bianca

Three weeks since he stopped sitting next to you in lecture. Three weeks since he stopped coming to your apartment after patrol, bleeding and apologetic, waiting for you to patch him up on your bathroom floor. Three weeks since he stopped answering your texts—not all at once, but slowly, like a faucet dripping dry. Can't make lunch. Rain check. Maybe next week. Then nothing.

You pass the tailor shop on 19th. The one with the old Italian man who always waves at you through the window. You remember the first time you walked past it with Peter, years ago, and you'd stopped to look at the sewing machines in the window. "I could do that," you'd said, meaning the careful stitching, the steady hands. And then, months later, you did—sitting on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, sewing his first Spider-Man suit by hand because he'd shown up at your window with a sketch on notebook paper and a desperate look in his eyes. Your fingers had bled from the needle. He'd apologized a hundred times. You'd told him to shut up and hold the fabric steady.

The Parker house appears at the end of the block. Porch light on. Garden overgrown the way it's been since Uncle Ben died—the rose bushes still blooming every summer even though no one tends them anymore. Flowers in the window boxes. Purple mums that refuse to die even as November closes in.

You stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Your hand goes to your pocket.

Family doesn't have to knock.

May had pressed the key into your palm with both hands, her fingers warm and dry. You'd cried. Peter had found you in the kitchen afterward and pulled you into a hug without saying anything. Held on until you stopped shaking.

The key turns in the lock.

The house is dark. May's knitting on the armchair—a half-finished scarf in deep blue wool. Peter's textbooks on the coffee table. A mug of cold coffee on the side table, half-drunk, abandoned. He always does that. Makes coffee, drinks half, gets distracted by something—a news alert, a text from Ned, an idea for a web fluid improvement—and forgets to finish it.

"Peter?"

Nothing.

You climb the stairs. The fourth step creaks—it's always creaked. You remember the first time you stayed over, years ago, and Peter warned you about it so you wouldn't wake May. You'd stepped on it anyway. May had called out, "Is that you, Y/N?" and you'd frozen like a deer in headlights, and Peter had laughed so hard he nearly fell down the stairs.

Photographs on the wall. Peter as a baby, gap-toothed and grinning. Peter and Uncle Ben on a fishing trip, both sunburned and happy. Peter at graduation, cap slightly askew, May beaming beside him with tears in her eyes.

There's a photo of you, too. Sixteen years old, at the science fair, holding the second-place trophy. His arm around your shoulders. Your arm around his waist. You look happy. You were happy.

His door is closed. You push it open.

The room is exactly the same. Textbooks piled on the desk. Periodic Table poster slightly crooked—it fell down last year and neither of you could find the tape. The science fair trophy still dusty on the bookshelf. You keep meaning to dust it. You keep not doing it.

The photo on his nightstand: you and him, sixteen, grinning.

You sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under your weight, familiar and creaking.

You've sat here a hundred times. While he ranted about exams—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his lamp. While he stressed about patrol—some new villain, some close call, some innocent person he couldn't save. While he grieved Uncle Ben, and you held his hand in the dark, and you didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.

While he talked about Gwen—nervous at first, fumbling over his words, asking you if you thought she might like him back. Then later, excited, telling you about their first date, their first kiss. You'd smiled. You'd been supportive. You'd pretended your heart wasn't breaking, because that's what best friends did. They showed up. They were happy for each other. Even when it hurt.

Now you sit here alone, in the dark, waiting for someone who might not want to be found.

The anger rises. Hot and sharp. You've been carrying it for three weeks, letting it simmer, and now it's bubbling over.

You don't get to disappear. You don't get to decide I'm not worth an explanation. I've cleaned blood off your skin and sewn up your suits. I've lied for you. Covered for you. Stayed up until dawn waiting for you to come home.

I've earned more than your silence.

Peter is so fucked when he gets home.

And then the window explodes.

Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the floor—books rattling on the shelves, trophy wobbling, the photo on his nightstand toppling over.

You're on your feet before you can think.

His suit is shredded. Not torn—shredded. Red and blue fabric hanging in ribbons, soaked through with blood that looks black in the dim light. The spider emblem on his chest barely visible anymore. His mask is gone. His face is a mess of bruises—one eye swollen nearly shut, skin purple and black. A gash across his forehead still bleeding, blood dripping into his eye. His lip split and swollen. Blood dripping off his chin onto the floor, mixing with shattered glass.

His ribs are exposed where the suit has been ripped away—dark purple bruises spreading like spilled wine. His chest is a mess of cuts and scrapes and deeper wounds. One shoulder sits wrong. Dislocated. The joint angled in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hands are scraped raw, knuckles bloody and swollen, fingers trembling.

He tries to stand. Gets to his knees. Collapses. Catches himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over textbooks. The half-empty mug shatters on the floor.

He looks up. Sees you.

His face drops.

"What are you—you shouldn't be here."

You don't answer. Every rehearsed speech—gone. Nothing in your head but static.

You grab the first aid kit from under his bed.

You put it there years ago. After the third time he showed up at your window with injuries he'd tried to hide. A black eye from "falling down the stairs." A knife wound from "a broken bottle." You'd seen through every lie. Stocked the kit yourself—gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers, bandages in three sizes. Made him promise to use it.

The kit is still full. He hasn't touched it. He is an idiot who hasn't taken any care of himself.

Your hands shake. You don't let them stop.

"Y/N, stop. You need to leave. You shouldn't be here—"

You ignore him. Antiseptic. Gauze. Tape. Lined up on his nightstand with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times.

"—it's not safe, if someone saw you come here, if they followed you—"

You haul him up. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. You get him to the edge of the bed. Push him down.

"—please, I can handle this myself—"

"You can't even fucking stand."

You cut away what's left of his suit. The fabric comes away in strips, stiff with dried blood. His chest is a mess—fresh bruises, a gash along his side still bleeding, older scars you've memorized over years of patching him up. The one on his ribs you stitched two years ago. The burn on his shoulder. The thin white line on his forearm from his first year as Spider-Man.

There's too much blood. Too much dirt. You can't see what you're doing.

"You need a bath." you mumble.

"What?"

"You're covered in blood. I can't see the wounds. You need to get in the bath."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." You grab his good arm and sling it over your shoulder. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. His skin is slick with blood and sweat, and his fingers grip your shoulder with a desperation that tells you he's in more pain than he's letting on. "Can you walk?"

"...Maybe."

"That's not a yes."

"It's not a no either."

"Peter."

"I can walk. Just—just go slow."

You guide him down the hall. It's slow going—his legs are unsteady, and every few steps he falters, his weight pressing into your side. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the damp of blood soaking into your sleeve. You don't care. You've had his blood on you before. You'll have it on you again.

The bathroom is small—pink tile from the 1950s, a clawfoot tub that's probably older than Aunt May, lavender soap on the sink that she buys from the organic market on 19th. You lower him onto the closed toilet seat. He sits heavily, his head drooping, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You with me?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm here."

"Don't pass out."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"mhm I doubt it."

You turn on the tap. The pipes groan—they always groan, this old house, nothing works the way it should—and then water thunders into the tub. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, filling the small room with warmth. You test the temperature with your wrist the way May taught you years ago. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right for damaged skin.

"Arms up."

He obeys, wincing as he lifts his good arm. His bad arm doesn't move at all—the dislocated shoulder keeps it pinned to his side. You peel the rest of the ruined suit off him. The fabric sticks to his skin, glued there by dried blood, and you have to work it loose with careful fingers. Down his arms. Over his chest. You have to kneel to get it past his hips, down his legs, over his feet. The suit comes away in pieces, leaving dark red stains on your hands.

He's in nothing but his boxers now.

You don't look. You're not looking. You're focused on the wounds—the gash on his side that's still oozing blood, the way his breathing is too shallow, the way he's shivering even though the bathroom is warm with steam. You catalog each injury with clinical precision. The laceration on his ribs. The bruising across his abdomen. The swelling around his eye. The dislocated shoulder. You've done this a hundred times. You know how to shut off the part of your brain that sees Peter and turn on the part that sees a patient.

But it's harder tonight. It's always been hard, but tonight it's harder.

"Get in the tub."

He pushes himself up with his good arm. His legs shake. You take his elbow—steady him—and he steps into the water. One foot, then the other. Then he sinks down, slowly, painfully, his body disappearing beneath the surface. The water turns pink immediately, then red, then a deep, murky crimson. He hisses as the heat hits his wounds, his jaw clenching, his good hand gripping the edge of the tub.

"Breathe," you say.

"I'm breathing."

"Breathe slower."

"I'm—" He takes a shaky breath. Lets it out. "I'm trying."

His head falls back against the rim of the tub. His throat is exposed—long and pale and vulnerable. You can see his pulse beating there, too fast, a frantic rhythm under his skin. His eyes close. His chest rises and falls. The water ripples with each breath.

You kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold and hard against your knees. You grab a washcloth from the rack—one of the soft ones, the ones May keeps for guests—and dip it in the water.

Start with his face.

Gentle here. Gentler than you've been all night. You dab at the cut on his forehead, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the wound underneath. It's not as deep as it looked. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. You clean it carefully, your touch feather-light, and he doesn't open his eyes but his breathing steadies. His jaw unclenches. The tension in his shoulders—the good one, at least—starts to ease.

You move the washcloth down his cheek. Wipe away the blood that dripped from his forehead. Clean the swelling around his eye—careful, so careful, because the skin there is tender and purple and painful-looking. The washcloth comes away red. You rinse it in the water. The water swirls with color.

"How long," you ask quietly, "since you took care of yourself?"

He doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.

You move to his chest. The washcloth trails over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse still flutters too fast. Over his shoulders—the good one, then the bad one, as gently as you can manage. Down the planes of his chest, through the smears of dried blood and dirt and sweat. You're thorough. Methodical. You've done this before.

But you've never done it like this. You've never done it in a clawfoot tub in the Parker house with steam fogging the mirror and his breath the only sound in the room. You've never done it after three weeks of silence. You've never done it with your heart in your throat and your hands trembling and his blood still drying under your fingernails.

You're not thinking about his body. You're not thinking about the way his muscles shift under your hands, the way his skin feels warm and slick and alive. You're not thinking about the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waterline, or the way his stomach tenses when your fingers brush a particularly sensitive bruise.

You're not.

"Sorry," you murmur, as he flinches.

"Don't—don't apologize." His voice is rough. "You shouldn't even be here."

"And you should be letting me help."

"I was trying—"

"Lean forward."

He hesitates. Then he obeys, shifting in the water, his back emerging from the pink-tinged surface. You move the washcloth across his shoulder blades, and your breath catches in your throat.

His back is worse than his chest. Deep purple bruises spread across his shoulder blades like spilled ink. A long scrape runs from his spine to his ribs—not deep enough for stitches, but painful-looking. The muscles are knotted with tension, even now, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. You've seen him shirtless before. You've seen him injured before. But you've never seen him like this—bared and vulnerable and completely, utterly still under your hands.

You clean the bruises gently. Your fingers trace the curve of his spine, checking for injuries you might have missed, feeling each vertebra, each rib, each shift of muscle under skin. The water laps against his waist. The steam curls around your face.

He shivers.

"Cold?" you ask.

"No."

"Then what?"

"...Nothing. I don't—nothing."

You don't push. You work your way down his back, then his arms—the good one first, then the bad one, as carefully as you can manage with the shoulder still out of place. The water has gone lukewarm now, the heat fading. The blood has washed away, revealing the full extent of the damage—bruises spreading like watercolor across his ribs, the edges already fading from purple to green as his accelerated healing kicks in. Cuts that are already starting to close. Scrapes that will be gone by morning.

He'll be fine. He's always fine. That's the problem.

"Time to get out."

He stands. Water sluices off his body, running in rivulets down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His boxers cling to him, soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grab a towel from the rack—the biggest one you can find, soft and worn from years of use—and wrap it around his shoulders.

Your fingers brush his chest. Accidentally. Barely a graze of knuckles against damp skin.

His breath catches.

Your eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see something flicker in his gaze—something raw and unguarded and terrified.

You look away first.

"Bedroom," you say. "Now."

He limps back, leaning on you, his good arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressing into your side with every unsteady step. The hallway seems longer than it used to be—or maybe that's just the exhaustion, the adrenaline fading, the three weeks of silence and the past hour of chaos catching up with you both at once. His bare feet drag on the floor. His breath is warm against your hair. You can feel his pulse through his skin where his arm rests against your neck—still too fast, still racing from the fight and the pain and whatever he's not saying.

You lower him onto the mattress. He sinks into it with a grunt, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed, his bad arm hanging useless at his side. The sheets are still tangled from this morning—or yesterday morning, or whenever he last slept in this bed. You don't know. You weren't here. You haven't been here for three weeks.

The sheets will get bloody. You don't care. You've washed blood out of his sheets before—more times than you can count, actually. There's a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the bathroom sink specifically for that purpose. You're the one who put it there.

You start wrapping his ribs.

Your arms reach around him, passing the bandage from hand to hand, your knuckles brushing his back with every rotation. The bandage is white against his skin, stark and clean, and you wrap it tight—tight enough to support, loose enough to let him breathe. You've done this before. You know the right tension by heart.

He's warm. He's solid. He's so close you can smell the lavender soap from the bath, the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingers, the something-else that's just him—the scent you've never been able to name but have always recognized. His breath is warm on your neck every time you lean close, and it hitches slightly every time your fingers brush bare skin. You can feel his eye on you, tracking your movements, watching your face. Neither of you speaks.

This is when you notice it.

Now that the blood is gone. Now that the dirt and grime have been washed away. Now that you know he's going to be okay—that the cuts are already closing, that the bruises are already fading at the edges, that he's not going to bleed out on his bedroom floor. Now that the fear has subsided and the adrenaline has faded and you're just a girl wrapping bandages around a boy she's known for seven years.

Now you notice.

The way his shoulders taper to his waist. The lean definition of muscle in his arms—even bruised, even battered, even with one shoulder still sitting wrong. The way his stomach tenses under your hands every time you tighten the bandage, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. The trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel still wrapped around his hips. The way his jaw looks in profile—sharp and strong and dusted with stubble he hasn't shaved in days.

You've seen him a thousand times. You've patched him up more times than you can count. You've seen him shirtless and bleeding and broken. But you've never let yourself really look before. You've never let yourself notice the way your pulse picks up when you're close to him. You've never let yourself acknowledge that the heat pooling in your stomach isn't just concern.

You look now.

You can't help it. After everything—the fight, the fear, the three weeks of silence, the confession that's still hanging in the air between you—you can't keep pretending you don't see him. All of him. The way you've always seen him.

He catches you.

His eye meets yours. His gaze is steady, unblinking, even with the other eye swollen nearly shut. There's something in his expression—something raw and unguarded and a little bit terrified. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he's seeing you see him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

"...What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm checking your bandages."

"You've been checking the same bandage for like a minute." His voice is rough, but there's something underneath it—something almost teasing, almost familiar. Almost like the Peter you knew before he disappeared.

"I'm being thorough."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are. Your ears are doing that thing."

"My ears don't do a thing."

"They do. They always have." He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs, but his eye doesn't leave your face. "They go all pink. First the tips, then the whole ear. It's how I know you're lying. They've done it since we were 17. Remember that time you told Smith you'd finished your essay on Shakespeare and your ears gave you away?"

"That was one time."

"It was at least four times. I kept count."

"Of course you did."

"I remember things." His voice softens. "About you. I always have."

The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy. You're still holding the bandage. Your hands are still resting against his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady now, no longer racing.

"Focus on your injuries," you say.

"I'd rather focus on—"

"Peter I will slap you."

"Sorry."

You finish wrapping his ribs in silence. Your movements are efficient, practiced, but your hands are trembling slightly. You hope he doesn't notice. He notices everything but maybe, for once, he'll pretend he doesn't.

The gash on his side is clean and closed. The bandages are secure. All that's left is the shoulder.

You step back. Take a breath. Look at him—really look at him—sitting on the edge of his bed with his ribs wrapped and his arm hanging useless and his one good eye fixed on your face.

"It's dislocated."

"...Yeah."

"I'm putting it back."

"...Do it."

"Just like that? Do it?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "What do you want? I'm trying—I've been trying all night—I don't know what you want from me."

"Anything! Something! You've been silent for three weeks, and now you're just—just sitting there like—"

"Like what?"

"Like this is normal! Like you crashing through windows and bleeding everywhere and pushing me away is just something I should accept!"

"I'm not asking you to accept it." He stands up—too fast, his ribs protesting, his face going pale. He sways on his feet but doesn't sit back down. "I'm asking you to reset my shoulder. That's all. Just—reset my shoulder, and then you can yell at me all you want."

"You think this is about yelling at you?"

"I think you're angry, and you have every right to be. So be angry. Shout. Throw things. I don't care." He gestures at his shoulder, frustration twisting his features. "But I can't—I can't think straight with this thing. I can't give you what you want when I can barely stand up."

"What I want is for you to stop running."

"I'm not running. I'm right here."

"For now. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about the next time some villain decides to use me to get to you?"

"I don't—"

"You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know, and instead of figuring it out together, you just—you left. You decided for both of us."

"Because I was scared!"

"You keep saying that! You keep saying you were scared, like that makes it okay!"

"It doesn't make it okay! Nothing about this is okay!" He's shouting now, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "I know it's not okay. I've known it's not okay since the moment I stopped answering your texts. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't know what else to do. Every time I try to—to let someone in—"

"You push them away first."

"...Yes."

"That's not protection. That's cowardice."

"I know." His voice drops. "I know what it is. I've always known."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"Because I don't know how to stop!" He turns away from you—stumbles, really, his bad shoulder throwing off his balance—and braces his good hand against the wall. His back is to you now. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid, the way his head is bowed. "I don't know how to stop being scared. I've been scared since the day I got bitten. Scared of what I can do. Scared of what I can't do. Scared of losing people. And you—you're the person I'm most scared of losing. So I thought—I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less. If I was the one who left, I wouldn't have to watch you leave."

"I wasn't going to leave."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." You step closer—close enough to touch him, but you don't. Not yet. "I've been here for years, Peter. Through everything. Through the bite, through Ben, through Gwen, through every disaster this city has thrown at you. I've never left. I've never even thought about leaving."

"That doesn't mean you won't."

"It does, actually. It means exactly that." Your voice softens. "I'm not going anywhere. I've never been going anywhere. But you have to let me stay. You have to stop making decisions for me. You have to trust me enough to let me choose."

He turns. His eye meets yours. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable and terrified.

"How?" he whispers. "How do I do that?"

"I don't know. But we figure it out together. That's the point."

Silence.

"Your shoulder," you say. "Sit down. Let me fix it."

He hesitates. Then he nods—just once—and lowers himself back onto the bed. You move to stand in front of him, positioning your hands on his shoulder. The joint is swollen and wrong under your palms, the bones misaligned. You've read about how to do this. You've never actually done it before.

You pause. Look at him.

"I helped you sew your first suit."

He looks up, confused. "What?"

"We stayed up until four in the morning. My fingers were bleeding from the needle. You kept apologizing, and I kept telling you to shut up." You hold his gaze. "Did you really think I didn't know what I was choosing?"

His expression cracks. His hand comes up—hesitates for just a moment—then rests on your hip. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your jeans. "...No. I guess I didn't."

"On three. One—"

You do it on two.

The joint slides back into place with a sickening pop. He cries out—a raw, broken sound that tears from his throat before he can stop it—and his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His forehead drops to your stomach. His whole body shakes. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot through the fabric of your shirt.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"It's done."

"That—" He takes a shaky breath. Another. "That hurt more than the fight."

"Deserved."

He laughs—wet, broken, muffled against your shirt. It's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone who's been holding everything in for too long and has finally run out of strength to keep doing it. His hand is still on your hip. His forehead is still pressed against your stomach. You can feel his breath through the fabric, warm and ragged, and the faint tremor that runs through his body every few seconds.

"You're still holding onto me," you say.

"...Yeah."

"Are you going to let go?"

"...I don't want to."

His hand tightens. His thumb traces a small circle on the fabric of your jeans—an absent, unconscious gesture, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Neither of you speaks. The silence is different now. Less angry. Less charged. Something softer.

"I love you," he says. His voice is muffled against your shirt, barely audible.

He lifts his head. His eye meets yours. And despite everything—the blood, the bruises, the broken window, the three weeks of silence, the argument that's still echoing off the walls—he smiles. A real smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger. The one you've loved since you were fifteen years old, even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.

He's still holding onto your hip. You're still standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to count his eyelashes. The room is quiet. The broken window lets in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city—a siren, a car horn, the rumble of the subway. The photo on his nightstand is still toppled over. The glass is still swept into a pile in the corner.

None of it matters.

"I love you too" you say. "In case that wasn't clear."

"It was clear. It was very clear."

He kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's not the kind of kiss you imagine when you let yourself imagine this—which you have, God, you have, more times than you'd ever admit. Those imaginary kisses were soft. Tentative. The kind of first kiss that happens after a confession, after years of waiting, after everything finally falls into place.

This is not that.

This is desperate. This is his good hand fisting in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you closer, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. This is his split lip catching on yours, rough and swollen, and the faint copper taste of blood on his mouth. This is his breath—ragged, uneven, half a sob caught in his throat—mixing with yours.

He kisses like he's drowning. Like you're air. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks—for years—and he's finally, finally letting himself breathe.

His hand slides from your shirt to your jaw, his fingers trembling. They're cold. They're always cold after a fight, after the adrenaline fades and his body remembers it's supposed to be in shock. But his palm is warm against your cheek, and his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like he's memorizing it, like he's been wanting to do this for so long he doesn't know where to start.

You lean into him, careful—so careful—of his ribs, his shoulder, the bruises spreading across his chest like spilled watercolor. Your hands find his face, your fingers brushing the edge of his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead, the stubble along his jaw. He flinches—not from pain, but from the gentleness. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like no one's ever touched him like this before.

His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your jaw, still trembling.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Stop."

"I can't—"

"Stop apologizing."

"I don't know how else to—"

"Then don't. Just—" You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Your lips brush his, and you feel him exhale—a shaky, broken sound—and his hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you back like you're the only thing holding him together.

An hour has passed.

You've swept up the broken glass. Found an old board in the garage to cover the window—you'll fix it properly tomorrow. You've made tea, your hands moving on autopilot, reaching for the mugs you've always used. The blue one with the chip in the handle is yours. Peter's is the red one with Minnie Mouse on it.

Peter is in bed. His ribs are wrapped. His shoulder is back in place. The bruises are already fading to yellow-green. He's been watching you move around the room.

"You should sleep," he says.

"I'm not tired."

"You've been up all night."

"So have you."

"I have accelerated healing. What's your excuse?"

"Do I really need one?"

You set down your mug. Walk over to the bed. He shifts to make room for you, wincing, and you climb in beside him. His head finds the curve of your shoulder. His arm drapes across your waist. His fingers find the sleeve of your hoodie—the one he left at your apartment last year, the one you never gave back.

"You kept it," he murmurs.

"Of course I kept it."

"It's been like a year."

"It smells like you."

"...That's either really sweet or really creepy."

"Shut up."

"Much more creepy than it is sweet though"

You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the sound fills the quiet room. The sun is starting to rise outside the broken window—pale grey light creeping over the rooftops of Queens.

"I love you," he says, already half-asleep.

"I know."

"The fuck is 'I know'? you have to say it back."

"I love you too, maybe" you smirk

"...Good. I can work with a maybe temporarily."

His eyes close. His breathing evens out. His hand relaxes on your sleeve.

"Still here," you murmur. "Not going anywhere."

His brow smooths. His grip relaxes.

You stay exactly where you are.

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

Ned, seated besides him and already half-squealing, leaned in and whispered loudly, “Dude. Dude. Dude!”

Peter didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not until you turned around from your seat in the front row and gave him the kind of smile that poets tried to describe for centuries and never quite succeeded. You nodded once. Simple, polite, and kind. Peter’s grip slipped on his pen, almost knocking it off the desk.

When the bell rang, he moved like he was in a dream. Still shell-shocked, he mumbled as he shoved papers into his backpack, “Holy shit, I can’t believe this.”

“I know,” Ned breathed, eyes wide, trying not to scream. “What are the chances? Did you see the way she smiled at you? That was a real smile. Like, an actual human being smile.”

“I died a little inside,” Peter muttered. “She’s so—so—”

“Hey, Peter!”

He froze. Mid-bag-zip. Ned’s eyes flicked to a spot just behind him with the wide-eyed reverence of someone watching a miracle unfold.

You stood there, balancing your books in one hand, your backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, sunlight filtering in behind you like it was in on the moment too.

“I just wanted to grab your number,” you said, voice syrup-sweet but casual, like it wasn’t the most important thing Peter had ever heard. “Figured we could plan out the project now so we’re not scrambling later, you know? Finals week is already going to be a nightmare.”

Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then, too much did.

“Y-yeah! I think, uh—that, um—school. I mean—cool! Cool. That’s… great.” He winced as he said it, internally hitting himself in the face with a metaphorical frying pan.

You smiled wider, not cruel or mocking—just amused in that kind, soft way of yours. He fumbled to unlock his phone, nearly dropping it in the process, his fingers too jittery to function properly. Somehow, somehow, he managed to get the contact screen open and handed it to you like it was a sacred object.

You typed. Sent yourself a quick text. Handed it back.

“When would you be free?” you added, eyes warm. “You could totally come over to my place after school sometime if that works.”

Peter blinked. Nodded too fast. “That sounds amazing! I mean—not amazing. I mean—normal amazing. Like, yeah. I’ll check my schedule and text you?”

“School,” you said, lightly teasing. “See you later then. Bye, Peter. Bye, Ned. Have a good day!”

“Bye!” Peter choked out.

“Bye!” Ned echoed, sounding like someone who had just been knighted.

You disappeared out the door, a trail of soft-scented air and stunned silence in your wake.

Peter turned to Ned with the look of someone who had just seen the face of God.

“She said bye to me too,” Ned said dreamily.

Peter just nodded, dazed. “I think I might be dying.”

“No, dude,” Ned whispered, wide-eyed. “I think you’re living.”

Peter blinked, then muttered, “Okay… what does it actually mean when she asked for my number?”

Ned didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out his phone with a grin, already typing. “Only one way to find out. Let’s Google it. ‘Why do girls ask for your number?’”

They leaned over the screen, scrolling through results that ranged from seriously helpful to totally ridiculous. A few said it meant she was interested, others joked it was just politeness, and some insisted it was a test. Ned chuckled, reading one aloud: “If she asks for your number, bro, you’re already halfway to winning.”

Peter snorted, shaking his head. “Great. So, either I’m winning or I’m about to totally mess this up.”

Ned grinned wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Dude, you’re way past the first base. This is a good sign. Like, really good.”

Peter’s grin spread, heart pounding a little faster, a cocktail of hope and nerves swirling inside him. He knew he had three chances—three strikes—before he could really mess this up. But for now, this felt like a promising first pitch.

Peter arrived ten minutes too early. Which was, in his opinion, the worst kind of early. It was early enough to seem overeager, suspicious even, like he had run to your place from school or had no life of his own. Which—sure, was maybe a little true—but he didn’t want you to know that.

He stood outside your apartment door, four flights up with a slight stitch in his side and the thud of his pulse echoing somewhere near his throat. The hallway was quiet, painted in that familiar off-white of lived-in New York buildings, with doors spaced unevenly and the faint scent of takeout trailing from a unit somewhere below. He double-checked the number. Up four flights, left, straight down the hall, one right, third door on the left. Yeah. This was it.

But he couldn’t knock yet. That would be—what? Too eager. Too much. He leaned against the wall to the side of the peephole so you wouldn’t catch him pacing like an idiot through the fisheye. And then he started rehearsing.

Hi. No—hey. Hey sounds cooler. Hey! Wait, no, not that loud. Also, say something about the project. Maybe comment on the weather? Was the weather even important right now? What if you smelled really good and his brain stopped working again?

He gave himself eight minutes. Not seven. Not nine. Eight felt just right—long enough to pretend he hadn’t been waiting, short enough to not seem uninterested.

Finally, he decided to knock.

He ran a hand through his brown curls, fingers twisting and adjusting like it was some secret ritual—a quiet habit he’d fallen into whenever he knew you were close. It was less about vanity and more about wanting to look just right, to keep those unruly waves from betraying how much he cared, how much he hoped you’d like what you saw.

The door opened almost instantly. Which immediately short-circuited his brain. Like you’d been standing there on the other side, waiting for him too. (You hadn’t. Obviously. Right?) But still—it knocked the breath right out of his chest.

And then there you were. Backlit by apartment-light glow and framed like something out of a memory he hadn't made yet. You were wearing something soft-looking, and there was the faintest hint of something sweet in the air behind you—lavender, maybe, or whatever sunshine would smell like if it decided to settle in human form.

Peter panicked.

"Hey!" he blurted, way too loud, like someone had hit the volume dial mid-word. He winced the second it left his mouth, already picturing himself hurling down the stairwell like a Looney Tunes character who’d just embarrassed himself in front of the most incandescent person alive. Strike one.

But you just smiled. A real, lazy, easy one, the kind people don’t fake.

"Hey," you said back, soft like it didn’t need to try. Like you didn’t even register how hard the world trembled when you spoke.

Peter stepped inside.

Your place looked like you. Books arranged in stacks that probably made sense to only you. Blankets in soft, buttery folds over the couch. A candle low-burning on the table—citrus and something floral, inviting. A couple of framed pictures. A beach. A dog. You and someone else, mid-laugh. He wasn’t proud of the small flare of jealousy that flickered in his chest, but there it was.

It was all so lived-in. So personal. And he felt like he was trespassing on something beautiful.

You were already spreading out pens and paper across the living room floor, dropping cross-legged with that casual confidence Peter had never managed to master. You gestured for him to sit next to you like it was nothing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He folded himself down beside you, awkward and gangly and trying not to knock anything over or knock into you. His palms were already clammy. He wiped them discreetly on his jeans.

"Okay," you said around the cap of a purple pen you were holding between your teeth, "Rube Goldberg. Hit me. What’s the vision?"

Peter blinked.

You’d said we. Not you, not me. We.

His heart hiccuped, but he shoved the static in his brain aside and tried to focus.

"I was thinking maybe—uh—like a chain reaction that ends with a balloon pop?" he offered. "So we start small. Marble rolls down a track, triggers a lever, maybe knocks over a domino line, which releases a pulley, and at the end—bam. Needle hits the balloon."

You nodded thoughtfully, already sketching with the pen, eyes focused and mouth slightly pursed. You labeled arrows and scribbled “string?” next to a ramp, tilting your head as you thought. Peter stared just a second too long, enchanted by the furrow of your brow and how you twirled the pen like a conductor composing something only you could hear.

And then you laughed at his dumb little joke about the marble being their “hero.” It wasn’t clever, not really, but you threw your head back and laughed anyway, something genuine and loose and perfect. And God, it hit him like a wave.

He laughed too hard in response to a joke you made but too loud.

Strike two.

He braced for the wince, the recoil. But it didn’t come. You just looked at him, amused, like he was some kind of soft surprise.

The two of you built a rough plan. Ramp out of cardboard. Dominoes using old Jenga pieces. A falling textbook that’d trigger the second-to-last step. Every time you explained a section, Peter found it hard to focus on the actual physics and not just the sound of your voice—animated, bright, like sunlight bouncing off the surface of a lake. He watched the way you pointed, the way you smiled when you thought a design idea was clever, the way you leaned close without flinching.

You had laughed. You had listened. You had chosen to sit next to him, had invited him into your home. It wasn’t a glitch in the universe and it wasn’t a cosmic prank.

When the sun dipped and shadows stretched across the room, you glanced at the clock and gave a soft, surprised “Whoa,” like time had sprinted past you both. Peter packed his things carefully, not rushing, but feeling that inevitable weight settle—time to leave.

You walked him to the door, arms crossed loosely, leaning in the frame like a movie still he didn’t know how to stop staring at.

"I’ll text you," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "With my schedule and, uh, other project-related logistics and—stuff."

You grinned, cocking your head. "Okay, school."

Peter smiled, shy and stupid. Nodded too many times before turning toward the stairwell.

He descended the steps like someone who had been blessed and struck by lightning at the same time. His mind was looping—your laugh, your smile, the way your knee had brushed his just barely when you leaned in to fix a ruler angle. The scent of your apartment clung to his hoodie like a secret.

He hadn’t struck out.

Not tonight.

Peter showed up with a bag full of snacks and a nervous system on high alert.

He’d spent almost twenty minutes at the corner store, pacing the same two aisles, trying to decode years of casual observations and background details you probably hadn’t realized you’d given him. You’d gone to school together for a while—shared classes, lunch tables near each other, moments at student council events or club meetings—and Peter had always paid attention. Too much attention, probably.

He’d seen you pop open a bag of sea salt popcorn once during finals week and share it with someone. Noted. He’d overheard you once say gummies were “a superior candy, but only the sour peach rings, obviously.” Noted. He remembered you picking M&M’s out of a trail mix and tossing the rest into your friend’s hands like a peace offering. Also noted.

So, he brought all three.

The popcorn. The peach rings. The M&M’s. The popcorn was the first decision, but the last two for safe measure just in case the first was wrong. He knew he was as over prepared for every scenario, catastrophizing snack-based rejection like it might kill him, but he didn’t dare to risk it.

You opened the door only a few moments after his knock he, hair tied up in a way that made you look more casual and somehow even more dangerous. Your dog—small, scruffy, some chaotic mix of poodle and gremlin—barreled past your legs and launched directly at Peter’s shins like he’d been expected.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you laughed, catching the door with your foot. “She’s obsessed with people. And by people, I mean anyone who gives her even an ounce of attention.”

“I’m flattered,” Peter said, trying not to trip as he knelt down. The dog immediately licked his face, paws scrabbling at his hoodie.

“She likes you,” you said, a little surprised. “She’s picky, actually. I think she likes smart boys. That, or you smell like treats.”

Peter grinned, reaching into his bag and holding up the snacks. “Speaking of… I, um, brought options. Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just grabbed a few things.”

A lie. He’d picked them carefully, like answers on a test he couldn’t afford to fail.

“You overthought this,” you said gently with a knowing smile as you looked at the assortment.

Peter coughed. “Aggressively.”

But then you took the popcorn and opened it with a soft, “This is my favorite, actually,” and something in his chest eased.

You made your way to the living room—same setup as before. Floor space cleared, blueprints spread out, tools and tape and cardboard pieces like debris from a very nerdy storm. Your dog settled beside Peter’s thigh, curled like a comma, one paw still touching his jeans. You didn’t talk much at first, just worked in a state of focus. And Peter watched you in the quiet, trying not to get too caught up in the way your concentration looked like something he wanted to cherish.

He noticed it when you were tightening a screw into one of the levers, the tip of your tongue just barely peeking out between your lips. Your right eye squinted more than your left, mouth slack with focus, brow dipped in determination. It was such a small detail, but to Peter, it was unfairly beautiful. Like watching someone mid-creation—some prehistoric sculptor gently willing a machine to life with their bare hands.

You didn’t notice him watching, not at first at least.

“Need help?” he asked, eventually, voice softer than normal.

You nodded without looking up. “Can you hold this down while I fit the weight? It keeps shifting.”

He reached over, careful not to bump anything, and placed his fingers beside yours.

When his skin brushed yours—barely more than a whisper of contact—Peter froze. Not outwardly, but inwardly, every cell in his body collectively hit pause. He was suddenly aware of every nerve ending, every inch of skin, every single molecule of air between you. His breath hitched. But you didn’t pull away. You just pressed the screw tighter, your hand steady beside his. And when the piece clicked into place, you looked over and smiled, like you’d felt the electricity but weren’t scared of it.

“Perfect,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Peter said, voice hoarse. “Perfect.”

You didn’t finish the full blueprint that night, but you got farther than you thought you would. Somewhere around the moment you got the pulley to work without jamming and the marble actually rolled through the first part of the track, you both sat back on your heels and just smiled.

“That actually worked,” you said, eyes wide.

Peter let out a low, incredulous laugh. “That actually worked.”

The project was far from being finished, but it was something and a breakthrough of sorts. A win for the night.

You leaned back against the couch and your dog immediately climbed into your lap, as if sensing the triumph and wanting to share in it. You scratched behind her ears absently, your gaze drifting toward Peter.

“Thanks for helping,” you said, voice low now, almost sleepy.

Peter smiled. “Thanks for trusting me not to mess it up.”

“You’re not really the mess-it-up type.” you said.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Just let the silence settle over you both again, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, you walked him to the door again. Your dog padded after him like she didn’t want him to leave either. Peter bent to scratch her head one more time.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, trying to make it sound casual. Normal.

You nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He stepped into the hallway, bag lighter now, heart full in a way that made him feel both weightless and unbalanced.

No strike out tonight.

Not after you said you’d see him tomorrow.

Second period U.S. Government was winding down with the slow, sputtering rhythm of a dying wind-up toy. Peter was supposed to be taking notes on judicial review—Marbury v. Madison, checks and balances, the whole crumbling architecture of American legal precedent—but the words blurred together like background noise. Mr. Dell stood at the front of the classroom, monotoning his way through the concept of precedent with all the enthusiasm of a sleep-deprived librarian reading a tax manual. The whiteboard behind him looked like it had been used to solve a murder—half-erased terms, vague dates, the faded fingerprints of every class that came before.

Peter’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then a third time. The low hum in the pocket of his hoodie felt like it was synced with his heartbeat, tapping out a rhythm that had nothing to do with politics. He shifted in his seat, knees jammed beneath the desk, and risked a glance downward. The notifications glowed against the screen like tiny digital fireflies.

He didn’t even need to open them because he knew who they were from. Knew it the same way you know rain’s coming, or that a memory’s about to hurt. That reflexive warmth bloomed in his chest—unexpected and involuntary. He couldn’t help it. He was smiling. Idiotically, helplessly.

Ned, seated to his right, didn’t miss it. He leaned in like a zoologist mid-discovery, eyes narrowing with suspicious delight. “Why are you giggling?” he whispered, like Peter was breaking some unspoken man-code.

“I’m not,” Peter whispered back, way too fast and already giving himself away. He lifted one hand to shield the screen like it might deflect embarrassment. “Shut up.”

Ned tilted his head and caught just enough of the message previews to grin. “What even is that?”

Peter kept his voice low, flushed and cornered. “She’s been sending me TikToks,” he muttered. “Said the wombats reminded her of me.”

Ned blinked. “Dude. You are so gone.”

Peter didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because yeah—he was. Gone in the truest sense of the word. His thoughts had left the room, the school, the state. All because you had taken two seconds out of your day to think of him and send him something stupid and sweet and weird. And suddenly, judicial review seemed about as relevant to his life as trigonometry on a pirate ship.

The rest of the day dragged in slow motion. Hallways blurred. Bells rang like echoes from underwater. Every class, every minute, every meaningless worksheet just pulled him closer to one thought, louder than the rest: you were coming over to his place for a change.

He’d asked you that morning and tried to play it cool. A casual “We could work at mine after school?” said in a tone he hoped read as neutral and not I’ve already vacuumed twice in anticipation. You’d smiled and said yes like it was the most normal thing in the world, and Peter had nodded like he didn’t want to scream into his backpack.

By late afternoon, the city had gone golden. Sunlight spilled through the buildings like honey, turning the sidewalks soft and blurred, everything slow and syrupy. His apartment had never looked so clean. He’d vacuumed the rug three times, shoved every loose sock into the black hole of his closet, sprayed Febreze like it was sage in an exorcism. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the smell of traffic and fading spring.

And then—your knock.

Peter opened the door too fast, heart already in his throat, and his stomach dropped the second he remembered. May. She stood behind him with rubber gloves still on, holding a sponge and a grin like she’d been waiting for this.

“Oh!” she said, brightening like someone stepping into a punchline. “Is this her? This is her.”

Peter wanted to melt into the floor. “May!”

“I’m May,” she said, stepping forward like she was announcing a royal title. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

You didn’t even flinch. You stepped forward, warm and calm. “Hopefully all good things! It’s really nice to meet you. Peter always brags about you.”

May’s face softened into something fond. “Of course all good things! He told me you’re brilliant. You should’ve seen him obsessing over this project. Wouldn’t shut up about—”

“Okay, thank you!” Peter interrupted, his voice a little too high. “May, go. Shoo. Groceries.”

“I wasn’t even leaving yet.”

“You are now.”

May peeled off her gloves and grabbed her purse like this was a sitcom, and she’d been cast as the comic relief. “Use coasters!” she called as the door clicked shut behind her.

Peter exhaled, turned around, already mid-apology—and then froze.

You were standing by the TV, tilting one of the family photos toward the light. One of him, kindergarten age, bowl cut and all, grinning with a mouthful of baby teeth and a suspiciously large backpack.

“Oh my god,” you said, holding it up beside his face. “You were so cute, Peter.”

He nearly choked. “What—no. I look like a bobblehead. That haircut must’ve been some kind if punishment.”

You grinned. “Same face. Just smaller.”

He was still recovering from that when you flopped down onto the couch like gravity had finally caught up with you.

“This project is eating my soul,” you groaned.

“I can make you coffee?” he offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

You peeked at him, one eye open. “Right now?”

“If you want. We’ve got this new machine—it does foam.”

“Only if I don’t have to stop working. This blueprint’s gonna kill me.”

“Death by marble,” he said solemnly, disappearing around the corner.

“Death by kinetic chain reaction,” you called after him.

Peter whispered your order under his breath as he got to work. Peppermint mocha. Peppermint mocha. Peppermint mocha. He fumbled through the motions, burned his thumb on the steam wand, forgot the syrup until the last second—but when he handed you the mug, your smile made it all worth it.

You took a sip, eyes closing in theatrical bliss. “No joke, this might be the best coffee in Queens.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Might be a future in this for me.”

The mood shifted, softened. The apartment felt smaller in a good way, like it had curled itself up around the two of you. Peter made himself a cup and turned on the speaker, scrolling through playlists while trying to avoid anything too on-the-nose. You were back on the couch, cross-legged, tapping your pencil against your notebook, humming as you skimmed notes.

Then the song changed.

You paused, head tilting. “This is literally my favorite song ever.”

Peter blinked. “Frank Ocean?”

You nodded. “‘Ivy’ is my everything.” Then, softer: “I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me,” you sang, quiet and faraway, your eyes chasing something past the window.

Peter tried to follow along, catching the next line. His voice cracked on the high note. “The start of nothing, ooh, I had no chance to prepare—” He winced. “Yeah, I give up.”

You laughed—laced in sugar, warm at the edges—and he grinned, watching it bloom out of you like a sunrise.

“That was... wow. You could totally be on Broadway,” you said, sarcasm curling through your voice like smoke.

“I was terrible,” he said, still smiling. “But it made you laugh.”

It had. And you kept smiling, even after you turned back to the blueprint. You bumped shoulders once, casually, and then didn’t move away. The music washed over the apartment, soft and slow. You kept brainstorming while he kept nodding along. It was quiet in the way that feels full rather than empty—like something humming just below the surface.

A new track faded in—Rex Orange County’s “Sunflower.”

You gasped, eyes lighting up. “Peter Parker. No way. I love this song.”

Peter looked over at you, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yes!” you nodded, already swaying a little. “Sunflowers are my favorite. So obviously—I’m obsessed.”

He watched you for a beat, quietly captivated. “Sunflowers are pretty,” he said softly, almost to himself as he made a mental note.

You turned to him, grinning. “Okay, your music taste is actually impeccable. I’m gonna need you to send this playlist to me like—immediately.”

He grinned, flushing. “I could make you a playlist. If you wanted.”

You met his eyes. “Or we could make one together. A project within the project.”

He nodded, heart loud in his ears.

And maybe the blueprint didn’t get finished that night. Maybe the marbles and levers and ramps stayed scattered in half-sketched fragments across the table, but your laughter filled the room. You drank the rest of your coffee and asked him about his favorite albums. You teased him when he couldn’t find the remote. You stayed until the sky outside went dark and the apartment lights felt like stars.

And when you finally left, after a million soft goodbyes and one last smile from the doorway that made his lungs seize—

Peter closed the door gently behind you and leaned back against it, eyes shut, heart still racing.

No strike out tonight.

Not with you laughing in his living room like that.

The next afternoon unfolded like a quiet unraveling—slow, imperfect, and a little chaotic. Outside, the sky had dulled to the soft gray of early evening, streaked with gold where the sun still tried to fight through. Peter’s apartment smelled faintly of acrylic paint, microwave mac and cheese, and something vaguely citrus from the candle he'd forgotten to blow out.

By now, every surface was cluttered. Rulers slid to the floor every time someone shifted. Hot glue strings webbed the coffee table like spider silk. The floor was a minefield of cardboard scraps, rogue marbles, popsicle sticks, and several tiny gears that had gone missing and were definitely now embedded into the carpet. You sat cross-legged amid the mess like a queen in a war-torn kingdom, hands streaked with metallic red and blue, sleeves pushed up, focus sharp as a scalpel.

Peter, meanwhile, was trying to reattach the rubber band mechanism to the makeshift wheel, jaw clenched in the kind of concentration that made him forget to blink.

That’s when he noticed it.

A single streak of blue paint, cutting a diagonal line across the bridge of your nose—barely there, crooked and smudged, like someone had drawn on you in the middle of a dream. At first, he tried to ignore it. Thought it would pass. But once he saw it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. It wasn’t just the paint—it was you, lit in that soft, end-of-day glow, wholly absorbed in something you cared about. Beautiful in the way people are when they’re not thinking about being seen.

He lasted maybe thirty minutes before cracking.

You looked up, catching the stare he hadn’t realized had gone on too long. One eyebrow arched. “What?”

“There’s, um…” He motioned vaguely to his own nose. “Paint. Just—on your—yeah.”

You blinked, confused, before pulling out your phone to check the camera. “Wait what? Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you looked…” He hesitated, then added more softly, “Can I?”

You nodded.

He leaned forward, brushing his fingers gently across your skin—tentative, reverent. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, maybe a thousand years. His hand was warm and your breath caught. There was a pause, still and bright, like something delicate had landed between you both and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

“It’s flaking everywhere,” you said, voice breaking the silence with a laugh—light, a little embarrassed.

Peter smiled, eyes still on yours. “Guess that’s it. Painting privileges revoked.”

You rolled your eyes but bumped his shoulder anyway as you leaned back over the blueprint, now torn and coffee-stained and rewritten a dozen times. Dominoes lined up in shaky confidence. A ramp made from the inside of a cereal box curved at an improbable angle. The pulley system, once hopeful, now drooped like it had been through a war.

“Moment of truth,” you said, placing the marble at the start.

Peter gave a mock-salute. “Godspeed, little guy.”

You let it go.

The marble rolled, picking up speed with an urgency that felt personal. It hit the dominoes, which clicked down one by one like whispered promises. The lever tripped. The pulley jerked to life—

—and then the entire thing collapsed in a dominoes-and-glue-stick catastrophe. One side folded. The ramp cracked off its tape. The final trigger didn’t trigger anything.

You made a noise like pure despair and buried your face in your hands. “We are so screwed. This is due in two days, and it’s actually cursed.”

Peter didn’t panic. Not even a little. He just exhaled slowly and leaned closer, his voice softer than the mess deserved. “We’re close. We’re just… almost.”

You peeked out between your fingers, expression tired but open. “You really think we’ll finish?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We’re a good team.”

Something in his tone made you pause. Not the words, but the way he said them—quietly certain, like he’d already decided you would, like failure wasn’t an option as long as it was you and him sitting in this wreckage together.

And somehow, you believed him.

You let your hands fall into your lap, paint-streaked and callused and shaking just slightly from hours of trying. He reached for the loose ramp to start again, and you moved with him, shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping. There’d be more disasters. More marbles launched in the wrong direction. More duct tape failures and coffee spills. But right then, in the golden hush of a shared mess and shared effort, something steadier than success settled between you both.

No strike out tonight.

Not with your shoulder pressed against his and the world quietly falling into place.

You arrived at Peter’s apartment after class with that look he was starting to memorize—the kind of exhaustion that ran deeper than sleep could fix, your cheeks pink from the wind, your eyes half-lidded with the weight of everything you were carrying. Finals week had set the entire school ablaze, and you were in the center of it. It showed in the slump of your shoulders, in the soft sigh you let out when he opened the door and offered a quiet, understanding smile.

You both settled on the dining room table without much fanfare, surrounded by the now-familiar chaos of your physics project—half-built ramps, rogue dominoes, post-it notes curling at the corners. The contraption had taken over the table's entire surface, the floor, and possibly your lives, but neither of you had the energy to care anymore. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon from an old candle and the outside hum of Queens buzzed through the cracked window, soft and distant, like the world was exhaling just beyond the glass.

Peter had been ready to dive in, thinking maybe tonight would be the night it all clicked into place—the blueprint complete, the marble path finally functional. But thirty minutes in, you slumped forward, cheek pressed to the table like a white flag being raised in slow motion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “I’m just gonna lie down for a sec.”

He nodded instinctively, though his hands stilled over the half-taped lever he'd been trying to reinforce. You didn’t wait for permission—you just folded into yourself, cheek resting against your arm, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the week had finally outpaced you. Your breath slowed into a rhythm so gentle it was almost melodic, the kind of cadence Peter knew he’d remember without ever needing to write it down.

Peter froze, caught in the strange gravity of the moment. Something about the way you slept—unguarded, trusting—made his chest tighten and soften all at once. Like he was watching a snow globe settle after being shaken. Like the universe had pressed pause just long enough for him to feel everything all at once.

He moved carefully, careful not to disturb the peace you’d folded into. The chill in the apartment made the hairs on his arms stand up, and he realized—blanket. You needed a blanket. Something warm and soft that could be between you and the rest of the world for a little while.

He padded into his bedroom and returned with one of the softer throws they kept on hand for movie nights and winter mornings. Gently, he draped it over your shoulders, adjusting the edges until it tucked neatly around your frame. Still, something in him pulled taut—like it wasn’t enough.

Peter peeled off his sweater without thinking, folding it into a makeshift pillow. He reached for you with the kind of adoration he usually reserved for the last piece of a fragile prototype, lifting your arm just slightly, slipping the sweater beneath your head with the precision of someone who’d mapped this movement out a thousand times in his mind. And when your cheek relaxed against the fabric, when your lips parted just a little in your sleep—he felt something crack open in his chest.

His heart thudded painfully loud, too big for the room, too loud for the silence. He sat back down beside you and picked up the paintbrush again, hands steadier now even as his thoughts spiraled. He worked without thinking—soft strokes to patch the spot that had peeled off, his mind only half-aware of what he was doing. The city outside buzzed faintly, like background noise in a dream.

Then—your voice.

A whisper, fractured and thick with sleep. Barely formed, but it caught him like a hook in the chest.

“Peter… like you… so much.”

He froze.

The paintbrush slipped from his fingers. The screwdriver followed, landing with a soft clatter on the rug. The sound didn’t wake you, but it rattled through him like a thunderclap.

He stared.

At you. At the sweater. At the faint curve of your lips and the invisible line you’d just drawn between what he thought he imagined and what had just become real.

You’d said it.

Or maybe your dreaming self had, which would make it not count. But Peter didn’t care. His brain had stopped listening to logic three heartbeats ago. He couldn’t look away. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe around the bloom of feeling that cracked like lightning across his ribcage.

You stirred.

Your lashes fluttered, then lifted. You blinked up at him with a soft confusion that gave way, slowly, to clarity.

“I, uh… fixed most of our, um, issues,” he said quietly, voice cracking on the first word like it was learning how to speak all over again.

You blinked again, then winced slightly as you sat up, brushing hair from your face. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how long I was napping for. You’re an angel, Pete.”

He shook his head, eyes darting down as if looking directly at you might undo him. “It’s okay. You looked tired.”

Your smile was tired, crooked, radiant. “I was. Thanks for the blanket. And the… pillow upgrade.”

Peter coughed, looked anywhere but at you. “Yeah. It, um, looked uncomfortable.”

The moment lingered, like it didn’t want to leave.

Together, you reset the machine—gently, this time, like something sacred. He placed the marble into the start position. You adjusted the line of dominoes until you finally let it go.

The marble rolled. The ramp held. The dominoes fell in perfect, elegant rhythm. The pulley spun. The lever dropped. And at the end of it all—with a sharp, triumphant pop—the balloon burst in a spray of glitter confetti, the final piece Peter had added while you’d been asleep.

You laughed—head thrown back, bright and golden and unfiltered. Peter grinned at the sound, chest aching in the best way.

You turned to him, eyes still wide with wonder. “It worked.”

He nodded, cheeks flushed, heart full.

No strike out tonight.

Not when there was a chance it wasn’t unrequited after all.

The machine worked. Not just functioned, but dazzled.

It started with the marble poised at the very top of a cardboard ramp. The class watched in breathless stillness as Peter set it down with the kind of admiration usually reserved for ancient relics. Then you gave a subtle nod, and he let go.

The marble rolled. Fast. Clean. Every motion happened exactly as it was supposed to. The dominoes clicked one by one like the ticking of a perfectly wound clock. The miniature pulley jerked into action, lifting a pencil, triggering a springboard, releasing a toy car that rammed into a cup of water, which tipped, pulling a string taut—

And then: pop.

The balloon burst in a shimmer of gold confetti. Someone gasped audibly while another clapped on instinct. Then the room exploded into applause.

Mrs. Schwartz actually laughed, clapping loudest of all. “Best project I’ve seen in all my years working here,” she said, and there was a wicked little glint in her eye as she glanced between you and Peter—like she knew exactly what she'd done when she paired you up.

Peter looked at you. You looked at him. And for a moment, the entire world was confetti and light.

After class, the two of you moved through the hall like you shared a secret the rest of the building hadn’t figured out yet. Peter took your books without being asked—half-chivalry, half-excuse to keep his hands busy while his brain scrambled to find a smooth way to ask if maybe, possibly, you wanted to come over after school. He was rehearsing something casual in his head—Hey, if you're not busy, I was thinking maybe—

“I think I left my ruler at your place,” you said suddenly, digging in your bag and frowning. “Mind if I stop by and grab it real quick?”

Peter blinked. Then nodded. Then over-nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah! Of course. Totally. Come by.”

The walk to his apartment was warm with sun and sidewalk chatter, a few gulls circling above and some kid blowing bubbles on the stoop across the street. The city felt quieter than usual, or maybe just kinder. Every bump of your shoulder against his felt deliberate and unrushed, like the walk was a destination on its own.

At the door, Peter hesitated, words caught somewhere between nervous and hopeful. “Hey… uh, would you mind waiting just outside for a minute? I need to check something real quick.”

You gave him a curious, slightly wary smile, the kind that said okay, but what’s going on?—then you shifted your weight on your heels, stepping back into the quiet hallway just beyond the door.

Peter closed the door gently behind you, the click echoing in the stillness like a starting gun. Without a second thought, he spun on his heel and practically sprinted down the short hall to his room. His heart hammered louder than his footsteps as he dove behind his desk chair and grabbed the bouquet he’d stashed there earlier—sunflowers, bright and wild, almost ridiculous in their brilliance, just like you. Nestled among the golden stems was the folded note he’d agonized over—written and rewritten until every word felt like it might finally say what his voice never could.

His hands trembled as he picked up the flowers, breathed in their faint, sweet scent, and for a moment, everything else fell away. You. The sunflowers. The hope tucked inside a few carefully chosen lines of script.

He took a steadying breath—then another—and stepped back toward the door.

“Okay,” he called softly, voice catching. “You can come in now.”

The door creaked open, and you stepped through just as he turned, arms full of sunflowers, the note peeking shyly from between the stalks. Your face shifted, the way light shifts across glass—first surprise, soft and almost stunned, then awe, disbelief, and finally something quieter, gentler, like the dawn settling slowly after a long night.

Peter swallowed hard.

“You, uh… you sleep talk,” he said, voice already tipping into nervous. “And last night, you said something. I don’t know if you meant it, or if you were dreaming, or if I’m being completely insane right now. And if I’m wrong, if I read all of this wrong, then—God—I’m such an idiot, and you never have to speak to me again, and I’ll just—I don’t know, drop out and move to—”

“Peter,” you whispered.

“—Canada, or like, a cave or something, I don’t—” He thrust the flowers forward suddenly. “I wrote it down. What I was trying to say.”

Your hands closed around the flowers like they were fragile things, the note rustling softly in your fingers as you unfolded it.

Being your physics partner was the best part of my semester. Any chance I could be your partner outside of school?

You looked up at him then, eyes shining with something fierce and bright, a smile blooming wide, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy.

“Can I…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, face burning red. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you stepped closer, your fingers curling around his free hand and holding on tight, steadying both of you. Then a soft laugh escaped you—a laugh full of disbelief and wonder, shaking your head like you couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re so incredibly oblivious,” you said, voice breaking with the weight of how long you’d waited. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

Peter blinked, stunned. “Wait, really?”

You leaned in—closer, impossibly close—your nose almost brushing his. “You're so oblivious, Peter. Yes, of course.”

He grinned, relief flooding him, but then his smile faltered a little, and after a breath, he added, “Or wait—scratch that. I feel like that’s moving too fast. Let me take you on a date first. Unless, you know, I completely made a fool of myself and lost my shot.”

You just laughed again, soft and sure, and squeezed his hand.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “You’re far from losing your shot.”

Peter Parker grinned like someone who had just been handed everything he never thought he could ask for—because, in that moment, he had.

The shop smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, the kind of cozy sweetness that clung to the air and made you want to curl up in it. But despite the warmth, it was quiet—too quiet. The display case gleamed with neat rows of cookies and cupcakes, each one perfectly frosted, waiting for customers that never seemed to come. The only real noise was the steady tick of the clock above the door, its rhythm filling the stillness until you finally let out a sigh and dropped onto a stool behind the counter.

Peter was there, like always. Perched on the counter with his sneakers dangling, he looked perfectly at home in a place he definitely wasn’t supposed to be sitting. He was already halfway through the sample tray you had set out that morning, his fingers dusted with crumbs, a smudge of chocolate caught near his thumb.

“These are delicious,” he said around a mouthful of brownie, words muffled but full of conviction.

You lifted your head just enough to give him a look, part amusement, part exasperation. “Peter, you say that about everything.”

“Because it’s true!” His whole face brightened as he turned toward you, holding up the brownie like he was swearing it in as evidence. His grin was boyish, infectious, a little crooked in the way that made your chest ache if you looked too long.

“Then why hasn’t anyone stopped by?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to, fragile around the edges. You traced the worn grooves of the counter with your fingertip, the sugar in the air suddenly too heavy. “If they’re so good, why haven’t I sold a single thing?”

For once, Peter didn’t have a quick reply. He swallowed, and the teasing curve of his mouth eased into something quieter, his eyes softening in a way that made the moment feel suddenly still.

You turned away quickly, not wanting him to notice too much, but your thoughts had already begun their spiral. The silence pressed in, and in its weight, those old voices began to stir again.

A bakery? What about college? your parents had asked, the lines of worry etching deeper with every word. You need a degree. A steady path. School first, dreams later. Otherwise… it’s not going to last.

They hadn’t understood why the idea of classrooms and lecture halls felt so hollow compared to the warmth of a kitchen, the hum of ovens, the smell of sugar melting into butter. Why the thought of baking for people—of creating something sweet enough to carry them through the hardest days—felt more important than any syllabus ever could.

Still, their doubts lingered. They always came back when you locked up early, when trays of untouched pastries stared back at you like unfinished promises, when the bell above the door stayed silent no matter how long you waited.

Peter had been one of the few who never questioned you. He was there from the beginning—scribbling logo sketches on napkins at a crowded coffee shop, leaning over your notebook with a grin and far too many opinions. He taste-tested your recipes until he was practically living on sugar, and he never stopped telling you it wasn’t crazy to chase what you loved.

At the time, it had seemed like the right move.

But now?

You stared at the cupcakes behind the glass, the frosting catching the light in perfect little swirls. Then your gaze slid to the “OPEN” sign in the window, and for a moment, it almost felt like the quiet itself was taunting you.

“Maybe this was a mistake.” The words came out before you could pull them back, too quiet, too heavy.

“Hey. Don’t say that.”

Peter’s voice cut through immediately, low but certain. He pushed himself upright from where he’d been sitting on the counter, sneakers squeaking as he shifted to face you fully.

“You’ve worked too hard for this to be a mistake,” he said, and though his eyes were soft, there was something firm beneath them—like he needed you to believe it as much as he did. “It’s just… a rough patch. Everyone has those. Besides—” his lips tugged into that smile you knew too well, “—you make the best brownies in New York. I swear.”

Before you could argue, he snagged the last brownie square from the tray of samples and leaned across the counter, holding it out to you.

“I know what my brownies taste like, Peter,” you said, aiming for stern but the warmth in your voice gave you away

He didn’t back down. Instead, he leaned closer, nudging the bite toward you until it hovered just shy of your lips. His brows lifted, wordless challenge written across his face: go on, prove me wrong.

You caved with a roll of your eyes, a reluctant smile slipping through despite yourself. Your fingers grazed his as you took the brownie and popped it into your mouth. The rich chocolate melted across your tongue, and a quiet hum escaped before you could stop it. 

Peter’s expression lit up like he’d just won the lottery. He leaned away, the corner of his mouth curving with a satisfied little smirk.

“Now tell me that isn’t the best brownie you’ve ever had,” he challenged, smugness woven into every word.

You tried to fight it, but laughter broke through, bubbling out of you until you had to press a hand against your mouth. 

“Exactly.” Peter pointed at you with mock triumph, grinning wide. “Honestly, you could give any bakery in Queens a run for their money. Probably the whole East Coast.”

You shook your head, another laugh slipping free. “Okay. Now you’re pushing it.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.” His smirk softened into something steadier, a smile that felt quieter, almost like it was meant just for you.

He knew it wasn’t a cure-all, not yet. The doubts would circle back, maybe even tomorrow. But right now, you were laughing again—and for Peter, that was just step one.

The next morning unfolded in its usual routine. You flipped the sign to OPEN, set a plate of samples by the door, tied your apron, and settled behind the counter to wait.

Outside, the city flowed past in waves—people rushing with coffee cups, coats brushing against each other, not a glance spared for your window. You used to lift your head at every passing shadow, hopeful, but that habit had faded. You knew better now.

The clock ticked in steady rhythm, the sound stretching each second longer than the last. The hours crawled, weighed down by the same silence that had become a little too familiar for your liking. 

And then—

The bells above the door rang out.

The chime shattered the stillness, sharp and bright. You nearly jumped, heart leaping so suddenly it left your hands trembling against the counter.

Someone had actually come in.

But it wasn’t the sound that stunned you.

Your gaze lifted, and the sight froze you where you stood.

Red and blue filled the doorway, sunlight glinting off web patterns stretched over broad shoulders.

Before you knew it, your mouth had parted, the word tumbling out in disbelief.

“…Spider-Man?”

He stood framed in the morning light, the suit impossibly bright against the muted colors of your shop. The door clicked shut behind him, and then—like this was the most natural thing in the world—he strolled up to the counter.

“Morning!” His voice was cheerful, muffled through the mask but somehow still carrying that unmistakable warmth. “So, uh, I’ll take… let’s see…” He tilted his head as if studying the display case with the same focus he gave the city. “A dozen cookies. A batch of brownies. Oh—and cupcakes. Gotta have cupcakes.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “What?”

Leaning casually against the counter, he dropped his voice a notch, like he was letting you in on a secret. “Big day in the city. Lots of crime to fight. Figured I’d stock up.”

Your mind couldn’t catch up, but your hands didn’t seem to care—boxing baked goods, stacking cookies, moving on autopilot. Every time you looked up, it only got stranger: Spider-Man, in your bakery, debating cupcake flavors like this was a normal Saturday for him.

By the time you rang him up, it still didn’t feel real. He stood there with cash in hand, tapping his gloved fingers lightly against the counter, calm as ever.

The bell chimed again when he left, the door shutting behind him as he disappeared into the rush of morning traffic, carrying the scent of sugar with him.

It hit you then, so fast you almost forgot to breathe.

Your first real customer—your first real sale—was Spider-Man.

You almost laughed out loud. Surely that would be the strangest thing to happen this week. Maybe this month.

But while you stood frozen behind the counter, still reeling from the sight of him walking out with pink boxes stacked in his arms, Spider-Man already had the rest of his plan in motion:

Step two.

The city roared beneath Peter as he swung high between skyscrapers, the boxes secured to his back with a neat band of webbing. He wasn’t chasing criminals today—not exactly. His mission was sweeter.

He landed on the edge of a crowded street, springing lightly to the pavement and pulling out one of the boxes with a flourish. “Fresh from the best bakery in Queens—actually, scratch that—the best in New York,” he said, tone teasing but proud. 

Heads turned, phones lifted, but his grin was for the two wide-eyed kids nearest him. He pressed cookies into their small hands, crouching until he was eye level. Chocolate smeared instantly across their smiles, and Peter leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Be sure to stop in and tell her who sent you.”

Their eager nods made his chest ache in the best way.

The rest of the day unfolded like that. Spider-Man became less of a crime fighter and more of a one-man delivery service, swinging across blocks with boxes tucked under his arm. He handed cupcakes to a delivery guy juggling too many packages, slipped a cookie to a tired nurse waiting at the bus stop, and even traded a brownie for a balloon just to make a little girl laugh. 

Each time, he said it like a promise:

“Go check out the bakery. Best in Queens. And don’t just eat—tell her.”

Word spread fast, faster than any sugar rush, but the city never stayed quiet for long. Peter was working through the last box when the wail of a store alarm cut through the street. His head snapped up just in time to see two men sprint past with bags banging against their legs. He sighed, set the box carefully on the curb, and vaulted upward.

Two web zips and a quick thwip later, the thieves were dangling upside down from a lamppost, muttering curses while a small crowd clapped. The cops arrived moments later, and Spider-Man snagged the waiting box before they could thank him.

“Donuts? Nah,” he said, pressing the brownies into one officer’s hands like it was standard procedure. “You need these. Trust me—way better.”

By late afternoon, only crumbs clung to his gloves. He stood on a fire escape above the street, the city humming beneath him, bathed in gold. He thought about how many smiles those boxes had sparked, how many strangers were walking away today with chocolate on their tongues and your bakery’s name on their lips.

A small group of teens spotted him from below, waving and shouting his name. He leaned against the railing, grinning behind the mask.

“Alright, guys,” he called, voice carrying over the traffic. “You know the drill. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Then go tell her. She’s the real hero.”

Their cheers followed him as he stepped onto the railing, fired a webline, and launched himself back into the city, the last light of day trailing after him.

Step two was done. Now all he had to do was wait.

Back at the bakery, the evening crept in as you stood to close up. The silence after Spider-Man left pressed in on you like nothing had even happened. No new customers. No rush. Just you behind the counter, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the too-neat rows of untouched sweets still gleaming beneath the glass.

You reached for the sign on the door, fingers brushing the cool edge as you flipped it to CLOSED. 

A laugh slipped out, thinner than you intended, echoing in the empty shop. “Of course my only customer today was Spider-Man. Figures.”

You tried to play it off with a shrug, but the sting was still there, sharp beneath the joke.

The next morning, you unlocked the shop with a sigh, already bracing for another long, empty day. The bell jingled dully as you stepped inside. You flicked on the TV for background noise, tied your apron with slow, practiced movements, and began arranging the day’s samples.

Your phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

And again.

You frowned, wiping your hands before pulling it from your pocket. The screen lit up in a storm of notifications. Mentions. Tags. DMs piling so fast you couldn’t keep up. Videos and photos filled your feed, all of one subject.

Spider-Man.

Your breath caught as you scrolled.

There he was, swinging through Queens with your bakery boxes strapped to his back, sunlight glinting off the webbing that held them secure. Another clip showed him crouched low, handing out cookies to a pair of kids who clutched them like prized trophies. The comments rolled in beneath, relentless and dizzying:

“Is THIS the shop Spider-Man was talking about???”

“Going here today. Who’s coming with me?”

“Spider-Man approved!!”

Your hands trembled as you kept scrolling, pulse racing faster with every new post. The flood of comments blurred before your eyes, excitement bubbling off the screen so quickly you could hardly breathe. 

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

And then—

The Bugle Segment.

The TV screen cut sharply to J. Jonah Jameson, already mid-rant on the Daily Bugle's live broadcast. His face was a blotchy shade of red, mustache bristling like it might leap off his lip at any second.

“Spider-Man—menace, criminal, sugar dealer apparently—was spotted yesterday handing out baked goods across the city like some kind of Willy Wonka in spandex!”

He punctuated the words by slamming a fist down on the desk, papers jumping with the impact. In his other hand, though—completely undermining the tirade—was one of your cupcakes, the wrapper peeled back to the base.

He took a massive bite, frosting smearing across his lip, and barreled on without pausing to swallow.

“Disgusting PR stunt—mmph—he’s corrupting the youth with sugar highs—” another furious chomp, crumbs scattering down his tie “—what kind of vigilante bribes cops with brownies?! Criminal, I tell you!”

The chyron blazed across the bottom of the screen, impossible to miss:

“Spider-Man Promotes Local Business.”

And beneath it, bold and clear, was your bakery’s name.

The chime above the door was the only thing that tore your eyes from the TV—and it didn’t stop. Another followed, then another. People were actually lining up.

Before you knew it, the shop was alive in a way you’d only ever imagined. People filled every inch of space, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls as you scrambled to keep up. Cupcakes vanished from trays faster than you could frost them, cookie boxes stacked high behind the counter, the register dinging over and over.

You rushed between shelves, apron dusted in flour and sugar, trying to keep pace with the flood of orders. A dozen cookies here, brownies there, three cupcakes with sprinkles—it was hectic, exhausting, and yet your cheeks ached from smiling.

You barely noticed the bell this time, too caught up in the rhythm of it all—until a familiar voice cut through the chaos, warm and teasing.

“Busy day?”

Your head snapped up so quickly you nearly dropped the box in your hands.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, hair mussed, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked completely casual, like he hadn’t just missed an entire day of classes, like he hadn’t been suspiciously absent through all the madness.

“Peter.” His name left your lips on a breath, equal parts relief and confusion.

He glanced at the crowded shop, then back at you, a faint smile forming. “Guess I picked the wrong day to skip the free samples, huh?”

You laughed, soft and incredulous, the sound catching in your throat as you filled another box with cupcakes. He grinned wider at that, but there was something softer beneath it—something steady and quiet, like he knew exactly what this moment meant to you.

“Want an extra hand?”

“Yeah. Please.” It came out breathless, caught somewhere between helpless and thankful.

He didn’t hesitate. Tossing his bag into the corner, he slipped behind the counter like he belonged there, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the first box without a second thought.

Even with Peter at your side, the rush didn’t slow. The bell above the door rang endlessly. Orders piled high on the counter. Voices overlapped in waves, the shop buzzing with more life than you’d ever seen.

Between two orders, you darted toward the back to grab more boxes, squeezing past a group of teenagers debating whether to get one cupcake or six. 

Just as your hand reached for the swinging door, you felt a small tug on your sleeve.

You turned, blinking.

A little boy, no older than six, stood in front of you with a brownie clutched tight in one hand. Chocolate smudged the corner of his mouth, his other hand still loosely holding onto your sleeve like he didn’t want you to miss what he had to say. 

“Spider-Man said you make the best brownies in New York, so it has to be true!” he declared proudly, voice piping above the chatter.

Everything around you softened.

The laughter. The lines. The constant ding of the register. For a moment, it all blurred at the edges. All you could see was him, and the chocolate on his smile, and the way your heart gave a quiet, aching twist at his words.

You smiled down at him, warm and full and maybe a little glassy-eyed. “He said that?”

The boy nodded, like there was never any doubt.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it could actually be true.

By the next hour, you were completely sold out. Every brownie, every cookie, every cupcake—gone. Only a few stray crumbs lingered in the trays, quiet proof that something sweet had been there at all. The last customer waved on their way out, calling over their shoulder with a cheerful promise to return tomorrow.

You crossed to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and this time the motion came with a smile, wide and certain, stretching all the way to your eyes.

When you turned, Peter was there, leaning against the counter, peeling the wrapper from a cupcake he’d clearly saved for himself. He caught your stare and smirked, lifting the cupcake like he was toasting the end of a long shift.

“Well, I’d say that was a pretty successful day,” he said, voice warm with amusement.

Your laugh came quick, loud and full, echoing across the now-empty shop. “Yeah. It was.”

The laughter faded, your smile faltering just a little.

“What?” Peter asked, pausing mid-bite, his brow creasing.

You shook your head, brushing your hands on your apron. “Nothing. I just…” You hesitated, glancing toward the window as if you might catch a glimpse of red and blue swinging by. “I wish I could thank him. Spider-Man.”

For a moment, Peter’s posture stilled. His thumb pressed a little too hard into the edge of the wrapper, the paper crinkling softly between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, almost hesitant.

“I’m sure…” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sure he knows.”

You turned toward him, the warmth in his voice tugging something loose in your chest. “I hope so,” you murmured, stepping closer. “But even if I can’t thank Spider-Man…”

Your voice gentled as you came to stand in front of him, the distance between you shrinking to nothing. “I can thank you. You’re kind of a lifesaver, you know.”

Peter blinked, looking momentarily lost, like he didn’t quite know where to put that kind of praise.

“You’ve been here through all of it,” you said, the beginnings of a quiet smile touching your face. “You’ve listened to me stress about the shop, tested every recipe, eaten more frosting than anyone should. You’re a lifesaver.”

Your voice dropped, the words falling softer, closer to something unspoken.

“Thank you, Peter.”

He hadn’t expected that. He thought the gratitude in your voice would only belong to someone else—to Spider-Man, not him.

It caught him off guard.

Still, the response came easily, like it lived somewhere deep in him.

“Of course.”

Then, before he could stop himself, something else slipped out—words that felt too natural, too true to hold back.

“I’m just… happy that you’re happy.”

The air shifted, warm and still, like even the world had paused to listen. 

It wasn’t teasing. There was no deflection or joke to hide behind. Just something real, something simple.

And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

Peter cleared his throat, small but telling—like he’d only just realized how that last line had sounded.

“Uh…” His voice came out deeper than before, a little rougher around the edges as he focused on splitting the cupcake in two.

He lifted one half, offering it to you with a crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the warmth behind it.

“Victory bite?”

You smiled despite the flutter in your chest, taking the piece from his hand without saying a word.

The cupcake was soft against your fingers as you bit into your half, the flavor rich and warm, sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. Peter did the same, though he took his half in one bite—because of course he did—and then wiped a bit of frosting from his thumb, pretending not to notice the way you were watching him.

Then—

He leaned back, that effortless ease finding its way to his face again. “Alright,” he said, tone low but playful. “Tell me again about the Bugle segment. Word for word.”

You tried, but laughter hit before you even got a full sentence out. The memory of Jameson ranting on-air, frosting still on his face, was too much.

“He called Spider-Man—” you started, breath catching as you fought another laugh, “—a menace, a criminal, and a sugar dealer. All while eating one of my cupcakes.”

Peter’s lips curved, but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, quiet amusement softening into something else.

His gaze lingered on the way your shoulders shook, the sound of your laughter spilling into the shop, your voice hitching on the edges of words you could barely get through.

And that was the point of all of it. The swinging, the deliveries, the whole crazy plan.

For this.

You, standing here, happy and glowing and alive in a way you hadn’t been in weeks.

Which meant one thing.

Mission accomplished.

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They called him names and not the creative kind—just the cruel, empty ones. Know-it-all. Teacher’s pet. Weird. Stuck up. He didn’t understand why answering questions made them hate him. He liked the gold stars the teacher gave for getting answers right. Ten stars meant you got to pick from the prize box, and the prize box had bouncy balls and sticky hands and plastic dinosaurs—and Peter loved plastic dinosaurs.

So, he answered the questions. He collected the stars and kept to himself. He told no one when the other kids laughed at him, or called him names, or moved their chairs away from his during circle time. He didn’t want to make a fuss because he really didn’t want to be a problem. He figured it didn’t really matter—he was the one with the dinosaurs, after all.

Then you moved to Queens. New girl, middle of the year, sat right next to Peter Parker like it was the most obvious place in the world to be. You noticed right away—how they treated him. The whispering, the laughter, the way no one ever picked him for partner work. You were loud and opinionated and full of the kind of righteousness only very small people with very big hearts can possess.

“That’s not nice,” you said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the recess bullies who’d made Peter cry behind the monkey bars. “You’re being bad.”

They laughed at you next. For your sparkly Skechers and your glitter hair clips and your big words, but you didn’t flinch nor did you care. You marched right up to them, stubby finger pointed like a weapon, and gave a speech Peter couldn’t hear from where he sat—sniffling and dirt-streaked on the playground mulch—but could only watch unfold like some kind of tiny superhero movie.

Whatever you said, it worked. Their shoulders dropped, their mouths stayed shut, and they stopped laughing.

And then you turned on your heel, marched back to Peter, and held out your hand like it was a declaration of war and friendship all at once.

“My mommy says you should treat people how you wanna be treated,” you informed him, like it was the law of the land. “You wanna do the monkey bars?”

Peter blinked at you, stunned silent. You were everything he was not. Loud, brave, and radiated like the sun itself. He wasn’t sure he understood why you’d stood up for him, but he knew one thing: he’d never forget that you did.

“I’m not good at them,” he mumbled, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’ll teach you,” you said, already climbing up beside him like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m really, really good at it. Watch me!”

And so you coached him through every bar—each swing, each slip, each triumphant reach. You cheered when he made it to the end, called him “a monkey now,” and told him he earned a prize box toy even if the teacher didn’t give him one.

And that day, on the kindergarten playground beneath a pale blue sky, Peter Parker learned that maybe the world wasn’t so sharp when someone like you was in it.

Fact two: he loved to share and especially with you.

Peter Parker always shared what he loved.

It was how he learned to say I love you, before he knew that love needed words. You, who always sat beside him at lunch no matter who else asked. You, who stomped on bullies and helped him conquer monkey bars and called him “Petey” like it was a badge of honor. You, with your Tinkerbell lunchbox and fruit snacks and complaints about how “bleh” your sandwiches were every single day.

“You’re so lucky,” you said once, dramatic as ever, as you poked through the contents of your lunch like they might magically change if you just believed hard enough. “You get pizza Lunchables and chocolate pudding and Caprisuns. I get turkey. Again.”

Peter glanced at his food—his rare treasure of plastic-wrapped joy—and hesitated only a second before sliding his pudding cup toward you.

“Here,” he said. “You can have mine.”

Your eyes lit up like Christmas. “Really?”

“Really,” he said again, quieter this time. He watched you open the pudding, your face soft with delight. He didn’t tell you that it was his favorite part of lunch. He didn’t need to. Watching you enjoy it felt better somehow like a secret only he got to know.

That was the thing about Peter—he never gave anything halfway. Whether it was pudding or time or the last piece of cake, he gave it all like it meant something. Because to him, it did.

He didn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after. Or after the weekend, either. And by Monday, something in your chest had tightened too much to ignore.

You made your parents drive you to his house. You brought a Snickers bar in case he was sick, because you remembered he said chocolate helped headaches. But when the woman who answered the door wasn’t his mom or his dad, your stomach dropped.

She whispered with your dad. She said accident in a voice that was careful and slow and a little too quiet. And then she called Peter down, and he stood in the hallway with tears in his eyes and his brown curls a little messy, and he looked smaller than he ever had before.

You didn’t say anything. You just hugged him. And he cried into your shoulder, shoulders shaking, fists clutched tight in the fabric of your sleeve like he didn’t know how to let go.

You gave him the Snickers bar without splitting it like you’d planned. He needed the whole thing.

“I’ll get you all the Snickers in the world, Petey,” you whispered.

And you meant it.

Because love, for Peter, always looked like this—shared pudding cups and held hands and a chocolate bar in grief’s quiet aftermath. The kind of love that stays, even when everything else is gone.

Fact three: he blamed himself when you got hurt.

Peter Parker didn’t know how not to care.

Not even when it wasn’t his fault. Not even when everyone told him it wasn’t. Guilt, to Peter, wasn’t about logic—it was about consequence and hurt. And if someone he loved was hurt, then he should’ve done something, should’ve known, and should’ve been there.

It had rained the day you cut your hand—just enough to make the sidewalk slick, just enough to make your shoes slip when the dog you were walking pulled too hard on the leash and you lost your balance. It wasn’t a deep cut, not really, just a jagged little gash from the tip of a fence. It didn’t need stitches, just pressure, a wad of gauze taped tight to slow the ooze. Maybe a Band-Aid later, one with cartoon characters on it, when most of the cut healed. But it bled, bright and insistent, and you cried, and Peter wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been there.

He had heard about it through Aunt May. One call from your mom, and he was already pulling shoes on the wrong feet, gripping the handle of the first aid kit with white knuckles like he could somehow rewind time if he just ran fast enough. The guilt sat in his chest like wet cement.

You opened the door with a confused smile, still wet-cheeked from crying, your voice hoarse but warm. The worst had passed and you were okay, but Peter’s eyes were wide and glossy as if it had just happened right in front of him.

“I came as fast as I could,” he said breathlessly, holding up the first aid kit like a peace offering.

“Peter, I’m okay,” you told him gently. “My parents already patched me up.”

“But you still cried. I can tell,” he said, his voice thinner than usual, like it might crack if he let it. “I should’ve been there to help. I should’ve held the leash or walked with you or—I don’t know, done something.”

“You weren’t even with me,” you reminded him with a giggle, like it made any difference.

But it did. It made all the difference. And yet still, it didn’t.

“I’m supposed to look out for you,” he said, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to the bandage on your hand like it burned him just to look at it. “And I didn’t.”

“I’m a big girl, it’s okay. I’m okay, Petey.”

“Yeah, but—someone else has to make sure you’re okay, okay.”

You gave him a look. One of those raised-eyebrow, lip-squished-together kinds that only kids could get away with without sounding mean. “What, are you gonna fight the sidewalk next time?”

“If I have to,” he muttered.

And the thing was, he meant it. In the way only Peter could—genuine and aching and too soft for his own good.

You laughed. Not to make fun of him, but because it was easier than crying again. “Well then, I hope you’ve got a plan. The fence by Delmar’s is the meanie that did this to me.”

He nodded seriously. “Fence won’t know what hit it.”

And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you patted the spot beside you on your bed and said, “Wanna play trains?”

Peter hesitated. “I don’t wanna hurt your hand.”

“You’re acting like I got stabbed,” you snorted. “It’s a scratch, Peter. I can still play with trains.”

Still, he sat carefully, as if one wrong move might break you. You didn’t say anything about it—just handed him the blue engine and pressed play on the little track, the sound of whirring wheels filling the silence between you.

Peter didn’t stop watching your hand for the rest of the afternoon. Not because he didn’t believe you were okay, but because he needed to see it for himself. Over and over. Until the guilt stopped ringing in his ears like a warning bell. And even though it didn’t, sitting besides you helped his ache.

And maybe that was another fact worth adding—fact three and a half: Peter Parker never knew how not to overthink when it came to you. And for better or worse, he never wanted to learn.

Fact four: he kept every card you ever gave him.

Peter Parker was the kind of boy who remembered everything that made him feel loved.

That’s why he kept it all—every card, every doodle, every post-it with a dumb joke or half-done drawing, tucked carefully into a shoebox under his bed. It sat beneath looseleaf homework and forgotten action figures, but the box was sacred to him. A paper trail of every time you’d ever thought of him just because. Some notes were detailed and silly, others just a word and a smiley face, but of course, he could never bring himself to throw any of it away.

He was always a sentimental kid. Earnest in ways most middle school boys were still trying to hide. He liked having feelings and liked showing them. And even if he'd never say it out loud, he liked that you never made him feel weird about it because he was a boy.

He told himself that was just the way he was raised—by people who loved him soft and loud and without condition. But a part of it, maybe the biggest part, was you.

You saw the world the way he wanted to see it: a place where kindness didn’t have to be earned, where friendship wasn’t some transaction, where love—whatever version of it he was starting to feel—wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

Even when middle school got messy, and people started changing, posturing, growing into their sharpness too fast—you stayed. Somehow, even as the two of you evolved in different directions, you never drifted. You were louder, more bold, more magnetic. And Peter, quiet and observant, content to watch the world from the side of the room, was still the one you always gravitated toward.

You were different in the ways that made sense together like chords in the same song. And Peter never took that for granted.

He loved the way you argued with him—rarely, but always honestly. The way your apologies were real and careful and full of intention. He loved that you fought for him, even when he didn’t ask, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it. And he especially loved the way your gifts always meant something. Not big, flashy things, but you-things. The kind of things no one else would’ve thought to give.

Like for his thirteenth birthday.

You’d treated him to Delmar’s, ordered him that strange, flat sandwich he liked and pretended not to gag when he ate it, even though your nose scrunched with judgment. You baked him cupcakes with blue frosting and rainbow sprinkles and sang happy birthday just off-key enough to be charming. And then, of course, there was the card.

He opened it slowly and you watched him like it was a performance. The cover had been drawn with marker—stick figures of you and him with ridiculous cartoon eyes holding up tacos with speech bubbles that said "Lets taco ‘bout your birthday!" Inside, there was a note, messy and heartfelt and impossibly you.

Then came the gift: a small keychain with a tiny Lego figure.

“I made a mini me,” you said, pulling out your own keys to show him the match. “So I’ll always be with you. And you’re with me. Cute, right?”

Peter had blinked too many times, trying to slow his smile. He held the little Lego you with reverence, like it was worth more than anything he owned.

“I love it,” he said quietly. And he meant it. God, did he mean it.

Because in that exact moment, somewhere between the frosting and your grin and the miniature version of you swinging from his key ring, Peter realized something he’d been pushing down for a long time.

He loved you. Not just in the way best friends loved each other. Not just as the girl who made him feel less alone. But in the deep, terrifying, impossible way.

And he didn’t say anything.

He just tucked the card into the box under his bed after you left.

Fact five: lying to you was the hardest thing he ever had to do.

Peter Parker was never good at lying.

Even before the spider bite, it just wasn’t in his nature. His face gave too much away and his conscience just made everything worse. Aunt May always said he wore his heart on his sleeve and every secret in his eyes.

So the first time he lied to you, it broke something in him.

A long afternoon at the arachnid exhibit, buzzing with chatter and crumpled permission slips and half-interested students leaning against the glass. You’d wandered off with some other friends, but Peter had stayed behind, lingering by a particularly sleek glass enclosure with a spider labeled something vague and unpronounceable.

The bite was quick and unexpected like a sharp pinch. 

When you found him moments later, rubbing at his hand, eyes glazed and unfocused, you noticed right away.

“You okay, Pete?” you asked, brows knitting with concern.

“Yeah,” he said too fast. “I’m all good.”

It was the first time he lied to your face, but it wouldn't be the last.

You frowned, studying him the way you always did when something felt off. You didn’t believe him—not really—but you didn’t push. Instead, you reached for his wrist and tugged him gently toward the next exhibit.

“C’mon,” you said, voice softening. “We’re gonna get stranded.”

So he followed. Quiet the whole way back. Quiet the rest of the day. And the next. And the one after that.

Peter had never kept anything from you before, but now, everything felt like a secret. The changes came slowly at first. The dizzy spells. The way he’d flinch when the lights were too bright, or wince when someone brushed past him in the hallway. The reflexes. The headaches. The sudden muscles. He didn’t tell you about the spider. Or what came after. He didn’t tell anyone.

And then Uncle Ben died.

The world shifted overnight, making everything soft in Peter harden. The guilt rooted itself so deeply inside of him, he didn’t know where it ended and where he began. And from that grief, Spider-Man was born.

He didn’t tell you about that, either, but you noticed, of course. You liked to say you knew him better than you knew yourself, but when you asked questions and he gave you answers that weren’t answers, your feelings began to hurt.

“I’m fine,” he’d always say, tugging down his sleeves or averting his eyes.

“Bullshit,” you said the night you caught a glimpse of his back when he peeled off his hoodie after a heat wave. You’d been sitting on his bed, tossing popcorn into your mouth, and caught sight of the muscles that hadn't been there before. “When did you get abs?”

His face flushed deep red. He scrambled for a shirt.

“I’ve been working out.”

You snorted. “Peter, I’ve known you since you were five. I’ve never seen you touch a weight. You flinch when you see basketballs.”

“I just… started. Recently.”

You tilted your head at him, not buying it, but letting it go—just like you always did.

And that became the rhythm. A push and a pull. Peter disappearing, coming back, telling half-truths laced with real ones. You let him. Because whatever was happening to him, you knew he was still Peter underneath it. Still your best friend. Still the boy who remembered your favorite flower, who held you when you cried, who couldn’t lie to save his life—except now, he had to.

Except now, it was the only way he knew how to protect you.

Fact six: he almost told you he was Spider-Man about a hundred times.

Peter Parker loved to talk.

Not with everyone—but with you? Always. If something sparked his curiosity, even a little, he’d go off like a wind-up toy. Science facts, theories, niche Star Wars lore, weird animal trivia—he’d just keep going, voice animated, hands moving with it. You never minded. In fact, you loved it. You loved that part of him that was just yours, the way he opened up around you in a way he didn’t with anyone else. Like it was some secret only you got to keep.

And maybe that’s why it hurt him so much to keep the biggest secret of all.

Peter almost told you he was Spider-Man the first time you shoved your phone in his face with a YouTube clip of a shaky, grainy, footage in the city. “He’s so cool,” you’d breathed, starry-eyed. “Have you seen the way he swings around? Like, what the hell?”

He wanted to tell you right then. Wanted to bask in the look on your face when you realized he was the one you were so amazed by.

But he didn’t.

Peter almost told you when you ran into him—as Spider-Man—on patrol one evening. He’d been crouched on a rooftop, catching his breath after a car chase, and there you were, wide-eyed and breathless on the sidewalk. You shouted up at him, asking for a photo and an autograph. He froze. Not because he didn’t want to—God, he wanted to—but because he knew if he spoke, you’d know. You’d hear his voice and immediately clock it. So he just shook his head, let the eyes on his suit narrow like an apology, and swung off before he could do something stupid.

He almost told you when he woke up in a cold sweat one night and called you. Said he just needed to hear your voice. He didn’t tell you that the dream had started with Uncle Ben and ended with his mom, then his dad, and then a blur of screams and sirens and blood. You stayed on the phone until he fell asleep again. He almost told you then, but the words caught in his throat and never left.

There were a million almosts.

And then there was Ned.

High school wasn’t much different from middle school, which hadn’t been much different from elementary. He had you, school, and May. That was enough. But the Algebra 2 teacher had a thing for assigned seating, and by fate or luck or both, Ned Leeds ended up next to him. They hit it off fast with their shared interests, niche obsessions, and dorky humor.

Peter adored you, of course. But the two of you had grown into different shapes. You were more outgoing now, always getting invited to things he wasn’t even aware of until Monday morning roll call. Parties only upperclassmen were at. You fit in anywhere while Peter never quite figured out how himself. With Ned, though, he didn’t have to. They were both outcasts, but at least they were outcasts together.

Peter never meant for him to find out first, though. You were supposed to be the first. Not Ned, not May—you. But life has a cruel sense of timing, and apparently so did Peter’s ceiling. He had just crawled back into his room on the ceiling after patrol when he realized Ned was present, Lego Death Star in hand (and then on the ground).

Still, it stung—letting someone else in first. He’d always meant for it to be you.

He almost told you when you were baking cookies together for the Decathlon bake sale. You were both in your usual spots—shoulder to shoulder in your kitchen, hands sticky with dough, 10 Things I Hate About You playing faintly in the background. You’d made him watch it a dozen times and even though he voiced how annoyed he was, he secretly liked it. He liked the way you talked about it—how Kat and Patrick were opposites but still found their way to each other.

That part always stuck with him. That maybe the two of you could be like that. Someday.

But then you’d said it—casual, like you weren’t about to shatter his whole reality.

“Jason asked me to homecoming,” you said, dropping a perfect dough ball onto the tray.

Peter’s heart stuttered. “Oh.”

He slowed down, rolled the next one too tight. “And?”

“And I said no,” you shrugged. Dry. Nonchalant.

He looked over, heart still thudding. “You did?”

You arched an eyebrow. “It’s not like you have a date.”

Like it was obvious. Like he was already yours.

He almost told you then. That he was Spider-Man. That he liked you. That the reason he didn’t ask sooner was because he didn’t know how to be both.

But he didn’t.

Because the Vulture was still out there. Because you’d already been used against him once—your name dropped like a threat mid-fight, blood roaring in his ears. And that was all it took. He couldn’t tell you. Not when knowing meant you’d be in danger. Not when he cared about you too much to risk it.

So instead, he showed up to your house on homecoming night with a bouquet of pink peonies—the same ones that used to grow on your windowsill in second grade. Your dad answered the door and clapped Peter on the shoulder, grinning like he knew something he didn’t. And when you appeared behind him, hair done up, hands swishing softly around your dress, Peter felt the world tip. He’d already been a goner, but that night sealed it.

He had the whole thing planned: dancing, laughing, stepping on your toes (even after all those lessons with May), and eventually pulling you aside to tell you everything—about the bite, about the suit, about his feelings for you that he hadn’t been able to shake since you were both barely tall enough to reach the monkey bars.

But the night never went the way he wanted.

The Vulture ruined it.

Peter had to leave. And your face when he did—the glossy eyes, the trembling lip, the soft little why? that echoed in his head for weeks after—nearly broke him.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even text him after. You just… nodded when he found you the next week and apologized. Told him you understood, even if you didn’t.

You danced with Jason that night. Peter was supposed to do that.

And that was the moment he realized the truth: he couldn’t keep you close. Not if he wanted to keep you safe. So he made the hardest decision of his life.

He chose to walk away. Just enough that it wouldn’t hurt you, but just enough that it would destroy him.

Fact seven: he broke his heart to protect yours (ish).

Peter Parker knew that being Spider-Man came with selflessness.

He knew it from watching Tony Stark, from seeing the exhaustion in his eyes behind the armor and understanding—maybe too late—that sometimes the strongest thing you could do was choose the harder path. He knew it from Aunt May, who held her world together with trembling hands and a brave face after Uncle Ben died, never once letting the weight of it fall on Peter’s shoulders. He knew it in the quiet ways—the late nights, the bruises that didn’t heal fast enough, the promises he made to himself over and over again that if it meant keeping the people he loved safe, then he would be the one to lose sleep, to bleed, to break.

So when it came to you, it was no different. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He started distancing himself in ways he hoped you wouldn’t notice. Answering texts later than usual. Making up vague excuses when you asked to hang out. Avoiding your gaze when you walked into the room and instinctively beelined toward him like you always did. You were perceptive though—you always had been—and it didn’t take long for the space between you to feel obvious, gaping, like it had been carved there with intention.

You didn’t let things fester. You were always the first one to bring things to light, even if it meant an uncomfortable conversation. Especially if it did.

So one afternoon, standing just outside the chem lab, with students rushing past in every direction, you stopped him. With that look on your face—the one that meant you weren’t going to let him dodge this one.

“Peter,” you started, folding your arms across your chest, brows drawn together, your voice firm but still quiet enough to keep it between the two of you. “Don’t lie to me. Seriously. I’m not stupid.”

His throat went dry, and he didn’t say anything right away, just shifted on his feet like he wanted to bolt.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you continued, unwavering. “Barely texting, skipping out on everything, acting like I did something wrong when I know I didn’t. You don’t just get to go cold and pretend like it’s nothing.”

Peter looked up then, eyes guarded, jaw tense, like he was trying to find a version of the truth that wouldn’t hurt you. But he wasn’t a good liar, not when it came to you. He never had been.

“I’m not—” he tried, but you cut him off.

“You are. Don’t do that, Peter. Don’t act like I’m imagining things just because you’re too scared to say what’s really going on. I know you. And whatever this is, it’s not just in my head.”

There was a flicker of guilt in his expression, and then he looked away, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

“We’re not kids anymore.”

Just four words, but none of them sounded like him.

Your heart sank—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Detached. Like it was rehearsed. Like it was easier to hide behind something vague and dismissive than admit to whatever was actually happening.

You stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to find the boy you knew underneath the mask he was clearly putting on. But all you saw was someone who had already decided to push you away, and nothing you said could bring him back from it.

“You’re right,” you finally said, voice softer now but still unwavering. “We’re not.”

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t cry or plead for an explanation because you already knew you weren’t going to get one.

“But if being grown up means shutting out the people who love you, then I don’t think it’s something to be proud of, Parker.”

You never called him Parker. It was always Peter, Pete, or Petey when you needed a hug, Peter Benjamin Parker when you were scolding him, Peter Parker when you were worried—but never just Parker. That one hit different. It meant something. It meant you were done asking.

You let the silence stretch between you for a second longer, long enough for him to feel it, and then you turned to leave.

He didn’t stop you and that hurt more than anything he could have said.

Because this wasn’t like the other arguments you’d had before—never cruel, never lasting long, always ending in an apology and some moment of soft honesty to put the pieces back together. But this time there was no apology. Just silence. And you knew, deep down, that the truth he was holding back wasn’t going to be shared with you. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And the worst part? It wasn’t even that he broke your heart.

It was that he broke his own, and somehow still thought it was worth it.

Fact eight: he watched you move on from the shadows.

Peter Parker thought heartbreak was supposed to come all at once—loud and fast like a car crash.

But this one dragged. It lingered in the quiet, like smoke in a room with no windows, like dust that refused to settle.

As much as he pretended not to care anymore, as much as he made himself small in the hallways and busied his hands during class and said he didn’t want to talk about it, Peter couldn’t hide the way it gutted him. Not really. May was the first to notice, her knock gentle on the door at night when the muffled cries slipped past his pillow. Ned started filling the silences Peter used to take up with rambling theories and snarky commentary. MJ told him, flatly, that his eye bags were scary and that he looked like he hadn't seen daylight since Civil War. Even Queens started to wonder if something had changed in Spider-Man—he wasn’t talking, he wasn’t joking, and he hadn’t done a single flip off a fire escape in weeks.

Who was he to think he could actually cut you off like that? That he could walk away from you and not unravel? You were his person—had been, for years. Through every low, every high, every success, every failure. You’d been there before the bite, before the Avengers, before he ever had the idea to be anything more than your best friend with a secret crush and a hopeless heart. But the delusion of heroism, the obsession with self-sacrifice—it warped him. Made him believe that loving you meant leaving you. That protecting you meant making the choice for you, even if it tore him apart.

Even if it killed him to see you laugh at someone else’s joke in fourth period because he used to be the one who made you laugh like that. Even if it killed him to see the keychain of mini him gone from your lanyard. Even if it killed him to spot you from across the room at a party Ned had begged him to go to, leaning in close to a guy he didn’t recognize. Even if it killed him to see your hand—your hand—tangled with someone else’s.

It felt like his heart had been scooped out and left raw, bruised and pulsing with phantom aches. The ache came when you didn’t look at him anymore. When you walked past him like a stranger in the hallway, like he wasn’t the person who used to braid your hair when you were bored or climb through your window on summer nights just to talk. The ache came when he remembered how softly you used to say his name, like it was a secret just for you. And then how different it sounded, sharp and cold, when you called him Parker.

Still, he couldn’t stop. On patrol, when the night was winding down and the streets were empty, he always swung past your window—never on the way, never convenient, but always necessary. Just to see you, to make sure you were okay, and to feel, for a moment, like you still existed in the same world as him.

And when he saw you lying on your bed, talking to your mom through the door, kicking your feet in the air the way you always did when you were comfortable, he felt something loosen in his chest. You looked peaceful again, like the girl who didn’t yet know what it meant to be hurt by him. Like yourself.

You looked up, maybe just a flicker of red and blue, and he swore your eyes landed on him.

He didn’t wait long enough to find out. By the time you blinked, he was already gone.

Because heartbreak didn’t hit him in a single moment. It haunted him in all the ones after—when he had to keep loving you in silence, from rooftops and windowsills, knowing he’d become a ghost in the life he used to be part of.

Fact nine: he never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.

Peter Parker always had a soft spot for you.

He was hopelessly, irrevocably, quietly devoted in a way he didn’t fully understand at first—only that he felt it in his chest like something blooming and aching all at once.

You were the new girl that planted yourself beside him like you belonged there. And instead of ignoring him like everyone else, you noticed. You saw him. Said something bold and too brave for your size, stood up to kids twice as loud, and held out your hand like it meant something. That was it. That was the moment. He didn’t know it then—not really—but something permanently shifted.

From that point on, he would’ve done anything to protect you, to keep you safe, and make sure you never felt unloved. That instinct never left him. Not when he got his powers, not when he started patrolling rooftops, and not even when he made the decision to push you away in the name of protecting you.

Even when you stopped walking beside him and started walking ahead. Even when your texts grew shorter to none, your smile less familiar, your tone less soft. Even when you stopped saying his name.

He never stopped keeping an eye on you. He lingered at the edge of school hallways until he saw you get into your rides. Swung by your apartment building at night just to make sure the lights in your window were still warm. He watched from a distance when he couldn’t be close anymore, and tried to convince himself it was enough. That this was love, too.

And then, one day, he noticed someone else walking beside you. A boy. A jacket around your shoulders. A laugh that wasn’t meant for him.

He didn’t know it was official until MJ mentioned it offhand at lunch, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a moment that cracked something in him wide open. You were dating someone. It was real and it lasted. Weeks turned to months and he kept track without meaning to. If he’d asked you out during last year’s Homecoming like he’d planned, you and him would’ve been celebrating your one-year anniversary right around the time your boyfriend posted the first picture of you two together.

He wanted to be happy for you. He tried. You deserved someone consistent, someone present. Someone who didn’t run out on you when things got hard. But it tore him apart slowly—watching someone else hold the place that was always supposed to be his.

And then one night, months later, he swung past your building on a quiet patrol and saw you through your window. Curled up on your bed, crying and alone.

The sight made his heart seize in his chest. He hated seeing you hurt. Hated that someone else had done this to you. But selfishly, somewhere deep in the part of him he tried not to acknowledge, it meant something to him that you were single again. It meant the door hadn’t closed entirely. Maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed his chance forever.

That thought clung to him like a shadow. It followed him through the city, through every swing, every night. Because even if you never took him back—even if you never forgave him—he’d still never stop loving you.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Luckily for Peter, fate—cruel and unforgiving as it so often was—offered him a rare moment of grace, like a quiet reward for all he had given up, all he had endured.

You were already in your room when you heard it: a quiet thud against the metal of your fire escape, not loud, but deliberate, like a knock with no knuckles. And when you pulled back your curtains, there he was. Peter. Still suited up, though the red and blue fabric was torn and soaked dark with blood and rain, and his mask hung limp in his hand. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, eyes glassy and rimmed in red.

You slid open the window before you could think too hard about it. “What the hell?” you said, half a gasp, half a demand. “Are you okay? Why are you here?”

It was the first time you’d spoken to him in months—your voice rough with disbelief, sharp around the edge, but soft somewhere underneath it all. Happy that he was there—that he chose to come to you first, without needing to be asked. It meant he still cared, despite everything his actions tried to say otherwise.

He stepped inside like a ghost. “I—I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words catching in his throat. “I should’ve told you everything. I should’ve—God, I was so scared. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

You didn’t know what to say. He was shaking, like something had finally snapped, like all the weight he’d been carrying had collapsed in on itself. And when he sank to the floor—on your rug, in front of your bed, hands still trembling—you knelt down beside him.

“I thought I could protect you by walking away,” he said, voice cracking in the middle, “but I just broke everything. I missed you every single day. And I saw you—saw you with him—and I wanted to be happy for you, I did, but it—God, it killed me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He was crying openly now, not holding back like he used to, not trying to be brave or strong. Just a boy in pieces, falling apart in the only place he felt safe enough to break.

You didn’t say anything. You just pulled him close and held him like you used to—arms tight, fingers in his hair, your chin resting on the top of his head.

“I’m gonna grab the first aid kit,” you murmured, brushing his curls gently from his eyes. “Sit still.”

The familiarity of it was what made it hurt but heal.

You patched him up in silence—your touch gentle, practiced—as if no time had passed at all He hadn’t said a word about the suit, and you hadn’t asked. He came to you, still in it, like that answered everything. When it was done, you sat beside him on the floor, knees knocking, both of you staring out the window. Neither of you said much more that night, just sat there quietly soaking in the presence you’d both been aching for.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, you were in the same place—together, unspoken things still lingering in the air, but not pushing you apart.

Fact ten: you’re still the best thing to happen to Peter Parker.

Peter Parker should’ve known that no universe could keep his world from getting tangled up in yours.

Maybe it was because he was the kind of person who noticed the smallest things—the way your laugh shifted when you talked to different people, how the corners of your eyes crinkled more on one side when your smile was genuine, or how your fingers tapped nervously when you were about to say something important. He memorized those moments like they were precious fragments, each one a secret to hold close, as if any second could be the last. Maybe that’s why loving you was never something he could undo or forget.

Inside your apartment, the air was softer, warmer, quieter in a way that felt safe. A blanket was loosely draped over both your legs, his socked feet tangled gently with yours. Half a pizza sat forgotten on the coffee table, its heat long faded, while 10 Things I Hate About You played quietly (again) on the screen, volume just low enough to make the words fade into the background.

You leaned into him, head tucked softly into the crook of his neck—the way you had a thousand times before, even though it had been so long since you allowed yourself to be this close. His hoodie smelled faintly of rain and detergent, and of Peter himself, grounding you in the here and now. One of his arms curled around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy, absent circles over your t-shirt, almost like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

“I think I could come up with ten things I hate about you,” you said suddenly, voice muffled against his hoodie, half-joking but with a teasing edge. “Starting with you pretending like I didn’t exist for a year.”

He chuckled softly, breath warm on your temple. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “I deserve that.”

You shifted to look up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re not even going to argue?”

“Nope.” He gave you a sheepish grin, the kind that made you want to shake your head and smile at the same time. “Because you’re right. I was an idiot. An idiot with a big, fat, capital ‘I.’”

A small smile tugged at your lips, amused and maybe a little smug, and you settled back against him. But then he tilted his head, his eyes softening as he looked down at you.

“I think I’ve got ten facts too,” he said quietly, voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But... they’re not about hating you.”

You blinked, heart tightening without quite understanding why. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, and suddenly, the smile faded from your face as the weight of everything between you settled in. It was Peter—your Peter—still knowing how to floor you without even trying.

A beat passed before he added, softer now. “Actually, there is one hate.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“I saw your keys one day. And you didn’t have the keychain anymore.” He tried to sound casual, like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t been eating at him. “The one of mini me.”

You stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing—disbelieving, incredulous, yet affectionate. “You really are an idiot,” you said, shaking your head. “Those weren’t my keys.”

“What?” he blinked, copying you.

“They were my mom’s. I’ve grabbed her keys by accident more times than I’d like to admit. I never took it off, Peter. I told you—I wanted you with me. Always.”

His expression softened, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. “Oh.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder, your voice quieting. “And I saw yours. Clipped to your backpack. You didn’t take mine off either.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “Guess I’m an idiot in more ways than one.”

“You’re my idiot,” you murmured, without really thinking.

Peter let out a white laugh, eyes still on you. “Then I’m definitely sure about my ten facts.”

The movie continued playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore. Instead, your eyes flicked to the pizza box on the coffee table, half-open, the last slice waiting patiently. Peter leaned forward slightly to grab it.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before he could take it. “There’s one left.”

Peter glanced from the slice to you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s the tenth slice,” he murmured, voice soft but playful. “Kind of symbolic.”

You snorted. “Don’t be corny.”

He tore the slice in half, handing you the bigger piece, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m still saving the last slice for you.”

You hesitated, fingers brushing his as you took it. “Old habits die hard?”

His smile was soft, real, and a little wistful—the kind of smile that carries the weight of all the things you don’t say but feel deeply. “Some habits were never meant to.”

Then he leaned in slowly, pressing his forehead gently against yours. His eyes fluttered closed, like he wanted to freeze this moment in time forever. His nose brushed yours, breaths mingling between lips that hovered—close but patient, tender, and unhurried. There was no rush, no need to escape or hide this time. Just you and him, quiet and unbreakable.

You didn’t speak. You simply looked at him—at the soft curve of his mouth, the familiar scar tracing his jawline, the way he still saw you as his favorite person in the entire world, even after everything that had come before.

Then, with careful certainty, he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate, not the kind of kiss that tried to prove anything. It was steady and sure, a quiet promise made with the gentlest touch—his hand cupping your cheek, his lips pressing softly into yours, the shaky breath he exhaled against your mouth carrying years of everything unsaid and undone.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours again like a puzzle piece, staying like that as if trying to hold the moment still. Because in that stillness—through every scar and mistake, every whispered confession and lingering glance—the only fact that truly mattered was this:

You were still the best thing to ever happen to Peter Parker.

He doesn't stop. "That's okay. You've had a long day."

"No," you say tiredly, struggling out of his light hold in your fatigue to sit up, twisting so you're chest to chest. "I miss you, I don't wanna sleep." 

He brings his hands up to cradle your face, index fingers brushing against the fine hairs on your cheeks. You look beautiful, eyes tilted in their losing fight, lashes twitching, pupils blown in the dim light. 

He strokes his thumbs over your face, pushes gently into the corners of your pretty mouth. 

"Want a kiss, little miss?" he asks you coyly.

You're exhausted enough to forgo your usual groan at his corniness, instead nodding and slipping forward. He savours your familiar weight and the supple gentleness of your mouth, closing his eyes as you move in, arm protective around the small of your back. You sigh into his open mouth. 

Slow kisses interspersed only by little breaths and the tilting of your head as you kiss him silly. He feels embarrassingly dizzy from your attentions, hand faltering in your hair, distracted by your heat and your taste and your small, small sounds. After long, heart aching moments of touching and not much else you break the kiss. Peter let’s his head fall back into the couch cushions, forgetting for a moment where he is. 

He realises you've paused your kissing because he stopped stroking your head and wants to laugh at your uncharacteristic show of brattiness. He takes a gulping breath, hand moving to pet your head, appeasing, as he recovers. You nestle your face into his chest to plant lazy kisses like seeds into the tender skin of his collarbone. He thinks he might die, every brush of your lips a spot of blossoming warmth.

He grips your waist, a sudden reaction to the bursting heat in his chest, and feels the doughy flesh there shaped by his hand as he pulls you impossibly closer. He hopes this pressing of skin says I love you just as loudly as words could. 

You close your lips around his skin, nipping at his collarbone playfully and yet enough to have his fingers seeking refuge in your hair. He guides you away, hissing as he feels your teeth and their cruel scraping. 

"Sorry," you murmur, lips already moving up, pressed with the utmost care into the jut of his Adam's apple. 

He knows touch is how you show love too, feels the fondness in your hands as they coast his sides, needling under his back. 

"S'okay," he whispers. 

Peter encourages your head upward with one hand. Eye to eye he hits your nose with his, up and up until your lips are aligned and he can kiss you again. You're so tired, you're missing his mouth, sloven as you love his bottom lip and the space underneath it. Your cheek slides against his cheek as you kiss the very edge of his lip, and he holds you up obligingly until you fall asleep, lips still searching.

Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.

Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.

The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.

The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.

This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.

You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.

As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.

Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.

You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.

At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.

And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.

Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.

The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.

On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:

For whenever you need a quiet place

— P.P

None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.

You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.

Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.

Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.

To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.

You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.

Your old high school.

There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.

You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.

You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.

The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.

You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.

You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.

You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.

You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.

You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.

Until the thread slacked.

In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.

In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.

Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.

You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.

That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.

“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”

You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”

You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?

You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.

You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.

You entered her mind a second later.

Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.

You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.

Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?

You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.

You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.

You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.

However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.

Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.

He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.

“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.

He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.

You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.

From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.

Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.

He looked up and answered.

It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.

Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.

It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.

That was why you had gone there. To find him.

Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.

He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.

He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.

You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.

Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.

He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.

A memory flashed into your mind.

The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.

“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.

“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.

“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”

“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”

“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”

You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.

“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.

“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“They'll say you're a distraction.”

At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.

“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.

“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”

Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.

“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”

“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”

“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”

“You worry too much about the future.”

“And you don't?”

“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”

The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.

The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.

You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.

You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.

And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.

Why on earth was this happening to you?

“Hey,” you suddenly heard.

You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”

“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.

Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.

He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”

“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.

Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.

An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.

“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”

“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”

“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”

“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”

He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.

You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.

“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”

You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.

He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.

“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.

Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.

“And for how long will it be?”

“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”

In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.

“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.

His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.

“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”

You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.

“If you want to go, of course.”

“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.

You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.

“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”

He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.

“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”

You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.

“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”

A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.

It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.

You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.

To him.

You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.

When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.

Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.

“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.

But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.

You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.

Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.

One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:

Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?

No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.

“You seem strange,” he said.

The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.

“Are you okay?”

“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”

But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.

“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.

“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.

His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.

“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”

“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”

“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”

His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.

Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.

“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.

“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”

“I know.”

He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.

Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.

Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?

Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.

With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.

You began erasing yourself.

You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.

You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.

Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.

Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.

You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter. That was his name.

“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”

You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.

An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?

“Do you need me to call someone?”

You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.

He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.

From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.

“No,” you managed to reply.

Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.

Then you walked out. Without looking back.

It did seem like something was there between you two and you knew you weren’t crazy in thinking that. Glances at each other lingering just long enough to not be casual, him going out of his way to get your favorite drink ready for you when you showed up to the hockey house, close proximity always making the air heavy between you two, just like right now.

Logan got a nasty hit during the game tonight, Garrett having texted you that he was on his way back to the hockey house, while the rest of them went out to celebrate the win. You were hanging out in Garrett’s room when the front door opened. Getting up, you walked to the top of the stairs, seeing Logan entering, walking very stiff. He glances up, seeing you standing there, his eyes doing a once over of your, seeing you standing there in a tank top and shorts. Just seeing you made his mood better, a light smile coming across his face.

“Hey baby G,” he sighs, dropping the bag, the nickname making your heart warm.

“Garrett told me about the hit, you okay?”

“Yeah, just got a cut and some bruises, I’m good.”

Something in you didn’t believe him. You walk down the stairs, standing in front of him. Seeing him up close, you noticed the cut on his cheekbone.

“Jesus, what the hell happened?”

“Got checked by someone, must’ve scratched myself when I took my helmet off.”

“Lemme clean it for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

Logan obliges, following you up the stairs before he walks to his bedroom, you head to the bathroom. He quickly drops his bag and heads into the bathroom. He finds you in there, squeezing out the excess water in a washcloth before grabbing it and walking up to him. Your eyes scan his face before you bring your hand up, wiping away any excess blood before dabbing the cut.

Logan’s watches you the entire time, this close proximity making him nervous. He exhales through his nose, trying to shake the thoughts as you toss the washcloth into the sink, grabbing some Neosporin to apply to the cut. Smiling as you finish, he smiles back at you before you break the eye contact, the tension becoming too strong for you.

Crouching down, you pull the first aid kit out from under the sink to grab a bandaid, as Logan leans against the other end of the counter, folding his arms, wincing before uncrossing them. You catch the sound, your head whipping to him.

“What else is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Logan.”

“It’s nothing.”

“John.”

He sighs. “Fine, I may have gotten hit harder than I realized, my side is killing me,” he admits.

Shaking your head, you stand up, motioning your eyes to the spot on him he was talking about, eyebrows raised waiting for him to show you. Logan grabs the bottom of his shirt, raising it towards his chest, just enough for you to see the giant purple bruise forming on his side.

“Fucking hell,” you mumble, noticing not only the massive bruise, but also how damn good he looks under this shirt.

'Not the time', you thought.

You glance up at him and wait for consent before he nods. Your fingers lightly graze the area, Logan tensing at the chill he got from your hand touching him.

Given the circumstances, Logan is trying everything in his power to ignore the dull feeling he’s getting in his groin as you continue to examine him, closely. Had he known he was going to end up like this, he would’ve opted for something else aside from a pair of gray sweatpants. He looks down, seeing the focused look on your face, finding it adorable, as you take the shirt from his hand, holding it yourself as you apply a bruise cream to the area. He drops his hand, wincing as you dab over the bruise.

“Sorry,” you say, the sounds he’s making distracting you. 

You finish, leaning back up to stand straight, wiping your fingers on the washcloth. Your eyes trail up Logan’s body to his eyes, him already looking at you. The air feels thick as you both stand way too close, looking at each other way too intensely.

Your eyes make the mistake of dropping to his lips for a split second, just enough for Logan to notice. The tiniest smirk grazes his face as you can’t help the light smile forming on your face. You both are so caught up in the moment, neither of you register the sound of the front door opening or the sound of heavy steps walking up the stairs.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Garrett freezes when he sees what he’s walked into, looking into the bathroom. His heart drops, mind racing, the way you and Logan were standing eerily mirroring a position you were in as kids. He just sees a younger you, cleaning up a cut younger Garrett had on his face as a result of one of your dad’s rage fits. Minus the shirt bunched up in your hand.

The triggered look on Garrett’s face is something you’re not a stranger to, immediately stepping back and dropping Logan’s shirt, building space between you and him as you look from Logan back to Garrett,

“Hey G, how was Malone’s?” you ask, trying to alleviate any tension that was clearly lingering.

“What were you doing?” he sternly asked.

“Logan mentioned he was still hurting and I offered to help him out…” you trail off, feeling small and lectured.

His eyes move from yours to Logan’s.

“Don’t be putting the moves on my sister, Logan,” he says before leaving the bathroom. Your shoulders relax, exhaling as emotions of embarrassment coursing through your veins. Logan looks back to you, noticing the now dazed and guarded look in your eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, genuine concern coming from his voice. You look back up at him, blinking some tears away and seemingly snapping out of whatever was bugging you. 

“Yeah… hope you feel better,” you dismiss, moving past him and walking out of the bathroom.

Trying to gather your thoughts in the short walk from the bathroom to Garrett’s room felt impossible. You get to his room, knocking on his door. The door swings open faster than you anticipated, him inviting you in. Walking in, you're taken aback by his body language, his face still stern, as you shut the door.

"You can't date him."

"Who said anything about dating? I told you, I was helping him, you were the one who told me he got hit, I couldn’t just leave him in pain!"

"Okay fine, but I saw the way he was looking at you tonight, I've seen him look at you like that for months."

Your heart drops at the unexpected news. The thought of Logan actually liking you back felt so farfetched. Garrett's voice snaps you back out of your thoughts,

"Whatever little crush you have on him too, get rid of it."

"Wow, you're really dogging out your best friend like that?" you snap back. The furrow in Garrett's eyebrows loosens, him not expecting that.

"Even if I liked Logan and he liked me and we wanted to live happily ever after, would you not want me to be happy?! Logan is a great guy, you of all people should know that, but yet you're making him sound like he's some villain."

Silence fills the room as Garrett continues to struggle to find his words.

"Logan is not dad, G." 

Garrett's mind races, hundreds of thoughts bombarding him the more you spoke. Deep down, he knew you were right. If anyone were to date you, he'd want it to be with someone who was empathetic, caring, kind. Someone exactly like Logan. He couldn’t help but be overprotective of you, knowing the circumstances you both grew up in. Garrett had adapted the trait of being the protector. He would keep you safe as best as he could. He felt a slight sense of guilt wash over him, never wanting to overstep but feeling like he has in this moment.

"You can't protect me forever, Garrett. I need you to know that I can trust my own instincts and I can take care of myself," you plea, just begging to be heard.

Garrett paces around the room, hands on his hips as you nod.

"No, no you're right. You are. I've spent our entire lives protecting you, it feels like something I've just been wired to always do," he admits, the words leaving him being the first time he's ever admitted them out loud.

"I know. And you know I appreciate you, more than you'll ever know. But if I need you, I will find you," you state, walking over to him, the closeness forcing him to look at you.

He looks down at you, nodding as he smiles.

"I'm not gonna make it easy on him, ya know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you reply, fighting the smile on your face, Garrett knowing you're full of shit.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Logan had been hanging out downstairs, playing video games, unaware of the conversation taking place upstairs. He had a good idea of what was being said though, making him feel conflicted himself. He heard a set of footsteps climbing down the stairs. Pausing the game, he looks back, seeing you coming down. He hangs his arm off the back of the couch, smiling at you before he sees Garrett following behind you. 

You give him a shy smile before opening the front door and presumably, heading back to your dorm. Garrett reaches the bottom of the stairs, Logan's eyes meeting his. He walks over to lock the door before joining Logan on the couch.

"You good bro?" Logan asks.

"Do you like my sister?" Garrett blurts out.

Logan's heart drops at the suddenness of the question. The obvious answer, yes. The more complicated and real answer, yes but I know you don't want your sister dating any of us for some reason so it's incredibly difficult because every time I'm around her, I feel like I'm floating.

"I think she's cool." 

"Not what I'm asking."

Logan's silence prompts Garrett to continue.

"She deserves the best. I'm not gonna let anyone jeopardize that."

"Why are you giving me some protective dad talk?"

Garrett's jaw clenches. He didn't think it was fair to tell Logan all of your personal business and gripes about the abuse you personally had gone through during your childhood. That was your story to tell. Garrett had told Logan a bit of his history, so surely Logan had some idea of where this was coming from.

"I just don't wanna see her hurt."

"Neither do I," Logan quickly states, honestly riddled in his voice.

Guilt creeps back into Garrett's body, feeling bad for doubting his best friend. These feelings truly had stemmed from his upbringing and his need to want to protect you. He couldn’t help these defense mechanisms being his go to. But he was willing to work on it if it meant not only his best friend, but his sister, would be happy.

"You know..." Logan starts, "I'm sure she can handle herself," he says, reaffirming what you had said earlier to him. 

“I know she can. She deserves the world. So. If you want her, prove it.”

Garrett gets up, heading back upstairs, leaving Logan on the couch, deep in his own thoughts. Logan knew he liked you the moment he met you. While you shared similar traits to Garrett, he was attracted to your personality and the way you lit up any room you walked into. A soft chuckle left his lips.

Challenge accepted.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

As the days passed by, conversations between you and Logan continued, mostly through texts. You both found yourself passively avoiding each other, especially when Garrett was around. This seemed to be a tender time for everyone. You and Logan, both trying to figure out how to navigate these feelings for each other without confessing to the other. Garrett, trying to learn to swallow his pride and trust you and Logan.

Friday night approaches, game night for the Hawks, and you’re seated in the front row behind the Hawks bench, the ‘friends and family’ pass hanging from your neck. A few friends joined you as the game kicked off, the guys playing tough per usual. Your eyes bounce from jersey 44 to jersey 22 throughout the duration of the game, finding 22 more than you’d like to admit.

Time passed and before you know it, the game is tied 1-1 with minutes left. Nerves break out inside you, along with the rest of the crowd as the timer ticks down. Your eyes track the puck, Briar maintaining control before Logan gets the puck, swinging it back and forth with his stick, distracting the goalie as he strikes the puck, smacking it straight into the net just as the buzzer hits 0:00.

The crowd, you included jumps up in cheers, screams heard as the alarms sound signally a Briar goal. The team rushes the ice, surrounding Logan, all celebrating his goal and the team’s win. Eventually, the team makes their way back to the bench. Logan’s eyes find yours, him pointing at you with a wink. Blushing, you smile at him, the interaction noticed by Garrett, glancing at both of you.

An idea crosses Logan’s mind as he skates back onto the ice, motioning for you to come down to meet him. You furrow your eyebrows, laughing lightly as you weave your way through the row, stepping down to the other side of the stand blocking fans from going into the ice. As you’re doing this, Logan skates over, taking his helmet off and flicking his hair back before skating right to where you are.

He towers over you in his skates, him looking at you the same way Garrett described. Like you mattered. Like he wanted you. Without any words being physically exchanged, your brains had the same thought as you met each other in the middle, Logan leaning down to connect his lips with yours. His hands move to your face, holding your cheeks delicately as your hand grabs his upper arm. You both break away from the kiss, a smile being impossible to hide for either of you.

Garrett, who had witnessed the whole thing, found himself not feeling anger or hesitance, but peace in seeing two of the most important people to him happy.

And that’s what mattered at the end of the day.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“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

Your cell phone was ringing.

You sweared loudly and almost dropped your coffee, then remembered where you were and gave an apologetic glance to the other passengers on the train before answering the call and shoving the speaker close to your ear, fighting with the bag of groceries in your hand.

"Hi, Pete!" you answered brightly. "How are you?"

"Hey, bub. I'm okay, I'm great. How are you? I came by your apartment," Peter said, voice crackly with bad reception.

You held your phone to your ear with your shoulder and searched through your purse for your small eyeshadow compact, flipping it open to analyse your appearance in the mirror.

"I'm on the subway 2 stops from your apartment," you said, groaning. "This is why communication is important."

"We communicate all the time."

You chewed your lip. "Actually - I was trying to surprise you because, well, don't you feel like something is amiss lately?"

"Amiss?" he asked worriedly.

"I don't know. We're never on the same page these days," you sighed, taking the phone back in your hand.

There was a small silence.

"You're my best friend," Peter said, like he was telling himself that too.

"I know. You're my best friend too," you replied hastily.

"There's something I haven't been telling you."

You paused. "There is?"

"It's not bad. It's," he chuckled to himself, "it's actually a good thing. You might think it's great, I hope. After the shock wears off."

"Peter, what are you talking about?"

"Look, I'll meet you outside mine and we'll talk, okay?"

"Pete-"

"I'll tell you everything," his words were softer. "No more space. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Catch you in a few."

You wrestled your bags off of the train and through the crowded station, up the steep steps and the ten minutes to Peter's apartment. By the time you got there you were lightly perspiring and stressing about how your hair looked, and you were totally convinced that Peter Parker, your best friend since you were six years old, was about to tell you he was in love with you.

You loved him, of course. It was kind of hard not to love him. Peter was kind down to his bones, loving like you wouldn't believe. He was the smartest person you'd ever met and had ambition that felt almost unfathomable to you, oozed raw talent into his hobbies; he took gorgeous photos that had you in awe like it was no big deal and sewed anything you asked him to. Even the smaller things made you dizzy, like how he never killed a bug if he could help it, how he made you sandwiches every single day freshman year and didn't care if you didn't eat them, how he looked in the sunlight. How he yawned, how he hiccuped, how he laughed. The way he stretched when he woke up, how his muscles moved under his skin when you pretended to be suddenly and irredeemably interested in his wallpaper.

You could see him jogging toward you. When he got close enough he stretched out his hand for your groceries and then your purse.

"Peter, I can carry my own bag."

"Why should you?" he asked impishly, wrestling the strap from your fingers.

He kissed your cheek. "I've missed you, bub."

"I missed you too. It feels like I haven't seen you in a year," you said, glowing.

You fell into step beside him.

"Only 4 days and 5 hours."

"Why do you know that?"

"I know everything."

Right. Sometimes it felt like he did.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. He seemed anxious, his shoulders taut, mouth set in a determined smile that was fraying at the edges. You withheld the urge to bump his shoulder, poking fun at him verbally instead.

"Not often Peter Parker's scared to tell me something," you teased.

He grimaced. You watched his hands tighten around your bags, knuckles going white.

"I'm not scared," he complained at your word choice.

"Nervous," you compromised.

He turned his head and you turned yours.

"I'm not nervous."

"Good," you nodded, holding open the first door of his apartment building. He turned around so you could retrieve his keys from the front pocket of his backpack and you did, unlocking the door to begin up the stairs. "There's nothing to be nervous about," you said, hoping to hint at your returned feelings.

He heard the meaningful undertone, looking at you in a calculating way and then sighing, relieved.

"You know?" he asked.

You were at the second staircase now. You paused to clear your throat, feeling your bravado slip away. You grabbed at it with slippery fingers. "I had a hunch."

He tipped his head and groaned. You looked unabashedly at the curve of his neck.

"I suck at keeping secrets."

"From me? Yes, you do."

The third flight of stairs. Peter was unbothered by the weight of what he was carrying, making quick time. You rushed to keep up with him, pushing in front of him so you could open his door and let him in so he could put down the bags as quickly as possible. He laughed at you.

"Thanks," he said warmly.

After he put the bags down he hugged you tightly to his chest. You wormed your arms around his waist familiarly, leaning your head against his shirt. "I'm so happy you're okay with it."

He was being coy.

"Peter, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," he looked down at you, eyebrows raised, "it's dangerous."

"Right," you said, laughing loudly. Love was super dangerous.

His hands were hot, one arm wrapped over your shoulder the other under. His hugs made you feel protected, undeniably safe.

"That doesn't worry you?" he said, nonplussed.

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not."

"It's a good thing, like you said. It's a great thing."

He swayed you from side to side. "Yeah?"

"Of course it is," you said, shrugging. You looked up at his face, "it is, right?"

"Sure," he was grinning too, "not everyday your best friend gets superpowers."

"Exactly, and-" you blinked owlishly. The world was suddenly very loud in your ears. "What?"

Peter was still grinning. "This is so great. I've been dying to show you the suit ever since I made it. I could use your hands. Oh! You'll have a field day with my embroidering, I know you will, but I didn't have a lot of time. You'll have to-"

"Pete," you said, shrugging out of his hold. "What?"

He scrunched his eyebrows together. "The suit?"

"Superpowers?"

"What, you thought I was doing all that without superpowers?"

"You have superpowers?" you asked incredulously.

"Bub," he laughed, going to grab the hem of your shirt.

You stepped back out of his reach.

"What's wrong?" he asked, lips turning down.

What was wrong? What was worse? Peter wasn't telling you he was in love with you. Peter was…

"You're Spider-Man?"

His apartment was still dark. The groceries were tipping over at your feet. You could hear Peter's upstairs neighbour watching TV.

His smile faded. "I thought you…"

Your chest clouded sharply with hurt and something else, unidentifiable and all consuming. Peter was Spider-Man, the masked superhero that had been protecting New York for literal years now. Years. And you'd had the idiocy to think a mutual crush was the biggest (badly kept) secret between you both.

No. It seemed like Peter was great at keeping secrets.

You shook it off as best you could, which wasn't well.

"This is amazing. It's amazing. How- how did it happen?" you said weakly.

He was squinting at you. "I got bit. By a spider."

You giggled. It was all wrong, pitchy and off center. "A spider?"

"A radioactive spider."

"Do you. Um. Do you have, like, pincers?"

"Bub, no."

You looked down at your hands. "Right."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm sure I'll recover from your not having pincers, Peter."

"No, I mean- you sound disappointed that I'm Spider-Man."

You stretched out your fingers, struggling to look at him.

"It actually makes perfect sense. You're the only person I know who's kind enough to fit the bill," you said. As soon as you said it you realised it was true.

"But?"

"But what?"

"I can hear it in your voice. There's something you're not saying," he said. His voice was tight, like he was frustrated or about to be.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight and grabbed your bag, turning to his door. Peter's fingers landed at your shoulder, pulling you back in.

"Babe-"

You moved your shoulder from under his hand and flinched away, hands up as if to say please don't touch me right now.

"Y/N," he said.

"I don't feel well."

"Come on, come sit down. We'll talk about it."

"I'll text you when I get home."

"Don't go-" he started.

You shut his door behind you and stood at the doorway for a few seconds, heart racing.

Superpowers.

You blinked back embarrassed tears and started down his stairs. Peter had superpowers.

-

4.56PM

I'm home

alright

is everything okay ??

you left sort of quickly

i put the groceries away - were

you gonna make baked ziti?

7.00PM

we can still make it if you want

if you're feeling better tomorrow

8.00PM

I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it,

if that's why u were upset

bub, call me? or tomorrow, if you're

sleeping

I can explain everything

anything you need me to

You looked down at your phone screen and sighed. You didn't take any pleasure from ignoring Peter. In fact, you felt so guilty you worried people could see it on your face.

The longer you ignored Peter the more he would text you, until this morning when there'd been one last text. Since then, radio silence.

I'm sorry. I'll give you space.

You didn't really want space. You couldn't work it out.

For a while you'd thought it to be anger. He'd kept this from you for so long - he'd probably lied to you, a lot. And he'd been so reckless. How many Spider-Man versus supervillain showdowns had you seen since he'd begun protecting Queens?

And you definitely were angry, so angry, that he would risk his life like this. Every night. When he wasn't spending a night with his Aunt May or watching a movie at your place, somebody was hurting him somewhere.

That made you sick.

After the anger faded came the worry. You worried he was going to die, he was going to be fatally injured, he was going to bite off more than he could chew. You worried he might get knocked down and he wouldn't be able to get back up.

He was only one boy. He was only your boy. How had he done all this alone? It kept you up.

He was probably going to get himself killed and what - you'd have to sit back and watch?

And then, at the base of your isolation, the real reason you couldn't stand to see him. Peter was smart. He was a genius. He must've worked out exactly what you'd thought he was going to say, and so he must know how you felt for him. Suddenly your biggest secrets were laid out on the table and you were trying uselessly to go back to a time where they weren't. Time didn't ever move backwards. This was now. Peter was Spider-Man and you were in love with him. You were in love with Spider-Man. Being in love with Peter had come as easy as breathing. You worried loving Spider-Man would be much harder.

You were mulling this over in bed, staring morosely at your ceiling. The window was open, for once a warm summer breeze was floating in lazily through the gap. It was quiet enough to endure the cacophony of chaos outdoors, and it was the sound that helped you not go insane with your own thoughts. You'd call him, you resolved. You'd call him. You hadn't gone a day without talking to Peter since you were twelve years old when the weekends had felt so long that Peter had saved up enough allowance to buy you a flip phone and you'd cried and held his hand for five hours.

You wouldn't have lasted much longer without his company, anyhow, when your window was being pushed open.

You winced bodily, crawling backwards on your bedsheets to push against the headboard.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be scared," Peter pleaded, voice slightly muffled by the Spider-Man mask. He pulled it off quickly, and then slumped against your bedroom wall.

"What the fuck," you said, dropping your hands in your lap, "Spider-Man's a burglar now?"

"Breaking and entering – I haven't stolen anything. And only on weekends."

His joke made you laugh, which in turn made you feel guilty.

"Pete, I'm sorry. Really sorry. I know I wasn't as excited for you as I should've been," you said softly.

Peter made a sound like you'd poked him, "That's alright," he said hurriedly, "that's just fine. I don't care."

You frowned, a little hurt. "You don't care?"

"Mind!" he corrected, gasping. "I don't mind."

You traced the gloves of his suit, one pressed tight to his side, and the fabric was all dark and wet and, "Peter, what's that?"

"Don't be scared," he said again, looking between you and the dripping wound, "I got stabbed."

"Stabbed!"

"Quite badly!" he said, tone echoing your own.

You crawled down the length of your bed and threw yourself at his side, trying to pull his hand away.

"Not a good idea, bub."

"What?"

"It's a pretty big gash."

"Gash!"

"Bub," Peter said, voice steady despite his injury, "stay calm. Everything will be okay. I need a - a towel, or anything to put pressure on it while it heals. Okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Right," you spun away from him and then spun back, "you're okay?"

"I won't die in the 30 seconds it takes you to find a towel."

You weren't so sure but you did as he asked and retrieved a clean towel for him to push against his abdomen. He hissed as he did it.

"You need to go to the emergency room," you told him, pressing your hand over his bloody one.

"I only need stitches."

"Only!"

"It's fine." He was looking at you strangely again, like he did that day in the stairwell.

"What if something important got all knifed?" you exclaimed.

He grabbed a hold of your face with a bloody glove, wincing as he did it. You could feel your heart beating out of your chest and your breaths were coming painfully quick. Held still, he looked from one eye to the other and didn't smile, didn't frown, just looked. You realised he was breathing purposefully and made to copy him.

"I'm sorry for coming here. Your place was closer and it's worse than usual, but. It isn't fatal. It isn't an emergency. I need a first aid kit and I'll be fine."

He was nodding as he said it. You copied him, huffing big exhales through your nose.

"How often does this happen?" you asked, stressed.

"Not a lot. Usually with much smaller knives."

You blew hair out of your face and marched into your bathroom for your first aid kit and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, staining the doorway with blood as you pushed past it.

Peter sat heavily on your floor. You had a sneaking suspicion he was lying about how serious the wound was, as he'd begun to sweat badly. He pulled the gloves off of one hand with his teeth and then pressed his naked hand to the towel to replace the first and did the same, his blood staining his mouth red-pink, like kool-aid.

He looked up at you worriedly. "I got blood on your face."

"Should see yourself," you murmured, kneeling down. You helped him out of the suit's top half, revealing his chiseled chest and torso, his wound lazily sobbing blood. You pressed the towel back to his body and blinked.

"It's slower now," Peter said.

"And if it doesn't stop bleeding?"

"It will."

It did. Peter watched your pour peroxide on his stab wound and let you thread the needle for stitches, but when you moved to assess the cut he stopped you, putting a red hand over yours.

"I can do it."

You inhaled.

"I'm glad. I don't think I have the stomach for it."

"You don't have to watch if it's too much."

Even though he needed two hands and you didn't want to annoy him you still found a way to be close to him, digging your fingers into his thigh. He didn't complain though you knew your grip would've been bruising on anyone else.

You noticed his sharp inhales and knew when he was pulling the stitches tight. Once he'd finished he sort of deflated, clipping the string short and putting the stitching needle back in the plastic case.

Your knees ached from kneeling at his side.

He placed his hand over the bloody side of your face. Your skin burned under his touch. You wavered in that impenetrable bubble of silence for minutes, savouring the feel of his skin on yours, the drag of his thumb against your face.

"M'sorry. For keeping it a secret."

You leaned into his hand more, intending for it to serve as a you're forgiven. You worried if you opened your eyes you'd cry.

"But," he murmured, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Am I, sweetheart?"

"I thought maybe you knew," you whispered. There was no reason for it, nobody was around to hear it, but something about secrets demanded whispering.

"I think maybe I did," he said back, thumb moving over your cheek. You peaked at him out of one eye, pins and needles picking at your skin.

"You did?"

"Told you - I know everything."

You laughed and dropped your chin, looking at him from under your lashes, feeling humiliated. "You're full of it, Parker."

He pulled your chin up with his index finger.

"You love me," he said, more fact than question.

"Only since we were 6 years old."

"Watch my stitches," he advised, leaning in.

You squeaked, startled, "What are you doing?"

"No more space. Is that… okay?"

"What, just like that?" you asked, and then kicked yourself. He was trying to kiss you and you were trying your hardest to persuade him not to? Imbecile.

Peter traced the line of your half smile with his index finger. It was so gentle you almost forgot you were both covered in blood.

"We're in love, aren't we?" he asked, smiling softly. "What else do you do?"

You were at once overcome with affection for his worn, tired face, his bleeding body. You did as he said and watched for his stitches, pressing your hand against the space in the middle of his chest and leaned down.

You stopped above his mouth.

"You love me?" you asked. Not because you didn't know but because you were too selfish to wait.

"I love you. N'now I'm all out of secrets," he mumbled, darting upwards to catch your lips in a chaste kiss.

The pressure of his mouth on yours was familiar enough to leave you feeling blindsided and full of shocks, hand trembling over his heart. Peter tilted his head to open your mouth slowly and you moved your hand to his neck, anchoring yourself to his skin.

You broke the kiss, pushing your forehead gently against his chin. "You taste like blood."

He laughed hard enough to hurt, clutching his side.

"Kiss me anyway?" he asked you.

How could you deny him?

<3

thanks so much for reading

my masterlist

tag club !! (tasm tag club open for business omg!)

You look at the space between his eyebrows and hope you don't look like a total freak.

"Nothing's the matter."

"Are you cold?" he asks, already weaselling his arm away from where it's crushed between you to set over your shoulder.

"A little," you say. You're lying, the subway is a furnace and you're wearing your winter coat. Anything for this extra closeness.

"Oh, woah!" he says, leaning in closer to your neck. You still, feeling a bead of sweat on your brow.

"What?" you ask, alarmed.

"Have you worn these before? They're very pretty," he says earnestly. You realise he's talking about your earrings, drop earrings with tiny, crystalline white flowers at the bottom. Each flower is made of four opal-like petals.

"I only just got 'em," you tell him. He smiles and looks back up into your face.

You feel your makeup, intricately done, shimmer white in the corners of your eyes and peony pink lip tint, melting away under his stare. You're more done up than usual and he can probably tell. You're not sure whether you want him to notice or not.

"They suit you," he says. You press your lips together to stop from smiling too hard and he chuckles.

You're seconds away from saying something stupid when the tanoy announces your stop and Peter's standing, so tall and so big, he takes up your whole point of view.

He's dressed well, dark jeans, a sweatshirt, a rugged brown jacket with the collar peaking up like a movie star. You stand, eyes at his mouth, and set about fixing it, touch firm but shy as you round his neck, fingers dusted by the soft strands of mousy brown hair at the back of his neck.

"There you go, Elvis."

"Thank you, thank you ver' much," he says, a dramatic and awful rendition of Elvis' voice.

It's his worst imitation to date and you laugh so loud you slap a hand over your mouth, bracelets slipping under your sleeves and jingling. You're so bedecked in shiny jewellery you ring when you walk like a belled house cat. He gets a look in his eyes, teasing, preying on your moment of weakness.

"Found that funny, did you?" he asks, voice smooth and smothered by the rattling carriage.

You nod, index finger pressed over your lips as the last of your giggles fade. He looks like he might say something, his lips parting, but the train slows and you're tasked with needling between the other passengers. Peter's a natural, out the doors and into the subway station like he was born wading through a New York crowd. You're less adept, too polite to push and too shy to say excuse me. Peter pauses two strides ahead when you're not at his side and shuffles back, reaching for your hand.

He pulls you out through the rush hour congregation and up, up, into the busy street that is Queens Boulevard. You've no clue why he gets off when you do; his walk home from your apartment is close to an hour and he must abhor it.

His hand is warm and big in yours. You squeeze his fingers.

"Pete," you say, trying to catch his attention.

He's peeking around the street like he's looking for something. He looks at you, looks at your hands, drops them.

"Why do you get off with me?" you ask him. He smirks and begins to speak when you correct yourself. "The subway! Why do you get on my line at all? You should be taking the 71."

He shrugs his shoulders. "And have you on the subway by yourself?"

"Hundreds of thousands of people do it every day."

He starts in the direction of your apartment building, purposefully dodging your point. "I'd rather spend the extra time walking than have something bad happen to you."

"How do you know something bad won't happen to you?" you ask pointedly.

He laughs like it's the funniest thing you could have said and that makes you feel both furious and dejected. You're not used to condescension from him. He sees your expression and jumps in to correct it.

"You're right, you're right: something bad could happen to me. But you gotta know I'd let it happen to me before I'd let anything happen to you."

It's not a compliment but it feels like one. It's awful, truly, that he'd put his own safety before yours, but it's also sweet enough to make your cheeks heat and your heart rate climb. A stellar feeling, to know he cares so much.

"I don't want you to get hurt protecting me," you say, sighing. "I mean, if somebody mugged us? I am genuinely scared of the stunt you'd pull."

You whisper around a woman bent over a parked pram trying to soothe a whimpering baby and end up with your left side to the road. Peter quickly drops back and encourages you over so he's in between you and the road. It's exactly the kind of stunt you're talking about — in what world could he stop a car from hitting you? It makes you giggle, a hint of derision hiding behind it.

He raises his eyebrows. "What kind of stunt? Do you think about this often? Am I jacked in your fantasy?"

"What, like in real life, you mean?" You're not even flirting, it's a certified fact, Peter Parker is a lean pillar of shifting muscle, even under his clothes. The broadness of his shoulders alone is enough to evidence his bulk.

"Totally missing the point. Tell me more about your fantasy, my damsel."

You're in half a mind to reach out and slap him upside the head.

"I'm no damsel."

"Pretty as one."

You glare at him, though the effect is likely lost from how happy your smile is.

"It's not a fantasy, and I don't think about it. Why, do you think about saving me?"

"No. In my fantasy you're always safe, likely living somewhere super peaceful like Norway or Switzerland-"

"New Zealand," you interject, nodding seriously.

"-and you glare at me way, way less," he says, nudging you with his elbow. Your jewellery clinks.

"That's unrealistic, then." You stutter before a big puddle and Peter grabs your arm before you can really think about it, helping you across. Your sneakers live to die another day.

"You're also a good cook, so yeah, it's very unrealistic." You glare at him. He smiles. "Good to see we're still in the real world."

"If that's your attitude I won't invite you up for coffee," you say.

He wrinkles his nose. "For coffee? What decade is this?"

"And what do you want instead?"

He rounds a corner. You stand at the opening of the last alleyway, a shortcut down into your own street. There's a group of people at the other end.

He pulls you into his side without saying a word and you're grateful for it as you start down the alley. The group looks up, one man sneers, another mutters something you can't hear. Peter has an awfully fierce look on his face with his eyebrows pinched together and his eyes downturned. It's gone as quick as it came - you come out the alleyway unscathed. His hold on you drops.

In the apartment, he still hadn't decided what he wants, laid out on your scratched up leather sofa with your TV remote in hand. You're honestly surprised he's still here.

"Nowhere to be tonight?" you ask him, fighting a losing battle with a saucepan of pasta in the kitchenette.

He sits up just enough to look at you over the back of the sofa and grins. "When do I ever have anywhere to be?"

"Are you kidding? You're always out somewhere. And out of breath when I call. You're not, like, in a gang, are you?" you ask, mostly joking.

"No, bub, I'm not in a gang. You know what I'm like, I waste a few hours skating and then I fall asleep at my desk."

You turn off the hob, poking at the sorry excuse for mac and cheese you’ve thrown together.

"Interesting texture," he says, once you've handed him a steaming bowl topped with extra cheese and breadcrumbs like he likes.

"I'm sorry," you say, tucking your hair behind your ears.

You've swapped your coat for a vest top with lacey edges and stayed in your jeans for decency's sake, though you're wondering if the right way to go is to just stand there in your underwear until he gets the message (if he wants to get that particular message).

"Don't be," he says, and he's serious. "One day I'll teach you how to simmer things without burning the bottom and it'll be over for everyone."

"Yes, I'm sure my ability to make pasta is really what's make-or-breaking me for people."

"Exactly. As soon as your fettuccine is carbon free I'll be on my knees," he jokes with you. The tiniest tip of his tongue pokes out as he channel surfs, concentrating hard.

"You said it was good, last time!"

His shoulders rise to his ears and he laughs, voice higher than usual as he says, "What?"

"Parker, I'm seriously getting to my wits end with you."

"Don't be like that," he says, spearing an elbow on his fork and reaching out to poke it. When it's proven to be soft he eats in and smiles. "You've got the flavours down, babe."

"It's Kraft's mac and cheese! There's nothing to get down!"

He raises his hands in a peaceable surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Forgive me, won't you? Please?"

You ignore him and turn to the TV, wondering if the burning on your neck throughout the evening when you're not looking is wishful thinking or if he's sneaking glances at you with the same frequency that you sneak your own.

-

On his knees, he says? Fine, if you have to make one perfect fucking fettuccine alfredo to get him to like you back, that's easy. That's child's play.

You wake up early on a Saturday morning and walk to your nearest local greengrocer for fresh parsley and then to the slightly bigger grocery store for fettuccine, double cream, butter and parmesan. You find yourself in the cosmetics aisle again and kick yourself for making such a fuss. You put down a bottle, shaking your head, and watch as the toner inside ripples. You pause, squinting, and then panic as the bottles begin to vibrate, the shelves rattle, and you can feel a pounding vibration in your feet.

You duck down just as the glass window front burst open, shards of glass raining down like hail stones in a fierce wind. You throw your arms up over your face and crouch, scared the shelves will collapse atop you and scared worse that you'll get cut. You feel a piece of glass flick past your arm and gasp. When you look down, a cut stretches from your wrist to your forearm, having sheared your blouse open.

The fabric is quickly saturated. You drop your groceries and watch as they roll over glass. A horrible screeching sound echoes and you hide behind a display housing a new mascara, trying to find the source of the sound.

Screams ring. Sobbing bounces between the aisles. A light is flickering and a sprinkler or water pipe has been maimed, water collecting in a seeping puddle. In the flickering lights, emergency red, it almost looks like blood.

You gasp as you grasp your own wrist, pressing the saturated fabric into the wound like it might help. You pull your sleeve down to assess the wound and get distracted at a commotion.

"It's Spider-Man!" someone shouts.

You let your shoulders relax. The masked vigilante who'd been keeping New York safe for years now was here. Whatever was happening - an earthquake? - Spider-Man could help.

"It's Spider-Man," someone else calls. The tenor of their voice sends shivers down your spine.

You propel yourself backwards again, away from the front of the store. A huge groaning and whirring of machinery sounds, and the voice begins talking again, ragged and booming through the aisles.

"Hiding, hiding," the voice says. "The incy wincy spider. I'm afraid this might be a hidey-hole you can't climb out of."

You steel your nerves and quickly dart to the next aisle. The glass hasn't corrupted the ground here. You crawl along quietly to the end of the aisle and peer through the shelves. A hulking machine stands in what was once the doorway of the store  and is now a great big gaping maw with glass shards and metal frames for teeth. It looks as if it's been pierced by a weight. You follow the trajectory, and there's a car, or what was once a car, smashed into the main display area of the store. Towers of Easter eggs and cuddly toys and paper towels, anything on special, have been knocked clean over. Stuffing and glass scattered over the floor, swimming in a puddle of water. The car is smashed completely at its front.

And there, underneath the car, is Spider-Man.

You gasp so loudly you scare yourself, throwing your hand over your mouth and your entire body backwards.

The car is slowly, slowly lifted up. A blur of red and blue climbs out.

You've seen Spider-Man have cars thrown at him. You've seen him swing into a burning building. You've seen him electrocuted and thrown up into the air like a baseball and you've seen him hit by the subsequent swing.

You haven't seen him bleeding out. That's definitely new.

As soon as he's out from under the car he's trying to get onto his feet and failing. The roaring machine can't fit in the building and for a moment he's safe, but the taunting man is furious.

"I'll rip this building open, you insect! Don't think I won't!" And then, to prove his point, a terrible ripping sound, a pitching of concrete. Things start to rain from above.

Spider-Man is lying on the ground on one elbow, hands pressed to the gash in his side. It's not the only cut. His thigh sobs blood as well, a crimson line of it streaking over the floor as he drags himself backwards. You can hear children screaming, a hissing, the whirring machine, a million things, but the panting, the injured panting of Spider-Man, is what pricks your ears.

That's Peter Parker. That's your Peter Parker.

He's crying, panicked weeping, and you've only heard it once before over the phone, but you can't forget that, and you won't. Your Peter Parker is in the Spider-Man suit bleeding out while you lie meters away huddled in fear.

The leg of the villain's machine creaks, stomps. The cookware begins tumbling from its shelves as though an aftershock has ripped through the store. You cry out as a boxed pressure cooker topples and you catch it haphazardly before it can hit you, tossing it away, blood everywhere, marring the silver of your bracelets and your skin and the floor around you.

When you look back Spider-Man is staring straight at you.

"Peter," you whine under your breath, scared, so scared, and it's too quiet for anyone to hear but he does, you know it, his shoulders tighten and he's pushing on to his feet and moving towards you quickly, a trail of bloody footsteps behind him.

He hooks his hands under your armpits and drags you up, past aisles of smashed baby food and exploded toiletries, hissing deodorant bottles and soaked clothing and then you're sliding into a door of the storeroom. The room is already populated by other store goers, most crying, none seemingly injured.

"Somebody, can somebody come and take care of her?" he asks the room, met with silence. He looks you up and down, his hand tight around your wrist. "It's not bad. It's bad, but it's not bad. It can, it-"

"Pe-" you clear your throat. "Spider-Man," you say quietly. "You can't go back out. Your leg- it's fucked," you say uselessly, your teeth beginning to chatter.

"He'll tear the store open."

"He'll tear you open."

"Why are you here?" he asks, tone more desperate than you've ever heard.

Then you really start to cry. "I was gonna make fettuccine alfredo," you say, feeling hot tears bubble out of you. You sob in panic and tear your arm out of his grip. The walls are shaking and somebody outside of the room is screaming, barrelling cries. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I have to go," he says.

"You can barely walk!"

"I have to go," he says again. "Stay here."

"I'm not staying here if you're leaving."

"Stay here!" he shouts at you. You flinch and the both of you stand in a second of silence.

"Something bad is going to happen to you," you say, shuddering.

"Nothing bad is going to happen to me, Y/N," and his saying your name is the full confirmation, the admittance; it's your Peter.

He runs out.

"Spider-Man!"

It'll happen to me before it happens to you, you think, and run out after him. You're no Spider-Man, you're slow and bleeding and you can't leap over rubble, and he's at the front and out into the street by the time you're in the aisles. You pick over your basket, your bag, picking up your discarded cell phone to slip it into your bra as you go.

The street has been cordoned off quickly, a rush job, police cruisers and flashing lights and a fire engine to one side. You climb out of the hole, slip into the depression made by the machine's hulking left leg and climb out again. There are more guns than you've ever seen pointed at the villain, and Spider-Man is held up in his grasp.

You gasp and scramble out of the hole, pulling yourself up. Your arm burns white fire as you climb and stumble onto the asphalt.

Peter escapes his hold.

You're not superpowered. You're not strong. You're not particularly smart. You need to be resourceful. You need to save Peter.

The machine is huge. This is obvious. Two fat legs on a steel plate body with a glass bubble hood. Peter flips up, webs a building, bounces back. He's trying to smash the glass, you realise, but his leg is too injured to carry the force of it.

You scour the street. He needs to smash the glass and he's too busy fending off the machine's rubber hose arms to think about it. He's running out of time, spins sluggish, dives a whisper too slow. He keeps getting caught up in the arms and squirming out.

You flicker between him and your surroundings, your heart in your mouth.

There, a traffic sign, bent and almost broken. You grab at it with your slippery hands and pull. Your fingers slide, painting half dry streaks of pink over the silver pole.

You rub your hands in your sweatshirt and try again, pushing your whole weight on the pole, heaving back and forth. It snaps and you fall forward, clipping your chin on the ground, arms squished underneath your body. It hurts.

You roll off of the sign and look up into the sky, breathing hard, tucking your bleeding arm to your chest. The sky moves in circles, birds fly overhead. There's a helicopter humming, quiet as a dragonfly. The sirens are dulled, the villain's machine falls silent. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your heartbeat in your chest. The floor vibrates beneath you, almost soothing.

Then it comes back into focus. A million sounds, a million hurts.

You gasp and sit up, back aching. Peter is on top of the opposite building, arching over the arms, rolling like a wave. They're undeniably slow but pack enough force to fling him out if they catch him - one hits his legs from under him and he careens down into the ground towards you, snowballing the asphalt underneath him. A meteorite striking the earth.

He lies unmoving in his body's crater.

"Spider-Man!" you scream, loud enough to make your own ears burn.

He doesn't stir.

"Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Spider-Man!" Everything in you wants to say Peter. Peter, Peter Parker. Everything in you is begging him to get up. "Get up right now!" you yell, almost hysterical, words sounding more like a joke than anything.

He finally snaps into full consciousness again. The machine crunches towards you both. You rise and drag the pole toward him, the sign still attached to the top. Peter rolls on to his side and peels up the mask, blood pumping down his face. He dry heaves.

Your back burns as you drag the sign. It leaves a while line in the asphalt where it grinds, scratching a deep, scathing line.

You drop it a foot from him and fall to your knees, taking his face into your hands.

"Are you alright? You need to get up, can you get up? Peter, can you get up?"

He hisses, the sound deeply etched with pain.

"I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"I got you a sharp," you say.

He frowns and his head tilts up as he gazes over your shoulder. His lips press together in understanding. Helicopter blades whir from above as they close in and a crowd of people roar on either side of the barricade in warning while the villain grows nearer and nearer.

"I told you to stay there," he says, furious, voice speckled with pain and exhaustion.

"I'm no damsel, remember?" you ask, half false cheer and half terror, wiping blood from his nostrils, from his lips, to tuck the mask back down to cover his face.

He rises to his feet and pulls you up by your shoulders, dusting you down pointlessly, tucking your hair behind your ears. Your flower drop earrings wobble. "You're pretty as one," he says, masked hand touching your bleeding chin for a split second, then his hands grab your face tight enough to hurt, each word careful. "I'm gonna beat the bad guy. You need to run, as fast as you can, towards the barricade. Run now, Y/N." He turns you around and pushes. You look back and watch as he picks up the broken sign, shoulders set.

You run on numb legs. The ground trembles beneath you. Your legs burn and rubble sprays and a police officer is screaming at you, arms pulling you over the metal barricade and into a crowd of people. Somebody ushers you to sit on the ground. You gasp fast and shallow and cover your eyes with your hands. The crowd shouts and you try to stand. You falter. You fall.

-

Peter's sleeping. There's not a single drop of blood to be found on him, no rusty scabs, no bruises. He looks angelic if a bit tired, hands wrapped around your hand and face pressed into the white, pristine sheets of your bed. He's angled away from your bandage.

The other arm is cannula'd, you discover, when you try and probe your stiff chin. The IV pulls, a sharp pain. You wince and drop your hand. They're obviously not giving you painkillers in the drip.

You squint at the IV suspiciously. What the fuck is it for? And as you remember – the sounds, the pain, the fear – your heart climbs.

Peter flinched awake and blinks hard. "Y/N," he says. "Hey, hey, what's the matter?" he asks.

You shake your hand. His chair scrapes across the floor as he stands, hands skipping over your bandage to run over your arms. You've been handled into a pair of pajamas, ones you've never seen before. Peter pushes his fingers under the short sleeve and squeezes your shoulder lightly. "You're okay, you're okay. Try and calm down."

You frown at him and again try to move the wrong arm. You wince as it tugs.

"Do I have to have that?"

"I'm not sure. It's fluids."

You nod and pull the cannula clean out of your own hand. Peter cringes and takes your hand, pressing his clean sleeve to the bubble of blood that trickles out. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs.

"Are you okay?" you ask him.

He raises his chin defensively. "Am I okay? Which one of us is in the hospital right now?" You frown, your eyes burn and he sighs. "Sorry."

You sniffle.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, "so sorry. For everything."

You sniffle again and he hangs his head, tending to your bleeding hand like it's fatal.

"If you don't want to see me anymore, I get that."

You bite your tongue between your teeth and exhale hard. It hurts as you move, shuffling over to the far side of the bed. It's obvious what you're asking. Peter climbs into the bed and lies next to you, and you both stare up at the hospital ceiling without talking. It's quieter here, no screaming, no crying. There's only his breathing and yours.

His shoulder is warm next to yours.

"Whose clothes are these?" you ask him.

"They're yours."

"Never seen them before," you croak.

"I got them for you. From Nordstrom."

"You hate Nordstrom."

"It was closer than your apartment. And I couldn't get in anyhow, and I really needed you to have clean clothes, and-" he cut himself off, pitch rising.

"Thank you, Peter."

You lie in silence again.

You want to ask him if he won, but you know he'd be dead if he lost. You want to ask him if he's healed but you know he is. You want to ask him how he's feeling and the words stay tucked neatly behind your teeth.

"I thought you might die," you say eventually.

His breath catches in his throat. He turns his head and you turn yours at the sound of his movement, the crisp crunch of hospital linen under his shifting.

"You saved me," he said.

"I didn't."

"You did. There's… there's videos." He closes his eyes. He's pale. Whether it's the awful gray New York morning light or the blanching white of the hospital room or his bone deep exhaustion, you can't say.

"Young woman saves Spider-Man, City rejoices."

You frown at him.

"Woman rouses our masked vigilante in dire straits and saves hundreds."

"What?"

"Spider-Man owes his latest showdown victory to unnamed woman, more on page 3."

"Peter, what are you talking about?"

"That's what the newspapers are saying."

You close your eyes and try to cope with what he's telling you. His knuckles rub up your thigh, searching for your hand, your injured arm. He pulls your arm onto his abdomen like he's cradling it and let's his body push up against yours.

"They're wrong."

"How'd you figure?" he asks.

"I didn't save Spider-Man. I wasn't worried about him."

"You did, sweetheart," he says, lips by your hair. He puts his hand on your face, careful of your stitched up chin, fingers over your cheekbone. His hand is all encompassing, a comfort, as he turns you to face him.

"It's Peter Parker I was looking out for," you say. You're tired and thirsty and your head and arm are both pounding at the same time, a painful pulse, and you know your words are half coherent at best.  You hope he knows what you mean.

"I'm so angry at you," he whispers, an admission. "I'm so angry. I told you to stay there and you didn't listen and you could have died."

"That's a little rich, don't you think? I've watched you almost die on TV a thousand times," you say lightly.

He takes his hand back from your jaw to scrub over his face and looks up at the ceiling. You trace his angry brow with your eyes, his frown.

"I know I lied to you," he says.

"You did."

"But I did it so something like this wouldn't happen. So you would be safe," he says, agitated.

You blink the white spots out of your vision and sigh morosely. An orderly bustles past the open door with a trolley of things. A fly charts a course around the room for the hundredth time. You want him to cuddle you, and you want to sleep, but you know he won't rest until he says what he needs to.

"And I can't work it out."

"What out?" you ask hoarsely.

"How long have you known? I never would've guessed in a hundred years that you knew."

"I didn't know," you say honestly.

"What?"

"I didn't know. That you're-" you whisper the next bit, "Spider-Man."

"Then how did you know it was me, in the store?"

You sigh, pained, and he rushes to shush you, pulling you onto his chest. You refuse to protest even though everything aches dully, curling your legs, though you can't hug him because he's holding your cut arm hostage. You don't mind, content as his arm comes around you to pull you flush.

"You were crying. I knew it was you. I know what you sound like," you continue to whisper, feeling like this is a secret. "You sounded scared and… and hurt. I don't think I could forget how you sound when you're scared."

"I was terrified," he admits, whispering back.

You don't know what to say to that. You were terrified too.

"Do I look cute? On the news?" you ask.

He hums, tightening his arm around your body, and kisses you on the forehead. The place where his lips touch feels warm for a long, long time. His hand draws lazy circles into your vest top.

"Cute? Nah." You frown in disappointment. He chuckles, the vibrations of it moving in your neck. "You looked beautiful. Beautiful and formidable, really, blood and all. I'll be fighting guys off left, right and centre."

"I thought I was safe in all your fantasies?" you mumble, smiling to yourself.

"I'm fighting them off for my own sake. I don't like to share, and every guy in New York wants a piece of you."

You giggle, looking up at him with bright eyes as best as you can manage with one arm out of action. He helps you up onto his front, arm firm and strong at your back, until you’re chest to chest, supporting yourself with one shaky forearm.

He pushes the hair out of your face. "I found your earring," he says.

"I was missing one?"

"For a little while."

You let your head rest on his sternum and sigh a breath of relief. "So everything worked out, then."

"Everything worked out," he agrees, bringing his hand up to the back of your head.

"Do I still need to learn how to make fettuccine alfredo for you to like me back?" you murmur into his chest.

"No, baby," he says softly, carding through your hair with all tenderness. The word baby is so meltingly warm you feel it run over you in a wave. "I think my fondness for you can transcend even your inability to make the most simple pasta dish in all of human history," he says wryly, two parts dry and two parts loving.

"Awesome," you say, and pass out to the sensation of his lips pressed chastely to the top of your head. <3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

“No.” Ned agreed. “But I Sparknote-ed the shit out of them enough to know that you are becoming a homebody. And everyone knows that is the first step to becoming a serial killer who wears suits made out of unsuspecting women.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Peter answered sarcastically.

“Just try to have fun tonight, okay? I won’t make you stay that long. But I want to see you taking to some people.” Ned requested as they walked into the apartment where the party was being held.

“But you’re the only person here that I….” Peter trailed off as the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He stared ahead and felt the rest of the world fade away as his eyes landed on you for the first time in four years. You were leaning on a counter in the kitchen with a red solo cup in your hand and a lightness to you he hadn’t seen since the early days of when you were together. The music that had been playing when he walked in became a dull thump that Peter felt in his chest. You hadn’t caught his eye yet, too busy laughing at a story a girl he sort of recognized was telling you.

Your hair was different. Your clothes too. But there was something still distinctly you about you that brought Peter back to a place he didn’t know he still knew how to get to.

“Peter, I am so sorry. I didn’t think she’d be here tonight.” Ned said, pulling Peter back into his body. He managed to tear his eyes away from you, only once he processed what Ned had said.

“You didn’t…uh, is she…do you guys still talk?” Peter asked Ned with an undertone of betrayal.

“No, dude. I haven’t spoken to her since high school.” Ned assured him. “But I know she’s friends with Harry’s girlfriend. I just didn’t think they were close enough that she’d be here.”

“Oh.” Peter said quietly as his attention returned to you. He wanted to turn around and leave before you saw him, but it was too late. Harry, the host of the party, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen to greet him and Ned.

“Hey. Glad you guys made it.” Harry said as he pulled Ned into some handshake-hug hybrid.

“Thanks for having us.” Ned replied. “This is my friend-“

“Peter?” Your voice pierced him like a sword. Harry stepped to the side when he heard your voice, giving you a perfect view of Peter. He stared at you like he was staring down the barrel of a gun, unsure of what his next move should be.

“Oh, you guys know each other?” Harry asked as you departed from your kitchen counter and walked into the living room.

“We all went to high school together.” Ned answered right before you enveloped him in a hug. He shot Peter an apologetic glance before returning the hug.

“Ned. It’s so good to see you.” You said as you squeezed him.

“You too.” He answered quietly but genuinely. “It’s been too long.”

“I had no idea you all knew each other. What a small world.” Harry laughed as you and Ned pulled out of your hug. Your eyes slowly went back to Peter, taking their time as if you hoped he wouldn’t be there anymore by the time you looked his way. He was frozen in time as he stared back at you, taking it all the ways time had changed you since he saw you last.

“Um, is there something else?” Harry chuckled awkwardly when the uncomfortable silence between you and Peter became prolonged uncomfortable silence. Peter stayed quiet and let you decide how much information you wanted to share.

“Peter and I used to date.” You said without taking your eyes off of Peter. Harry’s girlfriend, Sadie, had joined the conversation at some point, but you and Peter weren’t sure of when.

“Wait, you two dated?” Sadie asked as she leaned on Harry’s arm. “I can’t see that.”

“Neither could he. Probably why we didn’t work out.” You said out of the corner of your mouth. Peter absentmindedly touched his lips, realizing he may have developed his habit of doing that from you. You laughed at your own joke, but you were alone in that. Your face fell when you saw how uncomfortable everyone else looked, so you looked down into your cup and took a long sip.

“Wow. Thanks for fucking up the vibe, guys.” Harry said after a minute. “Drinks, anyone? Or perhaps a blow torch to melt the ice between you?”

“That would be great, thanks.” You smiled tightly.

“I’ll be right back with that.” Harry said before heading towards the kitchen. Sadie squeezed your shoulder before walking off with him.

Peter turned to look at Ned, but no longer saw him standing next to him. He looked around the room and could see Ned absolutely cutting it up at a game of Just Dance through the open door of one of the bedrooms. Peter was fearful to turn back around because he knew that meant it was now just the two of you. Before he could psych himself out, he whipped around to face you. You were sizing him up, noticing the way his hair had grown out and how he’d lost his remainder of his teenage features.

“Well, this is a surprise.” You said to break the silence. You took another sip of your drink without breaking eye contact with Peter.

“It’s really good to see you. I didn’t think we’d ever see each other again.” Peter heard the sound of his own voice before realizing he was speaking. He had played out the moment he saw you again in his head a million times, but this version was something he hadn’t written in his mental scripts.

“Yeah, that was heavily implied by the post-it you left on my computer.” You said with a tight lipped smile. This response surprisingly put Peter at ease. It helped him to know where you stood, since the way he ended things left him completely unaware of how you felt about the breakup. He left a post-it note for you to find when you woke up three years ago and had zero communication with you until this moment.

“I’m so sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of things that happened between us. I was such a dick to you.” Peter continued, feeling like once he started to pour out all these bottled up feelings, he was not going to be able to stop.

“You said it.” Was all you said before taking another sip of your drink. Peter touched his back pockets and then the pockets of his jackets, looking for something to fidget with. He settled on toying with the zipper of his jacket while he search for the right words to say.

“Do you think we could talk?” He asked in a quiet voice. “Somewhere more private?”

“I don’t really think you and I have anything left to say to each other.“ You answered. Your tone wasn’t harsh, just honest. Peter began to chew his lips and felt his chance to make things right slipping away.

“I think I have a lot of things left to say to you, actually.” Peter said with an awkward chuckle.

“Then maybe you should’ve sprung for a bigger post-it.” You shrugged.

“Please.” Peter said softly. “Just one conversation. Maybe we could go outside or something?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

“What?” Peter frowned, feeling like he had heard that once before.

“That’s what your note said.” You reminded him. “On the same kind of yellow post-it we would use it remind each other to run the dishwasher. I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

“That’s not….thats all I wrote?” Peter asked in embarrassed disbelief. He had left in such heightened state of emotions that night that he couldn’t remember the exact wording he had chosen.

“You don’t remember?” You asked him, seemingly more amused than upset.

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Wow.” You said sarcastically. “And here I was thinking we both would know it by heart. Guess it’s just me.”

“That’s awful. Oh my God. You should’ve found out where I was and dropped an anvil on my head or something.” Peter replied, unexpectedly making you let out a dry laugh.

“Hey, I still can.” You reminded him. He felt himself dare to smile the slightest bit.

“You’re being unreasonably civil with me considering the circumstances.”

“Well, if you had shown up before we played that last drinking game, this conversation would be going a lot differently. But lucky for you, I’m too drunk to remember just exactly how much I hate your guts.” You replied, making the smile fall right off his face. Hearing that you hated his guts was painful, even though he knew he deserved it.

Before Peter could respond, a guy a full foot taller than him bumped his shoulder and pulled you into a hug. Your demeanor changed and you tensed up, making eye contact with Peter over the man’s shoulder. He felt his heart sink and knew his face was not hiding how he felt.

“Hey, beautiful.” The man greeted you as he pulled away. Your blank expression became a fake smile the second he could see your face.

“Hi!” You said in a tone Peter recognized as your voice when fake niceties were being exchanged. You made eye contact with Peter again and stared at each other. As angry as you had been with him, you did not want him to be in this situation.

“Sorry, did I interrupt?” The man asked when he noticed you staring at Peter.

“Kelly, this is Peter. He’s a friend of a friend.” You explained. Peter made a face for several reasons. Kelly did not seem at all phased by hearing Peter’s name, so you had clearly not told him about your relationship. That, and you had lied about how you knew each other.

“What’s up, man?” Kelly said and held out his hand. Peter panicked, not knowing if he was supposed to shake his hand or do the weird handshake hug-hybrid he just saw Ned do. He ended up doing an awkward mix of both and saw you turning your face to the side to laugh.

“Not much.” Peter answered with a similar fake smile to yours. The three of you stood in the most awkward silence of Peter’s life until Kelly cleared his throat.

“Can I get you another drink?” He asked you.

“Yes, thank you.” You nodded and handed him your cup. Once he was gone, you and Peter exchanged another look.

“Kelly?” He asked you with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t start.”

“Of Blue Book fame?” He continued, making you give him a lethal stare.

“It’s a unisex name.”

“Are you sure about that?” He mumbled, but you heard it.

“Don’t start.“ You repeated, this time with a warning finger.

“I’m not. I’m not.” Peter said and held up his hands in defense. You shook your head and looked away, but he could tell you were trying not to laugh.

“I’m not seeing anyone, if you were wondering.” He said, making you look at him again.

“Oh, I wasn’t.” You assured him, but there was a playfulness to your tone. He reminded himself that you were drunk so that he didn’t read into things.

“Oh. Well, now you know anyway.”

“What a relief on behalf of women everywhere.” You replied. You turned away again, but this time, you couldn’t hide your laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Kelly Blue Book was a low blow.” You told him. “We are not rekindled enough for you to say that.”

“Does that mean we’re rekindled somewhat?” He asked, making you roll your eyes in a playful way.

“No. I’m just drunk and I have a soft spot for you.” You said like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You do?” Peter asked with softened eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but were cut off by the sound of a girl laughing loudly in the kitchen. You both turned to look and saw Kelly leaning very close to a girl to whisper something to her. Whatever he was saying must’ve been the funniest thing she had ever heard because she was slapping his chest as she laughed. You folded your lips in as if this didn’t surprise you and didn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

“He seems-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” You cut him off and walked away.

Peter was smart enough to give you space, but curious enough to make sure he always knew where you were. He stayed by Ned for most of the night, but made sure you were never out of his peripheral vision.

He saw you laughing and doing shots with your friends in the kitchen. He noticed when you were dancing to a song from a movie he had forced you to watch once upon a time. He was aware when you went to the balcony by yourself to stare at the city skyline and catch your breath. His eyes stayed on you as you got yourself another drink and came back to the living room. Your eyes went to something in the center of the room, so Peter’s followed. There he saw Kelly dancing between two girls and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Peter looked back at you and saw that you weren’t exactly watching Kelly, but not unaware of what was happening either. Peter was glaring daggers at him on your behalf with his disdain building by the minute. One of the girls whispered something in Kelly’s ear and he nodded before going over to you.

“I think I’m gonna head out soon.” Peter heard Kelly tell you.

“Really? But you just got here.” You said with your fake smile.

“Yeah, but, uh, my friends want to meet up. He’s really upset and needs me.” Kelly told you without bothering to keep his eyes off the girl he had just been dancing with. Peter could see on your face that you didn’t believe him. You pulled him by the arm onto the balcony, rendering Peter unable to hear the rest of your conversation. He could, however, see the two of you fighting through the window. He quickly looked away when you came back in, but he could already tell you were crying. You went straight for the bathroom as Kelly went out the front door, one of the girls he’d been dancing with not far behind him.

“I’ll be right back.” Peter told Ned. He made his way over to where the bathroom was so that he could catch you on the way out. When you didn’t come out for a while, he took it upon himself to knock on the door.

“It’s Peter. Are you okay?” He asked through the door. He heard the sink turn off a few moments before you opened the door.

“I’m fine.” You said without trying very hard to convince him. He opened his mouth to say more, but decided you were probably in no mood for any form of comfort from him. You were staring at him through your tear smudged black mascara, almost daring him to try to cheer you up. Instead, he silently pulled a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to you. You looked down at it and he couldn’t sworn he saw the tightest hint of a smile from you. You took it, gave him an appreciative nod, and went on your way.

Peter kept his eyes on you for the next hour. The party was dying out, making it easier for him to keep track of you. When he saw you repeatedly opening and closing the clasp of your left earring, he knew he was running out of time.

“You heading out?” He made his way over to ask you.

“Oh. Uh, yes actually. How’d you know?”

“I saw you playing with your earrings. That usually means your social battery ran out ten minutes ago.”

“How could you possibly see that from the other room?” You cracked a smile as you asked him.

“You’re the only thing I see.” He said simply. Your teasing smile turned into a sad one and you looked away.

“So, um, I know you said you hate my guts, but I think it would be good for us to talk sometime. Do you still like that coffee shop near the movie theater?” Peter asked timidly.

“I haven’t been there since we were together.” You shook your head. Peter was about to ask why not, but he knew why not. You didn’t want to go there because you didn’t want to risk seeing him.

“Could I take you there? I just want to have one conversation. To clear the air and everything.”

“Peter, you broke up with me on a post-it note.” You reminded him. “I don’t care what you want.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. What do you want?” He finally asked.

“To get past you and go home.” You answered and pointed towards the front door.

“I’ll walk you.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“It’s late and we’re not close to the subway. It could be dangerous.” He told you, wanting to add “and you’re wasted”, but didn’t.

“I’ll take the risk.” You said as you moved past him to get to the door. Peter made the bold move to stand in front of you to block you, hoping you would understand when you were sober.

“Don’t be stubborn. I’m walking you. I’ll walk a few paces back so you can have your space.” He stated, making you roll your eyes.

“Fine. But I’m gonna fart a bunch so you have to walk through it.” You grumbled and let him walk with you out of the apartment.

“That’s fine. Whatever you need.” Peter nodded. You stopped walking and looked at him with a smirk.

“Jesus.” You laughed. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He smiled in embarrassment.

Peter kept his promise and walked a few paces behind you. He sent Ned a quick text about where he had gone, to which Ned replied with several suggestive emojis. Peter rolled his eyes and put his phone away so that he could keep a close eye on you. The cold New York air felt amazing after having been in that apartment with all those people. You were stumbling a little from being intoxicated and looked over your shoulder every so often to make sure he was there. When you were about halfway home, you turned around.

“This is weird.” You said as you shoved your hands in your pockets and walked up to him.

“What is?”

“Knowing you’re behind me. I think it’s putting me more on edge than if I was walking alone. I keep forgetting it’s you and getting freaked out by the footsteps.”

“I can walk lighter.” He offered. You shrugged and kept going, with Peter taking lighter footsteps this time.

“It’s not working.” You sighed. “I still know you’re there.”

“I could go across the street?” He suggested, but you shook your head.

“Come on. Walk next to me. But don’t talk to me.” You warned him. He nodded and quickly fell into step beside you. He snuck what he hoped were discreet glances at you every now and then. It was so insane to him to be walking beside you after believing he’d never get the chance to talk to you again. Every time he looked at you, he got a pang in his heart that radiated in his whole body. And everytime he remembered the interactions between you and Kelly that he witnessed, he felt white hot anger coarse through his body.

“Just ask.” You said, breaking the silence.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did. Just ask me what you’ve been dying to ask me.” You permitted him. Peter hesitated, then went for it.

“So, you and Kelly?”

“Oh my God.” You laughed. “Of course.”

“How long have you been together?”

“We’re not. It’s not serious.“

“Oh. So you guys just social distance and talk about unsexy things together?” He asked, making you laugh again.

“That about sums it up.” You nodded in agreement.

“Is he good to you?” Peter asked, making you give him a look.

“You’re nice to pretend you didn’t see us fighting.”You sighed. “But to answer your question, when his eyes aren’t wandering, yeah, he can be pretty nice.”

“His eyes wander from you? Not possible.”

“Very possible.” You told him. “And constant.“

“Why do you stay with him then? Why even give him the time of day?”

“It’s complicated. College can be really lonely.” You shrugged. “But he tells me that I’m pretty and kisses my head before he leaves. So it’s okay that he doesn’t see me as an equal.”

“Is it okay?” Peter asked you, making you give him another look.

“No.” You admitted. “But, you know, college can be really lonely.”

“Yeah. I get that.” Peter nodded along. “I don’t get you with him, though. I saw how he was tonight. Showing up late, leaving early, talking to other girls. That guy is an idiot. He’s not good enough for you.”

“No, he’s not.” You agreed. “But we accept the love we think we deserve or whatever the stupid tumblr quote is.”

“You don’t deserve that.” Peter stated. “Fuck Kelly, and his little blue book.”

You stopped walking and laughed at his joke before nodding to the building you were standing next to.

“Thanks for walking me. This is me.”

“Wait, you still live here?” Peter asked when he recognized the building.

“I do. But a different apartment. Remember that pipe in my bathroom?”

“That dripped hot water on your head when you least expected it? Sure do.”

“Well, it burst, so I had to move out.”

“You didn’t happen to leave the window open in the winter, did you?” He asked you, always knowing the answer.

“I still think that’s a myth.” You prefaced. “But yes, the pipe happened to explode after I happened to forget to close the window last January.”

“Totally not your fault.” He teased. “Do you like the new place?”

“Eh. It’s okay.”

“Did you hang all your sun-catchers back up?” He asked, causing you to look at him in surprise.

“I did.” You told him with a slight smile. “But one of them broke in the move.”

The fleeting image of Peter’s back being painted with rainbow light from your cardinal shaped sun catcher flashed in your mind. You blinked it away and turned your face, worried that if you looked at him too long, you’d start to cry.

“Not the frog one, right?” He asked, making you chuckle. You had bought that one together on your first trip out of the city.

“No, not the frog one. That one’s okay.” You said with a sad smile. You and Peter stared at each other for a while and he had the same longing smile that you did. You had to look away again, fearing that if you didn’t, you’d invite him to come inside.

“I should go.” Peter said to break the silence, and you just nodded in agreement. He began to step forwards, but felt like his legs were full of cement.

“I can’t move.” He told you, making you frown.

“Why not?”

“Because this might be the last time I ever see you.”

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Maybe we’ll run into each other at a Best Buy or something in a few years.” You shrugged, making his heart sink.

“That makes me sad.” He admitted without meeting your eyes.

“Well, what did you expect would happen to us when you broke up with me?”

“I guess I always thought I’d get my life together and you’d…” He trailed off when he realized how stupid he sounded.

“And what? I’d be waiting for you?” You laughed dryly. “For my gallant hero to outrun his demons and come back to me? And reward me for patiently waiting and keeping my life at a standstill until he returned?”

“No. It’s not like that.” He shook his head. “I knew we were in wildly different places in our lives, and that you were going to be far better off without me dragging you down. I thought it would be some kind of a messed up favor to you to get rid of myself so that your life could go on. But I guess I thought we’d meet again one day when we were different people and…..”

“And?” You asked he he trailed off again.

“And remember why we fell in love.” He admitted, just in case this really was the last time you ever saw each other.

“It doesn’t really work like that, Peter. Life goes on. You made the decision to leave. We are different people now, but that doesn’t erase what happened.”

“I know. I know I can never undo what I did. I just…I just hope I see you sooner than a few years in a Best Buy.”

You were quiet for a minute and folded your arms as you looked at him. You stared for such a long time that Peter felt his face heat up.

“I go to the one around the block.” You said finally.

“What?”

“The coffee shop. I stopped going to the one by the movie theater and started going to the one around the block.”

“The one with the scary guy that yelled at you for taking too long to order?” He asked. “I thought you were never gonna go back there.”

“He’s pretty nice, actually. He was high strung that year because his husband had just passed. But he gave me a free scone when I came in here a few days after we broke up. He said he could tell I needed it.”

“Wow.” Peter smiled sadly. “I drove you to the point of visibly needing a scone.”

“Eh, I kinda live at that point. Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

“I won’t.” He chuckled. You smiled back at him, the first full smile you’d given him all night. Suddenly, your expression changed and the color drained from your lips. Peter was quick to hold your hair off your face as the last few drinks you’d had that night came back up. Peter blew on the back of your neck while he waited for you to be done.

“That was hot.” You groaned as you stood back up.

“It was.” Peter chuckled and timidly rubbed your back.

“You can go. The Cool Ranch Doritos I ate about to make a reappearance and I don’t want you to see that.”

“Give me your key.” Peter said and held it his hand. You dug in your pocket and placed your key in the palm of his hand. He unlocked the front door of your apartment and ushered you inside. The doritos made their reappearance in the trash can of the lobby while Peter explained your situation to the doorman.

He let the two of you up and Peter somehow found himself in your apartment. It looked pretty similar to the last one, with several cabinets open due to your habit of taking things out and walking away. Your roommate’s door was closed, so Peter quietly led you to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but look around and try to gather bits and pieces of information about your new life. The candles that you burned the most, the things you hung on your fridge, and the various trinkets you kept on your coffee table. He absorbed it all as he got you a glass of water, wondering if the brightly colored cups in your cabinets were your idea or your roommates.

“This is not how I imagined tonight would end.” He laughed numbly as he handed you the cup of water. You gave him a gracious smile and then chugged it, hoping you’d be able to keep it down. He helped you get up off the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall while you brushed your teeth.

“How did you imagine it?” You wondered. “Like, what would’ve been your ideal outcome when you realized I was at the party tonight?”

“That’s a good question.” Peter said as he thought. “I think I would just want us to be okay with each other. We had so much love between us at one time. I hate that the way I left tarnished that.”

You rinsed your mouth out and stared at him in the reflection of the mirror for a while. It seemed like you were processing something, or maybe you were just sobering up and remembering how much you hated him.

“Then why did you do it?” You asked finally. “Why a post-it note? Why didn’t you just wake me up? Or end things before I went to sleep?“

“I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t look you in the eyes and tell you it was over.”

“Why not?” You demanded. Peter looked visibly surprised at the abrupt display of anger, making you look down at the sink in embarrassment.

“I want to say I didn’t want to see you look devastated, but I think I really didn’t want to see you look relieved.” Peter admitted without meeting your eyes. You actually appreciated his candor and smiled sadly, but still had a hardened look in your eyes that told Peter he was not yet forgiven.

“Can I ask you something?” He said in a wavering voice.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Did you ever think about me? Like, when you were waiting for an elevator or something? Did I ever cross your mind?”

Peter looked so small and fragile that you almost stepped forward and hugged him. You laughed humorlessly and nodded your head.

“Of course. Of course you did. I saw you in every pair of brown eyes I looked into since we broke up.” You admitted. That was the enough to break the dam and Peter found himself unable to contain his feelings any longer.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything. All the missed dates and calls I didn’t return. All the nights I left you waiting until you fell asleep next to the plate you left out for me. And for leaving the way I did. You deserved so much better than what I gave you.”

“Wow.” You cracked a smile. “Look who’s found his words.”

“I know they’re late. But better late than never, right?” He said with a self deprecating smile.

“Never would’ve been okay with me.”

“Really? You would’ve been okay if we never saw each other again? Even just to tell me off about how much of an asshole I was?”

“But that’s the thing, Peter. You weren’t an asshole. You were a good guy who was dealing with something I couldn’t help you with. You went about it in the shittiest way possible, but you were right to end our relationship. You clearly couldn’t be in one at the time. And I don’t think you realized that until you were writing on that post-it.”

Peter stared at you in stunned silence for a moment. It was just like you to humanize him, even after he’d hurt you in ways that changed you to your core. He looked away in shame, knowing he was nowhere near as evolved as you were.

“You could always read me like no one else could.” He said quietly.

“I thought I could. But I still don’t know what it was that you were going through. I tried to figure it out, but I never did discover the cause of the wedge between us.” You said, causing him to look back at you. You had a look on your face that brought his mind back to a picture of you he’d seen at your mom’s house. In the picture, you were just a kid, staring at the ocean with a life jacket twice the size of you. The same curious but fearful look on your face was present now.

“There was only one reason I left.” Peter said before he could stop himself. You looked at him like you were trying to decide if he was messing with you or not. Peter felt anxiety in his chest, recognizing this as the last moment you would ever see him in this way. Instead of telling you and going through the motions of you not believing him, he shot a web at a hairbrush on your floor and handed it to you. Your eyes went back and forth between the hairbrush and Peter about a hundred times. Finally, you slowly peeled the web off the back of the brush and held it up to give it a good look.

“You’re joking.” You said finally, no humor in your voice.

“I’m not.” Peter shook his head.

“Do it again.” You demanded and dropped the web into the trash. So Peter did it again, this time at your hand towel. He caught it with ease before handing it to you, which turned out to be a big mistake.

“You’re Spider-Man? You’re the fucking Spider-Man?” You asked as you smacked his shoulder with the towel. He let you hit him a few times before snatching the towel away from you.

“I am.”

“And you have been the whole time? Even when we were together?” You asked him as you visibly processed what you had just seen.

“Since before we got together.” He told you, making you start your processing all over. Your entire relationship played in your head and suddenly, all the missed dates on the night’s major crimes happened in the city made sense. You rubbed your face with your hands and sat in silence for a long time before looking at him.

“Is this why you left me? So I wouldn’t find out your secret?” You asked him in a quiet voice. Peter looked down in shame and nodded his head.

“The night I left, you and I got interviewed by the local news about our thoughts on the upcoming hurricane.”

“Oh my God. I forgot all about that.” You realized. “We were running to the bodega for ice cream. I had said I hoped we didn’t run into anyone we knew since I didn’t have my makeup on, and then we ended up on the news.”

“We did.” He smiled softly. “And in our interview, I said I was happy to have a girlfriend that buys too many blankets in case the power goes out.”

“I’m not following.”

“In that moment, I realized that if someone ever figured out my identity and wanted to hurt me, they could go after you. I called you my girlfriend on camera without even thinking about it. And all it would take is one person looking me up and seeing that video for you to be in danger. I couldn’t live myself knowing that dating you meant putting a target on your back.”

“So you threw us away because of a possibility?” You asked, sounding unsatisfied with his reasoning.

“It’s not just a possibility. Do you remember my Aunt May?” He asked you. You were about to ask what she had to do with your current conversation until you put two and two together. You did remember his Aunt May. More so, you remembered the way Peter never gave any definitive details on how she died.

“She knew about my secret and got too involved, and it got her killed. So it wasn’t just a possibility to me. It felt like it was only a matter of time before you got hurt or even worse because of me.”

“I didn’t know.” You said quietly.

“I didn’t want you to ever know. That’s why I wrote you the note on the post-it and left in the middle of the night. I thought if you hated me, you’d never come looking for me. And that would keep you safe.”

The change in perspective made the room spin slightly. You gripped the cold counter to ground yourself as your knees threatened to give out. Peter could tell you were struggling and stepped closer to you. He gently rested his hands on your waist to steady you. You looked up at him through your eyelashes and gave him a small appreciative smile.

“But what about now? Why tell me now?”

“Because you deserve to know the truth.” He said. “And it’s been so many years since we dated that we’re not gonna get back together. So there’s not really any harm in you knowing now.”

“But, just out of curiosity, does my knowing mean that now we can never be together?” You asked with a mischievous glint in your eyes. Peter’s eyebrows knit together, feeling apprehensive to read into your question.

“Why do you ask?” He asked as struggle to keep his gaze from falling to your lips. You reached up and gently ran your fingernails on his cheek, causing him to instantly melt into your touch. Peter hesitantly reached up and wrapped a hand gently around your wrist.

“Because I’m starting to forget all the reasons I cried at your hands.” You admitted to him through a sad laugh. Peter mirrored your melancholy smile and tilted your face towards his by taking your chin between his fingers. You stared into his eyes and felt his familiar magnetic force pulling you into him.

“You’re not gonna kiss me.” You shrugged with a knowing look in your eyes.

“I’m not?” He played coy.

“You’re not.” You said most assuredly. “Peter Parker is too much of a gentleman to kiss a girl when she’s drunk.”

“It’s true.” He chucked. “And it definitely has nothing to do with the entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos I saw you house down and then puke up.“

You leaned into him while you laughed and Peter wrapped two arms around you. He held you tightly and placed a kiss on the top of your head, noting that you used to same shampoo you did when you were together.

“That’s a good call. I don’t want to kiss you when I can feel those Doritos seeping out of my pores.” You told him as you pressed your cheek into his shoulder and gently swayed with him.

“Yeah.” He chuckled softly. “But I’d like to. You have no idea how much I’d like to.”

“I have some idea.” You told him as you pulled away and unabashedly stared at his lips. Peter leaned in but instead of kissing you, he grabbed the bottle of makeup remover from behind you and held it up.

“How about I do you even better and take your makeup off for you?” He asked. You threw your arms up in celebration and profusely nodded your head. Peter found your cotton balls and gently removed your makeup for you while you sat with your eyes shut and a content smile. When he finished, he went the extra mile and did your skincare for you. He’d seen you do it enough times back when you were dating that he was able to follow it the way you did. When he finished, he scooped you up off the counter and carried you out of the bathroom.

“Come on. I’m putting you to bed so it can be the morning faster.” He told you as he brought you to the room with your name marked on the door. Your laughter rang through your room as he gently placed you in your bed. You mumbled something incoherent once your head hit the pillow, already half asleep. Peter went to leave, but you caught his wrist and tugged him back.

“Hey, Spider-Man.” You said in a playfully demanding voice.

“Yes?” Peter chuckled. You seemed wide awake all the sudden and looked into his eyes.

“Are you gonna be there when I wake up this time?” You asked him, sounding completely serious.

“I’ll be there.” He promised you with no intention to disappoint you again. You smiled at him and rested your head back on your pillow, seeming to accept his answer.

“There’s a blanket on the couch you can use. There’s a lot, actually. I still buy too many. Goodnight Peter.” You said, eyes already shutting.

“Goodnight, honey.” Peter kissed his fingers and touched them to your forehead, not wanting to overstep but unable to just walk away.

When you woke up, Peter was gone. Your head was throbbing as you stared at the empty couch with a pit in your stomach. Before your heart could fully sink, you noticed the yellow post-it Peter had left on a newly folded blanket. Your hands shook as you picked it up, but it proved to be entirely different from the last time he left you a post-it.

“Went to get coffee around the block :)” He had penned in the same handwriting he once used to leave you. You cracked a smile at his risky joke just as Peter was coming back into your apartment with keys he had taken from the bowl by the door. He had two coffees in hand and a sleepy smile on his face.

“Good morning.” He greeted you as you walked over to him. “I took a guess at your order. I hope you still like-“

You cut him off by throwing your arms around him and kissing him, bringing you a feeling neither of you thought you would ever feel again.

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were Kelly.” You smiled teasingly when you pulled out of the kiss. Peter rolled his eyes to the ceiling before pulling you into another kiss.

“You were right about the coffee shop guy. He was very nice and gave me a scone when I said the coffee was for you.” Peter said as you walked to the kitchen together. You gasped in excitement and pulled the scone out of the little bag it was in before taking a big bite.

“Hey, you’re splitting that with me.” Peter warned you and pulled you by the waist towards him.

“I’m sorry.” You said with a mouthful of scone. “I can’t. Don’t hate me.”

Tag List 🏷️

This was loosely based on “In My Head” by Nell Mescal and Sex and The City! 🍔

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