#training session

"Again."

Your chest heaved as you wiped the sweat from your brow, twirling your staff between your fingers in a smooth, practiced motion. Across from you, Peter Parker reset his stance, his hair damp with sweat and curling against his forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his clingy shirt, but that boyish grin — the one that made your stomach flip — hadn’t wavered.

The training room was dimly lit, the low blue glow of the arc reactors lining the walls casting soft shadows across the reinforced floor. It smelled like sweat and metal, the cool bite of recycled air clinging to your skin. The hum of the Tower’s systems pulsed faintly beneath your feet.

You’d been at this for nearly an hour, and the ache in your muscles was settling in. Peter still looked like he could go another round — because of course he could. Enhanced strength, enhanced stamina — he always had the edge. But you’d learned to close that gap over the years.

"You're slowing down, Parker," you said, twirling the staff behind your back.

Peter’s grin widened. "Oh yeah? Wanna bet?"

He moved fast — too fast.

Peter lunged, his foot skidding across the mat as he closed the gap between you. You barely had time to sidestep as he swung low. Your staff shot up, blocking his strike with a sharp clash of metal against metal. Peter pressed forward, the strength behind his movement forcing you to step back.

Your foot caught the edge of the mat, and Peter smirked.

Cocky little shit.

You twisted, sweeping your leg behind his ankle and hooking it just enough to unbalance him. Peter’s eyes widened, but you were already moving. You hooked your staff under his arm and twisted. Peter stumbled — and you used his momentum to slam him down onto the mat.

Peter groaned as he hit the ground, his head thunking softly against the padded floor. You planted your foot next to his hip, the end of your staff pressed firmly against his chest.

"Yield?" you asked, breathless.

Peter’s brown eyes flicked toward you, mischief glinting behind the haze of exhaustion. His hand shot out, catching your wrist. Before you could process what was happening, he yanked — hard.

"Peter—!"

You crashed down on top of him with a breathless gasp, your knees bracketing his waist. Your staff slid from your grip, clattering against the mat. Peter’s hands were suddenly on your waist, steadying you. Your hands flattened against his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him through his shirt.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Too fast. Too loud. You were so close you could count the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. His lips were slightly parted, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Not yet," Peter murmured, his voice low and breathless.

You froze. His hands were still on your hips — not moving, but not letting go either. Your skin burned beneath the pressure of his fingertips, and your pulse stumbled when his thumb brushed the bare skin beneath your shirt.

You’d met Peter through the Stark internship when you were fifteen. You’d been guarded at first, used to people treating you like you were untouchable because of your last name. But Peter didn’t care about any of that. He was awkward and sweet and way too smart for his own good. And once he figured out that you were just as smart as him, the two of you had clicked instantly.

You became inseparable — sneaking out on weekends to hit up late-night pizza joints in Queens, making dumb bets during sparring, falling asleep watching movies together in the Tower. He was your person — the one person who had always been there, even when Tony wasn’t.

But that was the problem.

Tony would kill you if he knew how long you’d been crushing on Peter. The last time he’d caught you sitting too close on the couch, he’d nearly had FRIDAY restrict Peter’s clearance levels. And that was before Peter started showing up at the Tower almost every day — before you started noticing the way his shoulders had broadened, the way his smile made your chest ache.

Peter’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Your breath hitched.

"You’re cheating," you whispered.

Peter’s smile softened. His hand slid up, fingers brushing the edge of your ribcage. His touch was feather-light, but your entire body lit up like he’d flipped a switch beneath your skin.

"And you’re blushing," Peter murmured.

Your stomach flipped. He was too close. Or maybe not close enough.

Your lips parted, your breath hitching when Peter’s thumb swept across your side. His hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist. Heat pooled in your chest.

Your eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

Peter’s gaze flicked toward your lips. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And then you kissed him.

It was clumsy at first — rushed and a little too hard — but Peter gasped softly beneath you, and his hands tightened on your waist. He kissed you back with so much intensity it left you breathless. His hand slid up your spine, his fingertips tracing heat into your skin as his mouth softened beneath yours.

A quiet sound slipped from his throat when you threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. Peter’s breath stuttered. He pulled you closer, one hand curving around the small of your back, the other sliding up beneath your shirt. His palm was warm, the contact setting your nerves alight.

You deepened the kiss, tilting your head as his lips parted beneath yours. He tasted faintly of salt and something sweet — like the grape soda he’d been drinking earlier. His hand cupped the back of your neck, his thumb brushing behind your ear in a way that made your entire body shiver.

Peter made a low sound in his throat — something between a sigh and a groan — and suddenly you were rolling, his hands framing your face as he hovered over you. His knee slid between your thighs, pressing down just enough to make your breath stutter.

"Is this okay?" Peter murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

You nodded, breathless. "Yeah."

Peter smiled. It was soft — careful — but there was something hungry beneath it. His hand slid down your side, his mouth brushing against the corner of yours before he kissed you again. Slow this time. Deliberate.

You melted into it, letting him take control. His lips moved with quiet confidence, his hand splaying against the side of your neck as he coaxed your mouth open. Your hand curled in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself as he kissed you harder.

It was too much and not enough. His weight pressed down over you, grounding you even as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. Your head was spinning.

When you finally broke apart, Peter’s face was flushed, his eyes dark. His lips were swollen and red.

"So…" Peter said, his voice rough. "Training's over?"

Your mouth curled. "For now."

Peter grinned — that soft, sweet grin that always made you feel like the ground beneath your feet was shifting. "Cool. Do you wanna… uh, maybe train again tomorrow?"

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up — but not before brushing your lips against his one last time. Peter’s gaze followed you as you crossed the room, his mouth parted in stunned silence.

At the door, you glanced over your shoulder. "We’ll see."

Peter’s smile widened. Your chest felt too tight.

This was a problem.

You slipped out of the training room, your hand pressed to your lips as heat bloomed beneath your skin. Your dad was going to kill you.

"Alright, watch and learn," she said, spinning the pistol in her fingers before smoothly clicking it into place. She didn’t have to be this flashy, but, well... this was Hyuna.

She raised the gun with practiced ease, eyes narrowing as she lined up her shot. A split second later, the air split with gunfire—each shot landing perfectly within the bullseye. When she was done, she blew on the muzzle, grinning. "Not bad, right?"

You gave an appreciative nod. "Yeah, you're good."

"Good?" she repeated, placing a hand over her heart as if you’d wounded her pride. "Come on, at least say ‘amazing’ or ‘incredible.’ I don’t show off for just anyone, you know."

You frowned slightly, missing the teasing glint in her eyes. "I mean, I’d rather focus on learning than hyping you up."

Hyuna sighed, shaking her head. "You're lucky you're cute."

Before you could process that, she stepped behind you, her warmth radiating against your back as she guided your arms into position. "First off, your stance is all wrong. Widen your legs a little—no, not that much. There, that’s better."

Her hands lingered on your waist as she nudged you into place. You didn’t think much of it, too focused on maintaining balance. Hyuna, on the other hand, was fighting the urge to smirk.

"Grip the gun like this," she murmured, fingers wrapping over yours. "Firm, but not tense. You want control, not a death grip."

"Right, control," you repeated, adjusting accordingly.

She tilted her head, lips curving into a slow smile. "And don’t forget to breathe."

You exhaled sharply, suddenly aware of how close she was. She chuckled. "Relax. It’s just me."

You ignored the way your pulse spiked, instead focusing on the target ahead. You took a deep breath, steadied your grip, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the edge of the target—far from perfect but at least on the board. You felt Hyuna hum in approval beside you. "Not bad for a beginner. Do it again."

You did, each shot improving with her whispered corrections and occasional—completely unnecessary—hand adjustments. Every time you tensed, she was there, a quiet reassurance at your side.

When you finally emptied the clip, she leaned in, her lips near your ear. "See? Told you I’m a good teacher."

You turned to her, unaware of the weight behind her gaze. "Yeah. Thanks, Hyuna."

Her eyes flickered, a mix of exasperation and amusement. She bumped her forehead lightly against yours before pulling away. "Hopeless," she muttered with a grin.

You weren’t sure what she meant. But as she handed you another clip and told you to go again, you got the feeling this training session wasn’t just about shooting.

And, somehow, you were still missing the point.