#non-compete

You push the thought aside as he slows, the familiar streets signaling the end of an uncomfortable drive. Unclipping your seat-belt, the strap zips across your chest just as he turns into the driveway.

“Thanks again, Norman,” you say, forcing a polite smile as your hand finds the door handle. His first name feels strange on your tongue—too familiar for someone you barely know and borderline disrespectful given his age, but he insisted on it.

Your heart sinks as his own seat-belt clicks free, and he kills the engine. You open your mouth to say something—to politely insist he doesn’t need to get out—but the words stay lodged in your throat. What can you say that wouldn’t come off as rude or ungrateful? Swallowing your protest, you step out into the crisp air, the coolness offering a brief reprieve from the car.

“I’ll have my assistant deliver your car before five,” he says as he shuts his door, his tone leaving no room for debate.

“Oh, that’s unnecessary,” you try to dissuade, your voice careful and polite. The weight of his insistence hangs in the air, you wish you could move from under it.

“I can just take the bus downtown and get it later when I pick Emily up from work,” you say, quickening your pace, eager to slip into your house and end the moment. He’s at your side in no time, his long strides easily matching yours. His arm brushes against yours, the brief contact sparking a flicker of unease.

“Nonsense. What if the bus runs late? With rush hour traffic, you’ll be stuck for hours. You don’t want your sister waiting alone in the dark, and let’s just say downtown isn’t the safest place at that hour... Come on let me take care of you.”

Norman’s words make you shift uncomfortably, his chivalry feeling like a vice tightening around you. But he’s right—you don’t want Emily waiting alone downtown after dark—yet the thought of accepting more help from him leaves you uneasy.

You hesitate, keys tight in your hand, before finally sighing in resignation. “Fine,” you mutter, pulling the car key from the ring and holding it out. “You can drop it off later, just put the key in the mailbox when you come back.... Thank you.”

Norman takes the key with a satisfied smile, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “See? No trouble at all. I’ll make sure it’s waiting for you. I’ve already inconvenienced you enough. Consider it a thank you for indulging an old man. I don’t often have the luxury of spending time with someone as intriguing as yourself.” he adds.

“It was nothing. Really anytime." you say, offering an empty gesture.

“That’s great to hear,” he says and you feel a shift that makes you glance over your shoulder. Norman meets your eyes, a small smile playing on his lips as he ascends the steps with a measured pace.

You turn to face him, trying not to frown as he steps onto the porch, the space between you shrinking until your back instinctively presses against the door. He stops just short of closing the gap, unbothered by your unease, his presence filling what little space remains.

“Why don’t you give me your number?” Norman suggests, his eyes darkening slightly, insistent, as if daring you to refuse. “I’ll set something up next time you’re free.”

You frown, unable to stop the reaction, but you don’t argue—what could you even say? The numbers slip from your lips automatically, and you watch as he taps them into his phone. He steps back, pocketing his phone, but the unease doesn’t fade.

“I look forward to next time,” he says softly, his tone carrying a flirtatious purr you hope you misread. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

You nod, forcing a polite smile as he turns away, a slight kick in his step. Your hand hovers in a half-hearted wave as he glances back. You curse yourself for getting pulled into his demands so easily again.

🛒

Next day

True to his word, Norman had your car delivered before you needed to pick up Emily. What you hadn’t expected was for his assistant to hand over the keys to a car that was freshly washed, detailed, and topped off with a full tank of gas. Between the extravagant lunch and the car service, it all felt like a favor you couldn’t repay, leaving you off balance—as though you owed him something. You hated that feeling.

At work it was easier to forget though. The mundane task helped to distract you, the constant flow of customers, the restocking and repricing kept your mind busy as the time crawled by.

When your break ends, you head back to your station, slipping on your vest as you hurry down the aisle. Your sneakers squeaking against the polished floor with every step.

Your break started the moment the lights flicked off at your station. With a ten-minute walk to the break room, you only had enough time eat a cereal bar that tasted older than it looked.

“Excuse me, miss?” a voice calls from behind just as you reach an end cap. You pause, inhale deeply, and plaster on your practiced smile before turning to face the customer.

Your manager won’t care that you’re helping someone, but ignoring a customer isn’t an option either—you’ve learned that the hard way. Complaints can jeopardize your job or any chance of a raise, no matter how laughable they were.

"How can I help you?"

“Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me the difference between fabric softener and detergent?” the customer asks, holding up two bottles for you to see.

"Detergent-"

“Oh hey! I didn’t know you worked here!” he interrupts, his excitement catching you off guard.

It wasn’t the first time someone you knew discovered you worked here—or still worked here. It was always embarrassing, seeing that look in their eyes. The mix of pity and surprise. Everyone you went to school with was either graduating college or starting their careers, while you were trapped in this purgatory.

Bracing yourself, you squint, trying to place his face. His tousled brown locks frame his youthful features, and his muscles tense as he balances the heavy cleaning bottles. His shirt stretches taut over his lean physique, outlining toned shoulders and a defined chest. You should know him—you feel like you should—but the recognition doesn’t come.

"I'm Peter. Peter Parker. I work with your sister-Emily." he clarifies, his words pulling your focus upward. Your gaze snaps to his face, the heat rising in your cheeks as you realize you’d been staring a little too long. 

“Oh my gosh, hi,” you say, flustered and a bit embarrassed. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work? Don’t tell me Emily drove you out,” you say with a nervous chuckle.

“Yeah, uh, I’m actually on vacation. Was forced to, actually,” he admits with a bashful shrug. “I accumulated too many vacation days, and our policy really encourages work-life balance,” he continues.

“I’d kill for that problem,” you say with a half-smile. “We don’t really get that here.”

His expression softens with pity, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze, looking away.

“Oh, that sucks.”

Before you can deflect, your phone buzzes against your pocket, rattling loudly enough to catch both your attention. Peter's eyes flicker down, noticing the motion, and his eyebrows lift slightly as he glances back at you.

“Someone important?” he asks, nodding toward the faint glow of the screen pressed against your thigh.

Emily never calls. Only bill collectors or your father usually ring your phone. But when you glance at the screen, your brow lifts at the name-Norman. He was calling. You shouldn’t be surprised—older folks tended to prefer calls over figuring out how to reply to texts. But you didn't have the time or energy to thank him again for his good deed.

“No one,” you lie, slipping your hand into your pocket to silence the buzz. The weight of guilt settles in your chest for ignoring him. But Norman knew you were working. You could explain it later if you had to—you were sure.

“But I do have to get back to my station,” you add, steering the conversation away.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Peter says quickly, shifting the fabric softener and detergent in his arms. Your gaze drifts to his muscles again, lingering on the way they flex as he adjusts the bottles in his grasp. The fabric of his shirt pulls taut once more, accentuating the quiet strength beneath. A familiar warmth spreads across your face, and you quickly snap your eyes away, focusing on products on the aisle.

“Uh, before I go,” you stammer, gesturing vaguely toward the items in his hands, “if—if you’re dealing with stains, um, the Great Value detergent works just as well as, uh, the name brands. And it’s... on special today. And honestly, fabric softener just makes things softens fabric and smell good, but not for long enough to be worth it.”

You’re already turning to walk away as you speak, fleeing from your embarrassment and leaving him to decide.

“Great Value, huh? Noted. Thanks, laundry guru!” Peter calls after you making you snicker.

“Anytime,” you reply over your shoulder, waving goodbye as you head back to your station. “Literally—I’m always here.”

🛒

You finish bagging the last of the older woman’s groceries, carefully tucking the eggs on top and ensuring the tomatoes stay unbruised. Her basket is already bursting at the seams, but you manage to make it work.

“Here you go,” you say, handing it over with a practiced smile. “Let me grab your receipt.”

She thanks you with a warm, toothy grin, and as you tear the slip from the printer, your eyes flicker to the conveyor belt. A singular bottle of Great Value detergent rolls down, its familiar label catching your eye.

You glance up to its owner and, to your surprise, find Peter standing at the counter, his eyes glued to his phone.

You hand off the receipt to the older woman and offer a quick goodbye as she shuffles away, her basket precariously swinging at her side.

“You know we have self-checkout, right?” you say, motioning toward the empty machines with a tilt of your head as you scan his lone item.

He looks up from his phone before pocketing it. “I know, but I wanted to talk to you a bit more,” he confesses a bit bashful. You blink taken aback by his comment.

“I know you said you don't get vacations, but you have days off right?”

“Yeah barely.” You say with a raised brow. “I’m always getting called in so it’s rare.”

“Well that sucks. You should take time for yourself.” He tells you, you’ve heard it before, but what could you do. Nothing and it was just depressing to think about “Well if you did have time off is there anything you ever wanted to do?”

You had to stop and think. Your brow wrinkles as you try, but only thoughts of your sister prevail. You’d taken care of her for so long that you’d never really thought to do anything for yourself. Your only goal was her success. Did that make you pathetic? Probably.

“Uhm not really.” You say a bit embarrassed.

“Come on, try and think of something.” He stares, brightly, waiting. "Please?"

“Okay, well, I’ve always wanted to do one of those pub quizzes, like in the movies,” you confess sheepishly, bagging his detergent. "I’m not as smart as Emily, but my brain is packed with useless pop culture references. I thought I might do okay at that, at least, and it always looks fun on TV."

“You know, I think Hell’s Kitchen does quiz night during happy hour. I haven’t been, but I think some folks from the office mentioned it before. We should totally go! I mean, come on—your pop culture knowledge, my borderline obsessive knowledge of all things science and comic book facts. We’d kill it!”

You blink at his excited response, you weren't expecting him to offer a night out. Even if you didn't have to go to work tomorrow you still didn't really have time to spare for yourself, ever and despite how young he looked he was your sister's boss.

“Oh, no, no,” you laugh nervously, brushing off the offer as you slid his receipt across the counter. “I couldn’t—”

“Why not?” he whines, leaning forward slightly, his puppy dog eyes pleading.

"Because I need to take care of Emily, I need to pick up her up from your office, and cook for her." you rattle off the weight of your responsibilities that lay heavily on your back.

"Oh," Peter's frowns deepens at your excuse, but you hold firm in your resolve.

"Sorry," you say half-hearted shrug, printing out his receipt after he pays. Even without Emily as an excuse, you wouldn’t go out. You barely know him anyway and it had been so long since you’d gone out, you weren’t even sure you remembered how to have fun. "I'm sure one of your co-workers would be more fun to hang out with than me."

"Yeah," he begins sounding even more pitiful. "People tend to not want to hang out with the guy that signs there checks. Guess I'll spend my vacation hopefully not ruining my laundry until they let me come back to the office."

Peter takes his bag and begins to walk off sullen. Your heart aches, you know how much it sucks to be left out and how lonely it feels.

"Hey uh... wait." You call out to him unsure of even what your going to say.

“I could show you. Uh… how to do laundry, that is,” you blurt out, your words tumbling over themselves in your rush to fill the silence. “Not that I think you don’t know what you’re doing or anything. I just figured, since you asked about detergent earlier… I mean, just in case…” You trail off, inwardly cringing at how ridiculous you must you sound to offer to teach a grown man how to do laundry.

But before you can retract the offer you see his eyes light up.

"Really?"

The guilt you’d felt watching him walk away had gnawed at you, pulling you back in despite your better judgment. Something about Peter reminds you of your father—the way he could make you feel sorry for him, tugging at your sense of guilt until you give in.

"Yep," you nod, still wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into as he beams at you. Inviting another near-strangers to your home was starting to become a habit you needed to break.

You jump, nearly tripping over your own feet. Looking around, no one else seems phased, only concerned with their own tasks as they filter through the polished halls. "Uh, I’m here to see my sister," you say a bit awkwardly to the bodyless voice. A bright light blinks, and you flinch, the sharp flash momentarily blinding you. You blink rapidly, spots dancing in your vision as you try to steady yourself. “I—uh, I don’t have a code,” you add hastily, feeling a rush of nerves. “but it’s my sister. She works here, and—” “Access denied.” You swallow, heat rising in your face as the system’s words land like a punch. "But—Emily,” you start again, voice edged with frustration. “She works here. Just let her know—” “Access denied. Please vacate the premises, or Security will be notified.”

You force a stiff smile, cheeks burning, and turn on your heel, the sting of rejection settling heavy in your chest. All you’d wanted was a simple lunch with your sister. Instead, you’re walking back into the downtown noise, feeling a bit ridiculous, hoping no one noticed the exchange on some invisible camera.

Outside, you slip back into the crowd, the city’s chatter and thrum filling in the hollow feeling left behind. Downtown has always grated on you—the crush of bodies, the traffic pressing in—but right now, all you want is to get to your car, even if it’s four blocks away. At least getting back a little for the unused meter time will be a relief to your pocketbook.

"Excuse me, miss?" A voice calls out, slicing through the crowd. The words grip you like a hand on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks.

Your pulse stutters, and instinct tells you to keep moving. But curiosity has you bracing, stealing a steadying breath before turning to see who’s called.

Is it security? You half expect to see someone from Stark Tower, chasing you down for trespassing. For a split second, the thought of running flashes through your mind.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass,” you say quickly, lifting your hands in a gesture of surrender as you turn around slowly. “I was just trying to take my sister to lunch.”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replies, his voice cutting through the crowd with quiet authority. “It’s me Norman. Norman Osborn. I interviewed your sister.”

Recognition lands, and embarrassment creeps in, realizing your mistake.

“Oh—Mr. Osborn, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“No harm done.” He offers a faint smile, his gaze assessing as he falls in step beside you. “So, I understand Emily took an offer at Stark?”

“Yes, she did.” A faint pride slips into your voice. “She was so disappointed when she hadn’t heard back from Oscorp, and then this boy showed up out of nowhere—almost like fate.” You give a small, rueful laugh, feeling the awkwardness.

“Boy?” Norman’s brow wrinkles, curiosity flashing in his eyes.

“Yeah, Peter. Peter something.  Just showed up one day, out of the blue.” you say excitedly. 

For the briefest moment, a flicker passes over Norman’s face—too quick to catch, like a shadow crossing his features. It’s gone before you can read it, replaced by his usual cool, casual smile, leaving you wondering if you imagined it.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His tone is steady, but something taut lurks beneath the surface.

“So, downtown to visit your sister, then?” he asks, a polite smile touching his lips. His gaze flicks over you, sharp and assessing, before sliding back toward the street, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. 

“Tried to, anyway. Wanted to surprise her with lunch, but it didn’t quite work out as planned,” you say, the feel of earlier embarrassment still lingering.

He pauses, stopping so abruptly. You turn back a few steps ahead, brow creasing at his unreadable expression. The crowded sidewalk flows around you, but he seems fixed on you, gathering his thoughts.

“How about we grab lunch instead?” he suggests, the invitation unexpectedly warm but his tone hard to place. “My treat.”

🍽️

You hate saying no. You hate disappointing people.

Sitting across from the well-dressed man, you mentally kick yourself for not finding an excuse to back out. Your eyes drift to your casual jeans and worn-out sneakers, feeling painfully out of place in this restaurant. Chandeliers glisten above, casting soft light over the carefully set tables with crisp white linens. Even the silverware seems excessive—how many forks could one meal possibly require?

You pick through your salad as he cuts into his steak, nodding along as he talks tech—just like Emily, really, always in a language you don’t quite speak. When he orders the wine, you don’t refuse. The soft buzz settles over you, making it easier to hold your smile, easier to get through the meal. You take long, deliberate sips, not for the taste but to steady your nerves, Norman's gaze almost dissecting every word, every small movement. The weight of his attention presses down, leaving you hyper-aware and exposed, as though there’s nowhere to hide. You shift slightly, hoping to appear composed, but Norman's scrutiny keeps you on edge.

“You work at a Al's grocery-right? How long have you been there?” he asks change course, just as the waiter refills your glass. It’s surprising he knows where you work, but you brush it off—Emily must’ve mentioned it in passing.

“Oh, uh, since junior year of high school.”

“I admire your dedication,” he says, a curious glint in his eye. “It’s rare to see someone your age with such a strong work ethic.”

You force a smile, hesitating. “I didn’t really have a choice. After Mom passed, Dad... wasn’t really around, so someone had to keep things going.” The words slip out before you can stop them, the wine loosening your guard far more than you’d like. Normally, you wouldn’t say this much, you don't like talking about your personal life.

“That must’ve been a lot, balancing school and work at that age.”

“I... I didn’t finish,” you admit, wincing. You drop your gaze, feeling the old sting of shame. You’d always meant to go back, but creditors don’t care about circumstances. Without work, there was no food, no roof over your head.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to-,” Norman says, voice softening. “I know that must have been tough. But honestly, that doesn’t define you. What you’ve managed to accomplish despite it shows resilience. Sometimes life takes us down unexpected paths, but you’ve clearly made the best of yours.”

You nod, though his words settle like a weight in the air. It’s the last thing you want to hear—too close to the raw truth. The conversation feels too personal now, and you shift uncomfortably in your seat, a half-smile barely managing to lift your lips.

“Um,” you begin, swallowing thickly, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. You hesitate, then force the words out, “I just—uh, I realized Emily asked me to pick up... I mean, sign for some packages.”

You stand suddenly, almost too quickly, and reach for your purse, the movement stiff. “I really should go,” you say, the words coming out in a rush, sounding more like an apology than anything else. The tension wraps around you tightly, and you feel the heat rise in your face as you hurry to leave.

“Wait,” he says softly, signaling to the waiter-maybe for the check. “Let me take you home.”

You hesitate, clutching your purse a little tighter. “I have my car…” 

Norman shakes his head, his expression firm but kind. “You’ve been drinking. I can’t in good conscience let you drive. I’d feel terrible if something happened.”

You glance down at the floor, biting your lip. He’s right. The wine had blurred the edges of your thoughts, and now you’re feeling more off-balance than you’d like to admit. With a quiet nod, you give in, feeling both defeated.

“Okay,” you say softly, reluctant, “thanks.”