He swallows and rubs the back of his neck. The move is oddly familiar too. "I'm hanging in there."

"I get it," you respond, customer service written all over your face. "What were you looking for back here?"

The guy falters for a second. You have no idea why your question is a hard one. "I, uh, just need another box of the same thing."

Your eyes narrow. "Do you have your I.D?"

His shoulders appear to tense up, which answers your question long before his mouth tries to form a response. So, that would be a big fat no.

You sigh. "Listen, sir-"

"It's Peter."

He looks immediately uncomfortable after saying that. Like it was top secret information, and the world would catch fire if someone knew his name; and yet, he says it again to you. "My name is Peter."

"Okay, well, Peter," you start. His shoulders tense again, but this time you think it's because his fists clench in his pockets. "I can't sell you this unless you have your I.D. with you. You can fool me once."

You turn and walk away from the registers at the pharmacy. You were not even close to the halfway point of your shift, and already you were getting a headache.

"Wait!" Peter says. "Can I check out here though?"

You were going to say no—you really were—but one look at "Peter" and your legs were taking you back over. You sigh through your nose and scan your badge into the register. All he has this round is a similar bouquet of a half dozen roses. You take them from him to scan.

"Who's the lucky person?" You say, absentmindedly, while searching for the barcodes. You swear whoever sends the flowers puts the barcodes in different spots every time to mess around with everyone.

Peter's voice cracks as he responds, "W-What?"

Aha. You scan the barcode. "You got flowers last time too. I was just curious." There's another professional smile on your face to go along with your words. "Just some boring small talk. You don't have to answer that, it was stupid. Anyway, your total is 14-"

"They're for my aunt." Peter shuffles, his gaze seemingly unable to look at you. Something about the tile floors has him completely enamored. "I get her flowers every day. Pretty much."

He hands over a twenty, sliding it across the counter to you. Right, you remember—sensitive hands.

You pick up the bill and slide the flowers to him, like a formal trading of exotic goods. Peter picks up the bouquet, his touch far more gentle than with his money.

"Well," you cash out his change. "She must be really cool, then."

This time, Peter meets your eyes across the counter. He makes no attempt to reach for his change or receipt.

"Yeah. She was."

Two weeks later, when Peter runs out of Neosporin and bandages at the same time, he makes the bad decision to see you again as a civilian.

Spider-Man saw you almost every day. To those unaware of his true motivation, the street you worked on and areas around it just appeared to be a little more dangerous.

In reality, Peter was trapped in a self-made purgatory. Every petty thief, every bike snatcher, and every rowdy teenager was treated like a world-ending threat because he needed a reason to be there.

Every time you left the pharmacy, his breath hitched in his chest, his spider-sense humming with the phantom threat of losing you, even though the only thing truly endangering your peace was his own obsession. He was the guardian angel you didn't ask for, tethered to your orbit by a desperate, quiet grief he couldn't explain to anyone—least of all to himself.

There are other places to get flowers for May. On his bad days, Peter forgoes the flowers and sits with her. She was never materialistic anyway. But Peter's stupid spider brain tells him the flowers you touch last a little longer.

In the store, he makes a beeline for the flowers before heading back to Peter's most well-known aisle. His basket is full of gauze pads, wraps, instant ice packs, and miscellaneous tapes. He has at least seven boxes of Neosporin floating around in all of that.

Peter turns to make his way to the front of the store. If he can't have control as his alter-ego, then at least he can—

"Peter!" Shit.

He turns to see you behind your usual register. He wants to claw his eyes out. Why is she never busy? "Uh, hi." He waves. It's awkward, and he immediately wants to contact Strange to reverse it.

Luckily, you don't comment on it. He loves you a little more.

"I can check you out over here, if you're done." Peter's enhanced senses never shut off, but he's never needed them to read you. Despite being apart for years, he's able to pick up everything just as before.

You're picking at the skin around your thumb. If you weren't, then you'd be tugging at a bracelet or fiddling with a necklace. You're nervous. And despite all those years, his heart melts at the sight. "That would be great."

It's silent for a few moments as you take the medical supplies out of Peter's basket. He's still holding the flowers, a little to keep them safe, and a little as protection—a gentle reminder of what he came here for.

"Are those flowers for your aunt?"

Peter can see you wince a little to yourself after the question. He starts to smile, knowing exactly what's going on in your brain: you probably think that was such a stupid question—of course they're for his aunt.

"Yeah, they're for May."

You smile in response, continuing your scanning and bagging. There's a commotion behind you at the drive-thru, but not even you are acknowledging the repeated questions happening. Your sole attention is on Peter and this—his—transaction; and how fucking sad is it that Peter's heart flutters at this thought.

"That's a pretty name," you finish up the bandages, and reach for the flowers. "Uh, where is she buried?"

Peter can practically hear your thoughts again: stupid stupid stupid question why would you ask that? But he humors you anyway. He always will.

"She's up in Harlem."

You type something in, and Peter notices his original total go down just a little. You were still so, so kind.

"I'm pretty sure I have an uncle buried there too."

I know. Peter hums in interest.

He hands you the money. You count it, and this time it's exact change. The receipt prints and Peter takes it along with the full bag.

"Uh, Peter," you say, and he turns to you. "It's good to see you. I got a little worried there for a second about your aunt not getting any flowers."

It takes a second for Peter to respond. He knows what he would've said, but it's not the same as what he should say, oh whatever—

"I guess I'll just keep coming by so you can make sure she's getting the right ones then."

"I guess so."

And he does.

Peter's days are full: his freelancing job, working with E.V. to figure out what happened to him when he passed out a few weeks ago, and of course, his responsibilities. Now, he's adding a pitstop at a dime-a-dozen drug store for flowers and a casual chat with one of the biggest losses of his life.

This doesn't include his...habit.

You joke with him like a friend. Sometimes, if your manager isn't around, you put a discount on the bouquet. If he comes during your break, you help him pick one out of the already limited display. You never question his biweekly stockpiling on medical supplies. You don't comment on the bruises or cuts that are visible sometimes after a fight. You only make a funny quip about Peter being the one keeping Neosporin in business. He laughs, goes back to his apartment, and cries. Then he suits up.

You close more often than not. After a few weeks, it's easy for Peter to mock up your schedule. Most nights, he hides above, walking you home from work, and lets himself pretend. It's not healthy; he knows that. But the stupid spider in Peter's head tells him he's lost everything, so it's okay to want something.

One night, you stop in front of your apartment, and Peter's about to leave, when you call out, "I know you're there."

It's like ice water on him.

You turn around, looking out to the nearby rooftops. "I know you're there every night, Spider-Man."

Peter takes a deep breath and holds it for five, and releases it for five. This isn't the first time he's been caught by someone doing something...maybe a little illegal. He's been in worse trouble with Tony. Or even Fury. This is fine.

When Peter swings out and lands in front of you, he realizes it's almost entirely not fine.

"Why are you following me home from work?" You question right off the bat. Your hand is clenched on the handle of your bag, fists white.

"Uh-"

"You saved me like, two months ago. Are you waiting for payment? Is this a test? Is it because I'm-"

"What?!" Peter yells. "No-oh no, it's really nothing! I don't want anything from you!"

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. "So, what are you doing then?"

Peter swallows. "I am doing my neighborly patrolling-"

"So you just happen to patrol at the same time I get off work?"

"Yes! That's right."

"So what do you do during the day?"

"I, uh, sleep. Typically."

You still look disbelieving. You take a step away from Peter, and it feels a bit like unsticking his entire body from glue.

"Okay, listen," Peter says, doing his best impression of a very serious hero with a very serious task. "The Avengers gave me a new assignment." Big fucking lie.

Your eyes widen, "What does-"

"I can't tell you anything about it, obviously. You're a civilian, and the enemy could harm you. Or worse," Peter continues, "you'd try to help."

You laugh a little at that; tensions in your shoulders release a little. 'Well then, I'm sorry for my disgusting lack of faith in you, Spider-Man."

Peter laughs at this. He webs a nearby building, not looking at which one but trusting his instinct. "I'm trusting you." He tugs, and then he's off.

Later, Peter's embarrassed when he realizes that it sounded a lot like the way people say I love you.

You scoff at Ned across the table, tossing a piece of donut at your roommate. “I don’t have a work crush on him. Also, I don’t think you’re using that right.”

“He shows up to your place of employment, and you want to jump his bones,” MJ says, sliding past your table with a pot of coffee. “That’s a work crush.”

“Bingo.”

You throw another piece at Ned. "This is ridiculous. He doesn't work with me. Besides, I don't see him for long, and-and I only ever see him when it's supposed to be a professional setting. Me as the professional," you use your hands to enunciate your placement, "and Peter as the customer." Your hands point to Ned and MJ in place of Peter.

Your roommates share a look, and you're automatically frowning at that. MJ snorts as she walks away to return to the counter, mumbling, "Key word is 'supposed.'" Ned hears that and lets out a belly laugh.

You groan and throw your head back. "Guys, this is serious," you whine.

"So then make it serious!" Ned says it so easily, yet it's anything but. "MJ and I don't understand what the problem is."

You're silent for a few moments, lost in the swirling thoughts that have been clouding your mind for weeks. There really is no significant, insurmountable problem standing in your way. You know deep down that you have a growing, undeniable crush on Peter, and you have the smallest, tiniest, flickering inkling that he harbors some form of intense, complicated feelings for you, too.

It’s just…the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying close attention. It’s a look that’s equal parts terrified and starving, like you’re the only physical anchor keeping him from drifting off into the cold, grey New York skyline forever.

And then there’s the recurring mystery of the medical supplies. No one on this planet needs that much Neosporin—Jesus, it's so much—and yet every time he leaves the store it's as if he's trying to memorize the sight of you in your scrubs before he disappears back into the busy streets.

You trace the side of your to-go cup, feeling the lukewarm tea seep into your fingertips and settle into your skin. You know your feelings for Peter are bubbling past the point of no return as you sit in the booth, looking out the window, trying so hard to enjoy the company of your roommates, and yet you have the most ridiculous urge to see what Peter is up to.

There really is no problem. It's just...

"He's so shy." You whisper. "It's like I can't see inside of him and be fully confident in what he's feeling. It's like—"

Your brain, however smart it is, is scrambling to find an appropriate comparison of Peter. But you're in the weird, retro bakery/diner mix that MJ works in, so you adjust and grab a condiment on the table.

"He's like this ketchup bottle, Ned." Ned stops mid-chew, his donut hovering frozen halfway to his mouth. "Even though I can't see inside of it, I can feel that something, something so...enjoyable, is in there. Hiding in plain sight. Right?"

You pause your dilemma to look at Ned, who's still frozen from your metaphor.

"You have a Bachelor's in Astrophysics," Ned starts, "you want to talk about space dust and moon rocks for a living, and that was the stupidest shit you've ever said."

Your head hits the table, and you groan again. MJ is snickering nearby, and the hold on your own sanity and general regard for life is starting to sink into a black hole.

"I'm going to talk to him," you blurt out, the sudden, sharp conviction of your own voice startling even you. "Soon, I promise."

"Good," MJ says, reappearing at your side. "Because if I have to hear about Peter one more time, I'm going to start charging you for these sessions."

Ned's phone buzzes on the table, and before it even finishes, his phone is snatched up. His eyes widen, and his grin grows. "Spidey's in the area!" His grin turns into a shit-eating one. "Maybe if he's nearby you can introduce me to him."

Your chuckle is hoarse and you quickly down the rest of your drink. Ever since you told Ned about Spider-Man's more recent appearances near your place of employment, he's been more adamant about catching the hero at the perfect time. Ned's even threatened to camp outside of the store.

The mention of the hero puts a pit in your stomach. As far as you're concerned, there hasn't been a night in the past four weeks that Spider-Man hasn't watched you walk home from work. You've started developing your own tracker, one very different from Ned's. While Ned created his out of pure admiration for a hero, you founded yours based on the lingering sensation of never truly being alone.

The worst part? You weren't entirely sure you hated it.

"He's swinging above the fest—oh shit!" Ned curses and reaches for his bag. You startle, and in the corner of your eye you see MJ's head immediately snap over. "We gotta make the train, like, right now if we want to make it to Bryant."

You gather your stuff, cursing. "MJ!"

"Yeah! I know!" She tears her apron off, yelling into the back for a coworker to clock out for her. She races over to you and Ned before she catches an affirmative, but it's enough for the three of you. You rush out of the bakery, haphazardly throwing on jackets and tying up scarves. It's a true winter now.

Despite this, Bryant Park continues to have community-driven festivals. Regular civilians set up tents and sell homemade trinkets. Professional artists draw caricatures freely, just for the sake of practice. People will dress up in costumes that are entirely inappropriate for the weather, but are always ready to pose for a photo with a starstruck child. Some locals call the festivals absolute tourist traps, and despite being in this city all your life, you can't help but disagree. Citizens of New York come together to give temporary visitors a real idea of true New Yorkers—a community that fights better together, and for each other.

Since your first year at MIT, the three of you made it a tradition once you were all back in the city during winter break to meet up at the Bryant Park Winterfest. Despite practically playing house together for four years—and now actually sharing rent—it's always different seeing the people you adore in the place you started loving them. MJ is more relaxed, more hopeful. Ned is more energetic and himself.

The three of you are, through and through, the same unrepentant nerds you’ve always been.

You all linked arms to find a spot on the grass. Ned pulls two blankets from his backpack, you pull out some thermoses from yours, and MJ brings out a stolen, small pot of coffee from her job. Quickly, you all pour the rich liquid into the thermos caps, and cheer.

"To our degrees!"

"To my roommate finally getting dic-"

"To MJ getting fired very soon!"

You all clink, kicking each other in the shins and knees, and take a sip. Ned gags, and MJ treats it like a shot. You have no desire to fight on a stomachache later, so your thermos of ice-cold coffee goes right back into the pot.

"How about I go find us something drinkable? Cider, okay?" You say, standing up from your makeshift picnic. Ned's 'Spidey Tracker' buzzes again, instantly taking his attention away from you. He mumbles a 'yeah that sounds great' and MJ gives you a nod before looking down at her own string of texts from her boyfriend.

It's a maze to get off the grass and onto the gravel. As expected, there are plenty of options to choose from if you wanted your picture drawn. People are dressed up as the Avengers, old and new. There are dozens of homemade Spider-Man costumes, and suddenly an easy-going picnic has you on edge.

Of course you're a Spider-Man fan. He's saved you and your friends countless times in high school, and continues to make sure every inch of the cement from your childhood stays preserved. He's flashy—perfect for New York—and is all around beloved by his ever-growing fanbase.

But you know him.

You would never be able to pick him out of a crowd. His voice changes pitch in your memory, and his height is never quite right; and yet, you know Spider-Man.

After calling him out on his amateur sleuthing, Spider-Man has been everywhere. He waves to you in the cold, dusky morning as you lock the door to your apartment building, quickly swinging to some unknown location.

Oh, how funny! Your hair salon is right next door to a criminal fighting ring he just busted.

Isn't it ironic? You shop at the same grocery store! He's just helping this old woman fit her reusable bags into one of those trendy strollers.

It's like fate! Your shifts end at the exact time Spider-Man is instructed to start his patrols.

Secret Avenger assignment? Yeah, my ass.

You're not overly concerned with his sudden permanent appearance in your life. You're not a lunatic—anyone reasonable would be a little excited to gain so much attention from a hero—especially one in a tight suit.

A suit that actually looks really similar to the guy walking your way. The fabric looks really realistic, and he's even got the moving lenses. Oh wow, he even added the little fabric patch on his shoulder....and his web slingers look...surprisingly realistic...and-are you serious—

Spider-Man—the real fucking deal—is casually strolling in Bryant Park, and not a single person is recognizing him for anything other than a really accurate cosplay. It's hysterical, and without you even thinking about it, you are laughing.

Nobody spares you a second glance, too focused on the goodies and treats displayed at the many tables. Spider-Man's head twists at the sound, like he's been searching for it throughout the fest, and finally found the beacon that leads to the treasure.

You meet each other in the middle. You'll never get his height right. He's standing tall now, no longer hunched in anticipation.

"You laughin' at me?" His tone is full of mirth, and without the mask you'd bet he's fighting a smirk. You'll never get his voice right either. It's deeper now, no longer sounding like he was caught in a lie.

You look around at the people paying you both no mind. Your whisper is taken by the wind picking up, but you know his acute senses caught it. "How would the general public of New York react to finding out their pride and joy is also enjoying the festivities?"

Spider-Man crosses his arms and pretends to think. His finger taps his chin once, twice, before he says, "I guess we'll just have to make sure they don't find out about my mission."

You scoff. That is totally easier said than done. You turn to walk away. You want no part of his incognito-in-broad-daylight scheme.

"W-Wait, where are you going?" It takes Spider-Man two strides to catch up to you. "We're a team!"

You laugh, "Ah, but you see, I am but a humble civilian a villain could easily harm." You lean in closer to Spider-Man, so close you can see his chest hitch. "Or worse—I'd try to help you." You lean away from him, giving the hero space and enough cool air to take a breath. "We are no team, Spider-Man."

Peter knows that you're joking. Your eyes are bright, and you're actively fighting back laughter.

He wants to chuckle at you throwing his words from nights ago right back into his face. It's so you, and anything that reminds him of you should brighten up his day. Because it really does. You really do brighten up his day.

It's just that you both really were a team before. This back-and-forth is new to you, but second nature to Peter. (Before he messed everything up. Before he killed his aunt and almost killed you—)

"Spider-Man?" Your voice is quiet. It reminds him of when you first asked Peter about potentially stopping by the pharmacy more often. His senses catch you already reaching for a bracelet to fiddle with. Oh God. Peter's made you nervous, and now he feels sick, and he can't do anything right.

"Woah, Spidey," you murmur, taking Peter's hand and pulling him away from the crowds, further away from the park's center. His breath is picking up more. E.V. chimes in his ear: Signs of an oncoming panic attack. Please remove mask to provide adequate levels of oxygen.

But he can't because you're here. And you're reaching closer to him for something, and he's flinching back—Okay, it's okay. I'm sorry—His sense knows you'd never harm him; biologically you never could with what's coursing through his veins, but now he's feeling a new sense of worry that he'll snap. This other side of him is brewing underneath his skin. His head is hurting, but if he closes his eyes, he'll lose sight of you forever.

You're still walking him somewhere, then setting him down on something—It's a bench, Spidey—and now Peter's worrying about how secluded you two are, and that someone should keep an eye on you just in case his heart explodes.

But he does anyway, finally gaining movement back in his arms to press his palms into his lenses.

"Y-You should leave. Go back to your friends and stay safe."

"I am safe. I'm the safest I could ever be."

E.V. alerts Peter again through the mask. She stresses the importance of accidental suffocation, but Peter's focus is now on the sensation of your arm around his back. It burns him, but Peter would feel so lost without it.

He's so focused on your arm around him, Peter completely misses the sensation of his mask being pulled above his nose. He only notices it when he can breathe in full gasps of New York City air. You're murmuring again, telling him everything's okay, you're okay, this is okay.

Peter wants to whimper. He wants to wrap himself up in you until he can't figure out his own skin from yours. He wants to cry out his embarrassment, his shame, his heartache onto you. He wants it to seep through your skin, to reach your brain, and for you to remember.

He wants to know that there's a part of you still waiting for him, even if it's only a sliver.

Peter wants, and he wants, and he wants.

He regains feeling back in his hands, using them to press his palms into his lenses. His eyes feel like they have lime juice in them, and despite never having that happen to him, Peter imagines it feels just like this.

Your hand rests on the spider in the middle of his back. You don't rub comforting circles like you used to. When he's gained some sense of clarity and allows his eyes to adjust, he glances over to you.

You look calm. You check your phone for a message, probably from MJ or Ned asking where you were, and type a response. Peter's guilt grows. How did he not think about Ned or MJ being here?

This was the winter break tradition for the four of them. Now three.

"I-I'm sorry," Peter croaks. "This is so unprofessional."

You huff at him, amused at him but still flushed with alert and worry. "Good thing we're a team, huh?"

Peter is usually good at keeping his more...physical wants restrained. Now, he has to grip the bench to prevent kissing you.

Your voice goes soft again, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Want. What does Peter know about wanting?

"Nah," Peter swallows down a lump in his throat. "You don't wanna hear my tragic hero story." It's self-deprecating, and the perfect bait to get out of this conversation. Except you don't take it.

"I want you not to feel as alone as you do,” your voice breaks ever so slightly, so kind and warm, so everything Peter isn’t sure can last all too long for someone like him.

He can't respond to that, so he doesn't; and you don't comment on it.

Eventually, you take your hand off his back when he's able to sit up straight. The two of you settle back on the bench. Your gaze lands somewhere else, but Peter is only focused on the peace of sitting with you again. The festival provided noise. Couples walked past them on the bench, a few of them undoubtedly seeing Peter's breakdown. His mask is still pulled up halfway, and for once his head was quiet.

Your gaze is on a table with baskets full of crochet flowers. The woman selling them is making them by hand; obviously, some people at the festival were lucky enough to score a custom flower. Peter thinks they're pretty cool, but your brow is furrowed in thought as you continue to stare at them.

"Are you allergic?" You're not; he knows this.

"No, not at all, I just..." You trail off. You purse your lips. He knows this expression. You're hesitant about something. However, before Peter can ask the right questions to open you up, you blink and grab his hand. "Let's go before I regret this."

Peter's confusion has to be visible, despite the top half of his face being hidden. You say hello to the lady at the table and compliment her work.

Peter watches you. You're uncharacteristically quiet as you study each stem. Looking for something only you can find.

"Penny for your thoughts?" He says after a few minutes. Peter is starting to grow a little tired from his mental episode. There's an ache growing behind his eyes.

You open your mouth and then abruptly close it. You do this a few more times before spitting out, "I have this...someone."

Peter's entire body stops. He doesn't think he's breathing, or blinking. His senses even seem to have stopped. "Someone special?"

You swallow, your fingers fidgeting with one of the petals on the stem in your hand. It's a white flower; it's kinda pretty, and Peter couldn't give less of a shit about what it is. "I think so."

And Peter's heart does explode. You don't notice.

"He stops by my work. Every day now." Now, you're twirling the stem, and Peter wants to set it, the entire stand, on fire, but then—"He buys his aunt flowers."

And Peter's heart beats.

"And sometimes other things too, obviously...like, you wouldn't believe the amount of Neosporin he gets—" and you laugh, and it's the most beautiful sound in the world. "And when he looks at me, I just...feel so..."

You trail off, clearly lost in thought, but you shake your head back into thought.

"He's shy," you start again, looking at the other flowers this time. "He's so shy, and sometimes I think I get a read on him, but then he just...creeps back into his shell and I lose him completely. But he buys flowers for his aunt's grave every single day. Sometimes, when I'm there, he lets me pick them out for this woman I've never met. And, if I'm off, the next time he sees me, he shows me pictures of the bouquets he chose and asks for my opinion."

Peter clears his throat. "So he's...nice?"

You giggle like it's the most ludicrous thing ever asked in the world. "I can't see him ever being anything but nice." You scoff after, "and he's handsome too, which is super inconvenient."

Peter has to pull his mask back down. His smile is so wide, and his cheeks are surely stained bright pink with no help from the chilly air.

"He probably spends so much money on these flowers, which is so generous. But I was talking to my roommates about him, and they said he could probably use—"

"You told your roommates about him?" Peter's voice is quiet, but heavy enough to stop you mid-sentence.

You finally look back to him, eyebrows furrowed. "Of course I have. We have a pact together that any time we have a crush on someone, the others have to know. It's a little silly, I know, but we love it."

He already knows about this pact. You confided in MJ about your feelings, the same way Peter confided in Ned. It's the whole reason you got together.

But what makes his body warm is the fact that you've talked about him to the other most important people in the world. You didn't keep him your little work secret. Ned has to know his name. MJ probably knows all about his features. He's a part of their lives again—all of them.

"They also both figured it out," you say, looking back down to the bucket full of stems. "When he started coming around regularly, they both noticed something different about me, I guess. Said I seemed happier."

You say it so carelessly, like it isn’t the most remarkable thing in the world. Like it’s just a fact of life, known and accepted and unchangeable. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, grass is green, and Peter Parker makes you happy. He presses his lips together, overcome by the sudden rush of emotions in his chest.

"Anyway, they said something about him using fake flowers during the winter. So then he doesn't have to go out in the cold as often. And Christmas is coming up. He seems like a pretty orthodox guy, I'm sure he celebrates it." You're rambling. It's endearing. "So I'll give these to him in a few weeks. It sounds like a good idea, right?"

Peter is nodding his head before he comprehends your question. It doesn't matter what you ask for from now on; the answer will always be yes. You sigh in relief and look over to the woman selling her craft.

"What are these here?" You point to the bucket of white flowers you were fiddling with earlier.

"Those are mayflowers."

You smile, "They're perfect. Can I have six?" and Peter wants to fall to the ground at your feet.

He has a grasp on a sliver of hope, and he cages it between his palms, his ribs, and his heart. Peter tells himself he can have this. He gives so much more, and this is all he needs.

Spider-Man gives, and he gives, and he gives.

The next morning, Peter wakes up feeling over the moon.

The broken heater in his cramped attic is at the back of his mind. The steady pulse behind his eyes doesn't feel as painful as before. Peter slept at least a full six hours; the first time in a very long time.

E.V. didn't have any alerts during the night. His stolen police comm has been quiet all morning.

Peter's heart is thumping at the perfect pace. There's oxygen in his lungs again, and when he breathes in new air, all he thinks about is you.

Yesterday was Peter's golden ticket to a new road beyond. You like him. You like awkward, emotionally charged Peter Parker at his absolute worst. You think he's handsome and kind. Peter could kick his feet.

After you paid for the crochet flowers, Peter made up any excuse to leave. His heart felt like it was pumping new blood into his body. He wanted to be in his apartment, surrounded by the comfort of his gadgets and protective measures. You were sad to see him go, more concerned than anything. From your perspective, your kinda-not stalker superhero had a mental breakdown over seemingly nothing, during a festival.

He was a dime-a-dozen guy in a homemade Spider-Man costume too. The only difference was he was a little more adhesive. Peter promises now to never take his luck for granted again.

He walked you back as close as he could get himself to Ned and MJ. They were upright, chatting, most likely about your whereabouts yesterday. You weren't missing for long, but enough for your already suspicious friends to grow concerned.

You stared at him for a few moments before you said goodbye, almost like you were trying to see through him. He wants you to. He wants you to see right through him. One moment, you're standing in front of Peter, and the next, your arms are around him, hugging him close.

"I'm here for you," you murmured in his ear. Peter didn't get the chance to hug you back before you were leaving, walking on the grass to your friends.

He's smiling so wide that it's difficult to brush his teeth. Realistically, Peter wouldn't even have an inkling that you have a surprise Christmas gift for him. He should show up in regular jeans and a regular hoodie. Maybe he should scruff up his hair a little? Instead, he styles it with a little more effort.

The walk to the drug store feels sacred. Today, the world doesn't feel like a series of tragedies waiting to happen. He isn't just Peter Parker, the ghost in the attic, or Spider-Man, the protector of a city that has moved on; today, right now, Peter is just a man walking toward the one person who makes the cold on his face feel like a warm spring flush.

You're closing again tonight, so Peter tries to calm his emotions before seeing you. These shifts drive you nuts, and the last thing he ever wants to be is a burden. Even though now he knows he's kinda the opposite.

He grabs a bouquet out of habit and rounds the corner to the pharmacy counter. You're not at a register, which quickens his heartbeat, but it calms when he sees you near the back on the phone. His hearing picks up on you finishing up the call, reminding someone on the phone that it's flu season and the pharmacy accepts walk-ins. There's a problem at the drive-thru—there always seems to be a problem at the drive-thru—and your coworker is starting to lose his temper.

The pharmacist on duty walks over to them, which catches your attention as you put the phone down. You see Peter too, and a smile breaks out on your face. You rush over, scooting past the pharmacist trying to calm down the customer in their car, shooting out a quick "I'm going on my break!"

Peter thinks it's always a treat seeing you in scrubs. He thinks they're flattering on you. The space additions that are again, so you, make him feel fuzzy inside.

"Hey! How are you?" You ask when you reach him. You're already twisting a bracelet.

Peter rubs his neck. "Well, my day was going pretty smoothly, but now I don't have a cashier to check me out." He motions at the bouquet in his hands. You bite your lip at the sight of them before deciding on something.

"Actually...I—uh, I have something for you."

Peter doesn't have to pretend surprise. He didn't think you'd give him the gift so soon. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, it's..." you trail off, looking down the aisle at the door leading to the office. He remembers that your locker is there, too. "Okay, actually, wait by the front—I gotta clock out and get my stuff." You stop and turn back to him. "And put those back."

He does as you say, waiting by the door he just walked through moments ago. You exit a minute later, rushing over with a second bag hiding this very mysterious gift. You grab his elbow and drag him along, back outside in the cold. Your face is flushed, and you seem to be refusing to meet his eyes. Peter guesses that you must've been hyping yourself up in the back. Even though you can't see his face by being a step ahead, he keeps his smile to himself.

There's a bakery nearby that has outside seating. Your break doesn't give you enough time to sit and order a meal. He's a little confused when you spot an open two-seater and plop down at it.

"If the police were here, they'd arrest you for trespassing."

You roll your eyes, but your smile is full of mirth. "My roommate works here. Besides, I know Spider-Man." You offhandedly add the last bit, and Peter has no time to process it before you're grabbing him again and pulling him over to the seat across from you. "Now sit! I only have, like, twenty minutes left."

Sitting at a table like this with you reminds him of all those former date nights you two had. Two high schoolers couldn't afford anything fancy. The best you both could do was a table at the many delis and diners in Queens. But those moments were better than any Michelin-star food.

"I wasn't planning on giving you these now, but I think I'll lose my mind if I wait."

You reach for the bag Peter's never seen you have, and pull out the crocheted flowers. He didn't get a good look at them yesterday; he'd been too busy trying not to pull his hair out or throw himself off a building when you started talking about 'someone special.' But lo and behold.

The half dozen flowers are simple; five white petals in a star shape with yellow centers. The stems are green wires wrapped in floral tape. They're positioned together and tied with a thin blue ribbon.

"They're nothing special," you say. No. Peter thinks. They're so much more.

"I saw them yesterday and thought of you—of your aunt. It's cold, and it'll only get colder, and it'll be hard to keep her flowers preserved, and what if it snows? I don't want you walking in bad weather—and..." You're rambling again, but Peter is, for the second time, flying over the moon. Your hands are moving at the same momentum that you're speaking. Your eyes are looking everywhere but him as you try to justify your reasoning. "This way, she'll have something pretty all the time. At least until spring."

You're both quiet for a moment. "They're mayflowers."

It's funny; in all of these weeks, he's been avoiding your touch that brings along heavy and hard memories. Now, Peter wants to push you into the back of your chair and kiss you, not caring at all about the people at other tables. The sensible part of his brain reminds him why this would be a bad idea. The other part that spent all of last night smushing his face deeper against his suit in hopes of getting a whiff of your perfume again from the hug thinks it's the best idea he's ever had.

Peter settles on reaching over and squeezing your hand.

You finally meet his eyes, your cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed red, but you don't pull away. For a fleeting second, the relentless noise of the city fades into nothing. There is just the cold air, the warmth of your hand, and the realization that for the first time, he isn't the only one trying to bridge the gap between you. For the first time, he doesn't feel like a ghost haunting the edges of your life.

You turn your hand over in Peter's grasp to hold onto it.

"Did you know that mayflowers were one of the first perennials grown in soil from the moon?" You blurt out, a measly attempt at breaking the tension between you two. Peter recognizes this as a change of subject, and he happily takes the bait.

"Yeah?" His voice is thick with emotion.

"You nod, swallowing. "Scientists planted seeds in samples of lunar regolith retrieved from the Apollo missions. Less than a day later, they saw growth." Your fingers are fiddling with his. "They weren't, like, thriving, but there was still growth."

You go on a nerve-filled tangent about other things planted in moon soil. Peter knew you went to school to study space, obviously, but also because he asked once during a transaction. You told him about MIT, the long nights, and the rewards. You confessed about changing your field of study after realizing that space wasn't just a passion project to you anymore, and that you woke up on a random day—after the craziest dream of the sky splitting—and called the admissions office.

As Spider-Man, you once talked about being able to name every crater on the moon. It was full and bright one night after a closing shift, and Peter had been "patrolling" along with walking you home. You laughed as you told him your dream job was a "moon teacher," but with his fluency in your body language, Peter knew you were dead serious.

You're silent once again, chewing on the side of your lip. "I think I've been pretty obvious with all of this, Peter," you say, gesturing to the faux flowers and how your hand is still playing with his fingers. "With everything."

Peter blinks, nodding. If his suit were on, E.V. would warn him about his racing heartbeat and rising blood pressure. You're being vulnerable with him. He owes the same to you.

"I didn't want to get false hope," Peter confesses. "But I get to see you all the time. It's okay. It's enough." It's gotta be.

You groan, pulling your grasp from his before stuffing your face in your hands. "But I don't want it to be enough." It's quiet, but Peter hears it. "I like you, Peter. Like, a lot. A lot a lot. And I'm pretty sure you feel the same way so—"

"I do."

"You do?" You repeat. Hopeful, like you weren't quite sure.

"I do," Peter confirms.

You stare at Peter for a moment before deciding. "Give me your phone."

"What?"

"Just give it to me, Peter." There you go again, saying his name. He can't say no to that.

He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked for whatever you need to do. You scroll for something and start typing—Peter immediately knows you're putting your phone number in when your phone beeps.

"Okay, got it—oh shit!" You hand Peter back his phone and grab yours. "I gotta get back!"

Peter stumbles out of his seat alongside you. He's shoving his phone back into his pocket as you scramble for all of your things. The two of you rush back the way you came, not wanting to say anything to ruin the moment.

You make it back to the front of the store when you stop. "So..." You laugh humorlessly, "Can I expect a date sometime soon?"

Peter nods. How are his hands so sweaty? "Y-Yes." He's still nodding. "Yes, absolutely. Yes."

It's like a thousand pounds are lifted off your shoulders, and your smile becomes a lot more real. "Good. Great."

You give Peter one last look before entering the store. Peter shoves his hands in his pockets, almost like he wants to keep the feeling of your hand on his from flying away.

"Peter!"

He turns and sees you running back to him—the flowers.

"I totally forgot," you gasp, thrusting the crocheted bouquet, which forces his hands to leave his pockets. Peter thinks the feeling of holding your hand is permanent, now that he's holding something you gave him.

You look at him, and Peter realizes it's the expression you have when you're trying to decide whether something is a good idea or not. You must, because you're pecking Peter's cheek before he can even sense it. "Okay, bye." You're rushing off, yelling over your shoulder, "I'll text you!"

Standing in the middle of a busy New York sidewalk is generally frowned upon, and Peter can practically feel the judgmental glares of pedestrians forced to change their course to walk around him.

But if they knew what just happened.

They would understand why he feels like he could swing straight to Avengers Tower and demand a ship to take him to the moon. He feels a desperate, overwhelming need to carve your name into the lunar surface, big enough for everyone on Earth to see—or maybe he should do it on the dark side, to make it a secret meant only for the two of you; a private monument to share smiles over in the quiet moments.

May is going to love your flowers. It's probably just his imagination, but Peter thinks the sun is shining a little brighter today.

The rest of your shift drags on, but Peter stays at the forefront of your mind. You have to stop yourself multiple times from texting him. You want to know what he's doing. Has he been to his aunt yet? Any funny clients that need stupid computer problems fixed today?

By the time the pharmacy closes and you're shutting your locker for the night, you'd usually be tired. Ned or MJ will leave dinner on a plate for you to heat up before you hit your bed face first. But tonight, you're giddy and warm. Restless. Your hands are twitching towards your phone, desperate to see if Peter is still awake.

You hear a commotion near the front door. Voices are rising, and you can hear someone cursing your coworkers out. Your heart drops to your stomach. Is this a prank? It's not.

A man is crowding in on the pharmacist. She keeps her hands raised, trying to calm him down, but he's having absolutely none of it.

"Sir, I need you to calm down."

"I need you to do your fucking job." He's ranting about not having the correct dosage. You've seen this before—a junkie.

Customers are starting to swarm, curious in the worst way. One woman ushers her children beside her, inching away from the scene. Another is already pulling out their phone.

The pharmacist doesn't even blink. "I understand you're frustrated—"

His arm swings. It's so sudden that nobody reacts until the crack of skin against skin echoes through the store. Your boss's glasses fly across the floor. She stumbles sideways, one hand flying to her cheek before she collapses to one knee.

For half a beat, the entire store goes silent.

Then everyone starts rioting at once.

"Oh my god!"

"Did you get that on video?"

Your pharmacist shouts, "Someone call the police!"

You're reaching for your phone, fingers shaking as you plug in the numbers.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

You rattle off the address of the store. "There's a man assaulting employees here. Please hurry."

"Is the suspect armed?"

You look at him again, heart pounding. His fists are balled so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He paces like a cornered animal, breathing hard, eyes darting from face to face.

"I-I don't know. I don't see one."

"Okay. Stay on the line. I have officers dispatched to your location."

Sure, you've seen people get upset in the store. You've been cussed out plenty of times, but they always seem to walk away. It's never worth the energy, you think.

You take a careful step forward. God damn your bleeding heart. MJ's gonna kill you.

"Sir..."

His head whips toward you. Your pulse jumps.

"I-I recognize you. You came through the drive-thru earlier today." You keep your hands where he can see them. "If you'll tell us what's wrong, maybe we can figure this out."

He stares at you, then he breaks out laughing. It's a harsh, humorless sound.

"Oh, so now you want to do your fucking job!"

He points a shaking finger at you.

"You people refused me meds. That's a crime."

"It wasn't safe to—"

"Shut the fuck up!" His voice booms through the store. "You think just because you've got a little badge and a white coat you get to decide whether I suffer?"

"I don't make those decisions," you explain carefully. "The pharmacist can explain—"

"I said shut up!" He takes a step toward you. You instinctively take one back. The man notices. A nasty grin twists across his face.

"Yeah." Another step.

"There it is." Another. "Now you're scared."

On your phone, the dispatcher is still talking, but you can barely hear them. The only thing you can focus on is the ringing in your ears.

Outside, red and blue lights flash across the store windows. Someone near the entrance whispers, "The cops are here."

The man hears it too. His entire body stiffens. He spins toward the front doors just as the first patrol car screeches to a park. "No." Officers storm in, making a beeline for the man clawing at his face. "No, no no..."

The closest officer shoves the man against the aisle, knocking off a few miscellaneous items displayed there. Everyone is silent as the man is contained, and you stand perfectly still. Your heart hasn't gotten the message that it's over.

It's over. You tell yourself that once. Twice. Your fingers clench your phone so hard you're a little shocked the screen isn't cracking under the pressure. The dispatcher must've ended the call.

"Are you the person who called 9-1-1?"

You nod. The officer starts asking you questions, but your eyes keep drifting toward your boss. She's sitting in a chair now, pressing against her cheek while another coworker rubs her shoulder.

You should say something. You should ask if she's okay. You should be doing something instead of just standing here like a loser—

The front door explodes inward. A figure drops from somewhere, and fucking Spider-Man lands hard enough to skid across the tile. His chest is heaving, and instantly you're reminded of his panic attack. God, was that yesterday? It feels longer.

Every head in the store turns towards him. You can practically see the crowd that's about to form, all trying to get a close-up shot of the neighborhood hero. You'll have to get to him first.

"Spider-Man!" Your voice sounds the clearest it's been all evening. A masked face whips towards you, and Spider-Man is pushing and shoving his way to you before stopping a few feet away. His shoulders drop, and he stares in disbelief—probably; he's still masked.

You're standing there. Whole and unhurt. Spider-Man's head dips for a moment, and you know you can see when the realization hits him. You're okay.

His eyes—lenses, you remind yourself—sweep over you anyway.

"Are you—" He stops, swallows; his voice is hoarse. "Are you okay?"

Your smile is small, but you mean it when you nod. "I'm okay." Your voice, though, comes out barely above a whisper.

Something about it must trigger him, because Spider-Man rushes to get even closer to you.

Then he hesitates like he's suddenly afraid to touch you.

"You're okay?" Spider-Man asks again. You want to roll your eyes at him. To give him a little shoulder nudge and link your arms as you walk home. To tell him that he's overreacting, you big baby. But all you can do is nod again.

He lets out a shaky breath.

"Okay." His voice cracks. "Okay."

"Um," you arms cross over your body, suddenly feeling a little more vulnerable than you were comfortable with. "Can you walk me home?"

Spider-Man is nodding at a ridiculous speed; it would've made you laugh without considering the circumstances.

The officer nearby gives you a phone number and the usual "call if you have any information" speech. You're hardly listening as Spider-Man escorts you out of the store. People are murmuring about who you are, and whether it's the real Spider-Man. You actually do giggle at that one, and Spider-Man's grip on your arm tightens.

The walk is silent for the first block. Spider-Man hasn't let go of your arm. You want to make a joke about how you're not the prisoner here, but you second-guess that. He's not in his typical joking mood right now.

"Were you out patrolling?" You want to start up a conversation, anything.

"No." Blunt.

You clear your throat. "Then were you in the area?"

"No." Oh hell no.

You stop on the sidewalk, guiding Spider-Man to the inner edge for the occasional pedestrian to continue their walk after glancing at the hero on the street. That's one thing you love about this city. People can read when it's appropriate to be a fan or not.

"Hey, what's going on with you?"

"I saw the report on the police comm I have. When I saw the address I just..." He runs his free hand over his mask. "I just thought..."

You know what he's trying to say. He was scared. He thought you were in trouble or hurt. He cares about you, a real, true friend. He doesn't finish, nor does he need to. There are times when words are redundant, but you need the hero to understand.

"I'm okay." You intertwine your fingers with his. "You're here now, so I'm safe." You squeeze his fingers. "I need you to knock out of whatever this is. We're a team, remember? I need your head out of the stars and down here, on earth, with me."

Your cheeks heat a little at your speech. It's awfully romantic, and not the inspirational message you hoped for. Well, at least he knows you like Peter.

Peter.

"Shit!" you gasp.

Spider-Man reels back, definitely back to where he was before. He chokes. "W-What?"

You groan. "I was supposed to text him! Shit!" You whip out your phone, only for it to be conveniently dead. "Shit shit shit! What if he sees something about this on the news and he can't reach me?"

"Hey, hey hey," Spider-Man shushes you. "Now look at whose getting worked up."

"You don't get it," you snap. "The last thing he needs is to worry about someone else. He already has a lot to deal with." Like his aunt's death...and...huh. You realize you're not exactly sure what else troubles Peter, despite it being incredibly obvious that he's going through it every day. But that's besides the point.

"So you have someone special's number now, huh?" It's bait to change the subject, and unfortunately you're not immune when Peter's the topic. "Did Peter like the flowers?"

"I think so, but I kinda acted like a complete ner—" you stop and look at Spider-Man. Really look at him.

"How do you know it's Peter?" Your heart starts racing. No.

"W-What?"

"My someone special. How do you know it's Peter?"

Spider-Man is quiet. He has nothing to say to you now, and for the first time tonight, you wish he wouldn't shut up.

"Are you following me around in the day too?" Your tone is rock hard, and Spider-Man chokes at it. "Listen, I could play pretend and believe that lie about whatever bullshit the Avengers told you to do—I mean, shit, who doesn't want Spider-Man hanging around them?—but this is too far."

"No, it's not like that at all!" Spider-Man's chest is starting to rise quickly again, but you're too distracted by your growing concern that this hero isn't what you think he is. He can't even look at you anymore.

"I don't know what kind of sick fantasy you have where we're best buds who go on nightly strolls, but you need to open your fucking eyes." You keep going, uncaring that you're being harsh—you're scared. "I don't even know who you are."

"Please, let me explain-" Spider-Man is stepping away from you, but his movements are sharp, predatory. He's giving you the illusion that you're free to walk, despite keeping you in his sight at all times.

Nah. Fuck that.

"Stay the hell away from me."

It's the final blow. Spider-Man is frozen as you storm away, making the next block to your apartment feel quicker than usual. You know why. You never wanted the walk to end any other night.

You feel so naive. So stupid, to truly think you'd be able to maintain a relationship with someone who relied solely on other people's ability to keep a secret. How he could live like that, you have no idea.

MJ and Ned are on the couch waiting for you to get home. They swarm you at the front door, asking questions about what took you so long, and...

"Are you crying?"

You swallow a lump in your throat. Damn MJ, always observant. You clear your throat afterward. "I'm okay, really. Just a weird night."

Your roommates share a look behind your back. They've been doing that more often. It usually doesn't annoy you, but right now you want to yell at them for keeping even more secrets from you.

"Dinner's in the microwave. You know the drill." Ned puts his hand on your shoulder as he walks by to turn in for the night.

The drill: never go to bed upset and alone.

Even if it's three in the morning, Ned and MJ will sit and listen to your woes until you feel better, or until they carry your weight with you so it wasn't as heavy as before. It's kept your relationship airtight throughout college. But tonight, you'll have to break tradition.

Where would you even begin? Spider-Man has been stalking me for the past two months. I want a restraining order against an anonymous man.

What would you tell Ned? His hero, his entire muse for creating a well-beloved app by the Spider-Fans of the world, was a creep?

You brush your teeth after dinner in the dark. You can't bear to look at yourself right now. You know your reflection would be just as hurt, but not as cynical. What if there's a reason for all of this?

You have a headache.

You shut your door to your room and breathe out a small sigh—enough about Spider-Man. Your focus is to find your charger and text Peter.

There's a knock on your window, halting your search. Despite it being dark outside, you can see there's something folded and secured under your screen. When you get closer to it, you realize there's a whole stack of them.

You open the window and glance around. Your window isn't attached to the fire escape; MJ's is. Your stomach is churning, but you know exactly who got up here and how. You grab the stack of papers anyway, and an unconscious part of your brain leaves the window open in a silent invitation.

You unfold the top one and discover they're all letters. The first one dates almost five years ago.

Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and you don't remember me, but I have something to tell you that's going to sound crazy. But it's the truth, and I know you're going to believe me, because you're very good at telling when I'm lying. We used to know each other. We were together. But something bad was going to happen to the world. And the only way to stop it was to make everyone forget me, including you. Because I'm not just Peter Parker. I'm Spider-Man. And sometimes, Spider-Man has to do the hard thing even if it breaks Peter Parker's heart. Maybe I'll never read this to you. Maybe I'm just writing this for me. Maybe that's my responsibility, to live alone with the truth. But the truth is I love you. And I hope that deep down, something inside you remembers you love me too.

Your hands are shaking as you flip to the next one.

May used to tell me writing was good for the mind. I don't know if I really believed her, but I think I do now. I'm so happy for you. About MIT, about your new major, and about everything else I've missed. I wake up and trick myself into thinking this is only temporary and you'll remember everything in a few weeks. Regular side effects only last that long, so why can't yours too? Please remember me soon. My Sunday nights are lonely without you.

You flip through and land on a random one. It's dated a year after the first.

You'd be so mad at me. I made you a promise, and I broke it, and I'm sorry. If you were here, I know you'd be yelling at me. But I'd be so happy because you'd be here anyway.

The next one.

I hate you. I hate that I feel like you're moving on when there's nothing for you to move on from. I love you so much.

You look at the date, and after thinking about it, you realize it's the same day you posted a hard launch of a boyfriend you had at MIT. It didn't last more than 3 months.

The most recent one is dated only two months ago. You do the mental math in your head. Right before you met Peter all those weeks ago.

I miss high school. I miss the decathlon team. Sometimes I even miss Flash. I miss when everyone knew who I was and I was miserable because of it. We were so miserable, and I miss it being the biggest issue of my life. Sometimes I think this isn't how things are supposed to be. But something cruel in my head reminds me over and over that this is just how it is. I'll write to you forever. If this is the only way to be close to you now, I'll take it.

There's movement near your window, but you don't look up from your seat on your bed. There are tears in your eyes, and your hands are uncontrollably shaking with grief.

"God, this is..." You look up to see Peter climbing through your window. He's in regular clothes, appropriate for the weather outside, but he's not holding himself like 'Peter Parker' right now. He's Spider-Man without the mask. "Peter."

"I know," he says, watery. His own eyes, his beautiful dark eyes, are red-rimmed and sad. "I'm so sorry."

"All this time?"

"It hasn't been that long for me. Few years."

"It's been forever for me. For all of us." Your words are sharp and you know it hurts him. Peter winces, but you can't think of anything else to say to match the level of insanity this is.

You don't say anything. Your heart is hurting, and everything feels like a lie. "Why would you do this to me?" You croak. You clench the letters, crumpling them as you push your face against your palms. "Why would you show me this?"

Peter stumbles over to you and kneels in front of you. He stumbles, despite being Spider-Man—oh my god, he's Spider-Man.

He's stuttering and jumbling up words and tears. When he's able to pull your fists away from your face, you see how upset he is. You repeat your desperate questioning, "Why?"

"You mean everything to me." Peter's voice is shaking. "And I’ve been trying to live my life without you, but I-I can’t."

That doesn't make you feel any better. You push away from Peter.

You pace the length of your room, your footsteps heavy and erratic on the floorboards. The stack of letters sits discarded on your bed like a ticking time bomb, every ink-stained word a reminder of a life you don't fully remember but are now burdened to carry.

"You're a stranger," you whisper, the words catching in your throat as you turn to face him. "Even with all of this—even with my feelings—you're still a stranger who has been watching me. How am I supposed to just...reset? How am I supposed to look at you, look at the person I've been seeing and falling in love with for months, and know that you were holding back this entire life?"

Peter remains on his knees, his posture broken, his hands hovering uselessly in the air as if he’s afraid to reach out and make the situation worse. The silence in the room is suffocating.

You continue, your voice trembling. "I don't know if I'm angry because you lied to me. Or if I'm terrified because you’ve been living in the background of my life for years, and everything I thought I knew about my own past feels like it's been erased by someone who decided I didn't deserve the truth."

You stop pacing, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are so desperately familiar, yet guarded by a lifetime of secret suffering that you were never supposed to know existed.

"Or if I'm relieved. That some magical, unstoppable fate actually backs up all the crazy, sentimental bullshit I've been thinking about nonstop."

Peter's eyes hold the same hope as a dead man, but he's getting up from where he was next to your bed. You pause in the middle of your room, waiting for Peter to make the next move.

He closes the distance between you and stops just inches away, his hands coming up slowly, palms open, a silent plea for permission. When you don’t recoil, he gently captures your face, his grip light, grounding, and trembling all at once.

"I didn't want to steal your life," he whispers, the admission raw against the quiet of your room. "Not again. When you stood by me after I was outed, I almost cost you everything."

"But I loved you." I could love you again. So, so soon.

"I just wanted to be a part of your life again. Like I said earlier, I don't like false hope. I know it's not fair, I know this is selfish, but I've spent so many nights imagining this moment, hoping that if I just waited long enough, you’d finally look at me and see the person I never stopped being for you."

He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if trying to memorize the feeling of your presence. You follow, closing yours. Your breath is on his lips, closer than you can remember ever being.

"I'll always want you. It's not fair, I swear I know. But you're it for me." Peter laughs a little, but it sounds more like a sob. "I'll only ever orbit you."

He says it in a way that makes you wonder if it was something you've told him a thousand times before. It makes you smile and let out your own laugh. "Peter."

Your impulsive brain has you grasping his hand on your cheek. You kiss his fingers, his knuckles, then flip his hand over to kiss his calloused palms as well. His written words echo in your brain: I'll write to you forever. How would you ever top that?

It's simple. You kiss Peter.

It’s fragile and desperate. It's a sudden bridge built between the version of you who is just now learning the truth and the version of you who once gave him everything. Your hands tangle into his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the room as if he might vanish back into the shadows of the city if you let go for even a second.

Peter makes a soft, broken sound against your lips, his composure completely dissolving. He holds you like you are the only solid thing in a world that has been spinning without you for far too long. The years of silence and the weight of the letters are momentarily replaced by the singular, overwhelming truth that, no matter how many times the universe tried to pull you apart, you were always going to find your way back to him.

Peter grips your waist in one hand and tilts your head back with the other. He has you wholly to himself, and from the grip he has on the back of your neck, he's never letting you go.

You guide Peter backward towards your bed. When his knees meet the front, they buckle, letting you push him to fall onto your mattress. He doesn't give you any time to try at least and be a little hot when you climb into his lap; Peter is grabbing you again and twisting your bodies around, leaving him on top. Jesus.

Peter devours your mouth, and you cup his face. Something sprouts inside of you, growing from your toes to your mind. It tingles your limbs into a numbness where nothing else but Peter's hands on you matter.

Your hands fall from his face and trace the edges of his shirt. You realize Peter still has his coat on. You start tugging at it, signaling to Peter to take it off. He complies, before snagging your mouth back on his.

Your mind shuts off when he bites your bottom lip just right. But it overwhelms you a little. It makes you realize he's probably seen you like this, and knows exactly what makes you go crazy.

Peter's hands stay at your hips, obviously content on letting you do the exploring—relearning your favorite places on Peter's body, and new ones.

Peter moans when you tug on his hair, a shiver down his spine that makes him buckle his hips against yours. It makes you gasp, and allows an opening for Peter to deepen your kiss. You realize he hasn't come up for air once.

"Peter." You pull back, knocking your nose gently into his. It makes you smile and your heart flutters. "You can touch me."

Peter shoves his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, savoring your taste. He shakes his head. "I can't."

Your heart breaks a little, and you try to push back from him. "Oh."

Peter obviously picks up on you feeling rejected and is quick to amend it. He kisses you hard, and pulls back to rest against your lips.

"I want to. I want to so bad—you have no idea how much I've missed this, how much I've missed you. But there's something...wrong with me right now. My, uh, spider hormones are a little messed up right now."

"Spider hormones?" Your amusement is obvious, and Peter gets more red.

"I don't know how else to explain it. But something about my powers is different. I wanted to figure it out before I told you, well, everything, but... um..."

You giggle at Peter's slight embarrassment and kiss him. It's slower, still raw with attraction and desperation to feel whole again.

"Can you stay?"

Peter's eyes begin to water again. "Always."

You're in your pajamas, getting comfortable under your covers while Peter strips into his boxers and shirt.

"I can go ask Ned for some pants if you want. I know it gets a little cold in my room."

Peter shakes his head. "I don't want you to have to explain who I am and why I'm wearing his pants if he comes in the middle of the night."

Right. Peter was (is?) friends with Ned and MJ too. Of course he knows about Ned's horrible habit of waking his friends up in the middle of the night for unfunny at-home videos.

You snuggle in close to Peter, not giving him any time to adjust to sleeping around you again. You are so cold, and Peter isn't any better, but knowing he's there makes you alight.

"If they knew, they'd want to meet you again too," you murmur, your cheek squished against Peter's chest. You feel him sigh. "It's their choice to make, Peter."

You feel him bury his nose into your hair, sighing again. He kisses your forehead. "We'll talk about this in the morning."

You hum. "Will you still be here?" In bed? In my life?

His arm around you tightens. "I'm not going anywhere."

For the next few minutes, you listen to Peter's breath start to slow and even out. You lift your head gently, looking at Peter's sleeping face. He looks younger, stripped of the heavy burden of his secrets and the constant anxiety that must hum beneath his skin.

You reach up, your fingers hovering just above his jawline before you finally commit to the touch, brushing your thumb over the faint scar near his chin. It’s strange—knowing he has lived through a thousand heartbreaks every day while you were busy living a life he was no longer part of.

Yet, here he is, his warmth a reassuring presence against yours. You shift slightly, careful not to disturb him, and rest your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. It’s a sound that promises the morning will come.

Can you fall in love with the same man over again? You will try.

Your head is on Peter's lap while you watch a movie. Sunday night movie nights were a tradition in your relationship. When you suggested it months into dating, Peter snorted at the cheesiness. Now, he couldn't think of any other way to start a brand new week.

You're watching some indie movie found on one of the many streaming services. Peter's been trying to pay attention, but his thoughts are focused on so many other things.

Mostly you.

The scruffy TV paints his and May's apartment in muted blues. Half the lamps are off. The coffee table is littered with takeout containers, a bowl of popcorn that May left when she went to bed, and empty glasses.

Peter's fingers move absentmindedly through your hair. It's become a habit so ingrained he doesn't even realize he's doing it anymore. Twisting a loose strand around his finger, his thumb brushes your temple every so often, just because he can.

You make a small sound—a mix between a hum and a sigh—and settle further against him. Peter smiles.

"You awake?" he murmurs. You grunt.

"You've yawned, like, four times in the last five minutes."

"I'm watching."

"You're losing."

You shush him. "I'm invested."

"Babe," Peter whispers, fighting a grin, "I don't think even the actors are invested." That gets a snort out of you, and you reach up without looking and swat lazily at his stomach.

He catches your hand before it lands, laughing under his breath. Peter's fingers lace with yours and settle on your side. It's easy—like he's done this a thousand times before.

Peter tries to memorize everything. Not because he thinks he'll lose it, but rather because some moments deserve to be remembered exactly as they happened.

Outside, rain taps gently against the windows. Inside, his apartment feels impossibly small in the best way. Warm. Safe. Like the rest of the world, and the vengeful villains that are no doubt brewing up trouble, can wait until morning.

Peter can't wait to keep doing this, or a variation thereof, every Sunday for the rest of his life.

Peter's eyes flutter open at your sudden movement next to him. His senses aren't telling him you're a threat, just that you're now awake.

Your eyes squint at your phone, the screen a little too bright for being the first thing you see. Peter hums questionably.

"My boss. The store's closed today. She wants us to convalesce. Whatever the hell that means."

Peter hums again and lets his head fall back onto his pillow—your pillow. Right.

Sleeping next to you wasn't new to him. He's seen your bedhead, heard your snoring, and watched you stumble out of bed still half asleep. But it was new to you, though, and the thought scares Peter so much.

You settle back into bed, turning over to face Peter. "Hi."

"Hi." Peter lets out a breathy laugh.

Your hand comes up to tug at Peter's curls. "Your bedhead is horrible."

Peter scoffs at that, momentarily forgetting where he was—when he was. "Please. Yours gets so much worse, especially when you wear it in—"

You're looking at him a little differently now, like you just remembered everything he told you last night. Peter wants to curse at his slip-up. He can't meet your eyes, so he shuts them tight.

They snap right back open at the feeling of your lips on his. It's gentle, not as heated as they were last night, but it's a familiar gesture that leaves his skin burning.

You pull back a little to smile at him. "I'm starving right now, and I'm on breakfast duty this morning. You'll have to tell me about 'past me' another time."

Peter swallows and nods. He doesn't think he'll ever tell you. He doesn't want you to live with even the slightest idea that he's comparing you to...well, you.

You steal one more lingering kiss before pulling away and sitting up in bed, a smile tugging at your lips. "Okay," you say with a quiet laugh, "here's the plan." Your fingers brush his arm as you continue. "You'll sneak out through my window, head back to your place, and freshen up. Then, I'll text you when it's safe to come over for breakfast and 'officially' meet my roommates." You lift your hands to make playful air quotes around the word officially, unable to hide your grin.

Peter's pulse jumps. "You really think I should see them?" He's not sure he's ready.

You playfully glare at him, pointing a finger at his chest. "You're back in our lives, Peter. Whether you're ready or not."

Peter watches you get up from bed, winking at him from the door, before gently closing it behind you. He can hear the sink running in the shared bathroom, signaling you're getting ready for the day. He looks over to your window. Peter guesses he should get ready too.

But just for a moment, Peter has to take this all in.

In a few seconds, he’ll sweep himself out of your bed and your room, masterfully leaving through the window. He’ll escape any peeping eyes and walk from the back alley around to the front of your apartment building. You’ll let him in, smiling normally—your eyes will glimmer in secret—and he’ll start his new life with old friends.

He looks over to the pillow you slept on last night. There’s a dent in the grey pillow left from your head, and Peter thinks of craters on the moon.