He doesn’t realize it’s her until the air changes.

The fight rages around him—shouts, crashes, metal groaning under superhuman weight—but suddenly everything fades. The air goes heavier. Thicker. Warm. Static crawls across the back of Peter’s neck, and his hand falters mid-swing.

It hits him in the chest—not a blast, not a blow—just a feeling.

Something familiar.

Something known.

Something wrong.

Then the smoke thins. The dust clears.

And there she is.

It’s like being punched in the gut without ever being touched.

She steps forward out of the haze like a ghost. Or a god.

Combat boots. Fingerless gloves. Field jacket cinched tight around her ribs like armor. Her hair’s pulled back, but wild around the edges. Her jaw’s clenched. Her hands glow.

And Peter? Peter can’t breathe.

Because her face— Her face is exactly the same.

But her eyes aren’t.

“Y/N?”

His voice cracks like it forgot how to say her name.

She stops walking.

And the world stops with her.

He’s never seen her like this.

Not in the crowded hallways between third and fourth period. Not tucked beside him on the roof of the compound, passing cold fries between bites of half-baked theories. Not when she stole his notes and doodled little spiders in the margins. Not when they snuck out of training together just to lie on the grass and breathe.

And never—never—with glowing veins of gold-red light pulsing under her skin like molten energy caged in something fragile.

The hum of her power hits him like a wave.

It’s beautiful.

And terrifying.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.

Her voice is steady.

But her hands are shaking.

Peter stumbles forward a step. His chest is too tight. His suit is too hot.

“What are you— You can’t be—this isn’t—”

“You don’t belong on this side,” she says.

Her hands flare brighter. The light spills down her arms in angry flickers. Heat bleeds off her in waves.

Neither of them moves.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“Tell you what?”

“That you—” He gestures helplessly, voice splintering. “This. Your powers.”

She flinches. It’s quick. Barely there.

But he sees it.

“You think I wanted you to look at me like that?” she says.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re scared of me.”

Peter’s throat closes. “I’m not— I just— You’re—”

He can’t finish.

Because he is scared.

Not of her power.

Of what it means.

Of how long she’s kept this locked away. Of how far apart they suddenly feel. Of the fact that he’s seeing her fully for the first time—and it’s here, now, on opposite sides of a war neither of them started.

And she sees all of it.

She lifts a hand. Light pools in her palm.

“Move, Peter.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Move.”

“Y/N, please—”

“Move.”

She fires.

It doesn’t hit him—not quite—but it hits the tarmac just three feet from where he stands. The blast sends him flying backwards, ears ringing, world spinning. He flips, webbing a container midair, landing hard on one knee and gasping.

His hands tremble.

He’s never seen her like this.

And it terrifies him.

Because he knows her.

God, he knows her.

She’s the girl who stayed on the phone with him all night after Uncle Ben died. The one who stitched his suit the first time he came back bloody and shaking. The one who sat beside him in AP Bio and whispered “You’re doing great” during the pop quiz they both bombed. The one who used to say, softly, when the power flickered beneath her skin: “I’m not dangerous, Pete. I just feel too much.”

But now?

Now she’s glowing.

And she’s aiming at him.

“I never wanted to fight you,” Peter says, breathless, watching her approach.

Her boots crunch over broken pavement. Her face is calm. Her eyes are wreckage.

“We’re on the same side,” he says.

She stops walking.

“No,” she says quietly. “We never were.”

Peter shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“I just pretended for longer.”

The words hit harder than the blast.

Peter’s chest hollows out.

“You left.”

“I had to.”

“You could’ve told me—”

“You would’ve tried to stop me.”

“I would’ve followed you.”

She stares at him.

“You didn’t.”

The silence is deafening.

She steps closer. Every movement is sharp, deliberate, controlled—but there’s emotion under the surface, like her power isn’t the only thing threatening to spill over.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispers. “To be monitored. Restricted. Treated like you’re one breath away from turning into a weapon.”

“I never thought that about you,” Peter says. “Not once.”

“But you never said that.”

He flinches.

She keeps going.

“You stayed quiet. When my father locked me in a room. When they started calling me unstable. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t ask me anything.”

He tries to speak.

Fails.

Her eyes flick down to his lips.

And her voice breaks.

“You should’ve kissed me when you had the chance.”

The light pulses brighter than ever.

And then— She fires.

Point blank.

White light swallows everything.

The air howls.

Peter hits the ground hard, skidding across fractured pavement.

When he blinks through the static, the smoke—

She’s gone.

The silence afterward is sharp.

Like glass in his lungs.

Peter lies still on the cracked concrete, breath stuttering. His suit's scorched. His ears are ringing. The glow of her power still burns behind his eyelids, imprinting itself on him like a scar he’ll never shake.

His fingers twitch.

She’s gone.

Not just out of sight. Out of reach.