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y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.
but now even himself, he is confused why he was starting to smile more around her.
part one: neighbor
After the coffee, something shifted. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It happened in small, almost invisible ways. Peter wasn’t the type to text first, ask someone to hang out, or suddenly become outgoing. That version of him had disappeared years ago. His days belonged to Spider-Man now, patrolling rooftops until sunrise, attending lectures half-asleep, squeezing in homework whenever he could. Peter Parker had become whatever time remained after everyone else had gotten their share.
There wasn’t much left. Yet somehow, without meaning to, he found himself saving a little of it for Y/N.
It started with the stairwell.
He’d run into her on his way towards his apartment, usually carrying groceries or balancing three psychology textbooks against her hip. What began as a quick “Hey,” somehow turned into ten-minute conversations.
Then twenty.
Eventually, they stopped standing altogether. Instead, they’d climb onto the fire escape outside her apartment, legs dangling over the metal platform while the city buzzed beneath them. Sometimes Y/N would bring out a bowl of pasta she’d cooked, insisting there was always too much for one person. Peter always argued. “I already ate.”
“You had instant ramen.”
“…I already ate.”
She’d shove the container into his hands anyway. “That’s not food, Peter.”
“It literally is.”
“It literally shouldn’t count.”
He’d sigh in defeat and take a bite. “…Needs salt.”
She’d gasp dramatically. “You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s underseasoned.”
“It’s rustic.”
“It’s bland.”
“It’s Italian.”
“I don’t think Italy would claim this.”
She’d throw a napkin at him. Other evenings, she’d brew tea instead. Peter still refused coffee with an almost suspicious level of commitment. “I don’t trust people who willingly drink something that tastes burnt.”
Y/N stared at him. “…You lack of sleep.”
“Correct.”
“But coffee is where you draw the line? For getting a BIT of energy”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I know.”
The conversations usually revolved around university. Professor Banner’s impossible assignments. The latest campus gossip. Someone who accidentally set off the chemistry lab’s fire alarm.
Y/N always had stories. Peter preferred listening. It was easier that way.
Listening didn’t require him to reveal the parts of himself he kept stitched together. It didn’t force him to answer questions about where he’d been the night before, why he looked exhausted, or why his hands were always covered in tiny cuts that somehow appeared overnight.
Talking meant opening doors. Listening allowed him to keep them closed.
Y/N never seemed to mind.
She filled every silence naturally, hopping from one topic to another without expecting him to match her energy. She’d tell him about the old woman on the third floor who insisted pigeons were government spies. About the neighbor who sold homemade honey from tiny glass jars. About a philosophy student who spent twenty minutes arguing that cereal technically qualified as soup.
Peter rarely contributed more than a sentence. Sometimes just a word. Yet she never stopped talking.
And strangely he liked that.
There were days when she’d knock on his apartment door carrying an empty bowl. “Do you have flour?”
“…Yes.”
“Can I borrow some?” He’d hand her the bag.
The next morning she’d return it. Completely full.
“…You bought a new bag.”
“I panicked.”
“…Why?”
“I used your flour.”
“That’s… why I gave it to you.”
“…yea.”
There were other excuses. “Does your bathroom still have hot water?” Y/N asked.
“Yes.”
“Mine doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“…I know.”
“…Do you still want to come in?”
She smiled sheepishly. “…Maybe.”
Peter stepped aside. “Five minutes.” It was never five minutes. Sometimes she’d wander around his apartment while talking about a documentary she’d watched, opening the fridge without asking. “…Peter.”
“What?”
“You have ketchup.”
“Yeah.”
“And…”
“Yeah.”
“…That’s your entire fridge.”
He looked over from the textbook he was pretending to read. “…There’s baking soda.”
She blinked. “…You’re impossible.”
Little white lies. Little excuses. Neither of them ever acknowledged them. Peter knew she wasn’t actually out of flour half the time. Y/N knew his water wasn’t magically different from everyone else’s. Still, they played along. It became their language.
Even then, there was always something just out of reach. Peter laughed more now. Not often. But enough that Y/N noticed. His sarcasm came easier. His replies grew a little longer than a single word. Sometimes she’d even catch him smiling before he realized he was doing it.
And then just as quickly the walls would return. It changed like day and night of how often he turned to be cold and not there.
She’d ask him what his favorite color was.
“…Blue.”
“What kind of blue?”
“…Blue.”
She’d laugh. “Okay… what’s your favorite movie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never watched a movie?”
“I have.”
“So?”
“…I don’t know.”
“What made you choose biophysics?”
“It made sense.”
“What do you do when you’re not studying?”
He’d hesitate. “…Walk.”
That answer never felt true. Y/N could always feel it. There was a distance in him that had nothing to do with shyness. It was deliberate. Like every answer was carefully measured before he spoke, giving away only enough to keep a conversation alive, but never enough for someone to truly know him. Sometimes she’d catch him staring out across the rooftops while she talked, his attention drifting somewhere she couldn’t follow.
As if part of him was always listening for something else. Always ready to leave. She wanted to know him. Not the quiet boy who drank tea instead of coffee and survived almost entirely on ramen.
The real Peter.
She wanted to know why he always looked exhausted. Why his knuckles were constantly scraped. Why he smiled like it was something he’d forgotten how to do. Most of all, she wanted to know what had happened to him that made someone so young carry himself like he’d already lived an entire lifetime.
Peter wanted to tell her.
Sometimes, he almost did.
There were moments, usually when they sat on the fire escape with the city glowing beneath them and Y/N was halfway through another story— that he felt an ache in his chest. An almost desperate need to let someone in. To admit that he was tired. That some mornings getting out of bed felt harder than fighting whatever villain happened to be waiting for him.
To have someone catch him before he fell.
But almost was as close as he ever allowed himself to get because almost couldn’t get anyone hurt.
Lately, something about it had started to feel unfair. Y/N was always the one carrying the conversation. She offered pieces of herself so effortlessly— stories from childhood, embarrassing moments in class, opinions about movies, books she loved, songs she couldn’t stop replaying on her iPod.
She made herself known.
Peter listened. He answered when spoken to. Occasionally he’d throw in a sarcastic remark that earned a laugh from her, but the conversation always drifted back toward Y/N because she was the only one willing to let someone look beneath the surface.
She had warned him from the very beginning. “I can talk for two people.”
Back then, he’d been grateful for it. Now he wondered if she’d gotten tired. Talking for two people sounded easy in theory.
In reality, it was exhausting.
Conversation wasn’t meant to be carried by one person forever.
Sometimes, he’d catch the brief disappointment that crossed her face after another one-word answer. She always recovered quickly, changing the subject before the silence became awkward, pretending she hadn’t expected more in the first place.
But Peter noticed. He noticed everything. He just never knew how to fix it.
One evening, Y/N left the university library long after sunset. Exam season had swallowed nearly everyone on campus whole. Her backpack was stuffed so full it barely zipped shut, while two thick psychology textbooks of Erikson or Piaget rested precariously in her arms, forcing her to tilt her chin slightly just to see where she was walking.
She’d practically been living in the library for the past week.
Coffee cups littered every surface of her apartment. Highlighters had started appearing in places they shouldn’t. She’d even begun wearing her glasses more often— not only because they genuinely helped after staring at textbooks for hours, but because they made her feel like she had her life together.
She absolutely did not. The subway had been suspended because of a signal failure, leaving hundreds of annoyed New Yorkers spilling onto the sidewalks. So… she walked. From block to block.
An old iPod rested in her jacket pocket, headphones tucked beneath her hair as music filled her ears. Y/N adored physical media. Records. CDs. Books with folded pages. An iPod packed with albums she’d spent years collecting.
She liked owning things.
Liked the comforting weight of something real in her hands instead of watching it disappear onto a cloud somewhere. Tonight’s soundtrack drowned out most of the city.
Car horns. Sirens. Footsteps.
She barely noticed any of it. Which meant she didn’t notice the man who had been walking behind her for nearly two blocks. At first, he simply matched her pace. Then he started walking faster. Y/N turned the corner toward her apartment building, hugging the books closer against her chest. The footsteps behind her sped up. Before she had time to register what was happening a hand landed against the small of her back.
Warm.
Uninvited. “Hey there, beautiful,” the stranger said with an easy, self-satisfied grin. “Why’re you walking so fast?”
Y/N flinched violently. She lurched away from his touch so quickly that one of the books nearly slipped from her arms. “What the—” She tightened her grip on the stack, her heartbeat instantly spiking. “…Why are you so touchy?” she asked, forcing sarcasm into her voice despite the panic already creeping into it.
The man laughed. “C’mon, I’m just being friendly.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He stepped closer anyway. “You don’t gotta be so cold.”
Y/N instinctively took another step back. There it was. That familiar feeling. The one every woman knew far too well. The quick calculation running through her mind. How many people are around? Is anyone actually paying attention? How far is my apartment? If I start running, will he follow? Her fingers tightened around the books until they hurt. She tried to smile politely. The smile women learned to wear when they wanted a situation to end without making it worse.
“I’ve… got somewhere to be.”
“So do I,” he replied with another grin.
“But I can walk you.”
“No, thanks.”
“I insist.”
“I don’t.”
The man didn’t take the hint. He took another step. Then another. Y/N matched each one with a step backward, clutching her books so tightly the edges dug into her forearms. “I said I’m fine,” she repeated, forcing her voice to stay steady.
“You don’t gotta act scared.”
“I’m not acting.”
His grin widened. “See? You’ve got jokes.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You could.”
“I don’t want to.” For a brief second, silence settled between them. Y/N thought maybe he’d finally gotten the message. Instead, his hand reached toward her again. This time, for her wrist.
Instinct took over. She jerked away, the movement throwing one of her textbooks onto the sidewalk with a heavy thud. Pages fanned open across the concrete.
“Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “Why are you making this difficult?”
“I said don’t touch me.”
A few people passed by on the opposite side of the street. No one slowed down. No one looked over. New York had mastered the art of pretending not to see. The stranger sighed dramatically, as if she was inconveniencing him. “I was just trying to be nice.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ve got an attitude.”
“And you’ve got five seconds to leave me alone.”
He laughed. “Or what?” He reached for her again.
A sharp thwip echoed through the street. White webbing wrapped itself around his wrist before he could touch her. “What the—”
The web yanked backward with enough force to spin him around. Another strand shot out, sticking him cleanly against the brick wall beside the alley. “What is—HEY!” His feet kicked uselessly against the pavement. “You can’t do this!”
A familiar red-and-blue figure dropped soundlessly from the rooftop above. Spider-Man landed between them in a low crouch before standing to his full height. His mask turned toward Y/N first.
“You okay?”
She blinked. Her breathing was uneven. “…Spider-Man?”
He gave a small nod. Then he looked at the man glued to the wall. “So…” Spider-Man said conversationally, tilting his head. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here.”
The man struggled against the webbing. “This is a misunderstanding!”
Spider-Man ignored him. “I’m pretty sure…” he continued, “…when someone says ‘don’t touch me’…” He paused dramatically. “…the correct response is…” Another pause. “…not touching them.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, I wasn’t doing anything.”
Spider-Man looked at him for a long second. Then back at Y/N. Then back again. “…Interesting defense.”
“I was talking to her.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I was being friendly.”
Spider-Man nodded slowly. “Right.” Another beat. “Quick question.”
“What?”
“Did she look like she wanted to talk to you?”
The man opened his mouth. Closed it. “…No.”
“There it is.” Spider-Man clapped his hands together once. “We’re making progress.”
Y/N couldn’t help it. Despite the adrenaline still rushing through her body…a tiny laugh escaped her.
He crouched to pick up the scattered books, carefully stacking them back together before brushing dirt from the covers.
“You carry all these every day?”
“I have three exams next week.”
“…That somehow sounds scarier than my job.”
She smiled—a small, tired smile this time. “Thank you.”
He handed the books back to her. Their fingers almost touched. Almost. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
“You really don’t.”
“I really do.”
For a second, neither of them spoke. The city noise seemed farther away. Spider-Man shifted awkwardly. “You should let me walk you home.”
Y/N looked up at him. “Is it okay for you?”
“I was… heading that direction anyway.” It was a terrible lie.
She smiled faintly. “Okay.”
He stayed half a step behind her as they walked the remaining blocks in silence, keeping an eye on the street rather than on her. Y/N stole a glance at him every now and then.
Something about him felt familiar. Not his voice—it was lower than she expected. Not his height. Just the way he walked. The slight slump in his shoulders. The habit of flexing his scraped knuckles every few minutes, as if they were sore. It tugged at something in the back of her mind. Obviously he got her limes before when she wanted to reach for Peter, but she could barely remember anything, she remembers the conversations though.
Before she could place it, they reached her apartment building.
“There you are,” Spider-Man said, stopping at the entrance.
Y/N adjusted the books in her arms. “So…”
“So.”
“Thanks again.”
He gave a small nod. “Get inside.”
She smiled. “You sound exactly like my—” She stopped herself.
Spider-Man’s head tilted. “…Like your what?”
Y/N blinked. “…Nothing.”
For the briefest moment, Peter’s heart skipped. Then she smiled again, waved, and disappeared through the apartment door. Only after the light in the hallway flickered on did Spider-Man finally allow himself to breathe.
He walked towards his apartment in silence. Every step felt heavier than the last. The image refused to leave his mind. That man's hand against the small of Y/N's back.mThe way she'd instinctively flinched. The fear hidden behind the sarcasm in her voice.
The smile she'd forced because she didn't know whether saying no would make the situation worse.
His jaw tightened beneath the mask. No one should ever make her feel like that. No one. The thought came so instinctively that it startled him.
No one gets to hurt her.
His grip around the wooden railing tightened and there it was again. The same dangerous line he'd crossed before. The same instinct that had cost him everyone he'd ever loved. The more people mattered the more they became targets.
It had happened to Aunt May.
To MJ.
To Ned.
To everyone who had ever gotten too close to Peter Parker. He couldn't let it happen again. Not with Y/N.
She was too kind. Too bright. Too unapologetically alive. The world had already taken enough from people like her. It didn't deserve another chance and neither did he.
It only took him a few minutes to his apartment. The suit landed in the laundry basket with a dull thud. His mask followed. A hoodie. Sweatpants.
For the first time all evening, he finally looked like Peter Parker again. He rubbed both hands over his face, exhaustion settling into every muscle. Sleep. That was probably what he needed. Instead, he crossed the apartment and pushed open the window. Cool evening air drifted inside. The city stretched endlessly before him, lights glowing against the darkness like scattered stars.
He rested his forearms against the windowsill. His eyes drifted downward. Y/N sat alone on the fire escape one floor above his, knees tucked close to her chest, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her headphones weren't in. No music played.
She was simply sitting, looking out over New York. Yet quietly.
Peter had never seen her quiet before.
It looked wrong like watching the sun forget how to shine. He stayed where he was for a long moment. He could almost imagine what she was thinking. Replaying the stranger's face. Wondering what would've happened if Spider-Man hadn't shown up or what would happen to her. Peter swallowed. Before he could think himself out of it, he climbed onto the fire escape.
One careful step. Then another. He descended to her level until he stopped beside the railing. The metal creaked softly beneath his weight. Y/N turned her head. She flinched only for a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened around the mug before she recognized him. The tension melted from her shoulders. A tired smile appeared instead. "Hello, neighbor.“ Her voice was quieter than usual. "I haven't seen you in a while."
Peter looked at her. Something twisted painfully in his chest. "I've been... kind of busy."
She nodded, taking a slow sip from her tea. "I hope it had something to do with university."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...Something like that."
The wind drifted between the buildings, lifting loose strands of her hair. She shifted a little, patting the empty space beside her. “Wanna join me?“ She lifted her mug slightly. "It's kind of the perfect night for tea."
Peter looked at the empty spot. His mind immediately split into two voices. Don’t and Leave. This is how it starts. You're getting attached.
His feet didn't move because there was another voice now. One he hadn't heard in years. Stay.
He realized that was why he'd come out here in the first place. Not only to check on her. Not entirely. He just hadn't wanted her to sit alone tonight. "...Sure," he said quietly. Then, almost as an afterthought— "As long as it isn't coffee."
That earned him the smallest laugh. "There it is," Y/N smiled. "I was wondering how long it'd take you to bring coffee into the conversation."
"You have a habit of making everything about coffee."
"I am a psychology student during exam season.“ She looked at him as if that explained everything. "It would actually be concerning if I wasn't talking about coffee."
Peter lowered himself beside her, leaving just enough space between them that their shoulders wouldn't touch. The fire escape groaned beneath their combined weight. He glanced at the mug in her hands.
"So..."
She held it out toward him. "It's chamomile."
He looked suspicious. "Are you sure?"
Y/N laughed. "Peter."
"What?"
"You think I'm secretly trying to convert you."
"I wouldn't put it past you."
She gasped dramatically. "I would never betray tea like that."
A small chuckle escaped him.
Y/N looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "There it is again."
He frowned. "What?"
"The laugh."
"I didn't laugh."
"You absolutely did."
"I exhaled."
"That was not an exhale."
"It was."
"It had joy in it.“ Peter looked away toward the skyline, unsuccessfully hiding the smile threatening to appear. "I think you're hearing things."
"I'm not."
She leaned back against the railing with a satisfied grin. "I knew you had one."
"...One what?"
"A sense of humor."
Peter shook his head. "I think you're confusing sarcasm with personality."
Y/N smiled into her tea. „Maybe." She glanced at him again. "...I still like it."
<3 hi there spiders! todays my birthday so my gift for you is this little chapter <3
▶︎ y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.
Living in New York City while actually attending university was nothing like the glossy film strips shown in movie theaters, the kind where everything looks soft, golden, and effortlessly romantic. There was no affordable, sunlit apartment with reliable hot water, no lazy weekends spent at some vintage café eating overpriced brunch while laughing about last night’s hookups. That version of New York barely existed. Maybe it did, but not here.
The reality was harsher, sharper around the edges. It was survival dressed up as ambition. You either smiled tightly and said, “I love it here,” even after nearly getting mugged on your way home, or you admitted quietly, reluctantly that the city was chewing you up. There was no in-between. That was New York.
Y/N had been living here for five years now. Five years of crowded subways, dinners, and conversations with self-proclaimed “real New Yorkers” who never failed to remind her: “You’re not a New Yorker. Five years? That’s nothing. You have no idea—”
She had heard it all.
Still, she liked it here. Not in the romanticized way people imagined, but in a stubborn, grounded way. It was better than the small town she came from: different, louder, more unforgiving, but alive in a way that place had never been.
She moved to the city to study psychology, picking up a few photography courses on the side because it was the only creative outlet she could realistically afford. At university, she found her way into conversations easily, slipping into discussions about music or movies, just enough to secure a spot during trivia nights or group hangouts. She was a people person, the kind who wasn’t afraid to walk into a room and make herself known. Not by shouting, necessarily but she could. If she had to.
More often, it was her energy. The easy smile, the willingness to debate something trivial like whether autumn was actually the best season or completely overrated for a vibe that lasted, at best, four weeks.
But there was one person who didn’t seem impressed by any of that.
Peter Parker.
Her neighbor. One floor below.
Y/N had first met him when she went to pick up a package he had signed for three days earlier. At the time, she thought he was ridiculously cute. Curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the kind of face that made you do a double take. Cute. Or hot. Honestly, it depended on the angle.
“You have my package!” Y/N said brightly, standing in the hallway in an oversized Ferris Bueller’s Day Off T-shirt.
Peter barely opened the door, peering at her with an exhausted expression. “I do?”
“Well, I got the email saying you picked it up… three days ago,” she replied, still smiling.
He stared at her for a second, then turned without another word, disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaned ever so slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she tried to glance inside but before she could make out anything, Peter reappeared, holding the box out to her.
“Here.”
She flinched a little, startled, before laughing it off. “Ah—great! Thanks. I’m Y/N, by the way. Your neighbor. Upstairs.”
Peter nodded once. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoed awkwardly, adjusting her grip on the package. Her eyes dropped to his hoodie, catching the familiar university logo. Her face lit up. “Empire State? I go there too!”
Peter pressed his lips together, like he was debating whether to respond at all.
He hadn’t always been like this.
There was a time when Peter Parker was easy to talk to, when he carried a kind of warmth that naturally drew people in. He used to laugh more, speak faster, ramble about things he loved—Star Wars, half-baked theories about shows he watched with Ned, little details that made him feel… alive.
That version of him felt like a different person now.
Ever since his life had been rewritten, since the spell that made the world forget who he was—being Peter Parker felt… distant. Like trying to wear a name that no longer fit. He moved through life quietly, carefully, as if any misstep might remind the universe he wasn’t supposed to exist like this.
Spider-Man, though… that was different.
Spider-Man had purpose.
In the years after everything changed, he built himself into something the city could rely on. When chaos broke out, he was there. When danger surfaced, he faced it head-on. He had been there during the uprising against Fisk, there when the streets turned volatile, there every time New York needed someone to step in.
The city knew Spider-Man.
But Peter Parker?
Peter Parker could barely hold a conversation that lasted two minutes. Standing in that hallway, looking at Y/N—bright, open, so effortlessly present, he felt that familiar disconnect settle in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “I know’’
Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. She let out a small laugh, a little too quick, a little too hopeful, brushing a hand through her hair. “Really?—I mean, how come you never talk t—”
Peter pointed down at her feet. “You wear their socks.”
Y/N blinked. Then she looked down. Bright yellow socks. Empire State University logo. Slightly mismatched, one stretched more than the other. She nodded slowly, like she was processing devastating news. “Right.” A beat passed. “Well,” she said, lifting her head again, forcing a smile back onto her face, “in my defense, they were free.”
Peter leaned against the doorframe, completely unmoved. “Yeah. That tracks.”
She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said flatly, “you look like someone who’d get excited over free socks.”
Y/N placed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Okay. First of all, I do get excited over free things. That’s just financially responsible.”
“Sure.”
“And second of all,” she continued, gesturing between them, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re using it to bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you,” Peter said. “I’m observing.”
“Observing?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
“Like a scientist?”
He shrugged. “More like… someone stuck in a hallway.”
Y/N stared at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she shot back, shifting the package in her arms. “Do you always talk like this, or am I just lucky?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “I feel honored.” Another pause settled between them but this one felt different. Less awkward. Almost… intentional. Y/N rocked slightly on her heels, glancing past him into his apartment again before catching herself. “So… you knew I go to Empire State because of my socks.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve just… never said anything.”
“No.”
“Not even like a ‘hey, same university’ kind of thing?”
Peter shook his head once. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
She let out an incredulous laugh. “You are so weird.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N studied him for a second, really looked at him this time. The tired eyes, the way he held himself like he was halfway out the door even when he was standing still. Then she smiled again. Softer now, but just as stubborn. “Well,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box, “I talk enough for two people, so I think this could work.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This?”
“Yeah. This whole… neighbor situation.”
“We already are neighbors.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She sighed dramatically. “Of course you don’t.”
Peter pushed himself off the doorframe slightly, already inching back toward the safety of his apartment. “Anything else?”
Y/N glanced down at her package, then back at him. “…No.”
“Cool.”
“But,” she added quickly, stepping back before he could close the door, “I’ll probably see you around. Since, you know—same building, same school, same free sock community.”
Peter stared at her. “…Okay.”
She grinned. “Okay—- bye!” Y/N said quickly, turning on her heel and speed-walking down the hallway like she hadn’t just completely embarrassed herself.
Peter watched her go for a second. Then quietly shut the door. “…Free socks,” he muttered to himself.
After that interaction five years ago, it never really changed. Not in the way people expected things to change. There was no slow-burn friendship, no sudden deep conversations at 2 a.m., no “we actually got close over time” kind of story. It stayed exactly what it had been in that in ESU’s hallway: slightly awkward, weirdly consistent, and entirely one-sided in terms of enthusiasm.
Y/N would spot him during the week, usually when he was clearly in a rush and immediately latch on. “Peter!”
He wouldn’t stop walking.
She would for approximately half a second. Then she’d jog after him. “So—how’s life?” she’d ask, falling into step beside him like she had every right to be there.
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool, cool. That’s great. Love that for you. Hey—do you like 70s bands?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know which ones I’m talking about.”
“I do.”
She ignored that. “Trivia night. Thursday. You should come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay, but like—emotionally, or—”
“Physically.”
She huffed, walking backwards in front of him now. “You’re no fun.”
“Yeah I heard that.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” she muttered, then brightened again instantly. “Anyway, I’ll save you a seat.”
“Don’t.”
She pointed at him. “Too late.” And just like that, she’d disappear into a classroom, leaving Peter standing there for half a second longer than necessary before continuing on like nothing happened.
Then there were the days he didn’t show up at all. No hallway sightings. No late-night footsteps. No door opening, no dry one-word responses. Y/N would notice. She told herself she didn’t.
“He’s probably just busy,” she’d say casually to whoever was around. Or, “Maybe he’s on vacation.” Which, realistically, didn’t make sense. Peter Parker didn’t seem like the vacation type. He barely seemed like the take a break type. Still, she never asked.
And then he’d reappear like nothing happened. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same “cool.”
Sometimes, their interactions were… different. Like the nights Y/N came home drunk. The stairwell light would flicker, her steps uneven, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as she muttered to herself about something that made perfect sense in her head. “…and I told her, autumn is overrated—like, yeah, the leaves are pretty, but it’s basically just—just dying, you know? It’s like aesthetic decay—”
Her foot would miss a step and before gravity could fully commit—a hand would catch her arm.
Steady. Firm. She’d blink up, trying to focus. “…Neighbor?”
He stood there with a laundry basket tucked against his hip, looking down at her like this was, at best, mildly inconvenient. “You’re gonna fall,” he said.
“I’m not—” she swayed. “I’m fine. Besides— that was super superheroing”
“You’re not.” He grimaces. ,,supeheroing is not even a word’
,,It is now’ She squinted at him, then smiled suddenly, wide and unfiltered. “You’re, like… really good at catching people.”
“Yeah.”
“You do that often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“That’s kinda hot.”
Peter didn’t react at all. He just adjusted his grip on the laundry basket. “You have your keys?”
Y/N frowned like this was a deeply philosophical question. “…Probably.”
“Find them.”
She dug into her bag with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. “If I don’t have them, can I just—like—sleep in the hallway?”
“No.”
“Your place?”
“No.”
“Wow,” she said, pulling out her keys triumphantly. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And?”
“And you’ll forget this tomorrow.”
She gasped softly. “I never forget emotional moments.”
“This isn’t one.”
She stared at him for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal something important. “I think you secretly like me.”
“I don’t.”
She nodded slowly, completely unconvinced. “Yeah. That sounds fake.”
Peter guided her toward her apartment door, letting go only once she was steady enough to stand on her own.
“Get inside,” he said.
She fumbled with the lock, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good guy, you know that, neighbor?”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, laundry basket in hand, waiting. She smiled at him one last time before pushing the door open and stumbling inside. ,,Byeeeeeee thank’s for saving me’ The door shut.
Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he exhaled quietly, shifted the laundry basket, and continued up the stairs like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid her specifically. He avoided everyone. Keeping attention away from himself had become second nature, something rooted in fear more than preference. He couldn’t risk losing more people. He couldn’t allow anyone into his life who might end up being threatened because of his other persona.
Y/N, though… she seemed like a genuinely nice person.
He often overheard her in the hallway, chatting easily with neighbors he didn’t even realize existed. Apparently, someone in the building sold homemade honey in jars, something he only learned because Y/N had spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing it outside his door one afternoon.
To him, she was… bright. Outgoing in a way that felt effortless. Like she carried a drop of sunshine inside her, something that made the run-down, slightly miserable apartment complex feel a little less like hell.
He used to be like that.
Sometimes, he missed that version of himself and because of that, he kept his distance even more. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to her.
On a Friday night, Y/N threw a party in her apartment.
It wasn’t anything extravagant, she just needed to blow off some steam before exam season hit everyone like a truck. She invited a mix of people from campus, including her good friend Alice, who happened to share a module with Peter.
“Wait—you know Peter?” Y/N asked, sipping from a red plastic cup as she leaned against the kitchen counter.
The apartment was crowded but comfortable, packed with around thirty people. Alternative rock hummed through the speakers, blending with laughter and overlapping conversations. The lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow, and the air smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and someone’s overly strong perfume.
Alice smiled slightly, her blonde hair catching the low light. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. He’s rarely in Professor Banner’s lectures, but when he is, he’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Distant. But we sort of understand each other.”
Y/N choked on her drink. “My neighbor can talk?” she coughed, eyes widening.
Alice blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean—sometimes. Everyone talks.”
“Not my neighbor,” Y/N muttered, grimacing as she set her cup down.
Alice let out a small laugh. “Why do you even call him ‘neighbor’?”
Y/N shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I like giving people nicknames.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a nickname. That’s just… what he is.”
Y/N pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s ironic.”
“…That’s not how irony works.”
Y/N waved her off, already reaching for another drink. “Details.”
A couple of guys stumbled into the kitchen, clearly already a few drinks in. One of them, Paul, leaned against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just had the best idea of his life.
“Hey, Y/L/N,” he called out, his words slightly slurred, “do you have any limes? We wanna do, like—tequila shots. A whole game thing.” He hiccuped mid-sentence, which immediately sent the others into laughter.
Y/N turned toward them with an easy smile. “Yeah, hold on—I’ll check.”
She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. Bottles. Leftovers. Questionable containers she didn’t remember putting there.
No limes.
Her smile slowly dropped. “…Crap.”
Alice leaned closer, trying to peek inside. “What’s wrong?”
“No limes.”
Alice frowned. “No dimes?”
Y/N shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. “No, I said no limes—”
She stopped mid-sentence, then her expression shifted. Y/N turned her head toward Alice, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ll check if my neighbor has some.”
Alice blinked. “…Your neighbor neighbor?”
“The one and only,” Y/N said, already moving toward the door.
Alice grabbed her arm lightly. “You’re seriously leaving your own party to ask the human equivalent of a brick wall for limes?”
Y/N pulled free, unfazed. “He might have some.”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He won’t.”
Y/N pointed at her as she backed out of the kitchen. “Have some faith.”
“In him?” Alice called after her.
Y/N just grinned. “In the limes.”
And with that, she slipped out into the hallway, on a mission that was, at best, unnecessary… and at worst, a terrible idea.
Y/N had always been like that. Full of impulsive ideas that balanced somewhere between stupid and weirdly clever. She lived by the quiet philosophy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—that life was too long to be serious all the time, and sometimes you just had to do something reckless because you could.
Unfortunately, this was one of those moments.
She tried to make her way back to her apartment door, but the hallway was packed with people spilling out from her own party, laughing, shouting, blocking every possible path.
“Okay—nope,” she muttered, already turning around.
Plan B.
The fire escape.
Within seconds, she slipped into her room, pushed the window open, and climbed out onto the metal platform. The cool night air hit her face immediately, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded apartment behind her. Music thumped faintly through the walls as she carefully made her way down the stairs toward the level below.
Peter’s window.
She leaned forward slightly, gripping the railing as she tried to peek inside.
Completely dark.
Y/N frowned. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Because he definitely has a life on a Friday night.”
Still, she knocked against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Then louder.
“Hey—neighbor!” she called, pressing closer to the window. “You alive in there, or did you finally turn into a ghost?”
No response.
She sighed, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool glass. “Great. No limes, no neighbor, no dignity—”
Something hit the wall next to her. Y/N jumped back with a startled scream. “AHHH—!” She whipped around and froze. Spider-Man clung to the brick wall just a few feet away, one hand still pressed against it from where he had landed. His head tilted slightly, the white lenses of his mask wide. “…Uh—”
Y/N stared at him, completely stunned. Her brain visibly tried to catch up with reality. “…Okay,” she said slowly, raising a hand like she was pausing the situation. “So either I’m way more drunk than I thought—” She pointed at him. “—or you’re Spider-Man.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “I wish I could say you are drunk but no— I am Spider-Man,” he said finally.
Y/N nodded once, like that confirmed everything. “Cool.” She turned back toward the window, knocking on it again like nothing had just happened. “HEY—NEIGHBOR!” she shouted. “Do you have limes?!”
Spider-Man just stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”
She glanced back at him, completely serious. “No, this is time-sensitive.”
He shifted slightly on the wall. “You’re on a fire escape. At night. Yelling.”
“Yes.”
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
She waved him off. “That’s not the point.”
“…What is the point?”
“I need limes.”
Another pause. Spider-Man blinked behind the mask. “…For what?”
“Tequila shots.”
He stared at her. “…You climbed out of your apartment. Onto a fire escape. To ask your neighbor for limes. For tequila shots.”
“Yes,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she squinted at him slightly. “…Are you judging me?”
“I’m processing this.”
“Well, process faster,” she shot back. “People are waiting.”
Spider-Man looked at her for a long second. “…Stay there,” he said instead, already pushing himself off the wall.
Y/N blinked. “Where else would I—?”
He was gone.
She stared at the empty space where he had been, the city noise rushing back in to fill the silence. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, gripping the railing. “Cool. Love that. Very mysterious. Very dramatic exit.” She leaned back against the metal bars, squinting out into the night. “Wow,” she added under her breath. “Even Spider-Man ghosts me.”
Three minutes. That’s how long she waited. Long enough for her buzz to settle slightly. Long enough for her to start questioning her life choices. “Alright,” she said to no one, pushing herself upright. “New plan. We accept defeat. We go back inside. We drink tequila without limes like civilized peo—”
A red blur swung back into view. She yelped again, grabbing the railing. “OH MY—can you not do that?!”
Spider-Man landed lightly in front of her, something small clutched in his hand. “…You scream a lot,” he said.
“You appear out of nowhere!” she shot back, clutching her chest. “That’s on you.”
He ignored that, holding out his hand.
Limes.
Fresh. Bright green. Slightly dewy, like they had just come out of a fridge.
Y/N blinked. “…You just carry limes around?” she asked slowly.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then where did you get them?”
“…Deli,” he said.
“You—” she pointed at him, incredulous, “you went to a deli?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“…For the limes.”
Y/N stared at him for a long second. Then her face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “You are really the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You left—” she gestured vaguely into the city, “—swung somewhere, bought limes, and came back, all in like… what, three minutes?”
“Four.”
“Four,” she repeated, nodding. “Right. Of course. That makes it normal.” He held the limes out again, a little more insistently this time. “Take them.”
“Oh—right!” She quickly grabbed them, almost dropping one before catching it against her chest. “These are beautiful. Honestly, ten out of ten limes.”
He stared at her. “…They’re just limes.”
“No, no,” she shook her head, completely serious. “These are hero limes. There’s a difference.”
“…I regret this,” he muttered, but he has a little smile behind his mask.
“You don’t,” she shot back immediately. “This is the highlight of your night.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
She grinned. “It is.”
“…Go back inside,” he said.
Y/N clutched the limes like a prize. “I will. My people need me.”
“They don’t.”
“They do. There’s a tequila situation.”
He looked at her like that explained nothing. She took a step toward the stairs, then paused, turning back to him. “…Hey.” He didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “For the… deli mission.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
“I absolutely will,” she said immediately. “No one’s gonna believe me.”
“Good.”
She laughed, already climbing back up toward her window. “See you around, Spider-Man!”
He didn’t answer. Just watched as she disappeared back inside, music spilling out briefly before the window shut behind her. The fire escape fell quiet again. Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked down at his hands.
“…Deli,” he muttered to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it either. But he still had a little smile behind his mask. A stupid little smile.
The next morning hit New York like it always did: too bright, too loud, and entirely unconcerned with anyone’s headache. Y/N was already halfway regretting her life choices before she even reached the stairwell. Her hair was tied up messily, sunglasses doing absolutely nothing indoors, and she was clutching a energy she didn’t remember buying. The apartment hallway smelled faintly like last night’s alcohol and spilled optimism.
She stepped out of her apartment just in time to see him.
Peter Parker.
Walking down the stairs like he hadn’t just indirectly caused a minor existential crisis in her life twelve hours ago.
“Peter!” she called immediately.
He paused mid-step, slowly turned his head. “…Yeah.” That tone again. Flat. Guarded. Like he was already preparing for something he didn’t want to deal with.
Y/N lit up instantly. “Oh my God, perfect timing. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way out.”
“No, you’re on your way into a conversation.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
She was already moving toward him. “You don’t have to. It’s happening anyway.”
Peter stared at her for a second as she reached him on the stairs, clearly debating whether continuing downward at full speed was an option. It wasn’t. She had already positioned herself like a blockade.
“Is this about the party?” he asked.
She gasped. “It’s not just about the party.”
A beat.
“…It’s partly about the party—- wait you remembered that I had a party where you were invited.” She grins out of satisfaction.
Peter exhaled slowly, like he was trying to conserve patience for something more important in his life. “Okay.”
Y/N grabbed his wrist. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have class.”
“No one has a class on Saturday. You have coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fake.”
He tried to step around her. She stepped in front again.
Peter stopped. Looked at her. “…You’re blocking a staircase.”
“And you’re emotionally unavailable,” she replied instantly. “We all have struggles.”
Peter blinked once. “…What happened last night?”
That was all she needed. Her entire face changed.
“Oh my GOD,” she said, releasing his wrist only to immediately start gesturing wildly. “Okay. So. First of all. My party? Insane. Like, legally it should’ve been louder than it was. There were people. So many people. I lost at least two conversations and a cup of something I’m pretty sure was not juice.”
Peter didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly.
Y/N continued, pacing one step down, then back up again for dramatic effect. “And then Paul shows up, right? And he’s like—” she dropped her voice into a terrible imitation, “‘Do you have limes? We need tequila shots like it’s a sport.’”
Peter’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Go on,” he said.
That alone made her pause. “Wait—are you… interested?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Continue.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him but kept going. “So I check the fridge. No limes. Tragedy. Absolute collapse of civilization. Alice suggests I give up. I refuse. Obviously.”
Peter folded his arms. “So you went where?”
She pointed at him like she was delivering courtroom testimony. “Fire escape.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “…Of course you did.”
“I had a system,” she insisted. “It made sense at the time. Anyway. I go to your window—”
“My window.”
“Yes, your window, don’t interrupt the narrative flow—”
“I’m not—”
“And you weren’t there.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t.”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing triumphantly. “So I’m knocking on your window like a normal person—”
“Normal.”
“—and suddenly Spider-Man shows up.”
Peter froze. Just slightly as if it wasn’t the first time he has to pretend to be shocked. Then recovered almost immediately. “Spider-Man.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “Him.”
“…At my window.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at her for a long second. “…Right.”
Y/N leaned in slightly. “And listen. I don’t know what your opinion on him is, but I think he might be, like, a little unwell.”
Peter blinked. “Unwell?”
“Because why is he on walls at night and also emotionally committed to grocery errands?”
That got him. A small, genuine laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Y/N stopped mid-gesture. “…Did you just laugh at me?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” she repeated, pointing at him again. “That was a laugh.”
Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it. “Continue your story.”
She narrowed her eyes but resumed. “So anyway, he tells me to stay there. Disappears. Comes back FOUR minutes later with limes from a deli.”
“That’s not the point,” she said immediately. “The point is that your city’s superhero is doing Uber Eats side quests for me.”
Peter let out another small, involuntary huff of amusement.
Y/N noticed. “Okay, you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are emotionally smiling.”
Peter exhaled, looking away briefly like he was trying not to encourage her. “…You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly. “Anyway, I need coffee after this. And you’re coming.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I literally just said I’m not.”
She had already started walking.
Peter didn’t move at first, then he sighed and followed.
The coffee shop was two blocks away, small and slightly too warm inside, filled with the soft hum of morning conversations and the smell of burnt espresso. Y/N pushed the door open like she owned the place.
Peter followed more cautiously, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drag me here,” he said.
“I did,” she replied immediately, already walking toward the counter. “This is emotional processing.”
“That’s not what coffee is.”
“It is for me.”
Peter watched as she ordered something aggressively complicated, then turned to him expectantly.
“What?”
“I said I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fine,” she said, waving it off. “You can just emotionally support me while I consume caffeine.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
He sighed again but didn’t leave. They sat by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. Y/N talked with her hands again, reenacting parts of the night like she was performing a one-woman play, occasionally slamming the table for emphasis. Peter watched her for a while, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.
At one point, she leaned back, grinning.
“So,” she said, “your Spider-Man is insane.”
Peter took a sip of water. “…My Spider-Man?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I feel like you’d know him. You give off ‘I know things’ energy.”
Peter almost choked. “…I don’t.”
“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced. Then she pointed at him with her cup. “Anyway, I’m telling everyone I know he did a deli run for me.”
Peter shook his head slowly, a small smile still lingering. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
She grinned. “Probably.”
And for some reason, that didn’t make him laugh less.
▶︎ y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.
Living in New York City while actually attending university was nothing like the glossy film strips shown in movie theaters, the kind where everything looks soft, golden, and effortlessly romantic. There was no affordable, sunlit apartment with reliable hot water, no lazy weekends spent at some vintage café eating overpriced brunch while laughing about last night’s hookups. That version of New York barely existed. Maybe it did, but not here.
The reality was harsher, sharper around the edges. It was survival dressed up as ambition. You either smiled tightly and said, “I love it here,” even after nearly getting mugged on your way home, or you admitted quietly, reluctantly that the city was chewing you up. There was no in-between. That was New York.
Y/N had been living here for five years now. Five years of crowded subways, dinners, and conversations with self-proclaimed “real New Yorkers” who never failed to remind her: “You’re not a New Yorker. Five years? That’s nothing. You have no idea—”
She had heard it all.
Still, she liked it here. Not in the romanticized way people imagined, but in a stubborn, grounded way. It was better than the small town she came from: different, louder, more unforgiving, but alive in a way that place had never been.
She moved to the city to study psychology, picking up a few photography courses on the side because it was the only creative outlet she could realistically afford. At university, she found her way into conversations easily, slipping into discussions about music or movies, just enough to secure a spot during trivia nights or group hangouts. She was a people person, the kind who wasn’t afraid to walk into a room and make herself known. Not by shouting, necessarily but she could. If she had to.
More often, it was her energy. The easy smile, the willingness to debate something trivial like whether autumn was actually the best season or completely overrated for a vibe that lasted, at best, four weeks.
But there was one person who didn’t seem impressed by any of that.
Peter Parker.
Her neighbor. One floor below.
Y/N had first met him when she went to pick up a package he had signed for three days earlier. At the time, she thought he was ridiculously cute. Curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the kind of face that made you do a double take. Cute. Or hot. Honestly, it depended on the angle.
“You have my package!” Y/N said brightly, standing in the hallway in an oversized Ferris Bueller’s Day Off T-shirt.
Peter barely opened the door, peering at her with an exhausted expression. “I do?”
“Well, I got the email saying you picked it up… three days ago,” she replied, still smiling.
He stared at her for a second, then turned without another word, disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaned ever so slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she tried to glance inside but before she could make out anything, Peter reappeared, holding the box out to her.
“Here.”
She flinched a little, startled, before laughing it off. “Ah—great! Thanks. I’m Y/N, by the way. Your neighbor. Upstairs.”
Peter nodded once. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoed awkwardly, adjusting her grip on the package. Her eyes dropped to his hoodie, catching the familiar university logo. Her face lit up. “Empire State? I go there too!”
Peter pressed his lips together, like he was debating whether to respond at all.
He hadn’t always been like this.
There was a time when Peter Parker was easy to talk to, when he carried a kind of warmth that naturally drew people in. He used to laugh more, speak faster, ramble about things he loved—Star Wars, half-baked theories about shows he watched with Ned, little details that made him feel… alive.
That version of him felt like a different person now.
Ever since his life had been rewritten, since the spell that made the world forget who he was—being Peter Parker felt… distant. Like trying to wear a name that no longer fit. He moved through life quietly, carefully, as if any misstep might remind the universe he wasn’t supposed to exist like this.
Spider-Man, though… that was different.
Spider-Man had purpose.
In the years after everything changed, he built himself into something the city could rely on. When chaos broke out, he was there. When danger surfaced, he faced it head-on. He had been there during the uprising against Fisk, there when the streets turned volatile, there every time New York needed someone to step in.
The city knew Spider-Man.
But Peter Parker?
Peter Parker could barely hold a conversation that lasted two minutes. Standing in that hallway, looking at Y/N—bright, open, so effortlessly present, he felt that familiar disconnect settle in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “I know’’
Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. She let out a small laugh, a little too quick, a little too hopeful, brushing a hand through her hair. “Really?—I mean, how come you never talk t—”
Peter pointed down at her feet. “You wear their socks.”
Y/N blinked. Then she looked down. Bright yellow socks. Empire State University logo. Slightly mismatched, one stretched more than the other. She nodded slowly, like she was processing devastating news. “Right.” A beat passed. “Well,” she said, lifting her head again, forcing a smile back onto her face, “in my defense, they were free.”
Peter leaned against the doorframe, completely unmoved. “Yeah. That tracks.”
She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said flatly, “you look like someone who’d get excited over free socks.”
Y/N placed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Okay. First of all, I do get excited over free things. That’s just financially responsible.”
“Sure.”
“And second of all,” she continued, gesturing between them, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re using it to bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you,” Peter said. “I’m observing.”
“Observing?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
“Like a scientist?”
He shrugged. “More like… someone stuck in a hallway.”
Y/N stared at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she shot back, shifting the package in her arms. “Do you always talk like this, or am I just lucky?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “I feel honored.” Another pause settled between them but this one felt different. Less awkward. Almost… intentional. Y/N rocked slightly on her heels, glancing past him into his apartment again before catching herself. “So… you knew I go to Empire State because of my socks.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve just… never said anything.”
“No.”
“Not even like a ‘hey, same university’ kind of thing?”
Peter shook his head once. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
She let out an incredulous laugh. “You are so weird.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N studied him for a second, really looked at him this time. The tired eyes, the way he held himself like he was halfway out the door even when he was standing still. Then she smiled again. Softer now, but just as stubborn. “Well,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box, “I talk enough for two people, so I think this could work.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This?”
“Yeah. This whole… neighbor situation.”
“We already are neighbors.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She sighed dramatically. “Of course you don’t.”
Peter pushed himself off the doorframe slightly, already inching back toward the safety of his apartment. “Anything else?”
Y/N glanced down at her package, then back at him. “…No.”
“Cool.”
“But,” she added quickly, stepping back before he could close the door, “I’ll probably see you around. Since, you know—same building, same school, same free sock community.”
Peter stared at her. “…Okay.”
She grinned. “Okay—- bye!” Y/N said quickly, turning on her heel and speed-walking down the hallway like she hadn’t just completely embarrassed herself.
Peter watched her go for a second. Then quietly shut the door. “…Free socks,” he muttered to himself.
After that interaction five years ago, it never really changed. Not in the way people expected things to change. There was no slow-burn friendship, no sudden deep conversations at 2 a.m., no “we actually got close over time” kind of story. It stayed exactly what it had been in that in ESU’s hallway: slightly awkward, weirdly consistent, and entirely one-sided in terms of enthusiasm.
Y/N would spot him during the week, usually when he was clearly in a rush and immediately latch on. “Peter!”
He wouldn’t stop walking.
She would for approximately half a second. Then she’d jog after him. “So—how’s life?” she’d ask, falling into step beside him like she had every right to be there.
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool, cool. That’s great. Love that for you. Hey—do you like 70s bands?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know which ones I’m talking about.”
“I do.”
She ignored that. “Trivia night. Thursday. You should come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay, but like—emotionally, or—”
“Physically.”
She huffed, walking backwards in front of him now. “You’re no fun.”
“Yeah I heard that.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” she muttered, then brightened again instantly. “Anyway, I’ll save you a seat.”
“Don’t.”
She pointed at him. “Too late.” And just like that, she’d disappear into a classroom, leaving Peter standing there for half a second longer than necessary before continuing on like nothing happened.
Then there were the days he didn’t show up at all. No hallway sightings. No late-night footsteps. No door opening, no dry one-word responses. Y/N would notice. She told herself she didn’t.
“He’s probably just busy,” she’d say casually to whoever was around. Or, “Maybe he’s on vacation.” Which, realistically, didn’t make sense. Peter Parker didn’t seem like the vacation type. He barely seemed like the take a break type. Still, she never asked.
And then he’d reappear like nothing happened. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same “cool.”
Sometimes, their interactions were… different. Like the nights Y/N came home drunk. The stairwell light would flicker, her steps uneven, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as she muttered to herself about something that made perfect sense in her head. “…and I told her, autumn is overrated—like, yeah, the leaves are pretty, but it’s basically just—just dying, you know? It’s like aesthetic decay—”
Her foot would miss a step and before gravity could fully commit—a hand would catch her arm.
Steady. Firm. She’d blink up, trying to focus. “…Neighbor?”
He stood there with a laundry basket tucked against his hip, looking down at her like this was, at best, mildly inconvenient. “You’re gonna fall,” he said.
“I’m not—” she swayed. “I’m fine. Besides— that was super superheroing”
“You’re not.” He grimaces. ,,supeheroing is not even a word’
,,It is now’ She squinted at him, then smiled suddenly, wide and unfiltered. “You’re, like… really good at catching people.”
“Yeah.”
“You do that often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“That’s kinda hot.”
Peter didn’t react at all. He just adjusted his grip on the laundry basket. “You have your keys?”
Y/N frowned like this was a deeply philosophical question. “…Probably.”
“Find them.”
She dug into her bag with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. “If I don’t have them, can I just—like—sleep in the hallway?”
“No.”
“Your place?”
“No.”
“Wow,” she said, pulling out her keys triumphantly. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And?”
“And you’ll forget this tomorrow.”
She gasped softly. “I never forget emotional moments.”
“This isn’t one.”
She stared at him for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal something important. “I think you secretly like me.”
“I don’t.”
She nodded slowly, completely unconvinced. “Yeah. That sounds fake.”
Peter guided her toward her apartment door, letting go only once she was steady enough to stand on her own.
“Get inside,” he said.
She fumbled with the lock, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good guy, you know that, neighbor?”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, laundry basket in hand, waiting. She smiled at him one last time before pushing the door open and stumbling inside. ,,Byeeeeeee thank’s for saving me’ The door shut.
Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he exhaled quietly, shifted the laundry basket, and continued up the stairs like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid her specifically. He avoided everyone. Keeping attention away from himself had become second nature, something rooted in fear more than preference. He couldn’t risk losing more people. He couldn’t allow anyone into his life who might end up being threatened because of his other persona.
Y/N, though… she seemed like a genuinely nice person.
He often overheard her in the hallway, chatting easily with neighbors he didn’t even realize existed. Apparently, someone in the building sold homemade honey in jars, something he only learned because Y/N had spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing it outside his door one afternoon.
To him, she was… bright. Outgoing in a way that felt effortless. Like she carried a drop of sunshine inside her, something that made the run-down, slightly miserable apartment complex feel a little less like hell.
He used to be like that.
Sometimes, he missed that version of himself and because of that, he kept his distance even more. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to her.
On a Friday night, Y/N threw a party in her apartment.
It wasn’t anything extravagant, she just needed to blow off some steam before exam season hit everyone like a truck. She invited a mix of people from campus, including her good friend Alice, who happened to share a module with Peter.
“Wait—you know Peter?” Y/N asked, sipping from a red plastic cup as she leaned against the kitchen counter.
The apartment was crowded but comfortable, packed with around thirty people. Alternative rock hummed through the speakers, blending with laughter and overlapping conversations. The lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow, and the air smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and someone’s overly strong perfume.
Alice smiled slightly, her blonde hair catching the low light. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. He’s rarely in Professor Banner’s lectures, but when he is, he’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Distant. But we sort of understand each other.”
Y/N choked on her drink. “My neighbor can talk?” she coughed, eyes widening.
Alice blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean—sometimes. Everyone talks.”
“Not my neighbor,” Y/N muttered, grimacing as she set her cup down.
Alice let out a small laugh. “Why do you even call him ‘neighbor’?”
Y/N shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I like giving people nicknames.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a nickname. That’s just… what he is.”
Y/N pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s ironic.”
“…That’s not how irony works.”
Y/N waved her off, already reaching for another drink. “Details.”
A couple of guys stumbled into the kitchen, clearly already a few drinks in. One of them, Paul, leaned against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just had the best idea of his life.
“Hey, Y/L/N,” he called out, his words slightly slurred, “do you have any limes? We wanna do, like—tequila shots. A whole game thing.” He hiccuped mid-sentence, which immediately sent the others into laughter.
Y/N turned toward them with an easy smile. “Yeah, hold on—I’ll check.”
She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. Bottles. Leftovers. Questionable containers she didn’t remember putting there.
No limes.
Her smile slowly dropped. “…Crap.”
Alice leaned closer, trying to peek inside. “What’s wrong?”
“No limes.”
Alice frowned. “No dimes?”
Y/N shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. “No, I said no limes—”
She stopped mid-sentence, then her expression shifted. Y/N turned her head toward Alice, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ll check if my neighbor has some.”
Alice blinked. “…Your neighbor neighbor?”
“The one and only,” Y/N said, already moving toward the door.
Alice grabbed her arm lightly. “You’re seriously leaving your own party to ask the human equivalent of a brick wall for limes?”
Y/N pulled free, unfazed. “He might have some.”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He won’t.”
Y/N pointed at her as she backed out of the kitchen. “Have some faith.”
“In him?” Alice called after her.
Y/N just grinned. “In the limes.”
And with that, she slipped out into the hallway, on a mission that was, at best, unnecessary… and at worst, a terrible idea.
Y/N had always been like that. Full of impulsive ideas that balanced somewhere between stupid and weirdly clever. She lived by the quiet philosophy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—that life was too long to be serious all the time, and sometimes you just had to do something reckless because you could.
Unfortunately, this was one of those moments.
She tried to make her way back to her apartment door, but the hallway was packed with people spilling out from her own party, laughing, shouting, blocking every possible path.
“Okay—nope,” she muttered, already turning around.
Plan B.
The fire escape.
Within seconds, she slipped into her room, pushed the window open, and climbed out onto the metal platform. The cool night air hit her face immediately, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded apartment behind her. Music thumped faintly through the walls as she carefully made her way down the stairs toward the level below.
Peter’s window.
She leaned forward slightly, gripping the railing as she tried to peek inside.
Completely dark.
Y/N frowned. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Because he definitely has a life on a Friday night.”
Still, she knocked against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Then louder.
“Hey—neighbor!” she called, pressing closer to the window. “You alive in there, or did you finally turn into a ghost?”
No response.
She sighed, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool glass. “Great. No limes, no neighbor, no dignity—”
Something hit the wall next to her. Y/N jumped back with a startled scream. “AHHH—!” She whipped around and froze. Spider-Man clung to the brick wall just a few feet away, one hand still pressed against it from where he had landed. His head tilted slightly, the white lenses of his mask wide. “…Uh—”
Y/N stared at him, completely stunned. Her brain visibly tried to catch up with reality. “…Okay,” she said slowly, raising a hand like she was pausing the situation. “So either I’m way more drunk than I thought—” She pointed at him. “—or you’re Spider-Man.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “I wish I could say you are drunk but no— I am Spider-Man,” he said finally.
Y/N nodded once, like that confirmed everything. “Cool.” She turned back toward the window, knocking on it again like nothing had just happened. “HEY—NEIGHBOR!” she shouted. “Do you have limes?!”
Spider-Man just stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”
She glanced back at him, completely serious. “No, this is time-sensitive.”
He shifted slightly on the wall. “You’re on a fire escape. At night. Yelling.”
“Yes.”
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
She waved him off. “That’s not the point.”
“…What is the point?”
“I need limes.”
Another pause. Spider-Man blinked behind the mask. “…For what?”
“Tequila shots.”
He stared at her. “…You climbed out of your apartment. Onto a fire escape. To ask your neighbor for limes. For tequila shots.”
“Yes,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she squinted at him slightly. “…Are you judging me?”
“I’m processing this.”
“Well, process faster,” she shot back. “People are waiting.”
Spider-Man looked at her for a long second. “…Stay there,” he said instead, already pushing himself off the wall.
Y/N blinked. “Where else would I—?”
He was gone.
She stared at the empty space where he had been, the city noise rushing back in to fill the silence. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, gripping the railing. “Cool. Love that. Very mysterious. Very dramatic exit.” She leaned back against the metal bars, squinting out into the night. “Wow,” she added under her breath. “Even Spider-Man ghosts me.”
Three minutes. That’s how long she waited. Long enough for her buzz to settle slightly. Long enough for her to start questioning her life choices. “Alright,” she said to no one, pushing herself upright. “New plan. We accept defeat. We go back inside. We drink tequila without limes like civilized peo—”
A red blur swung back into view. She yelped again, grabbing the railing. “OH MY—can you not do that?!”
Spider-Man landed lightly in front of her, something small clutched in his hand. “…You scream a lot,” he said.
“You appear out of nowhere!” she shot back, clutching her chest. “That’s on you.”
He ignored that, holding out his hand.
Limes.
Fresh. Bright green. Slightly dewy, like they had just come out of a fridge.
Y/N blinked. “…You just carry limes around?” she asked slowly.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then where did you get them?”
“…Deli,” he said.
“You—” she pointed at him, incredulous, “you went to a deli?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“…For the limes.”
Y/N stared at him for a long second. Then her face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “You are really the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You left—” she gestured vaguely into the city, “—swung somewhere, bought limes, and came back, all in like… what, three minutes?”
“Four.”
“Four,” she repeated, nodding. “Right. Of course. That makes it normal.” He held the limes out again, a little more insistently this time. “Take them.”
“Oh—right!” She quickly grabbed them, almost dropping one before catching it against her chest. “These are beautiful. Honestly, ten out of ten limes.”
He stared at her. “…They’re just limes.”
“No, no,” she shook her head, completely serious. “These are hero limes. There’s a difference.”
“…I regret this,” he muttered, but he has a little smile behind his mask.
“You don’t,” she shot back immediately. “This is the highlight of your night.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
She grinned. “It is.”
“…Go back inside,” he said.
Y/N clutched the limes like a prize. “I will. My people need me.”
“They don’t.”
“They do. There’s a tequila situation.”
He looked at her like that explained nothing. She took a step toward the stairs, then paused, turning back to him. “…Hey.” He didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “For the… deli mission.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
“I absolutely will,” she said immediately. “No one’s gonna believe me.”
“Good.”
She laughed, already climbing back up toward her window. “See you around, Spider-Man!”
He didn’t answer. Just watched as she disappeared back inside, music spilling out briefly before the window shut behind her. The fire escape fell quiet again. Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked down at his hands.
“…Deli,” he muttered to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it either. But he still had a little smile behind his mask. A stupid little smile.
The next morning hit New York like it always did: too bright, too loud, and entirely unconcerned with anyone’s headache. Y/N was already halfway regretting her life choices before she even reached the stairwell. Her hair was tied up messily, sunglasses doing absolutely nothing indoors, and she was clutching a energy she didn’t remember buying. The apartment hallway smelled faintly like last night’s alcohol and spilled optimism.
She stepped out of her apartment just in time to see him.
Peter Parker.
Walking down the stairs like he hadn’t just indirectly caused a minor existential crisis in her life twelve hours ago.
“Peter!” she called immediately.
He paused mid-step, slowly turned his head. “…Yeah.” That tone again. Flat. Guarded. Like he was already preparing for something he didn’t want to deal with.
Y/N lit up instantly. “Oh my God, perfect timing. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way out.”
“No, you’re on your way into a conversation.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
She was already moving toward him. “You don’t have to. It’s happening anyway.”
Peter stared at her for a second as she reached him on the stairs, clearly debating whether continuing downward at full speed was an option. It wasn’t. She had already positioned herself like a blockade.
“Is this about the party?” he asked.
She gasped. “It’s not just about the party.”
A beat.
“…It’s partly about the party—- wait you remembered that I had a party where you were invited.” She grins out of satisfaction.
Peter exhaled slowly, like he was trying to conserve patience for something more important in his life. “Okay.”
Y/N grabbed his wrist. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have class.”
“No one has a class on Saturday. You have coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fake.”
He tried to step around her. She stepped in front again.
Peter stopped. Looked at her. “…You’re blocking a staircase.”
“And you’re emotionally unavailable,” she replied instantly. “We all have struggles.”
Peter blinked once. “…What happened last night?”
That was all she needed. Her entire face changed.
“Oh my GOD,” she said, releasing his wrist only to immediately start gesturing wildly. “Okay. So. First of all. My party? Insane. Like, legally it should’ve been louder than it was. There were people. So many people. I lost at least two conversations and a cup of something I’m pretty sure was not juice.”
Peter didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly.
Y/N continued, pacing one step down, then back up again for dramatic effect. “And then Paul shows up, right? And he’s like—” she dropped her voice into a terrible imitation, “‘Do you have limes? We need tequila shots like it’s a sport.’”
Peter’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Go on,” he said.
That alone made her pause. “Wait—are you… interested?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Continue.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him but kept going. “So I check the fridge. No limes. Tragedy. Absolute collapse of civilization. Alice suggests I give up. I refuse. Obviously.”
Peter folded his arms. “So you went where?”
She pointed at him like she was delivering courtroom testimony. “Fire escape.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “…Of course you did.”
“I had a system,” she insisted. “It made sense at the time. Anyway. I go to your window—”
“My window.”
“Yes, your window, don’t interrupt the narrative flow—”
“I’m not—”
“And you weren’t there.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t.”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing triumphantly. “So I’m knocking on your window like a normal person—”
“Normal.”
“—and suddenly Spider-Man shows up.”
Peter froze. Just slightly as if it wasn’t the first time he has to pretend to be shocked. Then recovered almost immediately. “Spider-Man.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “Him.”
“…At my window.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at her for a long second. “…Right.”
Y/N leaned in slightly. “And listen. I don’t know what your opinion on him is, but I think he might be, like, a little unwell.”
Peter blinked. “Unwell?”
“Because why is he on walls at night and also emotionally committed to grocery errands?”
That got him. A small, genuine laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Y/N stopped mid-gesture. “…Did you just laugh at me?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” she repeated, pointing at him again. “That was a laugh.”
Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it. “Continue your story.”
She narrowed her eyes but resumed. “So anyway, he tells me to stay there. Disappears. Comes back FOUR minutes later with limes from a deli.”
“That’s not the point,” she said immediately. “The point is that your city’s superhero is doing Uber Eats side quests for me.”
Peter let out another small, involuntary huff of amusement.
Y/N noticed. “Okay, you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are emotionally smiling.”
Peter exhaled, looking away briefly like he was trying not to encourage her. “…You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly. “Anyway, I need coffee after this. And you’re coming.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I literally just said I’m not.”
She had already started walking.
Peter didn’t move at first, then he sighed and followed.
The coffee shop was two blocks away, small and slightly too warm inside, filled with the soft hum of morning conversations and the smell of burnt espresso. Y/N pushed the door open like she owned the place.
Peter followed more cautiously, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drag me here,” he said.
“I did,” she replied immediately, already walking toward the counter. “This is emotional processing.”
“That’s not what coffee is.”
“It is for me.”
Peter watched as she ordered something aggressively complicated, then turned to him expectantly.
“What?”
“I said I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fine,” she said, waving it off. “You can just emotionally support me while I consume caffeine.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
He sighed again but didn’t leave. They sat by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. Y/N talked with her hands again, reenacting parts of the night like she was performing a one-woman play, occasionally slamming the table for emphasis. Peter watched her for a while, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.
At one point, she leaned back, grinning.
“So,” she said, “your Spider-Man is insane.”
Peter took a sip of water. “…My Spider-Man?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I feel like you’d know him. You give off ‘I know things’ energy.”
Peter almost choked. “…I don’t.”
“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced. Then she pointed at him with her cup. “Anyway, I’m telling everyone I know he did a deli run for me.”
Peter shook his head slowly, a small smile still lingering. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
She grinned. “Probably.”
And for some reason, that didn’t make him laugh less.
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▶︎ y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.
Living in New York City while actually attending university was nothing like the glossy film strips shown in movie theaters, the kind where everything looks soft, golden, and effortlessly romantic. There was no affordable, sunlit apartment with reliable hot water, no lazy weekends spent at some vintage café eating overpriced brunch while laughing about last night’s hookups. That version of New York barely existed. Maybe it did, but not here.
The reality was harsher, sharper around the edges. It was survival dressed up as ambition. You either smiled tightly and said, “I love it here,” even after nearly getting mugged on your way home, or you admitted quietly, reluctantly that the city was chewing you up. There was no in-between. That was New York.
Y/N had been living here for five years now. Five years of crowded subways, dinners, and conversations with self-proclaimed “real New Yorkers” who never failed to remind her: “You’re not a New Yorker. Five years? That’s nothing. You have no idea—”
She had heard it all.
Still, she liked it here. Not in the romanticized way people imagined, but in a stubborn, grounded way. It was better than the small town she came from: different, louder, more unforgiving, but alive in a way that place had never been.
She moved to the city to study psychology, picking up a few photography courses on the side because it was the only creative outlet she could realistically afford. At university, she found her way into conversations easily, slipping into discussions about music or movies, just enough to secure a spot during trivia nights or group hangouts. She was a people person, the kind who wasn’t afraid to walk into a room and make herself known. Not by shouting, necessarily but she could. If she had to.
More often, it was her energy. The easy smile, the willingness to debate something trivial like whether autumn was actually the best season or completely overrated for a vibe that lasted, at best, four weeks.
But there was one person who didn’t seem impressed by any of that.
Peter Parker.
Her neighbor. One floor below.
Y/N had first met him when she went to pick up a package he had signed for three days earlier. At the time, she thought he was ridiculously cute. Curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the kind of face that made you do a double take. Cute. Or hot. Honestly, it depended on the angle.
“You have my package!” Y/N said brightly, standing in the hallway in an oversized Ferris Bueller’s Day Off T-shirt.
Peter barely opened the door, peering at her with an exhausted expression. “I do?”
“Well, I got the email saying you picked it up… three days ago,” she replied, still smiling.
He stared at her for a second, then turned without another word, disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaned ever so slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she tried to glance inside but before she could make out anything, Peter reappeared, holding the box out to her.
“Here.”
She flinched a little, startled, before laughing it off. “Ah—great! Thanks. I’m Y/N, by the way. Your neighbor. Upstairs.”
Peter nodded once. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoed awkwardly, adjusting her grip on the package. Her eyes dropped to his hoodie, catching the familiar university logo. Her face lit up. “Empire State? I go there too!”
Peter pressed his lips together, like he was debating whether to respond at all.
He hadn’t always been like this.
There was a time when Peter Parker was easy to talk to, when he carried a kind of warmth that naturally drew people in. He used to laugh more, speak faster, ramble about things he loved—Star Wars, half-baked theories about shows he watched with Ned, little details that made him feel… alive.
That version of him felt like a different person now.
Ever since his life had been rewritten, since the spell that made the world forget who he was—being Peter Parker felt… distant. Like trying to wear a name that no longer fit. He moved through life quietly, carefully, as if any misstep might remind the universe he wasn’t supposed to exist like this.
Spider-Man, though… that was different.
Spider-Man had purpose.
In the years after everything changed, he built himself into something the city could rely on. When chaos broke out, he was there. When danger surfaced, he faced it head-on. He had been there during the uprising against Fisk, there when the streets turned volatile, there every time New York needed someone to step in.
The city knew Spider-Man.
But Peter Parker?
Peter Parker could barely hold a conversation that lasted two minutes. Standing in that hallway, looking at Y/N—bright, open, so effortlessly present, he felt that familiar disconnect settle in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “I know’’
Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. She let out a small laugh, a little too quick, a little too hopeful, brushing a hand through her hair. “Really?—I mean, how come you never talk t—”
Peter pointed down at her feet. “You wear their socks.”
Y/N blinked. Then she looked down. Bright yellow socks. Empire State University logo. Slightly mismatched, one stretched more than the other. She nodded slowly, like she was processing devastating news. “Right.” A beat passed. “Well,” she said, lifting her head again, forcing a smile back onto her face, “in my defense, they were free.”
Peter leaned against the doorframe, completely unmoved. “Yeah. That tracks.”
She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said flatly, “you look like someone who’d get excited over free socks.”
Y/N placed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Okay. First of all, I do get excited over free things. That’s just financially responsible.”
“Sure.”
“And second of all,” she continued, gesturing between them, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re using it to bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you,” Peter said. “I’m observing.”
“Observing?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
“Like a scientist?”
He shrugged. “More like… someone stuck in a hallway.”
Y/N stared at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she shot back, shifting the package in her arms. “Do you always talk like this, or am I just lucky?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “I feel honored.” Another pause settled between them but this one felt different. Less awkward. Almost… intentional. Y/N rocked slightly on her heels, glancing past him into his apartment again before catching herself. “So… you knew I go to Empire State because of my socks.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve just… never said anything.”
“No.”
“Not even like a ‘hey, same university’ kind of thing?”
Peter shook his head once. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
She let out an incredulous laugh. “You are so weird.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N studied him for a second, really looked at him this time. The tired eyes, the way he held himself like he was halfway out the door even when he was standing still. Then she smiled again. Softer now, but just as stubborn. “Well,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box, “I talk enough for two people, so I think this could work.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This?”
“Yeah. This whole… neighbor situation.”
“We already are neighbors.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She sighed dramatically. “Of course you don’t.”
Peter pushed himself off the doorframe slightly, already inching back toward the safety of his apartment. “Anything else?”
Y/N glanced down at her package, then back at him. “…No.”
“Cool.”
“But,” she added quickly, stepping back before he could close the door, “I’ll probably see you around. Since, you know—same building, same school, same free sock community.”
Peter stared at her. “…Okay.”
She grinned. “Okay—- bye!” Y/N said quickly, turning on her heel and speed-walking down the hallway like she hadn’t just completely embarrassed herself.
Peter watched her go for a second. Then quietly shut the door. “…Free socks,” he muttered to himself.
After that interaction five years ago, it never really changed. Not in the way people expected things to change. There was no slow-burn friendship, no sudden deep conversations at 2 a.m., no “we actually got close over time” kind of story. It stayed exactly what it had been in that in ESU’s hallway: slightly awkward, weirdly consistent, and entirely one-sided in terms of enthusiasm.
Y/N would spot him during the week, usually when he was clearly in a rush and immediately latch on. “Peter!”
He wouldn’t stop walking.
She would for approximately half a second. Then she’d jog after him. “So—how’s life?” she’d ask, falling into step beside him like she had every right to be there.
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool, cool. That’s great. Love that for you. Hey—do you like 70s bands?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know which ones I’m talking about.”
“I do.”
She ignored that. “Trivia night. Thursday. You should come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay, but like—emotionally, or—”
“Physically.”
She huffed, walking backwards in front of him now. “You’re no fun.”
“Yeah I heard that.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” she muttered, then brightened again instantly. “Anyway, I’ll save you a seat.”
“Don’t.”
She pointed at him. “Too late.” And just like that, she’d disappear into a classroom, leaving Peter standing there for half a second longer than necessary before continuing on like nothing happened.
Then there were the days he didn’t show up at all. No hallway sightings. No late-night footsteps. No door opening, no dry one-word responses. Y/N would notice. She told herself she didn’t.
“He’s probably just busy,” she’d say casually to whoever was around. Or, “Maybe he’s on vacation.” Which, realistically, didn’t make sense. Peter Parker didn’t seem like the vacation type. He barely seemed like the take a break type. Still, she never asked.
And then he’d reappear like nothing happened. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same “cool.”
Sometimes, their interactions were… different. Like the nights Y/N came home drunk. The stairwell light would flicker, her steps uneven, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as she muttered to herself about something that made perfect sense in her head. “…and I told her, autumn is overrated—like, yeah, the leaves are pretty, but it’s basically just—just dying, you know? It’s like aesthetic decay—”
Her foot would miss a step and before gravity could fully commit—a hand would catch her arm.
Steady. Firm. She’d blink up, trying to focus. “…Neighbor?”
He stood there with a laundry basket tucked against his hip, looking down at her like this was, at best, mildly inconvenient. “You’re gonna fall,” he said.
“I’m not—” she swayed. “I’m fine. Besides— that was super superheroing”
“You’re not.” He grimaces. ,,supeheroing is not even a word’
,,It is now’ She squinted at him, then smiled suddenly, wide and unfiltered. “You’re, like… really good at catching people.”
“Yeah.”
“You do that often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“That’s kinda hot.”
Peter didn’t react at all. He just adjusted his grip on the laundry basket. “You have your keys?”
Y/N frowned like this was a deeply philosophical question. “…Probably.”
“Find them.”
She dug into her bag with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. “If I don’t have them, can I just—like—sleep in the hallway?”
“No.”
“Your place?”
“No.”
“Wow,” she said, pulling out her keys triumphantly. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And?”
“And you’ll forget this tomorrow.”
She gasped softly. “I never forget emotional moments.”
“This isn’t one.”
She stared at him for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal something important. “I think you secretly like me.”
“I don’t.”
She nodded slowly, completely unconvinced. “Yeah. That sounds fake.”
Peter guided her toward her apartment door, letting go only once she was steady enough to stand on her own.
“Get inside,” he said.
She fumbled with the lock, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good guy, you know that, neighbor?”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, laundry basket in hand, waiting. She smiled at him one last time before pushing the door open and stumbling inside. ,,Byeeeeeee thank’s for saving me’ The door shut.
Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he exhaled quietly, shifted the laundry basket, and continued up the stairs like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid her specifically. He avoided everyone. Keeping attention away from himself had become second nature, something rooted in fear more than preference. He couldn’t risk losing more people. He couldn’t allow anyone into his life who might end up being threatened because of his other persona.
Y/N, though… she seemed like a genuinely nice person.
He often overheard her in the hallway, chatting easily with neighbors he didn’t even realize existed. Apparently, someone in the building sold homemade honey in jars, something he only learned because Y/N had spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing it outside his door one afternoon.
To him, she was… bright. Outgoing in a way that felt effortless. Like she carried a drop of sunshine inside her, something that made the run-down, slightly miserable apartment complex feel a little less like hell.
He used to be like that.
Sometimes, he missed that version of himself and because of that, he kept his distance even more. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to her.
On a Friday night, Y/N threw a party in her apartment.
It wasn’t anything extravagant, she just needed to blow off some steam before exam season hit everyone like a truck. She invited a mix of people from campus, including her good friend Alice, who happened to share a module with Peter.
“Wait—you know Peter?” Y/N asked, sipping from a red plastic cup as she leaned against the kitchen counter.
The apartment was crowded but comfortable, packed with around thirty people. Alternative rock hummed through the speakers, blending with laughter and overlapping conversations. The lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow, and the air smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and someone’s overly strong perfume.
Alice smiled slightly, her blonde hair catching the low light. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. He’s rarely in Professor Banner’s lectures, but when he is, he’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Distant. But we sort of understand each other.”
Y/N choked on her drink. “My neighbor can talk?” she coughed, eyes widening.
Alice blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean—sometimes. Everyone talks.”
“Not my neighbor,” Y/N muttered, grimacing as she set her cup down.
Alice let out a small laugh. “Why do you even call him ‘neighbor’?”
Y/N shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I like giving people nicknames.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a nickname. That’s just… what he is.”
Y/N pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s ironic.”
“…That’s not how irony works.”
Y/N waved her off, already reaching for another drink. “Details.”
A couple of guys stumbled into the kitchen, clearly already a few drinks in. One of them, Paul, leaned against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just had the best idea of his life.
“Hey, Y/L/N,” he called out, his words slightly slurred, “do you have any limes? We wanna do, like—tequila shots. A whole game thing.” He hiccuped mid-sentence, which immediately sent the others into laughter.
Y/N turned toward them with an easy smile. “Yeah, hold on—I’ll check.”
She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. Bottles. Leftovers. Questionable containers she didn’t remember putting there.
No limes.
Her smile slowly dropped. “…Crap.”
Alice leaned closer, trying to peek inside. “What’s wrong?”
“No limes.”
Alice frowned. “No dimes?”
Y/N shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. “No, I said no limes—”
She stopped mid-sentence, then her expression shifted. Y/N turned her head toward Alice, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ll check if my neighbor has some.”
Alice blinked. “…Your neighbor neighbor?”
“The one and only,” Y/N said, already moving toward the door.
Alice grabbed her arm lightly. “You’re seriously leaving your own party to ask the human equivalent of a brick wall for limes?”
Y/N pulled free, unfazed. “He might have some.”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He won’t.”
Y/N pointed at her as she backed out of the kitchen. “Have some faith.”
“In him?” Alice called after her.
Y/N just grinned. “In the limes.”
And with that, she slipped out into the hallway, on a mission that was, at best, unnecessary… and at worst, a terrible idea.
Y/N had always been like that. Full of impulsive ideas that balanced somewhere between stupid and weirdly clever. She lived by the quiet philosophy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—that life was too long to be serious all the time, and sometimes you just had to do something reckless because you could.
Unfortunately, this was one of those moments.
She tried to make her way back to her apartment door, but the hallway was packed with people spilling out from her own party, laughing, shouting, blocking every possible path.
“Okay—nope,” she muttered, already turning around.
Plan B.
The fire escape.
Within seconds, she slipped into her room, pushed the window open, and climbed out onto the metal platform. The cool night air hit her face immediately, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded apartment behind her. Music thumped faintly through the walls as she carefully made her way down the stairs toward the level below.
Peter’s window.
She leaned forward slightly, gripping the railing as she tried to peek inside.
Completely dark.
Y/N frowned. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Because he definitely has a life on a Friday night.”
Still, she knocked against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Then louder.
“Hey—neighbor!” she called, pressing closer to the window. “You alive in there, or did you finally turn into a ghost?”
No response.
She sighed, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool glass. “Great. No limes, no neighbor, no dignity—”
Something hit the wall next to her. Y/N jumped back with a startled scream. “AHHH—!” She whipped around and froze. Spider-Man clung to the brick wall just a few feet away, one hand still pressed against it from where he had landed. His head tilted slightly, the white lenses of his mask wide. “…Uh—”
Y/N stared at him, completely stunned. Her brain visibly tried to catch up with reality. “…Okay,” she said slowly, raising a hand like she was pausing the situation. “So either I’m way more drunk than I thought—” She pointed at him. “—or you’re Spider-Man.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “I wish I could say you are drunk but no— I am Spider-Man,” he said finally.
Y/N nodded once, like that confirmed everything. “Cool.” She turned back toward the window, knocking on it again like nothing had just happened. “HEY—NEIGHBOR!” she shouted. “Do you have limes?!”
Spider-Man just stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”
She glanced back at him, completely serious. “No, this is time-sensitive.”
He shifted slightly on the wall. “You’re on a fire escape. At night. Yelling.”
“Yes.”
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
She waved him off. “That’s not the point.”
“…What is the point?”
“I need limes.”
Another pause. Spider-Man blinked behind the mask. “…For what?”
“Tequila shots.”
He stared at her. “…You climbed out of your apartment. Onto a fire escape. To ask your neighbor for limes. For tequila shots.”
“Yes,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she squinted at him slightly. “…Are you judging me?”
“I’m processing this.”
“Well, process faster,” she shot back. “People are waiting.”
Spider-Man looked at her for a long second. “…Stay there,” he said instead, already pushing himself off the wall.
Y/N blinked. “Where else would I—?”
He was gone.
She stared at the empty space where he had been, the city noise rushing back in to fill the silence. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, gripping the railing. “Cool. Love that. Very mysterious. Very dramatic exit.” She leaned back against the metal bars, squinting out into the night. “Wow,” she added under her breath. “Even Spider-Man ghosts me.”
Three minutes. That’s how long she waited. Long enough for her buzz to settle slightly. Long enough for her to start questioning her life choices. “Alright,” she said to no one, pushing herself upright. “New plan. We accept defeat. We go back inside. We drink tequila without limes like civilized peo—”
A red blur swung back into view. She yelped again, grabbing the railing. “OH MY—can you not do that?!”
Spider-Man landed lightly in front of her, something small clutched in his hand. “…You scream a lot,” he said.
“You appear out of nowhere!” she shot back, clutching her chest. “That’s on you.”
He ignored that, holding out his hand.
Limes.
Fresh. Bright green. Slightly dewy, like they had just come out of a fridge.
Y/N blinked. “…You just carry limes around?” she asked slowly.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then where did you get them?”
“…Deli,” he said.
“You—” she pointed at him, incredulous, “you went to a deli?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“…For the limes.”
Y/N stared at him for a long second. Then her face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “You are really the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You left—” she gestured vaguely into the city, “—swung somewhere, bought limes, and came back, all in like… what, three minutes?”
“Four.”
“Four,” she repeated, nodding. “Right. Of course. That makes it normal.” He held the limes out again, a little more insistently this time. “Take them.”
“Oh—right!” She quickly grabbed them, almost dropping one before catching it against her chest. “These are beautiful. Honestly, ten out of ten limes.”
He stared at her. “…They’re just limes.”
“No, no,” she shook her head, completely serious. “These are hero limes. There’s a difference.”
“…I regret this,” he muttered, but he has a little smile behind his mask.
“You don’t,” she shot back immediately. “This is the highlight of your night.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
She grinned. “It is.”
“…Go back inside,” he said.
Y/N clutched the limes like a prize. “I will. My people need me.”
“They don’t.”
“They do. There’s a tequila situation.”
He looked at her like that explained nothing. She took a step toward the stairs, then paused, turning back to him. “…Hey.” He didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “For the… deli mission.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
“I absolutely will,” she said immediately. “No one’s gonna believe me.”
“Good.”
She laughed, already climbing back up toward her window. “See you around, Spider-Man!”
He didn’t answer. Just watched as she disappeared back inside, music spilling out briefly before the window shut behind her. The fire escape fell quiet again. Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked down at his hands.
“…Deli,” he muttered to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it either. But he still had a little smile behind his mask. A stupid little smile.
The next morning hit New York like it always did: too bright, too loud, and entirely unconcerned with anyone’s headache. Y/N was already halfway regretting her life choices before she even reached the stairwell. Her hair was tied up messily, sunglasses doing absolutely nothing indoors, and she was clutching a energy she didn’t remember buying. The apartment hallway smelled faintly like last night’s alcohol and spilled optimism.
She stepped out of her apartment just in time to see him.
Peter Parker.
Walking down the stairs like he hadn’t just indirectly caused a minor existential crisis in her life twelve hours ago.
“Peter!” she called immediately.
He paused mid-step, slowly turned his head. “…Yeah.” That tone again. Flat. Guarded. Like he was already preparing for something he didn’t want to deal with.
Y/N lit up instantly. “Oh my God, perfect timing. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way out.”
“No, you’re on your way into a conversation.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
She was already moving toward him. “You don’t have to. It’s happening anyway.”
Peter stared at her for a second as she reached him on the stairs, clearly debating whether continuing downward at full speed was an option. It wasn’t. She had already positioned herself like a blockade.
“Is this about the party?” he asked.
She gasped. “It’s not just about the party.”
A beat.
“…It’s partly about the party—- wait you remembered that I had a party where you were invited.” She grins out of satisfaction.
Peter exhaled slowly, like he was trying to conserve patience for something more important in his life. “Okay.”
Y/N grabbed his wrist. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have class.”
“No one has a class on Saturday. You have coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fake.”
He tried to step around her. She stepped in front again.
Peter stopped. Looked at her. “…You’re blocking a staircase.”
“And you’re emotionally unavailable,” she replied instantly. “We all have struggles.”
Peter blinked once. “…What happened last night?”
That was all she needed. Her entire face changed.
“Oh my GOD,” she said, releasing his wrist only to immediately start gesturing wildly. “Okay. So. First of all. My party? Insane. Like, legally it should’ve been louder than it was. There were people. So many people. I lost at least two conversations and a cup of something I’m pretty sure was not juice.”
Peter didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly.
Y/N continued, pacing one step down, then back up again for dramatic effect. “And then Paul shows up, right? And he’s like—” she dropped her voice into a terrible imitation, “‘Do you have limes? We need tequila shots like it’s a sport.’”
Peter’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Go on,” he said.
That alone made her pause. “Wait—are you… interested?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Continue.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him but kept going. “So I check the fridge. No limes. Tragedy. Absolute collapse of civilization. Alice suggests I give up. I refuse. Obviously.”
Peter folded his arms. “So you went where?”
She pointed at him like she was delivering courtroom testimony. “Fire escape.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “…Of course you did.”
“I had a system,” she insisted. “It made sense at the time. Anyway. I go to your window—”
“My window.”
“Yes, your window, don’t interrupt the narrative flow—”
“I’m not—”
“And you weren’t there.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t.”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing triumphantly. “So I’m knocking on your window like a normal person—”
“Normal.”
“—and suddenly Spider-Man shows up.”
Peter froze. Just slightly as if it wasn’t the first time he has to pretend to be shocked. Then recovered almost immediately. “Spider-Man.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “Him.”
“…At my window.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at her for a long second. “…Right.”
Y/N leaned in slightly. “And listen. I don’t know what your opinion on him is, but I think he might be, like, a little unwell.”
Peter blinked. “Unwell?”
“Because why is he on walls at night and also emotionally committed to grocery errands?”
That got him. A small, genuine laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Y/N stopped mid-gesture. “…Did you just laugh at me?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” she repeated, pointing at him again. “That was a laugh.”
Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it. “Continue your story.”
She narrowed her eyes but resumed. “So anyway, he tells me to stay there. Disappears. Comes back FOUR minutes later with limes from a deli.”
“That’s not the point,” she said immediately. “The point is that your city’s superhero is doing Uber Eats side quests for me.”
Peter let out another small, involuntary huff of amusement.
Y/N noticed. “Okay, you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are emotionally smiling.”
Peter exhaled, looking away briefly like he was trying not to encourage her. “…You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly. “Anyway, I need coffee after this. And you’re coming.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I literally just said I’m not.”
She had already started walking.
Peter didn’t move at first, then he sighed and followed.
The coffee shop was two blocks away, small and slightly too warm inside, filled with the soft hum of morning conversations and the smell of burnt espresso. Y/N pushed the door open like she owned the place.
Peter followed more cautiously, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drag me here,” he said.
“I did,” she replied immediately, already walking toward the counter. “This is emotional processing.”
“That’s not what coffee is.”
“It is for me.”
Peter watched as she ordered something aggressively complicated, then turned to him expectantly.
“What?”
“I said I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fine,” she said, waving it off. “You can just emotionally support me while I consume caffeine.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
He sighed again but didn’t leave. They sat by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. Y/N talked with her hands again, reenacting parts of the night like she was performing a one-woman play, occasionally slamming the table for emphasis. Peter watched her for a while, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.
At one point, she leaned back, grinning.
“So,” she said, “your Spider-Man is insane.”
Peter took a sip of water. “…My Spider-Man?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I feel like you’d know him. You give off ‘I know things’ energy.”
Peter almost choked. “…I don’t.”
“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced. Then she pointed at him with her cup. “Anyway, I’m telling everyone I know he did a deli run for me.”
Peter shook his head slowly, a small smile still lingering. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
She grinned. “Probably.”
And for some reason, that didn’t make him laugh less.
▶︎ y/n y/l/n has an annoyingly good looking neighbor that also goes to the same university as her, yet as many times as she tried to talk to him, he blocks her away. but she doesn't give up to make him smile.
Living in New York City while actually attending university was nothing like the glossy film strips shown in movie theaters, the kind where everything looks soft, golden, and effortlessly romantic. There was no affordable, sunlit apartment with reliable hot water, no lazy weekends spent at some vintage café eating overpriced brunch while laughing about last night’s hookups. That version of New York barely existed. Maybe it did, but not here.
The reality was harsher, sharper around the edges. It was survival dressed up as ambition. You either smiled tightly and said, “I love it here,” even after nearly getting mugged on your way home, or you admitted quietly, reluctantly that the city was chewing you up. There was no in-between. That was New York.
Y/N had been living here for five years now. Five years of crowded subways, dinners, and conversations with self-proclaimed “real New Yorkers” who never failed to remind her: “You’re not a New Yorker. Five years? That’s nothing. You have no idea—”
She had heard it all.
Still, she liked it here. Not in the romanticized way people imagined, but in a stubborn, grounded way. It was better than the small town she came from: different, louder, more unforgiving, but alive in a way that place had never been.
She moved to the city to study psychology, picking up a few photography courses on the side because it was the only creative outlet she could realistically afford. At university, she found her way into conversations easily, slipping into discussions about music or movies, just enough to secure a spot during trivia nights or group hangouts. She was a people person, the kind who wasn’t afraid to walk into a room and make herself known. Not by shouting, necessarily but she could. If she had to.
More often, it was her energy. The easy smile, the willingness to debate something trivial like whether autumn was actually the best season or completely overrated for a vibe that lasted, at best, four weeks.
But there was one person who didn’t seem impressed by any of that.
Peter Parker.
Her neighbor. One floor below.
Y/N had first met him when she went to pick up a package he had signed for three days earlier. At the time, she thought he was ridiculously cute. Curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the kind of face that made you do a double take. Cute. Or hot. Honestly, it depended on the angle.
“You have my package!” Y/N said brightly, standing in the hallway in an oversized Ferris Bueller’s Day Off T-shirt.
Peter barely opened the door, peering at her with an exhausted expression. “I do?”
“Well, I got the email saying you picked it up… three days ago,” she replied, still smiling.
He stared at her for a second, then turned without another word, disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaned ever so slightly, curiosity getting the better of her as she tried to glance inside but before she could make out anything, Peter reappeared, holding the box out to her.
“Here.”
She flinched a little, startled, before laughing it off. “Ah—great! Thanks. I’m Y/N, by the way. Your neighbor. Upstairs.”
Peter nodded once. “Cool.”
“Cool,” she echoed awkwardly, adjusting her grip on the package. Her eyes dropped to his hoodie, catching the familiar university logo. Her face lit up. “Empire State? I go there too!”
Peter pressed his lips together, like he was debating whether to respond at all.
He hadn’t always been like this.
There was a time when Peter Parker was easy to talk to, when he carried a kind of warmth that naturally drew people in. He used to laugh more, speak faster, ramble about things he loved—Star Wars, half-baked theories about shows he watched with Ned, little details that made him feel… alive.
That version of him felt like a different person now.
Ever since his life had been rewritten, since the spell that made the world forget who he was—being Peter Parker felt… distant. Like trying to wear a name that no longer fit. He moved through life quietly, carefully, as if any misstep might remind the universe he wasn’t supposed to exist like this.
Spider-Man, though… that was different.
Spider-Man had purpose.
In the years after everything changed, he built himself into something the city could rely on. When chaos broke out, he was there. When danger surfaced, he faced it head-on. He had been there during the uprising against Fisk, there when the streets turned volatile, there every time New York needed someone to step in.
The city knew Spider-Man.
But Peter Parker?
Peter Parker could barely hold a conversation that lasted two minutes. Standing in that hallway, looking at Y/N—bright, open, so effortlessly present, he felt that familiar disconnect settle in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice flat. “I know’’
Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. She let out a small laugh, a little too quick, a little too hopeful, brushing a hand through her hair. “Really?—I mean, how come you never talk t—”
Peter pointed down at her feet. “You wear their socks.”
Y/N blinked. Then she looked down. Bright yellow socks. Empire State University logo. Slightly mismatched, one stretched more than the other. She nodded slowly, like she was processing devastating news. “Right.” A beat passed. “Well,” she said, lifting her head again, forcing a smile back onto her face, “in my defense, they were free.”
Peter leaned against the doorframe, completely unmoved. “Yeah. That tracks.”
She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said flatly, “you look like someone who’d get excited over free socks.”
Y/N placed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Okay. First of all, I do get excited over free things. That’s just financially responsible.”
“Sure.”
“And second of all,” she continued, gesturing between them, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and you’re using it to bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you,” Peter said. “I’m observing.”
“Observing?” she echoed.
“Yeah.”
“Like a scientist?”
He shrugged. “More like… someone stuck in a hallway.”
Y/N stared at him, then let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she shot back, shifting the package in her arms. “Do you always talk like this, or am I just lucky?”
“You’re lucky.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “I feel honored.” Another pause settled between them but this one felt different. Less awkward. Almost… intentional. Y/N rocked slightly on her heels, glancing past him into his apartment again before catching herself. “So… you knew I go to Empire State because of my socks.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve just… never said anything.”
“No.”
“Not even like a ‘hey, same university’ kind of thing?”
Peter shook his head once. “Didn’t seem necessary.”
She let out an incredulous laugh. “You are so weird.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N studied him for a second, really looked at him this time. The tired eyes, the way he held himself like he was halfway out the door even when he was standing still. Then she smiled again. Softer now, but just as stubborn. “Well,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box, “I talk enough for two people, so I think this could work.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “This?”
“Yeah. This whole… neighbor situation.”
“We already are neighbors.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She sighed dramatically. “Of course you don’t.”
Peter pushed himself off the doorframe slightly, already inching back toward the safety of his apartment. “Anything else?”
Y/N glanced down at her package, then back at him. “…No.”
“Cool.”
“But,” she added quickly, stepping back before he could close the door, “I’ll probably see you around. Since, you know—same building, same school, same free sock community.”
Peter stared at her. “…Okay.”
She grinned. “Okay—- bye!” Y/N said quickly, turning on her heel and speed-walking down the hallway like she hadn’t just completely embarrassed herself.
Peter watched her go for a second. Then quietly shut the door. “…Free socks,” he muttered to himself.
After that interaction five years ago, it never really changed. Not in the way people expected things to change. There was no slow-burn friendship, no sudden deep conversations at 2 a.m., no “we actually got close over time” kind of story. It stayed exactly what it had been in that in ESU’s hallway: slightly awkward, weirdly consistent, and entirely one-sided in terms of enthusiasm.
Y/N would spot him during the week, usually when he was clearly in a rush and immediately latch on. “Peter!”
He wouldn’t stop walking.
She would for approximately half a second. Then she’d jog after him. “So—how’s life?” she’d ask, falling into step beside him like she had every right to be there.
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool, cool. That’s great. Love that for you. Hey—do you like 70s bands?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know which ones I’m talking about.”
“I do.”
She ignored that. “Trivia night. Thursday. You should come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay, but like—emotionally, or—”
“Physically.”
She huffed, walking backwards in front of him now. “You’re no fun.”
“Yeah I heard that.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” she muttered, then brightened again instantly. “Anyway, I’ll save you a seat.”
“Don’t.”
She pointed at him. “Too late.” And just like that, she’d disappear into a classroom, leaving Peter standing there for half a second longer than necessary before continuing on like nothing happened.
Then there were the days he didn’t show up at all. No hallway sightings. No late-night footsteps. No door opening, no dry one-word responses. Y/N would notice. She told herself she didn’t.
“He’s probably just busy,” she’d say casually to whoever was around. Or, “Maybe he’s on vacation.” Which, realistically, didn’t make sense. Peter Parker didn’t seem like the vacation type. He barely seemed like the take a break type. Still, she never asked.
And then he’d reappear like nothing happened. Same hoodie. Same tired eyes. Same “cool.”
Sometimes, their interactions were… different. Like the nights Y/N came home drunk. The stairwell light would flicker, her steps uneven, one hand dragging along the wall for balance as she muttered to herself about something that made perfect sense in her head. “…and I told her, autumn is overrated—like, yeah, the leaves are pretty, but it’s basically just—just dying, you know? It’s like aesthetic decay—”
Her foot would miss a step and before gravity could fully commit—a hand would catch her arm.
Steady. Firm. She’d blink up, trying to focus. “…Neighbor?”
He stood there with a laundry basket tucked against his hip, looking down at her like this was, at best, mildly inconvenient. “You’re gonna fall,” he said.
“I’m not—” she swayed. “I’m fine. Besides— that was super superheroing”
“You’re not.” He grimaces. ,,supeheroing is not even a word’
,,It is now’ She squinted at him, then smiled suddenly, wide and unfiltered. “You’re, like… really good at catching people.”
“Yeah.”
“You do that often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“That’s kinda hot.”
Peter didn’t react at all. He just adjusted his grip on the laundry basket. “You have your keys?”
Y/N frowned like this was a deeply philosophical question. “…Probably.”
“Find them.”
She dug into her bag with the intensity of someone searching for buried treasure. “If I don’t have them, can I just—like—sleep in the hallway?”
“No.”
“Your place?”
“No.”
“Wow,” she said, pulling out her keys triumphantly. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And?”
“And you’ll forget this tomorrow.”
She gasped softly. “I never forget emotional moments.”
“This isn’t one.”
She stared at him for a second, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal something important. “I think you secretly like me.”
“I don’t.”
She nodded slowly, completely unconvinced. “Yeah. That sounds fake.”
Peter guided her toward her apartment door, letting go only once she was steady enough to stand on her own.
“Get inside,” he said.
She fumbled with the lock, then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good guy, you know that, neighbor?”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there, laundry basket in hand, waiting. She smiled at him one last time before pushing the door open and stumbling inside. ,,Byeeeeeee thank’s for saving me’ The door shut.
Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he exhaled quietly, shifted the laundry basket, and continued up the stairs like it hadn’t meant anything at all. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid her specifically. He avoided everyone. Keeping attention away from himself had become second nature, something rooted in fear more than preference. He couldn’t risk losing more people. He couldn’t allow anyone into his life who might end up being threatened because of his other persona.
Y/N, though… she seemed like a genuinely nice person.
He often overheard her in the hallway, chatting easily with neighbors he didn’t even realize existed. Apparently, someone in the building sold homemade honey in jars, something he only learned because Y/N had spent ten minutes enthusiastically discussing it outside his door one afternoon.
To him, she was… bright. Outgoing in a way that felt effortless. Like she carried a drop of sunshine inside her, something that made the run-down, slightly miserable apartment complex feel a little less like hell.
He used to be like that.
Sometimes, he missed that version of himself and because of that, he kept his distance even more. He didn’t want what happened to him to happen to her.
On a Friday night, Y/N threw a party in her apartment.
It wasn’t anything extravagant, she just needed to blow off some steam before exam season hit everyone like a truck. She invited a mix of people from campus, including her good friend Alice, who happened to share a module with Peter.
“Wait—you know Peter?” Y/N asked, sipping from a red plastic cup as she leaned against the kitchen counter.
The apartment was crowded but comfortable, packed with around thirty people. Alternative rock hummed through the speakers, blending with laughter and overlapping conversations. The lights were dim, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow, and the air smelled faintly of cheap alcohol and someone’s overly strong perfume.
Alice smiled slightly, her blonde hair catching the low light. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. He’s rarely in Professor Banner’s lectures, but when he is, he’s…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Distant. But we sort of understand each other.”
Y/N choked on her drink. “My neighbor can talk?” she coughed, eyes widening.
Alice blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean—sometimes. Everyone talks.”
“Not my neighbor,” Y/N muttered, grimacing as she set her cup down.
Alice let out a small laugh. “Why do you even call him ‘neighbor’?”
Y/N shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I like giving people nicknames.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a nickname. That’s just… what he is.”
Y/N pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s ironic.”
“…That’s not how irony works.”
Y/N waved her off, already reaching for another drink. “Details.”
A couple of guys stumbled into the kitchen, clearly already a few drinks in. One of them, Paul, leaned against the doorframe, grinning like he’d just had the best idea of his life.
“Hey, Y/L/N,” he called out, his words slightly slurred, “do you have any limes? We wanna do, like—tequila shots. A whole game thing.” He hiccuped mid-sentence, which immediately sent the others into laughter.
Y/N turned toward them with an easy smile. “Yeah, hold on—I’ll check.”
She made her way to the fridge, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. Bottles. Leftovers. Questionable containers she didn’t remember putting there.
No limes.
Her smile slowly dropped. “…Crap.”
Alice leaned closer, trying to peek inside. “What’s wrong?”
“No limes.”
Alice frowned. “No dimes?”
Y/N shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. “No, I said no limes—”
She stopped mid-sentence, then her expression shifted. Y/N turned her head toward Alice, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ll check if my neighbor has some.”
Alice blinked. “…Your neighbor neighbor?”
“The one and only,” Y/N said, already moving toward the door.
Alice grabbed her arm lightly. “You’re seriously leaving your own party to ask the human equivalent of a brick wall for limes?”
Y/N pulled free, unfazed. “He might have some.”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He won’t.”
Y/N pointed at her as she backed out of the kitchen. “Have some faith.”
“In him?” Alice called after her.
Y/N just grinned. “In the limes.”
And with that, she slipped out into the hallway, on a mission that was, at best, unnecessary… and at worst, a terrible idea.
Y/N had always been like that. Full of impulsive ideas that balanced somewhere between stupid and weirdly clever. She lived by the quiet philosophy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—that life was too long to be serious all the time, and sometimes you just had to do something reckless because you could.
Unfortunately, this was one of those moments.
She tried to make her way back to her apartment door, but the hallway was packed with people spilling out from her own party, laughing, shouting, blocking every possible path.
“Okay—nope,” she muttered, already turning around.
Plan B.
The fire escape.
Within seconds, she slipped into her room, pushed the window open, and climbed out onto the metal platform. The cool night air hit her face immediately, a sharp contrast to the warm, crowded apartment behind her. Music thumped faintly through the walls as she carefully made her way down the stairs toward the level below.
Peter’s window.
She leaned forward slightly, gripping the railing as she tried to peek inside.
Completely dark.
Y/N frowned. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Because he definitely has a life on a Friday night.”
Still, she knocked against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
Then louder.
“Hey—neighbor!” she called, pressing closer to the window. “You alive in there, or did you finally turn into a ghost?”
No response.
She sighed, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool glass. “Great. No limes, no neighbor, no dignity—”
Something hit the wall next to her. Y/N jumped back with a startled scream. “AHHH—!” She whipped around and froze. Spider-Man clung to the brick wall just a few feet away, one hand still pressed against it from where he had landed. His head tilted slightly, the white lenses of his mask wide. “…Uh—”
Y/N stared at him, completely stunned. Her brain visibly tried to catch up with reality. “…Okay,” she said slowly, raising a hand like she was pausing the situation. “So either I’m way more drunk than I thought—” She pointed at him. “—or you’re Spider-Man.”
Spider-Man didn’t move. “I wish I could say you are drunk but no— I am Spider-Man,” he said finally.
Y/N nodded once, like that confirmed everything. “Cool.” She turned back toward the window, knocking on it again like nothing had just happened. “HEY—NEIGHBOR!” she shouted. “Do you have limes?!”
Spider-Man just stared at her. “…You’re kidding.”
She glanced back at him, completely serious. “No, this is time-sensitive.”
He shifted slightly on the wall. “You’re on a fire escape. At night. Yelling.”
“Yes.”
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
She waved him off. “That’s not the point.”
“…What is the point?”
“I need limes.”
Another pause. Spider-Man blinked behind the mask. “…For what?”
“Tequila shots.”
He stared at her. “…You climbed out of your apartment. Onto a fire escape. To ask your neighbor for limes. For tequila shots.”
“Yes,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she squinted at him slightly. “…Are you judging me?”
“I’m processing this.”
“Well, process faster,” she shot back. “People are waiting.”
Spider-Man looked at her for a long second. “…Stay there,” he said instead, already pushing himself off the wall.
Y/N blinked. “Where else would I—?”
He was gone.
She stared at the empty space where he had been, the city noise rushing back in to fill the silence. “…Okay,” she muttered to herself, gripping the railing. “Cool. Love that. Very mysterious. Very dramatic exit.” She leaned back against the metal bars, squinting out into the night. “Wow,” she added under her breath. “Even Spider-Man ghosts me.”
Three minutes. That’s how long she waited. Long enough for her buzz to settle slightly. Long enough for her to start questioning her life choices. “Alright,” she said to no one, pushing herself upright. “New plan. We accept defeat. We go back inside. We drink tequila without limes like civilized peo—”
A red blur swung back into view. She yelped again, grabbing the railing. “OH MY—can you not do that?!”
Spider-Man landed lightly in front of her, something small clutched in his hand. “…You scream a lot,” he said.
“You appear out of nowhere!” she shot back, clutching her chest. “That’s on you.”
He ignored that, holding out his hand.
Limes.
Fresh. Bright green. Slightly dewy, like they had just come out of a fridge.
Y/N blinked. “…You just carry limes around?” she asked slowly.
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then where did you get them?”
“…Deli,” he said.
“You—” she pointed at him, incredulous, “you went to a deli?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“…For the limes.”
Y/N stared at him for a long second. Then her face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “You are really the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You left—” she gestured vaguely into the city, “—swung somewhere, bought limes, and came back, all in like… what, three minutes?”
“Four.”
“Four,” she repeated, nodding. “Right. Of course. That makes it normal.” He held the limes out again, a little more insistently this time. “Take them.”
“Oh—right!” She quickly grabbed them, almost dropping one before catching it against her chest. “These are beautiful. Honestly, ten out of ten limes.”
He stared at her. “…They’re just limes.”
“No, no,” she shook her head, completely serious. “These are hero limes. There’s a difference.”
“…I regret this,” he muttered, but he has a little smile behind his mask.
“You don’t,” she shot back immediately. “This is the highlight of your night.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
She grinned. “It is.”
“…Go back inside,” he said.
Y/N clutched the limes like a prize. “I will. My people need me.”
“They don’t.”
“They do. There’s a tequila situation.”
He looked at her like that explained nothing. She took a step toward the stairs, then paused, turning back to him. “…Hey.” He didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly. “Thanks,” she said, softer now. “For the… deli mission.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
“I absolutely will,” she said immediately. “No one’s gonna believe me.”
“Good.”
She laughed, already climbing back up toward her window. “See you around, Spider-Man!”
He didn’t answer. Just watched as she disappeared back inside, music spilling out briefly before the window shut behind her. The fire escape fell quiet again. Peter stayed there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he looked down at his hands.
“…Deli,” he muttered to himself, like he couldn’t quite believe it either. But he still had a little smile behind his mask. A stupid little smile.
The next morning hit New York like it always did: too bright, too loud, and entirely unconcerned with anyone’s headache. Y/N was already halfway regretting her life choices before she even reached the stairwell. Her hair was tied up messily, sunglasses doing absolutely nothing indoors, and she was clutching a energy she didn’t remember buying. The apartment hallway smelled faintly like last night’s alcohol and spilled optimism.
She stepped out of her apartment just in time to see him.
Peter Parker.
Walking down the stairs like he hadn’t just indirectly caused a minor existential crisis in her life twelve hours ago.
“Peter!” she called immediately.
He paused mid-step, slowly turned his head. “…Yeah.” That tone again. Flat. Guarded. Like he was already preparing for something he didn’t want to deal with.
Y/N lit up instantly. “Oh my God, perfect timing. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on my way out.”
“No, you’re on your way into a conversation.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
She was already moving toward him. “You don’t have to. It’s happening anyway.”
Peter stared at her for a second as she reached him on the stairs, clearly debating whether continuing downward at full speed was an option. It wasn’t. She had already positioned herself like a blockade.
“Is this about the party?” he asked.
She gasped. “It’s not just about the party.”
A beat.
“…It’s partly about the party—- wait you remembered that I had a party where you were invited.” She grins out of satisfaction.
Peter exhaled slowly, like he was trying to conserve patience for something more important in his life. “Okay.”
Y/N grabbed his wrist. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I have class.”
“No one has a class on Saturday. You have coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fake.”
He tried to step around her. She stepped in front again.
Peter stopped. Looked at her. “…You’re blocking a staircase.”
“And you’re emotionally unavailable,” she replied instantly. “We all have struggles.”
Peter blinked once. “…What happened last night?”
That was all she needed. Her entire face changed.
“Oh my GOD,” she said, releasing his wrist only to immediately start gesturing wildly. “Okay. So. First of all. My party? Insane. Like, legally it should’ve been louder than it was. There were people. So many people. I lost at least two conversations and a cup of something I’m pretty sure was not juice.”
Peter didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly.
Y/N continued, pacing one step down, then back up again for dramatic effect. “And then Paul shows up, right? And he’s like—” she dropped her voice into a terrible imitation, “‘Do you have limes? We need tequila shots like it’s a sport.’”
Peter’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. “Go on,” he said.
That alone made her pause. “Wait—are you… interested?”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Continue.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him but kept going. “So I check the fridge. No limes. Tragedy. Absolute collapse of civilization. Alice suggests I give up. I refuse. Obviously.”
Peter folded his arms. “So you went where?”
She pointed at him like she was delivering courtroom testimony. “Fire escape.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “…Of course you did.”
“I had a system,” she insisted. “It made sense at the time. Anyway. I go to your window—”
“My window.”
“Yes, your window, don’t interrupt the narrative flow—”
“I’m not—”
“And you weren’t there.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I wasn’t.”
“Exactly,” she said, pointing triumphantly. “So I’m knocking on your window like a normal person—”
“Normal.”
“—and suddenly Spider-Man shows up.”
Peter froze. Just slightly as if it wasn’t the first time he has to pretend to be shocked. Then recovered almost immediately. “Spider-Man.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “Him.”
“…At my window.”
“Yes.”
Peter looked at her for a long second. “…Right.”
Y/N leaned in slightly. “And listen. I don’t know what your opinion on him is, but I think he might be, like, a little unwell.”
Peter blinked. “Unwell?”
“Because why is he on walls at night and also emotionally committed to grocery errands?”
That got him. A small, genuine laugh escaped before he could stop it.
Y/N stopped mid-gesture. “…Did you just laugh at me?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” she repeated, pointing at him again. “That was a laugh.”
Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it. “Continue your story.”
She narrowed her eyes but resumed. “So anyway, he tells me to stay there. Disappears. Comes back FOUR minutes later with limes from a deli.”
“That’s not the point,” she said immediately. “The point is that your city’s superhero is doing Uber Eats side quests for me.”
Peter let out another small, involuntary huff of amusement.
Y/N noticed. “Okay, you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are emotionally smiling.”
Peter exhaled, looking away briefly like he was trying not to encourage her. “…You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly. “Anyway, I need coffee after this. And you’re coming.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I literally just said I’m not.”
She had already started walking.
Peter didn’t move at first, then he sighed and followed.
The coffee shop was two blocks away, small and slightly too warm inside, filled with the soft hum of morning conversations and the smell of burnt espresso. Y/N pushed the door open like she owned the place.
Peter followed more cautiously, hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to drag me here,” he said.
“I did,” she replied immediately, already walking toward the counter. “This is emotional processing.”
“That’s not what coffee is.”
“It is for me.”
Peter watched as she ordered something aggressively complicated, then turned to him expectantly.
“What?”
“I said I don’t drink coffee.”
“That’s fine,” she said, waving it off. “You can just emotionally support me while I consume caffeine.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
He sighed again but didn’t leave. They sat by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. Y/N talked with her hands again, reenacting parts of the night like she was performing a one-woman play, occasionally slamming the table for emphasis. Peter watched her for a while, expression unreadable—but softer than usual.
At one point, she leaned back, grinning.
“So,” she said, “your Spider-Man is insane.”
Peter took a sip of water. “…My Spider-Man?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I feel like you’d know him. You give off ‘I know things’ energy.”
Peter almost choked. “…I don’t.”
“Mm-hm,” she said, unconvinced. Then she pointed at him with her cup. “Anyway, I’m telling everyone I know he did a deli run for me.”
Peter shook his head slowly, a small smile still lingering. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
She grinned. “Probably.”
And for some reason, that didn’t make him laugh less.
from the series manchild. after the rollercoaster of the summer that was filled with cigarettes, tears, cherry cola, make outs under the sun and the upbeat car of anakin skywalker, it has come to an end but there are days that were short n' sweet with the chaotic couple.
the series; manchild.
📼 🐾 MIXTAPE: good graces.
📼 🐾 the group is playing cards but y/n is cheating the whole time, anakin is being whipped. jesse crashes out. ahsoka hates rules. it feels like the 70's show but minus a nerd.
MIXTAPE vol. 1: good graces.
Autumn didn’t arrive like it had something to prove. It slipped in quietly, like a song changing tempo halfway through and nobody pointing it out, but everyone feeling it anyway. One morning the air was sharper. Cleaner. The kind that hits your lungs a little different. Leaves started giving up, one by one, scattering across the pavement in burnt orange and deep reds, crunching under boots like the season itself had a commentary to make.
Somewhere, there was cinnamon in the air. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Either way it stuck.
Summer didn’t end dramatically either. It just… packed itself away. Cutoff shorts disappeared into drawers. Late-night drives with warm air and open windows turned into jackets and hands shoved into pockets. The cherry coke sweating in cup holders, Elton John humming Tiny Dancer through cheap speakers, it all faded out like it promised to come back later.
Just not now.
Y/N didn’t slow down, though.
She never did. If anything, she leaned into it harder like the colder it got, the more she refused to.
Senior year had that weird edge to it. Not pressure. Not panic. Just this quiet understanding that everything suddenly mattered more. Every laugh hit sharper. Every bad decision felt a little more intentional. She rode her bike through leaf-covered streets, boots skimming the ground, jacket pulled tighter around her as the wind picked up. The music never stopped, it just got softer. Slower. Like it was breathing with everything else.
And Anakin was still there. Not in that chaotic, all-consuming way he used to be. Not the kind that made everything feel like it was about to fall apart if you looked at it wrong.
He was just… there.
Steady. Annoyingly loving present. The kind of presence that didn’t drag at her ribs anymore. He didn’t stand in front of her, didn’t fall behind her, he stood next to her. Like they’d finally figured out how to exist without wrecking each other every five minutes. That didn’t mean they didn’t fight.
God, they still fought.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/N snapped one afternoon, pacing in front of him, hands flying everywhere like punctuation marks.
“I’m literally just standing here,” Anakin shot back, jaw tight.
“Yeah, well, you’re doing it wrong.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh my god—” She grabbed the nearest thing—a cowboy boot—and pointed it at him. “I swear to god, Skywalker—”
“You are not going to throw that at me, Princess.”
“Watch me.”
“Princess—”
She didn’t throw it but she thought about it deeply. And he still shut down sometimes, went quiet in that frustrating way, words coming out colder than he meant them to. Enough to sting. Enough to remind her of the version of them that didn’t know how to hold anything without breaking it.
But they didn’t stay there anymore.
That was the difference.
Because later, it always came back to this sitting on cold pavement where summer flowers used to be, now buried under dry leaves. A shared cigarette passing between them. Silence that didn’t feel like punishment anymore.
“I’m sorry,” one of them would mutter.
Usually both. A tired laugh. Her head resting against his shoulder like she didn’t have to prove anything anymore. His knee nudging hers—small, quiet, but enough.That was their thing.
Messy. Loud. Balanced in a way that made zero sense to anyone else. They still did everything couples did, switching between beds like it was a routine, wandering into record stores with no intention of buying anything (Y/N brought a record anyway), meeting friends, ending up at Dex’s more often than planned.
Only now, it didn’t feel fragile. It felt… certain. They could say I love you without it turning into a crisis. And some days they didn’t see each other at all. Y/N was good at that. She’d disappear with her girls, dancing half the night away without a second thought.
Anakin? Absolutely not.
“Dude, you’ve checked the door like five times,” Fives said, sprawled across the couch.
“I haven’t.”
“You literally just did it again.”
Anakin scowled. “I’m not waiting for her.”
“Yeah,” Fives snorted. “You’re just spiritually suffering.”
“I hate you.”
“You miss her,” Jesse added, way too amused.
Anakin didn’t answer. Which was answer enough. Everyone knew it anyway.
He’d been in love with her forever.
That wasn’t changing. Which is exactly why, on a random Friday night, he still showed up to Rex’s basement instead of moping like a normal person. Because apparently, the plan was not to talk about Mr. Yoda’s unhinged biology lectures or the incoming threat of failing finals.
No. The plan was worse.
UNO night.
Rex’s basement smelled like cheap beer, cheep weed, old fabric, and bad decisions that had fully settled into the walls. The lighting situation was questionable at best, one bulb flickering like it was reconsidering its life choices. UNO cards were already scattered across the table like casualties.
Jesse leaned forward, squinting at them like they might confess something. “No, I’m telling you,” he said, pointing dramatically, “that was illegal. I just witnessed a crime.”
Ahsoka didn’t even look up. Just placed her card down. Calm. Controlled. “It’s the same number, Jesse.”
He blinked. “Colors matter, Tano. Society is built on rules.”
“Society is built on you losing this game.”
Fives lost it immediately, laughing as he slapped his knee. “Man’s rewriting UNO law because he’s getting destroyed.”
“I am NOT losing,” Jesse snapped, sitting up straighter. “I’m being sabotaged.”
“By who?” Rex asked, already tired.
Jesse pointed at everyone. “All of you. This is coordinated.”
Y/N gasped dramatically from the floor. “Wow. He figured it out.”
Anakin snorted from behind her, arm draped lazily over her shoulder. “Took him long enough.”
“I KNEW IT—” Jesse shot up like he’d just cracked a national conspiracy, pointing at Y/N like she personally betrayed the constitution.
“I knew something was off. Nobody just wins like that. Not in this economy.”
“In this economy?” Ahsoka repeated flatly, finally looking up. “It’s UNO, Jesse. And no one won yet.”
“Exactly,” he said, like that proved everything.
Fives leaned forward, squinting at Y/N’s cards like he was about to interrogate them. “Nah, nah—she’s too calm. That’s suspicious behavior.”
Anakin tilted his head slightly behind her, eyes narrowing with that slow, knowing look. “Yeah… you’re enjoying this way too much.”
Y/N turned just enough to glance back at him, all fake innocence and soft smiles. “You think I’d cheat?”
He stared at her for a second. Then huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
She grinned, wider this time. “Wow. No faith in me.”
“None,” he said easily, but his hand slid down to her waist anyway, thumb brushing absentmindedly against her side like that completely contradicted his statement.
“SHOW YOUR HAND,” Fives suddenly demanded, lunging forward like this was a police raid.
“Absolutely not,” Y/N snapped, clutching her cards to her chest like state secrets.
Ahsoka leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Okay, yeah, now I care. Give me the cards.”
Y/N looked around at all of them closing in like vultures and then, quick as anything, slammed her last card down.
“UNO.”
Dead silence. A beat erupted the chaos in the basement.
“NO WAY—”
“THAT’S BULLSHIT—”
“YOU DID NOT JUST—”
Fives grabbed the discard pile like he was launching an investigation. Jesse was pacing in tight circles. Ahsoka was already standing, hands on her hips like she was about to take this to court. Rex just leaned back, rubbing his temple. “I knew we shouldn’t have let her play.”
Anakin, meanwhile, just laughed, actually laughed, head tipping back before he looked down at her again, something softer sitting behind it. “You’re unbelievable, princess.”
Y/N beamed. “And yet… I win.”
“THIS IS MINE—” Fives held up a card.
Another. “THIS TOO—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
Jesse pointed at her like he was about to press charges. “She’s been stealing from us the whole time!”
Y/N was already halfway to the cooler to grab another beer. “Survival of the fittest.”
“That’s not survival, that’s fraud!” Ahsoka shot back.
Anakin caught her wrist as she passed, tugging her back just enough that she stumbled a little, laughing as she looked down at him.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured.
“And you love it.”
“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “I do.”
Behind them, Fives was still loudly listing his missing cards like a victim statement, Jesse was demanding a rematch “under surveillance,” and Ahsoka was already aggressively reshuffling.
The cards hit the table again with a sharp slap. “New round,” Rex announced, way too serious for what was essentially chaos in paper form.
Fives cracked his knuckles. “Alright. This time—we play clean.”
Everyone stared at him.
Y/N snorted. “You say that right before committing a crime every time”
“Hey—” Jesse started.
She didn’t even look at him. “You’re also not allowed to be stoned like a brick this round.”
Jesse blinked. “…that feels targeted.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Anakin said dryly from the armrest, beer dangling loosely from his fingers. “She’s still gonna cheat.” He nudged Y/N’s shoulder with his knee. Y/N gasped. “Excuse me? I am an honest player.”
“You just hid two cards in your sleeve— like right now,” Hera said calmly.
Y/N froze. Slowly turned. “…you saw that?”
“You’re not subtle.”
“SHOW THE SLEEVE,” Fives barked immediately.
“NO”
“SHOW IT.”
“It’s called strategy!”
“It’s called being a criminal!”
Jesse suddenly looked up. “Wait—are we allowed to hide cards?”
“NO,” everyone said at once.
“Oh,” he nodded slowly. “That explains a lot.”
Ahsoka dragged a hand down her face. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
“Hey,” Anakin pointed lazily. “You chose this.”
“I was manipulated.”
“You walked in.”
“I was emotionally manipulated.”
Y/N leaned back into Anakin, grinning like she’d already won again. “Alright, children. Let’s play.”
She dealt the cards. Too fast… way too fast.
Rex narrowed his eyes immediately. “Why do I feel like you just gave yourself better cards?”
Y/N pressed a hand to her chest. “Wow. The lack of trust.”
“Because you’re untrustworthy,” Sabine said.
“Character assassination.” The game started anyway. Everyone was focused.
“Green,” Rex said, dropping the first card.
Jesse immediately slammed down a red seven.
Ahsoka turned slowly. “…Jesse.”
“What?”
“It’s green.” “Yeah, but—it’s a seven.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s the same energy.”
Fives wheezed. “Same energy?”
“I felt it,” Jesse defended. “It made sense in my head.”
“That’s the problem,” Anakin muttered.
“Take it back,” Rex ordered.
Jesse groaned dramatically, pulling the card back. “This game suppresses creativity.”
Y/N slammed down a wild. “Boom. Yellow.”
“Of course you have a wild already,” Hera said.
“Life rewards the bold.”
“Life rewards the cheaters,” Ahsoka corrected.
“Semantics.”
Anakin leaned down slightly, voice low near her ear. “You stacked the deck, didn’t you?”
She didn’t even look at him. “Prove it.”
He smiled slowly. “I don’t need to.”
Fives suddenly slammed a +4. “SUFFER.”
“OH COME ON—” Sabine groaned, grabbing cards. “You’ve been holding that since the beginning!”
“That’s patience.”
“That’s evil,” Hera corrected.
“I hate all of you,” Sabine muttered.
“Not me,” Jesse said quickly.
She looked at him. “Especially you.”
The game spiraled, cards flying, rules bending, voices overlapping until none of it made sense anymore. And somewhere in the middle of it, Y/N slipped another card into her lap. Smooth. Quick. Invisible. Except Anakin saw. Of course he did. He didn’t say anything. Just watched her with that same quiet amusement, shaking his head slightly like yeah, that tracks.
“UNO!” she shouted suddenly, slamming a card down.
“NO YOU DON’T—” Fives lunged forward like his life depended on it. “HOW DO YOU HAVE ONE CARD ALREADY?!”
“Because I’m talented.”
“You’re a fraud.”
“Jealousy is ugly on you.”
“I want a recount,” Rex said immediately.
“You can’t recount UNO!”
“I’m making an exception!”
Anakin finally laughed again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You guys do realize she’s been cheating this entire time— again, right?”
Every head turned. Slowly toward Y/N. She froze mid-smirk. “…define cheating.”
Ahsoka stood up. “I’m ending this game.”
“NO—WAIT—” Y/N clutched her cards dramatically. “Let me have this!”
“You’ve had EVERYTHING,” Sabine shouted.
Fives threw his arms up. “This is a corrupt system!”
Jesse nodded. “I blame the government.”
“Of course you do,” Hera muttered.
Anakin leaned closer again, softer this time, voice only for her. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
Y/N turned her head, grin softening just slightly. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “But you love me anyway.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Unfortunately.”
She nudged him. “Liar.”
Across the room, Ahsoka clapped once. “New rule: Y/N is banned from touching the deck.”
“WHAT—”
“Democracy wins,” Fives declared.
“This is a dictatorship!”
“This is survival,” Rex corrected.
And somewhere between the yelling, the laughter, the bad lighting, cheap beer, and completely broken UNO rules it started to feel like something permanent. Not in a serious, say-it-out-loud kind of way. Just… there. Sitting in the room with them. Loud and messy and a little unfair but theirs. The argument about “new rules” dragged on for exactly five more minutes before collapsing in on itself.
“I’m serious,” Jesse insisted, sitting forward like this was a congressional hearing. “We need structure. Regulations. Oversight.”
“You need to stop talking,” Ahsoka cut in immediately.
“No, listen—hear me out—”
“We won’t.”
“Dictatorship,” he muttered.
“Correct,” Rex said flatly.
And just like that, the game died. No dramatic ending. No official winner because apparently that was still up for debate (it wasn’t, Y/N had absolutely won, fraud or not). The cards stayed scattered on the table like abandoned evidence, and the whole thing melted into something softer.
They all piled onto the couch like it had been planned.
It hadn’t.
Legs tangled over each other without permission, shoulders knocking, someone’s elbow digging into someone else’s ribs and nobody caring enough to fix it. The kind of closeness that only happens when you’ve all decided, silently, that personal space is optional.
Someone passed around the same beer bottle like it belonged to all of them. Hera was absently playing with Ahsoka’s hair, twisting strands between her fingers while Ahsoka pretended not to enjoy it, eyes half-lidded anyway.
“Don’t make it weird,” Ahsoka murmured.
“I’m not,” Hera said calmly, already braiding a small section.
“That’s literally a braid.”
“Shh.”
Fives, across from them, was trying to balance an empty beer bottle on his forehead like it was a life skill. “Don’t breathe,” he muttered to himself.
“No one asked you to do that,” Sabine said from the floor.
“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—” The bottle fell. “—you sabotaged me,” Fives accused immediately.
“I didn’t even touch you!”
“Psychological warfare.”
“Please shut up,” Rex muttered.
Y/N barely registered any of it. She was tucked into Anakin’s side, half-curled against him, her back pressed to his chest like that was just where she fit now. His arm rested lazily around her middle, hand splayed across her stomach, thumb moving in slow, absent patterns like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. She laced her fingers with his without looking.
Rex sat slightly off to the side, leaning back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, the one he’d stolen from Y/N earlier.
He took a drag. Then grimaced like he’d just made a terrible life decision. “…they sell cherry flavored now?” he asked, looking at it like it personally offended him.
Y/N turned her head just enough, grinning. “They’re good, right?”
“Good?” Rex repeated, exhaling smoke with visible disappointment. “They taste like I should’ve quit months ago.”
“That’s dramatic,” she shot back, pointing at him lazily.
“It tastes like candy and regret.”
“That’s literally the appeal.”
“No,” he said firmly, examining the cigarette again like he was reconsidering everything, “the appeal used to be not tasting anything.”
“Okay, grandpa,” Fives muttered.
Rex didn’t even look at him. “You’re next.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Anakin huffed a quiet laugh behind Y/N, chin briefly dipping toward her shoulder. “You’re corrupting him.”
“I’m improving his life,” Y/N corrected.
“You gave him flavored lung damage.”
“Flavor matters.”
Rex took another drag anyway. “…still terrible,” he decided.
“Liar,” Y/N said.
He didn’t argue. Because he kept smoking it. A comfortable silence settled in, not empty, just full in a quieter way. The kind where conversations faded into smaller ones, then into nothing, but nobody felt the need to fill it. The record player in the corner crackled softly, something slow spinning, barely loud enough to compete with the low hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter.
Anakin shifted slightly behind her, adjusting his grip just enough to pull her a little closer without making a thing out of it. She noticed. Of course she did.
“Clingy,” she murmured under her breath.
“Shut up,” he replied, just as quiet.
“You missed me.”
“I saw you yesterday.”
“Still missed me.”
He didn’t answer which, again was answer enough. She smiled to herself, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.
Across the room, Jesse suddenly sat up again like a man possessed. “I still think we should’ve implemented the rule system.”
A collective groan filled the room.
“Jesse—” Ahsoka warned.
“I’m just saying, long-term, it would’ve benefited—”
“Get out,” Sabine said.
“This is Rex’s house!”
“Rex, make him leave.”
Rex didn’t even open his eyes. “I’m considering it.”
Fives pointed at Jesse. “You killed UNO.”
“I tried to save it!”
“You made it worse!”
“I brought structure!”
“You brought oppression!”
“I brought justice!”
“You brought nothing!”
Y/N laughed softly under her breath, fingers tightening slightly around Anakin’s.
hey man! welcome back! happy 1 year of manchild! I feel like tom felton for constantly mentioning the story! fml! im just kidding. to celebrate it we are starting with a little chapter of slice of life! I hope you like it xxx
She came in and she… she was like a shot of espresso, she was like… being bathe in sunlight. She’s incredibly energetic and enthusiastic and she had this sense of play and fun which was incredibly exciting.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
