#tasm!peter fluff

You rouse enough to hiss when Peter brings a wet washcloth between your thighs. 

“Hey,” you say, almost scolding. It makes a laugh bubble up in Peter’s chest, which he generously swallows. 

“Sorry.” He tucks his grin inside your knee, kissing softly. “I’ll be quick.” 

He sweeps the cloth through your folds, and you hiss again, one leg coming up protectively as though you can’t help it. Now, Peter frowns. 

“Is it really that sensitive?” he asks you. 

He guesses he couldn’t blame you. You and Peter spent more time teasing each other tonight than you have in a while, and you weren’t exactly begging him to go easy on you. Your labia are as kiss-swollen as your mouth, maybe more.

The look you give him says you know he knows. “Yeah.” You heave a sigh, like speech is exhausting, your eyes drifting shut again. “I’m sore all over. Aren't you?” 

Peter is, but he also spends his free time doing acrobatics and heaving himself around by his arms. If he twinged a bit walking to the bathroom and back, he bets you’re feeling worse. 

He rubs over your hip consolingly. “Wanna take a bath?” 

You think on it for a while. You’re tempted, Peter can tell. “I don’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll carry you.” 

You hum somnolently. “Thanks, but you…” You fumble for Peter’s hand. When you find it, you squeeze his fingers, his sweetheart. Peter squeezes back. “You have to get up early for work.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.” He catches his voice softening, as if he’s trying not to disturb your sleep when really he’s trying to keep you awake. He doesn’t do anything to correct it. “I’ll have coffee either way. Let me give you a bath, pretty girl.” 

It’s a visible effort to open your eyes. You look at Peter like he hung the moon. “Sure?” 

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“You’d do that?” 

Peter groans, his head dropping to your leg. He lets his voice buzz against your skin. “Are you serious? God, I know you’re tired, but let’s use our brains for a second.” 

He picks his head up to take yours between his hands. You look slightly more awake than you were a moment ago. 

“I would do anything for you,” he says. “Got it?” 

Peter watches your surprise meld into a more startled kind of pleasure. He kisses it right off your lips. 

“Dramatic,” you accuse, settling back into your pillow as Peter stands to start your bath. 

“Good morning, baby.” you felt him whisper into your ear.

You let out a small yawn, smacking your lips.

“What time is it?” you cried trying to shove your head further into your pillow.

"Early," he said, his arms tightening around your waist.

"10 more minutes," you whined, before feeling a slight bulge resting on your thigh.

"Peter...are you hard?" you said fully opening your eyes and turning to face the man who was holding you.

He let out an awkward chuckle.

"He just has a mind of his own," Peter joked.

You playfully rolled your eyes and turned your body to face his.

“Does the morning breath do it for you?” you joked. Peter nodded his head.

“Everything about you does it for me baby,” he said seductively leaning in for a kiss.

You smile, turning your face so he kisses your cheek rather than your lips.

“Let me at least get the crusties out of my eyes and brush my teeth sir” you say untangling yourself from his body and standing up.

“Damn, so you’re just gonna leave him hanging?” he says as you walk to the bathroom connected to your room. You laugh, answering his question .

He kisses his teeth. Soon you reemerge with your toothbrush in your mouth.

“Peter, we’ve had sex almost everyday…more than once actually,” you say trying not to spit any toothpaste out of your mouth.

“Like I said…he’s got a mind of his own” Peter blushes.

You roll your eyes. You walk back into the bathroom to finish brushing your teeth. You soon feel the silhouette of your boyfriend press behind you, forcing your body into the sink.

“My turn,” he says leaning over you to grab his red and blue toothbrush. You slide over, giving him space to use the sink. In doing so, your arm accidentally brushes the caddy that holds your makeup brushes in it. Before you even have time to process that the caddy is about hit the ground, your boyfriend quickly slides his hands underneath it, not only catching the caddy but also catching any spare brushes that found their way out.

You sigh in relief.

“Talk about lightning reflexes, babe,” you say impressed. Peter lets out a nervous laugh. You slipped out of the bathroom to begin getting dressed for the day. You slipped one one your socks and began to think about breakfast.

“Oh babe! you know what would be really good right now?” you said excitedly.

“Hmm, blueberry pancakes from Martha’s?” Peter said, almost reading your mind.

“No—wait yes…how did you know that?” you asked surprised. After almost three years together you could admit Peter did know you almost better than you knew yourself, however he was still a man at the end of the day. He had never guessed your craving on the first try like that.

“Lucky guess,” he shrugs.

The two of you finished getting dressed and made your way to car to get breakfast.

While at breakfast, you and Peter shared a plate of blueberry pancakes and some eggs.

“How is everything?” your waitress asked making her rounds. She was clearly stressed as Martha’s seemed to be packed this morning. The waitress was balancing four glasses on a tray.

The two of you nodded and gave your thanks. She smiled and began to walk to the table behind you. As she stepped, she tripped over her foot flinging both herself and the tray towards the ground. In the blink of an eye, your boyfriend who was once in front of you was now standing behind the waitress. Peter had caught both the waitress and her tray and somehow managed to keep all the glasses steady.

“Oh my goodness, thank you!” the waitress exclaimed. Peter rubbed her shoulder and took his seat in front of you. Your jaw was still agape.

“Okay Peter, what the actual fuck is going on right now?” you said.

Peter pensively pursed his lips. “Let’s finish breakfast first,”

The two of you quickly finished breakfast and Peter guided you out to the car.

He began pacing in front of it.

“Okay, what are the odds that you’ll believe me right now?” he started.

“Well given the stuff I’ve seen today, I’ll believe anything,” you reply.

He takes a deep breath before he explains.

“Okay so a few weeks ago when my professor and I went to Oscorp for our research project…I kinda wandered off and ended up in this really weird room..”

“Okay and?”

“…and the room was full of this equipment and spider webs. I think I got bit by some kind of experimental spider and ever since then I’ve had like spider powers.” he finishes

“…Spider powers?” you say in complete disbelief.

“This is like the funniest thing I’ve heard all week Pete” you laugh. His face remains completely still.

“I’m not joking babe.” he says in a monotone voice.

“I know it sounds unreal, I didn’t believe either until I started getting this tingly feeling before something happens—like your makeup brushes or the waitress falling, or even knowing what your wanted to eat for once!”

You scrunched your face.

“and I’m a lot stronger now babe, I’m so hungry all the time, and i’m sure you’ve noticed my libido…”

You couldn’t deny his last statements.

“Okay, show me.” you said quietly.

“Show you what?” he said confused.

“Show me your ‘spider powers”

Peter sighed and walked over to the car and picked it up. You stood there with your jaw on the ground.

“Believe me now?” Peter said in a snarky tone. You nodded.

“So…what now?” you whispered.

“I don’t really know…I haven’t thought that far yet. I couldn’t even figure out how to tell you until now.” he says, his gaze focused on the ground.

“Well…I guess we’ll figure it out together then, Spiderman” you said reaching for his hand.

“Spiderman…I like the sound of that,” he said smiling

~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•~~•

Three weeks since he stopped sitting next to you in lecture. Three weeks since he stopped coming to your apartment after patrol, bleeding and apologetic, waiting for you to patch him up on your bathroom floor. Three weeks since he stopped answering your texts—not all at once, but slowly, like a faucet dripping dry. Can't make lunch. Rain check. Maybe next week. Then nothing.

You pass the tailor shop on 19th. The one with the old Italian man who always waves at you through the window. You remember the first time you walked past it with Peter, years ago, and you'd stopped to look at the sewing machines in the window. "I could do that," you'd said, meaning the careful stitching, the steady hands. And then, months later, you did—sitting on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, sewing his first Spider-Man suit by hand because he'd shown up at your window with a sketch on notebook paper and a desperate look in his eyes. Your fingers had bled from the needle. He'd apologized a hundred times. You'd told him to shut up and hold the fabric steady.

The Parker house appears at the end of the block. Porch light on. Garden overgrown the way it's been since Uncle Ben died—the rose bushes still blooming every summer even though no one tends them anymore. Flowers in the window boxes. Purple mums that refuse to die even as November closes in.

You stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Your hand goes to your pocket.

Family doesn't have to knock.

May had pressed the key into your palm with both hands, her fingers warm and dry. You'd cried. Peter had found you in the kitchen afterward and pulled you into a hug without saying anything. Held on until you stopped shaking.

The key turns in the lock.

The house is dark. May's knitting on the armchair—a half-finished scarf in deep blue wool. Peter's textbooks on the coffee table. A mug of cold coffee on the side table, half-drunk, abandoned. He always does that. Makes coffee, drinks half, gets distracted by something—a news alert, a text from Ned, an idea for a web fluid improvement—and forgets to finish it.

"Peter?"

Nothing.

You climb the stairs. The fourth step creaks—it's always creaked. You remember the first time you stayed over, years ago, and Peter warned you about it so you wouldn't wake May. You'd stepped on it anyway. May had called out, "Is that you, Y/N?" and you'd frozen like a deer in headlights, and Peter had laughed so hard he nearly fell down the stairs.

Photographs on the wall. Peter as a baby, gap-toothed and grinning. Peter and Uncle Ben on a fishing trip, both sunburned and happy. Peter at graduation, cap slightly askew, May beaming beside him with tears in her eyes.

There's a photo of you, too. Sixteen years old, at the science fair, holding the second-place trophy. His arm around your shoulders. Your arm around his waist. You look happy. You were happy.

His door is closed. You push it open.

The room is exactly the same. Textbooks piled on the desk. Periodic Table poster slightly crooked—it fell down last year and neither of you could find the tape. The science fair trophy still dusty on the bookshelf. You keep meaning to dust it. You keep not doing it.

The photo on his nightstand: you and him, sixteen, grinning.

You sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under your weight, familiar and creaking.

You've sat here a hundred times. While he ranted about exams—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his lamp. While he stressed about patrol—some new villain, some close call, some innocent person he couldn't save. While he grieved Uncle Ben, and you held his hand in the dark, and you didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.

While he talked about Gwen—nervous at first, fumbling over his words, asking you if you thought she might like him back. Then later, excited, telling you about their first date, their first kiss. You'd smiled. You'd been supportive. You'd pretended your heart wasn't breaking, because that's what best friends did. They showed up. They were happy for each other. Even when it hurt.

Now you sit here alone, in the dark, waiting for someone who might not want to be found.

The anger rises. Hot and sharp. You've been carrying it for three weeks, letting it simmer, and now it's bubbling over.

You don't get to disappear. You don't get to decide I'm not worth an explanation. I've cleaned blood off your skin and sewn up your suits. I've lied for you. Covered for you. Stayed up until dawn waiting for you to come home.

I've earned more than your silence.

Peter is so fucked when he gets home.

And then the window explodes.

Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the floor—books rattling on the shelves, trophy wobbling, the photo on his nightstand toppling over.

You're on your feet before you can think.

His suit is shredded. Not torn—shredded. Red and blue fabric hanging in ribbons, soaked through with blood that looks black in the dim light. The spider emblem on his chest barely visible anymore. His mask is gone. His face is a mess of bruises—one eye swollen nearly shut, skin purple and black. A gash across his forehead still bleeding, blood dripping into his eye. His lip split and swollen. Blood dripping off his chin onto the floor, mixing with shattered glass.

His ribs are exposed where the suit has been ripped away—dark purple bruises spreading like spilled wine. His chest is a mess of cuts and scrapes and deeper wounds. One shoulder sits wrong. Dislocated. The joint angled in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hands are scraped raw, knuckles bloody and swollen, fingers trembling.

He tries to stand. Gets to his knees. Collapses. Catches himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over textbooks. The half-empty mug shatters on the floor.

He looks up. Sees you.

His face drops.

"What are you—you shouldn't be here."

You don't answer. Every rehearsed speech—gone. Nothing in your head but static.

You grab the first aid kit from under his bed.

You put it there years ago. After the third time he showed up at your window with injuries he'd tried to hide. A black eye from "falling down the stairs." A knife wound from "a broken bottle." You'd seen through every lie. Stocked the kit yourself—gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers, bandages in three sizes. Made him promise to use it.

The kit is still full. He hasn't touched it. He is an idiot who hasn't taken any care of himself.

Your hands shake. You don't let them stop.

"Y/N, stop. You need to leave. You shouldn't be here—"

You ignore him. Antiseptic. Gauze. Tape. Lined up on his nightstand with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times.

"—it's not safe, if someone saw you come here, if they followed you—"

You haul him up. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. You get him to the edge of the bed. Push him down.

"—please, I can handle this myself—"

"You can't even fucking stand."

You cut away what's left of his suit. The fabric comes away in strips, stiff with dried blood. His chest is a mess—fresh bruises, a gash along his side still bleeding, older scars you've memorized over years of patching him up. The one on his ribs you stitched two years ago. The burn on his shoulder. The thin white line on his forearm from his first year as Spider-Man.

There's too much blood. Too much dirt. You can't see what you're doing.

"You need a bath." you mumble.

"What?"

"You're covered in blood. I can't see the wounds. You need to get in the bath."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." You grab his good arm and sling it over your shoulder. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. His skin is slick with blood and sweat, and his fingers grip your shoulder with a desperation that tells you he's in more pain than he's letting on. "Can you walk?"

"...Maybe."

"That's not a yes."

"It's not a no either."

"Peter."

"I can walk. Just—just go slow."

You guide him down the hall. It's slow going—his legs are unsteady, and every few steps he falters, his weight pressing into your side. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the damp of blood soaking into your sleeve. You don't care. You've had his blood on you before. You'll have it on you again.

The bathroom is small—pink tile from the 1950s, a clawfoot tub that's probably older than Aunt May, lavender soap on the sink that she buys from the organic market on 19th. You lower him onto the closed toilet seat. He sits heavily, his head drooping, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You with me?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm here."

"Don't pass out."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"mhm I doubt it."

You turn on the tap. The pipes groan—they always groan, this old house, nothing works the way it should—and then water thunders into the tub. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, filling the small room with warmth. You test the temperature with your wrist the way May taught you years ago. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right for damaged skin.

"Arms up."

He obeys, wincing as he lifts his good arm. His bad arm doesn't move at all—the dislocated shoulder keeps it pinned to his side. You peel the rest of the ruined suit off him. The fabric sticks to his skin, glued there by dried blood, and you have to work it loose with careful fingers. Down his arms. Over his chest. You have to kneel to get it past his hips, down his legs, over his feet. The suit comes away in pieces, leaving dark red stains on your hands.

He's in nothing but his boxers now.

You don't look. You're not looking. You're focused on the wounds—the gash on his side that's still oozing blood, the way his breathing is too shallow, the way he's shivering even though the bathroom is warm with steam. You catalog each injury with clinical precision. The laceration on his ribs. The bruising across his abdomen. The swelling around his eye. The dislocated shoulder. You've done this a hundred times. You know how to shut off the part of your brain that sees Peter and turn on the part that sees a patient.

But it's harder tonight. It's always been hard, but tonight it's harder.

"Get in the tub."

He pushes himself up with his good arm. His legs shake. You take his elbow—steady him—and he steps into the water. One foot, then the other. Then he sinks down, slowly, painfully, his body disappearing beneath the surface. The water turns pink immediately, then red, then a deep, murky crimson. He hisses as the heat hits his wounds, his jaw clenching, his good hand gripping the edge of the tub.

"Breathe," you say.

"I'm breathing."

"Breathe slower."

"I'm—" He takes a shaky breath. Lets it out. "I'm trying."

His head falls back against the rim of the tub. His throat is exposed—long and pale and vulnerable. You can see his pulse beating there, too fast, a frantic rhythm under his skin. His eyes close. His chest rises and falls. The water ripples with each breath.

You kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold and hard against your knees. You grab a washcloth from the rack—one of the soft ones, the ones May keeps for guests—and dip it in the water.

Start with his face.

Gentle here. Gentler than you've been all night. You dab at the cut on his forehead, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the wound underneath. It's not as deep as it looked. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. You clean it carefully, your touch feather-light, and he doesn't open his eyes but his breathing steadies. His jaw unclenches. The tension in his shoulders—the good one, at least—starts to ease.

You move the washcloth down his cheek. Wipe away the blood that dripped from his forehead. Clean the swelling around his eye—careful, so careful, because the skin there is tender and purple and painful-looking. The washcloth comes away red. You rinse it in the water. The water swirls with color.

"How long," you ask quietly, "since you took care of yourself?"

He doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.

You move to his chest. The washcloth trails over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse still flutters too fast. Over his shoulders—the good one, then the bad one, as gently as you can manage. Down the planes of his chest, through the smears of dried blood and dirt and sweat. You're thorough. Methodical. You've done this before.

But you've never done it like this. You've never done it in a clawfoot tub in the Parker house with steam fogging the mirror and his breath the only sound in the room. You've never done it after three weeks of silence. You've never done it with your heart in your throat and your hands trembling and his blood still drying under your fingernails.

You're not thinking about his body. You're not thinking about the way his muscles shift under your hands, the way his skin feels warm and slick and alive. You're not thinking about the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waterline, or the way his stomach tenses when your fingers brush a particularly sensitive bruise.

You're not.

"Sorry," you murmur, as he flinches.

"Don't—don't apologize." His voice is rough. "You shouldn't even be here."

"And you should be letting me help."

"I was trying—"

"Lean forward."

He hesitates. Then he obeys, shifting in the water, his back emerging from the pink-tinged surface. You move the washcloth across his shoulder blades, and your breath catches in your throat.

His back is worse than his chest. Deep purple bruises spread across his shoulder blades like spilled ink. A long scrape runs from his spine to his ribs—not deep enough for stitches, but painful-looking. The muscles are knotted with tension, even now, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. You've seen him shirtless before. You've seen him injured before. But you've never seen him like this—bared and vulnerable and completely, utterly still under your hands.

You clean the bruises gently. Your fingers trace the curve of his spine, checking for injuries you might have missed, feeling each vertebra, each rib, each shift of muscle under skin. The water laps against his waist. The steam curls around your face.

He shivers.

"Cold?" you ask.

"No."

"Then what?"

"...Nothing. I don't—nothing."

You don't push. You work your way down his back, then his arms—the good one first, then the bad one, as carefully as you can manage with the shoulder still out of place. The water has gone lukewarm now, the heat fading. The blood has washed away, revealing the full extent of the damage—bruises spreading like watercolor across his ribs, the edges already fading from purple to green as his accelerated healing kicks in. Cuts that are already starting to close. Scrapes that will be gone by morning.

He'll be fine. He's always fine. That's the problem.

"Time to get out."

He stands. Water sluices off his body, running in rivulets down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His boxers cling to him, soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grab a towel from the rack—the biggest one you can find, soft and worn from years of use—and wrap it around his shoulders.

Your fingers brush his chest. Accidentally. Barely a graze of knuckles against damp skin.

His breath catches.

Your eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see something flicker in his gaze—something raw and unguarded and terrified.

You look away first.

"Bedroom," you say. "Now."

He limps back, leaning on you, his good arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressing into your side with every unsteady step. The hallway seems longer than it used to be—or maybe that's just the exhaustion, the adrenaline fading, the three weeks of silence and the past hour of chaos catching up with you both at once. His bare feet drag on the floor. His breath is warm against your hair. You can feel his pulse through his skin where his arm rests against your neck—still too fast, still racing from the fight and the pain and whatever he's not saying.

You lower him onto the mattress. He sinks into it with a grunt, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed, his bad arm hanging useless at his side. The sheets are still tangled from this morning—or yesterday morning, or whenever he last slept in this bed. You don't know. You weren't here. You haven't been here for three weeks.

The sheets will get bloody. You don't care. You've washed blood out of his sheets before—more times than you can count, actually. There's a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the bathroom sink specifically for that purpose. You're the one who put it there.

You start wrapping his ribs.

Your arms reach around him, passing the bandage from hand to hand, your knuckles brushing his back with every rotation. The bandage is white against his skin, stark and clean, and you wrap it tight—tight enough to support, loose enough to let him breathe. You've done this before. You know the right tension by heart.

He's warm. He's solid. He's so close you can smell the lavender soap from the bath, the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingers, the something-else that's just him—the scent you've never been able to name but have always recognized. His breath is warm on your neck every time you lean close, and it hitches slightly every time your fingers brush bare skin. You can feel his eye on you, tracking your movements, watching your face. Neither of you speaks.

This is when you notice it.

Now that the blood is gone. Now that the dirt and grime have been washed away. Now that you know he's going to be okay—that the cuts are already closing, that the bruises are already fading at the edges, that he's not going to bleed out on his bedroom floor. Now that the fear has subsided and the adrenaline has faded and you're just a girl wrapping bandages around a boy she's known for seven years.

Now you notice.

The way his shoulders taper to his waist. The lean definition of muscle in his arms—even bruised, even battered, even with one shoulder still sitting wrong. The way his stomach tenses under your hands every time you tighten the bandage, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. The trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel still wrapped around his hips. The way his jaw looks in profile—sharp and strong and dusted with stubble he hasn't shaved in days.

You've seen him a thousand times. You've patched him up more times than you can count. You've seen him shirtless and bleeding and broken. But you've never let yourself really look before. You've never let yourself notice the way your pulse picks up when you're close to him. You've never let yourself acknowledge that the heat pooling in your stomach isn't just concern.

You look now.

You can't help it. After everything—the fight, the fear, the three weeks of silence, the confession that's still hanging in the air between you—you can't keep pretending you don't see him. All of him. The way you've always seen him.

He catches you.

His eye meets yours. His gaze is steady, unblinking, even with the other eye swollen nearly shut. There's something in his expression—something raw and unguarded and a little bit terrified. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he's seeing you see him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.

"...What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm checking your bandages."

"You've been checking the same bandage for like a minute." His voice is rough, but there's something underneath it—something almost teasing, almost familiar. Almost like the Peter you knew before he disappeared.

"I'm being thorough."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are. Your ears are doing that thing."

"My ears don't do a thing."

"They do. They always have." He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs, but his eye doesn't leave your face. "They go all pink. First the tips, then the whole ear. It's how I know you're lying. They've done it since we were 17. Remember that time you told Smith you'd finished your essay on Shakespeare and your ears gave you away?"

"That was one time."

"It was at least four times. I kept count."

"Of course you did."

"I remember things." His voice softens. "About you. I always have."

The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy. You're still holding the bandage. Your hands are still resting against his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady now, no longer racing.

"Focus on your injuries," you say.

"I'd rather focus on—"

"Peter I will slap you."

"Sorry."

You finish wrapping his ribs in silence. Your movements are efficient, practiced, but your hands are trembling slightly. You hope he doesn't notice. He notices everything but maybe, for once, he'll pretend he doesn't.

The gash on his side is clean and closed. The bandages are secure. All that's left is the shoulder.

You step back. Take a breath. Look at him—really look at him—sitting on the edge of his bed with his ribs wrapped and his arm hanging useless and his one good eye fixed on your face.

"It's dislocated."

"...Yeah."

"I'm putting it back."

"...Do it."

"Just like that? Do it?"

"What do you want me to say?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "What do you want? I'm trying—I've been trying all night—I don't know what you want from me."

"Anything! Something! You've been silent for three weeks, and now you're just—just sitting there like—"

"Like what?"

"Like this is normal! Like you crashing through windows and bleeding everywhere and pushing me away is just something I should accept!"

"I'm not asking you to accept it." He stands up—too fast, his ribs protesting, his face going pale. He sways on his feet but doesn't sit back down. "I'm asking you to reset my shoulder. That's all. Just—reset my shoulder, and then you can yell at me all you want."

"You think this is about yelling at you?"

"I think you're angry, and you have every right to be. So be angry. Shout. Throw things. I don't care." He gestures at his shoulder, frustration twisting his features. "But I can't—I can't think straight with this thing. I can't give you what you want when I can barely stand up."

"What I want is for you to stop running."

"I'm not running. I'm right here."

"For now. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about the next time some villain decides to use me to get to you?"

"I don't—"

"You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know, and instead of figuring it out together, you just—you left. You decided for both of us."

"Because I was scared!"

"You keep saying that! You keep saying you were scared, like that makes it okay!"

"It doesn't make it okay! Nothing about this is okay!" He's shouting now, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "I know it's not okay. I've known it's not okay since the moment I stopped answering your texts. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't know what else to do. Every time I try to—to let someone in—"

"You push them away first."

"...Yes."

"That's not protection. That's cowardice."

"I know." His voice drops. "I know what it is. I've always known."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"Because I don't know how to stop!" He turns away from you—stumbles, really, his bad shoulder throwing off his balance—and braces his good hand against the wall. His back is to you now. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid, the way his head is bowed. "I don't know how to stop being scared. I've been scared since the day I got bitten. Scared of what I can do. Scared of what I can't do. Scared of losing people. And you—you're the person I'm most scared of losing. So I thought—I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less. If I was the one who left, I wouldn't have to watch you leave."

"I wasn't going to leave."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." You step closer—close enough to touch him, but you don't. Not yet. "I've been here for years, Peter. Through everything. Through the bite, through Ben, through Gwen, through every disaster this city has thrown at you. I've never left. I've never even thought about leaving."

"That doesn't mean you won't."

"It does, actually. It means exactly that." Your voice softens. "I'm not going anywhere. I've never been going anywhere. But you have to let me stay. You have to stop making decisions for me. You have to trust me enough to let me choose."

He turns. His eye meets yours. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable and terrified.

"How?" he whispers. "How do I do that?"

"I don't know. But we figure it out together. That's the point."

Silence.

"Your shoulder," you say. "Sit down. Let me fix it."

He hesitates. Then he nods—just once—and lowers himself back onto the bed. You move to stand in front of him, positioning your hands on his shoulder. The joint is swollen and wrong under your palms, the bones misaligned. You've read about how to do this. You've never actually done it before.

You pause. Look at him.

"I helped you sew your first suit."

He looks up, confused. "What?"

"We stayed up until four in the morning. My fingers were bleeding from the needle. You kept apologizing, and I kept telling you to shut up." You hold his gaze. "Did you really think I didn't know what I was choosing?"

His expression cracks. His hand comes up—hesitates for just a moment—then rests on your hip. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your jeans. "...No. I guess I didn't."

"On three. One—"

You do it on two.

The joint slides back into place with a sickening pop. He cries out—a raw, broken sound that tears from his throat before he can stop it—and his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His forehead drops to your stomach. His whole body shakes. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot through the fabric of your shirt.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"It's done."

"That—" He takes a shaky breath. Another. "That hurt more than the fight."

"Deserved."

He laughs—wet, broken, muffled against your shirt. It's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone who's been holding everything in for too long and has finally run out of strength to keep doing it. His hand is still on your hip. His forehead is still pressed against your stomach. You can feel his breath through the fabric, warm and ragged, and the faint tremor that runs through his body every few seconds.

"You're still holding onto me," you say.

"...Yeah."

"Are you going to let go?"

"...I don't want to."

His hand tightens. His thumb traces a small circle on the fabric of your jeans—an absent, unconscious gesture, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Neither of you speaks. The silence is different now. Less angry. Less charged. Something softer.

"I love you," he says. His voice is muffled against your shirt, barely audible.

He lifts his head. His eye meets yours. And despite everything—the blood, the bruises, the broken window, the three weeks of silence, the argument that's still echoing off the walls—he smiles. A real smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger. The one you've loved since you were fifteen years old, even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.

He's still holding onto your hip. You're still standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to count his eyelashes. The room is quiet. The broken window lets in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city—a siren, a car horn, the rumble of the subway. The photo on his nightstand is still toppled over. The glass is still swept into a pile in the corner.

None of it matters.

"I love you too" you say. "In case that wasn't clear."

"It was clear. It was very clear."

He kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's not the kind of kiss you imagine when you let yourself imagine this—which you have, God, you have, more times than you'd ever admit. Those imaginary kisses were soft. Tentative. The kind of first kiss that happens after a confession, after years of waiting, after everything finally falls into place.

This is not that.

This is desperate. This is his good hand fisting in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you closer, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. This is his split lip catching on yours, rough and swollen, and the faint copper taste of blood on his mouth. This is his breath—ragged, uneven, half a sob caught in his throat—mixing with yours.

He kisses like he's drowning. Like you're air. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks—for years—and he's finally, finally letting himself breathe.

His hand slides from your shirt to your jaw, his fingers trembling. They're cold. They're always cold after a fight, after the adrenaline fades and his body remembers it's supposed to be in shock. But his palm is warm against your cheek, and his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like he's memorizing it, like he's been wanting to do this for so long he doesn't know where to start.

You lean into him, careful—so careful—of his ribs, his shoulder, the bruises spreading across his chest like spilled watercolor. Your hands find his face, your fingers brushing the edge of his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead, the stubble along his jaw. He flinches—not from pain, but from the gentleness. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like no one's ever touched him like this before.

His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your jaw, still trembling.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Stop."

"I can't—"

"Stop apologizing."

"I don't know how else to—"

"Then don't. Just—" You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Your lips brush his, and you feel him exhale—a shaky, broken sound—and his hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you back like you're the only thing holding him together.

An hour has passed.

You've swept up the broken glass. Found an old board in the garage to cover the window—you'll fix it properly tomorrow. You've made tea, your hands moving on autopilot, reaching for the mugs you've always used. The blue one with the chip in the handle is yours. Peter's is the red one with Minnie Mouse on it.

Peter is in bed. His ribs are wrapped. His shoulder is back in place. The bruises are already fading to yellow-green. He's been watching you move around the room.

"You should sleep," he says.

"I'm not tired."

"You've been up all night."

"So have you."

"I have accelerated healing. What's your excuse?"

"Do I really need one?"

You set down your mug. Walk over to the bed. He shifts to make room for you, wincing, and you climb in beside him. His head finds the curve of your shoulder. His arm drapes across your waist. His fingers find the sleeve of your hoodie—the one he left at your apartment last year, the one you never gave back.

"You kept it," he murmurs.

"Of course I kept it."

"It's been like a year."

"It smells like you."

"...That's either really sweet or really creepy."

"Shut up."

"Much more creepy than it is sweet though"

You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the sound fills the quiet room. The sun is starting to rise outside the broken window—pale grey light creeping over the rooftops of Queens.

"I love you," he says, already half-asleep.

"I know."

"The fuck is 'I know'? you have to say it back."

"I love you too, maybe" you smirk

"...Good. I can work with a maybe temporarily."

His eyes close. His breathing evens out. His hand relaxes on your sleeve.

"Still here," you murmur. "Not going anywhere."

His brow smooths. His grip relaxes.

You stay exactly where you are.

The shop smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, the kind of cozy sweetness that clung to the air and made you want to curl up in it. But despite the warmth, it was quiet—too quiet. The display case gleamed with neat rows of cookies and cupcakes, each one perfectly frosted, waiting for customers that never seemed to come. The only real noise was the steady tick of the clock above the door, its rhythm filling the stillness until you finally let out a sigh and dropped onto a stool behind the counter.

Peter was there, like always. Perched on the counter with his sneakers dangling, he looked perfectly at home in a place he definitely wasn’t supposed to be sitting. He was already halfway through the sample tray you had set out that morning, his fingers dusted with crumbs, a smudge of chocolate caught near his thumb.

“These are delicious,” he said around a mouthful of brownie, words muffled but full of conviction.

You lifted your head just enough to give him a look, part amusement, part exasperation. “Peter, you say that about everything.”

“Because it’s true!” His whole face brightened as he turned toward you, holding up the brownie like he was swearing it in as evidence. His grin was boyish, infectious, a little crooked in the way that made your chest ache if you looked too long.

“Then why hasn’t anyone stopped by?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to, fragile around the edges. You traced the worn grooves of the counter with your fingertip, the sugar in the air suddenly too heavy. “If they’re so good, why haven’t I sold a single thing?”

For once, Peter didn’t have a quick reply. He swallowed, and the teasing curve of his mouth eased into something quieter, his eyes softening in a way that made the moment feel suddenly still.

You turned away quickly, not wanting him to notice too much, but your thoughts had already begun their spiral. The silence pressed in, and in its weight, those old voices began to stir again.

A bakery? What about college? your parents had asked, the lines of worry etching deeper with every word. You need a degree. A steady path. School first, dreams later. Otherwise… it’s not going to last.

They hadn’t understood why the idea of classrooms and lecture halls felt so hollow compared to the warmth of a kitchen, the hum of ovens, the smell of sugar melting into butter. Why the thought of baking for people—of creating something sweet enough to carry them through the hardest days—felt more important than any syllabus ever could.

Still, their doubts lingered. They always came back when you locked up early, when trays of untouched pastries stared back at you like unfinished promises, when the bell above the door stayed silent no matter how long you waited.

Peter had been one of the few who never questioned you. He was there from the beginning—scribbling logo sketches on napkins at a crowded coffee shop, leaning over your notebook with a grin and far too many opinions. He taste-tested your recipes until he was practically living on sugar, and he never stopped telling you it wasn’t crazy to chase what you loved.

At the time, it had seemed like the right move.

But now?

You stared at the cupcakes behind the glass, the frosting catching the light in perfect little swirls. Then your gaze slid to the “OPEN” sign in the window, and for a moment, it almost felt like the quiet itself was taunting you.

“Maybe this was a mistake.” The words came out before you could pull them back, too quiet, too heavy.

“Hey. Don’t say that.”

Peter’s voice cut through immediately, low but certain. He pushed himself upright from where he’d been sitting on the counter, sneakers squeaking as he shifted to face you fully.

“You’ve worked too hard for this to be a mistake,” he said, and though his eyes were soft, there was something firm beneath them—like he needed you to believe it as much as he did. “It’s just… a rough patch. Everyone has those. Besides—” his lips tugged into that smile you knew too well, “—you make the best brownies in New York. I swear.”

Before you could argue, he snagged the last brownie square from the tray of samples and leaned across the counter, holding it out to you.

“I know what my brownies taste like, Peter,” you said, aiming for stern but the warmth in your voice gave you away

He didn’t back down. Instead, he leaned closer, nudging the bite toward you until it hovered just shy of your lips. His brows lifted, wordless challenge written across his face: go on, prove me wrong.

You caved with a roll of your eyes, a reluctant smile slipping through despite yourself. Your fingers grazed his as you took the brownie and popped it into your mouth. The rich chocolate melted across your tongue, and a quiet hum escaped before you could stop it. 

Peter’s expression lit up like he’d just won the lottery. He leaned away, the corner of his mouth curving with a satisfied little smirk.

“Now tell me that isn’t the best brownie you’ve ever had,” he challenged, smugness woven into every word.

You tried to fight it, but laughter broke through, bubbling out of you until you had to press a hand against your mouth. 

“Exactly.” Peter pointed at you with mock triumph, grinning wide. “Honestly, you could give any bakery in Queens a run for their money. Probably the whole East Coast.”

You shook your head, another laugh slipping free. “Okay. Now you’re pushing it.”

“Maybe. But I’m right.” His smirk softened into something steadier, a smile that felt quieter, almost like it was meant just for you.

He knew it wasn’t a cure-all, not yet. The doubts would circle back, maybe even tomorrow. But right now, you were laughing again—and for Peter, that was just step one.

The next morning unfolded in its usual routine. You flipped the sign to OPEN, set a plate of samples by the door, tied your apron, and settled behind the counter to wait.

Outside, the city flowed past in waves—people rushing with coffee cups, coats brushing against each other, not a glance spared for your window. You used to lift your head at every passing shadow, hopeful, but that habit had faded. You knew better now.

The clock ticked in steady rhythm, the sound stretching each second longer than the last. The hours crawled, weighed down by the same silence that had become a little too familiar for your liking. 

And then—

The bells above the door rang out.

The chime shattered the stillness, sharp and bright. You nearly jumped, heart leaping so suddenly it left your hands trembling against the counter.

Someone had actually come in.

But it wasn’t the sound that stunned you.

Your gaze lifted, and the sight froze you where you stood.

Red and blue filled the doorway, sunlight glinting off web patterns stretched over broad shoulders.

Before you knew it, your mouth had parted, the word tumbling out in disbelief.

“…Spider-Man?”

He stood framed in the morning light, the suit impossibly bright against the muted colors of your shop. The door clicked shut behind him, and then—like this was the most natural thing in the world—he strolled up to the counter.

“Morning!” His voice was cheerful, muffled through the mask but somehow still carrying that unmistakable warmth. “So, uh, I’ll take… let’s see…” He tilted his head as if studying the display case with the same focus he gave the city. “A dozen cookies. A batch of brownies. Oh—and cupcakes. Gotta have cupcakes.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “What?”

Leaning casually against the counter, he dropped his voice a notch, like he was letting you in on a secret. “Big day in the city. Lots of crime to fight. Figured I’d stock up.”

Your mind couldn’t catch up, but your hands didn’t seem to care—boxing baked goods, stacking cookies, moving on autopilot. Every time you looked up, it only got stranger: Spider-Man, in your bakery, debating cupcake flavors like this was a normal Saturday for him.

By the time you rang him up, it still didn’t feel real. He stood there with cash in hand, tapping his gloved fingers lightly against the counter, calm as ever.

The bell chimed again when he left, the door shutting behind him as he disappeared into the rush of morning traffic, carrying the scent of sugar with him.

It hit you then, so fast you almost forgot to breathe.

Your first real customer—your first real sale—was Spider-Man.

You almost laughed out loud. Surely that would be the strangest thing to happen this week. Maybe this month.

But while you stood frozen behind the counter, still reeling from the sight of him walking out with pink boxes stacked in his arms, Spider-Man already had the rest of his plan in motion:

Step two.

The city roared beneath Peter as he swung high between skyscrapers, the boxes secured to his back with a neat band of webbing. He wasn’t chasing criminals today—not exactly. His mission was sweeter.

He landed on the edge of a crowded street, springing lightly to the pavement and pulling out one of the boxes with a flourish. “Fresh from the best bakery in Queens—actually, scratch that—the best in New York,” he said, tone teasing but proud. 

Heads turned, phones lifted, but his grin was for the two wide-eyed kids nearest him. He pressed cookies into their small hands, crouching until he was eye level. Chocolate smeared instantly across their smiles, and Peter leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Be sure to stop in and tell her who sent you.”

Their eager nods made his chest ache in the best way.

The rest of the day unfolded like that. Spider-Man became less of a crime fighter and more of a one-man delivery service, swinging across blocks with boxes tucked under his arm. He handed cupcakes to a delivery guy juggling too many packages, slipped a cookie to a tired nurse waiting at the bus stop, and even traded a brownie for a balloon just to make a little girl laugh. 

Each time, he said it like a promise:

“Go check out the bakery. Best in Queens. And don’t just eat—tell her.”

Word spread fast, faster than any sugar rush, but the city never stayed quiet for long. Peter was working through the last box when the wail of a store alarm cut through the street. His head snapped up just in time to see two men sprint past with bags banging against their legs. He sighed, set the box carefully on the curb, and vaulted upward.

Two web zips and a quick thwip later, the thieves were dangling upside down from a lamppost, muttering curses while a small crowd clapped. The cops arrived moments later, and Spider-Man snagged the waiting box before they could thank him.

“Donuts? Nah,” he said, pressing the brownies into one officer’s hands like it was standard procedure. “You need these. Trust me—way better.”

By late afternoon, only crumbs clung to his gloves. He stood on a fire escape above the street, the city humming beneath him, bathed in gold. He thought about how many smiles those boxes had sparked, how many strangers were walking away today with chocolate on their tongues and your bakery’s name on their lips.

A small group of teens spotted him from below, waving and shouting his name. He leaned against the railing, grinning behind the mask.

“Alright, guys,” he called, voice carrying over the traffic. “You know the drill. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Then go tell her. She’s the real hero.”

Their cheers followed him as he stepped onto the railing, fired a webline, and launched himself back into the city, the last light of day trailing after him.

Step two was done. Now all he had to do was wait.

Back at the bakery, the evening crept in as you stood to close up. The silence after Spider-Man left pressed in on you like nothing had even happened. No new customers. No rush. Just you behind the counter, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the too-neat rows of untouched sweets still gleaming beneath the glass.

You reached for the sign on the door, fingers brushing the cool edge as you flipped it to CLOSED. 

A laugh slipped out, thinner than you intended, echoing in the empty shop. “Of course my only customer today was Spider-Man. Figures.”

You tried to play it off with a shrug, but the sting was still there, sharp beneath the joke.

The next morning, you unlocked the shop with a sigh, already bracing for another long, empty day. The bell jingled dully as you stepped inside. You flicked on the TV for background noise, tied your apron with slow, practiced movements, and began arranging the day’s samples.

Your phone buzzed.

Then buzzed again.

And again.

You frowned, wiping your hands before pulling it from your pocket. The screen lit up in a storm of notifications. Mentions. Tags. DMs piling so fast you couldn’t keep up. Videos and photos filled your feed, all of one subject.

Spider-Man.

Your breath caught as you scrolled.

There he was, swinging through Queens with your bakery boxes strapped to his back, sunlight glinting off the webbing that held them secure. Another clip showed him crouched low, handing out cookies to a pair of kids who clutched them like prized trophies. The comments rolled in beneath, relentless and dizzying:

“Is THIS the shop Spider-Man was talking about???”

“Going here today. Who’s coming with me?”

“Spider-Man approved!!”

Your hands trembled as you kept scrolling, pulse racing faster with every new post. The flood of comments blurred before your eyes, excitement bubbling off the screen so quickly you could hardly breathe. 

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

And then—

The Bugle Segment.

The TV screen cut sharply to J. Jonah Jameson, already mid-rant on the Daily Bugle's live broadcast. His face was a blotchy shade of red, mustache bristling like it might leap off his lip at any second.

“Spider-Man—menace, criminal, sugar dealer apparently—was spotted yesterday handing out baked goods across the city like some kind of Willy Wonka in spandex!”

He punctuated the words by slamming a fist down on the desk, papers jumping with the impact. In his other hand, though—completely undermining the tirade—was one of your cupcakes, the wrapper peeled back to the base.

He took a massive bite, frosting smearing across his lip, and barreled on without pausing to swallow.

“Disgusting PR stunt—mmph—he’s corrupting the youth with sugar highs—” another furious chomp, crumbs scattering down his tie “—what kind of vigilante bribes cops with brownies?! Criminal, I tell you!”

The chyron blazed across the bottom of the screen, impossible to miss:

“Spider-Man Promotes Local Business.”

And beneath it, bold and clear, was your bakery’s name.

The chime above the door was the only thing that tore your eyes from the TV—and it didn’t stop. Another followed, then another. People were actually lining up.

Before you knew it, the shop was alive in a way you’d only ever imagined. People filled every inch of space, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls as you scrambled to keep up. Cupcakes vanished from trays faster than you could frost them, cookie boxes stacked high behind the counter, the register dinging over and over.

You rushed between shelves, apron dusted in flour and sugar, trying to keep pace with the flood of orders. A dozen cookies here, brownies there, three cupcakes with sprinkles—it was hectic, exhausting, and yet your cheeks ached from smiling.

You barely noticed the bell this time, too caught up in the rhythm of it all—until a familiar voice cut through the chaos, warm and teasing.

“Busy day?”

Your head snapped up so quickly you nearly dropped the box in your hands.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, hair mussed, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked completely casual, like he hadn’t just missed an entire day of classes, like he hadn’t been suspiciously absent through all the madness.

“Peter.” His name left your lips on a breath, equal parts relief and confusion.

He glanced at the crowded shop, then back at you, a faint smile forming. “Guess I picked the wrong day to skip the free samples, huh?”

You laughed, soft and incredulous, the sound catching in your throat as you filled another box with cupcakes. He grinned wider at that, but there was something softer beneath it—something steady and quiet, like he knew exactly what this moment meant to you.

“Want an extra hand?”

“Yeah. Please.” It came out breathless, caught somewhere between helpless and thankful.

He didn’t hesitate. Tossing his bag into the corner, he slipped behind the counter like he belonged there, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the first box without a second thought.

Even with Peter at your side, the rush didn’t slow. The bell above the door rang endlessly. Orders piled high on the counter. Voices overlapped in waves, the shop buzzing with more life than you’d ever seen.

Between two orders, you darted toward the back to grab more boxes, squeezing past a group of teenagers debating whether to get one cupcake or six. 

Just as your hand reached for the swinging door, you felt a small tug on your sleeve.

You turned, blinking.

A little boy, no older than six, stood in front of you with a brownie clutched tight in one hand. Chocolate smudged the corner of his mouth, his other hand still loosely holding onto your sleeve like he didn’t want you to miss what he had to say. 

“Spider-Man said you make the best brownies in New York, so it has to be true!” he declared proudly, voice piping above the chatter.

Everything around you softened.

The laughter. The lines. The constant ding of the register. For a moment, it all blurred at the edges. All you could see was him, and the chocolate on his smile, and the way your heart gave a quiet, aching twist at his words.

You smiled down at him, warm and full and maybe a little glassy-eyed. “He said that?”

The boy nodded, like there was never any doubt.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it could actually be true.

By the next hour, you were completely sold out. Every brownie, every cookie, every cupcake—gone. Only a few stray crumbs lingered in the trays, quiet proof that something sweet had been there at all. The last customer waved on their way out, calling over their shoulder with a cheerful promise to return tomorrow.

You crossed to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and this time the motion came with a smile, wide and certain, stretching all the way to your eyes.

When you turned, Peter was there, leaning against the counter, peeling the wrapper from a cupcake he’d clearly saved for himself. He caught your stare and smirked, lifting the cupcake like he was toasting the end of a long shift.

“Well, I’d say that was a pretty successful day,” he said, voice warm with amusement.

Your laugh came quick, loud and full, echoing across the now-empty shop. “Yeah. It was.”

The laughter faded, your smile faltering just a little.

“What?” Peter asked, pausing mid-bite, his brow creasing.

You shook your head, brushing your hands on your apron. “Nothing. I just…” You hesitated, glancing toward the window as if you might catch a glimpse of red and blue swinging by. “I wish I could thank him. Spider-Man.”

For a moment, Peter’s posture stilled. His thumb pressed a little too hard into the edge of the wrapper, the paper crinkling softly between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, almost hesitant.

“I’m sure…” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sure he knows.”

You turned toward him, the warmth in his voice tugging something loose in your chest. “I hope so,” you murmured, stepping closer. “But even if I can’t thank Spider-Man…”

Your voice gentled as you came to stand in front of him, the distance between you shrinking to nothing. “I can thank you. You’re kind of a lifesaver, you know.”

Peter blinked, looking momentarily lost, like he didn’t quite know where to put that kind of praise.

“You’ve been here through all of it,” you said, the beginnings of a quiet smile touching your face. “You’ve listened to me stress about the shop, tested every recipe, eaten more frosting than anyone should. You’re a lifesaver.”

Your voice dropped, the words falling softer, closer to something unspoken.

“Thank you, Peter.”

He hadn’t expected that. He thought the gratitude in your voice would only belong to someone else—to Spider-Man, not him.

It caught him off guard.

Still, the response came easily, like it lived somewhere deep in him.

“Of course.”

Then, before he could stop himself, something else slipped out—words that felt too natural, too true to hold back.

“I’m just… happy that you’re happy.”

The air shifted, warm and still, like even the world had paused to listen. 

It wasn’t teasing. There was no deflection or joke to hide behind. Just something real, something simple.

And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

Peter cleared his throat, small but telling—like he’d only just realized how that last line had sounded.

“Uh…” His voice came out deeper than before, a little rougher around the edges as he focused on splitting the cupcake in two.

He lifted one half, offering it to you with a crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the warmth behind it.

“Victory bite?”

You smiled despite the flutter in your chest, taking the piece from his hand without saying a word.

The cupcake was soft against your fingers as you bit into your half, the flavor rich and warm, sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. Peter did the same, though he took his half in one bite—because of course he did—and then wiped a bit of frosting from his thumb, pretending not to notice the way you were watching him.

Then—

He leaned back, that effortless ease finding its way to his face again. “Alright,” he said, tone low but playful. “Tell me again about the Bugle segment. Word for word.”

You tried, but laughter hit before you even got a full sentence out. The memory of Jameson ranting on-air, frosting still on his face, was too much.

“He called Spider-Man—” you started, breath catching as you fought another laugh, “—a menace, a criminal, and a sugar dealer. All while eating one of my cupcakes.”

Peter’s lips curved, but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, quiet amusement softening into something else.

His gaze lingered on the way your shoulders shook, the sound of your laughter spilling into the shop, your voice hitching on the edges of words you could barely get through.

And that was the point of all of it. The swinging, the deliveries, the whole crazy plan.

For this.

You, standing here, happy and glowing and alive in a way you hadn’t been in weeks.

Which meant one thing.

Mission accomplished.

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despite peter's warning, you aim your arm to throw.

"you're playing with fire, you know that?"

"no, i’m playing with snow."

"oh, that's cute. really cute."

you promptly hit peter with the snowball. he raises a challenging eyebrow, and you know you're in for it. you start to run away, giggling, peter chasing after you. he's quick to catch up. he grabs your waist and pins you against a streetlight, breathing out smoke into the cold air through laughter.

"you wanna try that again?"

peter's gaze darts between your eyes and lips. you bite back a grin.

"kind of."

"what a shame. it'd be strike three."

"what happens after strike three?"

"you wouldn't get this."

peter leans in and kisses you. you loop your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he hums in content, hands squeezing your waist and lips trailing over to your cheek. he pecks both your cheeks, your nose, just above your lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you're giggling and trying to push him away.

"no, no, no, stop! that tickles!"

peter kisses down your chin and back up, across your forehead, over to your temple. you grin despite yourself, tugging at his locks that are damp with snow.

"i’m serious, pete! stop it!"

"no can do, babe. can't help myself, you're just too damn cute."

peter pecks your cheek a few times, earning a noise of protest.

"so cute i could eat you up."

"nuh uh."

you pull the zipper of your jacket all the way up so it's covering the lower half of your face.

"yeah huh."

peter leaves big, lingering kisses on your forehead, each one punctuated with a mwah. when you realize he's not going to let up, you finally concede. you uncover your face and capture his lips with yours, the only way to make him stop. your nose nudges his, head tilting to look at him.

"are you done?"

"not even close."

peter kisses you again. you kiss him back, smiling into it. he moves your jacket out of the way and continues his kiss attack, this time on your neck. you let him have his fun, enjoying the feeling of his lips on your skin. you squeal when he finds one particular spot and nips at it.

"pete! what're you doing?"

"i told you, eating you up."

he playfully bites at your neck between a series of kisses, arms locked around your waist, drawing the most adorable sounds out of you that he can't get enough of. you thread your fingers through his hair.

"don't forget we're in public, mister."

your tone doesn't match your words, unconvincing, and you're resting your head on the lamp pole so peter has more access. he smirks.

"i know, they're just love bites."

he starts to suck at your neck. the pressure is light, but enough to leave a hickey. you play with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan. you feel the vibrations from peter laughing. you feel something poking at your thigh, too.

"and you're telling me we're in public? whew, i think we'd better get you home."

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

peter answers by holding you in place and kissing down your neck, making you breathless from laughter.

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