post-its-etc

"So, what's he like? What are they both like?" Your co-worker Mila has been hounding you all night with questions about your patient in 301.

"Mila," you hiss as a group of doctors and interns pass by the nurses' station.

"What?" she whines out, still draped over the counter as she watches you log some medical information into the computer. "Do you think you'll have to sign an NDA? I mean, if it's really him?"

"Him, who?" you distractedly ask as you finally meet her inquisitive gaze.

She heaves a sigh before looking around, making sure there are no prying ears. She leans in closer to you and whispers, "Spider-Man."

You try not to roll your eyes. "You're still on about that? It's been about a week."

"Oh, please. Stop acting like it's no big deal," she counters.

"It's not-"

"Lies. C'mon, when's the last time we had anything exciting happen around here?"

You shrug. "I mean, we're the night shift. We see a lot of weird stuff."

She dismisses your words with a wave of her hand. "Psh. Rashes and removing inanimate objects from noses and butts is a typical slow night for us."

"Great, you've jinxed us," you joke as you stand to stretch your legs. As you do so, you can't help but look down the hall on the left towards room 301.

You still can't believe it's been almost a week since Spider-Man's unexpected arrival. Since then, the hospital has been in an uproar. The floor he's on has been pretty much on lockdown. Surprisingly, there are no cops camped outside Spider-Man's door, but you're pretty sure it's because of the Punisher himself, who's become a permanent fixture inside the hospital room. Along with the silent vigil of Spider-Man fans and reporters outside the hospital.

Just you, Dr. Weaver, who's been assigned to Spider-Man's room, and the day nurse have clearance. You're not even sure if it's official clearance or Frank Castle's. So far, no New Avengers have been in the hospital to check in on Spider-Man.

"Is the Punisher actually scary looking up close?" Mila muses as she stares at the same room you've been thinking about all night.

This time you do roll your eyes. "Mila, you've seen Frank Castle on the news. It's not like he hides his face."

"Yeah, but he's always glaring or covered in blood and yelling."

Mila's not wrong there. The first time you interacted with Frank Castle, he almost gave you a heart attack. It was the second night, 2:15 a.m., and you were doing your rounds. You saved Spider-Man's room for last. All you had to do was check his vitals and see if he'd woken up.

When you first walked in, the room was empty, except for the unconscious superhero. If you weren't at Dr. Weaver's side that first night, you wouldn't have believed it was Spider-Man himself.

As you move closer, you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beeping coming from the heart monitor. You give a sigh of relief. Honestly, the first night was touch-and-go with him. He had lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Weaver wasn't sure what other injuries Spider-Man had sustained. Frank mentioned something about the Hulk and Spider-Man going at it at the DODC building that same day.

You can't help but wonder how he's still alive. Maybe it's the spider DNA running through his body or his suit? You move next to the bed, reaching out to grab the empty IV bag and replace it, when a gravely low voice directly behind you causes you to jump and almost drop the new bag.

"What are you doing?"

Spinning around, you see Frank Castle at the foot of the bed. Even in civilian clothing, he's intimidating. Eyes intense, locked on your figure and face, void of any emotion. You do notice, due to your staring at him, that his eyes briefly move towards the bed and then back to you in a flash.

"I-I-uh," you stumble over your words, completely caught off guard. It was well past visiting hours, and you didn't expect Frank to still be there. Instead, you raise the IV bag so he can see you mean no harm to his friend.

His eyes furrow as he takes in your face, and then his gaze drops to your nurse's badge pinned to your front pocket.

"You're not the nurse from earlier." He moves a little closer to you, and you can't help but tense.

"Uh... yeah, I'm the night nurse. Ian will be back at 8," you say, finally finding your voice, and you point to the badge even though he's already seen it.

His gaze slightly softens, and his shoulders drop as he gives a slight nod and then moves to the chair that's on the other side of the bed. The next words out of his mouth surprise you.

"Sorry... didn't mean to startle you or anythin'. I'm just..." he trails off as if he's not sure what to say or he can't find the right words in that moment.

"I get it," you quickly say as you change out the IV bags. "You're just worried about your friend." Turning back, you see that Frank is carefully watching Peter's unconscious form. It's quiet for a moment, just the sound of the heart monitor beeping as you check the rest of Peter's vitals before jotting them down on his chart.

You're about to head out when Frank's voice stops you.

"He'll be okay." His voice is lower than before, and you're not sure if it's a question for you or if he's talking to himself.

Reassuring himself.

Again, you're not sure what to say. The next second, Frank looks up at you with a raised brow.

You muster a small smile. "Of course. His vitals are good," you reassure.

He doesn't say anything else, just nods as he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms. It looks like he's staying the night.

The sound of the call button brings you back to the present.

"Oh my god, it's his room," Mila excitedly breathes as she checks to see which room you're being called to.

"Mila," you lightly chastise as you push her back. "He's still a patient. Also, don't you need to do your rounds?"

She makes a face as she watches you head towards Peter's room. "You're no fun," she calls after you.

---

As you draw nearer to Peter's room, you hear some familiar voices floating down the hall. You met Ned and MJ the other night. Again, aside from the Spider-Man suit poking out of the patient bag and Frank's constant presence, it seems like a typical patient's room.

You pause in the doorway. Ned is by Peter's bed, showing him something on his phone. MJ and Frank are out of view, but you can hear them talking near the windowsill. You give a slight knock, alerting them to your presence.

"Hey," Peter says, immediately sitting up, hand going to his slight bed head.

"Hi," you reply, slightly uncertain as your eyes scan over him. MJ and Frank's conversation dies off as they spot you entering the room. "Visiting hours end soon," you gently remind Ned and MJ. You know Frank isn't leaving.

"Oh! Yeah, cool, no problem. We're heading out," Ned says, gesturing to MJ.

"Yeah, we'll be back tomorrow," MJ adds as she grabs her coat. She gives you a small smile as she passes you and heads out the door. Ned says something to Peter before grabbing his things and hurrying after MJ.

"Bye, Frank!" Ned says to the man who's currently staring out the window. "Bye, y/n," he adds as he passes you, and there's a teasing grin on his face as he says your name.

"Bye?" you barely get out, slightly confused and taken aback by that grin. You focus your attention back on Peter, who's messing with something in his hands. "So, what can I do for you?" you ask as you check his IV bag.

"Huh?" Peter replies, confused as he blinks up at you.

You can't help but smile. "You hit the call button."

"I did? Oh! Sorry, I uh didn't mean to. I guess I sat on the remote," Peter slightly rambles.

"Yeah, again." You hear Frank mutter from the window.

"Don't worry about it," you reply as you move closer to the bed and reach out, gently adjusting his pillows. Something you do out of habit with all your patients. "Happens all the time." Your arm brushes his shoulder, and there's a slight spike on the monitor.

You put on some gloves to check his bruised ribs. As your hands gently roam over his side, the monitor increases, and that alarms you.

You quickly pull back, scanning his body and face. "Are you still in pain?" you ask as you look at the monitor, still beeping away.

"Wh-what?" Peter slightly chokes out, trying to calm his heart.

"Didn't that happen last time you checked in on him?" Frank adds, and Peter shoots him a glare.

"Did it?" you muse, frowning slightly as you check his chart and the previous records of his monitor. Frank's right. Everything was fine during Ian's morning shift. But you do note his slightly elevated heart rate from last night during your rounds.

"It's nothing," Peter quickly reassures, reaching out to briefly touch your arm to get your attention away from his chart.

You look up, and Peter notices the worry and concern written across your face. "Maybe I should get Dr. Wea-"

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Peter cuts in, voice slightly raised.

You eye him and then reach out and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. Just by touch, he feels warm, but you're not sure if that's his natural body temperature or if he has an infection. You listen to Peter's persistent reassurance that he doesn't need Dr. Weaver as you continue to check his vitals. The constant semi-frantic beeping of the monitor still worries you.

"Peter," you gently cut in, your hand resting on his shoulder, and his rambling about how his body runs hot and there's no need to worry dies away at your touch. "I know your body heals faster, but still, maybe Dr. Weaver should-"

"No, no, really, I'm good. I can prove it to you." Peter is pushing back the blankets, and you quickly realize he's trying to get out of bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," you exclaim, pushing him back. "Stop moving so fast. You were literally knocking on death's doorstep a few days ago."

"That's a bit dramatic," he teases, still trying to get out of bed.

"It's on me if you collapse on the floor," you counter.

"Eh, she's got a point," Frank says, watching you two. "That Grey girl was basically keeping you alive the whole time you were unconscious."

"Frank, seriously. Like I keep saying, I'm fine. Go home-"

"The only way I'm leaving is if you force me out-"

"Don't think I can't. Just because you shot me-"

"Seriously? You're gonna hold that over my head? I was literally aiming for the girl, and you decided to pull some hero bullshit-"

"I'm not holding it over your head, Frank! I'm just saying-"

"Yeah? Let me tell you something, kid-"

"Guys!" you interject while simultaneously trying to push a standing Peter back on his bed. Their whole partnership... friendship? Was giving you a headache. A moment they're having a heart-to-heart, and next they're at each other's throats.

Peter's heartbeat slowly dies down as the monitor does. "Sorry," Peter sheepishly says, sitting down.

"You guys can go back to arguing, or whatever it is you two do once you're out of the hospital." You point a finger at Peter, who just stares up at you.

Frank mutters something under his breath and goes back to staring out the window. The rest of Peter's checkup goes smoothly.

"So, same time tomorrow night?" Peter jokes.

You grin. "It's a date."

The sound of the heart monitor picks up, and you eye it before looking back to Peter.

"Don't think I won't mention your heart rate to Dr. Weaver."

"Oh, come on-"

"Nope," you firmly say as you head out of the room.

"Maybe it's the machine," Peter calls after you.

Frank snorts. "Right, the machine. So, what's the reason for the red face every time she comes in?"

"Shut up."

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

The thing is, he hasn't quite learned how to compartmentalize memories away. (And he doesn't think he really wants to. Not when those memories are the only proof that he ever mattered to someone—to you.) Every waking moment since Dr. Strange cast the spell has been a living hell. When he's in between states of consciousness, his lips tremble with the ghost of your name. When he's walking through a crowd, he hears your laugh distantly in the wind. When he lays down at night, your face is the one that visits him in his dreams. When he opens his eyes, you're the first thing on his mind.

He's been chasing a ghost for three years. Seeing you, and hearing you, and looking for you in other people, and all that chasing has led him right here. To this party. He'd initially told himself—promised, actually—that he'd let you go because it was the only way to guarantee your safety. That you deserved to live a normal life. A life without all the worry, and the uncertainty, and the pain that came along with knowing someone like Peter Parker. A final act of love. Of selflessness.

But for all of his good qualities, Peter is a liar. He'd like to think himself selfless, but the truth of it, the raw, nasty truth of it all, is that he is a selfish person—and it scares him. The pretending to move on from you started out fine, at first. He'd tell himself it was right. That leaving you alone was the best decision for you. And for him. But then the want, the ache that resides deep in his marrow, started becoming louder than the voice telling him that his decision was right, clawing and scratching its way up to his throat until he acquiesced to the new voice encouraging him to seek you out.

After years of lightly keeping track on you (well, "lightly" was putting it rather generous. Everything he knew was easily google-able—really, you should start taking internet safety seriously), he knew from browsing through your Instagram (also, easily findable) where you worked, your course schedule, and where you liked to party. Which is how he found out that there was a house party happening tonight, and that you were definitely going to be in attendance.

You'd posted a story of you tipsy, with your arms slung around your college friends, smile easy and eyes half-lidded in a way Peter has never had the luxury of witnessing intimately like the people in the picture probably do. But he's seen the outside of the frat house on more than one occasion because of your story posts, enough to have memorized it and the surrounding structures. (Enough to have found it while patrolling the city on his rather slow nights.)

When he saw the story, his initial reaction was to ignore it. At first glance it just looked like another frat party. Same location, same group of friends. Except, there was one thing, one person, in the picture that didn't quite belong…

There was a guy slung around your arms, an unfamiliar face that Peter had never seen before. His face was turned from the camera, eyes fixed on you, soft and heavy with fascination in the way people's eyes usually looked whenever you walked into a room. (Peter knows the look because he remembers looking at you like that. He practically invented the look.)

Upon further inspection, though, the guy didn't just have an arm slung over your shoulder, but he had an arm wrapped around your waist like it belonged there, with his fingers splayed across your stomach in an almost proprietorial grip, and the other hand holding up a red solo cup like some douche bag.

To anyone else, it'd look like two friends having fun and taking a picture for the camera, but Peter knew what it looked like when a guy was into a girl. And this guy was conventionally attractive, he could admit that—he wasn't blind. The next story after that was even worse. And it was a video. You were playing beer pong with the same guy who, in the video, was stood at your side hyping you up as you focused on lining up your shot. The camera panned to the other side, and then your ball went into one of the opposing team's cups. The crowd watching burst into cheers, and then you turned to your teammate and he pulled you into a celebratory hug, hoisting you off the ground.

That was the final straw before he decided to abandon his nightly patrol. There wasn't much going on tonight anyway, aside from the usual: jaywalking, petty civilian arguments, robberies from the halal street carts—so he didn't feel too guilty.

He swung all the way home to his cramped little apartment in Queens, deliberating the whole way whether or not this was crazy, or if it was selfish, and then convinced himself somewhere in between 65th ave and 63rd ave that it was necessary. After a quick change (like a really quick change—he has all of five outfits, four of which were in the hamper), he swung all the way back to downtown Manhattan.

As soon as he got to the frat house, he regretted it almost instantaneously. What was he going to do, really? Introduce himself to you? Tell you that he's not a creep but actually your ex-boyfriend who you can't remember because Dr. Strange cast a spell that erased not only your memories of him, but his entire existence in the whole world? Oh, yeah, and in revealing all of that, that he's Spider-Man?

He didn't exactly plan that far ahead, and the more his mind ruminated, the more he realized there's no possible scenario in which this ends well. Even if he did get the chance to talk to you tonight, he'd slip up. Say too much. End up ruining everything he's worked tirelessly to protect for three years. Just as he's about to retreat from the porch, a voice emerges from behind him.

"Hey, you alright? Been watching you pace back and forth for about five minutes now."

His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes, and a shaky breath escapes his lips. All the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on edge, and not because he's sensing a threat, but because the voice is so familiar, so warm, that his body is reacting to it involuntarily. Similar to how the sea reaches for the sand, his body has developed a second instinctual response, and it knows when you are near. Because it was made for you.

Quickly, he inhales a deep breath through his nose to brace himself, and then hesitantly, turns on his heels to face you. When his eyes meet yours, it feels like a punch to the gut that expels all the air from his lungs. You're leaning against one of the porch columns, wearing a curious expression, and there's a joint pinched between your fingers that you bring up to your lips. Smoothly. Practiced. Peter has never seen you smoke before. Unconsciously, his brows furrow in response, and he wants to ask when you took that up, but he catches himself before the words get the chance to leave his mouth and he clears his throat awkwardly. Looks away.

"I, uh," he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, "sorry. I just—I don't really know what I'm doing here." His words come out more high-pitched than intended, and he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before shifting his gaze to the side.

You look at him curiously, taking another hit of the joint, and then blow the smoke from the side of your mouth. The light on the porch is dim, illuminating only a few feet in front of him and casting shadows that dance across the planes of your face—but you look devastatingly beautiful, he thinks. It makes his chest throb terribly, and he has to make a conscious effort to not make eye contact because he's spent so long not being able to look at you, that he fears his body will betray him if he indulges. So he busies himself with the loose thread on his shirt instead, twirling it around his fingers nervously.

"Yeah, me neither," you sigh wistfully, looking off to the side. Your lips do that twitchy thing they do when you're holding back something, but before Peter has a chance to register it, you're already turning back to him with that easy, cool smile. Whatever is, or was on your mind, dies before you can give them voice. "Which is why I'm out here. Needed some air." You lift the joint (well, a roach now), waving it around in your hand.

Peter gives you a light chuckle. "What, is the party too boring? Should I go?" He jokes, pointing in the direction of the steps. You offer him an amused grin, and then move from leaning against the column to the railing, taking a seat.

"Nah, the brothers actually throw pretty good parties. Just gets repetitive after awhile, you know? Beer pongs, keg stands, body shots, people dry humping on the couch—you know, all the stupid shit intoxicated college kids usually get up to at these kinds of parties."

Peter nods his head slowly, pretends like he knows exactly the kinds of things college kids get up to, as if his community college experience has even been remotely similar to yours. "No. Yeah. Exactly," he blurts, unconvincingly.

Narrowing your eyes, you say, "You don't sound too sure," then, "Can I ask you something?"

Peter nods reluctantly. "Y-yeah." There's a look on your face and a firmness to your voice that Peter can't quite discern. A mix between suspicion and intrigue. He shifts anxiously on his heels, waiting expectantly for whatever it is you're going to ask.

"You don't… know the brothers, do you? A lot of faces come through here, but I've never seen you before." Your question leans less on accusation, and more on sheer curiosity. You tilt your head, waiting for a response, and then lean down to the ground to put out the roach.

Choosing his words carefully, he quickly thinks of something to say. Something passable, and harmless, that you (hopefully, fingers crossed) wouldn't read too much into. "No, I don't know the brothers," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, "a buddy of mine invited me along, said I could just show up. I texted him earlier that I was here but he hasn't responded. So I've been out here… trying to gather the courage to go inside. I don't really go to parties much—ever, really."

When his eyes flit back to yours, you're sporting a knowing grin. "Yeah, I figured as much. You don't really look like the 'party type'," you say matter-of-factly with a shrug of your shoulders.

Peter scoffs, holding his hand over his heart in faux-offense. "What does that mean? I'm the 'party type,'" he crosses his arms, voice cracking on the end of type. His face flushes beet red, and he turns his head in embarrassment, hoping you don't comment on the way his grown-man body just betrayed him. Amused, you laugh, and not just a lighthearted one, but a genuine, full-belly laugh. He turns back to you and just stares, letting the sound ring through his ears, because God, he's missed the sound of your laughter—even if it was at his expense.

"You're right. I'm sorry. You're totally a party person. My mistake—" your words come out quick and breathy from laughing, and you wipe away a tear from the corner of your eye. "No, but when I said you're not the 'party type,' I meant that in a good way. I'd remember someone like you."

"Someone like…" Peter queries, raising a brow because it still sounds like he should be offended. You get up from where you're sat on the railing and step closer towards him, stopping just a few inches away from where he's stood.

"Cute," you say, tone void of teasing. "Like I said, I'd remember." Slowly, you circle him, and you're so close, his body starts reacting again. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing, his palms grow slick with sweat, and his heart is beating viciously behind the confines of his ribcage. Peter swallows thickly, and it feels like there's a ball of cement lodged in the epicenter of his throat. He has to look forward, lest he runs the risk of passing out right here on the spot like some loser.

"O-oh," is all he can say, voice shaky. Your shoulder briefly makes contact with his when you return to your spot in front of him again, and he stiffens.

Then, like nothing just happened, you move past him and head for the door. Peter turns around, and you gesture with your head towards the party, as if to say 'are you coming or what?' Your hand rests patiently on the knob, leg perched on the doorstep, and you're looking at him like you've known him for years. Like the rest of the night hinders solely upon his decision to follow you inside, and judging by the expression on your face, you seem to be more than aware of the effect that you have on him.

"Oh, by the way," you step back down, facing him, "I forgot to ask you for your name. Or should we stick with Mr. Party Type?"

He clears his throat, choking out a rushed, "P-peter. It's Peter."

He watches you mutter it under your breath, like you're trying to let it sit on your tongue. Memorize it. As if after tonight it'll remain one of the many names you keep catalogued up in your head. Hearing you say his name after all these years of basically being dead to everyone he's ever known—loved, does something irreversible to his brain chemistry. Now that he's had a taste, he doesn't think he can go back to a reality where it doesn't live on your lips.

"But, uh, w-what's your name? I also… forgot to ask." He listens intently as you tell him your name, and briefly, he feels silly. Pretending he hasn't said it countless of times before. Like he doesn't know the nickname you prefer to be called, and how you only let the people closest to you use it. As if your name isn't the only thing taking up residence in all of his thoughts.

Still, he pretends it's the first time he's ever heard it, and then says, "That's a pretty name." This time, Peter doesn't choke on his words. He says it with a confident edge, holding eye contact while moving closer to you. It'd been so long since the last time he flirted, especially with you, that he almost forgot what it felt like. But he finds himself falling back into routine, like picking up a bike after years of having not rode one.

Caught off guard, a shy smile replaces your cheeky one, and you stutter out a thank you. "Coming, Pete?" you ask coolly, trying to regain your easy composure, "we can look for your friend inside or you can stick with me. Up to you."

He almost trips over himself trying to get to you. "Y-yeah, we can look." (There's nobody to look for.)

With a final glance, you grab hold of his wrist and lead him inside, and all Peter can think about is how the skin of his wrist blooms with heat where you're touching him, and how the smell of your perfume wafts through the air with every stride. What is that, he wonders. Sandalwood? It's spicy. Musky—unfamiliar. You used to be a vanilla girl. He guesses that's another thing that's changed. His jaw twitches.

Peter's so lost in his thoughts, he doesn't even notice that you've stopped until he collides into your back, and he quickly apologizes. You stumble forward from the impact but quickly regain your balance, and turn to face him, releasing your hold on his wrist. His eyes watch disappointedly as your hand returns to your side, and he shivers from the loss of contact.

"See your friend around? If he's not in here, we can check out back. There's usually people out there just hangin'." You point towards the sliding doors, and he pretends to follow your line of sight, swiveling his head around the room and then through the glass, looking for a person who doesn't exist.

He pulls out his phone, makes like he's pulling up someone's number, then puts the phone to his ear. He waits a beat, gives it a few seconds like it's actually ringing, and then walks a few steps away. Every few seconds, he spares a glance over his shoulder to see you watching him, and he gives a shy smile that you return with a thumbs up as if to ask 'any luck?'

He slips his phone in his pocket and returns to you, "Yeahhh, no answer," a lie, "maybe I'll bump into him later or something, but uh, is that offer to kick it with you still on the table? Unless, you know, you're ready to ditch this loser and go hang out with your cool friends."

There's a teasing lilt to his words, you notice this, and roll your eyes playfully. "Hey, I never called you a loser," you say, a smirk forming on your lips, "you said it not me—but yes, the offer is still on the table. One condition, though." A smile, then wider. Mischievous.

He turns his head slightly, narrows his eyes. "Shoot."

"Since you don't go to parties much," you start slowly, drawing out the anticipation, "it's only right that you get the authentic college experience, right?"

"Right…" not following where you're going with this. He shifts his weight and crosses his arms.

"So, what better way than to start off with a body shot?" you say finally, gesticulating with jazz hands.

Peter's eyes go wide, and now he's thinking about the implication. Who would be doing the body shot? Would it be him doing it to you? Or would it be you doing it to him? Then he starts to think about the where. Like, on your collarbone? Your neck? God, your chest?

His mind runs a mile a minute trying to compute each and every possible scenario, but all he can think about, is how each one is infinitely worse than the last. Not that he doesn't want to—God, of course he wants to—but he'd never planned on getting this far tonight, let alone getting the opportunity to touch you in that way… again. And Peter was weak, so very, very weak. All signs were pointing to this being a bad idea, but then again, Peter never much had a knack for making the right decisions.

With a twisted, unsure but excited smile, he says, "Alright. Sure, let's do it."

"Which one, Vodka or Tequila?"

Neither, is what he wants to say. Instead, he says, "Uh, I g-guess that one?" He points to the bottle in your right hand, and you make an elated noise.

"Tequila, good choice. Ever had it before?" you ask, eyes flickering from him to the knife in your hand as you cut up a lime.

He shakes his head, "Nope. Never really saw the appeal of alcohol. Tastes gross."

"You know, I actually agree with you there. But the appeal is getting drunk and then blaming all your bad decisions on the alcohol," you say, to which he chuckles.

"Yeah, well, I never needed alcohol for that," he admits, looking down shyly, "trust me."

You respond to his admission with a soft laugh and nod your head, "Also fair."

When the conversation dies, the two of you settle into a peaceful silence. Peter watches you slice the lime in half, and then again into two halves. One for him, and… one for you, he presumes. While he observes, he notices the practiced ease with which you set it all up. You line each item on the counter like you do this often, discarding of the knife in the sink, finding the salt from the cabinet, drying your hands on the sink towel.

Briefly, his mind can't help but to wander. Just how close were you with these frat brothers? How many times have you done body shots here? Then, bitterly, he begins to ask himself something that makes the back of his throat slick with bile. He wonders if you've done this with that guy. The one in your story post from earlier.

Before he can ponder on the last question for too long, the sound of your voice pulls him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Stand up," you say, motioning for him to get up from his seat on the counter. "You go first."

Sliding from the counter, he lands on wobbly feet, the nerves finally catching up to him. He was so busy pouting about hypotheticals that he totally forgot he walked into the kitchen with a knot in his stomach, but it was back now. Twisting with a vengeance.

When there was a reality in which you two were dating, he never had to worry about embarrassing himself in front of you. (Well, in the beginning stages, sure. But when you really started dating, like officially, it was easy. You had found his awkwardness charming then, but now, he finds himself feeling a little insecure. Out of his depth. In your separation, you'd grown, found community, experienced new things—and you did it all without him. And he doesn't know if you're a new person entirely because of the spell, or if this version of you is who you would've grown into regardless.)

His eyes flicker anxiously from the ingredients to you, and you flash him a reassuring smile, brushing his forearm lightly.

"Hey, I'll walk you through it," you say, hoisting yourself onto the counter. Lay flat on your back. You extend an arm and tug him closer by the sleeve of his jacket, and he settles next to your side. "Okay, first, pick where you wanna do it."

"I guess your, uh, stomach," he decides, swallowing thickly. The corner of your mouth twitches with a smirk, and then you continue on.

"Now, you're gonna pour it into my belly button. So lift up my shirt."

With shaky fingers, Peter tugs on the hem of your shirt, then slowly lifts it up until it reaches your ribs. Folds it over neatly so as to not get it wet, and his knuckles brush your skin. Your abdomen flexes in response, once, twice, then his eyes flit up to yours and you're already looking at him. The air feels charged. The hairs on the back of his neck can feel it, and he thinks you feel it, too. You swallow, continue on.

"G-good, now…" you tilt your head to the bottle, watch as he grabs it and begins to pour. Once he's satisfied, he puts the bottle down and then returns his gaze to you like a lost puppy. "Now, take the salt and pour some on my stomach. Salt first, then shot."

He grabs the shaker and sprinkles out a thin line of salt just above the shot. From here, you stop giving instructions, and Peter comes to a silent understanding. Unhurriedly, he lowers his mouth to your stomach, hovering just a few centimeters above, and he exhales through his nose. Eyes fixed on yours, unmoving.

Reflexively, your abdomen caves again, and now you're hyper-aware of what's happening. Your high was quickly starting to wear off, to your dismay, and the reality that you were letting a complete stranger do a body shot off of you was starting to settle in. In any other case, you'd think better on it, but for some reason, the stranger before you didn't really feel like a stranger at all…

Then, his tongue is on you. Warm and wet and gentle. One long, fluid flick. A wave of warmth washes over you, pools low into the pit of your stomach. Your hand grips the edge of the counter as he hovers over your navel, and you watch with bated breath as he wraps his lips around the pool of liquid, his dilated eyes never once leaving yours. He hums as he sucks it up, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine, and then in the flash of a second, he's pulling off of you with a satisfied grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Guess this is the last step," he says, grabbing a lime wedge. He squeezes it into his mouth and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Yeah, can't say I'm a fan of that part."

Watching him take a shot off your body had more of an effect on you than you expected. You convince yourself it's just the weed. (Your high already wore off.) Sitting up, you adjust your shirt and try to recompose yourself to the best of your ability, already opening your mouth to shift the focus from you to him.

"Alright, so, you did your first body shot! Now it's my turn." You put extra emphasis on the my, and shoot him a cheeky wink. Peter can only imagine what you're planning to do. He only hopes his body doesn't betray him. And for clarification, he's not a pervert. It's just… been too long, to his misfortune. He only just licked your stomach a minute ago, and now you were going to be licking him.

If he ever got the chance to feel your mouth on him again, he never envisioned it'd be in the kitchen of some frat. In his daydreams, you had your memories back. He'd hold you in his arms, cradle your face in his hands, and kiss you sweetly. Your hands would find their way to the nape of his neck, and you'd pull him closer by the curls, and tease him when he sighs into your mouth. The reality of the situation was that you were still spell you, and spell you had no idea that the boy she had taken under her wing tonight was fantasizing about all the ways he used to kiss her.

He wasn't going to last much longer tonight.

Just as he's about to lay on the counter, you stop him with a tut of your hand, grab him by the shoulders and walk him backwards until his legs hit a chair at the kitchen table.

"Sit," you say, pushing him down. He obliges, takes a seat and watches as you line up all the ingredients again. Then, smoothly, you bend down just enough to slide his jacket off from his shoulders, place it on the back of his chair, eyes focused and unreadable. You're so close that if Peter leaned in a few inches, he'd be able to press a kiss to your neck. The smell of sandalwood floods his senses, makes him dizzy.

"Hold this for me." Not asking. Demanding. You tug on the collar of his shirt and he lifts a hand to replace yours. Lightly, you trace the skin of his collarbone, drag it from one point to the other, then prod the space where you'll be putting the shot. Every inch of skin where your finger touched blooms with heat, he thinks he'll feel it tomorrow morning.

"This too, please." You pick up the lime wedge. Peter opens his hand but you shake your head, point to your mouth. "Open."

Hesitantly, he opens his mouth and you stick it in between his teeth, smiling in satisfaction because of how agreeable he's being. Without delay, you take his free hand and pour a sprinkle of salt on the back, then grab the bottle of tequila and pour it into the hollow of his clavicle.

You don't even know why you were making such an effort to do all of this. Part of you wants to believe it's your twisted way of getting back at him for flustering you, but really, you know it's because another part of you feels weirdly drawn to him. It was strange. You, who had very little patience for people—who was repulsed by most people—found yourself willingly leaning into this stranger. You'd known him for all of an hour, and yet, he has been the single most interesting thing all night.

Bending down, your eyes find his as you lower your mouth to his hand, and then you dart your tongue out, lick the salt off. Long and slow and wet. Peter's breath hitches. Closes his eyes to focus. When you drop his hand, he can hear you shuffling to his other side, then your hands are holding him steady by the shoulders, and he can feel you—hear you—leaning closer to his neck, your breath fanning the shell of his ear.

Slowly, you plant your mouth onto his clavicle and suck the liquor from the hollow, until there's nothing left. Until you've decided you're ready to pull away. And he sighs. He fucking sighs. Something soft and content, it almost sounds too intimate. Like you shouldn't have heard it, but you continue on. Try to ignore it as you cup his face and pluck the lime from in between his teeth.

When Peter decides it's safe, he opens his eyes, blinks. You squeeze the lime juice into your mouth and turn your back towards him abruptly, walk towards the kitchen counter. To take another shot, recompose yourself, put some space between you—you don't know. You just do, and you can feel his gaze burning into your back. Your heart is beating viscously, and you attempt to quell it with a soothing hand over your chest.

Peter watches you with an inquisitive expression. "You alright over there?" Genuine, concerned. He gets up from his seat and rounds the counter, goes to grab your shoulder but you shrug him off.

"I-i'm fine, I just—the juice, too sour," you breathe, unconvincingly.

He goes to open his mouth again but is interrupted by a new voice coming from the kitchen doorway.

"Babe, I've been looking all over for you," the voice shouts. "Where have you been?"

The two of you turn around, and Peter feels an amalgamation of things wash violently over him at once. Dread. Bitterness. Jealousy. It was him. The fucking guy from your story post—the one who was looking at you how he used to. The one who was holding you like he used to. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to raise, and he feels his body vibrate with something too dark to name. It should scare him, he thinks briefly. But that feeling quickly dissolves the second this douche bag opens his mouth.

"You went out for air and then never came back, needed you out there for the second round, wait—" the guy walks closer, finally acknowledging Peter's presence, "Who's this, babe?"

You roll your eyes, drop the lime wedge on the counter and take three big strides across the room to him. "Stop calling me that, we're not together, remember?" You whisper-shout, tugging him by the elbow to the other side of the room. Peter probably shouldn't eavesdrop, but he can't help but to overhear bits and pieces from the conversation.

You make an honest effort to keep your voice low enough but the guy purposely voices his words loud enough for Peter to hear, glaring over your shoulder every now and then when he gestures to Peter.

"So while I was out there waiting for you, you were in here with him? Doing what, exactly? Just talking? I see the limes on the counter, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you like to…" his voice trails, words slurring, and you pinch the space between your brows, visibly annoyed.

"It's none of your business, Harry!" you yell this time, abandoning your effort to keep your conversation at whisper-level. "What I do at parties is none of your concern, we're not together. You broke up with me, remember? You. Broke up. With me."

Peter's knuckles turn white. He had a name now. Harry. And not only did he have a name, but he had confirmation. That the two of you are together—or were, whatever. The semantics don't really matter; he knows now there was history. His only question: why did this asshole think he had any entitlement to your social life?

"That's not…" Harry starts, fumbling backward, suddenly losing his semblance of balance. "That's not fair."

You scoff, fold your arms, tongue in cheek. Peter knows that look; the one you wear when you call bullshit. "Oh, don't talk to me about fair, Harry. You made it pretty clear that I had no place in your life. Can't blame everything on Daddy," you say, tone venomous. "And, God, Harry… You're embarrassing. You missed a little something."

Harry blinks stupidly when you gesture to his face, and he brings a hand up to his nose, wipes it with the sleeve of his shirt. Embarrassment etches onto his face, and he curses under his breath. Just as he's about to speak again, you raise a hand.

"Don't. You're high, Harry—and drunk. Just leave, please. I indulged you earlier by coming and playing nice, but don't mistake that for anything more. Just leave, please. Just go."

Sparing one last glance between you and Peter, Harry scoffs, then stumbles back out into the party. When you finally turn around, Peter doesn't even realize he's been balling his fists at his sides for the entire conversation. His knuckles are blanch white, and there's crescent shaped indents scattered all over the palm of his hand. He shakes his hands loose, puts them behind his back.

You walk back over to him with a sigh, hiding your face behind your hands. "I'm so sorry," you apologize, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. "That was so weird. I promise you I'm not one of those girls who get into dramatic arguments with their boyfriend at parties. Not that he's my boyfriend—I mean you heard it, obviously—but you know what I mean. He's not usually like that, I don't know what got into—actually, I don't know why I'm rambling. Sorry."

"You don't have to do that, you know."

Furrowing your brows, you say, "Do what?"

"Defend him. You don't need to do that. He's an asshole," he added, stating it matter-of-factly. "Sorry if I'm overstepping but, based off of what I heard just now, he gave up on you. He ended things. He has no right to feel entitled to you or to what you do, I'd ne—I mean, the right guy would never treat you the way he's treating you. Like you're disposable. Who treats you like a safety net to come back to when he's bored."

When he's finished, he quickly notices how still you are. Your eyes are wide and you're staring at him with an unreadable expression. His stomach drops to his ass. Shit, he curses himself.

"I m-mean, it's not like I know your situation or anything. I overstepped, didn't I? I'm sorry, it just sounded like—and you kept going on, and I just wanted to reassu—" his voice shakes, hands gesturing wildly.

Unthinking, you take two steps forward and close the distance between you and Peter melts. Slow at first, then all at once. His hands drop to his sides, his shoulders relax, and he sighs into your mouth. Soft and syrupy. You deepen the kiss in response, angle his head how you want it, and then his hands are on you, pulling you flush against him with a hunger that threatens to consume.

This is when the air in the room shifts, becomes charged with something else. Something hungry, and desperate, and familiar. Careful turns messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, wet and breathy and delicious. In the midst of the chaos, he backs you into the wall, slots his thigh between your legs and you let out a noise in between a whine and a moan.

Unceremoniously, Peter breaks the kiss and stumbles backward to the kitchen counter, putting as much distance between the two of you as he can. His chest rises and falls in quick succession and he's profusely apologizing, muttering a string of 'sorry's and 'we can't's. Confused, you push off the wall and make your way to him but he puts out a hand. Leans against the counter and shakes his head while trying to catch his breath.

"W-what's wrong? Are you—did I…" you start, breathless, "did I do something?"

Peter clutches his chest, shakes his head profusely, "What—no. No. You didn't do—no, I just…" he stammers, walking closer but still being cautious of the space between you. "I just…can't."

He internally cringes. It's a lie, of course, and he fucking hates it. Hates lying to you. Hates that you're wearing that expression on your face, like you've just been rejected—denied. And it's his fault.

"I don't understand. I thought you… Did I get the wrong idea?" Your voice gets quieter, smaller. Peter has never known you to retreat into yourself, you've always walked and talked with an air of confidence; he's not sure when this has changed, but he briefly wonders if this has something to do with him. If that guy has done this to you.

Quickly, he takes three long strides across the kitchen and moves to hold you, but decides against it. Drops his hands awkwardly to his sides and cringes.

"You did not get the wrong idea, trust me." His voice comes out strained, as if there's a paperweight on his chest, and he's trying to choose his words carefully. "It was a good kiss—God, a really good kiss, actually. But… I'm not really in the right headspace for anything right now, you know?"

A beat. Before you respond, you mull it over in your head, then, "I'm not asking for a relationship, Peter. It was just a kiss. I figured maybe after, you'd want to come over to mine or something. I mean, you did say the kiss was 'really good' if I recall."

His eyes widen again from the implication, and he huffs out a breath because this conversation was literally going to kill him. "Wow, yeah, that's definitely an incredible offer—" his voice goes up a pitch, "but I think you'd feel differently about what you just suggested in the morning. Besides, you just met me. What if I was some big, bad serial killer?" He folds his arms, makes an attempt to sound intimidating but his voice cracks on the last word, and you laugh.

"That's the second funniest thing you've said tonight. You? A serial killer? Peter I'd no sooner believe you were a boy scout than a serial killer."

"Hey, they can be anyone," he counters, nodding his head.

"Not you," you say, then, "Can I say something crazy, though?"

Peter nods, shifts his stance and braces. "Of course."

Hesitantly, you open your mouth, busy your fingers with the chipped polish on your nails. "Would it be weird if I said you don't feel like a stranger? There's something about you, I don't know how to explain it but… You feel familiar. And that kiss… I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am drunk, or high, or whatever. I must sound ridiculously crazy. I'm sor—"

Peter interjects. "How about this. We're gonna be friends, okay? How's that sound?"

Thinking, you nod slowly. "Okay. Friends. We can be friends." You repeat it. Let it sit on your tongue. "Well, since we're gonna be friends, can I ask you a favor?"

"Shoot."

"Walk me home? Kinda partied-out. Don't wanna chance running into Harry on the way out and him bothering me. Figured if he sees you, he'll back off."

Peter nods, "Yeah, sure. Let's go."

As you make your way out of the kitchen and through the party, the two of you can only think of one thing.

Peter thinks he's just friend-zoned himself back into your life.

But you? You can't stop thinking about how you're not going to be friends.

Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.

You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.

Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.

Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.

By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.

MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.

With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.

“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.

The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.

“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”

“I know.”

“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.

“I know.”

“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”

“I know.”

MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”

Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”

“Bingo.”

Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.

“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.

Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”

“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.

Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.

“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”

For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.

Before you could focus on it, it was gone.

The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.

“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.

The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.

“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”

Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”

“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.

When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”

You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.

Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.  

“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”

There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.  

“You’re seeing things?”

There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.

“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”

MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.

The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.  

“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”

Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”

Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.

He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.

By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.

You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.

Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.

He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.

“My name's... Ned.”

The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.

“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.

‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”

“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”

You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.

“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.

Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.

“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Please, sir.”

Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.

“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”

Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.

“Of course,” you replied anyway.

At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.  

Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.

Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.

His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.

Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.

“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”

He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.

“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”

A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”

“You weren't exactly convincing.”

“I've never been very good at lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.

He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated.

The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.”

Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”

Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”

You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”

“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”

“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”

The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.

You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”

“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”

“It sounds unhinged?”

“Very.”

“Good. Just so you’re aware.”

He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”

“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”

Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”

His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.  

Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.

“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”

“You probably should.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.

Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”

A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Um... I don't... think so.”

“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”

“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”

He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.

“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”

“Oh.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.

Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.

“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”

Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“You will,” he promised.

You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.

By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.

The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.

You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.

You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.

“You came.”

Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”

“Good to know you keep promises.”

It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.

“Hey! I don't think we've met.”

A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.

“I'm Peter.”

“Ned.”

As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”

“Evidently, Ned.”

“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”

“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.

You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”

Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”

You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”

A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.  

“I forgot how nice it is up here.”

Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”

Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.

You smiled slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, Peter.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.

The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.

Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.

You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”

“It's fine.”

“You'll freeze.”

“I'll survive.”

“Peter...”

“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.

You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”

It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.

“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”

The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.

Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.

“Can I?”

When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.

He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.

“There you are.”

Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.

Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”

“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”

“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”

You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”

“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”

Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.

“I have to go.”

You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”

“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”

“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll come back for it.”

You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly.  “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”

You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.

"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.

You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.

Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.

Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.

Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.

Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.

I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.

I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.

I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.

Love, Your Peter.

Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?

His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.

"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."

Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.

"What are you doing here?"

You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.

Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.

"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."

Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.

"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."

"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."

He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.

"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."

"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."

His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"

You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."

"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.

The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.

"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."

His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."

"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.

He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.

"Oh, my door's 13B."

"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.

Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.

Hey, it's Peter again!

It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...

I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.

That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.

Love, Your Peter.

“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.

Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.

“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”

“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.

“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”

“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.

“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.

He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.

"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."

He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.

He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.

"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.

"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.

His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.

"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."

His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.

By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.

"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.

Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."

He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."

Peter here!

I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.

It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.

I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.

I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.

I love you, Your Peter.

P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.

"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"

You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.

"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"

"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."

You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.

You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.

Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.

"You okay?" He asks gently.

Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."

Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.

"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."

His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."

"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."

Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."

"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."

You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.

"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."

"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."

"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."

"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.

"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"

You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.

His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."

"You're into photography?" You ask.

His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."

"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."

"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."

You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."

"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"

He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.

"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.

You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.

"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."

His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."

You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.

You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.

A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?

He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.

“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.

His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.

“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”

“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."

His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.

He knows, that you know.

"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.

He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.

He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."

"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."

It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.

"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"

His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."

"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."

"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."

"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."

You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.

“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"

"How could you know that?" He snaps.

You blink, stunned.

"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"

"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."

"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."

His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."

Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.

"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.

He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.

"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."

He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.

"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."

His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.

"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”

His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.

Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.

“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."

"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”

You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.

"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."

Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.

"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."

His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.

"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."

It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.

“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"

A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."

You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."

carmen blinks hard, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes, gaze settling on the window. it’s still dark out. only the orange streetlights casting vague shapes across his room, giving the shadows some kind of meaning.

his brain starts doing that thing again. jumping ahead, building the day's list before he can stop it. the stress creeps in before he even leaves the bed. he’s already forgotten something, he knows it. already late for something, even if the clock says otherwise. he can hear sugar’s voice in his head like it never left: did you check the budget i sent last week? how are we supposed to keep paying all these people if you won’t even sit down and read it? did you know jimmy’s supposed to come this week to talk about—

his alarm cuts in.

too loud. too sharp. especially in all this quiet.

he grabs the phone from the nightstand, silences it before it can ring more than a few seconds.

once the room goes still again, a bit of clarity returns. not peace, exactly, but something close. he exhales slowly through his nose, thumb still resting on the phone, and unlocks it. his fingers move without thinking. open messages, scroll down. the screen lights up, casting a cold glow across his face. it’s your thread.

this. this is another thing he’s been doing too much lately. and he doesn’t really know how to stop. at this point, he’s pretty sure it’s veering into something unhinged. obsessive. like he’s clinging to something that’s not there anymore and pretending it is.

you: the future looks bright chef!

that was the last message. weeks ago.

he frowns, but scrolls anyway. because this small, digital space, this ghost of a connection, is all he has right now. and somehow, it brings him a weird kind of comfort. not the real thing. not even close. it’ll never be the same as seeing you walk into the restaurant every day, laughing at something richie said, your perfume hanging in the air like a memory he doesn’t know how to let go of. but it’s something. and he’ll take something.

he stops on a selfie you sent from that birthday party. friend-of-a-friend. he remembers you whining about it the day before, pouting in that way that always made something in his chest loosen. you’d told him you didn’t want to go, that your friend had begged you to come so she wouldn’t be alone.

trying to hang on to any kind of connection outside of work, he’d boldly and very stupidly, asked you to send a selfie. for proof, he’d texted. he cringes now just thinking about it. what the hell was he doing? trying to be smooth? that wasn’t him. it never would be. he’d freaked out for a full half hour, especially when the word read sat quietly under his message, taunting him.

until your reply came in. a photo of your face. cheeks flushed, a mischievous smile aimed straight at him, eyes shining.

you looked so pretty. all dolled up for your night out with your friends. and he wanted to say just that. god, he almost did.

but he didn’t.

too much of a coward. too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being rejected. of crossing a line. because at the end of the day, you were still one of his employees.

so instead, he reacted with a thumbs-up emoji and went to bed, heart racing, already half dreaming of you.

he keeps beating himself up in the shower, replaying everything he could’ve done differently. wishing he’d kept the conversation going. asked you what the hell you meant, talking about the future like you weren’t planning to be in it. it follows him through the morning. into the chill of the city streets, the L train, the walk to work. chicago isn’t fully awake yet and neither is he. just noise in his head and cold in his lungs.

he tries not to think too hard about the fact that you’re still on his mind.

but you are.

we get married in our heads. something to do while we try to recall how he met.

if richie knew, he probably would’ve laughed and called you a dumbass. before having a heart attack.

you knew richie loved carmen. despite all the shit he talked, all the complaints about his insane work ethic and the new way he ran the restaurant. you knew it. but you also remembered the way he used to go off about how carmen needed to get a fucking grip if he ever wanted to let someone close. because no way in hell that was gonna end well. not with how he was. that person would probably end up running for the hills. 

so yeah, you did start to feel a little worried when you noticed how your palms got sweaty anytime carmen leaned in to talk to you about something completely mundane at work. how the tiny hairs on your neck would stand up when he passed behind you, muttering “behind,” and placed a light hand on your back. 

you’d always felt so far removed from all the mushy romantic shit, so it was kind of shocking how your body kept reacting to this guy. it made you feel ridiculous, like some schoolgirl with a silly crush.

until time passed. and you started noticing how carmen watched you just as much as you watched him. how his voice would soften when he talked to you, how he’d leave his bad attitude at the door whenever he had to face you. how that hand on your back? it started lingering a little longer each time.

it didn't take long before you started to realize just how much carmy was your type. you hadn’t even known you had a type. but there he was. hard-working. completely focused on his craft. someone who actually cared about people. you saw it in the way he kept pushing syd, little by little, to be her best. in the way marcus lit up just listening to his stories about the insane dishes he’d worked on in those spectacular restaurants before he came here. how he was trying to turn that run-down sandwich shop into something meaningful for the sake of everyone who showed up every day to keep it alive.

and, yeah, it didn’t hurt that he was hot as all hell: wild curls, strong arms, that whole constantly-stressed-out genius thing. and those eyes.

falling in love with carmy had been so easy. you hadn’t meant to. richie’s voice echoed in your head from time to time, but honestly, you didn’t really care to listen. not once the two of you started to talk. really talk. 

he opened up about his brother. someone you only knew in pieces, through the fragments richie had shared. his own memories.

but one night, carm gave you his memories. he told you how much he looked up to mikey. how much he missed him.

to this day, you’re still not sure why he told you what he did, but he said it anyway. that he did go to mikey’s funeral. something richie never lets go. he’s always throwing it in carmen's face: you weren’t there, you fucking baby, you didn’t show up when it counted.

but carmen had shown up.

and you never told anyone.

he was intense, sure, but he could be so sweet. charming in that unintentional way that made it even worse. like how he thought you didn’t notice when he started changing up his schedule. taking breaks when you did. hanging around just long enough to keep the conversation going from the day before.

or maybe just to be there. to have those rare, quiet moments where it was only the two of you. no yelling, no tickets, no chaos. just silence and the way it wrapped around you both like it knew something neither of you had said out loud.

he made you feel too much.

and what made it even harder was how he kept responding to you. bar for bar. matching every glance, every shift, every subtle move. like he was just as caught up in it as you were.

you didn’t realize it until you were in too deep.

a night you still carry with you, when it was just you and carmy, the restaurant quiet after everyone had gone home. you were so drained from the long day, you couldn’t help flopping down on the bench in front of the lockers. carmy came out of the office and found you there, eyes closed, still sitting.

you thought he would grab his things and call it a night. but he didn’t move. maybe he didn’t want to disturb your peace.

when you opened your eyes, he froze.

you felt him watching you. of course you did. but you didn’t want him to stop. you wanted his eyes on you. always. you wanted him.

so when it was just the two of you, sitting in that quiet, feeling the tension like it was something alive between you, you reached out and took his hands.

his hands. god, how often had you thought about them? in passing, in silence, in the lonely hush of nights you didn’t want to spend alone. you ran your thumbs gently across his tattoos, the ink marking him with stories you hadn’t heard yet. you wanted to ask. you wanted to know all of it. but not now. not if it meant breaking the spell of this moment.

carmen looked down, confused at first. then he shifted, taking your hands this time, his fingers curling around yours.

but he didn’t say anything. just looked at you. his eyes held something you couldn’t read, like he was trying to tell you what he didn’t know how to express with words.

your heart was pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. 

and when he reached up, touched your face with the hand inked with the chef’s knife through the palm, you forgot how to breathe.

you didn’t even realize it until it was too late.

you shouldn’t have let it get this far. shouldn’t have let it consume you like this.

you should’ve listened to richie.

you and i (don’t let go) we’re alive (don’t let go). with nothing to do, i could lay and just look in your eyes.

it started as a little comment here and there. a name you’d never heard before slipping out of fak’s mouth.

then came a conversation you overheard while working alongside richie, with fak buzzing around the place like always. they were talking about an old family friend. a girl. how she turned out amazing (“a doctor, can you believe it, man?”). how fak saw her again recently. how he wished things could go back to the way they were. back when all of them had the best times. the bestest times. with claire.

claire.

you had no idea who she was. you’d never seen her around the restaurant, and sugar had never mentioned her. neither had carmy.

if you hadn’t been so intrigued, you probably would’ve felt annoyed. all this talk, putting her on a pedestal. it couldn’t be that deep, right? still, you couldn’t deny the jealousy creeping in as you listened to richie go on about claire as well. how she’d helped him through… something. honestly, you’d tuned out halfway through. something from back before he and tiff split.

you didn’t want to care. you really didn’t. but eventually, curiosity got the better of you. you even asked sydney if she knew who this claire person was.

she didn’t. she was just as lost as you.

meanwhile, carmy was in peak stress, trying to transform his family's restaurant into a high-dining establishment. you could see how much it was weighing on him, so you did what you could to be there, even in that weird, undefined place where you both were. trying to see through the fuzzy lines of your relationship. you didn’t know what it was and how to call it. but you remained supportive, in the form of listening to him rant or go to the nearest home depot when the paint ran out.

he still gave you butterflies, even with everything he had on his plate. the pressure, the stress, the weight of trying to rebuild something from the ground up. it never kept him from making you feel seen. important. like you mattered.

you could still feel his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking and that alone was enough to set your heart racing.

and your conversations, they didn’t just continue, they evolved. they became deeper, more intimate. he wanted to know you, really know you. not just the surface-level stuff, but your dreams, your fears, the things you’d kept tucked away for years, unsure if anyone would ever really want to hear them.

so you let him in. slowly, carefully. and with every shared secret, every charged late-night exchange, you started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something real growing between you. something worth holding on to.

it happened on a random day. nothing special about it. syd walked in with that look on her face, the one you’d come to recognize: frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, begging for a place to land. she didn’t even say hi before diving in, words spilling fast like they’d been waiting to escape her all morning.

“i finally figured out who claire is,” she said, tossing her tote bag onto a stool. “turns out she’s carmy’s sort-of childhood friend slash first love, which, by the way, i don’t even know what the hell's going on with that and it's already getting on my nerves. because now he’s distracted and i need him focused on this right here.” she waved her arms around the empty space to drive her point home.

you blinked, trying to process her words, but it felt like they hit you all at once.

you just stood there, frozen in the middle of the gutted kitchen, stripped bare for renovations.

your heart dropped.

you hadn’t seen that one coming.

wait (don’t let go) and pretend (don’t let go). hold on and hope that we’ll find our way back in the end.

he curses himself for telling fak he ran into claire at the grocery store. like fak was ever going to keep that to himself. now everyone knows. and everyone’s being weird. asking him a million questions about her, like he’s supposed to have some kind of plan. but he doesn’t. he hasn’t seen her in years. people expect him to pick up where they left off, but he doesn’t even know what that was, let alone what it’s supposed to be now.

carmy was painfully shy back then. when claire was around, always orbiting, always close but just out of reach. he never acted on how he felt. he just… pined, like a stupid kid. kept it all to himself. mikey used to tease him when he found those sketches in his notebooks. half-finished portraits of claire he never meant anyone to see. sugar would roll her eyes and tell him to man up, tell claire how he felt.

but he never did. and now, all these years later, people are acting like nothing’s changed. like he's supposed to feel the same. be the same. like some nice story about rekindled young love, which sounds great in theory, but in his case? those memories are laced with chaos. with the noise and mess of his old life. his life, period. it doesn't feel like something worth revisiting. he's not sure.

seeing claire again was nice. she was happy to see him, she remembered things he hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten. that part felt good. but this whole thing? it’s just one more thing added to the pile.

the renovations are behind schedule. jimmy’s breathing down his neck about the money. he can’t seem to get on the same page with syd. sugar’s riding his ass about everything from schedules to invoices.

and then there’s you. drifting further away from him every single day.

and that is what really stings. more than any of the rest of it.

he feels it all the time. in the little things. the small gaps where you used to be. the way your breaks never seem to line up with his anymore. how he used to find you already outside when he stepped into the alley, and now he just runs into you at the door, your break already over. he tries to catch your eyes in those moments, but you look down and walk past him like it’s nothing. like he’s nothing.

he watches you throughout the day, desperate for a sliver of connection. trying to catch you in conversation, even if it’s just something small. but you’re always busy. always somewhere else. always anywhere but with him.

and it’s killing him. he wonders if you’ve already figured it out, how fucked up he is. if you’ve seen too much and decided to back off before it’s too late. or maybe he overwhelmed you with the way he felt. crowded you, hovered over every little moment the two of you had. like he was one of those gross dudes who only came in to try and chat you up, get a peek at your ass and pretend it was about the food.

yeah. if you ever saw what was inside his head, you’d probably run.

because he craves you. constantly. and he’s done lying to himself about it. he likes you. likes being around you, likes how your mind works, the way you talk about things that matter. he loves that you don’t take yourself too seriously, but always seem to have the right words when someone’s in need. how you show up for your people without hesitation, no questions asked.

he loves your voice. your laugh. the way you look at him when you’re teasing, or when you’re serious. your pretty hair, your beautiful eyes, those pouty lips, and yeah, your body. fuck. he’s lost count of how many times he’s imagined you underneath him, imagined how you’d sound, how you’d move, what it would be like to make you feel everything he’s been feeling.

he wants to give you that. all of it.

carmen hasn’t felt this way, this deep, this insane about anyone since… claire, maybe.

and he knows you felt it too. the something between you. it wasn’t just him. even if it was unspoken, it was there.

if he’s this wrapped up in you, then why did he catch tina and his sister talking like it’s obvious? like it’s real? 

“have you seen him? he follows her around like a lost puppy,” he remembers sugar laughing, sounding embarrassed.

“she’s not far behind,” tina has said, not missing a beat.

so why were you pulling away?

the answer became even harder to grasp the afternoon you walked into the office, clearly expecting to find just natalie. you startled slightly when you saw him sitting there too, then quickly masked it with a polite smile and a too-casual tone. said you had something to tell them both.

you were quitting.

a new opportunity had come up. sudden, unexpected, but too good to pass on. you said it aligned better with your professional goals, that it made more sense for where you were heading. your voice was soft, almost apologetic, sweet in that way that made it sting more. like you were trying to spare them, spare him, but still walking out the door.

his mind stopped registering your words after that. his body went still. mind blank. he kept his eyes down, too afraid to look up and see whatever expression was on your face. he just stared at the floor while you and sugar kept talking like everything wasn’t shifting underneath him. everything in him had gone still, cold.

he wanted to speak. to ask why. to understand. but the words sat heavy in his throat, unmoving. and as your voice trailed off and you turned to leave, his face flushed hot, his hands began to tremble. those early signs of panic tightening around his chest.

he should’ve followed you. should’ve asked what changed, what went wrong. why it suddenly wasn’t enough.

but he didn’t.

instead, he ended up in the back of the restaurant, alone, heart racing and breath caught in his lungs, trying to keep it together. hoping, praying, you’d show up like you always did. like you always had.

but this time, you didn’t.

and there was something about you that now i can’t remember. it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.

you couldn’t forget the restaurant even if you tried.

richie had been on your case for days after you quit. texting, calling, refusing to believe it. it blindsided everyone, but it hit him harder than most. because it was you. you had each other’s backs in there. if something had been off, why hadn’t you said anything?

you did your best to ease his worry. said there was nothing wrong, nothing dramatic. gave him the same explanation you’d given sugar. and carmy, though you weren’t sure how much of it he’d heard.

you were moving on.

the restaurant had been good to you. more than good, sometimes. you met people who felt like family, and for a while, it really felt like you belonged. but you had to think about yourself too. your goals, your growth. and the new job? it was a step forward. a better fit for the direction you wanted to go. you kept reminding yourself of that.

still, you couldn’t ignore the way things had shifted in those final days. how often claire’s name came up. how often you saw carmy tense at the mention of it, even if he tried to hide it.

fak, richie, even people you’d never seen in the restaurant before were suddenly showing up, nudging him toward her. pushing him to give it another shot. telling him she was good for him, that he’d be crazy to let her go, that this was his chance.

and every time you heard it, something in you sank.

because no matter what you and carmen had shared in the quiet, in the glances, in the almosts... you didn’t have a history like that with him. not old memories tied up in childhood and old neighborhoods. maybe that’s what it came down to.

syd and marcus were still your friends, even outside of the restaurant, and you thanked the heavens for that. you’d found something real with them: true friendship. if the restaurant left you with anything, it was that.

they kept you updated, told you everything with bright eyes and proud smiles. how the new place was coming together. how different it all felt from where you started. not just the food, but the energy. the ambition. the chaos.

you loved hearing their stories. the quirky guests, the impossible nights, the small wins that made it all worth it. you could tell how much they loved it, even when it was hard. and you were happy for them.

they told you about richie too. how much he’d changed. you told them you’d seen it too, because you still saw richie. he was too special a person to let go of.

then they’d mention carmy. how his meltdowns were getting more frequent. how things had shifted. you didn’t know much about him after you left. you hadn’t asked. they told you how he was seeing claire more seriously now. how marcus had casually dropped the word girlfriend when talking about her.

it stung. more than you let on. but you didn’t flinch. you nodded and smiled. you told yourself you’d moved on. you’d removed yourself from that world.

still, every time they talked about the bear, its struggles, its wins, the people inside it, it felt like hearing about a life you no longer lived.

and it was particularly hard because the bear wasn’t just a restaurant.

it was carmy, and after all this time everything still felt like him.

you might’ve felt completely defeated by that thought if it weren’t for syd.

over coffee one afternoon, she said it like it was nothing.

“he asked about you,” she uttered, her words cutting deep. “wanted to know if you were okay, if you’d ever come by.”

and i’ll miss you on a train. i’ll miss you in the mornin’. i never know what to think about.

carmen still wakes up before the alarm, long before the world stirs. the sky outside is dark, the streets quiet. that part hasn’t changed.

but he’s not alone in his bed anymore.

claire has started staying over sometimes, says it’s easier after her shifts, more convenient. he tells himself he doesn’t mind.

he slips out of bed carefully, trying not to wake her as he begins the ritual of getting ready. his movements automatic.

lately, the days have felt heavier. long, restless weeks stacking on top of each other. he’s been going through the motions, but the certainty that once drove him, the feeling that he was building something meaningful, has started to fade.

he used to believe that cooking was his purpose. that the kitchen was where he belonged. but now he isn’t so sure. maybe it was never really about the food. maybe it was just his way of holding onto mikey, of staying close to the memory of someone who once made him feel like there was something worth chasing.

and now that he’s here, with everything he thought he wanted, it still feels like something’s missing.

he’d had a really tough conversation with syd about it. one of those that left him feeling raw, exposed. richie had walked in halfway through and joined in, adding his own thoughts, his own frustration. by the end of it, carmy felt like he was letting everyone down, yet again. stepping back from the restaurant felt like the right call, perhaps the only way the bear could truly thrive free from his constant micromanaging and inevitable screw-ups. maybe, just maybe, he could rediscover the spark he'd lost, the part of him that used to love this.

he takes the train like he does every morning. the platform’s nearly empty, and when the car doors slide open, he steps into a quiet space with only a few scattered passengers. it's a small relief. no eyes on him, no one who knows his name or expects anything from him. just a few minutes of anonymity. a little room to breathe. maybe even think. maybe relax, though that's a stretch.

he had hoped that being with claire would help. that now, finally with her by his side, he’d start to feel more like himself again. like the younger version of him. that the shy, quiet kid who once thought having her would fix everything—was finally getting what he’d dreamed about for so long. but it doesn’t feel like that. not really.

and carm hates himself for it. because claire is wonderful. kind and patient. she jokes about the heavy things, tries to lighten the weight he carries, even if just for a second. she’s trying to help him heal, to pull him out of the worst parts of himself. and he knows that. but still, something feels off.

and that’s when he wonders… does that last message in the thread need a reply from him? should he beg richie for his phone again, like some desperate teenager, just to sneak another look at your instagram profile? should he face sydney, after everything he’s put her through, and ask once more if she’s heard from you? i think about you.

sometimes he lets himself imagine it. running into you. what he’d do. if he could get past the initial punch of seeing you again. really seeing you, after all this time. would he shrink back like he always used to, hide behind silence so he can keep pretending your absence hasn’t hollowed him out? or would he finally say something? ask for the truth. demand it, maybe. not to make you feel bad, but just to know. to confirm that it wasn’t all in his head. that everything you shared, everything he felt, wasn’t just one-sided. that thinking about you this much still means something.

as if that could ever actually happen. still…

he’s been secretly holding out hope all this time. clinging to the stupid fantasy of a chance encounter with you. on the L. on the street. some accidental moment that would change everything. he’s even taken the long way home more than once, just because he knew it passed near where you used to live. just for the slim chance of seeing you. but it never happened.

and as much as he tries to keep moving, your absence still lingers in the spaces he exists in.

tina still sighs about not having her dance partner during breaks and how no one laughs at her neighborhood gossip like you did. natalie wishes you were around so she could finally introduce you to sophie, her voice going soft every time she says your name. and richie? richie never shuts up about you, still clinging to the version of life where you and he had each other’s backs in the thick of it. he holds onto that chapter fiercely, and part of him is just waiting for you to walk back in and see how far he’s come and be proud.

but for carmy it’s different.

he didn’t just miss you.

he fell in love with you.

(don't let go)

he never said it, but it’s the truth.

it’s in how he still checks the door without realizing, expecting you to walk in. in how your voice still echoes in his head during the quietest parts of the day. in how nothing has felt right since you’ve been gone.

you didn’t just leave the restaurant. you took something with you when you walked out. and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get that part of him back.

do you think i have forgotten about you?

carmen’s no stranger to guilt. it’s been living inside him for years, settled deep in his bones. he remembers the feeling in new york, thinking of sugar and mikey, how he left them to deal with their mom and all her turmoil and unpredictability. remembers the guilt curling in his gut when he got that phone call, sugar barely able to get the words out between sobs: mikey's dead. guilt again, heavy and paralyzing, when he couldn’t get out of the car at his own brother's funeral.

and now it’s back. except it’s different. not the same restaurant stress that eats at his stomach on the regular. it’s outside of that. beyond it.

it’s every time he looks at claire.

it shows up in moments that are supposed to be soft. like when claire’s curled into him, warm and willing, tracing her fingers over his chest. saying something sweet, being provocative. trying to love him. telling him how good he is, and all he can think about is how much of a lie that is. how he doesn’t deserve this version of her. 

because his mind drifts, like it always does.

to you.

he’s not proud of it. he hates himself for it.

she’s here, she’s trying. she’s giving him something real. and you’re still in his head. still there when he closes his eyes, still the one he wishes he could see when he opens them.

he’s tried to snap out of it. thrown himself into his new role in the kitchen, started mending his relationship with his mom, tried being the kind of boyfriend claire deserves: one who listens, who shows up, who holds her when she falls asleep.

but none of it’s working.

and it’s not fair to claire. she doesn’t deserve to be the one holding the weight of something that was never hers to carry. so he did something he’s never really done before. not like this.

trying, really trying, to follow through on this whole doing things differently thing, carmen sat richie down and told him the truth. about how things with claire had started to fall apart. how it wasn’t her fault. how he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

richie, being the closest person he had left, felt like the right one to tell, to get it out. and carmen took responsibility, fully. said it straight: he was the one messing things up. he’s the reason it’s falling apart.

but richie wouldn’t hear it.

“what the fuck are you talkin’ about?” richie’s already pacing, eyes wide, hands flailing. “you’re done with claire? now? jesus christ, cousin.”

“i didn’t say i was done, i just–i don’t know. it’s not working,” carmen shifts, trying to stay calm. 

“not working?” richie snaps. “what the fuck does that even mean? you finally got her and now you’re just what–bored?”

“it’s not about that,” carmy mutters, jaw tight.

“bullshit,” richie throws back. “you know how many guys would kill to be where you are right now?”

“i-i’m tellin’ you, it’s me. it’s not her,” carmen tries again, voice low.

richie scoffs, shaking his head. 

“you serious right now? after everything she’s done for you? you’re the problem? oh wow, man, what a revelation.”

“i am the problem, richie. that’s what i’m saying!” carmen’s voice rises a little, frustrated. 

“then fix it!” richie shouts. “don’t throw her away just ‘cause you’re all fucked up inside.”

richie was pissed, and not in the loud, joking way he usually was. no, this was different. this was a disappointment he felt deeply. he looked at carmy like he couldn’t believe he was watching him do this all over again, backing out the moment something good got too real.

he started pacing again, running his mouth about claire, about how she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. “she’s claire bear, man,” he muttered under his breath, like that should mean something holy. and it kinda did, to richie. she’d been around since carmy was a little kid. familiar, kind, safe.

but carmen just sat there, bent over at the edge of the table, elbows digging into his thighs, hands locked at the back of his neck. guilt was burning through his stomach like acid. and not just for claire. for richie, too. for not being able to live up to the version of himself everyone kept hoping he’d finally become after getting with claire.

he didn’t fight richie on it, didn’t throw words back, because he knew richie was only half wrong.

the older man, never one to back down when carmy got quiet, leaned in with a little bite in his voice.

“you know i even told her once, right? about this?” he said, almost casual, throwing your name in there. “funny thing is claire wasn’t even in the picture yet and i already knew you were gonna pull this kind of shit.”

carmen froze. his lips thinned into a hard line and something dark settled behind his eyes.

he looked at richie, really looked at him, like he was trying to figure out if he was serious or just pushing buttons like he always did. but richie held firm.

a bitter wave of heat rose in his chest.

“did you–” carmy’s voice cracked, low and strained. “did you fucking say something to her?”

his words came sharp, like they’d been caught in his throat too long. 

“richie, what the fuck did you say to her?”

richie visibly flinched. his mouth opened and closed again. then he let out a laugh, humorless, almost stunned.

“you gotta be kidding.”

something in carmy’s face had changed, the shift in his voice when your name came up stopped him cold. he stared at him for a long second, piecing it together.

and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

“you motherfucker,” richie’s voice grew louder, half disbelief, half something else. anger, probably. or disappointment.

“you were into her and you didn’t say shit?” he pointed at carmy like he was trying to trace the outline of this massive mistake. “you let her walk outta here when you–”

he stopped himself. dragged a hand down his face, pacing, fuming.

“you know what? don’t even answer that,” he snapped, his anger visibly flaring again. “wanna know what i told her, jagoff? i didn’t tell her anything that she couldn’t tell by sharing space with you, you little fuckin' narcissist bitch.”

carmy finally looked up at him, teeth gritted, throat working like he was swallowing glass. richie’s eyes were hard now. protective and furious.

“she’s not just some second act of claire, cousin. she didn’t come around to fix you, that's not what she’s about!”

it came after a beat of silence, after richie had already seen through every layer of bullshit and nailed him to the wall.

“i know–i know that,” carmy finally said, voice low, almost strangled.

it sounded awful, even to his own ears. pathetic, but it was the truth.

and even though richie looked at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like carmen had just handed him the messiest, most out-of-pocket confession, he felt something shift in his chest. relief, even if just a little.

finally someone else knew. someone understood the depth of what he was carrying. how much it wrecked him. how deep it went.

no more burying it behind routine or the bear or claire.

and now richie knew.

god, now richie knew.

so much for doing things differently.

he hadn’t really talked to richie much after that. things still felt off and he didn’t have the energy to untangle it just yet. instead, he tried focusing on getting back on the right foot with syd.

she’d asked for help with a new dish she was developing for the menu: something deeply personal, something that reflected the people she held closest to her heart. her family and her friends.

she told him she was stuck, unsure about the final flavor profile, and though he didn’t want to meddle too much (this was her creation, not his), she kept nudging him for input. said she trusted his instincts.

so he thought about you of peaches.

he said it lightly, almost offhand, but it stuck.

he didn’t know if syd would connect the dots, maybe she wouldn’t even ask. but if she did, if she ever wanted to know why, he’d say something about the brightness of the flavor, the way it lingered, felt right.

peaches were your favorite. 

he can’t help being taken back to that night again, when it was just you two alone, the restaurant emptied out, you sitting on that bench looking up at him with those bewitching eyes that haunt him still.

he’d been completely transfixed by you, by everything you were. by all the things you made him feel without even trying. your beauty, somehow untouched by the long day behind you, still shining through in the artificial light.

and when you reached for him, your fingers brushing his with a touch so gentle it felt deliberate, he swore he died right there. your touch… delicate, intentional, reverent, hit him harder than anything else had in years.

your hands were so soft, so careful, like you were learning him by touch alone, tracing every part of him without rushing. he remembers how it made his skin come alive, how each stroke of your digits lit him up. how much he wanted more. 

he wanted to pull you in, let you keep exploring all the parts of him no one else ever got to touch. he wanted to kiss you, slow and deep, to finally know if your lips tasted like peaches, just like he imagined.

carmen wanted to give himself to you completely in that moment. mind, body and whatever was left of his soul. and he’s never really stopped wanting that since.

that’s why he did it, why he reached out and cupped your face, unable to stop himself. it wasn’t instinct or ease. it was pure need. there were too many feelings rushing through him, building up after everything you had shared, everything left unsaid.

he wanted you. not just in that moment, but for longer than he could admit to anyone, maybe even to himself. and still, even now, after all the time that’s passed and after everything that’s changed, he hasn’t stopped wanting you.

he hasn’t stopped thinking about that night or stopped regretting the way he pulled back, how he let the moment slip through his fingers because he was too afraid of ruining it, of being too much and scare you off.

but now, looking back, all he can think about is how real it was. too real to pretend otherwise. undeniable. and how foolish he was to walk away from something so honest, so rare.

he wonders if you recall that night as often as he still does.

it’s a thought that’s lingered for what feels like forever now, something quiet and constant at the back of his mind. 

but tonight, it’s louder than ever. 

especially after hearing the buzz of surprise and excitement ripple through the kitchen when richie, halfway through reading the night’s guest list, said your name. 

carm tried to play it cool, to keep scrubbing down his station like his lungs weren’t suddenly constricting.

tonight was a new friends and family night. syd’s idea. a soft reset, she called it. a chance to breathe a little, reconnect with the people who mattered and quietly debut a few changes to the menu.

he could feel richie’s eyes on him all day: watchful, heavy, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. richie wasn’t subtle when it came to the people he cared about and carmy knew that look: apprehension. concern. maybe even a little warning.

and carmy got it. richie had watched him fall short more times than he could count, he’d seen carmy spiral, shut down, push people away, so of course he’d be on edge. especially tonight. especially with you.

pepto bismol had become his closest companion through the day, sipped like water in between prep and the minutes before doors, just to keep himself upright.

as the guests began to arrive, he stationed himself near the window overlooking the dining area. just waiting.

eyes scanning every new arrival.

heart pounding harder with each one.

waiting for the moment you’d walk through the door.

he’d spent the whole day bracing for this, imagining it over and over, but when you finally appeared, all that careful anticipation crumbled in an instant.

because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the reality of you.

a familiar, dizzying lurch hit him in the gut.

how could you still look like that? like everything he’d been missing without even fully realizing it. like a punch straight to the ribs and a lifeline all at once. like something too good to be real.

you looked beautiful. god, you looked so beautiful.

and it wasn’t just the way you were so exquisitely dressed for the occasion or how your hair caught the light. it was the way you looked happy to be there, genuinely. like no time had passed. it knocked the breath right out of him.

the smile on your face when you greeted sugar and pete made his own mouth twitch up, he caught himself mirroring it, dumbly, before he could stop it. then came richie, arms out, wrapping you into a hug, whispering something in your ear. he guided you toward your seat, and carmy quietly sent a thank you into the universe when he realized your seat was directly in his line of sight.

you sat facing the kitchen.

richie turned around just before disappearing back to the floor, and their eyes met. that usual don’t fuck this up look was still there but now something else flickered underneath. something softer. protective. understanding. a silent: i see you.

and carmy, even in his nerves and with his stomach a knot of regret and adrenaline, gave him a small nod. a quiet thanks.

you being here, sitting where you’re seating tonight, was richie’s move.

he told himself to stay focused on service, especially tonight. he owed that to sydney. she had put her trust in him, asked him to show up and get it right. and he was trying, really trying, to keep his head down and stay sharp. but the longer the night went on, the harder it got.

you still hadn’t looked at him. not once. and it was slowly unraveling him.

you knew he’d be here, right? 

you knew this place. you knew the setup, knew exactly where he’d be standing. was it on purpose? he couldn’t tell, but watching you laugh so easily, catching up with syd’s dad and chester, it made him feel disoriented, like he was watching a version of you he didn’t have access to anymore.

every second that passed without your eyes meeting his made his chest feel tighter, heavier. he was falling apart in real time, trying to keep it together behind the pass.

and then came the dish.

fak had announced it a little too loudly, of course, but it landed. 

“new to the menu,” he said, “from chef sydney and chef carmy.”

carmen stood there, watching you the whole time, heart hammering, barely breathing.

you leaned in, tilted your head, examined the plate like it was something that really mattered, eyes soft and focused. you took in the smell first, then a bite.

and then, like gravity itself shifted in the room, you looked up.

right at him.

peaches.

and he knew, in that split second, you remembered too.

do you think i have forgotten about you?

the tension of all the conversations that veered too close to something real. the breaks you shared, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the quiet between the chaos. you remembered the glances, the ones that lasted a second too long, the ones that said more than either of you ever dared to say aloud. you remembered that night when it was just the two of you.

you remembered what it felt like.

he could see it on your face. the recognition, the weight of it all. the way you held his gaze, steady and certain, made something in him shift. and he took it as a sign.

no more hiding behind glances, no more waiting for the right moment that never came. carmen was done being the guy who only looked when you weren’t looking, the one who kept everything to himself out of fear.

because the truth was, he felt so much for you. still. all of it. untouched by time.

still in love.

and now he was ready to say it, to show you, to fight for you.

he finally understood everything had always been about you.

and as service wound down and the restaurant quieted, all he could think about was finding you before the night ended–

to tell you that.

part 2.

 ₊˚⊹♡