Marie 🤎

Frank had never liked hospitals.

It wasn’t the smell. Most people complained about the antiseptic that clung stubbornly to every wall, every sheet, every article of clothing that spent more than an hour inside the building. To him, it had never been that. Hospitals smelled of people fighting to stay alive, of blood hidden beneath disinfectant, of exhaustion carried by doctors who had long forgotten what a full night’s sleep felt like, and of families waiting outside operating rooms with the desperate hope that a pair of swinging doors would open to deliver good news instead of condolences. He had spent enough hours sitting in those hallways throughout his life to know that hope and grief often shared the same chair.

The dull ache radiating from his ribs reminded him where he was before his eyes had even fully opened. He remained motionless for a few seconds, staring at the pale ceiling while his mind slowly pieced together the fragmented memories that had followed the gunshot. 

Jean Grey. Parker throwing himself into the line of fire before anyone could react. The deafening crack of his sniper echoing through the street. Blood spreading far too quickly across the kid’s suit. Then shouting. Sirens. Someone forcing him to sit down because he looked ready to collapse despite insisting he was fine. After that, little more than scattered moments interrupted by fatigue, until sleep had claimed him without asking for permission.

His gaze drifted instinctively toward the second bed.

Peter hadn’t moved.

The machines surrounding him continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to the panic that had consumed everyone only a handful of hours earlier. Bandages disappeared beneath the hospital gown, fresh gauze wrapped tightly around the wound in his shoulder, and the faint rise and fall of his chest was enough to tell Frank the boy was still breathing. 

Alive.

The word should have brought relief. Instead, it settled somewhere beneath his ribs with an uncomfortable heaviness that refused to leave. He had pulled the trigger with complete certainty. Years of experience had taught him exactly when to fire, exactly where the bullet would land. Except this time, someone faster, younger, and far more reckless had stepped between him and the target.

Peter Parker had taken a bullet meant for someone else.

For the first time in years, Frank had missed. Not just in the shot, but also in the intention. He did everything wrong, all wrong again.

The quiet click of the door interrupted the thought before it could circle back into the familiar territory of blame. His head turned almost automatically, and every muscle in his body tensed out of habit before recognition replaced instinct.

You stepped into the room without noticing he was awake.

A clipboard rested against your hip, several loose reports tucked beneath your arm, and the stethoscope hanging around your neck shifted gently as you crossed the room with the purposeful stride of someone who had repeated the same routine countless times throughout the night. The white coat you wore had acquired the inevitable wrinkles that came after too many uninterrupted hours on duty, and faint shadows rested beneath your eyes despite the composure you carried with effortless familiarity. You looked tired. Not unusually so—not in the dramatic way exhaustion is often described—but in the quiet, ordinary manner that belonged to doctors who had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours choosing which emergencies demanded their attention first.

You hadn’t changed as much as he thought you would.

Or perhaps you had, and he simply remembered you too well to notice.

Months had passed since the last time he’d seen you. Long enough for seasons to change, for addresses to become obsolete, for bruises to heal and new scars to replace the old ones. Long enough for him to convince himself that disappearing had been the right decision. That cutting every line connecting him to you before someone else could do it with bullets or threats or a body left in an alley was the closest thing to mercy a man like him could offer. He had repeated that justification often enough that, eventually, it stopped sounding like an excuse and began resembling something dangerously close to the truth.

Until he’d needed you.

The memory returned with humiliating clarity. His thumb lingering over your contact information longer than it should have.

Wondering whether the number would still belong to you.

Wondering whether you’d answer. 

Wondering whether you should.

Wondering.

He had expected anger or silence. Perhaps even the call ending the moment you recognized his voice. Instead, after the second ring, you had simply answered.

“Frank.”

Not surprised, not cold… not warm, either.

You had spoken his name with the calm neutrality of someone waiting for him to explain why a ghost had suddenly remembered the living.

He hadn’t known how to begin.

There were apologies that had remained trapped somewhere behind his teeth for months, explanations he’d rehearsed during sleepless nights inside abandoned apartments, reasons that had sounded convincing until the exact moment he heard your voice again. Every single one of them disappeared beneath the weight of something infinitely more urgent.

“Need your help.”

That was all he’d managed.

No greeting. No apology. No attempt to soften the request after vanishing without a word.

Just the truth.

Need your help.

You hadn’t asked where he’d been or demanded an explanation.

You hadn’t reminded him that months earlier he’d walked away believing he was protecting you by making the decision for both of you.

There had only been the brief sound of pages turning on your end of the line before your voice returned with the same composure that had always made him think of operating rooms rather than conversations.

“Which hospital?”

Nothing more.

Looking at you now, quietly reviewing Peter’s chart while comparing it against the monitor beside his bed, Frank realized he had known the answer before he’d even made the call. He hadn’t reached out because you were simply one of the best trauma surgeons in New York. He had called because, somewhere beneath all the stubbornness that had convinced him staying away was the right thing to do, there had remained one certainty he had never questioned.

If someone’s life depended on you...

You would come.

You always did.

You moved around Peter’s bedside with the same concentration that had once fascinated him enough to keep him awake through entire nights simply watching you work. Your fingers adjusted the IV line almost absentmindedly while your eyes remained fixed on the monitor, mentally comparing numbers before jotting down another note on the chart. Then came the stethoscope, the careful examination of the dressing beneath his shoulder, the practiced movement of lifting the blanket just enough to inspect the surgical site without disturbing him any more than necessary. Every gesture blended seamlessly into the next, neither rushed nor unnecessarily delicate, as though your body had long since learned a language your conscious mind no longer needed to translate.

Frank remembered those hands differently.

They had stitched bullet wounds while arguing with him over whether he needed anesthesia. 

Pressed against his jaw when nightmares left him too disoriented to distinguish memory from reality.

Wrapped around paper cups of terrible coffee during mornings neither of you admitted you hadn’t slept.

Curled lazily against his chest while rain battered apartment windows neither of you planned on staying in for more than a week.

He remembered every scar decorating your fingers.

He wondered whether you remembered his.

Only after finishing your examination did you finally look up from the chart, intending to leave the room before your eyes settled on him.

For the first time since answering that phone call...

You realized he was awake.

Frank didn’t realize he was staring until you finally lowered the clipboard.

The silence that settled inside the room wasn’t uncomfortable, though it carried the unmistakable weight of two people who had spent months apart with far too many conversations left unfinished. You glanced over Peter’s latest bloodwork one last time before slipping the chart back into its place at the foot of the bed, your eyes lingering on the unconscious young man for another second, almost as if reassuring yourself that nothing had changed during the few minutes you’d spent inside. Only then did you turn fully toward Frank.

“You’ve been awake for long?” Your voice hadn’t changed.

It still carried that same quiet steadiness capable of filling a room without ever becoming loud, the same tone that had once calmed frightened patients, exhausted residents, and, on more than one occasion, an injured vigilante stubborn enough to insist he didn’t need stitches while actively bleeding onto your apartment floor.

Frank shook his head once. “Couple minutes.”

You nodded absentmindedly, accepting the answer without further questions before your gaze drifted almost instinctively toward the monitor attached to him. His pulse had risen slightly since waking, though not enough to concern you. Habit more than worry guided your steps toward his bedside, your fingers wrapping around his wrist for a brief moment while comparing the pulse beneath your fingertips to the numbers displayed on the screen.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up too quickly,” you murmured, more doctor than anything else. “You have three cracked ribs.”

“...Had worse.”

“I know,” there wasn’t the slightest trace of amusement in your reply.

You simply knew.

The words settled between you with surprising ease, carrying the familiarity of a truth neither of you had ever needed to explain. There had been too many nights spent removing bullets, stitching knife wounds, resetting fingers and shoulders after fights that should have ended very differently. Three cracked ribs barely deserved a place on the list.

Frank watched you as you finished checking his vitals, realizing with uncomfortable clarity how natural all of this still felt. Months had passed since he’d walked away without giving you the chance to argue with his decision, yet here you were, adjusting the blanket over his legs with the same absent-minded gesture you’d performed dozens of times before, as though your body remembered habits your heart had every right to abandon.

His jaw tightened. “...You saved him.”

You looked back toward Peter. “I operated on him.”

“Saved him.”

A small sigh escaped through your nose. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It was.”

You remained quiet for a moment, not because you agreed, but because you had never cared much for praise after surgery. Frank remembered that well enough. He remembered residents trying to congratulate you after impossible operations only to receive the same answer every time—that medicine wasn’t something anyone accomplished alone. Nurses, anesthesiologists, technicians, residents... every person inside that operating room mattered.

You had never liked carrying victories that belonged to an entire team.

“He was lucky,” you finally replied.

Frank let out a humorless breath. “...Luck had nothin’ to do with it.”

Your eyes found his again. “No?”

“No,” he held your gaze for several seconds before lowering it toward his own hands. “I pulled the trigger.”

The admission came quietly.

Matter-of-fact.

There was no attempt to soften it or shift responsibility elsewhere. He had replayed the scene often enough since arriving at the hospital that every second had become painfully familiar. The angle. The distance. Jean Grey’s movement. Peter throwing himself forward. The recoil against his shoulder.

One decision. One mistake.

One kid lying unconscious because Frank Castle had failed to account for someone else’s instinct to save people.

“I know,” your answer arrived without hesitation.

Not accusing or forgiving. Simply acknowledging reality.

Frank rubbed a hand across his face before letting out a tired exhale. “...Kid almost died ’cause of me.”

“He almost died because he made a choice.”

His head lifted.

You hadn’t moved.

Your posture remained relaxed, both hands tucked into the pockets of your coat as you looked at Peter rather than him.

“You didn’t intend to shoot Peter.”

“...Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to him,” you said.

Frank frowned. 

“You know as well as I do that Peter would make the exact same decision again tomorrow.”

That earned the faintest snort from him. “...Yeah.”

“And the day after.”

“...Yeah.”

“And probably every day after that.”

Despite himself, the corner of Frank’s mouth twitched for barely a second before disappearing again. “...Kid’s got somethin’ wrong with him.”

A barely perceptible smile crossed your face. “I’ve been saying that for years.”

The room fell quiet again, though lighter than before. Not because either of you had forgotten why you were there, but because Peter Parker possessed that peculiar ability to make even the bleakest situations sound almost absurd when spoken aloud.

Frank looked at you again. This time, the weight in his chest had very little to do with Peter. “...Shouldn’t’ve called.”

You blinked once. “What?”

His eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond your shoulder. “...Should’ve left y’outta this.”

There it was.

Not an apology. Frank Castle rarely knew how to apologize directly.

Instead, guilt surfaced sideways, disguised as practical statements that somehow managed to reveal far more than he’d ever intended.

“You disappeared,” you answered quietly, your voice neither sharp nor wounded, merely factual. “Then months later you called because someone needed help,” he didn’t answer. “I would’ve come regardless of who was on the other end of that phone.”

“...I know.”

“But…” Your sentence faded before it truly began.

Frank looked back at you, noticing for the first time that exhaustion wasn’t the only thing shadowing your features. There was something else there, something quieter, carefully restrained beneath the same professionalism you’d carried since entering the room.

“...But it was you.”

Neither of you spoke.

There wasn’t much left to add. Because that was precisely the part neither of you had managed to outrun.

Frank had convinced himself that leaving was an act of protection.

You had never tried to stop him.

Yet when he finally reached for you again, you had answered before asking a single question. The realization sat heavily between you, too complicated to untangle inside a hospital room where another man’s heartbeat continued its steady rhythm only a few feet away.

Frank shifted toward the edge of the bed before planting both feet carefully against the floor. The movement pulled sharply at the bruises along his ribs, forcing him to grit his teeth, but remaining in bed while talking to you suddenly felt wrong. He pushed himself upright despite the dull protest radiating through his side, one hand instinctively gripping the metal railing until the dizziness passed.

You took half a step forward. “Frank—”

“’M alright.”

“You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“’M still standin’.”

“You are,” you agreed, watching the faint tension around his jaw betray just how much the movement had hurt, “but that doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

He ignored the remark, taking another slow step until barely a couple of feet separated the two of you. Standing now, the difference in height returned so naturally it almost felt cruel after months apart. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed something as ordinary as looking down at you.

Neither of you noticed the subtle change in the room until a hoarse voice, rough with anesthesia and sleep, broke the silence.

“...You know…”

Both heads turned at once.

Peter’s face twisted into a pained grimace as his eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the brightness above him before his unfocused gaze drifted lazily between the two of you.

“...If... this is... your way…” He swallowed, wincing immediately afterward. “...of getting back together…” Another shallow breath. “...I’m gonna be... really offended…”

For the first time since waking, Frank let out something dangerously close to an actual laugh. It lasted barely a second, rough and disbelieving, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

“...Kid…” he muttered, shaking his head. “...You’re... unbelievably dramatic.”

Peter managed the weakest grin imaginable. “...Says... the guy... who shot me…”

Peter’s eyes never stayed open for very long before another wince betrayed exactly how much the anesthesia was beginning to wear off. The pain hadn’t fully settled in yet—that much you could tell from the way he still found enough energy to smile through it—but it was coming, slow and inevitable, replacing the comforting numbness left behind by surgery. His pulse climbed a few beats on the monitor, his breathing became fractionally shallower, and before either of the men in the room could say another word, your attention shifted entirely back to your patient.

Professional habit had always outweighed everything else.

You crossed the small distance separating you from the bed, the teasing smile Peter’s comment had drawn from you disappearing into the quiet concentration Frank remembered so well. Your fingers found Peter’s wrist first, counting almost absentmindedly while your other hand reached for the monitor to silence the brief warning that had accompanied the change in his heart rate. Only once you seemed satisfied did you rest your palm lightly against his shoulder, careful to avoid the fresh dressing covering the wound.

“Easy,” you said softly. “You just woke up after major surgery. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try proving you’re indestructible during the first five minutes.”

Peter blinked several times, his expression still clouded by medication before recognition finally settled in. “...Doc.”

“You remembered me. That’s encouraging.”

“I remember…” He frowned thoughtfully, clearly trying to organize his memories. “...there was a lot of yelling.”

“There usually is when someone gets shot.”

“...Fair.”

You couldn’t help smiling.

Frank watched the exchange in silence.

It struck him almost immediately that you spoke differently to Peter than you ever had to him. Not because you were treating him like a child—God knew Peter Parker would hate that—but because your voice carried an ease that belonged to someone accustomed to calming frightened patients without making them feel fragile. You never lied to them. You simply had a way of delivering the truth that somehow left enough room for people to breathe.

Peter shifted slightly before immediately regretting it, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth. “...Okay... yeah…” he muttered, abandoning the movement altogether. “...Turns out getting shot really hurts.”

“I did warn you against trying it,” you said.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on making it a hobby,” Peter said.

Frank snorted quietly. “...Could’ve fooled me.”

Peter looked toward him with exaggerated offense despite the obvious discomfort pulling at every movement. “I was saving your grumpy old self. Saving New York and Jean too!”

“...Didn’t ask.”

“No, but I feel like deep down you’re grateful.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I ain’t.”

Peter turned toward you with the air of someone seeking professional validation. “...Doc, can you check if emotional repression is a side effect of being sixty?”

Frank’s head snapped toward him. “...I’m forty somethin’.”

“Oh,” Peter nodded solemnly. “My mistake,” a brief pause. “...You complain like you’re sixty.”

The expression that crossed Frank’s face was so profoundly unimpressed that you had to lower your head for a moment, pretending to check Peter’s IV while unsuccessfully hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

“...You’re both impossible,” you murmured.

“I like her,” Peter informed Frank matter-of-factly.

“...Didn’t ask you.”

“I know,”  Peter smiled wider. “I just enjoy telling you things.”

Frank let out a long breath through his nose that sounded suspiciously like the beginning of a sigh, though whether it came from annoyance or reluctant amusement was difficult to tell.

While the two continued staring at one another with the stubbornness of men separated by nearly three decades and united by an equally questionable tendency toward self-sacrifice, you quietly reached for the clipboard resting at the foot of Peter’s bed and flipped through several pages before handing it to him.

“Before you start worrying,” you said, already anticipating the question forming behind his eyes, “there’s something you should know.”

Peter looked down at the paperwork with visible confusion. “...Should I be scared?”

“No,” you said.

“...That’s usually what people say right before giving me bad news.”

“You don’t have any medical records here.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“I erased them.”

Frank’s attention shifted toward you immediately.

Peter stared at you for several long seconds before looking back at the folder in his hands, flipping through it despite the obvious discomfort in his shoulder. Every page carried the same generic information: unidentified male, approximate age, emergency surgical intervention, no identifying features beyond the details absolutely necessary for postoperative care.

No name.

No fingerprints.

No DNA samples.

Nothing that could ever connect Spider-Man to Peter Parker.

“I also made sure every nurse assigned to this floor signed confidentiality agreements under a completely different case number,” you continued, your tone so matter-of-fact one would’ve thought you were discussing tomorrow’s weather. “Your blood samples were destroyed after the necessary testing, radiology archived under an anonymous emergency file, and the operating room logs were rewritten before they ever reached the hospital database.”

Peter looked at you as though you’d casually announced you’d reorganized Manhattan over lunch. “...You... did all that?”

You gave a small shrug. “It seemed easier than letting the government discover Spider-Man’s civilian identity.”

“...Easier.”

“Mhm,” you nod.

“...Your definition of easier is terrifying.”

Frank folded his arms. “...How the hell d’you even know how t’do all that?”

Your eyes shifted toward him, and for the first time since entering the room, genuine amusement settled across your features. “I’ve had practice.”

Frank frowned. “Practice.”

You nodded once. “It wasn’t exactly the first masked vigilante I’ve had to patch up.”

There was enough innocence in your voice that anyone unfamiliar with you might’ve believed the remark accidental.

Frank knew better.

Peter, unfortunately for him, understood immediately.

“...Wait,” Peter said, his eyes lighting up despite the lingering effects of the anesthesia. “You’re talking about—”

“Daredevil,” you said, smiling. Oh yeah, smiling.

Frank’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Peter’s gaze bounced enthusiastically between the two of you.

“...Hold on,” another pause. “...The Daredevil?”

You nodded. “For quite a while.”

Peter looked positively delighted. “...This just became the coolest hospital stay of my life.”

Frank muttered something under his breath. “...Jesus Christ.”

Peter ignored him entirely. “So... he was your patient?”

“For years.”

“...And?” 

“And what?” You couldn’t help but smile at Peter’s enthusiasm.

Peter grinned. “...That’s definitely not the whole story.”

You hesitated just long enough for Frank to know exactly where the conversation was heading. “...We dated.”

Silence lasted perhaps half a second.

Then Peter’s eyes widened with theatrical excitement.

“No way!”

Frank closed his eyes. “...Kid.”

“So you dated Daredevil…” Peter continued, clearly having discovered today’s favorite subject. “”...and now you’re—”

“We’re not discussing my personal life while you’re recovering from surgery.”

Peter looked almost offended. “I think discussing your personal life is helping my recovery.”

“...It isn’t.”

“It really is!”

You shook your head with an exasperated smile that Frank remembered all too well, one reserved almost exclusively for stubborn men convinced they were charming.

Peter tilted his head toward Frank with exaggerated subtlety. “I think somebody looks jealous.”

Frank actually laughed this time, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “...Jealous.”

“A little.”

“I ain’t jealous.”

Peter looked at you. “He sounds jealous.”

“He does,” you admitted with infuriating calm.

“I ain’t.”

“You’ve denied it three times already,” Peter pointed out.

“...Means you’re lyin’.”

You nodded thoughtfully, joining the conspiracy with far more ease than Frank appreciated.

“Statistically speaking,” you said, folding your arms with mock professionalism, “patients who repeat the same denial multiple times tend to be compensating for something.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “Oh my God.”

You looked at him. “What?”

“You just diagnosed him with jealousy,” he said, dramatically.

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did.”

Frank looked from one of you to the other, his expression flattening with every passing second as the realization settled that, somehow, despite one of you having been unconscious less than five minutes ago, the two of you had already formed an alliance against him.

“...Y’know,” Frank muttered, shaking his head as he looked toward the ceiling, “startin’ t’think lettin’ the kid sleep was the better option.”

Peter’s grin widened immediately. “See?” He looked triumphantly at you. “That’s his coping mechanism.”

You smiled—small, genuine, impossible to miss. “I know.”

And somehow, though Frank would have denied it under oath, hearing you say those two simple words hurt far less than it should have. Because beneath the teasing, beneath Peter’s relentless commentary and your quiet amusement, lingered the unmistakable reminder that, despite the months he’d spent trying to convince himself otherwise, there were still parts of him you knew by heart.

Peter remained awake for another twenty minutes, though “awake” was perhaps too generous a word for someone whose sentences grew increasingly incoherent each time the medication pulled at his consciousness. You stayed long enough to adjust his pain medication after he finally admitted—under considerable dramatic protest—that perhaps getting shot had, indeed, been a terrible experience. The complaint earned him nothing more than a raised eyebrow and the reminder that most people reached that conclusion before the bullet, not after it. He insisted the distinction was important. You informed him it wasn’t. Frank watched the exchange from the chair he’d reluctantly occupied again, saying little beyond the occasional dry remark whenever Peter’s teasing wandered too close to provoking another argument.

Eventually, however, the medication won.

Peter’s eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute until even maintaining a conversation demanded more effort than he was willing to spend. His words began to blur together, his thoughts drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep, and when you finally noticed him answering questions with little more than sleepy hums, you smiled almost to yourself before pulling the blanket a little higher over his chest.

The kid, as Frank told him, deserved to rest. Not just for carrying New York on his shoulders, but because he really seemed to need a break after… so much. You didn’t quite know what happened, who this Jean Grey was, but you knew Peter Parker needed help, needed someone to watch his back. You were glad Frank was there, even though he was partly to blame for Spider-Man almost dying hours before.

At least the drawings and stuffed animals served to remind Spider-Man that there were people waiting for him to recover, and that there were also people who wanted Peter Parker to be okay too.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” you said quietly. “Try not to move your shoulder.”

Peter barely cracked one eye open. “...No promises…”

“I know.”

“...But... I’ll... consider it…” Peter said.

“You do that.”

His mouth curved into the faintest grin before sleep reclaimed him entirely.

You waited another few seconds, watching the steady rhythm of the monitor settle once more into reassuring regularity before making a small note on his chart. Only after confirming that everything remained exactly as it should did you close the folder and glance toward Frank.

“He’ll sleep for a while.”

Frank nodded.

You hesitated for barely a moment before continuing. “You two probably have things to talk about.”

He understood what you meant immediately.

Peter deserved the truth.

Not today—not while the anesthesia still clouded his thoughts—but eventually. About Jean Grey. About the shot. About the guilt Frank had been carrying ever since watching the boy collapse in front of him.

“...Yeah.”

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

Without waiting for an answer, you stepped quietly out of the room, allowing the door to close behind you with little more than a muted click.

By the time you returned almost forty minutes later, the hallway outside had grown noticeably quieter.

Night had settled fully over the city, leaving only the soft glow of Manhattan filtering through the hospital windows while the floor gradually surrendered to the peculiar calm that only arrived after visiting hours ended. Somewhere in the distance, a nurse laughed quietly at something another doctor had said before the sound disappeared just as quickly, swallowed by walls that had heard thousands of similar conversations over the years. 

There were still people outside the hospital hoping Spider-Man would get better. Mostly adults, because the children were forced to leave their hero’s watch.

You pushed the door open carrying a fresh chart beneath one arm.

Peter was asleep again. This time deeply.

His breathing had evened out, the tension that pain had carved into his features finally beginning to loosen beneath the effects of medication. You approached automatically, checking the surgical dressing for any signs of fresh bleeding before reviewing the monitor once more. Blood pressure stable. Oxygen saturation normal. Heart rate slower now, no longer racing against the lingering adrenaline of waking after surgery.

Satisfied, you quietly scribbled another note across the chart.

“He’s doing well,” the words left your mouth almost absentmindedly before you realized Frank hadn’t answered.

You looked up.

He was standing.

Not beside his own bed anymore. Not near Peter’s either.

He had moved closer to the window sometime while you were gone, though judging by the stiffness in his posture, every step had probably cost him more pain than he cared to admit. One hand rested inside the pocket of the gray hospital sweatpants someone had convinced him to wear, while the other remained loosely folded across his ribs. Outside, rain had begun falling again, blurring the lights beyond the glass into streaks of gold and white. It was clear that Frank’s gaze was fixed on the people who were beginning to disperse, people who wanted to wait for Spider-Man to be alright, but the rain demanded a break.

For a brief second neither of you spoke.

Then he turned toward you. “...He asleep?”

You glanced once more toward Peter before nodding. “For the night, hopefully.”

“...Good.”

The room fell quiet again. Not because there was nothing to say, quite the opposite.

The silence existed because both of you understood that, for the first time since he’d called you, there were no patients demanding your attention, no interruptions waiting to rescue either of you from the conversation you’d both been quietly avoiding since the moment you stepped into the hospital.

You closed Peter’s chart before placing it gently at the foot of the bed.

“I should let you rest too.”

You had barely taken a step toward the door when his voice stopped you.

“...Don’t.”

It wasn’t loud.

Frank never needed volume to command attention.

You turned back. He hadn’t moved.

His eyes remained fixed on you with an expression you couldn’t immediately place, something caught somewhere between hesitation and determination, as though speaking suddenly required far more courage than facing armed men ever had.

“...Stay.”

You looked at him for several long seconds before quietly walking away from the door.

The distance between you wasn’t large. It only felt that way.

“You wanted to talk,” it wasn’t a question.

Frank lowered his gaze briefly, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand before letting out a slow breath through his nose.

“...Been tryin’ t’figure out what I’d say…” A humorless smile ghosted across his face. “...Turns out I’m still no damn good at this.”

“You never were.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence followed, though this one carried none of the uncertainty from before. It felt strangely familiar instead, like dozens of evenings the two of you had spent sitting together after difficult days, neither expecting the other to fill every quiet moment with conversation.

Frank looked toward the sleeping figure across the room before speaking again.

“...Thought leavin’ was the right thing,” you didn’t interrupt him. “...Figured…” He swallowed once. “...figured if I wasn’t around... nobody’d use y’ t’get t’me,” his jaw tightened. “...Kept tellin’ myself I’d made peace with it,” you remained perfectly still. “...Didn’t.” The admission barely rose above a murmur.

“I know,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again. “...No,” he shook his head once. “...Y’ don’t.”

Something inside his expression shifted, the stubborn certainty he’d carried for months beginning to crack beneath exhaustion.

“I thought about callin’... every damn week.”

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the chart you still held.

“...You didn’t.”

“’Cause every time…” he laughed quietly at himself, though there wasn’t an ounce of amusement behind the sound. “...Every damn time I’d hear your voice in my head tellin’ me I was an idiot…”

A faint smile tugged unwillingly at the corner of your mouth. “I probably would’ve.”

“...Yeah,” another breath. “...But I also knew…” His voice grew quieter still. “...Soon as I heard y’ again…” He stopped.

Not because he didn’t know the words, but because saying them aloud somehow made them heavier.

“...I’d wanna come home.” The sentence settled gently between you.

Not dramatic or poetic... just honest.

Frank looked away toward the rain streaking across the window. “...An’ I couldn’t.” his shoulders rose and fell with a tired sigh. “...Didn’t trust myself.”

You watched him for several moments before finally speaking. “So you decided for both of us.”

He closed his eyes. “...Yeah.”

“You never asked what I wanted.”

“...I know.”

“You decided I was safer without you.”

“...Yeah.”

“And you never considered that maybe I would’ve preferred having the chance to make that choice myself,” you said, swallowing hard, because suddenly the words were harder to come out.

Frank nodded once, slowly. “...Yeah.”

No excuses. No attempt to defend himself. Only acceptance.

You took another small step toward him until barely an arm’s length remained between you. “I was angry.”

“...I know.”

“I thought something had happened to you,” you confessed.

His breathing caught almost imperceptibly.

“I spent weeks wondering whether you were dead.”

Frank lowered his head. “...I know.”

“I hated you,” the words came quietly.

“I know.”

“And somehow…” You let out the smallest laugh, one filled more with exhaustion than humor. “...I still answered the phone.”

Frank finally looked back at you.

There was something almost unbearable in his expression now, something raw enough that it made him seem older than you had ever remembered.

“...Yeah.”

Another silence.

Then, with all the awkward honesty that had always belonged exclusively to Frank Castle— “...Missed y’.”

You didn’t answer.

He swallowed. “...Missed y’ every damn day.” The confession seemed to leave him almost embarrassed, his eyes dropping briefly toward the floor before returning to yours with stubborn resolve. “...Still do,” his voice had become rougher now. “...Didn’t matter where I went,” another pause. “...Didn’t matter how many nights I told myself I was doin’ the right thing,” he shook his head faintly. “...I’d still wake up…” his laugh came again, quieter than before. “...Reach across the bed…” He looked down at his own hand. “...And remember you weren’t there.”

For the first time since entering the room hours earlier, there was no doctor standing before him.

No composed surgeon.

No woman quietly hiding exhaustion behind professionalism.

Only you.

And Frank realized, with painful certainty, that disappearing had never once taught him how to stop loving you.

“...I miss ya, sweetheart.”

The words came so softly they almost disappeared beneath the steady beeping of Peter’s monitor.

“...I never stopped.”

You remained standing where you were, saying nothing for what felt like an eternity, though in reality only a handful of seconds passed before the silence settled into something neither of you felt compelled to interrupt. Frank had never been a man who filled empty spaces with words, and you had long since learned that the things he struggled most to say were often the truest. Throughout your relationship, it had never been lengthy declarations or carefully rehearsed speeches that convinced you of what he felt. It had been the way he’d silently pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders when winter nights became colder than either of you had expected. The way he’d memorized which cabinet held your migraine medication without ever being asked. The way he’d begun sleeping a little deeper simply because your heartbeat had become familiar enough to convince his own body that, for a few hours at least, the war outside could wait.

Frank loved with actions.

Perhaps that was why words sounded so unbearably vulnerable coming from him now.

His confession still lingered between you, fragile in a way that felt almost foreign on a man who had spent most of his life convincing the world that nothing could reach him. You could see it in the tension around his jaw, in the way his shoulders remained rigid despite the exhaustion weighing on him, in the uncertainty quietly settling behind his eyes as though, after finally saying everything he’d kept buried for months, he no longer knew what came next.

You looked at him for several more seconds before letting the chart slip onto the nearby counter.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply closed the remaining distance.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There were no tears, no hurried embrace born from months apart, no desperate attempt to erase everything that had happened with a single gesture. That wasn’t who either of you had ever been. Whatever existed between you had always been built patiently, through ordinary moments repeated often enough that they eventually became something impossible to imagine living without.

When you stopped in front of him, Frank didn’t move. Perhaps he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

You lifted one hand slowly before resting it against the side of his face.

The roughness of his stubble brushed gently against your palm, exactly as you remembered. He hadn’t changed his aftershave. You doubted he had even noticed there was still a faint scent of gunpowder clinging stubbornly to his skin beneath the antiseptic smell of the hospital. His cheek was warmer than your hand, and beneath your fingertips you could feel the subtle tightening of his jaw before, almost cautiously, he leaned into the touch.

Only slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Enough for you to know it hadn’t been unconscious.

Frank closed his eyes.

The movement was so small that anyone else might have missed it, yet you knew him well enough to understand what it meant.

Relief.

Not because everything had been fixed. Nothing had.

Months of silence couldn’t simply disappear because one difficult conversation had finally taken place. The hurt remained. The questions remained. So did the certainty that, eventually, both of you would have to talk about everything that had happened between the day he left and the day that phone call brought him back into your life.

But for now...

You hadn’t stepped away. Your thumb brushed quietly across the scar beneath his eye.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore.”

Frank opened his eyes again. “...Yeah.”

“If you think leaving is the answer next time…” A faint smile appeared despite yourself. “...you’re going to have to survive me first.”

Something remarkably close to amusement flickered across his face. “...Sounds ’bout right.”

You shook your head, your hand never leaving his cheek. “You are unbelievably stubborn.”

“’M aware.”

“It was a very selfish decision,” you accused.

“...Yeah.”

“You hurt me,” the words came gently. Not as an accusation, simply as truth.

His expression faltered. “...I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“...Yeah.”

Another silence settled between you.

Then, unexpectedly—

“So…” Frank cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture you’d seen countless times whenever he found himself navigating emotions he’d rather face with a loaded rifle. “...Guess I oughta start listenin’ more.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“...Peter yelled at me.”

A surprised laugh escaped you. “Peter yelled at you?”

“He wouldn’t shut up.”

“What did he say?” you asked.

Frank let out a tired breath through his nose. “...Kept sayin’ disappearin’ never fixed anythin’.” 

Funny coming from Peter Parker himself, considering his own life.

You tilted your head slightly. “...He’s not wrong.”

“No.” Frank looked briefly toward the sleeping young man across the room before returning his attention to you. “...Kid spent years thinkin’ carryin’ everything alone’d keep people safe,” his voice grew quieter. “...Didn’t work for him,” his eyes met yours again. “...Didn’t work for me either.”

There it was; not another apology, but a realization.

Perhaps the first one he had truly allowed himself to accept.

Frank had always believed love meant becoming a target. That anyone standing close enough to him would inevitably suffer because of it. Walking away had seemed like protection. Especially considering everything that happened to his family, how he lost them, what he lost of himself.

Now, after watching Peter nearly die trying to bear the weight of the world by himself...

After watching you come running the moment he called despite every reason not to...

He finally understood something neither of you had managed to convince him of before: distance protected no one. It only made loneliness easier to justify.

His hand rose hesitantly before settling against your waist. Unlike yours, his touch wasn’t cautious. It never had been. Frank had always held you as though reassuring himself you were real.

His thumb absentmindedly traced slow circles against your side while he searched your face for something you hadn’t yet said. “...Can I…” He stopped.

You smiled softly. “Frank.”

“...Yeah?”

“You’ve never been very good at asking.”

A quiet snort escaped him. “...Workin’ on it.”

“I noticed.”

For another heartbeat neither of you moved.

Then Frank did what had always come more naturally than speaking.

He leaned down and kissed you slowly. Not with the urgency of someone terrified you’d disappear if he let go. Nor with the desperate hunger born from months apart.

Instead, it was the kind of kiss that only existed between two people who already knew one another by heart, who had spent countless mornings sharing terrible coffee, countless nights patching each other back together after impossible fights, countless quiet moments learning that intimacy often lived in the smallest gestures.

His hand remained at your waist.  Yours stayed against his cheek. Everything else quietly disappeared. When he finally rested his forehead against yours again, neither of you spoke immediately.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Frank let out the smallest breath of laughter. “...Missed that.”

“So did I,” you whispered, with a small smile.

His eyes softened. “...Y’ just admitted it.”

“I did.”

“...Think I should shoot Peter more often,” he blurted it out with a tiny smile.

You frowned immediately. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“’M kiddin’.”

“I know…” you said.

“You smiled,” Frank said, keeping his smile.

“I did no such thing.”

“...Liar.”

A familiar voice, still rough with sleep but carrying entirely too much satisfaction for someone recovering from surgery, drifted across the room before either of you could continue. “...Wow…”

Neither of you moved.

“...That…” Peter’s voice stretched lazily as if he’d just witnessed the ending of a particularly good movie. “...was actually... really sweet.”

Frank’s eyes closed slowly. Painfully.

“No,” Frank almost growled.

Peter grinned without opening his own. “...Yep.”

“You were asleep,” Frank accused.

“...Was,” a beat. “...Then I wasn’t,” Peter said.

Frank turned just enough to glare at the bed. “...How long?”

Peter finally cracked one eye open. “...Long enough to know…” He pointed weakly between the two of you. “...communication solved literally all your problems.”

Frank stared at him. “...Y’ little shit.”

Peter smiled wider. “I prefer ‘friendly neighborhood therapist.’”

“...You’re unconscious.”

“I don’t think I am,” Peter said, calmly.

“...You are now.”

“You can’t threaten hospital patients,” Peter said, and the smile didn’t seem to want to leave his face.

“I absolutely can,” Frank grunted.

“You already shot me!” Peter exclaimed, and you almost giggled at what you were witnessing.

“...Accident,” Frank said.

“It still counts.”

Frank pointed toward the IV stand. 

“...Doctor.”

You looked between them with impeccable composure. “Yes?”

“I need permission t’smother him with that pillow.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “I knew this hospital had terrible patient care.”

“I’m considering it,” you replied thoughtfully, folding your arms.

Peter looked horrified. “Doc!”

You hummed, pretending to weigh the options. “...Legally, I probably shouldn’t.”

Frank nodded once. “...Hear that?”

Peter sighed in exaggerated relief. “‘Probably.’” Another pause. “...That’s not the reassuring answer I was hoping for.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then another.

Frank looked at you instinctively, his expression softening the moment he heard it.

Months had passed since he’d last been the reason for that sound. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

Peter, of course, noticed immediately. “...Oh, he’s doing the face again.”

Frank blinked. “...What face?”

“The one where he looks at you like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him,” Peter said.

Frank looked ready to deny it. Instead, he simply muttered under his breath— “...Fucking kid.”

Peter’s grin only widened. “...Love you too, Frank.”

“...Don’t push it.”

“Why not? I saved your old ass on Staten Island first…”

“Fuck off!” 

Your laughter filled the hospital room again, blending with Peter’s amused chuckle and Frank’s long-suffering sigh until, for the first time that day, the room no longer felt like a place where someone had almost died.

It simply felt... lived in.

And somehow, none of you seemed eager to leave it just yet.

notes: i started this as soon as i finished Brand New Day because i loved the dynamic between peter and frank, lmao.

clearly, i changed things for the sake of the one-shot! but hey, i needed to do this, especially since Brand New Day feels like a journey of three people trying to reconnect with others after being alone for so long (peter mostly, then frank and jean).

You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you don’t drop it and cautiously look around once you’re in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didn’t want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.

“Frank, you could live under a rock and I’d still love you,” you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home. 

You’ve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox that’s filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldn’t be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places. 

Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed and…

Is that Spider-Man?

Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back. 

“Shh, don’t wake the kids,” Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom. 

“Is that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?” you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.

“He is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.”

“Girlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?”

“Well, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesn’t remember him or some shit? I don’t know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,” he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. “Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”

You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once you’re around. 

“I could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.”

Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you can’t help but smile. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks pulling back. “Saved some chili for you.”

“You’re sweet, but I’m good. I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.”

“Go ahead, Princess,” he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go. 

Twenty minutes later you’re climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book he’s been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers. 

“Mm, you smell good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I used your soap, I literally smell like you,” you chuckle. 

Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin. 

“Are they in trouble?” you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re gonna help them, right?”

“It’s his business, not mine,” he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. “Ow!”

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t care about that kid. We both know you do.”

“What gives you the idea?” He asks, arching an eyebrow at you. 

“The fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You haven’t let anyone here before.”

“I let you.” His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.

“Okay, you let me here and you love me, right?”

“Of course I love you.”

“So that means you let people here who you love and care about.”

Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him. 

“Sure, I’ll help him,” he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze. 

“Because you’re a good man,” you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it. 

You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he can’t live without you. 

And you feel the same. 

You have never loved a man like you love him and it’s scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldn’t want to live a life without him in it. 

“You said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?” you ask, still looking at the picture.

“Yeah. The kid said something about… a magic spell or some shit? I don’t know.”

“That must be horrible.”

Frank just hums, but doesn’t say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you. 

“If I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?”

His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like you’re about to slip out of his hold. 

“I don’t know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,” he then says. 

“But I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,” you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly. 

“I know. That doesn’t mean I stopped worrying about you.”

You understand him and his worries. It hasn’t been a battle only he’s been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize it’s a price you’re willing to pay to love him and be loved by him. 

“I would want you to find me,” you tell him after a few beats of silence. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.”

You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first it’s soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if you’re actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though that’s not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago. 

“I think,” you whisper, panting against his lips, “I think I could never forget you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.

“Mhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.” 

Grabbing his hand that’s on your naked thigh you pull it up until it’s laid over your heart. 

“You’re here. Forever.”

“Forever,” he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way. 

It starts small.

Small enough that you don't tell Frank.

At first.

The first time you see Ethan, you're leaving a coffee shop two blocks from the apartment. You almost walk right past him. Then he says your name. Your entire body goes cold. Because you know that voice.

Three years together will do that. You turn. And there he is.

Looking at you like no time has passed. Like he didn't cheat on you. Like he didn't leave you for your best friend. Like he didn't shatter your heart and then disappear.

"Hey." You stare.

"Wow." His smile grows.

"It's good to see you."

"No," you say honestly. "It really isn't." Then you leave. Simple. Done. Or at least it should be.

But Ethan has always had a habit of hearing only what he wants to hear. And apparently he decides your reaction means there's still something there.

The second time happens outside work.

The third time happens at the grocery store.

The fourth time happens at a bookstore.

The fifth time happens at a restaurant across town.

That's when your stomach starts twisting. Because that's not coincidence anymore. That's effort.

Intentional effort.

You confront him.

"What are you doing?" He smiles.

"Running into you."

"No."

"What?"

"No, you're not." His smile falters. You point at him. "You're following me."

"I'm not following you."

"Then why are you everywhere?" His expression softens. The same manipulative expression he used to wear when he wanted something.

"Because I miss you." Your eyes nearly roll out of your head.

"Ethan."

"I'm serious."

"You cheated on me."

"I made a mistake."

"You slept with my best friend." His jaw tightens.

"You don't have to keep bringing that up." The audacity is genuinely impressive. You laugh directly in his face. Then leave. Again.

You don't tell Frank. Not because you're scared. Because you're annoyed. Because Ethan has always been convinced the world revolves around him. And because you know exactly what he'll say. You should've told me sooner. So you keep handling it yourself.

Until Ethan starts escalating. Flowers appear on your windshield.You throw them away. The next day there's another bouquet.

Then another. Then another.

Your work receptionist tells you someone keeps calling and asking if you're available. A handwritten note gets slipped under your windshield wiper. Then another. Then another.

You throw every single one away without reading them. Then one night you leave work late. And Ethan is waiting beside your car. Your heart nearly stops. Not because you're happy to see him. Because he's standing beside your car like he belongs there. Like he's entitled to be there.

"What the hell?"

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"You won't answer my calls."

"No shit." His expression darkens.

"You're being difficult." You actually laugh.

"Difficult?"

"I'm trying here."

"You cheated on me."

"For God's sake—"

"You left me." His jaw clenches.

"You act like I murdered somebody." The words hit you like ice water. And suddenly you realize something. Ethan genuinely doesn't think he did anything that bad. Not really. Not deep down. He thinks enough time has passed. He thinks you'll eventually get over it. He thinks he deserves another chance.

"You know what your problem is?" you ask quietly. His eyebrows pull together.

"What?"

"You still think this is a conversation." Then you get in your car and leave. Two days later he shows up outside the apartment.

Your apartment.

The apartment you share with Frank. The apartment you've never told him about. The apartment that isn't on social media. The apartment he had to actively search for. You're carrying takeout upstairs when his voice appears behind you.

"Still avoiding me?" Every muscle in your body locks. Slowly. Very slowly. You turn around. Ethan is standing there. Smiling. Like this is normal. Like showing up outside your home isn't completely insane. Fear crawls down your spine.

Real fear.

The kind you haven't felt before.

"How did you find me?" His smile slips. Just slightly.

"Does it matter?" Your stomach drops. Because that's not an answer.

"Ethan."

"Look, can we just talk?"

"No."

"Why?" You actually stare at him.

"Why?"

"Yeah." The look on his face is so sincere it's disturbing. Like he genuinely doesn't understand.

"I loved you." The words make your skin crawl. "Past tense." His expression hardens.

"No." You freeze.

"No?"

"No." His eyes lock onto yours. "You still do." The certainty in his voice is terrifying. Not hopeful. Not questioning. Certain. Like he's convinced of it. Like it's a fact.

"I hate you."

"You don't mean that." You laugh. A short, disbelieving laugh.

"Oh my God."

"You don't."

"You are out of your mind."

"You would've forgiven me." You stare.

"What?"

"If he wasn't around." The implication hits immediately.

Frank. He's talking about Frank.

Like Frank is somehow the obstacle. Like Frank is the reason you don't want him.

Not his cheating. Not his lies. Not his betrayal. Frank. Your stomach turns.

"You need to leave."

"I'm serious."

"You need to leave."

"You loved me."

"I don't." His eyes flash.

"You're lying." The words come out immediately. Sharp. Possessive. Angry. And suddenly you don't see the boy you dated. You see a stranger. A man who has built an entire fantasy in his head. A fantasy where you still belong to him. Where Frank stole something that was his. Where all he has to do is convince you. "You still love me. I know you do. If you hadn't decided to whore yourself out and find the next willing warm body to lie with." The words hit you so hard you actually go still.

For a second. Just one second.

Then every ounce of shock evaporates and leaves nothing but fury.

"What did you just say?" Ethan immediately realizes he's crossed a line. Not because he's sorry. Because of the look on your face. Still, he doubles down.

"You heard me." Your laugh is sharp. Disbelieving. Almost dangerous.

"Oh my God."

"You run straight into another guy's bed and somehow I'm the bad guy?"

You stare at him. Actually stare. Trying to figure out how the hell this is the same man you once loved. Trying to find the person you spent three years with. You can't. Because he's gone. Maybe he always was.

"You know what's funny?" you ask quietly. Ethan frowns.

"What?"

"I spent years wondering what I did wrong." His expression shifts. "I spent years wondering why I wasn't enough." You take a step forward. "And now?" Another step. "I look at you and I realize I wasn't the problem."

"Baby—"

"No." You cut him off. "No, you don't get to do that." His jaw tightens.

"Do what?"

"Act like you're the victim." Your voice rises. For the first time since this conversation started, you're angry enough to stop being afraid. "You cheated on me." Silence. "You lied to me." Silence. "You slept with my best friend." His face darkens. You keep going. "You destroyed every friendship I had. You humiliated me."

"I said I was sorry."

"No." You laugh. "No, you weren't." His expression hardens.

"I came here to fix things."

"No." Another step. "You came here because she left you." That lands. Hard. The color drains from his face. Because it's true. You both know it's true. "You don't miss me."

"Stop—"

"You miss having someone who loved you no matter what." His hands clench.

"You think he's better than me?" There it is. Not love. Competition. Ego. Possession.

You suddenly feel exhausted.

"Yes." The answer comes immediately. Without hesitation.Without guilt. Without regret. Ethan blinks.

"What?"

"Yes." You shrug. "Frank is better than you." His face goes red.

"You don't mean that." You smile. A cold smile. One that doesn't reach your eyes.

"I really do."

"You don't."

"He doesn't cheat." Silence. "He doesn't lie." More silence. "He doesn't make me feel small." His jaw clenches so hard you hear it. "He doesn't make me question whether I'm enough."The words hit their target.

Good.

Because you've carried them long enough.

"And you know the biggest difference?" Ethan says nothing. You smile again. This one softer. Warmer. Because now you're thinking about Frank.

About home. About safety. About love.

"Frank never had to convince me to stay." Silence. "He never had to chase me." More silence. "He never had to manipulate me." Ethan looks away. For the first time all evening. "And he definitely never had to stalk me." That one lands too. You see it. The tiny flicker of shame. Gone almost immediately.

But there. You point toward the street.

"Leave."

"Wait—"

"Leave." His face twists. Humiliation. Resentment All at once.

"You'll regret this." The threat hangs between you. So you slam the door shut. That's when you finally call Frank.

Frank gets home twenty minutes later.

You tell him everything. Everything.

The flowers. The notes. The calls. The apartment. The conversation. The part where Ethan insists you still love him.

Frank listens. Silent. Very silent.

Which is somehow worse than yelling. When you finish, he sits there for a moment.

Then asks:

"He found our apartment?" You nod. Frank's jaw flexes. "Our apartment." Another nod. His eyes close.

Slowly. When they open again, they're cold.

"Okay." That's all he says. Just: "Okay." You sigh out a heavy breath, shaking your head.

"I should've told you sooner." Frank's eyes immediately find yours.

"Yeah." You wince.

"Frank."

"What?"

"I really am sorry." His expression softens a little. Not much. Just enough. You rub your face. "I thought I could handle it."

"You shouldn't have had to."

"I know."

"You call me when somebody's makin' you uncomfortable."

"I know."

"You call me before it gets to the point where some asshole is showin' up outside our apartment."

"I know." You groan and drop your head onto his shoulder. "I know." Frank wraps an arm around you immediately. Automatic. Instinctive. Like breathing. For a minute neither of you says anything. Then:

"He said you whored yourself out?" You freeze. Uh oh. Frank's voice is very calm. Very calm. Which is significantly worse than yelling. You slowly lift your head.

"…Frank."

"He called you a whore?" You immediately regret repeating that part of the conversation.

"Frank."

"He said that."

"It's not important." His stare is flat. The kind that says he might commit a felony.

"It sounds important."

"Frank."

"He cheated on you."

"Yes."

"Left you."

"Yes."

"Stalked you."

"Yes."

"Found our apartment."

"Yes."

"And then called you a whore." You close your eyes. Because hearing it all listed together somehow makes it sound worse. Frank lets out a slow breath through his nose. Not angry. Past angry. The kind of calm that comes right before something breaks. You know that look. You've seen it exactly three times. None of those times ended well for the other person.

"Frank."

"What?"

"Don't do anything stupid." He actually looks offended.

"I ain't gonna do anything stupid." You stare. He stares back.

"Frank."

"Sweetheart."

"Frank."

"What, baby ?"

"You have that face."

"What face?"

"The face." He looks genuinely confused. Which means he's lying. "You know exactly what face."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do." Frank's mouth twitches. Barely. The tiniest hint of amusement. Which somehow makes this worse. "Frank."

"I'm not gonna do anything."

"You promise?" Silence. Your eyes narrow. "Frank."

"I promise I ain't gonna start anything." You immediately catch the wording.

"Start anything?" Frank shrugs.

"You asked if I'd do anything stupid."

"Frank."

"I'm sayin' if he leaves us alone, we're good."

"And if he doesn't?" Frank's expression goes completely blank.

"There won't be a third conversation." The room goes quiet. Not because he's threatening. Because he's stating a fact. A simple fact. Like saying the sky is blue. You stare at him. He stares back. Then his expression softens again. Immediately. Like a switch flipping.

One second dangerous. The next your Frank. He reaches over. Tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

"You okay?" The question catches you off guard. Because somehow you're the one he's worried about. Despite everything. You nod.

"Yeah." Frank studies you. Making sure. Actually making sure. Then he leans down and presses a kiss against your forehead.

Slow. Gentle. Safe.

The exact opposite of Ethan. The exact opposite of everything Ethan ever made you feel. And suddenly your eyes sting. Because for years you thought love was supposed to be hard.

Messy. Painful. Something you had to earn.

Then Frank came along. And somehow made it easy. Not perfect. Just easy.

The way home is easy. The way breathing is easy. The way safety is easy. Frank notices the tears immediately. Of course he does.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"Liar." You laugh. A little. He pulls you closer.

"C'mere, my pretty baby. You ain't gotta deal with him anymore." Your throat tightens.

"Frank—"

"No." His hand rubs slowly up and down your back. "You dealt with enough." For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then:

"What if he comes back?" Frank doesn't hesitate. Not even a little.

"He won't." The certainty in his voice makes something unclench in your chest.

The next day Frank acts normal.

Almost suspiciously normal. Kisses you goodbye. Makes your coffee. Tells you he loves you. Nothing unusual. You don't realize he's following you until later. Because Frank doesn't tell you. He just decides he'd like to see Ethan for himself. And sure enough— There he is.

Outside your office.

Watching. Waiting.

Just standing there staring at the building. Frank watches him for ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Long enough to remove any possible doubt. Long enough to know exactly what's happening. Then he gets out of the truck. Ethan notices him immediately.

And for the first time since all this started— He smiles.

Actually smiles. Like this is what he wanted. Like he finally gets to talk to the competition. The idiot.

"You Frank?" Frank stops in front of him.

"Yeah." Ethan nods. Looks pleased.

"I figured." Frank says nothing. Ethan shifts his weight. "I should probably tell you something." That gets Frank's attention.

Barely. Ethan smiles. The confident smile of a man who thinks he's about to win.

"She still loves me." Silence. Frank just looks at him. Which somehow encourages Ethan. Big mistake. "We were together for three years." Still silence. "You don't just get over that." Nothing. "I know her." Frank finally speaks. One sentence.

"No, you don't." Ethan's smile falters.

"I do."

"You don't."

"She loved me." Frank nods once.

"Probably." Ethan looks relieved. Then Frank continues. "Then you cheated on her." The relief disappears.

"You don't understand—"

"No." Frank takes a step closer. Ethan has to tilt his head slightly upward. "I don't understand." Another step. "You had her." Another. "And you threw her away." Another. "Like a fucking idiot. Now somebody else treats her right.' Another. "And suddenly you want her back. And let me tell you, bud. I don't fucking share." Ethan's face reddens.

"You think you're better than me?" Frank's answer is immediate.

"Yeah." No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just fact. Ethan's jaw clenches.

"You know, she talks about you like you're perfect." Frank shrugs.

"I'm not."

"Then why'd she pick you?" Frank actually laughs. A short laugh. Disbelieving. Because the answer is so obvious.

"She didn't pick me." Ethan blinks.

"What?"

"She chose me." The distinction lands like a punch. Frank's eyes go cold. "And every day she keeps choosin' me." Silence. Then Frank leans slightly closer. Not threatening. Not loud. Just final.

"You show up near her again." Ethan opens his mouth. Frank cuts him off. "You call her." Silence. "You text her." More silence. "You send flowers." Even more silence. "You come within a hundred feet of our home." The emphasis on our makes Ethan flinch. And finally— Finally— Frank smiles. Not warmly. Not kindly. The kind of smile that makes smart people leave. "You and me are gonna have a very different conversation." Frank huffs and steps back, turning on his heel.

Just when he's about to reach his truck, Ethan calls out behind him.

"Yeah, thats right ! Run back to your slut ! The only good thing about that girl is the cunt between her legs." Ethan's words hang in the air. For exactly one second. Frank stops walking.

Just stops. His hand is still on the truck door. Still. Completely still.

Ethan smirks. Because Ethan mistakes silence for weakness. Because Ethan has never understood what real self-control looks like.

Slowly, Frank turns around. The parking lot suddenly feels very quiet. Ethan spreads his arms.

"What?" he says. "Truth hurts?" Frank starts walking back. Not fast. Not angry. Just walking. And somehow that's worse.

Much worse. Ethan's smile starts to slip.

"Look, man—" Frank keeps walking. "She ain't exactly innocent." Another step. "She used to beg me to pay attention to her like the needy whore she—" The punch lands before he finishes the sentence. A brutal right hook. Fast enough Ethan doesn't even see it coming.

One second he's talking. The next he's on the pavement. Blood splatters across the concrete. Ethan makes a choked sound. Frank stands over him.

Breathing evenly. Calm. Terrifyingly calm.

Ethan tries to push himself up. Frank grabs the front of his shirt and hauls him back to his feet.

And then he punches him again.

And again.

And again.

Until Ethan's face was torn apart and bleeding and he was coughing up blood, begging for Frank to stop. His teeth are scattered on the pavement beside him, and one is lodged in Frank's knuckle.

Blood is running from his nose. His lip is split. One eye is already swelling.

Frank doesn't look angry. That's the terrifying part. He looks calm.

Cold.

The same way a storm looks calm right before it tears a roof off a house. Ethan coughs.

"Y-you psycho—" Frank lifts him clean off the floor and slams him against the side of a parked car. The metal dents. Ethan wheezes.

"Listen to me." Frank's voice is quiet. Very quiet. The kind of quiet that forces people to listen. Ethan tries to shove him away. Fails.

"You breathe near her again," Another shove against the car. "You think about her again," Another. "And I will fucking find you." Another. "I will find you- and I will do way worse than knocking out a few of your teeth." Ethan winces. Frank leans closer. For the first time, genuine fear appears in Ethan's eyes.

Because this isn't about jealousy.

It isn't about competition. It isn't about Frank's pride.

It's about you.

And that makes it worse. Way worse. Because Frank can forgive insults aimed at himself. He cannot forgive somebody hurting you. Ethan swallows.

"I-I was just trying —" Frank's hand tightens in his shirt.

"I don't care."

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care."

"She used to be my—"

"No." The word cuts through him. Sharp as a knife. "No she wasn't." Ethan blinks. Frank's stare never wavers. "She ain't property." Silence. "She ain't something you own." More silence. "And she sure as fuck ain't yours." Ethan looks away first. Of course he does. Frank releases him. Ethan nearly collapses. For one hopeful second he thinks it's over. Then Frank grabs the front of his shirt again and gets right in his face, and then Frank shoves him backward.

Hard. Ethan stumbles. Falls. Hits the pavement again. And this time Frank doesn't follow. He just stands there looking down at him.

"Stay away from my girl." Then he turns around. Gets in his truck. And drives away.

------

Later that evening, the door slams shut behind you as you rush in.

"Frank !" Frank winces at the pitch of your voice, flinching as he readies himself for you to yell at him.

Frank has beat up his fair share of men for you- and every time you've gotten annoyed with him. Not because he did it, but because you can defend yourself, and he knows that.

Instead, when you round the corner into the living room to find Frank sitting on the couch, bracing for a fight- the look on your face makes him leap up from his perch.

You look terrified. Worried. Panicked.

There aren't enough words in the dictionary that could describe the look on your face, and even less to describe the way Frank's heart drops.

"Woah- Hey, hey-" He rasps, stepping towards you as you drop your bag on the floor and launch yourself into his arms, arms flying around your neck, fingers digging into his hair as you cling to him. Frank catches you automatically.

One arm around your waist. The other cupping the back of your head.

You pull back from him, your eyes crazed and your hands trembling as you cup his cheeks.

"Oh my god- Are you hurt ?" You grab his face, tilting it in all angles, checking for new bruising, new cuts. "Did he hit you ?" Frank stares at you, dumbfounded as you fuss over him.

"Frank - for fuck's sake- answer me ! Did he hurt you ?" You rasp, your eyes welling up with tears. Frank just stares at you. For a second.

Then another.

Because of all the reactions he'd expected?

This wasn't one of them.

Not even close. You aren't angry. You aren't yelling. You aren't lecturing him. You're standing there looking like your heart is about to stop because you're worried about him.

"Baby—"

"Did he hit you?" Your hands move over his face again. Checking. Searching. Looking for bruises. Cuts. Anything. Frank catches your wrists gently.

"Sweetheart."

"Frank."

"I'm fine."

"No you're not." Your voice cracks. "Oh my God, your hand—" Only then does he remember. The blood. Most of it isn't his. But there's enough on his knuckles to look alarming. Your face immediately goes white.

"Jesus Christ."

"Baby—" You sniffle, shaking your head.

"Oh my god- Is that a tooth ?" Your thumb pokes at a shagged piece of tooth stuck in his knuckle and he winces. Frank hisses through his teeth.

"Yeah." Your eyes get even wider.

"Frank!"

"What?" he says, sounding genuinely confused.

"What do you mean what?" You point at his hand. "There's a tooth in your knuckle!" Frank glances down.

"Oh."

"Oh?" you repeat, horrified. He shrugs.

"I'll get it out." You stare at him. Then at the tooth. Then back at him. And suddenly your eyes fill again. Because he doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't understand. Frank thinks you're upset because he got into a fight.

You're not.

You're upset because Ethan is dangerous. Not to you. Never to you. But you've seen him angry. You've seen him throw punches in parking lots because somebody looked at him wrong. You've seen him put holes in walls. You've seen him break a guy's nose outside a bar and laugh about it afterward. You've seen the way his temper explodes. And all day you've been imagining what could have happened.

Imagining Ethan pulling a knife.

Imagining Ethan having a gun.

Imagining Frank getting hurt because of you.

"Baby?" Frank's voice softens immediately. Your bottom lip trembles.

His thumbs brush beneath your eyes.

Catching the tears gathered there.

"Why're you cryin'?"

The question comes out impossibly gentle.

Your face crumples.

"Oh, screw you." You break away from him, slumping down on the couch. Frank follows.

Frank immediately laughs.

A real laugh this time.

"That's not an answer."

"You got into a fight."

"He deserved it."

"Frank."

"He did."

"Frank."

"He called you a—"

"I don't care."

That finally shuts him up.

You swallow hard.

"I don't care what he called me."

Silence.

"I care that you got hurt."

Frank freezes.

Just a little.

Because that's it.

That's the whole thing.

Not the fight.

Not Ethan.

Not revenge.

Him.

You were worried about him.

Your fingers slide into his hair.

"I know he looks pathetic," you whisper. "I know he looks like some loser ex that won't leave me alone."

"Baby—"

"No." You shake your head. "Listen to me." Frank goes silent. "I've seen him get into fights." Your voice is shaking. "I've seen him smash bottles over people's heads." Frank's jaw tightens. "I've seen him punch walls." More silence. "He got arrested once for fighting outside a club." That gets Frank's attention. Your eyes close. "And every time he got angry he looked…" You swallow hard. "Different." Frank's arms tighten around you.

"Different how?" You hesitate. Then:

"Like he stopped caring." The room goes quiet. Frank knows exactly what that means. Probably better than anyone. You shake your head. "When I heard what happened today I-" Your voice cracks. "I was so scared." Something flashes across Frank's face. Not guilt. Not regret. Understanding.

"Sweetheart—"

"What if he'd had a knife?" Frank immediately opens his mouth. "What if he'd had a gun?" Silence. "What if he'd jumped you from behind?" Frank's expression softens. Because now he gets it. This isn't about Ethan.

This is about him. The possibility of losing him. You press your forehead against his chest.

"What if I lost you too ?" Your voice is tiny. The words hit Frank right in the chest.

Hard. His eyes close briefly. Then his arms wrap around you tighter. Not possessive. Protective. Like he's trying to hold all your fear for you.

And suddenly Frank feels about two inches tall.

Because now he gets it.

You aren't angry.

You're scared. The same way he'd be scared if the situation was reversed. The same way he'd lose his damn mind if somebody called him and said you'd been hurt. His arms slide around your waist.

Pulling you directly into his lap.

You go willingly. Too emotionally exhausted to fight. Frank buries his face against your neck. His grip tightens.

"I didn't think about it like that, sweetheart." Frank presses a kiss beneath your jaw. Then another. Then another.

"I'm okay." The words are supposed to help.

They don't. Because people always say that. People say I'm okay right up until they aren't. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt.

"I spent the last three hours thinking somebody was gonna call me and tell me you were in the hospital." Frank's expression immediately softens.

"Sweetheart…"

"I mean it." You wipe angrily at your eyes.

"I kept checking my phone." His hand slides over your back. Your voice cracks. "I was sitting at my desk trying not to throw up because all I could think about was Ethan getting lucky." Frank's jaw tightens.

Not because you're talking about Ethan. Because you're crying. Because you're scared. Because he caused it.

"What if he'd had a weapon?" You laugh weakly. "What if he hit his head wrong?" Another laugh. More broken this time. "What if he got friends involved?" Frank reaches up and cups your face.

"Hey." You don't stop.

"He was out there waiting for me, Frank. If you got hurt because of me, i would never forgive-"

"Hey." His thumb brushes beneath your eye. Your voice dies immediately. Because Frank is looking at you like you're the only thing in the room. Like nothing else exists.

"I'm okay." You shake your head.

"Frank—"

"I'm okay." His forehead presses against yours. "I'm right here." Your breath catches. Frank rarely talks about fear. Rarely talks about feelings. Rarely says exactly what's in his head.

But right now? He's trying. For you.

"I ain't in a hospital." You sniffle. "I ain't dead."

"Frank."

"I'm sittin' right here." The words hit harder than they should. Because he's right. He's here. Warm. Solid. Alive. Your eyes squeeze shut.

And suddenly all that fear you've been carrying since Ethan came back crashes into you at once. You start crying again. Not pretty crying. Not movie crying. The ugly kind. The exhausted kind. The kind that comes after you've been holding yourself together for too long.

"Oh, sweetheart." Frank immediately gathers you closer. One hand in your hair. One rubbing your back. Patient. Steady. Like he can feel every piece of tension leaving your body. His thumb traces your cheek.

"I'm sorry, baby." You immediately shake your head.

"No."

"Sweetheart—"

"No." You grab his face with both hands. "Do not apologize for defending me." Frank freezes. "You hear me?" His eyes lock onto yours. "Frank." A pause. Then:

"Okay." You nod.

"Good. if i wasn't so scared for your safety, it would've been really hot." A corner of his mouth twitches. Because you're still crying. Still emotional. Still sitting in his lap. And somehow you're managing to boss him around. His favorite thing about you. You finally glance down at his hand again.

Immediately grimace.

"Oh my God." Frank follows your gaze.

"The tooth?"

"The tooth, Frank." He shrugs. You look horrified. Frank looks amused.

"You cannot just have somebody else's tooth stuck in your hand."

"Why not?" Your jaw drops.

"Because that's disgusting. Who knows what diseases that ass had in his mouth ? " Frank starts laughing. Actually laughing. The deep kind. The kind that rumbles through his chest. You glare.

"It isn't funny."

"It kinda is."

"It is not."

"Sweetheart."

"No." He grins. You point dramatically at his hand. "Bathroom. Now." Frank raises an eyebrow.

"You're givin' me orders?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"Frank."

"Yes, ma'am."

taglist !

the bell above the café door chimed softly.

peter didn’t look up.

he had learned that if he looked at every customer who walked in, he’d only end up disappointed. every few hours he’d convince himself that maybe, just maybe, someone would remember him.

no one ever did.

instead, he kept reading the same page of the physics textbook he’d been pretending to study for the last fifteen minutes while, through the reflection in the window, he watched her.

she looked… okay.

happy enough.

a little tired.

she laughed at something on her phone before ordering coffee. good. that was all he needed. he could leave now.

except he didn’t. because he’d told himself that every day for the past month.

just another five minutes. just until she leaves safely. just…

then the chair across from him scraped against the wooden floor.

peter froze.

“…hi.”

he slowly lowered his book.

reader smiled politely, almost apologetically.

“hi.” his brain completely stopped working.

she wasn’t supposed to be here.

she wasn’t supposed to even notice him.

she folded her arms on the table. “you’ve been following me for weeks.”

peter’s heart nearly stopped. “…i’m sorry?”

“you heard me.”

“i- i think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“no.” she tilted her head. “it’s definitely you.”

peter forced an awkward laugh.

“i think i’d remember following someone.”

“you’ve changed hoodies six times.”

his smile faltered.

“you alternate between three backpacks. you’ve started buying coffee from places you clearly don’t like because they’re on my route. and yesterday you spent forty-three minutes pretending to compare cereal brands.”

peter blinked. “…how do you know it was forty-three?”

she gave him a look. “because i was timing you.”

silence.

then she sighed. “i let it go the first week.”

peter considered jumping through the nearest window.

“the second week I assumed you were gathering courage to ask me out.”

his ears turned scarlet. “what?”

“the third week I realized you weren’t actually trying to approach me.” she leaned back. “so now I’m curious.” another beat. “you don’t seem dangerous.”

“no.”

“you don’t seem creepy.”

“…thanks?”

“you actually look guilty… so.” she rested her chin on her hand. “why are you following me?”

peter stared at her.

every answer he wanted to give sat painfully behind the one he couldn’t.

because you’re my best friend.

because i promised your dad.

because i couldn’t save aunt may, but i can make sure nothing happens to you.

instead. “i think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

she smiled. “there it is.”

“what?”

“you’re lying.”

peter swallowed.

reader reached for her coffee when the waiter placed it down.

she took one sip before speaking again. “you know…” her voice softened. “i was trained by natasha romanoff.”

peter almost groaned.

“she spent years teaching me how to spot surveillance.” she pointed casually toward the window. “you always stay where you can see exits.”

peter blinked.

“you never let anyone stand behind you.”

another blink.

“when you think i might’ve noticed you, you start reading.”

his eyes drifted to the textbook still open in front of him.

“and,” she continued, “you scan everyone’s hands before you look at their faces.”

peter slowly closed the book.

“…old habits.”

“military?”

he smiled faintly. “no.”

“former shield?”

“…no.”

“hired by someone?”

his stomach tightened. “…no.”

she studied him for a long moment.

then something shifted in her expression.

not suspicion.

sadness.

“you know…” she murmured, “it’s strange.”

peter looked at her.

“i feel like…” she frowned. “…i should know you.”

his breath caught.

she looked embarrassed by her own words. “that’s weird, right?”

“…maybe.”

“i’ve had this feeling for months.” she laughed quietly. “i’ll see someone wearing a red hoodie and think, there you are, and then…” she shrugged. “it’s never who I’m looking for.”

peter had to grip the edge of the table to stop his hands from shaking.

“you have one of those faces.”

“my face?”

“it feels…” she searched for the word. “…familiar.”

neither of them spoke.

finally, reader smiled. “anyway.” she stood, grabbing her cup. “I don’t know why you’re following me.”

peter lowered his eyes.

“but i don’t think it’s because you want to hurt me.”

“…no.”

“i think…” she said quietly, “…you’re making sure i’m okay.”

his throat tightened.

“i don’t know why.”

neither do i anymore, he almost admitted.

she took a step away before pausing. “if you’re ever done hiding…”

peter looked up.

“…i’d like to know your name.” she smiled one last time as she turned towards the door.

she already had one hand on the café door when she heard him.

“wait.”

reader turned around.

peter was already regretting it.

his chair had scraped loudly against the floor, every eye in the café briefly drifting toward him before returning to their own conversations.

he swallowed.

she waited. “yeah?”

peter had rehearsed thousands of conversations with her.

none of them started like this.

“i…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “this is going to sound weird.”

a small smile tugged at her lips. “i’ve had a weird afternoon already.”

right.

she’d just confronted her own stalker.

“right.” he laughed nervously.

“i guess… i just wanted to say i’m sorry.”

“for following me?”

he nodded immediately. “yeah.”

“and?”

“and…” he looked down at the floor. “i wasn’t lying when i said i don’t want to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“i know that’s not enough of an explanation.”

“no.”

“but it’s the only one i can give.”

reader watched him for a long second. there was something painfully sincere about him. not charming. not smooth. just… honest.

like someone carrying a weight he wasn’t allowed to put down.

“so…” she asked softly. “does this mean you’re going to stop following me?”

peter hesitated. “…yes.” the word almost hurt. “if that’s what makes you feel safe.”

she noticed the way his shoulders slumped after he said it. like he’d just lost something.

her expression softened. “i didn’t say i felt unsafe.”

his eyes lifted to hers.

“i said i noticed.”

“oh.”

“you’ve had plenty of opportunities to do something.”

“i know.”

“you never did.”

“…no.”

“you actually scared away a guy who was following me last tuesday.”

peter blinked. “…you noticed that too?”

she laughed. “i notice everything.”

of course she did.

natasha would’ve been proud.

peter smiled despite himself. it was small. real.

reader noticed that too. “you smile like someone who doesn’t do it very often.”

his smile disappeared almost immediately. “…guess not.”

silence settled between them. comfortable this time.

then peter spoke before he could convince himself not to. “i know this is… probably inappropriate after everything.”

she raised an eyebrow.

“but…” he inhaled deeply. “would you maybe…” his voice almost cracked. “…want to be friends?”

the question hung between them.

reader stared. “friends?”

“i know.” he laughed awkwardly. “it sounds ridiculous.”

“you’ve been secretly following me for a month…”

“…yeah.”

“…and your solution is friendship?”

“when you put it like that….”

“it sounds insane.”

“it really does.” he buried his face in one hand. “i’m sorry. i should’ve just let you leave.”

she couldn’t help smiling. “no.”

he looked up.

“i’m glad you didn’t.”

peter blinked.

she stepped closer. “can i ask you something?”

“anything.”

“why me?”

he froze.

thee answer was so easy.

because you were my best friend.

because i fell in love with you when we were fifteen.

because every science project somehow became an excuse to spend another afternoon together.

because your dad used to pretend he didn’t know we kept sneaking into the lab.

because i still know exactly how you take your coffee.

instead.

“you seemed…” he searched for something that wasn’t a lie. “lonely.”

reader’s smile faded just a little. “…that’s a surprisingly accurate observation.”

peter’s heart sank. “i know what that’s like.”

she looked at him differently then.

not with suspicion. with recognition.

like she’d found another person carrying invisible things.

“i don’t usually make friends with strangers.”

“i figured.”

“but…” she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small notebook. tearing off a page, she scribbled something before folding it once then she placed it in front of him. “my number.”

peter stared at it as if it might disappear.

“i have one condition.”

he looked up.

“no more following me.”

his stomach twisted. “…okay.”

“if you want to know whether i’m okay…” she smiled. “you ask.”

peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “…okay.”

“and if i catch you watching me from another rooftop.”

“i won’t.”

“peter.” the name left her mouth so naturally that they both froze.

silence.

reader frowned. “…why did i call you peter?”

his entire body went still. “i…”

she blinked rapidly. “i don’t even know your name.”

peter couldn’t breathe.

she shook her head, almost laughing at herself. “sorry. that’s… weird. it just slipped out.”

neither of them spoke.

finally, she smiled again, smaller this time. “so…” she tilted her head. “what’s your name?”

peter looked at the folded piece of paper with her phone number.

then back at the girl he’d loved since he was fifteen.

the girl who had just called him by the name the universe had stolen from him.

he smiled.

this time, it reached his eyes. “…peter. peter parker.”

she repeated it quietly, as though testing how it felt. “peter.” something in her chest stirred. a feeling with no memory attached.

only warmth.

only home.

“…it’s nice to meet you peter parker.”

peter nodded. “it really is.”

and for the first time since doctor strange’s spell, he wasn’t introducing himself to a stranger.

he was introducing himself to someone who, somehow, had almost remembered.