Rin

22 • she/her • poet lover of marvel and fanfic my fic recs

[rinniereads123]

Rin's Masterlist

Last updated 04/29/2025

Poems

Friends

Life Preserver

Slipping

Feed the Flames

A Chauffeur's Lament

Masks

Never/Haven't

Comorbidities

Good Mourning

i live in my headphones

Crack

Fiction

Last Man Standing

The last person on Earth writes their final thoughts.

[quietbluetune]

The Feeling of Falling Upwards — P.P.

mcu peter parker x afab/fem!reader — part one

summary: in an effort to finally move on from MJ, peter hooks up with the pretty bartender from his class, but everything quickly unravels when he can’t push away his growing feelings for her— and when he finds out she’s been investigating spider-man

or, peter parker realizes he shouldn’t be afraid to fall again

warnings: 18+, slight angst, smut, dual pov, post nwh, strangers to lovers, canon divergent (loosely based on universe-accurate stuff), alcohol, peter’s grief is a character, allusions to depression and self-isolation, petermj erasure (i’m sorry), ned remembers again bc peter needs at least one friend sue me, 20/21-ish ages ??, canon-typical violence, peter’s a massive munch & a bit of a disaster (affectionate), inaccurate bnd info bc it wasn’t out when i wrote this lol

smut warnings: sloppy/semi-public sex, mutual handjobs, fingering, drunk (but consentual) hookup. tags will be updated on part two :)

word count: 22.4k — ao3, masterlist — playlist

author’s note: oh, the character that started it all. he will always be a special part of me, so i couldn’t not write for him with bnd coming out. writing for him (and actually posting it) after all this time with an adult mindset was interesting, but im happy with how this little story unfolded. i hope you enjoy this one <3 let me know if you do !!

⁀➷ now reading: part one | part two (coming soon)

Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning. 

He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave. 

Not really. 

Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive. 

Or willing to, for that matter. 

So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline. 

Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep. 

Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked. 

And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.

It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob. 

Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward. 

Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make. 

He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between. 

Because what did he really have to fight for anymore? 

Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from. 

Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him. 

So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him. 

Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is. 

And Peter Parker doesn’t give up. 

But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell. 

He’d gotten particularly good at that. 

Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?

No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds, 

“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy. 

With Paul. 

“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”

Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”

Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him. 

“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”

Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”

The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”

“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.” 

His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.

“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.” 

Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”

“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”

Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right. 

He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.

Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore. 

He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.

But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet. 

And the echo of a DNR order looming over it. 

It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance. 

He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that. 

And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really? 

The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it. 

Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him. 

Another loss he couldn’t stop.

“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”

Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.

“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.” 

He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper. 

Maybe then he could find himself again. 

“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”

Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”

“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.” 

“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”

“Is that really a bad thing?”

“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.

Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”

“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.

“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”

Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”

“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”

“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”

“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.” 

“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”

Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.” 

Jeez. He was right about that one, too. 

Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell. 

Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.

“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?” 

Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.

What the hell did he just get himself into?

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining. 

Not at all. 

It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further. 

Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind. 

How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.

Knowing the option existed only made it worse. 

His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again. 

Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul. 

And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.

Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.

It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should. 

He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?

And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope? 

He didn’t particularly want that answered right now. 

The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one. 

Things were rough, to say the least. 

All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.

His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.

He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.

It was the same doomed cycle.

His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot. 

“Parker? Did you finish it?”

He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.

Talking to him. 

Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.

His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.

Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.

Fuck, Peter, pay attention.

He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”

He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?

The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in. 

He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.

The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored. 

You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be. 

He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world. 

He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—

Wait… How the hell did you know his name? 

“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.

Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.

Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.

The same went for you and him.

When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.

And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.” 

It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet. 

You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue. 

“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”

You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently. 

“Fine. First thing.”

He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him. 

“O-of course. Promise.”

Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb. 

Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always. 

And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.

By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.

He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.

Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room. 

He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.

The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.

Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.

Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is. 

“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.

There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions. 

He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work. 

By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.

His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that. 

It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that. 

One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work. 

You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to. 

Not yet. 

He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.

He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.  

He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.

And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it. 

Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have. 

This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned. 

Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two. 

Someone he wanted to know more.

He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.

Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.

No one else.

But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.

He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.

He fails miserably. 

You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.

He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?

That maybe he was worth another chance again?

Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again. 

He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever. 

The willingness to begin again. 

And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.

Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.

And you made him believe it might be possible again.

The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building. 

He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention. 

Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor. 

Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd. 

“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”

Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”

Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”

He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back. 

With someone who wasn’t MJ. 

Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.

You. 

You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged. 

His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement. 

Wait, why was he regretting this again?

“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”

He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”

“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.” 

Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles, 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.” 

He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission. 

To say what, exactly? That was still unclear. 

He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take. 

You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there. 

And it’s for him. 

The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you. 

As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying. 

There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it. 

You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes. 

“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight. 

Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.

“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”

Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”

“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”

Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?” 

He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”

You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat. 

You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”

His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.

“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”

“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.” 

His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”

He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.

“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”

You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.

You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now. 

“Whatever you wanna make me.”

Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”

The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.

“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”

He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”

“A secret. Just try it.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.

You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”

“Because I was bored. Your turn.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink. 

“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.” 

The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?” 

You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.

“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”

He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”

You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.

It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?

You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”

Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”

His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours. 

Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—

Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.

“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.

Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.

“You guys know each other?”

“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.

“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”

You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”

“Same,” Ned affirms. 

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”

He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across. 

Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.

Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back. 

“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”

It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”

Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”

Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.

And he notices.

Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.

“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”

A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction. 

The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.

“Do I have a reason to?”

You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest. 

“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level. 

In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention. 

You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear. 

“I like you loose, Parker.” 

Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer. 

And this time, they don’t leave.

“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs. 

It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins. 

All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.

But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again. 

And, God, it felt good. 

So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts. 

And he was damn well tired of being one. 

His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.

He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.

Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.

By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights. 

Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences. 

Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.

But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb. 

“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.

He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”

You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”

His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up. 

“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”

You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”

“Whiskey.”

You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”

“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”

It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.

You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.

Even if just for a second, it’s there. 

And it counts. 

You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.   

The answer on his end was abundantly clear.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too. 

But he tries, anyway.

His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”

“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”

His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you. 

So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.

Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”

The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.

Your hand, still held in his.

Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.

The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.

So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.

You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.

He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.

So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.

“I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.

“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”

Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it. 

His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him. 

He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.

“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”

“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”

He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.

He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind. 

You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight. 

He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this. 

But, fuck— He doesn’t care. 

He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much. 

And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.

He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.

His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.

Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”

He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”

You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.” 

He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,

“I want you.”

You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more. 

His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first. 

His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection. 

Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need. 

He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.

Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.

Just you and him. 

When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.

His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants. 

Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.

You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again. 

Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”

He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder. 

Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex. 

Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase. 

“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”

He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.

He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.

“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”

Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.

His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.

Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.

Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.

His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing. 

And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you. 

It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.

Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart. 

His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching. 

Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.

Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened? 

His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.

And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,

Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore. 

By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream. 

The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.

It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand. 

Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?

He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light. 

Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.

There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt. 

None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.

Not forgotten.

But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.

Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up. 

He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.

…So then why did last night feel so good?

Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head. 

Then did a lot more than just talk.

But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.

Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore. 

He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.

Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.  

Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?

Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—

MJ moved on. 

If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would. 

He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.

It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.

You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.

He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.

So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.

Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh. 

Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.

That was all he needed to try. 

The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.  

His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea. 

You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.

Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.

Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday. 

He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile. 

“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”

He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t. 

“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”

He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.

“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”

He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.

“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”

If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.

It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner. 

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”

You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile. 

“It’s, like, twelve hours late. You’re good, Parker.”

“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.

“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”

“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”

He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”

Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

You look pretty despite it.

He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.

“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”

His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.

Always holding something that makes him want more. 

You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”

“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”

He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours. 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”

You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.” 

“…Maybe.”

“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”

You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”

His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.

You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.

“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”

“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around. 

Things were clearly different, one way or another. 

You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”

“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”

He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”

His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.

“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”

“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”

His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.

“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face. 

“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.

Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?” 

“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”

Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”

He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.

“Really? People still read that thing?”

“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”

He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.

And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough. 

“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”

He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project. 

But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.

He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.

“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”

His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again. 

“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”

“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”

His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”

He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually. 

“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”

Anything but that. 

He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.

“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”

“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”

“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”

“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”

Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.

“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”

Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”

You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.

“Do you know what a ghost is?”

He blinks, lost. “What?”

“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”

His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.

“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”

Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.

And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one. 

He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.

“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”

“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”

He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down. 

“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”

Something tells him you’re right, regardless. 

By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.

He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts. 

No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.

None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice. 

…And now your investigation as well. 

Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction. 

Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain. 

Or wanted to, for that matter. 

Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that. 

Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.

Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.

At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable. 

That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—

MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies. 

“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”

He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.

“H-huh?”

“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”

“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.

It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.

He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.

She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.

His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?

The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force. 

MJ might be different, but now he was, too. 

He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at. 

“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”

He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.

“I had class.”

“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”

His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”

“To go see—”

“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”

Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.

“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.

Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”

“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”

The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in. 

“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”

Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“Peter—”

“I’m serious, Ned.”

“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”

Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”

Especially after what he learned this morning. 

“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”

“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”

Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”

Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes. 

“Did you have a good time last night?”

He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”

“And you’re into her, right?”

His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that. 

Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.

You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.

So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.

“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.” 

His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.

Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world. 

He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”

“That changes everything, Peter.”

He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”

He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.

“I think I like her…”

“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”

“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”

It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to. 

You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.

Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.

Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.

And that scared him.

Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses. 

You’d only end up hurt. 

Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.” 

He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.

Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head. 

Something true, more so than he’d like it to be. 

“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again? 

And if he was, who was willing to take it?

It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.

Maybe he did deserve to be happy.

Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.

You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind. 

There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.

In your class. In your life. In your mind. 

It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.

That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought. 

Until about a week later.

Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes. 

And that’s when you heard it.

His name. 

Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat. 

He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.

He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was. 

You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep. 

It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted. 

And it did.  

He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him. 

Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression. 

He slid into your mind with ease after that. 

Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist. 

He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.

It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing. 

You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early. 

It wasn’t. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before. 

Then the whole day went by. 

The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one. 

You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything. 

Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.

He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying. 

That was new.

You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter. 

And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all. 

Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.  

Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.

One night.

Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.

Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that? 

It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.

The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.

You needed real journalism. Now, or never. 

Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.

Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.

Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.

And that’s when you found it. A sticky note. 

It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away. 

I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.

A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between. 

Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.

Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you. 

A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real. 

Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.

Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait. 

The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East. 

You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.

That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it. 

It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.

Nothing was ever there. 

You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city. 

But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man. 

You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once. 

You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note. 

You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other. 

You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.

The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you. 

You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.

Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—

So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place. 

A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too. 

Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger. 

You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.

Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.

You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.

One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.

Then he gets closer.

Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—

A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.

And suddenly you’re falling.

The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.

Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement. 

Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage. 

You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.

Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.

Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.

He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.

It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke. 

“You alright, Miss?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.

“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word. 

You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful. 

Except, maybe in a way, you did. 

Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person. 

You had to tell Peter. 

He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.  

He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello. 

“Oh, so you do know the girl.”

He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”

“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”

His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”

“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.” 

His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen. 

You

i got a tip. can u come by my place?

His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck. 

“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”

“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”

Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach. 

Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says, 

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait, we need to—”

“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.

The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.

Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.

He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.

Or why he felt so strongly about it. 

It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint. 

The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share. 

Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled. 

You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again. 

He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet. 

Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place. 

“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”

He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.” 

If only you knew the half of his experience with that. 

You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free. 

Undeniably you. 

His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation. 

The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin. 

Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you. 

He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.

“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”

He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”

“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.” 

The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul. 

“Check it out, Parker.”

He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.

“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”

He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright. 

You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”

He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”

Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process. 

“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”

Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this. 

Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again? 

But the biggest question was how do they know you.

There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?  

Someone he cares about more than he should. 

He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in. 

“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”

“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”

You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”

He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”

“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”

“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?” 

In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go. 

He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”

Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”

“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.” 

You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”

“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”

“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”

Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”

Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.” 

“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze. 

“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.

“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”

He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it. 

Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does. 

The blooming edge of a reddened bruise. 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”

You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”

Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.

It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.

His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.

He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before. 

And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time. 

His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.

A different darkness than the night before. 

His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.

Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it. 

Not with you. 

He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.

“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”

Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.” 

It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face. 

An edge that softens without knowing why. 

Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”

He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods. 

When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.

Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.     

He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared. 

Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was. 

He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight. 

When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.

Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.

Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt. 

So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.

His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”

You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean. 

He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey. 

The way you made it worse.

But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it. 

He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows. 

Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair. 

Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved. 

Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you. 

“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.” 

His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in. 

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands. 

The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.

“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”

Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.

It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.

To allow. 

You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath. 

After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.

“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.” 

You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night. 

“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.” 

You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.” 

The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you. 

Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between. 

He’d drop anything to catch you. Always. 

And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.

He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath. 

“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”

Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.  

“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.” 

It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.

The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long. 

The way you see him without seeing him at all. 

It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes. 

His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.

“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”

continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx

edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍

© quietbluetune —⋆˚࿔

[smalltown-heroes]

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ 2016 // 2026 ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

[bitofrea]

peter parker x stark!reader

summary: ever since the world forgot peter parker, he’s kept exactly one promise: protect the people he loves, even if they never know his name. unfortunately for him, natasha romanoff made sure tony stark’s daughter would always notice when she was being followed.

warnings: memory-loss consequences, mentions of stalking, emotional angst, natasha romanoff’s training, english being not my first language.

the bell above the café door chimed softly.

peter didn’t look up.

he had learned that if he looked at every customer who walked in, he’d only end up disappointed. every few hours he’d convince himself that maybe, just maybe, someone would remember him.

no one ever did.

instead, he kept reading the same page of the physics textbook he’d been pretending to study for the last fifteen minutes while, through the reflection in the window, he watched her.

she looked… okay.

happy enough.

a little tired.

she laughed at something on her phone before ordering coffee. good. that was all he needed. he could leave now.

except he didn’t. because he’d told himself that every day for the past month.

just another five minutes. just until she leaves safely. just…

then the chair across from him scraped against the wooden floor.

peter froze.

“…hi.”

he slowly lowered his book.

reader smiled politely, almost apologetically.

“hi.” his brain completely stopped working.

she wasn’t supposed to be here.

she wasn’t supposed to even notice him.

she folded her arms on the table. “you’ve been following me for weeks.”

peter’s heart nearly stopped. “…i’m sorry?”

“you heard me.”

“i- i think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“no.” she tilted her head. “it’s definitely you.”

peter forced an awkward laugh.

“i think i’d remember following someone.”

“you’ve changed hoodies six times.”

his smile faltered.

“you alternate between three backpacks. you’ve started buying coffee from places you clearly don’t like because they’re on my route. and yesterday you spent forty-three minutes pretending to compare cereal brands.”

peter blinked. “…how do you know it was forty-three?”

she gave him a look. “because i was timing you.”

silence.

then she sighed. “i let it go the first week.”

peter considered jumping through the nearest window.

“the second week I assumed you were gathering courage to ask me out.”

his ears turned scarlet. “what?”

“the third week I realized you weren’t actually trying to approach me.” she leaned back. “so now I’m curious.” another beat. “you don’t seem dangerous.”

“no.”

“you don’t seem creepy.”

“…thanks?”

“you actually look guilty… so.” she rested her chin on her hand. “why are you following me?”

peter stared at her.

every answer he wanted to give sat painfully behind the one he couldn’t.

because you’re my best friend.

because i promised your dad.

because i couldn’t save aunt may, but i can make sure nothing happens to you.

instead. “i think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

she smiled. “there it is.”

“what?”

“you’re lying.”

peter swallowed.

reader reached for her coffee when the waiter placed it down.

she took one sip before speaking again. “you know…” her voice softened. “i was trained by natasha romanoff.”

peter almost groaned.

“she spent years teaching me how to spot surveillance.” she pointed casually toward the window. “you always stay where you can see exits.”

peter blinked.

“you never let anyone stand behind you.”

another blink.

“when you think i might’ve noticed you, you start reading.”

his eyes drifted to the textbook still open in front of him.

“and,” she continued, “you scan everyone’s hands before you look at their faces.”

peter slowly closed the book.

“…old habits.”

“military?”

he smiled faintly. “no.”

“former shield?”

“…no.”

“hired by someone?”

his stomach tightened. “…no.”

she studied him for a long moment.

then something shifted in her expression.

not suspicion.

sadness.

“you know…” she murmured, “it’s strange.”

peter looked at her.

“i feel like…” she frowned. “…i should know you.”

his breath caught.

she looked embarrassed by her own words. “that’s weird, right?”

“…maybe.”

“i’ve had this feeling for months.” she laughed quietly. “i’ll see someone wearing a red hoodie and think, there you are, and then…” she shrugged. “it’s never who I’m looking for.”

peter had to grip the edge of the table to stop his hands from shaking.

“you have one of those faces.”

“my face?”

“it feels…” she searched for the word. “…familiar.”

neither of them spoke.

finally, reader smiled. “anyway.” she stood, grabbing her cup. “I don’t know why you’re following me.”

peter lowered his eyes.

“but i don’t think it’s because you want to hurt me.”

“…no.”

“i think…” she said quietly, “…you’re making sure i’m okay.”

his throat tightened.

“i don’t know why.”

neither do i anymore, he almost admitted.

she took a step away before pausing. “if you’re ever done hiding…”

peter looked up.

“…i’d like to know your name.” she smiled one last time as she turned towards the door.

she already had one hand on the café door when she heard him.

“wait.”

reader turned around.

peter was already regretting it.

his chair had scraped loudly against the floor, every eye in the café briefly drifting toward him before returning to their own conversations.

he swallowed.

she waited. “yeah?”

peter had rehearsed thousands of conversations with her.

none of them started like this.

“i…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “this is going to sound weird.”

a small smile tugged at her lips. “i’ve had a weird afternoon already.”

right.

she’d just confronted her own stalker.

“right.” he laughed nervously.

“i guess… i just wanted to say i’m sorry.”

“for following me?”

he nodded immediately. “yeah.”

“and?”

“and…” he looked down at the floor. “i wasn’t lying when i said i don’t want to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“i know that’s not enough of an explanation.”

“no.”

“but it’s the only one i can give.”

reader watched him for a long second. there was something painfully sincere about him. not charming. not smooth. just… honest.

like someone carrying a weight he wasn’t allowed to put down.

“so…” she asked softly. “does this mean you’re going to stop following me?”

peter hesitated. “…yes.” the word almost hurt. “if that’s what makes you feel safe.”

she noticed the way his shoulders slumped after he said it. like he’d just lost something.

her expression softened. “i didn’t say i felt unsafe.”

his eyes lifted to hers.

“i said i noticed.”

“oh.”

“you’ve had plenty of opportunities to do something.”

“i know.”

“you never did.”

“…no.”

“you actually scared away a guy who was following me last tuesday.”

peter blinked. “…you noticed that too?”

she laughed. “i notice everything.”

of course she did.

natasha would’ve been proud.

peter smiled despite himself. it was small. real.

reader noticed that too. “you smile like someone who doesn’t do it very often.”

his smile disappeared almost immediately. “…guess not.”

silence settled between them. comfortable this time.

then peter spoke before he could convince himself not to. “i know this is… probably inappropriate after everything.”

she raised an eyebrow.

“but…” he inhaled deeply. “would you maybe…” his voice almost cracked. “…want to be friends?”

the question hung between them.

reader stared. “friends?”

“i know.” he laughed awkwardly. “it sounds ridiculous.”

“you’ve been secretly following me for a month…”

“…yeah.”

“…and your solution is friendship?”

“when you put it like that….”

“it sounds insane.”

“it really does.” he buried his face in one hand. “i’m sorry. i should’ve just let you leave.”

she couldn’t help smiling. “no.”

he looked up.

“i’m glad you didn’t.”

peter blinked.

she stepped closer. “can i ask you something?”

“anything.”

“why me?”

he froze.

thee answer was so easy.

because you were my best friend.

because i fell in love with you when we were fifteen.

because every science project somehow became an excuse to spend another afternoon together.

because your dad used to pretend he didn’t know we kept sneaking into the lab.

because i still know exactly how you take your coffee.

instead.

“you seemed…” he searched for something that wasn’t a lie. “lonely.”

reader’s smile faded just a little. “…that’s a surprisingly accurate observation.”

peter’s heart sank. “i know what that’s like.”

she looked at him differently then.

not with suspicion. with recognition.

like she’d found another person carrying invisible things.

“i don’t usually make friends with strangers.”

“i figured.”

“but…” she reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small notebook. tearing off a page, she scribbled something before folding it once then she placed it in front of him. “my number.”

peter stared at it as if it might disappear.

“i have one condition.”

he looked up.

“no more following me.”

his stomach twisted. “…okay.”

“if you want to know whether i’m okay…” she smiled. “you ask.”

peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “…okay.”

“and if i catch you watching me from another rooftop.”

“i won’t.”

“peter.” the name left her mouth so naturally that they both froze.

silence.

reader frowned. “…why did i call you peter?”

his entire body went still. “i…”

she blinked rapidly. “i don’t even know your name.”

peter couldn’t breathe.

she shook her head, almost laughing at herself. “sorry. that’s… weird. it just slipped out.”

neither of them spoke.

finally, she smiled again, smaller this time. “so…” she tilted her head. “what’s your name?”

peter looked at the folded piece of paper with her phone number.

then back at the girl he’d loved since he was fifteen.

the girl who had just called him by the name the universe had stolen from him.

he smiled.

this time, it reached his eyes. “…peter. peter parker.”

she repeated it quietly, as though testing how it felt. “peter.” something in her chest stirred. a feeling with no memory attached.

only warmth.

only home.

“…it’s nice to meet you peter parker.”

peter nodded. “it really is.”

and for the first time since doctor strange’s spell, he wasn’t introducing himself to a stranger.

he was introducing himself to someone who, somehow, had almost remembered.

author’s note: i watched brand new day a few days ago, and i literally felt the need of writing something about peter parker. also i was thinking of making like a part 2 out of this, would you guys like that?

[thisusedtobeafanpage]

Frank castle in his solo projects Vs with Spiderman

[quietbluetune]

The Feeling of Falling Upwards — P.P.

mcu peter parker x afab/fem!reader — part one

summary: in an effort to finally move on from MJ, peter hooks up with the pretty bartender from his class, but everything quickly unravels when he can’t push away his growing feelings for her— and when he finds out she’s been investigating spider-man

or, peter parker realizes he shouldn’t be afraid to fall again

warnings: 18+, slight angst, smut, dual pov, post nwh, strangers to lovers, canon divergent (loosely based on universe-accurate stuff), alcohol, peter’s grief is a character, allusions to depression and self-isolation, petermj erasure (i’m sorry), ned remembers again bc peter needs at least one friend sue me, 20/21-ish ages ??, canon-typical violence, peter’s a massive munch & a bit of a disaster (affectionate), inaccurate bnd info bc it wasn’t out when i wrote this lol

smut warnings: sloppy/semi-public sex, mutual handjobs, fingering, drunk (but consentual) hookup. tags will be updated on part two :)

word count: 22.4k — ao3, masterlist — playlist

author’s note: oh, the character that started it all. he will always be a special part of me, so i couldn’t not write for him with bnd coming out. writing for him (and actually posting it) after all this time with an adult mindset was interesting, but im happy with how this little story unfolded. i hope you enjoy this one <3 let me know if you do !!

⁀➷ now reading: part one | part two (coming soon)

Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning. 

He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave. 

Not really. 

Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive. 

Or willing to, for that matter. 

So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline. 

Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep. 

Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked. 

And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.

It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob. 

Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward. 

Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make. 

He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between. 

Because what did he really have to fight for anymore? 

Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from. 

Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him. 

So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him. 

Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is. 

And Peter Parker doesn’t give up. 

But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell. 

He’d gotten particularly good at that. 

Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?

No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds, 

“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy. 

With Paul. 

“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”

Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”

Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him. 

“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”

Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”

The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”

“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.” 

His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.

“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.” 

Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”

“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”

Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right. 

He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.

Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore. 

He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.

But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet. 

And the echo of a DNR order looming over it. 

It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance. 

He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that. 

And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really? 

The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it. 

Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him. 

Another loss he couldn’t stop.

“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”

Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.

“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.” 

He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper. 

Maybe then he could find himself again. 

“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”

Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”

“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.” 

“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”

“Is that really a bad thing?”

“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.

Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”

“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.

“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”

Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”

“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”

“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”

“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.” 

“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”

Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.” 

Jeez. He was right about that one, too. 

Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell. 

Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.

“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?” 

Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.

What the hell did he just get himself into?

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining. 

Not at all. 

It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further. 

Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind. 

How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.

Knowing the option existed only made it worse. 

His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again. 

Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul. 

And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.

Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.

It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should. 

He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?

And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope? 

He didn’t particularly want that answered right now. 

The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one. 

Things were rough, to say the least. 

All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.

His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.

He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.

It was the same doomed cycle.

His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot. 

“Parker? Did you finish it?”

He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.

Talking to him. 

Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.

His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.

Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.

Fuck, Peter, pay attention.

He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”

He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?

The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in. 

He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.

The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored. 

You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be. 

He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world. 

He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—

Wait… How the hell did you know his name? 

“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.

Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.

Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.

The same went for you and him.

When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.

And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.” 

It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet. 

You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue. 

“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”

You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently. 

“Fine. First thing.”

He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him. 

“O-of course. Promise.”

Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb. 

Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always. 

And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.

By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.

He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.

Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room. 

He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.

The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.

Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.

Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is. 

“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.

There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions. 

He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work. 

By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.

His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that. 

It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that. 

One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work. 

You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to. 

Not yet. 

He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.

He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.  

He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.

And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it. 

Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have. 

This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned. 

Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two. 

Someone he wanted to know more.

He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.

Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.

No one else.

But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.

He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.

He fails miserably. 

You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.

He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?

That maybe he was worth another chance again?

Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again. 

He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever. 

The willingness to begin again. 

And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.

Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.

And you made him believe it might be possible again.

The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building. 

He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention. 

Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor. 

Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd. 

“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”

Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”

Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”

He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back. 

With someone who wasn’t MJ. 

Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.

You. 

You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged. 

His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement. 

Wait, why was he regretting this again?

“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”

He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”

“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.” 

Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles, 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.” 

He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission. 

To say what, exactly? That was still unclear. 

He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take. 

You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there. 

And it’s for him. 

The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you. 

As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying. 

There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it. 

You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes. 

“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight. 

Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.

“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”

Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”

“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”

Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?” 

He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”

You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat. 

You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”

His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.

“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”

“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.” 

His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”

He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.

“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”

You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.

You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now. 

“Whatever you wanna make me.”

Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”

The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.

“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”

He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”

“A secret. Just try it.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.

You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”

“Because I was bored. Your turn.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink. 

“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.” 

The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?” 

You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.

“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”

He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”

You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.

It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?

You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”

Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”

His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours. 

Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—

Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.

“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.

Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.

“You guys know each other?”

“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.

“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”

You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”

“Same,” Ned affirms. 

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”

He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across. 

Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.

Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back. 

“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”

It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”

Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”

Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.

And he notices.

Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.

“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”

A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction. 

The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.

“Do I have a reason to?”

You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest. 

“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level. 

In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention. 

You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear. 

“I like you loose, Parker.” 

Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer. 

And this time, they don’t leave.

“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs. 

It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins. 

All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.

But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again. 

And, God, it felt good. 

So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts. 

And he was damn well tired of being one. 

His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.

He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.

Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.

By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights. 

Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences. 

Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.

But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb. 

“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.

He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”

You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”

His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up. 

“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”

You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”

“Whiskey.”

You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”

“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”

It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.

You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.

Even if just for a second, it’s there. 

And it counts. 

You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.   

The answer on his end was abundantly clear.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too. 

But he tries, anyway.

His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”

“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”

His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you. 

So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.

Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”

The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.

Your hand, still held in his.

Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.

The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.

So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.

You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.

He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.

So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.

“I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.

“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”

Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it. 

His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him. 

He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.

“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”

“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”

He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.

He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind. 

You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight. 

He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this. 

But, fuck— He doesn’t care. 

He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much. 

And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.

He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.

His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.

Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”

He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”

You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.” 

He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,

“I want you.”

You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more. 

His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first. 

His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection. 

Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need. 

He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.

Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.

Just you and him. 

When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.

His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants. 

Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.

You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again. 

Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”

He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder. 

Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex. 

Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase. 

“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”

He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.

He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.

“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”

Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.

His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.

Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.

Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.

His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing. 

And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you. 

It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.

Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart. 

His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching. 

Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.

Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened? 

His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.

And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,

Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore. 

By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream. 

The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.

It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand. 

Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?

He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light. 

Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.

There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt. 

None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.

Not forgotten.

But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.

Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up. 

He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.

…So then why did last night feel so good?

Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head. 

Then did a lot more than just talk.

But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.

Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore. 

He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.

Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.  

Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?

Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—

MJ moved on. 

If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would. 

He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.

It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.

You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.

He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.

So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.

Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh. 

Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.

That was all he needed to try. 

The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.  

His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea. 

You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.

Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.

Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday. 

He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile. 

“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”

He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t. 

“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”

He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.

“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”

He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.

“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”

If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.

It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner. 

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”

You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile. 

“It’s, like, twelve hours late. You’re good, Parker.”

“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.

“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”

“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”

He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”

Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

You look pretty despite it.

He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.

“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”

His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.

Always holding something that makes him want more. 

You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”

“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”

He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours. 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”

You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.” 

“…Maybe.”

“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”

You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”

His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.

You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.

“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”

“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around. 

Things were clearly different, one way or another. 

You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”

“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”

He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”

His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.

“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”

“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”

His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.

“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face. 

“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.

Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?” 

“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”

Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”

He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.

“Really? People still read that thing?”

“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”

He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.

And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough. 

“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”

He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project. 

But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.

He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.

“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”

His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again. 

“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”

“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”

His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”

He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually. 

“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”

Anything but that. 

He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.

“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”

“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”

“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”

“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”

Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.

“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”

Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”

You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.

“Do you know what a ghost is?”

He blinks, lost. “What?”

“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”

His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.

“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”

Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.

And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one. 

He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.

“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”

“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”

He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down. 

“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”

Something tells him you’re right, regardless. 

By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.

He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts. 

No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.

None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice. 

…And now your investigation as well. 

Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction. 

Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain. 

Or wanted to, for that matter. 

Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that. 

Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.

Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.

At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable. 

That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—

MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies. 

“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”

He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.

“H-huh?”

“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”

“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.

It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.

He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.

She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.

His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?

The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force. 

MJ might be different, but now he was, too. 

He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at. 

“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”

He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.

“I had class.”

“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”

His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”

“To go see—”

“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”

Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.

“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.

Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”

“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”

The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in. 

“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”

Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“Peter—”

“I’m serious, Ned.”

“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”

Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”

Especially after what he learned this morning. 

“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”

“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”

Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”

Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes. 

“Did you have a good time last night?”

He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”

“And you’re into her, right?”

His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that. 

Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.

You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.

So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.

“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.” 

His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.

Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world. 

He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”

“That changes everything, Peter.”

He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”

He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.

“I think I like her…”

“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”

“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”

It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to. 

You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.

Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.

Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.

And that scared him.

Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses. 

You’d only end up hurt. 

Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.” 

He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.

Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head. 

Something true, more so than he’d like it to be. 

“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again? 

And if he was, who was willing to take it?

It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.

Maybe he did deserve to be happy.

Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.

You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind. 

There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.

In your class. In your life. In your mind. 

It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.

That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought. 

Until about a week later.

Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes. 

And that’s when you heard it.

His name. 

Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat. 

He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.

He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was. 

You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep. 

It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted. 

And it did.  

He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him. 

Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression. 

He slid into your mind with ease after that. 

Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist. 

He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.

It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing. 

You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early. 

It wasn’t. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before. 

Then the whole day went by. 

The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one. 

You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything. 

Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.

He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying. 

That was new.

You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter. 

And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all. 

Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.  

Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.

One night.

Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.

Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that? 

It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.

The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.

You needed real journalism. Now, or never. 

Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.

Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.

Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.

And that’s when you found it. A sticky note. 

It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away. 

I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.

A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between. 

Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.

Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you. 

A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real. 

Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.

Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait. 

The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East. 

You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.

That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it. 

It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.

Nothing was ever there. 

You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city. 

But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man. 

You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once. 

You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note. 

You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other. 

You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.

The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you. 

You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.

Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—

So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place. 

A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too. 

Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger. 

You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.

Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.

You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.

One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.

Then he gets closer.

Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—

A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.

And suddenly you’re falling.

The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.

Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement. 

Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage. 

You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.

Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.

Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.

He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.

It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke. 

“You alright, Miss?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.

“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word. 

You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful. 

Except, maybe in a way, you did. 

Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person. 

You had to tell Peter. 

He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.  

He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello. 

“Oh, so you do know the girl.”

He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”

“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”

His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”

“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.” 

His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen. 

You

i got a tip. can u come by my place?

His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck. 

“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”

“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”

Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach. 

Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says, 

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait, we need to—”

“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.

The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.

Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.

He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.

Or why he felt so strongly about it. 

It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint. 

The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share. 

Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled. 

You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again. 

He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet. 

Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place. 

“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”

He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.” 

If only you knew the half of his experience with that. 

You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free. 

Undeniably you. 

His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation. 

The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin. 

Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you. 

He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.

“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”

He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”

“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.” 

The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul. 

“Check it out, Parker.”

He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.

“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”

He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright. 

You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”

He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”

Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process. 

“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”

Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this. 

Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again? 

But the biggest question was how do they know you.

There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?  

Someone he cares about more than he should. 

He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in. 

“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”

“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”

You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”

He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”

“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”

“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?” 

In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go. 

He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”

Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”

“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.” 

You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”

“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”

“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”

Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”

Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.” 

“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze. 

“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.

“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”

He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it. 

Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does. 

The blooming edge of a reddened bruise. 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”

You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”

Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.

It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.

His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.

He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before. 

And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time. 

His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.

A different darkness than the night before. 

His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.

Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it. 

Not with you. 

He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.

“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”

Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.” 

It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face. 

An edge that softens without knowing why. 

Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”

He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods. 

When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.

Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.     

He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared. 

Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was. 

He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight. 

When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.

Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.

Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt. 

So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.

His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”

You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean. 

He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey. 

The way you made it worse.

But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it. 

He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows. 

Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair. 

Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved. 

Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you. 

“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.” 

His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in. 

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands. 

The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.

“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”

Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.

It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.

To allow. 

You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath. 

After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.

“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.” 

You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night. 

“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.” 

You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.” 

The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you. 

Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between. 

He’d drop anything to catch you. Always. 

And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.

He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath. 

“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”

Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.  

“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.” 

It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.

The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long. 

The way you see him without seeing him at all. 

It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes. 

His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.

“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”

continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx

edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍

© quietbluetune —⋆˚࿔

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

I dont understand how anyone expects me to bring a man into my life when I know nothing but peace being single like on the weekends I do all my little tasks and my little chores and I workout and listen to my podcasts and my music and watch my shows and write my little stories and make my little videos and I hang out with my cat and I sleep in and meal prep and watch weird YouTube videos about theme parks and I just dont know why I would want to upset my beautiful solitary little ecosystem by introducing a man to my enclosure when all he is going to do is be loud and make messes and inflict psychological warfare on me

[veltana]

Got the terrible terrible period sads and anxiety 😭 Another hour until I can go to bed 😭

[rinniereads123]

One-Shots

SOME OF THESE STORIES ARE MATURE! READ THE WARNINGS AND TAGS BEFORE YOU READ!

Last updated 01/18/2026

★ - personal favorites | masterlist | other recs

don’t you ever end up anything but mine - @flowersforbucky

Everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s, but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?

★Black - @jamesbuchananxsteviegrant

Reader Has To Safeword

For As Long As You Need Me - @whatthetumblfck

A recent mission turns out some unexpected results, and you end up a little (a lot) worse for wear.

Daydreamer - @imtryingbuck

Bucky marries Y/n to create an alliance between their families and kingdoms, their marriage isn’t one of love but Bucky soon finds himself falling for her.

To Mend a Soldier - @vunblr

Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

scary? my god, you're divine - @sinner-as-saint

Your marriage to Bucky Barnes was crucial in stopping the rivalry that had been getting rather violent recently between the two families. You agreed to it. But there was one little problem. Although people knew of Bucky as being a ruthless, fiercely loyal, and feared hitman, no one had ever seen his face. In the rare occasions when he’d been seen out during assignments, it was rumoured that he always wore some sort of mask which covered most of his face. So you ended up marrying a man, and had no idea what he looked like. But surely that wouldn’t be an issue. It’s not like his one touch would get you addicted. Who cared what he looked like? It’s not like you could grow to love someone like him anyway… right?

yours to hurt, yours to love - @purple-babygirl

They had a deal. She would surrender her control; he would take it. Love had no place in such a relationship, did it?

Come Find Me - @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

You get left behind on a mission, and Bucky goes to save you.

★blurred lines - @ellemj

When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.

Shared desires - @veltana

You and Bucky decide to explore something new with Steve.

The Push and the Pull - @delaber

There’s nothing Bucky wants more than to be with you - and for that reason alone, he has to break both your hearts.

Little Bookworm - @heytheredelulu

Your boyfriend can’t think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while you’re in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: “Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton” and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.

Anywhere Away With You - @thevillainswhore

Old ghosts from your past threaten to disturb the peace you’ve made with your new life. Will temptation steer you away?

★The Ties That Bind Us - @thevillainswhore

Even though Bucky is your ex-husband, you still have to see him often because of your shared son. But the heated tension, the spark that is still very much alive after your divorce, finally reaches its peak when you come home from your date.

Warrior/Worrier - @delaber

After a mission gone awry, Bucky finds himself on your doorstep in the middle of the night.

Pink in the Night - @d0wnb4df0rf1cm3n

Some interesting rumours have been circling around about Bucky. Little do you know, it's kinda your fault.

Love Hurts - @urdepressedslut

You and Bucky get into a heated argument, things are said and done and now he won’t speak to you. You don’t think you can handle him ignoring your existence.

in losing grip, on sinking ships (you showed up just in time) - @mellowsaturns

When the Avengers pick up unusual activity, they realize that not all of Hydra was destroyed. One unidentifiable face sends the team into a frenzy but Bucky knows it. He could recognize those eyes anywhere.

I Hate You - @ellemj

After ending up on SHIELD's radar, you're moved into the tower against your will. Of course, you can't stand the one man that you have the most in common with.

One More Night - @marvelouslizzie

You and Bucky Barnes are fuck buddies for a while. The problem is you have feelings for him but you don't think he reciprocates and it just makes it impossible to continue your relationship. Little did you know how much he wants you and how hard he's trying to keep it casual.

The Things We Carry With Us - @pellucid-constellations

You were injured on a mission and didn’t tell anyone, leaving your already rocky relationship with Bucky crumbling. Was it really hate he harbored for you, or was it something else? 

Control - @bucky-bucket-barnes

John Walker makes the dire mistake of messing with Bucky’s girl. This misstep causes a major fight to break out between the two, ending in nothing but blood and rage.

I Can Save You This Time - @pellucid-constellations

It’s the 4th of July and you’ve never been more sick. Turns out you aren’t the only one in the compound that stayed home from the celebration.

Shaken Up - @jamesbuchananxsteviegrant

Steve and Bucky find their girl passed out.

Under Pressure - @banditthewriter

Y/N hides a nasty injury from the team until they know everybody is safe, and then they collapse. Bucky worries about Y/N.

Injuries - @flowinglocksofbuck

you get injured on a mission and Bucky freaks out

Wicked - @str-spangled-banner

You were injured during a mission two weeks ago and put to much pressure on your healing wounds, doing more damage than you thought possible. Bucky fears he will lose you.

Necessary Evil - @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

Y/N gets seriously injured and Bucky takes care of her.

fingers fantasy fulfilled - @purple-babygirl

If Bucky's doll wanted his metal fingers then that was exactly what she was going to get.

Lavender - @wkemeup

Not every nightmare is the same and Bucky doesn’t always wake up as the man you know. 

Give Me A Sign - @lostgirlmuseum

Bucky asks the universe for a reason to live. The universe delivers you.

Fulfilled Fantasy - @sergeantbarnessdoll

Y/N admits to Bucky that she wants to have a threesome so he has Natasha help fulfill her fantasy.

Hottest Night of Your Life - @bossbtch1

Bucky and Steve joined you for a night out at the club, but things took a dark turn when a stranger spiked your drink. Bucky and Steve were more than willing to "take care" of you.

Sharing is Caring - @sad-not-glad

Soft Dom! Steve x Sub! Bucky x Dom! reader

My Queen - @adrinktostopyourthirst

The post-battle energy rush needs a release. Suddenly, there's a willing soldier at your disposal.

Overreact, Overstimulate - @jamesbuchananxsteviegrant

Reader Falls Into Subspace During Sex With Bucky And Steve

all the apple cider and no more haunted houses - @witchywithwhiskey

you and bucky barnes have a love-hate relationship—you love him and you believe he hates you—but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light

my everything - @mrsbarnesblog

The last thing that Bucky ever expected to see was the love of his life from the past trapped in one of the Hydra bunkers in the cryofreeze chamber. Yet here he was almost two days later, staring at your still unconscious body through the window at the medical wing, imagining the horror and disgust on your face when you found out that he was no longer the innocent and happy boy you knew before.

you were mine just yesterday - @notafunkiller

It's been a while since your break up with Bucky happened, but you're still not over him. You try to move on, go out, and have fun with your friend, Steve, but you end up in the same bar you two went to often. It also just happens that Bucky is there too, with Natasha by his side. It doesn't take long for you two to end up getting into old habits.

[rinniereads123]

Series

SOME OF THESE STORIES ARE MATURE! READ THE WARNINGS AND TAGS BEFORE YOU READ!

Last updated 04/19/2026

★ - personal favorites | masterlist | other recs

★Wanted - @vunblr

She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

Tangled - @vunblr

Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Foundations - @vunblr

Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

★Toy Soldier - @vunblr

She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Alone - @waiting4inspiration

You have never been treated right by the team because they always favored Peter - your brother. After marrying Brock Rumlow and living an even more miserable life, Peter gives you a surprise visit and sees with his own eyes how your husband is mistreating you.

The Rite - @lokisgoodgirl

As an invisible member of the wider Asgardian court, everything changes when you catch the eye of the elusive Prince Loki under unconventional circumstances. Pressured by time (and his brother) Loki is reminded he must complete a particular Rite in order to secure his place in Asgard's succession - all he needs is a partner. But adhering to the strict rules in the approach to the ceremonial Rite is more challenging than hedonistic, smugly smoldering Loki anticipated...as are his growing feelings for you.

★Does It Hurt? - @ellemj

Bucky never would've gone out of his way to help you if he knew that HYDRA was still watching his every move, if he knew that it would shift their focus to you. When you're targeted and taken, it's his fault and he'll do anything to save you. Anything.

Doll, please - @lokiswifeduh

Bucky is taken by the reader's ex-boyfriend. You go to save him, not knowing it's a trap.

★Love You Like Oxygen - @questionableratatouille00

You and Bucky’s journey through navigating sexual trauma.

★Graveyard - @wkemeup

As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too. 

You Can't Leave Me - @thinkingoutlouddblog

A fight with Bucky distracts you from your mission.

Just let me go - @itsthewritergal

Y/N and Bucky are exes with a history. When Y/N is kidnapped, the Avengers come to her aid, but can she and Bucky make amends?

★your hands have made some good mistakes - @thenhewaswrongaboutme

Bucky has to spend six months locked up with a stranger. His teammates went on an international press tour and left him behind. They hired someone to supervise him, per the conditions of his pardon— a roommate, they said. A roommate?

One's Promised - @invisibleanonymousmonsters

Living a double life was not a choice when one was the daughter of Alexander Pierce. Y/N was the youngest agents of SHIELD and one of the most respected threats within Hydra’s empire. No matter her allegiance, she was feared by both. Y/N Pierce would’ve tried to escape it all… if it hadn’t been for The Winter Soldier.

Flustered - @ellemj

Bucky seems to thoroughly appreciate all women...except for you. When he finds out one of your weaknesses, he can't help but use it against you, which only makes you hate him more.

Of Kings and Beasts - @nastybuckybarnes

Born a bastard of the King of Orlen, you’re thrusted to the West to marry the Kings. However, the greeting you get is anything but warm, and your life with the King is far from enjoyable. He knows it isn’t your fault his husband is gone, but that fact alone won’t prevent him from taking it out on you.

All the King's Men - @nastybuckybarnes

Your father always said that if it weren’t for your presentation, he’d think you were an Alpha. There’s a reason for that. Growing up in a world where Omegas are treated like garbage, you’ve fought for the respect that you have. Until you’re sold off to an old King desperate for a bride. But you will not lay down and present for your new husband. No, you will fight back.

Worthy - @xalygatorx

Worthy is a slow-burn SFW Marvelverse (films) romance between Loki and a female OC that spans the timeline of the mentioned films in the disclaimer section below. I got to connect some loose ends for myself that I noticed in the films and I hope that they're just as enjoyable for you to revisit as they were for me at the time of writing this and now, reposting it. (Fluff and angst within with a confirmed happy ending.)

Underground - @adrinktostopyourthirst

The Underground is the last way for you to survive whatever is left of the world after the Blip. Natasha introduces you to the Winter Soldier whose wing you're under until you find your way around. He's a stoic Underground fighter and you're... useless.

Missing Piece - @likeahorribledream

When Bucky first arrived to the compound, Steve was his only friend and the only person he trusted himself around. That is until Steve introduces him to you, his best friend. Bucky was fascinated by how often you and Steve would hug each other. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him in such a loving way and it didn’t take long before Bucky found himself craving your touch, but whenever you’d get too close he would flinch as if someone had hit him. His trauma still too fresh a wound for him to be comfortable with someone touching him. Then one day, he finally fights his instincts and let you touch him. He hadn’t realized how truly touch starved he was until he feels the warmth of your skin against his. Something clicks for the both of you in that moment, you had found your missing piece. As long as you were with each other, you were home. You both tried to fool yourselves into thinking you were just friends, really close friends. Friends that needed to be together almost every minute of every day and who needed to hold each other to be able to sleep at night.

★Needs and Wants - @ellemj

When you and Bucky are exposed to an unknown chemical in the field, things go from bad to worse.

Afterglow - @fictive-sl0th

After weeks of research on the super serum, you, a young talented scientist, have settled in well with the Avengers. Pepper and Nat became your best friends, Bruce your colleague, Cap a gentleman, and Bucky one to trust. Only Prince Loki who's forces to support Earth indefinitely, seems especially annoyed by you. One fateful day, when an experiment went horribly wrong, your life would change forever. Just like what you thought you knew about feelings and emotions...

[rinniereads123]

Rin's Recs

One-Shots

Series

If you have any recommendations please send them my way 🤍

[the-muppet-joker]

Tump dies tonight while giving his speech in the hot hot sun. Like to charge, reblog to cast

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

FLORENCE WELCH PUT MY FUCKING TIK TOK HER INSTA STORY

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

I don’t like how weirdly nationalistic Americans are getting with the World Cup like okay yeah people from other countries are coming here and loving certain things about being here like the food and the big stadiums and buccees but that does not mean we are the best country in the world this place is a dumpster fire running on facism

[veltana]

It CANNOT be healthy to be this horny about fictional men

[vunblr]

Knight of Briars (#1)

Pairing: Knight! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Time travel. Medieval AU. 50's AU. Slight Angst. Fluff. Smut.

Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.

Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.

Word Count: 4.2k

note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)

The tournament grounds were quieter now.

The crowd that had packed the stands since dawn -merchants, nobility, smallfolk who'd bartered half a week's wages for a decent vantage point- had dissolved into the taverns and banquet halls of the city, chasing warm ale and the joy of retelling someone else's violence over a good meal.

The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.

Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.

He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.

The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.

It didn't feel like much of anything.

Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.

The banquet, he thought, scowling.

Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.

Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.

So he just kept walking.

The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.

Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.

A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.

"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."

"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."

"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.

They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.

The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.

Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.

"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."

"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.

"Close enough."

It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.

The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.

"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"

"I'm not going to the feast."

A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"

"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.

The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"

"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."

He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"

The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.

"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."

"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."

He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.

"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."

Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."

The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."

"Appreciated."

----

His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.

This had its advantages.

He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.

Right.

He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.

The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.

Almost.

He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.

The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.

The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.

The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.

There.

What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.

He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.

The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.

Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.

Glory didn't buy roofing.

He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.

He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.

He had no use for adornments. He wasn’t fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.

The war had seen to that.

He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.

A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.

He stared at it.

Red stars on grey and black.

His colors.

He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.

Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.

Just to see if it fits.

It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness… and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.

The ruby flared.

Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.

The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.

What-

He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.

The room tilted.

No. The room disappeared.

The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.

All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.

His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.

He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.

The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.

Then nothing.

----

She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.

The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.

Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.

The lock stuck.

She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.

The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.

The front of the shop was an obstacle course.

Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didn’t have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.

Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.

She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.

The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.

More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.

The light swung once, twice, and settled.

She saw the legs first.

Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.

Her breath stopped.

For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.

There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.

He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.

She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.

He wasn't moving.

His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.

So. Not dead.

She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.

Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.

So how-?

Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.

She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.

His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldn’t describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.

The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.

Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.

Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.

She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.

His face was-

Well.

A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.

Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.

A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.

The beard was a few days past deliberate.

And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.

It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.

She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.

Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.

Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.

Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.

Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.

Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.

Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.

Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.

Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.

She looked down at him again.

At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.

At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.

The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.

He still wasn't moving.

She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.

The line hummed and returned a busy signal.

Dammit.

She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.

Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.

She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.

Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-

The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.

Her breath caught.

She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.

He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.

She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.

For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.

His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.

Then his eyes found her.

A nice pair of steel blue eyes.

That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.

She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-

Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.

She didn't account for his reflexes.

One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.

He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.

His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.

When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.

Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.

She could count his eyelashes.

The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.

He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.

Get off get off get off-

She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-

And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:

"State your intentions, witch."     

Next Chapter

dividers by: @/honeyluvsw

[strange-aeons]

Not an ask, but my girlfriend has brought to my attention that due to the recent rollbacks of some environmental protections, the Groverhaus HVAC system might be back within code again. Wanted to pass that along:)

live laugh love