“Hey, Lara Jean, a bunch of us were gonna get lunch together today.” Isabel leaned against my desk, examining her manicure with one eye trained on me. “You wanna come with?”

“Who’s gonna be there?” I tried to remain nonchalant, but I could tell that she knew which name I wanted to hear. 

“Me, Junia from the mail room, Kiara, Peter…”

“Peter’s going?”

“Are you guys talking about me?” As if on cue, the photographer slipped back into his seat with a coffee cup and a crooked smile. 

“Mind your business, Parker.” Isabel rolls her eyes. “We’re going to that new taco place down the block if you want to come.”

“I’ll be there,” I replied immediately, almost too eager even for the bright-eyed new hire. I used to not really care for social gatherings, even something as small as lunch, but in a new city where I didn’t know a single soul, I couldn’t afford to turn down an invitation. 

Isabel went back to her desk, leaving me and Peter across from each other. My eyes were glued to the review of the latest Sally Rooney book that I had been working on, but I still found time to steal glances at Peter.

I wasn’t sure why I liked looking at him so much.

“What are you working on?” I tried my best to sound like I didn’t care, even though I was genuinely interested. “Photos for the new issue?”

Peter laughed and shook his head, turning his monitor around to show me the Wordle for the day. All green. Third guess. “CHASM”.

“Ugh!” I clapped a hand over my eyes. “I haven’t solved it yet! Thanks for spoiling, jerk.”

“I’m surprised it’s not the first thing you do when you wake up. Literature fanatic and all that.”

“I prefer the Mini. Or at least I did before they put the paywall up.”

“God, I miss the Mini.” He turned his monitor back toward his side of the desk. “Sometimes I spend the entire day doing Wordle and playing Solitaire. There’s not much for me to take pictures of when Spider-Man isn’t active.”

“What do you do here? Like, what’s your official role?”

“You’ve worked here for a month and you don’t know my official role?” Peter raised an eyebrow at me like it was my fault he liked to skulk around and dodge questions all day. 

“I wasn’t aware you had one besides tailing Spider-Man and wearing flannels,” I shot back.

“That’s pretty much my job.” He shrugged. “I don’t have an official title. I guess you could call it Current Events, but with a hyperfocus on Spider-Man. Anything he does, it’s my job to photograph it for the front page. I do some freelance on the side, but this pays the bills.”

“Side hustles are smart. Rent is ridiculous. I basically live in a closet with a shower.”

“You should consider doing some writing of your own.” He chewed the end of his ballpoint pen like it was a lollipop stick. “Have you done freelance before?”

Not unless you count Marichat fics on Tumblr.

“No, not professionally.” I felt the tips of my ears growing warm. “You really think I could make money off that?”

“Sure, I’ve read your stuff. It’s thoughtful. Emotionally charged. When you write about something you’ve read, I feel like I’ve read the book before I even hold it in my hands.”

If I hadn’t been blushing before, I was now. Nobody had ever really complimented my professional writing like that, especially not at the Bugle. Moreover, I was surprised that Peter had actually read my column, since he seemed like the type of person to only read one genre (probably science fiction) and stick to Goodreads. If he read my column, it wasn’t for book recommendations. It was for me. 

For some reason, that was just as nerve-wracking as it was sweet.

Lunchtime rolled around, and everyone walked down together in a big group. I had hoped to talk to Isabel, but she was busy chatting with one of the receptionists. In fact, it felt like everyone was talking to someone else.

It’s funny how little things had really changed. I used to specialize in disappearing in high school, floating through the crowd without braking or hesitating for anyone. In a crowd of people, I still had the ability to feel completely alone.

I was fine with that when I was younger. It was easier that way, not complicating my life by letting people see every side of me, not waiting around for them to leave me.

But I wanted to experience life fully. I wanted to talk to people, to feel like I belonged in this new life that I’d built for myself, and I couldn’t do that if I was always on the periphery of the social sphere.

I spent the elevator ride down in total silence, pretending I wasn’t holding back tears.

When we all arrived at the restaurant, the table at the back of the room had exactly eight seats. There were nine of us, including me. Everyone scrambled for seats, even Isabel, which stung because she was the one who invited me in the first place. Naturally, I was the only one left standing. 

To her credit, Isabel turned around in her chair and frowned.

“Lara Jean, do you want me to get you another chair? I’m sure we could squeeze you in somewhere!”

After the elevator ride, I didn’t feel up to another half-hour of listening to them talking about sports I didn’t watch and drama I wasn’t invested in. More than anything, I couldn’t bear to spend any more time feeling like an outsider in my own body. I shook my head and clutched my purse a little tighter.

“No, that’s okay. I was just gonna get some takeout anyway.” I shrugged, hoping that lie was convincing enough for them. “I have a lot of work to do on my article. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you guys back at the office.”

I turned on my heel, heading straight for the door so they wouldn’t see my reddened cheeks. I wiped my eyes with my sleeves, noting that I desperately needed to spray some Zout on it later from the mascara that was smudging on it. I detected that weird sensation when your teeth feel salty right before you’re about to cry, and if I stayed in that restaurant for another second, I was going to start bawling in front of everyone.

I didn’t make it five feet before I collided with something warm and solid. I felt my entire body jolt, which is usually followed by an unceremonious crash to the ground, but instead something steadied me. A hand on my shoulder. The lightest touch of a palm on my waist. 

It’s sick and twisted that I imagined his face before I even opened my eyes. 

Peter Parker looked down at me, stunned and grinning slightly. He must’ve noticed how flushed I was, because he immediately let go of me, though his hands still hovered just a few inches from my face.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He sounded so genuinely panicked that I actually felt bad for him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m-I’m fine.” I brushed off my skirt and blinked up at him. Was he always this tall? “Sorry, I should’ve been watching. I was kind of preoccupied.”

Peter looked from my smudged mascara to the table where our coworkers were all having a great time (without me) to the guilty expression on my face. He put two and two together in less than five seconds.

“Guess there’s no seats left.”

“Yeah.” I glanced back at the table, my arms wrapping around my own body like a protective layer. “It’s okay, though. I wasn’t really hungry anyway.”

“That sucks, because I am.” Peter smiled, and it was so bright that the sun felt dim. “I guess if there’s no space for us, we’ll just have to head somewhere else. C’mon. My treat.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but…I want to.” He pointed down the block. “There’s a really good sandwich shop near here. They make basically every sandwich you can think of.”

Trusting Peter came easy to me.

“Okay, sure. Lead the way.”

As we walked down the street together, I couldn’t help but notice how he slipped behind me, then reappeared on my left, walking between me and the street. Like he was shielding me from whatever water splashes or motorcycle accidents might be coming our way. Like he wanted me to be safe.

We ordered our sandwiches (meatball sub for him, turkey for me) and sat down at one of the small tables by the window. Physically, he kept his distance. Mentally, he stared into my soul.

“So I take it that the tacos were a bust?” Peter watched me over his bite. 

“I never even got to order them,” I muttered.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I shouldn’t. They’re our coworkers.”

“Lara Jean, nobody gets along perfectly with their coworkers. Besides, I won’t tell.” His eyes twinkled for a moment. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Fine.” I tilted my head backward, staring at the popcorn ceiling in dismay. “I just—I’ve been in New York for a month now, and I feel like I’m not making any progress whatsoever. I have no friends. My job is barely enough to cover rent and bills, and I get the nagging feeling when I look at other people that they all have their lives together and I just…don’t.”

“I think that’s how most people who move to the city feel, though.”

“Yeah, but this is just different. I mean, everyone back home is so proud of me. They’re all like, ‘Ooh, that Lara Jean is such a talent. She went to Berkeley! She’s working at one of the biggest newspapers in New York! She’s so independent and cool and collected!’ And the whole time, I’m eating cup ramen for dinner and taking silent elevator rides because no one wants to talk to me.” 

I paused for breath. I needed it.

“I guess I just feel like a huge fraud. Like I’m still a teenager pretending to be an adult.”

“Lara Jean, I literally can’t express how normal that is.” Peter pointed to himself. “I mean, I grew up here, but I’ve never felt for a day in my life that I really belonged with all these glamorous people you see on the street. Nobody really feels like they belong anywhere.” He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed for a full ten seconds, taking extra precaution not to speak with his mouth full. “To me, it sounds like you’ve totally got your shit together for a 23-year-old. You live in your own apartment. You pay your own bills through a job that you got over, like, a hundred other applicants. And you did graduate from Berkeley and you are talented. None of that stuff is overexaggerated. You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Nobody had ever framed it that way before. When Peter talked, it made me feel like he was telling the truth no matter what. 

“And what about the ‘not having friends’ part? When will that be an exaggeration?”

“It takes time. These people are like the mob. Once you’re in, you’re in, but it’s a lot of work to get there. Just put yourself out there, and if they don’t see how awesome you are, it’s their loss.”

I nodded. He was right, of course, and I hated that. How was I supposed to wallow in self-pity when he kept dropping excellent advice?

“God, I felt like a loser when they all sat down. It was like trying to find a table in a high school cafeteria, only you don’t have a friend to save you a seat.”

“I totally get that,” Peter assured. Somehow, I felt like he was being completely honest.

“It’s always been like this. People recognize me for who I know, not for who I am.”

“Sometimes you don’t even know which person they want when they’re talking to you.”

“And people just pass you by…”

“...Even when you’ve known them for your whole life.” Peter paused and shook his head. “It’s like you’re just—”

“Invisible.”

“Forgotten.”

I stared at this man who I’d only known for a month, but who could read my mind like he was living in it. To this day, I’ve never been more understood by another person. For once, someone else knew just how I felt.

“Exactly,” I mumbled, trying to hide the slight blush on my cheeks. Peter grinned from ear to ear. He looked at me like he saw right through me and saw inside of me simultaneously, as though he could sense the thoughts racing through my mind.

He took a bite of food. I fixed my lip gloss. We sat in comfortable silence for a minute before Peter nudged my foot with his under the table.

“It gets better, Lara Jean. Trust me.” When he smiled at me like that and spoke with that soft voice, I couldn’t help but believe him.

“I trust you,” I replied. I meant it. It surprised me that I meant it.

Unfortunately, the moment ended abruptly when the sound of a security alarm went off outside. Peter jumped to his feet almost immediately and ran to the window, peering out where I couldn’t see. Whatever he saw seemed to rattle him, because he pointed to the table and made a break for the door.

“I’m really sorry, Lara Jean, but I have to go take care of something really fast. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

“What? Peter, are you okay? Was it something I said?”

“No, no, no, it’s nothing to do with you.” He looked back out at the street. “I just—I can’t explain right now, but I have to go. Just stay here and I’ll walk you back to the office after I’m done, okay?”

I nodded slowly, still confused. Peter grinned nervously and bolted out the door. He ran so fast that I couldn’t even see which direction he’d gone in.

My curiosity got the better of me. I peered outside, where my eyes were immediately drawn to the bank up the street. There were three men inside, all wearing masks that looked like cartoon characters (Tigger, Hello Kitty, and Yoshi) and all carrying guns.

People inside the bank were frozen still, hands above their heads. The robbers yelled at each other, then at the hostages, and then back at each other. Even from my safe location across and down the street, my hands were shaking.

Then I remembered Peter. He’d run outside. What if he had run to the bank? What if he was in there, right now, with a gun pointed at his head?

But he’d run out after the alarm went off. There was no way he would’ve ran into an active bank robbery, no matter how bad he needed to use the ATM or whatever he had to do. He must have been safe. Must have been okay.

At least, I hoped he was.

Almost on cue, a familiar red-and-blue blur came swinging down the street, right past my little window. Spider-Man looked right at me before he landed in front of the bank. 

He had the robbers wrapped up in webs in less than a minute. The way he moved was like nothing I’ve ever seen before: his feet barely touched the ground, and he seemed to sense a punch coming without even needing to see the fist move.

The people in the bank gave him a round of applause when the job was done. Spider-Man waved to them enthusiastically before he pushed the door open and went swinging off somewhere new. 

I’m not proud of it, but I ran outside just to get a glimpse of him. And before you ask, I was not turning into a fangirl. He probably didn’t even remember me. He probably saved a dozen different girls every single day. And besides, it had been a month since he’d last fought the Lizard. A month since I’d last seen him, unless you counted the photos that Peter always took.

Sighing and kicking myself for even thinking I had a chance, I turned to head back into the shop…and smacked directly into him. 

I’m not sure why I expected him to look different than last time. He had the same mask, the same vivid red-and-blue suit, and the same confusion in his bug-eyes when he tilted his head at me.

If he had looked different, I wouldn’t have been able to tell because he was hanging upside down from a web. 

“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry!” I smacked myself in the forehead as punishment for my own absentmindedness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I keep colliding with people like some kind of runaway train!”

“Hey, no worries.” He let himself down from the web, and when he stood on his own two feet again I was struck by how much taller he seemed. It felt strangely familiar to look up at him. “Sorry to spook you. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Y-you remember me?” My cheeks practically burst into flames. 

“Of course. You’re a hard girl to forget.” He crossed his arms. Biceps. “Had any more run-ins with the bad guys?”

“Not really. You?” Stupid stupid stupid

“Only, like, every single day.” The absolute embarrassment I felt in that moment cannot be overstated. Obviously he’s having run-ins with supervillains. What a dumb thing to say. “But I’m glad to hear that things are more peaceful on your side of the street.”

“I wouldn’t say it's peaceful.” I shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like my head’s gonna explode working at the Bugle. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re doing every day, but you know…”

“No, that’s valid. I mean, I’m kind of used to it now, but it was more than overwhelming when I first started out.” He tilted his head at me again, like he was sizing me up or something. 

“Seems like you’ve got the hang of it now.” I gestured toward the bank where the robbers were still tied up. 

“Oh, that?” If I had to guess, I’d say he was blushing through the mask. “That’s no big deal. I handle that stuff all the time.”

“It’s pretty scary for everyone else before you show up, though. I was literally alone and across the street and I still thought I was gonna puke or something.” 

Suddenly I remembered Peter. Where had he gone? He said he was coming back to get me. Was he okay? Was he safe?

“You looking for somebody?” Spider-Man leaned backward, looking down the block, but I just shook my head. 

“No, it’s just—my friend said that he was coming to get me. I’m waiting for him right now.”

“He’s walking you back to work?” I nodded. “Well, if you want, I could come with you. Give Jameson something to goggle at.”

It was such a tempting offer that I almost felt inclined to take him up on it.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait for Peter. Thank you, though.” I smiled and waved. “Bye, Spider-Man.”

“I’ll see you around!” He waved before slinging off again, leaving me on my own in front of the shop. I couldn’t stop smiling even after he disappeared into an alleyway, and I really hoped that Peter hadn’t left me to fend for myself, because I’d passed up a personal escort from the person whose attention I craved for this. 

Two minutes later, Peter appeared with his glasses askew and his shirt lopsided, like he’d just gone through a tornado. He was panting for air a little.

“You okay?” I removed a scrap of paper from his wavy brown hair. “Looks like you had quite the adventure.”

“Nah, I’m always like this.” Peter squinted. “Did I miss anything?”

“Uh…not really.” He didn’t need to know about my crush on Spider-Man, or the fact that a bank robbery had taken place across the street from me. From the little time that I’d known him, he seemed like the worrying type, and I didn’t want to stress him out over a nonexistent problem. “So, what errand did you have to run?”

“...Post office. I had to mail…invitations…for my cousin’s…piano recital.” He grinned nervously.

I didn’t buy it. I also didn’t say anything more.

“Okay. Sure. Well, we’d better head back to work before Jameson skins us alive.” I grabbed my purse and shouldered it. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely.” 

He opened the door for me on our way out. If he noticed the cop cars now parked outside of the bank, he made no comment.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊

From that day forward, I wasn’t eating lunch alone anymore. I didn’t walk to the mail room by myself. Wherever I went at the office, if I wanted company, I got it in the form of a wavy-haired photographer who had an uncanny ability to sense when I was about to trip on something. 

And maybe I was genuinely stupid not to realize this, but it really didn’t seem like he had a crush on me or anything. He smiled at me a lot and he was always really nice to me, nicer than some of my friends had been in the past, but I assumed that was because he didn’t have many other friends, either. 

Basically, I assumed that any romantic feelings he might have for me were completely out of the realm of possibility. Maybe that was a result of the many years of unrequited crushes that I’d been through. Maybe part of me didn’t believe I was likable. 

Two weeks after the bank robbery, somebody at the office finally brought it up. To no one’s surprise, Isabel was the first one to clock it. One day, when we were at our desks and Peter was out on another one of his vague ‘errands’, she shut her laptop and narrowed her eyes at me.

“What’s going on with you and Peter?” 

I couldn’t help flashing back to high school, when I’d been asked that exact same question by everyone in my class.

“Nothing. We’re friends.” I shrugged. “I guess he’s a really, really good friend, but he doesn’t have feelings for me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Uh, yeah he does.” Isabel chuckled and raised her eyebrows. “You seriously haven’t noticed how he follows you around like a puppy? It’s like you have a shinigami. It’s honestly really cute.”

“I think I follow him around more than anything.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Nothing’s gonna happen between us.”

“Wait, why not?”

“We’re so different. I can’t see how it would ever work out.”

“You’re joking, right? Besides the fact that you’re two different types of nerd, you’re basically the same person.”

“We’re really not.”

“You have the exact same sense of humor. Whenever I’m scrolling, you guys always like and repost the same posts.”

“Coincidence.”

“You’re both so awkward that it’s almost a miracle how comfortable you are with each other.” She pointed her pen at me. “You know that before you started working here, he never dressed well or bothered taking care of his hair? He showed up every day looking like he’d fallen out of bed. Now he actually puts in effort to look nice. What d’you think that means?”

“That he decided to stop living like a slob?”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re literally hopeless,” Isabel groaned. “Anyone with two eyes can see that he’s head over heels for you—”

“Who’s head over heels for you?”

I stiffened at the sound of Peter’s voice. He slid into his seat like he never left and gave me a look that can only be described as unreadable. 

“Uh, nobody.” I grinned nervously. “Isabel’s just talking about her other friend. I’m offering some advice.”

“Yeah. Yeah, my friend…Clara. Clara June.” Isabel blinked. 

“Right. Okay.” Peter clicked his pen and began to scribble something on his little yellow memo pad. “I buy that.”

“Hey, where have you been, anyway?” A set of perfectly manicured nails tapped on the keyboard of Isabel’s computer. “Another post office run?”

“Mind your business, Fisher.” His ears reddened. 

“Are you shitting on company time? ‘Cause my fiancé’s a doctor, and considering that you disappear at least 5 times a day, you might want to get that checked out.”

“Oh, my God. I don’t have IBS.” 

“C’mon, Peter.” I nudged him from across the desk with my foot. “Spill. We won’t tell.”

His face softened, but he didn’t answer the question. 

Now I was actually curious. Where did Peter disappear to? Why wouldn’t he tell us about it? Was it something embarrassing? Illegal? No, that wasn’t Peter. So what was going on?

My eyes strayed to one of the TVs in the corner, where JJJ himself was tossing out vehement curses in regards to a crime scene cleanup ten blocks down. A clip of security footage played, showing Spider-Man getting flung into the side of a building by the Lizard. He looked like he’d hit the wall pretty hard, judging by how he gripped the left side of his ribcage.

Peter walked through my line of vision, heading toward the supply cabinet. 

He was limping. 

He leaned away from his left.

Suddenly, I remembered the first time he’d ever ducked out on me, at the sandwich shop on the day of the bank robbery. Coincidentally, it was also the first time I’d seen Spider-Man. 

Was it possible? Could Peter Parker, the nerdy photographer from Queens who stuttered over his own name, be the vigilante hero that New York proudly called its patron? Surely not. Peter and Spider-Man were polar opposites. 

Although, that could also mean that his persona was the perfect cover.

It would explain the disappearing, the ‘close friendship’ between these two seemingly unrelated people, and the limping. On the other hand, there were over 8 million people in New York City. There was no logical way to conclude that Peter was Spider-Man just because he happened to be limping that day.

As I lay bundled in my pink comforter that night, I couldn’t get Peter off my mind. I told myself it was just because of the secret identity conspiracy, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that.

I kept thinking about Spider-Man’s arms around me, when he’d saved me from the Lizard on my first day at the Bugle. If he and Peter were the same person, then that meant it had been Peter holding me like that. 

For some reason, I felt really warm inside when I thought about it that way.

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. It danced on the floor and illuminated the windows, making everything golden and bright.

I watched the coffeemaker as it chugged away, each drop landing in the pot with a little splash and a plip. Even the little machine seemed cheerful this morning. 

A rustle behind me nearly made me jump out of the pink camisole and cotton underwear I wore. 

“Peter, don’t scare me like that!” I shoved his shoulder, which was notably bare. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but he did have on a pair of red-and-blue pajama pants and a considerable bedhead. 

“Sorry,” he said through a fit of laughter. “It’s just too easy.”

He kissed my forehead, which tickled. I smiled through the guise of my frown and shook my head. 

“I can’t have a moment of peace with you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be dating me if it weren’t for the adventure of it all.” 

Then he kissed me for real, and I kissed him back. He didn’t taste like anything in particular, but the weight of him pressing me against the counter felt extremely concrete, as well as the featherlight kisses that he trailed down my neck.

I expected him to stop when he reached the fabric over my chest, but instead I found myself pulling the shirt over my head and tossing it to the floor. He kept kissing down my body as he dropped to his knees, completely unaware of the world around him.

“Peter, I think the coffee’s ready.” 

“I’m not,” he whispered. “I’m not ready for the coffee yet.”

And he pulled the waistband of my underwear down, down, down…

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪  ౨ৎ˚₊

I woke up sweating, my sheets too damp and my mouth too dry. That felt way too real for a dream. Instead of being grossed out by it, I felt a pang of disappointment. 

I could have lived in it forever.

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