matt murdock loves to let you turn your brain off.
he’ll run his hands through your hair, holding you while humming softly, occasionally talking about his day. most of the time you’re nonverbal, just taking him in and letting him hold you close. the thing about matt is that he just knows. he knows things without you needing to say it, “don’t need to say anything, princess, i know. i’m here, baby. don’t gotta be strong with me.”
when you get tired it’s painfully obvious, you’re pawing at his shirt and making small noises to try and keep the conversation going because you don’t want to sleep just yet. “is my girl tired? yeah? it’s okay, baby. let’s sleep.” he coos at you, kissing you on the forehead as you hum out a small “mhm”. he loves to give you affection, telling you how sweet you are just for him or how much he adores the way you let him take care of you.
he knows you can do it all on your own, but why should you? sometimes you need to clear your brain and be spoiled with affection. you’re his special girl and he’ll do everything in his power to let you know that.
mattress on the floor, tangled sheets, dinner on the fire escape, city lights, breeze from the window, late nights studying, subways, swinging through the streets
summary : You've only been in love with 3 boys your entire life, all coincidentally named Peter Parker. But instead of confessing your feelings, you've written it all down in letters you've never sent.
The plan was to write it all down so that the all-consuming love you had for each of them no longer felt all-consuming.
You never imagined they would be exposed for the whole world to read.
warnings: 6.7k words. the chapters just keep getting longer and longer. i know. i'm insane. this time there's a warning for mentions of throwing up and excessive drinking, just in case. also wrote one of these scenes like 3 times, so i hope this came out alright :p
notes: thank you so so much for all the comments and love you've given this story ♡ i truly love reading everyone's thoughts. it makes it so exciting to write. also, i have no idea who we're choosing, lovelies, so i beg you to let me know 'cause i fear i can't decide haha. hope u enjoy <3
When you enter work the next day, you’re once again told to hang back after the meeting by Felicia.
“I’m sending you away for the day,” she says once everyone leaves.
“What? Why?”
“The Daily Bugle wants to interview you. Your article is the most talked-about thing in New York since that bodega cat who learned the Macarena. And it’s great promotion for the magazine. So go on. Get outta here. Go, get!” she says, shooing you away with her hands.
“Are you White Fanging me right now?”
“If I were, I would’ve thrown a stick at you. Unfortunately, we don’t stock any in the office. Plus, I still expect you to show up tomorrow, so don’t go running off into the wild,” she states, picking up a binder from the table before heading out.
You grab your bag and coat from your desk as you try to calm your rapidly beating heart. You’ve never been interviewed in your life. You’ve always been on the other side, asking the questions, taking notes, but never answering them. The poor reporter who was tasked with the job was going to be very disappointed when they sat down with you.
The moment you step into the offices of The Daily Bugle, you’re struck by how different it is from Vanity Flair.
The newsroom is buzzing with chaos. People shout over one another from opposite ends of the room, someone slams a hand against a desk to make a point, and the relentless click-clack of keyboards is nonstop. You sniff at the smell of burnt coffee hanging heavily in the air.
“Excuse me,” you say as you approach the receptionist’s desk. “I was sent over from Vanity Flair. I believe I’m here for an interview about an article.”
The receptionist barely glances up before giving a short nod.
“Yeah. Come with me.”
You hurry after her, weaving through the organized chaos as reporters rush past with notebooks tucked beneath their arms and editors bark headlines across the room. She leads you down a hallway before stopping outside a conference room.
“Someone will be with you in a minute.”
With that, she walks away, leaving you alone with the vibrations of the newsroom hitting against the door.
Your eyes wander on the frames that were displayed proudly on the walls; old newspaper headlines and award-winning articles. You feel so small in this place. So…average. You don’t understand how such a serious paper like The Daily Bugle would want to print a story about you and your childhood love letters.
The door opens wide with a slam, making you jump in your seat.
“I’m so sorry for making you wait; we just got word that Wilson Fisk just got arrested. So it’s all hands on deck,” a voice announces as they push the door closed behind them.
They turn around, and the air leaves your lungs.
Peter Parker stares back at you with the same, familiar blue eyes you remember from freshman year. The same Peter Parker who spent countless hours tutoring you in science. The same one you affectionately called Pete.
“Probably not how you expected it, but it’s nice to see you again, kid.”
Pete stood before you, handsome as ever, with perfectly combed hair and shiny white teeth that would make any girl swoon. The years made their mark in little ways on his face, but he was still as charming as you remembered; Golden Boy Parker in the flesh.
You wondered if the universe was also using you as a replacement for cable TV.
“Not at all,” you voice out loud, eyes wide as saucers.
Pete chuckles, pulling out the chair in front of you to sit on. “Don’t worry, I‘m not here to surprise attack you.”
And all of a sudden, it clicks for you.
“So..this interview? It’s just a set up to get me over here, isn’t it?” you ask, teeth nervously poking at your bottom lip.
Pete hums. “Not exactly. I’m still interviewing you. But I was the one to pitch it to my editor,” he says, the shadow of a smirk appearing on his face.
If you weren’t gripping the table for dear life, you were afraid you would fall over.
Pete did all this just to get you in the same room with him.
‘Romantic gesture much?’ you can almost hear MJ say. You mentally swat her words away.
“So I’m guessing you read the article,” you say, although you don’t need any clarification.
“Oh, I definitely read the article. I think most of New York has, if I'm being honest.”
Your cheeks feel like they’re sizzling on a stove. “Pete. I’m sorry. I know it was-”
“–Beautiful,” he says, gently cutting you off. “The letter.”
You're taken aback by his response.
You were so sure the odds of all three Peters reacting well to the article were practically nonexistent. Yet somehow, every conversation you'd had since it was published had left you more confused than the last. They weren't upset. If anything, they seemed grateful. You still weren't entirely convinced you believed it.
“When I first read it,” Pete says, “it took me back to a time when life felt...simpler. When little things carried so much more weight.” A small smile tugs at his lips.
“I spent so much of high school worrying about grades, scholarships, getting into a good college. I don't think I ever stopped to wonder how the people around me actually saw me. Then I read your letter. You wrote about me as if I'd already done enough. Like I didn't have to earn it.” And his tone is so earnest that it makes you feel the same way you do when you see a puppy yawn.
“I don't know...” He shrugs sheepishly. “It was just really nice to know that someone thought I was enough even before I had anything to show for it.”
And once again you’re reminded of why you wrote that letter in the first place.
This was Pete.
The kindest soul you ever met.
The guy who always greeted you in the halls, who spent hours with you at the library, way past the allotted tutoring time, just to make sure you genuinely understood the assignment. The same guy who took you to pizza after the science fair and gave you the biggest slice in the box without even asking. You genuinely couldn’t have picked a better guy to have your first crush on.
“Anyone would have been honored to receive a letter like that from you. I know I am.” As if he needed to say anything else to get your heart flutter.
You smile, feeling slightly overwhelmed by his words. “T-thanks, Pete. I bet I’m not the only one who’s written you a letter like that. Trust me,” you say because even after nine years, Pete still had that special thing about him that made everything feel so soft and easy.
Like living in a daydream.
He smiles back at you, but there’s a certain look in his eyes that makes you question.
“Now…” he says, grabbing the notepad and pen that were placed beside him. “Let's talk about those other two love letters, shall we?”
Your smile disappears.
“Oh my gosh, please don’t,” you groan, shrinking into your seat. “You’re literally the only one who’s asked me about them.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait…did the other Peters already reach out to you?”
You scrunch your face, your expression answering the question before you can. Pete lets out a surprised laugh.
“Wow.” He points at you with his pen. “Look at you.”
“Don’t,” you plead again.
“I mean, three out of three going out of their way to track you down. That’s some good stuff,” he says as he jots something down on the notepad.
Your eyes follow his pen’s movements.
“Wait, is this part of the interview? Because I want this scraped from the record,” you say, and Pete laughs.
“Listen, you’re a journalist. You should know that this is the kind of stuff we live for. Don’t deprive the readers of your juicy love life.”
“Oh yeah, because the Daily Bugle-heads are just dying to know all about it,” you say with a roll of your eyes.
Pete laughs once again, and it dawns on you how different it is talking to him compared to the other Peters.
For the longest time, you thought seeing Pete again would pull you right back into the crush you carried all those years ago. That somehow, the second you looked into his eyes, you'd be fourteen again. Instead, it feels like catching up with an old friend.
There had been a time when Pete was the center of your universe. When one smile from him could carry you through an entire week. But somewhere over the last nine years, your heart had quietly let him go.
Not because he became any less wonderful; Simply because life had moved both of you forward. And there was something comforting about that. Something freeing.
Because you were finally able to laugh alongside him and enjoy who he was, instead of how he made you feel.
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he comments.
“Hmm,” you hum, a playful expression on your face. “You know, I think I liked you better when you were helping me with my chemistry homework.”
The ‘interview’ went on for the next two hours.
You say interview lightly, because most of that time was spent going through memory lane. It might have felt like a lifetime since you last saw Pete, but it was also as if no time had passed between you two at all. It all felt so natural. Like picking up where you last left off.
“Ok, one more thing before we wrap up,” Pete finally says, leaning back in his chair as he stretches, hands sore from the constant notes he’s taken.
“Who are you planning to choose?”
The question echoes in your head long after he’s said it. It makes your smile falter.
“W-what?”
“Who are you choosing out of the two eligible bachelors who went through great lengths to find you?” he says, as if he’s telling some great fairytale.
You stare at Peter as if he’s sprouted another eye.
“No, that's not...” You let out a laugh. “Pete, this isn't The Bachelorette. You do know that, right?”
He shakes his head and jots something down.
“Now, you know I think you’re incredibly smart,” he says, tone cautious as his eyes flick back to yours, “but you’re being surprisingly oblivious if you think those guys went out of their way to see you just to compliment your writing.”
Suddenly, you hear Felicia’s voice in your head.
“Your innocence works in your writing, but you need to get real, babe.”
You feel a lump start to form in your throat.
“I didn’t write this article so that any of you could come looking for me. I wrote the article because-”
“-Because you didn’t want to lose your job.” He nods. “We went over that.”
The room feels tense now, your chest heavier than when the conversation first started.
“You put something deeply personal out into the world.” His voice is gentler this time. “You told three people how much they meant to you, years after you last saw them. But unfortunately, you don't get to decide what they do with that information. You can't control whether they reach out. You can't control what they feel after reading it.”
His expression is sympathetic.
“The only thing you can control is what you do next.”
Silence fills the room as you process his words. There were two truths to this scenario. Number one being that Pete was right. Number two? You weren’t prepared to face the reality of it.
When you published those letters in your article, the last thing you thought would happen was for the ghosts of your past to make themselves present. But now, all three men have appeared in your life once again, and you’ve been a mess of emotions ever since.
You suddenly felt like that teen girl again, completely lost, writing down her overwhelming feelings on a piece of paper as a form of escapism.
“Are we done?” you ask suddenly.
Pete looks at you, taken aback. “Oh? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel-”
“-It’s ok, it’s just…I have plans soon. And I…need to get to them.” You hate how your voice wavers.
“I understand,” he says with a nod. “I would really love to see you again, though. Without the excuse of an interview.”
“Why?” The word leaves your mouth before you can stop yourself.
Pete raises a brow, confused. “Sorry?”
“Well, it’s what you said, right? No one’s contacting me just to ‘compliment my writing’. So why do you want to see me again?” You can't keep the bitterness out of your tone.
You know Pete didn't intend to hurt your feelings, but it didn’t help that the people in your life were putting immense pressure on you for something you didn't even mean to do. He was right; you couldn't control what anyone did after reading your letters. But that doesn’t mean you needed to start making decisions because of it.
“Because I care about you. Because, even back then, I saw something special in you. You just needed a little push-”
“-So you still see me as that pathetic little freshman who needs a pity party and words of encouragement?" you spat.
Pete shakes his head, blue eyes fixed on you. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m a little thrown off by the hostility here.”
You sigh, hands moving to massage your temples.
You were never great at talking about how you felt. It’s why you only ever wrote it all down.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… this is all too much. I don't even know what I’m saying, let alone what I’m doing. I’m pretty sure this wouldn't be happening if I had a backbone and just told Felicia that I didn’t want to do the article.”
Or should you just have never written those letters in the first place? Maybe you should have just kept your feelings bottled in like a normal person. What good has a pen and paper ever done for anyone?
“Hey,” his voice softens. “It’s ok. I know that you never expected any of this. And just like you can’t control what anyone does after reading those letters, no one gets to control what you do either. These were letters you wrote years ago. You don’t owe any of us another chance. You don't owe any of us closure. And you certainly don't owe us a choice.”
His words lighten the weight on your chest, and you let out a deep breath you didn't know you had kept in.
“But as for what I want?” he begins, a small smile finding its way onto his face. “I just want to be your friend. Because people like you are hard to come by.”
His gaze never leaves yours, blue eyes bright and gentle.
“You've always had this way of seeing the good in people. Of believing in them, even when they don't believe in themselves. I don't think you realize how rare that is. So no…I'm not here because I expect anything from you. I just think it'd be nice to have you in my life again.”
The words melt whatever leftover tension you feel in your body, and you're left feeling in awe of Pete’s words. His ability to be so genuinely honest always made you admire him. For once in the past few days, you finally felt like you understood something.
A knock on the door pulls you out of your thoughts, and the receptionist from earlier pops her head in, calling Pete over.
He gives you an apologetic smile as he heads over to her, hushed whispers exchanged between them. Once she leaves, Pete turns back to face you from the door. “I’m sorry, Jameson is having a mental breakdown at the moment and needs to speak with me.”
You’re already standing up and grabbing your things before he can even finish. “That’s totally okay, I get it.”
When you make it to the door, you flash Pete a small smile. “Thank you. For going out of your way to see me and talking to me about…all this insanity,” hands gesturing around you.
Pete chuckles, nodding. “No, thank you for coming all this way for the interview. I got some great stuff. Oh, also,” his hands dig into his pocket before handing it over to you. “Give me a call or an email if you need anything. And try not to let nine years pass by until we speak again,” he says with a wink.
You chuckle under your breath, studying the business card he gave you.
“I’ll try my very hardest,” you joke.
When you finally exit the offices of The Daily Bugle, you can’t help but race over immediately to the pastry shop 3 blocks down.
You run into the shop like a madwoman, heading straight to the counter.
MJ was handing a customer their order before her eyes registered you. “Whoa, what are you doing here? And why are you out of breath?” she questions with a raised brow.
You lean on the counter, catching your breath as you shake your head.
“P-Pete. Golden B–boy. He found me,” you say between heavy breaths.
MJ’s eyes widen. “You're kidding.”
All you can do is shake your head.
“Dude, it’s like a fucked up version of A Christmas Carol where you’re Ebenezer Scrooge, but instead of old geezers coming back as ghosts, it’s hot men.”
“Bah humbug,” you mutter under your breath.
“So? What did he say?”
“Well, he practically lured me into the trap. I thought I was walking into The Daily Bugle for an interview. Turns out, it was a mini intervention.”
You filled MJ in on everything that transpired with Pete earlier; from his feelings about the letter to his theory on why the other Peters had come back into your life.
“I mean, I don’t necessarily think he’s wrong,” MJ chimes in.
Of course she doesn’t.
You sigh, about to argue, until your eyes land on the oversized clock displayed behind her.
1:57 p.m.
Your eyes widen. “Oh, shoot! I'm going to be late meeting Peter!”
MJ blinks. “…Which Peter is this again?”
“Junior year Peter. Home Ec, decathlon,” you list off, and she slowly nods.
“Right. You know, I think we’ve officially reached a point where I need a chart.”
You roll your eyes at her and immediately bolt out of the shop. By the time you make it to Grind, you’re 15 minutes late.
You spot Peter at a table tucked away in the back of the café, completely engrossed in a book.
You pause for a moment, taking him in. The slight furrow of his brows as he concentrates, the loose curl that falls over his forehead, the way his hand grips the book he’s reading.
Even from far away, you can tell that there’s something different about him now. More mature. More settled. The awkward Peter you once knew had grown into himself, and you couldn’t deny it; the years have been very kind to him.
As if sensing your gaze, Peter glances up from the page.
The second he recognizes you, his face brightens into an easy smile, and he lifts a hand to wave you over. Your heart immediately begins pounding.
“I'm so sorry I'm late,” you say once you approach him. “I had to make an impromptu trip to The Daily Bugle.”
Peter shakes his head. “No worries. I hope you don’t mind, but I actually ordered something for you. Hopefully it’s not too cold by now.”
Your eyes drift to the mug across from him, and a smile suddenly tugs at your lips. “Is that…?”
“- A white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, topped with cinnamon? Yeah. I mean, I know it’s been a while, but I still hoped that maybe some things haven’t changed,” he says as he scratches the back of his neck, cheeks a tint of pink.
Peter was always very attentive back then, but to remember your go-to coffee order all these years later?
Your heart absolutely melts.
You hang your bag on the chair in front of him and take a seat, hands wrapping around the mug. “That’s so sweet of you, Peter. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says.
You take a sip of your mocha, partly because it looks delicious, and partly because you suddenly need something to do with yourself.
You notice how different it is with Peter than it was with Pete. With Pete, you feel like you could breathe. Be yourself. Not overthink every word. But with Peter? It feels like you constantly had to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest.
“So,” he says, grabbing his coffee cup, “how'd it go at the Bugle?”
You're grateful for the topic of conversation.
“Oh, it was...” and then you suddenly remembered how it could make things even more awkward.
You swallow.
“...nice. Yeah. A very unique experience.” You wince.
Smooth.
But Peter, being the sweetheart that he is, just nods along. “Cool. Is your magazine working on a project with them?”
“Kind of. Yeah. They actually asked to interview me.”
“Oh, that’s awesome! Congratulations,” Peter says, smiling into his mug
“Thanks. I’m a little nervous about how it's going to turn out. The interview didn't exactly go how I expected,” you say, letting out a quiet breath.
“Why’s that?” he asks, and you pause for a moment, collecting your thoughts.
“Let’s just say the interviewer said some things I wasn’t ready to hear,” you confess, your gaze lingering on the whipped cream swirling into your coffee.
Silence settles between you both.
“Can I ask what they said?” Peter asks carefully, the first to break the silence. You lift your gaze from your coffee, turning the question over in your mind.
A part of you wants to brush it off. Say journalists can be blunt and cutthroat, and you’re just not used to being on the other side of the pen. But another part of you…
“The interview was about my article,” you say finally. “About the letters.
Peter stays quiet, giving you the space to continue.
“I told him that we’d seen each other again. That you came by my office. And he said that you didn’t come back into my life just to ‘compliment my writing’.”
For a moment, Peter doesn’t say anything. His eyes drop to his coffee, and you watch as he runs his thumb along the edge of the cup. You know you should give him a moment to answer, but something inside you pushes you forward.
“Why did you come see me, Peter?”
And despite wanting to crack a fake laugh and say you were kidding immediately afterwards to try to defuse the awkward tension, you hold strong. Because for once, you think you deserve an answer.
For once, you’re thinking about yourself.
“When I read your article…I just kept thinking about what it would have been like if I knew, back then.”
Your brow furrows. “If you knew?”
His eyes finally lift from his mug, locking on yours. “How you felt. About me.”
“You and I... we clicked so easily,” he continues. “You became such an important person in my life before I even realized it. I thought you were so cool and funny. And sure, maybe you had the huge flaw of hating the Star Wars prequels, but hey, no one can be perfect.”
A breathy laugh escapes you, and the way his face softens at the sound makes you realize he must have missed that too.
“But then, suddenly, you weren't in my life anymore. And I never really understood why.” His smile fades slightly. “I wondered if I did something. If I said something wrong. If I somehow messed things up. But…I never asked.”
“Why?” you push again, because for a whole year, you couldn’t stop wondering why Peter didn’t care about you fading out of his life.
“Because I was scared. About making you feel worse. About maybe having imagined how close we were. I didn't want to think that I just made it all up in my head,” he admits, and suddenly your heart aches.
Peter did care. You both were just too afraid to do anything about it.
“And then I read the letter, and suddenly it all made sense. And I kept thinking…if I had known back then...” His eyes meet yours, and there's something conflicted in them. Like he knows he shouldn't say whatever is about to come next.
But he does anyway.
“I would’ve told you that I felt the same way.”
For a moment, you’re back there. Seventeen, with a stomach full of butterflies, the impossible question finally answered.
But you’re not seventeen anymore.
“Bullshit,” the word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Peter blinks. “What?”
“Bullshit,” you say, more certain of the word this time. “That’s complete and total bullshit, Peter. And you know it.”
His brows pull together, confusion crossing his face. “I’m not lying to you.”
“No, you’re not. Because you believe it,” you say, your voice quieter but somehow more frustrated. “That's the problem.”
“What are you talking about?”
You let out a humorless laugh. “I can’t believe you’ve convinced yourself that this was some kind of perfect, missed opportunity instead of admitting what actually happened.”
His expression shifts, lips in a tight line.
“You know, you’re right. You never did ask why I disappeared from your life. Do you want to know why?” you continue.
Peter opens his mouth, but you don't give him the chance.
“Because of Liz Allan,” you say, and notice his face drop. “Does that ring a bell, Peter?”
Silence.
Even all those years ago, you weren’t angry that Peter had liked Liz. He was allowed to have feelings for someone else. It just hurt that he liked her so much that, somewhere along the way, he stopped noticing you altogether.
“Everyone around us knew how I felt about you,” you say quietly. “Everyone except you. And that’s what makes me so angry now. Because you’re saying that if you had ‘known’, then you would’ve done something. But Peter... you had the chance to know. You just didn't care to.”
You feel a tightness in your throat when you finish, having finally said all the things you've been wanting to tell him for years. You notice Peter swallow, eyes dropping to his hands resting on the table.
For as long as you've known him, Peter Parker seemed to have an answer for everything. And for once, he didn't have one.
Wordlessly, you stand up from the chair and grab your bag, because you feel tears welling up in your eyes, and no way were you going to cry in front of Peter and an entire coffee shop full of strangers.
You turn to leave.
“Wait!”
Before you can take another step, his fingers gently wrap around your wrist.
“I really did care about you. I need you to know that.”
His words break the dam, and the tears finally let loose. You quickly pull your wrist out of his grasp and walk out of the coffee shop, the bell above the door ringing as you step out.
You know it’s a terrible idea. But your emotions are too heavy to walk back into an empty apartment just yet. Especially knowing MJ is working the closing shift tonight, leaving you alone with nothing but your thoughts.
And you really don't trust yourself with those.
So you wipe your tears on your sleeve, take a detour, and head to the one place that has always welcomed sad people in with open arms: the bar.
The plan is simple. One drink. Something to take the edge off. Something to quiet your mind. Except one drink turns into two. Two turns into three. And then a shot when a bachelorette party decides you look like you need a friend and pulls you into their celebration.
By the end of the night, you are very, very drunk.
Now you're stumbling around the dance floor with a group of strangers who somehow became your best friends for the evening when you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket.
You nearly miss it, but thankfully it comes at the end of a Ke$ha song, so you pull it out, squinting at the bright screen.
One new message.
Hey. It’s Peter, it reads simply, and you hate the way your heart skips despite the way he made you feel today.
You roll your eyes and try to make sense of the letters in front of you as you type up a response.
Boooo go away
You hear the girls next to you squeal at something, maybe at the current song that’s playing, but everything starts to sound distant and muddy in your ears.
Another text floats up on your screen.
?
Not exactly the reaction I expected
“Ughhhhh, so annoying,” you comment out loud. Your fingers fly across the screen.
Ur so rudee u knooee that right ? U brokee my heartt ni the past adns now ur doin itt again
“Hey girly, you ok?” one of the bachelorette party girls, one wearing a pink cowgirl hat, asks you.
You nod your head. “Totally. It’s just this stupid guy. He’s actually why I’m here right now,” you say, voice slurring.
You feel another vibration and look down at your phone.
Are you drunk right now?
You snort.
Duuhhhhhhhh
“Oh my gosh, that sucks. I’m so sorry,” cowgirl hat says.
You nod and glance at your phone, another message coming through.
Where are you.
You scoff and ignore the message, put off by how it sounds like a demand instead of a question, and continue dancing with the girls until you feel a stream of constant vibrations.
You begrudingly pull your phone out once again. “Oh noooo, now he’s calling,” you say with a whine.
“Oooh, gimmeee! I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” cowgirl hat says, slipping the phone out of your hands.
“Hello, is this Mr. Asshole?” she pauses, and you can assume Peter is talking to her. “No, she’s right next to me, but she says you're stupid, and you’re why she’s here right now, so I just want you to know that you can fuck off and….” another pause. “Mhm. Mhm. Oh. Okay,” she pulls the phone away from her ear and looks at you.
“He says he’s your boyfriend and he wants to come get you,” she says, and your mouth opens in disbelief.
“Oh my gosh, he confesses his feelings for me after seven years, and now he thinks he’s my boyfriend? He’s ridiculous,” you say with another roll of your eyes.
Cowgirl hat eyes you for a moment. “Girl. I fear I need to know your lore. That sounds insane,” she says before placing the phone back in her ear. “We’re at The Green Goblin. I’ll stay with her. Yeah. No worries,” she clicks the screen and then passes the phone back to you.
“What happened to giving him a piece of your mind?” you ask with furrowed brows.
“Well, I was, but he just sounded really sweet,” she says, and you sigh, because of course she’d say that about Peter.
You continue to dance and chat with the girls for a few more songs until you feel a hand on your shoulder.
You turn around, ready to give Peter a piece of your mind, but freeze when you’re face to face with Peter B. Parker.
“Oh crap,” you say out loud.
His expression is stern.
It’s the kind of look that immediately makes you feel like a kid again, standing in front of an adult who knows you did wrong. It would almost be comical in any other situation. Except you are currently wasted and you’re only just now realizing that you’ve been arguing with the wrong Peter this entire time.
You offer him a sheepish smile. “Heeeyyyyy,” you say, dragging out the word in an attempt to soften him.
It doesn’t work.
Peter B. just stares at you. “Let's go.”
Your smile drops. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. We’re leaving,” and when he tries to take your hand in his, you take a step back.
“And who died and made you the fun police?” you ask with a frown. “I’m just having a couple drinks with my friends. You don’t have to go all Edward Cullen on my ass.”
Peter B. blinks at you, then his gaze shifts past you, toward the group of girls you’ve apparently adopted for the night.
“What’s her name?” he asks you, pointing to one of the bachelorette party girls who was wearing a feather boa.
The girl freezes, wide eyes on you both as she realizes she’s been included in the conversation.
You turn to her, eyes squinting. “Crys...tal…?” you guess, but the boa girl betrays you by shaking her head.
You huff.
“Cool, thanks for proving my point. Let’s go, move those feet towards the exit,” he says, gesturing towards the door.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the frustration from the last two days finally catching up with you. Or maybe you’re just tired of everyone telling you what to do. Either way, you plant your feet.
“No.”
Peter B. raises a brow. “No?”
“Nope.” You cross your arms, defiant. “I’m not moving.”
For a moment, he says nothing. He just stares at you with the kind of look that makes you wonder if you should start reconsidering your choices. But before you can even cave, he moves. And where one second you were standing on the floor, the next you’re being lifted over his shoulder.
“What the hell?!” you yelp, completely caught off guard. Peter B. adjusts his grip with ridiculous ease, like carrying someone out of a bar was just another Friday night for him.
“Peter!”
“Nope,” he says calmly, already walking toward the door. “You made your choice.”
“You can’t just kidnap me like some kind of caveman. This isn’t a ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ situation!” you complain, arms flopped dramatically behind him.
He ignores you and walks you both out of the bar, but he doesn’t set you down till you're a couple of feet away from it. The second your feet hit the pavement, you spin around to face him.
“First of all, that was so not okay! I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions, and you can’t just carry me out like a weekend duffle bag. And second of all, you are seriously stronger than you look. Holy crap.”
He stares at you, expression unreadable. “Why did you get so drunk? Especially by yourself.”
You think his question over, lips pursed. “I’m undercover as a sad drunk girl at a bar. I take my assignments very seriously.”
His eyes seem to recognize the reference, but he doesn’t laugh.
“So we’re going to play the same game we used to, huh?” he asks, mild irritation in his tone.
You can’t help but frown. “Game?”
“The one where we hide behind jokes because it’s easier than being honest. You’ve always been really good at that,” and he says it almost accusingly.
It sets a flame inside you. “So have you.”
“Yeah.” He slips his hands into his pockets. “Guess that’s why we got along so well.”
Silence settles between you both. You watch as he sighs, eyes drifting down to the sidewalk.
“Why are you acting like you’re disappointed in me?” you ask.
His eyes flick back to yours. “I’m not disappointed. I’m concerned.”
“Even worse.” You let out a humorless laugh and ignore the way he flinches. “Who even am I to you, Peter? We had one photography class together in college.”
Peter just looks at you for a moment. “And somehow it was enough for you to write me that letter.”
His words make your stomach plummet, and before you can think it through, you’re walking away from him.
“Are you upset that I came back into your life?” he calls after you, following behind. “Did I ruin something?”
You keep walking, eyes fixed stubbornly ahead. “You made things a complete mess!” you shout.
Peter B. falls quiet behind you, so you turn to face him, the flame inside you now an entire forest fire.
“I had everything figured out,” you say, your voice louder than you intended. “My focus was just on work. And yeah, maybe I wasn't waking up every morning feeling like everything was perfect or exciting, but I was okay.”
Your throat tightens.
“I was comfortable. A-and then suddenly, you came back. All of you did.”
His expression shifts, jaw clenched as he listens to you.
“To do what?” you ask, your voice cracking slightly. “To remind me of feelings I hid away years ago? To make me feel like I'm supposed to figure out what they mean now?”
You expect him to say something. Chime in with some kind of argument, call you out on being too drunk. Instead, he’s silent. And the words continue to flow out of you like word vomit.
“You don't understand,” you continue, your voice quieter now. “I had these feelings for all of you, and I thought I dealt with them. I thought I put them away. I literally wrote them down and locked them away in a stupid box for years. That was supposed to be the end of it. But now they're back.”
You feel your eyes sting.
“And I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that.”
The fire extinguishes, and you're left feeling empty as you stand in front of Peter B., and suddenly, the word vomit no longer feels like words.
You race to the nearest trash can and release everything you consumed throughout the night into it. You’re so fucked up you don’t have the energy to feel embarrassed, even when you feel one of Peter’s hands rubbing soothing circles on your back and the other keeping your hair away from your face. When you're finally done battling the beast in your stomach, you stand in place, completely drained.
“You good?” Peter B. asks, and it’s a dumb question, because obviously you’re not, but you still think it's sweet of him to ask.
“Just peachy,” you groan, hand resting against your forehead.
He gives you a soft, sympathetic look before gently placing an arm around your shoulders, guiding you to move slowly with him.
“There’s a bodega nearby,” he says. “Let's get you some water and an aspirin, and I’ll walk you home, ok?”
And your stomach hurts again, but this time it’s not the alcohol.
You hate that this is who Peter B. is. Quietly thoughtful. The type of person who sees someone falling apart and doesn’t hesitate to help pick up the pieces, without even mentioning it. And after everything you said to him tonight, it makes guilt settle heavily in your chest.
But you don't argue, because being this close to Peter makes the world feel less dizzying. And because breathing in the scent of his shirt, a mixture of laundry detergent and his cologne, finally makes the thoughts in your head slow down.
After the bodega, you both quietly walk to your apartment building. The whole way, Peter B. makes sure you don’t trip over your own two feet in your drunken stupor. He keeps a steady hand on your arm, slows his pace to match yours, and gently reminds you to watch the curb every time you come across one.
Every once in a while, you look up at him and start to notice the little things he does. The way he gently adjusts his grip when he feels you stumble. The way he rubs your shoulders absentmindedly. The way he looks down at you with a fondness in his eyes.
And you can’t help a small, familiar thought cross your mind: You wonder what it would be like to feel his lips on yours. It scares you because, for the first time, you realize it isn’t coming from the girl who wrote that letter years ago. It’s coming from you now.
The thought completely evaporates from your mind, however, when you approach your apartment and see Peter standing at your door.
Flowers in his hands.
Eyes wide when he spots you leaning against Peter B.
I really like Nick Robinson's eyes, he looks so internally tortured and sad all the time even when smiling. He really looks like he has hidden emotional depth, which I know men aren't capable of. Kudoes to him.
