Being Tony Stark’s daughter meant the world saw you before you ever really saw yourself. From the outside, it sounded like perfection—penthouse views, designer toys, a famous father who could build an AI before breakfast. But on the inside? It was quieter. Lonelier.

That’s where Peter came in.

You met him when you were five. Your dad had brought him over one Saturday afternoon, introducing him as the "brightest kid in Queens"—though in your five-year-old brain, that meant nothing. All you saw was a boy with messy brown hair, a Spider-Man backpack too big for his shoulders, and a smile that made your stomach fizz in a way you didn’t understand yet.

He was ten. Practically a grown-up to you.

From the start, you wanted to be near him. You followed him down the hallways of the Stark Tower like a shadow, clinging to his sleeve when he tried to shake you off. You wanted him to teach you things, to talk to you, to notice you. But to Peter, you weren’t "Tony Stark’s daughter." You weren’t even "his friend." You were just the kid sister he never asked for.

And he made sure you knew it.

(“Stop following me, Mini Stark,” he muttered one afternoon when you trailed after him to the lab. You blinked at the new name, not realizing it was meant as an insult until he smirked. “Actually, no—Mini Iron. You’re like… a knock-off version of your dad. Tin foil girl.”

His friends laughed. You laughed too, pretending it didn’t sting.)

(You’d spent two hours doodling a crooked picture of Peter in his Spider-Man hoodie—stick figure limbs, but a big heart scrawled in the corner. You handed it to him shyly. He took one glance and passed it off to Ned, snorting.

“Dude, she drew me with three fingers. What am I, an alien?”

They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. You shoved the drawing into your pocket and never mentioned it again.)

(One game night when the Tower was too big and too empty, you begged Peter and his friends to play hide and seek. They agreed, but when it was your turn to seek, you searched for nearly an hour before realizing they’d locked themselves in Peter’s guest room to watch a movie instead.

When you confronted him, he shrugged. “We just… forgot you, Tin Foil Girl.”

Forgot. The word hurt more than being laughed at.)

(Halloween came around when you were seven. You wore a glittery princess dress, tiara slipping down your head. You twirled into the living room, where Peter and his friends were slouched across the couch.

“Look, she thinks she’s royalty,” Peter teased, putting on a fake bow. “Your Majesty of Annoying Kingdom.”

His friends roared. You ran back to your room before the tears fell.)

(At eight, you sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of grape juice when Peter and Ned came barging in. Peter "accidentally" bumped into you, spilling purple liquid down your shirt.

“Oh no, Stark Industries is ruined! Quick, someone build her a bib suit!” he laughed.

You tried to smile, but your throat ached.)

(By nine, you’d learned your dad’s lab was the one place you weren’t supposed to wander. But Peter could. He had "special clearance." When you asked to join him, he shook his head.

“Sorry, Mini Stark. This place is for real geniuses, not… kids who still sleep with stuffed animals.”

You flushed. He was right—you did still sleep with Mr. Bear. But it wasn’t fair that he said it like that.)

(At ten, your birthday cake was decorated in pink and gold, candles flickering bright. You made a wish—secret, shy—that maybe Peter would smile at you like you weren’t invisible. But when your dad cut the cake, Peter leaned in to whisper to MJ loud enough for you to hear:

“She’s probably wishing for me to like her. Dream on, Mini Iron.”

They laughed. You swallowed the wish whole, pretending it didn’t taste like ashes.)

Years blurred together, but the pattern stayed the same: you followed, he teased. You wanted him to notice you for real, he pushed you down with words that always felt sharper than sticks or stones. You told yourself it didn’t matter—that it was just Peter being Peter.

But somewhere between five and twelve, your tiny crush began to wilt. Not vanish, not completely, but it twisted into something complicated: longing mixed with embarrassment, admiration tangled with anger.

By the time you were twelve, you weren’t the same little girl who clung to his sleeve. Your dad’s company had taught you to walk in heels too big for your feet, to smile in front of cameras, to answer questions sharper than most adults could handle. You weren’t "Mini Stark" anymore.

And Peter? He was sixteen, almost seventeen. Taller now, voice deeper, Spider-Man responsibilities doubling on his shoulders. You saw less of him in the Tower—he had school, patrols, a life outside of you.

But every time you did see him, you remembered all the times he’d laughed, all the ways he’d reminded you that in his world, you were always the little sister.

And you hated that a part of you still wanted to be more.

When the Blip hit, you were twelve.

One moment, Peter was there—eyes wide with fear, hand shaking as he clutched Tony’s arm—and then he was dust. Just… gone.

And you stayed.

The world cracked in half, but you didn’t vanish with it. You had to live in the ruins.

At first, the silence was unbearable. For so long, Peter had been part of your every day, even if it was only through teasing remarks or the echo of his laughter bouncing down Stark Tower’s hallways. Without him, it was too quiet. You hated how much you noticed. You hated how much you missed him, even after all those years of being his punchline.

But five years is a long time. Long enough for missing to turn into moving on.

You learned how to grow without him.

You stopped trailing behind anyone and started walking ahead. At school, you worked until your name sat at the very top of the grade sheets—not because you were Stark’s daughter, but because you earned it. Teachers praised your essays, your sharp eye for detail, your art that painted entire worlds on paper. You weren’t "Mini Stark" anymore. You were just you.

And people noticed.

By fifteen, you had a circle of friends who weren’t glued to your last name but to you. Girls who came over for sleepovers, boys who actually looked nervous when you laughed at their jokes. Even seniors respected you, nodding when you passed in the hallways, borrowing your notes when they fell behind.

You weren’t chasing anyone’s shadow anymore. You had built your own.

Puberty had been kind, too. You weren’t the awkward kid in tiaras and lopsided braids anymore—you were striking. The kind of girl who turned heads without trying, who knew how to walk into a room and make it hers. Cute had transformed into something sharper, something magnetic.

You found balance. You found yourself. You became the girl Peter once teased you for pretending to be—the girl who didn’t need him.

So when he came back, five years later, looking exactly the same—sixteen, messy-haired, gangly, with that same dorky smile—it was almost laughable.

Because you weren’t twelve anymore. You weren’t waiting for him to notice you, or aching for his approval. You’d spent half a decade becoming someone who didn’t need Peter Parker.

And that tiny crush you once had? It was dust, just like he had been.

Peter had faced aliens, fought alongside the Avengers, even died in Tony’s arms—and yet nothing had knocked the breath out of him the way seeing you did.

Five years. For him, it felt like five minutes. He still remembered you at twelve, trailing after him with wide eyes and messy braids, always scribbling in sketchbooks or asking if he’d play hide and seek. Annoying sometimes, sure. Cute in a kid way. But never someone he let himself really think about—you were Tony Stark’s daughter, for one. And for another, he was sixteen then, and you were just… a kid.

But now—

God.

Now you were standing in the Tower common room, sunlight catching on your hair, posture poised in a way that screamed confidence but not arrogance. You weren’t the clingy little sister figure anymore. You were… you. And Peter felt his chest tighten like he’d been hit by one of Hulk’s punches.

Your smile wasn’t shy. It wasn’t reaching for him, begging to be noticed. It was calm, effortless, directed at your friends clustered around you. Real friends, people who laughed with you, not at you.

And you looked—different. Not just older, but grown. Polished in a way Peter couldn’t quite process. Pretty wasn’t the word. Gorgeous, maybe. Stunning. The kind of gorgeous that made his throat dry and his brain short-circuit.

For a second, he just stared.

You glanced over, eyes catching his, and the jolt that shot through him nearly knocked him backwards. Because you didn’t look at him the way you used to. No wide-eyed awe, no clinging. Just… acknowledgment. Like he was anyone else.

And that’s what twisted the knife.

Because Peter realized, with a sudden drop in his stomach, that you didn’t need him anymore. You’d grown without him. Flourished. He’d been stuck in time, the same gawky sixteen-year-old, while you’d built an entire life in the five years he’d been gone.

But God help him—he couldn’t stop looking at you.

His breath hitched every time your laugh rang out across the room. His palms went clammy just watching you push your hair behind your ear. He remembered teasing you, brushing you off, calling you Tin Foil Girl. The memory made him want to crawl into the floor and never come out.

Because now, standing here, Peter Parker knew something with bone-deep certainty:

You weren’t the kid who had a crush on him anymore.

But he?

He was dangerously close to having one on you.

The music pulsed through the Stark Tower ballroom, lights dancing across the walls like fireworks. Your dad had thrown another one of his “not-a-party-but-definitely-a-party” events, half Avengers gathering, half press opportunity. You didn’t mind anymore. At sixteen, almost seventeen, you could handle the spotlight—and besides, it was a good excuse to dress up.

Your dress shimmered when you moved, subtle but striking. You weren’t trying to make a statement, but the way people’s eyes followed you said you had anyway. Your friends clustered around, laughing at some joke one of the older interns cracked. And when one of the boys—tall, broad-shouldered, definitely into you—pulled you onto the dance floor, you went easily, smiling.

That’s when Peter walked in.

He hadn’t been to a Stark party in years—not since the Blip. To him, nothing had changed. He still felt like the awkward Queens kid crashing a billionaire’s event. But the second his eyes found you, the world stuttered.

You weren’t the kid he remembered. Not the girl with braids trailing after him, not the twelve-year-old he’d teased before vanishing. No—you were glowing, laughter spilling freely, movements confident, dress clinging in a way that made his throat dry. And then you were dancing, spinning under the lights with someone else’s hands brushing your waist.

Jealousy hit him like a punch.

He tried to play it off, tried to pretend he wasn’t watching, but his eyes kept dragging back to you. The way you laughed. The way your hair caught the light. The way the boy leaned closer, clearly smitten.

Peter’s palms went clammy. He’d fought Thanos. He’d been to space. But he’d never felt this kind of panic before.

And then—you caught him.

Your gaze flicked across the room, landed on him, and held. You raised one perfect eyebrow, smirking faintly as if you’d caught him red-handed. Then, as the boy twirled you back toward your group of friends, you mouthed the words:

Something on my face, Parker?

Heat crawled up Peter’s neck. He tore his eyes away, pretending to focus on anything else—the buffet table, Happy talking to Pepper, the chandelier. But it was too late. You knew.

School only made things worse.

Peter had walked back into Midtown thinking he’d slide into his old rhythm—top grades, the smart kid teachers bragged about. But that was before he realized you were there.

You weren’t just there. You were everywhere.

Your name sat at the top of every leaderboard. Teachers called on you for answers before anyone else. The art teacher displayed your sketches on the walls, the science teacher praised your lab reports, even the debate team captain mentioned how you’d basically carried them to victory last semester.

And Peter? He was playing catch-up.

He sat in the back of class one day, watching as you calmly explained a physics problem he’d been struggling with since last night. The teacher beamed, the class hung on your words, and Peter gripped his pencil tighter. He’d been the genius. He’d been the kid everyone admired. But now?

Now you were that kid.

It was humbling. Infuriating. And maybe—God help him—kind of hot.

The shift came quietly.

One afternoon in the library, you found him staring blankly at a page, pencil tapping against his temple. You slid into the seat across from him without asking.

“Need help, Parker?”

He blinked, startled. “Uh—no, I—I’ve got it.”

You leaned over anyway, eyes scanning his scribbled notes. With a quick motion, you flipped his equation, pointed to a miscalculation. “You forgot to carry the exponent. Rookie mistake.”

For a moment, it was like old times—your teasing, his flustered stammer. But then he looked up and really saw you: steady, self-assured, a little smirk tugging at your lips. Not the kid sister anymore.

And something inside him cracked.

From then on, things shifted. Study sessions turned into quiet conversations. You’d mock him lightly, he’d roll his eyes, and sometimes—sometimes—you’d smile at him in a way that made his chest ache. Slowly, cautiously, you let him back in. Not fully. But enough.

Peter found himself craving it.

Then came the complication.

Tony Stark was not an oblivious man.

Peter should’ve known better than to stare too long across the lab, but he couldn’t help it—you were leaning over a blueprint, explaining some idea to your dad with gestures sharp and confident. Sunlight from the glass ceiling poured across your hair, and Peter’s eyes lingered too long.

“Careful, Underoos.”

Peter nearly jumped out of his skin. Tony was watching him, one eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I—uh—I wasn’t—”

“Relax, kid.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, voice deceptively light. “Just saying. Eyes on the project, not on my daughter. Unless you want a suit with your face engraved on the bottom of my shoe.”

Peter’s cheeks burned crimson. He stammered something unintelligible, and Tony chuckled, turning back to the schematics. But the warning lingered in the air, unspoken but sharp:

Don’t screw this up.

Peter knew he was in trouble.

Because the truth was, he didn’t just think you were beautiful. He didn’t just admire you.

He was falling. Hard.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if you’d let him catch up.

The gym had been transformed for the science fair, rows of tables lined with projects, each one desperate for attention. Posters gleamed under fluorescent lights, judges in suits strolled past, pens tapping against clipboards.

Your display sat in the middle—neat, polished, detailed, a project you’d poured weeks into. It wasn’t just technically perfect, it was beautiful—your sketches, your diagrams, your careful lettering. It looked less like homework and more like art, which was exactly your point. Science and art weren’t opposites. They were mirrors.

And people noticed. Students leaned in to ask questions, judges scribbled notes, even teachers from other departments came by just to look. You answered every question calmly, your voice steady, your confidence unshaken.

Peter was supposed to be focused on his own project—something about energy-efficient circuitry—but he couldn’t.

He was across the gym, but his eyes kept flicking to you. The way you gestured, the way your smile lit up when you explained something complicated, the way you seemed untouchable in this space. His chest tightened with something sharp and warm all at once.

You weren’t just good. You were magnetic.

And then it happened.

One of the judges—a man with silver hair and the kind of dismissive smirk that belonged on Wall Street, not in a school gym—leaned over your table. He flipped through your notes, barely glancing at the diagrams before he said, “This is impressive… for a Stark.”

The words dripped like poison.

“As in,” the judge continued, “clearly your father must’ve helped. No offense, of course. Still, it’s a fine attempt.”

You froze, that old ache in your chest threatening to return—the one that used to twist whenever someone reduced you to your last name. But before you could speak, before you could compose yourself—

Peter was there.

He’d crossed the gym without thinking, planting himself at your side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice was steady, but the edge in it was sharp enough to cut.

Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect—you’re wrong. I’ve seen her work. This is hers. All of it. She’s top of every class, her designs are cleaner than mine half the time, and she’s been doing this without anyone’s help for years. So maybe you should actually read the project before assuming.”

The gym went silent for a beat.

The judge blinked, clearly taken aback by the outburst, and then scribbled something quickly on his clipboard before moving on.

You stared at Peter, stunned. Not just by his words, but by the way he’d said them. No smirk. No teasing nickname. No undercutting joke. Just… belief.

Real, unshakable belief.

For the first time, he wasn’t on the other side of the laugh. He was on yours.

Hours later, the fair had ended. Your project had won first place. Your friends had already dragged you through a round of congratulations, but you’d slipped away for air, stepping out onto the school steps beneath the cool night sky.

That’s when you saw him.

Peter sat on the railing, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, staring at the stars like they might answer whatever storm was brewing in his head.

You hesitated, then walked closer. “You planning on camping out here?”

He jumped slightly, then rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Uh—no. Just needed… air. You know. Fresh. Breathing stuff.”

You laughed softly, crossing your arms. “Breathing stuff. Very scientific.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Silence settled, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Peter cleared his throat.

About earlier…” His voice cracked, and he winced. “I—uh—I meant what I said. All of it. You’re… you’re amazing. And not because you’re Stark’s daughter. Because you’re you. And I’m sorry it took me this long to figure that out.”

Your chest tightened, old memories pressing in—nicknames, laughter, the sting of being dismissed. You wanted to brush it off, to tell him it didn’t matter anymore. But it had mattered. For years.

“You were kind of awful to me, Parker.”

He flinched, nodding quickly. “I know. God, I know. I was a jerk. I thought teasing was easier than admitting that I—” He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he forced himself to look at you. “That I liked you. Even back then. I just… you were younger, you were Stark’s kid, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I handled it the worst way possible.”

The words hung between you, trembling.

You studied him. He wasn’t making excuses. He wasn’t hiding behind a joke. He was just… raw. Honest. And terrified.

Finally, you sighed. “I don’t know if I can forgive everything. Not yet.”

His shoulders sagged, disappointment flickering across his face. But then you added, quieter, “But I don’t hate you, Peter. And I… don’t not feel something. Anymore.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide. “Really?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Don’t push it.”

For a moment, you just stood there, the air charged, the world narrowing down to the space between you. Then, almost without thinking, Peter leaned forward—hesitant, careful, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft, almost clumsy, but real. The kind of kiss that wasn’t an ending, but a beginning.

When you pulled back, Peter was grinning like an idiot, breathless. “So… does this mean we’re—?”

“Friends,” you interrupted, smirking. “Maybe more. If you earn it.”

His grin only widened. “Deal.”

And for the first time in years, you weren’t the kid chasing him, and he wasn’t the boy running away.