Peter Parker x Reader ( after the ending of NWH )
Author’s note : So… I just watched the new Spider-Man movie and, like always, I am completely obsessed. Peter has always been such a massive comfort character and a true safe space for me. I literally spent all day writing this for him—for our hero.
It’s a little bit different from what I usually write, but I really loved where my imagination took this story. I hope you guys love it as much as I loved writing it! Let me know what you think :) ❤️
The apartment wasn’t depressing. Peter made sure of that. It was just… empty.
A single porcelain mug sat by the sink. Books were stacked in crooked, uneven columns against the hardwood floor. His suit, washed in cold tap water, hung by the window near the fire escape, dripping silently onto a worn towel. In the corner, a police radio quietly crackled with low static, filling the void with distant noise. On the tiny kitchen ledge sat Aunt May’s old recipe book—stained with tomato sauce and butter—and next to it, a stubborn little succulent in a terracotta pot that Peter was doing his absolute best not to kill.
“May used to water these every Tuesday,” he whispered to the green leaves, setting down a small glass of tap water. “Don’t die on me. I’m trying.”
The plant didn’t answer. Nobody did anymore. But he talked to it anyway, jokingly, because nobody else was around to hear him.
The alarm went off at 5:30 AM.
Cold shower. Dry toast. The subway ride to the university.
His phone remained completely silent in his coat pocket. No morning texts. No “Good luck on your exam.” No one waiting for him at the corner station.
Peter walked through the campus courtyard under the gray morning sky. Around him, life moved in bright, chaotic waves. People laughed in groups. Students crowded around outdoor tables, complaining about upcoming midterms and sharing cheap coffee. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place, a friend, a tether.
Peter kept his headphones in—playing nothing at all—and kept his head down.
Someone rushing past with a heavy canvas bag slammed right into his shoulder. Peter stumbled back a step, but the student didn’t even pause or look back.
“Sorry,” Peter whispered automatically to the back of the stranger's jacket.
He missed being normal. He didn’t just miss being a hero without a price; he missed being Peter. The boy who existed in someone else’s thoughts.
Sometimes, memories hit him like sharp glass in the chest. Always brief. Always vivid.
Ned, practically vibrating across a cafeteria table: “Dude, we’re gonna build the Death Star tonight! It’s gonna be legendary.”
MJ, leaning against a locker with a slight, knowing smirk: “You’re such a dork, Parker. Stop staring.”
Aunt May, tossing a tea towel over her shoulder in the warm kitchen: “Eat something before you go out, kiddo. You look like a breeze could blow you away.”
Two lines each. Just enough to leave a lingering bruise.
By three in the afternoon, the rain had cleared into a cool breeze. On his walk back from the library, Peter spotted an elderly woman struggling at the crosswalk with two heavy bags of groceries. Without thinking twice, he stepped up, took the heaviest tote from her hands, and walked her safely across the street. No suit. No web-shooters. Just Peter being Peter.
Then, right outside the university’s science building, it happened.
A sharp gust of wind swept down the concrete courtyard just as a girl stepped out of the heavy glass doors. A thick folder slipped from her arms, bursting open on impact. White printer paper, handwritten notes, and blue-inked diagrams scattered across the damp pavement, caught in the draft.
Peter moved instantly. Before his brain could even process it, his old high-school reflex took over. He dropped to his knees, scooping up sheets from under wooden benches and off the wet grass.
“Here, let me get these—” he began, gathering the last stack.
He turned, reaching out to hand them over. Their fingers brushed.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
She was staring at him. Not with the blank indifference of a stranger, but with wide, warm eyes. A soft, immediate smile broke across her face—not confused, not surprised, just genuinely, beautifully happy. Like seeing an old friend after a long journey.
“Peter?” she whispered.
Peter froze. The air left his lungs entirely.
“Peter Parker,” she said again, her voice steady and warm.
Peter couldn’t process it. His mind raced back to Doctor Strange, the spell, the tear in reality, the absolute wipe of his existence. It was impossible.
She smiled again, taking the papers from his trembling hands. “You still pick up everyone’s papers.”
She remembered. Not Spider-Man. Not the hero in the mask. Peter.
“I have to get to class,” she said softly, tucking the folder securely under her arm. “See you around, Peter.”
She walked away naturally, disappearing into the sea of students. Peter stayed frozen on his knees on the pavement. Cars hummed on the nearby avenue. People walked around him like a rock in a stream. Everything felt blurry, out of focus.
“How…?” he whispered to the empty air.
The next two weeks were an absolute mess for Peter’s self-control.
He kept accidentally running into her. The same corner café on 4th Street. The same quiet section of the university library behind the physics stacks. The same hallway outside the lab building.
Internally, he told himself he was investigating. He was a scientist, after all. He needed to analyze the anomaly. Was it a glitch in the spell? A tear in the fabric of memory?
Instead of solving high-level magical theory, he accidentally learned:
One afternoon at the café, she set her laptop down directly across from his table and looked at him, her lips curving into a soft smirk.
“Either New York got really small…” She paused, leaning in slightly across the table. “…or you’re following me, Parker.”
Peter nearly choked on his breath. Panic shot through his chest. “No. I mean—no, absolutely not. I was just—” He caught her amused expression and swallowed hard. “…maybe.”
She laughed. A real, bright, effortless laugh that resonated right in his chest.
They ended up sitting together over coffee. Not a date, Peter repeated to himself internally like a strict mantra. It’s research.
“So,” Peter asked carefully, leaning forward, trying to keep his voice light while his pulse hammered. “Do you remember high school? Chemistry class?”
“Of course,” she smiled, stirring her cup. “Mr. Harrington’s disastrous lab fires.”
She began recalling memories—teachers, field trips, old neighborhood spots, funny little moments from years ago. She remembered everything.
Peter held his breath, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Do you remember… MJ?”
She blinked, thinking for a moment. “MJ? No. Doesn't ring a bell.”
Peter’s heart thudded. “What about Ned? Ned Leeds?”
She shook her head softly. “No. Should I?”
“No,” she said gently. Then she looked right into his eyes, her expression softening into something devastatingly sincere. “…Only you.”
Peter’s hand twitched, nearly knocking his coffee cup clean off the wooden table.
That night, sitting in his dim apartment, Peter opened a faded notebook and wrote three large, ink-heavy words across the blank page: WHY HER?
A few days later, she invited him to see her classroom. She was doing student teaching at a local prep school, specializing in a junior module on human genetics and mutants.
Peter had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If only she knew.
Her classroom was bright and full of life. Large windows let in the afternoon light, illuminating rows of leafy potted plants, DNA double-helix posters, microscopes, and colorful student diagrams. It had an atmosphere that felt undeniably safe.
As she walked around, talking passionately about cellular mutation and genetic adaptation, her eyes lit up with pure enthusiasm. Peter stood by a lab counter, simply watching her speak. He didn't even realize he was smiling until she paused mid-sentence and caught him.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Nothing,” Peter said quickly.
“You did,” she said softly, a subtle flush touching her cheeks.
She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “You look happier than when I bumped into you two weeks ago. You looked so heavy then.”
The words hit him straight in the chest.
When Peter returned home that evening, he walked in with a light step, a small smile still resting on his face. He caught his reflection in the dark window—and immediately stopped. Guilt slammed into him like a physical wall. MJ didn't remember him. Ned was living his life without him. He was supposed to stay alone to keep people safe. What was he doing?
That night, Spider-Man went on patrol. The contrast was sharp and punishing. Cold rain lashed against his suit. The police scanner blared violence. Dark alleys, blood, wet pavement, and fresh bruises. He swung harder, fought longer, pushing himself to the absolute limit.
When he finally crawled back through his apartment window at 4:00 AM, he fell asleep right on the cold floorboards, still wearing the damp, torn suit.
Despite his guilt, life began carving out a quiet rhythm.
Coffee every Tuesday. Library study sessions every Thursday. A walk through the park every Saturday.
There was almost no grand plot to their days, just the simple weight of life. She would casually reach over and steal fries off his plate. He would bite into a slice of pizza too fast, burn his tongue, and make a face that made her cover her mouth to hide her laughter. When autumn set in, he bought her hot chocolate without asking—always remembering extra whipped cream, just the way she liked it.
Then came the text messages.
Morning check-ins. Late-night thoughts. Science memes. Photos of stray cats. Astronomy articles. Random thoughts about food.
Peter started checking his phone every few minutes. He would catch himself staring at the screen, smiling, waiting for her name to pop up.
He was already in love. He just hadn't admitted it to himself yet.
Then, Spider-Man ruined everything.
A structural emergency on the Manhattan Bridge sent cars dangling over the river. Emergency frequencies exploded.
Peter was sitting across from her at a small dinner spot when his phone buzzed under the table with severe alerts. His stomach dropped.
“I… I have to go,” he stammered, standing up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I’m so sorry. Something came up.”
He vanished before she could even answer.
She waited. One hour. Two hours. The restaurant staff eventually cleared the untouched plates. The doors locked for the night, and she walked home alone through the cold streets.
When Peter finally collapsed onto a quiet rooftop hours later, bruised and exhausted, he pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.
Nothing else. He couldn't make up a lie, and he couldn't tell the truth.
Minutes later, her reply illuminated his face in the dark:
The pattern repeated. A week later, another sudden exit. Then another canceled plan. Another cold text.
Across town, in her apartment, she sat on the floor of her old room.
She pulled an old metal memory box out from under her bed and opened the lid. Inside lay blurred school photos where someone’s face seemed out of focus, old class schedules with an extra seat marked in pencil, and homework sheets with notes written in the margins in handwriting that wasn't hers.
And stacked near the top were small, heartbreaking notes she had written to herself over the years:
“I know someone sat next to me today. I can’t remember who.”
“I feel like I lost a part of myself. I miss someone whose name I don’t know.”
At the very bottom of the box was a sketch in dark pencil: soft, messy curls, warm eyes, a gentle jawline—but no distinct face.
Only three words were written underneath in her handwriting:
A few nights later, they met on the roof of her apartment building. The New York skyline stretched out around them in a sea of glowing lights. A cold wind blew, but they sat wrapped in thick fleece blankets, sharing a box of takeout pizza.
They talked about real, quiet things—loneliness, dream jobs, parents, growing up, and the fears they carried.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, looking out at the city lights, “I feel like I spent years living in a fog. Like there was this huge hole in my life, and I couldn't figure out what was missing until recently.”
Peter looked at her, his chest aching so violently he could barely breathe. The truth hovered right on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell her everything.
He opened his mouth to speak—
The tiny police scanner earpiece in his pocket crackled to life with a high-priority dispatch.
Peter closed his mouth. The vulnerability on his face vanished, replaced instantly by panic.
“I have to go,” he whispered, getting to his feet.
She didn’t get angry. She didn’t yell. She just looked up at him with quiet, heartbroken eyes as he hurried toward the roof exit. She almost cried right there under the stars.
Two nights later, she was walking home late from the school building.
Taking a shortcut through a dim alley, three men stepped out from the shadows, blocking her path. The threat was immediate and cold.
Before they could move closer, a red-and-blue figure dropped silently from the fire escape above.
The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. Fluid, fast, and completely silent. Webbing pinned the men securely against the brick walls.
Spider-Man landed lightly on his feet in front of her, his chest rising and falling beneath the wet suit.
“You alright?” his voice came out deep, modulated by the mask, but laced with frantic concern.
She stood frozen in the rain, shaking from the sudden shock. She looked at the masked figure, her eyes filling with tears.
“I wish Peter was here,” she whispered softly.
Underneath the fabric of the mask, Peter’s breath caught. He reached up, his hand touching the base of his cowl, ready to pull it off, ready to give up the secret—
He stopped himself. He couldn't drag her deeper into the danger of his world. He backed away into the shadows and vanished into the rain.
The silence that followed was total.
No morning texts. No coffee invitations on Tuesday. No shared smiles in the library.
The distance between them was absolute. Peter walked through his days like a ghost again. He had lost MJ. He had lost Ned. The entire world had wiped Peter Parker from its memory. But she had somehow held onto him through the fog of universal magic.
And now, because of his fear, he was losing her all over again.
Peter couldn't take it anymore.
Not because she discovered his identity. Not because a villain forced his hand. But because Peter Parker finally chose honesty.
He walked up the stairs of her apartment building and knocked on her door, his heart hammering against his ribs.
When she opened it, her eyes widened slightly. She didn't yell. She just stepped back silently and let him inside.
Sitting on her small coffee table was the old metal memory box. She didn't confront him about Spider-Man. She didn't ask about masks or webs.
She sat down on the couch, reached into the box, and pulled out a spiral notebook, placing it gently between them.
“I don’t know how magic works,” she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly.
She reached back into the box and pulled out another notebook, setting it next to the first.
“But I knew someone was missing,” she whispered. “So I kept looking.”
Finally, she pulled out the small drawing of the curly-haired boy with no face. She looked up from the paper and met Peter’s tear-filled eyes directly.
“I couldn’t remember your name,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “But my heart never forgot the feeling of loving you.”
The walls he had built since May died, since Strange cast the spell, since he walked out of MJ’s donut shop—all of them collapsed into dust. Tears fell down his face, silent and heavy.
Not because she remembered the hero.
Because for the first time in years… someone chose Peter Parker.
Later that night, Peter unlocked the door to his tiny apartment.
He stepped inside and instinctively reached out to flip the light switch, then paused.
She was standing right beside him in the entryway, a soft, warm smile on her face, holding two paper takeaway coffee cups—oat milk lattes with a dash of cinnamon.
The apartment hadn’t magically changed.
The furniture was still mismatched and old.
The tiny plant on the ledge was still half-dead.
The police scanner still crackled softly in the background, a low, steady hum.
But the silence was gone.
For the first time since the spell, when someone said “Peter,” they meant him.
