The day Doctor Strange cast the spell, you were making coffee.

You remembered that morning with terrible clarity. The smell of fresh grounds, the gray light filtering through the window, the smile on your face because Peter had texted you a stupid meme an hour earlier.

Can't wait to see you tonight. I have something important to tell you.

You had replied, You're always so dramatic. It's just dinner.

He had sent back, It's not just dinner. Trust me.

You had laughed. Sipped your coffee. And then the world went white.

You woke up on your kitchen floor. Your phone was buzzing. You did not think much of it. You had a headache. You had a shift at the diner in two hours.

You did not realize what you had lost until much later.

The first thing you noticed was the empty side of your bed. You always slept on the left. Peter slept on the right. His side was pristine. Sheets untouched. Pillow cold. No trace of him.

You stared at it for a long time.

Why do I feel like I am missing someone?

It had been a week.

A week of strangers looking at you with confused, half-recognizing glances. A week of walking past a deli and feeling your chest tighten for no reason. A week of reaching for a hand that was not there.

You did not know Peter Parker. You had never heard the name.

But you could not stop crying at night.

You tried to shake it off. You went to work. You smiled at customers. You came home to your empty apartment and ate dinner alone, watching the news, which was all about Spider-Man now. The city loved him. After the battle at the Statue of Liberty, the one that nearly tore reality apart, Spider-Man had saved everyone. He was a hero. A legend.

But there was something sad about the way they talked about him now. No one knew his name. No one knew his face. He was just a mask, a suit, a symbol.

He is alone, you thought. He has to be so alone.

You did not know why that thought made you want to cry.

You felt it on the subway. That prickle. That sensation of being watched. You looked up from your phone and scanned the car. Everyone was looking at their phones. Except for one person.

A boy in a hoodie. Brown hair. Brown eyes. He was sitting near the door, pretending to read a book, but his gaze kept flicking toward you. When your eyes met, he looked away quickly.

Your heart hammered.

Do I know him?

He was there the next day. And the day after that. Always in the same car. Same seat. Same hoodie. His posture tense, like he was restraining himself from something.

On the fourth day, you finally acted. You walked over and sat down across from him.

"Hi," you said.

He looked up, startled. His eyes were wide, impossibly brown, impossibly familiar, like you had stared into them a thousand times before.

"Hi," he said. His voice cracked on the word.

"I am sorry if this is weird," you said quickly, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. "But you keep showing up. And I feel like I know you. Do I know you?"

His jaw tightened. Something painful flickered in his eyes.

"No," he said softly. "You do not."

"Oh." You deflated. "Sorry. I just, I have been feeling really weird lately. Like I am forgetting something important. Someone important."

He flinched. It was subtle, barely visible, but you caught it.

"Maybe you should get some rest," he said. "You look tired."

"Thanks," you said dryly. "Real smooth."

You saw him first on a Tuesday night.

You were walking home from the diner, your shift ending late, the streets mostly empty. A shadow moved across the rooftops above you, silent and swift. You looked up just in time to see a figure in red and blue silhouetted against the moon, perched on the edge of a building, watching you.

Your heart stopped.

Spider-Man. The hero of New York. The man in the mask who had saved the city from Doctor Strange's spell gone wrong, who had fought villains from other universes, who had disappeared from the public eye for months after the battle.

And now he was staring at you.

You froze on the sidewalk. He did not move. He just stood there, head tilted, like a predator studying its prey.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice trembling. "Are you okay up there?"

He did not answer. Instead, he tilted his head the other way, a gesture that was almost curious, almost human. Then he was gone, a blur of red and blue disappearing into the night.

You stood there for a long time, your heart pounding.

Why did that feel familiar?

The sightings continued.

Every night, on your walk home, you would see him. Sometimes he was on a rooftop. Sometimes he was perched on a fire escape. Sometimes he was just a silhouette against the skyline, watching you with an intensity you could feel even from a distance.

He never approached you. He never spoke. He just watched.

You told yourself it was coincidence. Spider-Man patrolled the city. He watched over everyone. Why would you be special?

But he was never there when other people walked the same streets. You tested it once, leaving work an hour late. The streets were empty. No Spider-Man. The next night, you left at your usual time, and there he was, waiting on the corner of a building like he had known exactly when you would pass.

You should have been terrified.

Instead, you felt a strange warmth in your chest.

He is protecting me, you told yourself. He is just protecting me.

You saw Peter three weeks later.

He was sitting in the coffee shop where you always ordered your morning latte, nursing a cup he was not drinking from. He looked thinner than the last time you saw him, dark circles under his eyes, his hood pulled up.

"Hey," you said, sliding into the seat across from him. "I was wondering if I would see you again."

He looked up at you, and for a moment, his expression was raw and vulnerable. Then he masked it with a small smile.

"Sorry. I have been busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Photography. The Bugle has been keeping me on my toes." He hesitated. "I saw you walking home the other night. You looked… happy."

"I have been feeling better, actually." You wrapped your hands around your coffee cup. "I think I am getting used to things lately."

His jaw tightened. "That is good."

"Although something weird has been happening." You leaned in, lowering your voice. "Spider-Man keeps following me home. Like, every night. It is kind of creepy."

Peter's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Creepy how?"

"I do not know. He does not do anything. He just watches. I feel like he is waiting for something."

"Maybe he is protecting you."

"From what?"

Peter did not answer. He just stared at his cup, his knuckles white around the ceramic.

That night, you decided to test something.

You had noticed a pattern. Spider-Man only appeared when you were alone. When there were other people around, he vanished. So you decided to walk home with a coworker, a friendly man named Marcus who had been offering to walk you home for weeks.

You saw Spider-Man that night

part1

part2

The night you walked home with Marcus, the city was quiet.

You had felt guilty about it, in a strange way. Peter had been kind to you, buying you coffee, checking on you, making sure you were okay. But you had not seen him in days, and the man in the mask had been getting more intense with his watching. You needed to feel safe, and Marcus was safe.

Marcus was your coworker at the diner. He was tall, friendly, and completely uncomplicated. He told bad jokes. He laughed at your stories. He made you feel normal, which was something you desperately needed after months of inexplicable sadness.

"Thanks for walking me home," you said as you reached your apartment building. "I know it is out of your way."

"Not at all." Marcus grinned. "I like the company. And you should not be walking alone this late. The city is weird lately."

"Tell me about it."

He touched your shoulder lightly, a friendly gesture, nothing more. "Get some rest, okay? You look tired."

"I will." You smiled. "See you tomorrow, Marcus."

"See you."

You turned, unlocked the door, and went inside. You did not look back. You did not see the way Marcus paused at the corner, glancing up at the rooftops with a puzzled expression, as if he felt something watching him.

You did not see the figure on the rooftop across the street.

He was perched on the ledge, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He was completely still. Completely silent. His white lenses stared down at the scene below, unblinking.

He watched Marcus touch your shoulder.

He watched you smile at Marcus.

He watched Marcus walk away, disappearing around the corner with a casual wave.

The figure did not move for a long time. He did not clench his fists. He did not narrow his eyes. He simply sat there, processing what he had seen, cataloguing the details with a methodical patience that was almost unsettling.

Touch. Smile. Laughter. Familiarity.

He tilted his head slightly, the gesture of a predator studying its prey.

Noted.

Then he was gone, a silent blur against the night sky, leaving nothing behind but the whisper of wind.

The next morning, you woke to a text from Marcus.

Hey, I know this is weird, but I fell last night and twisted my ankle pretty bad. Won't be at work for a few days. Can you tell the boss for me?

You frowned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Did you see a doctor?

His reply came almost instantly.

Yeah, they said it is a bad sprain. Happened right after I left your place. Tripped on nothing. Weird, right?

A cold feeling settled in your stomach.

Right after I left your place.

You stared at the text for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. You wanted to ask more questions. You wanted to ask if he saw anything, if he heard anything, if he felt anything strange.

But you did not.

Because something told you that you did not want to know the answer.

You typed instead: Get some rest. I will tell the boss.

He replied: Thanks. See you when I am back.

You set the phone down and looked out the window. The morning sun was bright. The sky was clear. The rooftops were empty.

But you could not shake the feeling that someone was still watching.

Frank Castle had been sitting in the corner booth for three hours, nursing the same whiskey he hadn't touched in two. His knuckles were still split from the night before , a warehouse, two men who thought they were harder than they were, a debt they owed that they'd never pay now. His jaw ached. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

He wasn't here for company. He was here because the apartment was too quiet, and quiet had a way of dragging him back to the faces he couldn't save.

You walked in near midnight, shaking rain off your jacket.

You found a stool two seats from Frank, close enough to notice the coil of tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes tracked the door without blinking.

You didn't ask if he was okay. People like him hated that question.

Instead, you said, "Rough night?"

He turned his head, slow, like he wasn't used to being spoken to. His eyes were dark, hard, but there was something behind them that wasn't anger. Something tired.

"You could say that," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke, two octaves lower than the room.

Most people read the scar on his lip, the weight in his frame, and looked away. You didn't. You met his gaze and stayed there.

"Then you're drinking the wrong thing," you said, and slid your bourbon across the bar toward him.

For a long moment, he just looked at it. Then the corner of his mouth twitched , almost a smile, almost.

"Thanks," he said, and drank.

The night passed like that. Not conversation, exactly more like two people circling each other in the language of tiredness and trust. He told you his name was Frank, and you knew better than to ask what he did. You told him you worked nights, that your life was unremarkable, that you were lonely in a city full of people.

He listened. Really listened. That was the thing about Frank when he wasn't in the fight, when the noise in his head quieted for a moment, he gave you his whole attention. Like you were the only thing in the room.

When last call came, he stood. He was bigger than he'd looked seated, shoulders like a doorway, but when he moved toward the exit he hesitated. Turned back.

"You want a ride?" he asked. "It's late. Rain's coming down hard."

And there it was the choice, hanging in the air between you.

The truck smelled like gun oil and something faintly like pine. The heater was broken but you didn't care. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, knuckles white.

"Your place or mine?" he asked, and there was no pressure in it, just an offer. Frank Castle didn't beg. He didn't have to.

You told him yours. He nodded, said nothing, and drove.

The streets were empty. Rain hammered the windshield. The silence between you was comfortable in a way silence rarely is two strangers who'd agreed, wordlessly, to carry each other's weight for one night.

When he pulled up outside your building, he killed the engine. The rain filled the space where words might have been.

"You sure about this?" he asked, and it wasn't a test. It was him giving you an out, because that's who he was underneath it all

You reached for the door handle. "Coming up?"

He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once. That was the whole conversation.

The stairs were narrow and dark. He followed a step behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the slight hitch in his stride, the way his shoulder brushed the wall like he was used to tight spaces.

At your door, your hands fumbled with the keys. His hand covered yours, steadying it. His palm was rough with calluses, warm despite the cold.

"I'm not good at this," he said, voice low. "The talking part. The soft part." A pause. "Just so you know what you're getting."

You turned to face him. "I'm not looking for talking."

And that was enough.

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. The rain kept falling outside, and whatever happened after that, in the quiet dark of your apartment, belonged to the two of you alone.