nyabolical

But right now the tears are dry on your cheeks, your thoughts have leveled out some but you were still indecisive. You start to turn your mind back, trying to recall if there was any proof of Dick’s cheating or if it was just your abandonment issues flaring up again.

Your relationship with Dick wasn’t perfect, but it was damn near close. You two had disagreements or communication issues that would be resolved in an evening. The worst fight you had was when Dick flaked on meeting your parents when they were in town. It wasn’t a big deal, just a light breakfast at a cafe or a lunch downtown sometime during the week they were visiting; something casual to introduce your family to the man you loved.

And he flaked all week. Each excuse was different to the point you weren’t sure why he bothered rescheduling if he was just going to not show up.

But that was then. Dick had made up for it in spades by insisting you both go see your family in your old hometown one weekend and it was amazing. Your parents loved him (as who wouldn’t) and you got to show him where you grew up so far away from the grimness of Bludhaven.

Dick would miss a few dates here and there, but you never thought about it fully. Until one night when Dick was sleeping over at your apartment and you woke up to him missing. You rarely woke up in the middle of the night while Dick was over (he made sure you had no excuse not to sleep soundly after he was finished with you), but during a sudden cold snap through the city you woke up freezing cold and alone.

At first you waited, curling the comforter around you as you waited for your darling heater to return. But the longer you waited, the more the chill got to you, and the more the chill got to you, the more awake you became. It wasn’t long before you sat up, worried, you pulled on Dick’s sweater from the floor and padded around your cold apartment looking for him.

You checked the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, and found no sign of him. You see that his phone is still connected to the charger by the bed but his shoes are missing from the front door. You try not to worry about it too much but in the end, you couldn’t return to sleep.

You heard the front door open sometime around four in the morning. You wait on top of your bed, waiting to see if your mind was playing tricks on you. But when you heard the jingle of keys hit the bowl by the door, you rushed to your feet.

You crashed into Dick’s warm body before he could even toe his second shoe off. His arms loop around you, his warmth seeping into the chill of your body from the cold and also from the lack of him. He mumbled softly with amusement as he petted your hair, “Well, hello to you too.”

As you pull Dick back towards your bedroom to return to sleep, you ask him where he went at such a late hour. He told you he had forgotten something at his apartment and didn’t want to wake you up over something so small. And you believed him, he was your Dick afterall.

Even though his apartment was only a few blocks up the street and he didn’t return with anything in his hand, you believed him. Because you loved him.

But then it kept happening.

For several nights, you would wake up to Dick missing and returning to your apartment hours later. Sometimes you would ask him where he went. He was always forgetting something at his apartment, always something small and different like his toothpaste or a change of underwear. Sometimes you would fake being asleep in your bed when he returned home. He would shower (in the dark as the lights would no doubt wake you up) then return to bed, curling an arm around your body as if he never left.

You wanted to press for more but you were more than aware about your own relationship issues. You had to trust that what Dick said was true even if your anxiety was fighting against you. You confided in your friends about it and they suggested a test.

Stay the night over at Dick’s apartment and see if he leaves in the middle of the night. If he does, it was all the evidence you would need that he was lying about where he was going for hours at a time.

And so you began to encourage the idea of spending the night at Dick’s apartment rather than yours. Your clever excuse was that you wanted to see Hayley more as your apartment didn’t allow pets. Which wasn’t a total lie. You loved Hayley to bits and loved taking her with you and Dick during dates to the park or a pet friendly restaurant.

Soon Dick’s apartment became a common location for late night movies and after-dinner sleepovers, rotating sporadically with your own apartment depending on where you two ended up and whose apartment was closer.

And while he still snuck out when he stayed at your apartment, Dick never snuck out of his. You always woke up in his arms with Hayley snugly curled in the gap between your legs. You would curl into his arms with a breath of relief, falling right back to sleep every time.

That was, until tonight.

When you woke up to Hayley whining at the door of the bedroom, gently pawing at the closed door. You sleepily sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you gently called out to her. She hurries over to you, tail wagging excitedly as you make your way out of the bed.

You notice Dick missing immediately but assume he was somewhere else in the apartment, accidently trapping Hayley inside the bedroom in his haste to close the door so the light from the living room didn’t disturb you.

You open the door, Hayley scampering out finally free from the bedroom and it takes you all of three seconds to realize the living room is dark. And empty.

And now here you sat, in the middle of Dick’s living room with two garbage bags full of belongings. Thinking about it only solidifies the obvious truth to you, Dick was lying to you. Whether or not he was cheating didn’t matter because he still lied and you weren’t going to make an excuse for him anymore.

“Baby?”

Your head snaps up. Dick is standing in his doorway, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy joggers. He barely gives Hayley any attention when she runs up to him excitedly, licking at his halfheartedly extended palm as his eyes flick over you.

You don’t look injured, or sick. But you’ve been crying and you’re not meeting his eyes. Dick swallows. He’s seen this before. His eyes flick to the garbage bags before he offers a light hearted joke, “Doing some late night cleaning?”

You don’t reply, just close the bag in your hand into a tight knot. You stand up slowly, a tied up bag in each hand. You struggle for a moment, wanting to keep your voice neutral and even as you say, “Take me home…please.”

The silence that follows your simple request is heavy with unspoken accusations and bending under the pressure of—not rage—finality. This wasn’t the first time a civilian he was dating broke up with him due to his work as a vigilante (though none of them knew that was the reason why). He tried fighting against it before, trying to get them to see reason but it always ended in an angry shouting match with flying accusations and a slammed door. So he started to just accept the break ups when they happen, shrug them off like they don’t matter—like they don’t carve a piece of his heart out every time.

For a while, he stopped dating civilians as it would only end in heartbreak for the both of them. But then he met you, completely by chance. Dick wasn’t usually a romantic, but your chance encounter was practically right out of a rom-com.

Catching the eyes of an attractive stranger across a busy intersection, their hearts skipping a beat as if their souls knew something they didn’t. The light changes, the moment the two of you would pass each other going in opposite directions, probably never to see each other again, was fastly approaching.

And Dick’s arm shot out, he grabs you before you leave his sight, as he desperately asks to buy you a coffee.

It’s been total bliss since then. Sure there were bumps and bruises, but God were you worth it. Dick never wanted to come home to someone more than you, he never felt safer than when he was with you. He loves you. So much it’s irrational considering the timeframe. He was happy at whatever pace you wanted to go, letting you lead in everything in the relationship.

He’s been wanting you to move in since the third date (highly irrational and very insane of him, according to Jason), so he was more than excited when you brought up staying at his apartment more. He made sure his schedule was clear whenever you were over so he could appreciate seeing you in his apartment, making yourself at home.

He had decided to reveal his secret identity to you once you officially moved in, whenever you were ready to make that step. He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to go the more fun or the more serious route when it came to telling you.

But now it looks like it won’t matter.

“I…” Dick struggled to speak, struggled to wrap his head around the reality he was seeing. A reality that only existed in his worst nightmares. He takes a step towards you, “Baby—”

“Dick,” he freezes as you take a step back, holding up your hand to stop him. Your tone carries a warning, though it wasn’t harsh—it still hurts. You don’t meet his eyes, “Please, just take me home.”

Dick can feel his heart racing, the bruises welting against his skin from patrol pulsing with dull pain in harmony. He shouldn’t have left. He should have ignored Batman’s call, should have told him to deal with the problem without him. He had tons of other wards, why’d it have to be him? And why did it have to be while you were here, waiting for him?

How long did you agonize and swirl in your thoughts before you started to pack everything? Or was it something you’ve been itching to do for a while now?

Dick takes a cautious step forward, “It’s not what you think—”

“How can it be anything else?” you accuse before you can catch it. You shake your head, you don’t want to fight or yell right now. You just want to keep yourself whole. Just for a little longer. “Just—take me home, please.”

“Can’t I explain myself first?” Dick argued. He steps in front of you when you try to walk around him, “Honey, please—”

“I’d rather not know, okay?” you snap back. You feel the tears start up again and you wipe at them before they can fall, “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know who it is or why or where—”

“Baby, it’s not like that,” Dick says as he holds your arms. His hands slide upwards, up over your shoulders until he finally cups your face in his warm palms. He forces your eyes upwards, his gentle eyes pleading as he softly repeats, “It’s not like that.”

You sniffle, eyes scrunching up as you want to believe him. But how could you? The tears slip as you dejectedly reply, “What else could it be?”

When Dick leans in, you think he’s about to kiss you as a final goodbye, maybe whisper an apology of admission. But instead he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and long, as if trying to reassure you. He lets out a long exhale when he finally moves away, hands lingering on you for as long as he could before he goes to pull off his sweatshirt.

At first you go to cover your eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time Dick used his body to distract you long enough to win a petty argument and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be messed with. But you hesitate when rather than see the color of his skin, you see black. You lower your hands slowly as you stare at Dick’s exposed upper body, fully covered in neck to wrist tight black-blue spandex that clung to every curve of his body.

Your eyes fixate on the symbol on his chest. Wide and blue, shaped vaguely in a V with cut outs to imply wings—you know that symbol.

Everyone in Bludhaven knows that symbol.

Dick swallows, your staring in awed silence wasn’t exactly reassuring. He drops his sweatshirt to the wayside as he steps back in, his hands gently reaching for yours. You let go of the bags almost instinctively, letting them drop with a plop as your eyes continue to take in the electric blue of Nightwing’s insignia on his chest. Even as Dick’s hands intertwine with yours, you remain transfixed. Dick rubs his thumb up against your index finger in soothing strokes, his eyes never leaving your face, “I wanted to wait until you moved in to tell you.”

Your eyes shoot up to his face, eyes wide in surprise, “Moved in?” You feel your heart start to race, your hands tightening their hold on Dick’s, “You wanted me to move in?”

Dick lets out an airy laugh as he smiles with a tilt of his head, “Of course I do.” He tugs you forward, releasing your hands so they could rest on his chest as his hands came to rest on your hips. His eyes look down at your lips, “Since the third date, actually.”

Your heart thumps, “Really?”

Dick nods, his gaze transfixed on your face. He leans in to kiss you this time, and you melt so easily. It’s brief, a chaste little thing only meant to quell Dick’s urge for now. Even so, Dick pulls back reluctantly, his hand coming up to hold your face. His thumb gently rubs against the warm apple of your cheek and he says, “Would you like to sit down for a bit? I would like to tell you something.”

You find yourself nodding, eyes half lidded, “Yeah, anything.”

Dick kisses you again, unable to help himself. He was okay to do whatever you want to so he could keep you right here in front of him. He would have waited until you were both gray if you wanted. But after what happened tonight, you’ll have to forgive him when in two weeks time he gets down on one knee and asks you to marry him.

Jason Todd (wc: 2.6k):

Despite how Jason was with other people, he rarely ever fought with you. You were someone he chose, who he respected, who he loved. The most you two would do is bicker over small things or discuss (very passionately) about miscommunication and reassurances. But neither of you would ever label moments like that as “fights”, no matter how heated they were in the moment.

But this.

This was a fight.

“I can’t believe you’re defending him right now!” you shout mid-pace in Jason’s living room as said man was sitting on the couch, trying not to blow more of a fuse than he already has.

“I’m just saying,” Jason started, trying to remember to be calm about this despite how stubborn you were at the moment, “his intention was to–”

“I don’t give a fuck about his stupid intention, Jason! He fucking groped me,” you spat back, stopping to turn towards him.

“Putting a hand on your waist is not groping!”

“Oh sorry, were you the one that was touched? I didn’t think so!”

Jason ran a hand down his face, his eyes glaring off to the side in annoyance. Not at you so much as himself and his big fat mouth. The topic of this fight was an incident at a bar a few nights ago. Jason knew that you were out with friends that night but didn’t know where. So when his latest mission as Red Hood came to a head in a ten versus one above some dive bar in Crime Alley with shitty infrastructure, he was more than a little shocked that when the floor suddenly gave way and he ended up falling in the middle of a game of pool, that you were there. Literally feet away from him, slightly dusted in sawdust or asbestos or whatever was used as insulation, clutching a pool stick close to your chest in surprise in the middle of the quietest bar Jason had ever been in.

Immediately more concerned about you than himself, Jason ignores the pain in his back to flip over and address you with urgency, “Are you hurt?”

It’s only when his voice comes out modulated and he sees the surprised look in your eyes as you frantically shake your head that Jason remembers, he’s Red Hood right now. Even so, that fact didn’t stop him from launching his body to cover yours the second the smugglers he was fighting opened fire down at him below. He rolls the both of you under the pool table, screams and breaking glasses echoing all around you as the other bar guests frantically run for the exit. All Jason was thinking at that moment was how to get you out of there as safely as possible, his mind flicking through options and ideas in his head like a flipbook, meanwhile you were trying not to pass out from sheer fear and panic.

Because on the one hand, the sexy Red Hood grabbed you of all people to save and hide under a low pool table with and he wasn’t shy about personal space in the slightest. On the other hand, there were fucking bullets ricocheting everywhere. Not to mention you were pretty sure your boyfriend was never going to let you go out on your own ever again.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You more felt Red Hood’s words than heard them, his chest rumbling and brushing against yours with each word due to the close confines. His elbows rested on either side of your head, the milky white eyes of his helmet staring blankly down at you. You couldn’t see the frantic searching of Jason’s irises as they looked over your face, searching for scratches, blood, bruises, anything.

You felt your heart start to pound when Red Hood leaned closer towards you, Jason leaning down to inspect a swipe of something dark against your cheek that he hoped wasn’t blood. You quickly place your hands on Red Hood’s torso right under his pecs (the only place you could reach since your arms were pinned under his hunk of a body, not because you wanted to) and turned your head to the side as you quickly, and quietly, spat out, “I have a boyfriend!”

Jason paused, the cute embarrassed expression on your face making him smile. He wasn’t obtuse, he knew Red Hood was considered a “sex god” by many civilians in and out of Gotham and from the few conversations you’ve had with your friends that he’s overheard, you thought so too. But the way you were rejecting Red Hood because you were dating him made his stomach twist up in knots. He couldn’t help the warm chuckle bubbling out of his throat.

Unfortunately for Jason, that warm chuckle sounded more condescending through the modulator to your untrained ears. And even though the words Red Hood said seemed harmless to Jason, they set off little red alarms in the back of your mind, “I think that’s the least of your concerns right now, sweets.”

The whole smuggler situation was resolved within twenty minutes, Nightwing was called in along with Spoiler to assist. Even though Jason was sure he could handle them on his own, he didn’t want to risk any harm to you and remained under the pool table as Nightwing and Spoiler took out the smugglers. Once the coast was clear, Red Hood offered you a hand to help you stand which you rejected. You could still feel the ghost of his hand that was on your side while you two waited out the skirmish. His hand rubbing up and down against your side in comforting strokes. Jason thought he was soothing you considering you were trembling under him and you responded well when he did it during horror movie marathons. But that was when he was Jason. Right now he was Red Hood and it was very uncomfortable for you. Not to mention conflicting.

The patterns felt too familiar, too comforting from a total stranger that it made your body react positively even though you knew the person touching you at that moment wasn’t your boyfriend. You felt guilt starting to swirl. Of course you thought Red Hood was hot, who didn’t?! But you were committed to a relationship with the sweetest, most romantic man you’ve ever met and you’d be damned if some handsy hero wanted to get fresh with you just because he saved your skin.

Even though you rejected his hand, Red Hood still put his hand over the edge of the pool table, something Jason usually did when you would crawl under the table to grab something you dropped. The action that usually invokes fluttering butterflies, now felt tainted when it was done by another man. You just wanted to get home and sleep, then rant about Red Hood’s handsy-ness to your boyfriend next you see him. You were all cleared to leave by Spoiler (no injuries outside of a rogue thin scrape from when a vigilante fell in the middle of your pool table) so you turned to start the walk home to your apartment.

Only to feel your feet lift off the ground when a strong arm wraps itself around your waist to drag you backwards into a hard warm chest, “And where do you think you’re going?”

That was the final straw for you. You hadn’t had to get aggressive with an unwanted man since usually Jason was intimidating enough to keep people back, so you were probably way harsher than you should have been. Then again, you were in the middle of a shoot out in your favorite bar just moments ago so maybe your violent shove was more than a little warranted.

You spun around, finger jabbed out towards, but no where near touching, Red Hood’s chest as you spat out, “Keep your fucking hands off me.”

Jason was stunned silent at the expression on your face. You never looked at him with such disgust and rage before. You spun around to start walking but Jason called after you, “Why are you being such a bitch?”

Okay, maybe calling you a bitch was a little harsh and Jason immediately regretted it. Even if you weren’t his romantic partner, he shouldn’t be calling any civilian a bitch after the night they just had. So you had every right to stop and spit back something just as harsh, “Why do you feel so entitled to fucking touching me? Oh, what, because you saved me from the mess you caused I should get on my knees and suck your fucking dick?!”

Jason stiffened in surprise, grateful for the helmet that hides his growing blush as it creeps up all over his face as his siblings snicker behind him. He bites back, “No! But you should at least be grateful!”

“For what? You doing your job?” you reply. You give an exaggerated bow, “Wow, thank you so much for saving me, Mr. Red Hood, sir.” You scowl, “Happy now?”

You turn to walk off only for Jason to scoff, annoyed. Usually you were kinda hot when you cursed people out, but right now you were being fucking unreasonable for no reason. In the end, Jason tightened his jaw before beginning to follow you. Even if you were mad at him, (for some reason) he wanted to make sure you got home safe after all that.

You, however, disagreed.

“Don’t fucking follow me!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“What, am I not allowed to make sure you get home safe?” Jason shouted back, exacerbated.

“I don’t want you to know where I live, pervert!”

“Pervert?!”

“Okay, Hood, how about I walk them home?” Nightwing suggested.

“Not a fucking chance,” both you and Jason say at the same time, the one thing you agree on but for different reasons.

For Jason, he didn’t want Dick finding out about his relationship with you (though at this point it might as well be out of the bag). Meanwhile, for you–

“I can walk my own damn self home just fine,” you respond.

Jason conceded, throwing his hands up in the air, “Fine, whatever. Get lost already.”

You flip him off, turning again to finally begin the walk home. Jason watched your retreating figure, his eyes never leaving your back, “Spoiler.”

“Follow ‘em, got it,” Stephanie replied, immediately shooting off her hook to follow your walk home from the rooftops.

“Can I ask–”

“No,” Jason snapped, silencing Dick for now as he turned his attention back to the smugglers that started this whole mess.

Jason only eased up when Stephanie told him that you made it home, but he relaxed when you texted him the same thing. Though when you added that you had a rough night, Jason felt a little guilty for being such an asshole to you. He was set on apologizing to you next time he saw you.

It was only when he saw you a few days later that he was reminded, again, that he was Red Hood to you that night and not your beloved Jason Todd as you recount everything Red Hood did to you that made you uncomfortable. Things that Jason thought were helpful, were actually creepy when it wasn’t him saying or doing it. And Jason felt awful for coming off like that, happy to let you rant about your terrible night out and how touchy Red Hood was despite you telling him you had a boyfriend (it was him but again, you didn’t know that). But when you started to insinuate Red Hood’s actions were more insidious than they were (because again, Red Hood was your boyfriend even if you didn’t know it), Jason couldn’t stop himself from jumping to his own defense.

The spark that started this whole fight to begin with.

“I can’t believe you’re actually defending this guy!” you shout, incredulous. “Meanwhile, if anyone so much as stares longer than a second at me, they deserve an elbow to the throat!”

“Hey I’m still working on that!” Jason replied, defensive. “They’re fucking sleazeballs with a staring problem. He beats up bad guys. Not exactly the same cloth here, babe.”

“Oh so because he’s a hero, he gets a pass is that right?” you snidely remark. “So if Nightwing gets all handsy next time I should just let him?”

Jason jumps to his feet, “Did he fucking touch you? Because I swear to God–”

“No you fucking idiot,” you snap, “It was an example. But how come you’re more upset about fucking Nightwing who’s all the way over in fucking Bludhaven, than you are about the fucking guy who is out in our neighborhood?!”

“I–That’s different!”

“How?!” you insist, “How is it different, Jason?! They’re both men, both heroes that save people, what makes it okay for Red Hood to feel me up but not Nightwing?!”

“Because he’s me, dammit!”

Silence overtakes the apartment. Jason can’t even look at you, hand running through his hair as he curses himself for letting it slip so easily. But what other option did he have? Jason knew realistically that he had to tell you, but he was putting it off for as long as he could. Because once you knew about him, you’d know everything. What he did as the Hood, that he died, that he came back. He was scared that you’d never see him the same. And it didn’t help that your opinion of Red Hood was soured very recently by his own inability to keep his hands off of you.

“That’s not funny, Jason,” you finally say.

Jason sighed. Denial. At least you weren’t shouting any more. Though, he probably preferred that over your quieter tone that lacked any tell of your true thoughts. He still couldn’t look at you, crossing his arms to protect himself, “I’m not joking.”

Another moment of silence. Until you punched him square in the arm.

“Ow!” the reaction was automatic, your knuckle was sharper than Jason was expecting and seemed to be the worst part of the punch. Though he’s seen you scrap in a bar fight before, you could definitely punch harder than that, “What was that for?”

“You asshole, why didn’t you say anything?!” you hissed, no true anger in your words or stance. If anything you looked…embarrassed. “I said all that fucked up shit about you. You should have just told me it was you.”

Jason stared in disbelief, “You’re not…” He wasn’t sure what he was expecting your reaction to be. Anger? Betrayal? Disgust? “You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m not mad,” you said. “I just wish you gave me a signal or something, I don’t know.”

Jason snorted, “Yeah next time I need to reveal my secret identity to you I’ll pinch your left hand.”

You slap his arm for teasing you, making him laugh as you roll your eyes, “God whatever, asshole.”

Jason entered your space, something he was careful to not cross when you two were fighting but now was craving it when he saw your smile. He gently took your hands, weaving your fingers together casually, his eyes never straying from your face, “You sure you’re not mad?”

You snort with a smile, “Of course not, Jay. If anything I’m relieved.” You give your entwined hands a tug, urging him to take a step closer as you look up at him with a knowing smile, “Shoulda knew it was you the whole time anyway. Only you could make my heart go stupid when you get your hands on me.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason replied, releasing one of your hands to loop an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer, “I make your heart go stupid, baby?”

“Mm hmm,” you hum, leaning into his warmth. His safety. “Only you, Jay.”

Jason leans down, his lips brush against yours. Soft like a rose petal. Romantic like a sonnet. Even as you try to urge him to kiss you more with a simple break in your lips, a silent invitation, he doesn’t go farther. Not yet. His lips touch yours slightly as he speaks.

“Only me and Red Hood, apparently.”

“Oh fuck off.”

Bruce Wayne (wc: 4.7k):

This conversation was a long time coming. In all honesty, it was way overdue. About three years overdue but who’s counting (the kids and Alfred, with the answer varying depending on who you ask). Bruce knew he liked you from the day he met you, he knew he loved you nine months into dating you, and he knew he wanted to be with you forever three years ago. The ring he bought for you was hidden in his home office in a drawer in his desk, easily found if you were to open it but you never did.

You respected his privacy too much to do that. Which was both a blessing and a curse. If you were just a little more curious, a little more invasive into his private life, maybe the secret that was preventing Bruce from popping the question for three whole years wouldn’t have been such an issue. But he never blamed you. Only himself was to blame for the fact that you refer to him as your boyfriend rather than your husband after five years of dating.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you with his secret, with his children’s secret. He knew that marrying the man who was Batman was a huge ask, bigger than being a parent to children who weren’t your own or the spouse to a man forever under a spotlight. You handled the other two with ease, even as your status as just a romantic partner. You treated his boys and girls with respect and guidance. Bruce has never seen Damian cave to an adult’s requests faster in his life. Even Jason was open to your words of advice even if he didn’t explicitly ask for any. You treated the press as nothing more than words on a page. Though in your own words, you never read gossip columns much anyway so why would you bother to now?

But those two things were softballs compared to the lead sphere that was Batman. But in a way, you were already living with Batman, you just didn’t know it. All the missed vacations or rain check dates, you never held it against him so long as he told you about them the second he knew he wasn’t able to commit anymore. You never questioned him, never asked for more than he was willing to give. It was a blessing really, to have a partner so independent and trusting, and Bruce was happy to keep it that way. Even if that ring were to never be used as he wouldn’t feel right asking for your hand without you knowing all of what you were getting into, he was content so long as you stayed by his side.

Then he worked with you, as Batman. And he fell harder for you than he ever had before. You worked as a forensic lead at Gotham PD’s crime lab, specialized in toxicology and chemistry as the best in your field. So it wasn’t surprising that Commissioner Gordan suggested you when Batman asked him to borrow a forensics expert for an on-going drug case. What Bruce should have done was keep you as far away from this case as possible as your life could be in danger because of it. But as he hit deadend after deadend, asking you for help became his only option.

At first, Batman would only meet you in your lab or workplace. But as the case further developed and culprits attacked your workplace trying to get to you, you had to be moved to the lab in the Batcave until the case was solved. You fit in like a missing puzzle piece they didn’t know they were missing, the Bats and Birds more than thrilled to have you in the cave alongside them even though you didn’t know it was them under the cowls and masks. You acted no differently than if you were with Bruce and his family out of uniform, your parenting instincts and humor making an appearance even in the most serious of circumstances.

It was as Batman was watching you in the lab, chatting with his wards as you worked and gently swatting Robin’s hand from touching the burette and ruining your titration, that he realized that you belong here. In the cave. With his wards. With him. With Batman. He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t feel like you two have gotten closer since your stay in the Batcave began. Sometimes he would even catch you looking at him, only for you to quickly turn away and return to your work having been caught.

Once the case was over, it was obvious everyone else felt the same.

“Father, when will (L/n) return to the cave?” Damian asked him.

“When we require their expertise.”

“Hey B, is (Y/n) in today? I have some blood I want them to run,” Dick said with a bagged sample.

“You can run the sample on your own without their assistance.”

“(Y/n) would have laughed,” Tim lamented when his joke fell flat.

“They would have, yes, you’re still going with Robin.”

Bruce could take a hint, but it didn’t mean he was going to act on it. More often than not he’d find himself in the Batcave sitting in front of the Batcomputer with the ring box in his hands, opening and closing the lid repeatedly. That was how Alfred found him one evening after patrol, alone with his thoughts and your ring. Alfred approached, standing next to his master before saying, “Everyone has gone to bed for the night, Master Bruce.”

“Right, thank you Alfred,” Bruce responded absentmindedly, the soft click of the ring box closing and opening filling the silence that followed.

Alfred watched silently for a few moments before he said, “They would say yes, you know.”

“To Bruce Wayne,” Bruce agreed, clicking the box closed one final time. He envelops the velvet box in his palm, “To Batman? I have my doubts.”

“You say it as if those are two completely different men.”

“To (Y/n) they are.”

“Only because you refuse to tell them otherwise.” Bruce gives his oldest friend an unamused look that would pass as a pout if he wasn’t a man in his early forties. Alfred continued with a reassuring smile, “Master Bruce, in the five years that I have had the privilege of knowing (Y/n) as your partner, they have never once made me doubt their affection towards you. I believe that warrants a little risk, don’t you?”

Bruce contemplates for a moment. His eyes cast over to the dark and empty lab. He feels his chest warm at the thought of you working in that lab, helping him on cases, giving him first aid, being the support he needed when his back hit a wall. Bruce stands, shoving the ring box into his belt with one hand and pulling his cowl over his face with the other, “I won’t be long Alfred.”

“So you say,” Alfred said with a knowing smile, watching Batman hurry out, “Give (Y/n) my regards and congratulations.”

By the time Batman arrived at your city apartment, you were getting ready for work. You hadn’t showered yet, enjoying the early hours by yourself before getting your day officially started. Still dressed in a silk pajama pair that Bruce bought you two birthdays ago, hair still unkempt, you started brewing your cup of coffee. Batman watched from your highrise balcony, the morning light not bright enough to reveal his silhouette too clearly. His hand rested over the pocket on his belt. Batman doesn’t get nervous. He’s fearless and certain. Bruce on the other hand…

He taps on the glass before he can stop himself, fighting back a smile when you jump in surprise. You walk over quickly, you unlock the door and pull it open slightly to stick your head out, “Batman? Is everything alright?”

No. Everything was not alright. You looked positively radiant right now and it made the stoic bat stiffen at the realization–he could get used to seeing you like this. You two barely spent the night together outside of weekends away or the rare vacation, both too busy with work to spend the night in each other’s bed. Seeing you in such a domestic lighting, looking up at him with concern–God you were perfect.

Bruce swallowed, “May I come in?”

You nod, further opening the door to let the dark knight effortlessly glide into your apartment. Bruce has visited a few times before but he looked around anyway as his memories took over. That couch was where you introduced Bruce to the Fast and Furious franchise, a guilty pleasure you claimed to never share with anyone else before him. The coffee table where you fanned out several magazines that had Bruce as the front cover–an embarrassing discovery he was left alone to find when you were still getting ready for your third date. You still claim they weren’t yours.

Bruce’s eyes rested on the pictures on the wall, arranged in a style like a prized feature wall in a gallery. That wall was bare when the two of you started dating. Now it was overflowing with photos of your relationship. Couple pictures at beaches or restaurants. Group photos for the rare family vacation you always insisted they try to take. Some were just you and his kids. You and Damian at a school art show, you and Cass backstage at her performance with a bouquet in her hands, you giving a pep talk to Stephanie and Tim before a debate competition, several candids of Dick, Duke, and Jason both with and without you. It was all so touching, the evidence you had of how much you loved Bruce and his family. The evidence of how important you were to them.

“Is it another case?”

Batman turns, watching as you pour your creamer into your mug and mix it in. You use the spoon to taste, a habit Bruce found entertaining as even after thirty years you still couldn’t get the ratio exactly how you like it on the first try. You add a little more and put the creamer away, you pick up your mug and walk around the counter, “Should I pack a bag?”

Batman blinks out of the fond haze you put over him and walks deeper into your apartment, “No, that isn’t necessary.” He stops in front of you, “I’m not here for a case.”

“Oh,” you reply, surprised, “To what do I owe the pleasure of Batman's company?”

 Your hand in marriage.

Batman waved away the thought, instead focusing on reciting the speech he had laid out in his head prior to his arrival on your balcony, “I have something to say to you.”

You nod, taking his serious tone in stride and placing your mug on the counter behind you to give him your full attention. Bruce takes a breath, “Your…assistance–expertise, on that drug case was instrumental to me–to us. And I wanted to thank you.”

You smile, “There’s no need to thank me, Bats. I was just doing my job.”

Bruce paused at the nickname. He’s heard you say it before, even giving you explicit permission when you panicked about being too friendly to the vigilante the first time you said it. You said it so casually, so effortlessly; with an inflection Bruce was familiar with when you spoke his own name. Batman cleared his throat, “Yes well, there was something else.” You waited patiently as Bruce gathered himself, his hand going to rest on his belt over your ring. “You see, during your stay in the cave I–we grew fond of your presence there. If anything, your absence now is more noticeable. Almost…” his eyes catch yours, you’re hanging onto every word, “irritating.”

“I’m sorry,” you can’t help mumbling, your heart speeding up against your better judgement. “I didn’t mean to cause such an upset.”

“Quite the contrary,” Batman disagreed. He steps closer, your back digs into the counter but you don’t dare to look away. Almost like you can’t help it. “If anything, you revealed something that I have been struggling with for quite some time. And now that I know what it feels like to have someone like you by my side, I am ready to risk everything for a chance to feel it again.”

Your eyes flick over his face. They flick down to his lips, betraying the tension you feel that you try to cover up with intense eye contact, “I don’t understand.”

But of course Batman noticed. He noticed everything. His hand comes around your neck, your breath stutters. His thumb brushes against your jaw, “I want to lay my heart bare to you, my love. Reveal all its scars, all its pain–I want you to be a part of my life, all of it.”

When your eyes betray you again, he leans in. Batman captures your lips softly in his, tenderly. He’s kissed you so many times but this time felt different–real. Like he was able to shred the masks he wore in front of you for so long, able to feel the fresh breeze your presence gave him directly onto his naked skin. You kiss back almost instantly, the slight gasp of surprise melts with the tension of your body. You meet his lips with pliant acceptance, as if giving in to temptation.

When he pulls away to continue at a different angle, he feels your hands on his chest and a small push as your head turns away from him and you mumble, “...I think you should go.”

He doesn’t understand. You were kissing him back–you accepted him. Didn’t you?

You refused to look at him as he wordlessly moved away. The way you were holding yourself, the quiver in your lips–you were upset. But why? What did he do wrong? What could he say to change everything back to the way it was? Or was that your last gift to him–to Bruce, your final kiss goodbye?

Batman turned away with a mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t move, even after he left your balcony and disappeared into the early morning sky you were frozen in place. Your fingers shake as they brush against your lips, the guilt and shame swirling into a nauseous spiral in your stomach. You weren’t a cheater. You never looked at another person outside of Bruce no matter the missed dates or neglected nights alone, you never strayed. And yet all it took was a stoic hero of the night to sway your steadfast heart. A few weeks on a case with him and five years went down the drain like it was nothing. How could you look Bruce in the eyes now? The kids? Alfred? You had kissed someone who wasn’t Bruce Wayne.

And you liked it.

There were many downsides to raising wards to be brilliant detectives. Any surprise parties were spoiled before the cake could be made. Outings to escape rooms were practically children’s riddle books. And any information intended to be hidden would be found out within the day. Bruce was experiencing that last downside when he finally left his room to try to pretend his heart wasn’t broken this morning to grab something to eat. Preferably something sweet. And cold. With cookie dough chunks in it.

Bruce didn’t even make it past opening the freezer before Damian sidelined him with a question, “What did they say, Father?”

Bruce played dumb, turning his head towards Damian and trying to look as pleasantly neutral as possible, “What did who say?”

“(L/n),” Damian elaborated. Bruce shut the freezer door, opting for a bottle of water instead. Damian watched his father as he walked past, “You did ask them for their hand in marriage, correct?”

“Where did you hear that?” Bruce deflected.

His youngest followed him out of the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back as they walked, “My sources must remain anonymous.” Meaning he was just taking a guess. “You are planning on asking, correct?”

The usual response of “Yes, of course, when the time is right” died in Bruce’s throat as he hesitated. Was there even a point in asking after you sent him away this morning? Could Bruce even assume that you two were dating anymore? Did you break up with him or did you just need time to process everything?

“Father?”

Shit. Bruce hesitated for too long, now Damian was suspicious. And if he was suspicious, he’d start prying. And Bruce really didn’t need his ten year old son to start digging around in his love life. Again. He also didn’t want Damian or any of his children to despise you for your choice. Bruce hoped that even if this was the end, that you’d still be a guiding light to them when he wasn’t able to be. Bruce turned to his youngest, catching Damian’s hard gaze that was softened at the edges with worry. He put a hand on Damian’s head, ruffling his hair, “Sorry, my thoughts got away from me there. Don’t worry about that, okay?”

And with that, Bruce walked away, leaving Damian to disobey his father’s words.

It took you over six hours to gather the courage to come to Wayne Manor and tell Bruce what happened this morning. At first, you were going to just sweep it under the rug and forget about it. But it didn’t sit right with you for long. You don’t think you could pretend that everything was fine to Bruce’s face and you certainly didn’t want him to find out on his own later. So you decided to just tell him, the sooner the better. You had already called off work that morning (there was no way you were going to work after that) and after hyping yourself up for hours, you managed to get yourself in front of the manor and knock on the door.

Now all you had to do was wait.

And then confess to the love of your life that you kissed another man.

On second thought maybe you should go home–

The door opened, revealing Duke as he poked his head out to check who it was before he opened it further upon realizing it was you, “Oh! (Y/n)! Hi!”

“Hi Duke,” you say with a smile, feeling a little more at ease that it wasn’t Alfred. Out of all the children Bruce took under his care, Duke was the one who made you the least nervous to be around when you were first introduced. So it was a blessing that he was the one who answered the door, “Is Bruce in?”

“Oh yeah, he’s somewhere around here,” Duke said as he held the door open for you to enter, “C’mon in, I’ll help you find him.”

It didn’t take long for the pair of you to find Bruce after hearing a slightly heated muffled conversation coming from one of the parlor rooms. Duke opened the door in the middle of the conversation.

“I beg of you to drop this,” Bruce said.

“So we can’t be worried about you?” Dick asked, arms crossed.

Only Bruce and Dick are standing, the rest of the family scattered around in chairs and couches as if watching a play. You think you spy popcorn in-between Tim and Stephanie.

“I’m not saying you can’t be worried, I’m just not ready to discuss it,” Bruce replied.

“Father is deflecting again.”

“Damian–”

“You asked me to help keep you accountable,” Damian argued. “You asked all of us to.”

“Yeah, B, what’s so bad that you can’t tell us?” Jason asked.

At that moment, Tim spotted you and he elbowed Stephanie, who saw you standing there too. She beamed, waving her hand excitedly, “Oh hey (Y/n)!”

At the mere mention of your name, Bruce stiffened. Immediately all the detectives in the room zeroed in on Bruce like hawks spotting a mouse in the grass. You were none the wiser, Bruce’s reaction too subtle for untrained eyes to spot. You begin to pick at your nails, “Hi Steph, um, if you all aren’t too busy, may I borrow Bruce for a moment?” You pause, “Alone?”

The eyes that flicked to you, flicked right back to focus on Bruce, waiting for a reaction, a tell. Bruce was stiff as a board. He knew his children were studying him, trying to gauge from his reaction (or lack thereof) what you wanted to speak to him about alone. Everyone knew that an alone talk could only mean something bad. Everyone could see you were nervous, hesitant even. This was quickly spelling out to be a bad conversation.

“If you’re busy–”

“No,” Bruce was quick to say. He turns towards you finally, his smile not reaching his eyes like it usually does and it forms a pit in your stomach. He knows. Bruce walks towards you, “No, it’s fine. It must be important for you to come all this way.”

He notices your fidgeting fingers, a habit from your youth that you still haven’t broken despite being well into your late thirties now. Bruce instinctively reaches out to gently pry your hands apart. Then he hesitates. He hesitates for a little too long before his hand drops. When he looks at you, he doesn’t catch your eyes, “Shall we go to my study?”

You can only nod, your stomach twisting in on itself. It only eases just a little when Bruce puts a warm hand on your back. Higher than usual as if you were a colleague rather than his romantic partner, and he leads you out of the parlor room into his study.

Bruce doesn’t say a word as you both enter, closing the door behind you and opting to stand behind his desk by his chair as you stand on the opposite side. The invisible wall of tension now having a physical form as pregnant silence filled the space. You start picking your fingers again.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” Bruce asked, the silence eating away at him just as much as the sight of you so anxious in front of him.

Rather than jump into your own issues, you couldn’t help thinking about the conversation you walked in on and instead asked, “Are you alright?”

Bruce is surprised, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his surprise from you, “I…I suppose. Why?”

You shrug, “The children have very strong intuitions. If they are worried about you, you must have something troubling you.” You caution a small smile in his direction, “They get that from you, I believe.”

That makes Bruce give a small laugh, a matching smile rising on his face at your compliment, “I wouldn’t be so sure. Even I can be wrong sometimes.”

My intuition certainly failed when it came to you.

Bruce frowned at the bitter thought, pushing it away to instead press the conversation forward, “I’m fine, though, I assure you. So please, tell me what’s on your mind.”

You pause, trying to gather the right thing to say, the right way to explain without so much pretext he may not even want to know. When you finally stop picking your fingers and gather your resolve, Bruce tenses. His hand digs into the mahogany wood of the desk, bracing himself for the break up that would ruin him for the rest of his life.

You raise your head, shoulders back, and blurt out, “I kissed Batman.”

Bruce blinks, his hand relaxing immediately in surprise.

I would think so, I was there, he couldn’t help thinking. Confused, he echoed your statement back to you as if to make sure that was the confession you meant to say, “You…kissed Batman.”

You nod once, still steadfast in your declaration despite the pounding in your chest at your false bravado, “Yes. And I liked it.”

That got the tips of Bruce’s ears starting to turn red. He shouldn’t be so flustered but the way you said your confession so confidently…was really fucking cute. When he didn’t respond, you started to explain everything. You explained that Batman brought you on a case and you had to stay in his Batcave for your own safety. During those weeks, you couldn’t help being fond of the masked hero but you knew it couldn’t be anything more than fondness, after all you loved Bruce–still do! Your heart never swayed from him, you reassured many times as you explained how your heart swayed away from him. Bruce brought his hand towards his mouth, trying to cover the embarrassingly sickly sweet smile that was worming onto his face. You were still so serious but Bruce couldn’t help smiling at the absurdity.

You had no idea that Bruce was Batman. For the past six hours and twenty-seven minutes, Bruce was agonizing over losing you because he was Batman when this whole time you genuinely had no idea. In your defense, he wasn’t exactly explicit in his reveal (he wasn’t explicit at all, he’s so used to his children’s observation skills that he forgot you were normal) and all subtly was lost to you. Even the pet name that he calls you all the time wasn’t obvious enough for you.

It was midway through your apology that Bruce let out an airy laugh. You stop dead in your tracks, staring at Bruce with confusion and mild offense, “Are you laughing?”

“I–” he couldn’t stop the small chuckle as the situation was just too silly. He was sure if you were in on it, you’d be laughing too. But Bruce was a little bit of a menace so he wanted to hold on to the reveal as long as possible, “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, my love.”

“Then what are you laughing at?” you ask, any guilt and shame you had was soon replaced by mild annoyance, “You think it’s funny that I kissed another man? That I cheated on you?”

Oh it was all too tempting to respond with something akin to, “you cheated on me with myself” but the look on your face was just too beautiful. The crossed arms, the slight furrow of your brows, the annoyance in your eyes that barely masked the guilt that still swarmed inside–now was the moment. It wouldn’t be the most romantic one, far from it. But it was the moment Bruce thought, yeah, this is it.

Bruce couldn’t help smiling as he reached for his desk drawer and pulled it open with a, “My love, there’s something I’d like to ask you–” His smile faltered. The ring was gone. It wasn’t in the drawer where it always was.

“Ask me what?”

Bruce’s head snapped up like a child caught in the cookie jar, your concern waning with each second as your patience grows thinner. His eyes flicked to the grandfather clock behind you. His belt!

“Just a moment, my love,” Bruce said as he hurried around to the clock, leaving you sputtering in confusion as he opened it and revealed the passageway hidden behind it. He rushed down the stairs, “I’ll be right back.”

“What?! Bruce!”

“Stay there!”

Of course you weren’t going to stay there, your boyfriend just revealed a secret passageway behind a grandfather clock that you’ve seen for five years without a hint of suspicion. Not to mention he was acting strangely. First with the laughter while you were confessing that you kissed Batman, and now he was frantically searching for something. He could really be confusing sometimes which made it hard not to be annoyed with him when he got like this, often hurrying away in the middle of a date after you mention something off-handedly.

As you walked down the smooth stone steps, your annoyance was replaced by awe. Who knew that such a large underground was hidden underneath the manor. You couldn’t help the thought about the risk to the house, would it fall in one day with all the children, Bruce, and Alfred still inside? The hypothetical safety concerns came to a screeching halt when you reached the bottom of the steps. Your eyes flick around quickly, taking every familiar thing and putting them together like a puzzle.

The Batmobile. The Batcomputer. The dinosaur. The many Batman suits. The giant penny. Bruce rifling through a Batman suit trying to get to his belt. The training grounds. The equipment laid out messily on a table. The lab.

You stare at the lab. The very very familiar lab. It all dawns on you very quickly.

“Oh my God.”

You turn to look at Bruce, he pauses under your gaze. Batman’s belt clutched in one hand, your eyes honing in on the velvet box in the other.

“Oh my God.”

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.” 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

"Peter," you say. Less of a question, more of you testing his name into the air.

"Yeah?"

"How fast are you?"

"I'm not—"

"How fast," you say, "are you?"

He opens his mouth. He closes it.

"Faster than average," he says carefully.

Once you know what to look for, you can't stop seeing it.

This is the thing about Peter's reflexes — they're subtle enough that you can attribute each instance to coincidence, but once you're paying attention, the pattern is undeniable. He’s always slightly ahead of you. There’s always a fraction of a second where his body has registered the incoming disaster before your own body has, and acted on it, and the only evidence is the thing not breaking, the thing not spilling, the thing not—

"Did you catch my keys?" you ask, on a Wednesday, watching them not hit the floor.

"They fell," Peter says.

"You caught them."

"I was right there—"

"I didn't see you move," you say. "Peter. I literally didn't see you move."

He hands you your keys. "You're going to be late," he says.

You start testing it.

Not in a mean way. In a curious way. In the way of someone who has discovered that the person they're dating has an ability that intersects with a fundamental characteristic of their own personality, and wants to understand the full extent of the overlap.

You drop a pen over the edge of his desk one afternoon while he's reading. His hand catches it eleven inches from the floor without him looking up from the page. You try to let a library card slip from your fingers while standing at a checkout counter. His hand appears underneath it before it falls four inches.

You knock a water bottle off the kitchen counter. He catches it behind his back.

This one makes you stop.

"Baby," you say.

"Mm?"

"You just caught that behind your back."

He looks at the bottle in his hand, which is behind his back.

"Reflex," he says.

"Your back was to the counter."

"I heard it start to fall."

You blink. He doesn’t falter. You don’t have it in you to expect him to.

"Right," you say.

The conversation happens properly on a Thursday evening.

You’re cooking, reaching for the wooden spoon above the stove when your sleeve catches the handle of the saucepan, and the saucepan goes sideways. Peter, who is sitting at the kitchen table six feet away, is across the room and has the saucepan's handle back in position before anything reaches the stovetop coil.

Six feet. You watched it happen. He didn't walk. He didn't run. He was simply there.

You turn around, and he's standing beside you with an expression that finally, finally has given up on claiming coincidence, looking at you like he’s been caught and is deciding how to proceed.

"That's—" you start.

"Spider thing," he says.

"The reflex."

"The reflexes, yeah. And the — I sense things before they happen sometimes. Movement, trajectory." He makes a vague gesture. "It just fires. I'm not always choosing to do it."

You stare at the freckle on the corner of his mouth. He’s so pretty, and so cool, and he amazes you sometimes so much it hurts.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Since we started dating, pretty much," he says. "Maybe a little before."

"A little before?" you repeat. "We weren't even — Peter, we'd only been talking for like two months before we started dating."

"You knocked a display off a shelf in the campus bookstore during the third conversation we had," Peter says. "And then you caught someone else's display with your elbow, trying to fix it. I was paying attention after that."

You stare at him now. You try not to smile, but you’ve never been good at that, especially around Peter. 

"You've been running point on my clumsiness since the third conversation we had," you say.

"I wouldn't call it running point—"

"You caught a saucepan from six feet away without breaking stride."

"That's a slight exaggeration of the geometry—"

"Honey."

Something in his face is waiting to see whether this is funny or whether this is something else. Whether you find this sweet or whether you find it unbearable to have your life quietly managed by someone's involuntary superhuman crisis response.

You think about all the things that haven't broken.

You think about the mug. The orange juice. The library books. The keys. The saucepan. The water bottle he caught behind his back without looking.

You think about the ceramic frog your mother mentions.

"I broke a ceramic frog when I was four," you tell him. "I've been knocking things over my entire life. It's been twenty-something years of things hitting the floor."

"I know," he says. "You've told me."

"And since September," you say, "nothing has hit the floor."

"A few things," he says. "I miss occasionally."

"Name one."

He thinks about it. He hides a smile.

"Your sunglasses," he says. "In October. I was on the phone."

"I don't remember that."

"They were fine, they just fell."

"Peter Parker," you say.

"Yeah."

"Have you been providing continuous covert property protection since September?"

He seems to be deciding how to frame this. "I'd call it more of a—"

"Continuous covert property protection."

"A passive safety feature," he says, with the expression of someone proud of this reframe.

You put your hands over your face. You hear him make a small, uncertain sound. "Is this — is this okay? Because I can try not to, if it bothers you. It's pretty involuntary, but I could probably—"

You take your hands off your face. He's looking at you with genuine concern now, the expression of someone who has done a thing entirely out of instinct and love, and is suddenly worried the thing was wrong.

"It doesn't bother me," you say.

"Yeah?"

"I've accepted approximately three thousand apologies to approximately three thousand pieces of crockery in my lifetime," you say. "The saucepan staying on the stove is a gift from the universe, actually."

Something loosens in his expression. "Okay. Good."

"I want full disclosure going forward, though," you say. "Every time you catch something. I want to know."

"Every time?"

"Every time."

"That's going to be a lot of notifications," he says.

"I want all of them."

He looks at you with a specific expression — warm and slightly overwhelmed and entirely fond — that he has in certain moments you keep mental records of.

"Okay," he says. "Deal."

—

The ceramic frog comes up again six months later.

You're on the phone with your mother, and she mentions it, as she does, casually, like she’s fully processed a loss and has now converted it into a reliable conversational touchstone, and you mention it to Peter afterward.

"A ceramic frog," he says. "From when you were four."

"She's mentioned it in approximately sixty percent of our conversations since I was four," you say. "It's a thing."

Peter is quiet for a second. "Could you describe it?" he says.

"It was green," you say, "with spots, and it had a little lily pad. It was on the windowsill. I knocked it off. Irreplaceable, apparently."

"Irreplaceable," Peter says.

"This is the word she uses."

"Okay," he says.

You don't think anything of it.

Three weeks later, your mother calls you and says, with a voice that is doing several things at once, "Someone sent me the most extraordinary thing in the post."

A ceramic frog. Green, with spots, on a small ceramic lily pad. Not the original — the original was thirty years gone — but close enough, found by someone who apparently spent three weeks on a very specific antique hunt, that your mother holds it for a full minute on the phone while you sit on your bed and look across the hall at Peter's closed door and feel something in your chest do something large and complicated.

You find him.

"You found her a frog," you say.

"Similar frog," he says. "Not the same frog. Different provenance."

"Peter."

"It wasn't that hard," he says, in a tone like he did something hard and is embarrassed about it. "eBay, mostly. Few antique dealers. Took a couple weeks—"

"You spent three weeks finding a ceramic frog for my mother," you say.

"She mentioned it," he says. "And you mention it when she mentions it. And it seemed like a fixable thing."

You look at him in the doorway.

You think about all the things he catches before they hit the floor. All the quiet invisible work of being around you, the constant background attentiveness, the reflexes that fire for you specifically and which he has described, simply and completely, as something he finds useful because it's for you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says.

"I knocked over the mug on my desk this morning," you say.

"I know," he says. "I was in the kitchen. I heard the trajectory."

"And?"

"And I made a judgment call," he says. "You were in your room. I was in the kitchen. Seemed like a reasonable miss."

"It was a reasonable miss," you confirm. "Luckily, the mug is fine."

"Good."

"Peter."

"Yeah."

"I love you," you say. "Please know that I mean it with the full weight of the ceramic frog and everything that came before it."

He grins.

"I love you too," he says. "Please know that I mean it with the full weight of approximately seven hundred intercepted falling objects and counting."

"We're going to count now?"

"I've been counting since September," he says. "I have a spreadsheet."

You stare at him. Your eye twitches. 

"You have a spreadsheet," you say.

"It's colour coded," he says.

"What?"

"By severity," he says, backing slightly into his room. "Green is minor, yellow is moderate, red is would have been a bad one—"

You follow him through his door. "Show me the spreadsheet," you say.

"Absolutely not," he says, and he's already laughing, and you're already reaching for his laptop, and somewhere across the city the night is going on without you, unbroken things still unbroken, the ambient disaster of you held carefully and specifically and entirely on purpose by someone whose reflexes fire for you before they fire for anything else.

This, you think, is what it is to be loved by Peter Parker.