ironfistlover002 @smellaratt877 - Tumblr Blog

Aug 13

2 + 2 = 4 part two of four

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Your new neighbour and Spider-Man have the same unfortunate habit of saying just enough to make you suspicious, but never enough to explain why. Still, coincidence is not evidence. Similarities prove nothing. And two plus two only equals four when you can show your work.

Word Count: 12k+

Tropes: slow-burn, strangers to lovers, second-chance romance, secret identity, mutual(?) pining, hurt/comfort, protective Peter Parker (his methods are questionable but his heart is in the right place), neighbours

Warnings: not beta read, mild bnd spoilers!, Peter experiences sensory overload (and not the sexy type iykwim… not yet anyway), mention of canon-typical violence and injuries, mention of previous attempted kidnapping and assault, bruising and injury, stalking jokes, grief, eventual smut (probably in part four...)

Previous | Next (coming soon) | Read on AO3

You remain beneath the awning for several seconds after Spider-Man disappears, staring at the roof as though he might return and offer an explanation that could help you make sense of the scrambled puzzle in your head.

He does not.

Your phone vibrates in your hand.

HAPPY: Are you home?

You finally push through the entrance to your building and dial him instead of answering.

Happy picks up before the first ring. “You’re in your apartment?”

“I’m in the lobby now.” Your voice shakes a little.

On the other end of the line, you hear Happy let out a weak sigh. “You Starks are going to be the death of me.”

You feel bad for worrying him. In all honesty, you had intended to wait. The sensible thing would have been to reach the sixth floor, lock your door, then call him from the safety of your living room.

But the lobby feels too exposed tonight, despite the cameras watching you from above and the security panel glowing beside the mailboxes. Your heart still kind of feels like it’s in your throat, and you cannot quite convince your body that the danger has passed. You do not want to be alone with the feeling just yet.

Something in your silence must reach him, because Happy’s voice loses some of its vexation. “Hey, you’re okay. Please, just get upstairs.”

You don’t argue. “Right.”

The outer door opens behind you. The sound makes you turn sharply.

Maynard slips inside and catches the door before it closes. He looks as though he dressed while fleeing a fire. His grey sweatshirt is inside out, the seams exposed along his shoulders and a white tag sticking out beneath his chin. One foot is shoved into a black sneaker and the other into a navy one with entirely different laces.

The moment he sees you, he falters. His eyes flick toward the stairwell, then back to you, and for a brief moment he looks almost confused.

Then his gaze drops to the marks around your neck.

“Are you alright?” His voice is quiet, but there is something sharp beneath it now that you never picked up on earlier in the day.

Happy’s voice is firm near your ear. “Who is that?”

“My new neighbour,” you say into the phone. “His name is Maynard Maynard.”

“There is no way that’s a real name,” Happy deadpans.

Maynard winces. You almost feel bad for him. Almost.

You notice Maynard’s hair is damp around the temples. His breathing is far too heavy for someone who should have been spending the evening unpacking.

You glance past his shoulder and through the glass of the front door, gaze focusing on the building opposite to yours.

“Were you out running?” you ask him, your suspicion winning out.

Maynard’s eyes shift to the side. “Yeah.”

“At nearly eleven o’clock at night?”

“I like evening cardio,” he says. “It helps me fall asleep better.”

Your gaze drops deliberately to his mismatched shoes.

He sighs. “Oops.”

“Care to explain?”

“It was dark when I put them on.”

“You’re telling me it was dark inside your apartment, and you didn’t think of turning on a light?”

His eyes close, and you can almost feel the defeat radiating from him.

It’s almost laughable. After everything that happened tonight, the sight of him standing beneath the fluorescent lobby lights in mismatched shoes and an inside-out sweatshirt feels bizarrely harmless.

At least when compared with two men trying to force you into a waiting car.

“I’m always the one trying to answer your questions.” Maynard eyes shift to look at your throat again, his gaze softening. “I don’t think it’s fair that you ignored mine.”

Happy says your name sharply through the phone. Crap. You forgot he was still on the line.

You rub your temples. “I really don’t think I can’t deal with both of you at once right now.”

“Then get the hell upstairs,” Happy replies.

Maynard reaches for the stairwell door, holding it open for you. “Come on.”

It should bother you that he has already decided to accompany you. You find yourself following him anyway.

Happy’s voice fills the silence as you begin climbing, but if you’re being honest, you’re not really paying attention to what he’s saying. You respond occasionally, mostly to prove you are still conscious.

Maynard keeps pace beside you. By the third floor, you realize he seems to be matching his steps to yours. By the fourth, you notice that he takes the outside of every turn, placing himself between you and the railing without ever touching you.

You glance at him, covering your phone’s speaker with your hand so you don’t worry Happy. “You can stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” he replies immediately.

“You’ve been less than a foot away from me since the lobby.”

“The stairs are narrow.”

“And yet, it didn’t seem like you had a problem getting such large boxes upstairs,” you argue.

His clenches his jaw, but his attention returns quickly to the dried blood between the creases of your injured hand. He resumes his silence.

By the time you reach the sixth floor, you are slightly out of breath. Maynard looks as though he could climb another twenty without breaking a sweat. His claim about his evening cardio habit actually starts making sense.

The hallway is quiet. His boxes are gone, although several strips of torn cardboard remain near his door.

“I’m upstairs,” you tell Happy.

“And inside your apartment?”

“I’m three steps away.”

“Those three steps concern me.”

You retrieve your keys from your bag. Maynard stays several feet back while you lift the handle and turn the key twice.

The lock clicks open. You step across the threshold and pull the door shut behind you.

“I’m inside,” you say.

“With the door closed?” Happy asks.

You look at the reinforced wood directly in front of your face. “Yes.” You throw the deadbolt loudly enough for him to hear.

Only then does Happy release a breath. “I’m sending you a few extra security fobs and chargers. You can throw out that older model. They should be delivered to you by the morning.”

“I think I’ll keep it.” Your dad gave you this one. You’re not sure if Happy knows. “For memories sake.”

“It almost got you kidnapped.”

“It was doing its best.”

Happy sighs. “It had one job.”

Despite yourself, you smile. “I’m home. The security system is on and no one followed me inside.”

The last part is technically true, if you ignore Maynard on the other side of the door. Happy does not need another heart attack tonight.

“Make sure your phone isn’t silenced,” he says. “I need you to actually answer when I call from now on.”

“I usually do.”

“You ignored six calls tonight.”

“Happy, I was talking to the police.”

“You ignored two yesterday.”

You smile. “Good night, Happy.”

He mutters something about premature grey hair, but his voice has softened again. “Good night, kid.”

You end the call. Silence settles over your apartment. Your uninjured hand remains on the deadbolt.

You should clean up and go to bed. You’ve had a long day. Maynard is still weird and suspicious as hell. He knows things he shouldn’t, lies poorly, and somehow gets away with all of it.

You find yourself unlocking your door anyway.

After tonight, your possibly obsessive neighbour has been demoted from immediate threat to deeply inconvenient mystery. It also doesn’t hurt that you have a fully armed Stark security system within reach.

None of that really explains why you want to speak to him again.

There is simply something about Maynard that you cannot shake. Something beneath the terrible excuses and nervous smiles that feels less like danger and more like a memory you cannot quite reach.

You open the door.

He is still standing in the hallway, his gaze fixed on the floor as he turns a set of keys over in his hand. An ESU access card hangs from the ring, tapping lightly against his knuckles.

He straightens the moment he hears you. “Everything okay?”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you say. “You’re the one still waiting outside my apartment.”

“I wanted to make sure you got inside.”

“You watched me go in.”

Under the dim hallway light, you take a closer look at him. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and his cheeks are still flushed from exertion. His sweatshirt clings slightly to his chest. He does look like someone who just sprinted several blocks.

Or swung across them, a ridiculous part of your mind suggests. You reject the thought immediately.

Maynard is weird. Spider-Man is weird. Admittedly, two plus two tends to equal four, but that does not make them the same person.

New York is full of strange men. You just seem to be collecting them.

His eyes drift once more to the marks around your throat. “You sure you’re alright?”

You lean one shoulder against the doorframe, making sure to keep the security panel visible behind you. “I was followed.”

“That isn’t everything, is it?”

“And why do you think that?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Those marks around your neck didn’t come from someone walking behind you.” The concern in his voice is far too heavy for someone you met that morning.

“Two men cornered me,” you say. “They thought my father left behind some kind of secret system they could access through me.”

A sharp snap cuts through the hallway. You flinch.

Maynard looks down. The plastic access card has snapped cleanly through the middle, leaving one half hanging from his keys.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “I just got that.”

You catch a glimpse of the name printed across what remains of it.

MAYNARD MAYNARD

Apparently, he had somehow obtained documentation to support the lie. You are not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

You eye him warily. “Strong feelings?”

Maynard shakes his head, turning the broken pieces over in his hand. “Cheap plastic.” His fingers still look tense around the keys.

Your brow furrows at his reaction. “It didn’t happen to you. Why are you taking it harder than I am?”

“Because they hurt you.” His answer comes without hesitation.

For a moment, the awkwardness falls away from him completely. His shoulders straighten, and something cold settles behind his normally soft expression. He no longer looks like the harmless science nerd who walked into a desk that morning.

He looks dangerous. You take a subconscious step back.

Maynard notices. He blinks, and whatever you saw disappears as quickly as it came.

“You shouldn’t care this much,” you say quietly. “You don’t even know me.”

He goes still under your unwavering gaze.

The low hum of traffic rises from the street below. Somewhere nearby, old wiring buzzes faintly inside the walls.

“Did they try to take you somewhere?” he asks. His voice is deliberately casual now, but the tension beneath it remains.

You nod. “They had a car waiting.”

His hands curl at his sides.

“But no,” you continue. “Thankfully, Spider-Man showed up before they could.”

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “That’s good.”

“It was,” you agree. “Until he started following me home. That part was a little strange.”

Maynard frowns, looking almost offended on Spider-Man’s behalf. “He probably just wanted to make sure you got back safely.”

“It was weird,” you insist. “I didn’t realize vigilantes offered a personal chaperone service.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. After a moment, he glances toward his apartment as though considering escape. Then his eyes find you again. They always do.

“You’re bleeding.”

You look down. The cut across your palm has opened again, leaving a thin smear of red between the creases of your skin. “It’s just a cut. It’s not going to kill me.”

He reaches into his pocket and produces a small packet. An alcohol wipe.

You look from it to him. “Why do you have that?”

“I get hurt a lot.”

“You do seem unusually bruised for a science student.”

“I’m clumsy.”

You scoff. “I’ve seen your reflexes in action.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Selectively clumsy.”

He holds the packet toward you. “Use it. You don’t want it getting infected.”

You hesitate before reaching for it, your fingers brushing gently against his. The contact lasts less than a second, but Maynard pulls back as though you are a live wire.

His gaze drops briefly to your hand before returning to your face. The tips of his ears turn pink. You lower your eyes to the alcohol wipe and tear open the packet with your teeth, allowing both of you to pretend you noticed nothing.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The antiseptic stings when you press it against the cut. You flinch.

Maynard immediately steps toward you, one hand lifting as though reaching to comfort you comes naturally.

Your body reacts before your mind does. You turn slightly away, drawing your injured hand closer to your chest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him.

He stops. His hand remains suspended between you. Something shifts across his face. Not quite hurt, but close enough that a strange guilt twists in your stomach.

He lets his hand fall back to his side. You fold the used wipe into its wrapper. “Good night, Maynard.”

“Good night.” His voice is quiet as he mumbles your name.

You step back into your apartment and lock the door. A few seconds later, his own clicks shut across the hall.

The crumpled alcohol-wipe packet remains in your hand.

The name Maynard Maynard may be a lie. His concern for you did not feel like one.

⸻

The next morning, you open your apartment door half-expecting to find Maynard waiting on the other side. He isn’t.

The hallway is empty except for a small package sitting neatly beside your door. Happy doesn’t make empty promises. Inside are three new security fobs, two chargers, and a handwritten note: KEEP ONE CHARGED AT ALL TIMES

You slip one on to a key ring before fastening it to your keys and slipping into your bag. You decide to keep the old one in the breast pocket of your jacket. Close to your heart.

By the time you leave for school, Maynard’s door remains closed. You should be relieved.

After everything that happened yesterday, the last thing you need is your suspicious new neighbour insisting on accompanying you to campus like some self-appointed bodyguard. You had half-expected him to make good on Mrs. Wen’s suggestion yesterday.

That doesn’t seem to be the case.

This is good. Splendid, even.

Still, when you reach the lobby without seeing him, there is the smallest flicker of disappointment you refuse to examine too closely.

It’s beyond irritating. You blame the lack of sleep.

The commute to campus is blissfully boring. You spend most of the ride wedged between two ESU students, and by the time you make the familiar walk from the station to the science building, the strange disappointment has worked its way out of your system.

Mostly.

When you step into Banner’s lecture hall, you find Maynard already seated in your usual row. He occupies the same chair as yesterday, leaving yours conspicuously empty. He’s holding a paper coffee cup. An identical cup sits on the desk in front of your chair.

You walk up the steps, stopping at the back row.

Maynard looks up. Relief flickers across his face before he straightens in his seat and rearranges his expression into something more casual.

It’s odd how easily you can read him. Every little shift in his face feels obvious to you, almost familiar, as though you’ve had years of practice deciphering him instead of just a handful of awkward conversations.

“Hi,” he says.

Your attention drops to the coffee. “What’s that?”

“A peace offering.”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“Yesterday.”

“That narrows it down considerably.”

A sheepish smile pulls at his mouth. “For appearing suspicious.”

You set your bag down. “You’re apologizing for being suspicious?”

“For appearing suspicious,” he corrects you. “There’s an important distinction.”

You pick up the cup.

Two shots of espresso. Oat milk. One pump of vanilla. No foam. Your exact order.

Before you realize what you’re doing, your nails are already pressing into the centre of your uninjured palm. You force yourself to stop.

“Maynard.”

He seems to pick up on your change of tone immediately. “What?”

You turn the cup so the printed label faces him. “How did you know my order?”

His eyes flit over the label. “I didn’t.”

“So this is just another one of your lucky guesses?”

He hesitates just long enough to answer the question for you.

Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to pick up your bag and make a beeline for Student Services to drop the class. Dr. Banner would understand. You could take it another semester.

Putting some distance between yourself and this walking red flag would probably be worth the inconvenience of graduating a semester later.

Against all reason, you find yourself lowering into your seat beside him. You wanted to hear whatever lame excuse he comes up with this time.

“Go on,” you say. “Let’s hear it.”

Quiet amusement flickers in his eyes. He makes a show of pretending to think for a moment. “I saw your order on the cup you were holding yesterday.”

“Try again.” You shake your head firmly. “The sleeve was covering the label.”

He huffs. “Okay, fine. I asked the barista.”

That makes you pause.

There is one barista who knows your order. The cafe near your building has been your usual stop long enough that he starts making it before you even reach the register.

Even Mrs. Wen has seen it happen often enough to decide it was evidence of a budding romance. She is, of course, completely mistaken, but correcting her would probably be more trouble than it’s worth.

So, technically, Maynard could have asked him. He would only have needed to know which cafe you frequent, which employee knows your order, and when that particular employee happened to be working.

All for a cup of coffee.

You look back at him. “Which barista?”

“The one who works at the coffee shop.”

You roll your eyes. “Excellent. Very specific. Make sure to show your work next time.”

His shoulders sag.

“There are at least a dozen coffee shops between our building and campus,” you point out. “Which one did you go to?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The cup is still warm. You couldn’t have bought this more than an hour ago.”

“It was early, and I was in a rush—”

“And somehow, in that rush, you managed to find the one person in Manhattan who knows my order.”

Maynard shifts in his chair. “Maybe you’re just predictable.”

You stare at him.

He lasts approximately two seconds under your gaze. “Okay. Maybe that was rude.”

“A little.”

He drops his forehead briefly into one hand. “I’m trying to do something nice.”

His tone is so sincere that it takes some of the wind out of you. You look down at the cup again.

It is exactly what you would have bought for yourself. With everything that had happened, grabbing a coffee had barely crossed your mind.

“You could have started with that.”

Maynard peeks at you through his fingers. “Would it have worked?”

“Honestly? Probably not,” you admit.

You take a cautious sip. It’s perfect.

Maynard watches your face. “Is it okay?”

You should probably put the coffee down, but you take another sip before answering. “I’ve had worse.”

His smile returns, smaller this time.

You rest the cup on the desk. “This does not make you less suspicious by the way.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” he says before turning to take out his notepad and the pencil you gave him yesterday. He starts writing the date in the top right corner of a page.

You open your laptop before you can reconsider the wisdom of accepting coffees from men with questionable identities.

A notification immediately appears in the corner of the screen. You click on it.

STARK HEIRESS TARGETED IN ATTEMPTED ABDUCTION — SPIDER-MAN INTERVENES

There is already a photograph attached, grainy and taken from far enough away that you are little more than a dark figure beneath a streetlight. Spider-Man is considerably easier to identify in red and blue.

Beside you, Maynard stops writing. “That was fast.”

“My family name tends to inspire efficiency in journalists,” you murmur.

“Are you okay?”

For some reason, the question catches you off guard. You quickly realize why.

Most people would ask what happened. Or what the men wanted. There would probably be a question about the supposed Stark systems eventually, disguised beneath varying levels of tact. You have spent enough of your life around people curious about the late Tony Stark to recognize the pattern.

Since last night, Maynard has only ever asked how you were doing.

“No,” you admit. “But I’m used to it.”

His brows knit.

It’s a small thing. It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

You take another sip of coffee, mostly so you have something to do. Your gaze drifts back to the picture on your screen. It occurs to you that you never really thanked Spider-Man. Not properly. You’re unsure.

The police arrived, he disappeared, and when he showed up outside your building later, you spent most of the conversation accusing him of stalking you.

Admittedly, not your finest display of gratitude.

“I should’ve thanked him better,” you think out loud.

Maynard’s attention shifts toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I did offer to send him a gift basket last night, but I’m not sure that counts.”

“You offered Spider-Man a gift basket?” He looks perplexed.

“It seemed polite.”

“I doubt he’d want one.”

Your brows lift. “You seem strangely confident about his gift preferences. What do you think he’d want instead?”

Maynard’s eyes lower briefly to your lips. That is, you think they do. The movement is too fast to examine.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe I could find him.”

“No.” The word escapes him a little too loudly.

The lecture hall is more occupied than it was when you first walked in. Several students turn to look at the two of you. You catch the same news article open on several laptop screens.

Maynard lowers his voice. “No,” he repeats. “You shouldn’t.”

“You seem to know a lot about Spider-Man,” you observe.

“Those are both perfectly reasonable assumptions.”

Maybe they are.

“What are your thoughts on winking then?”

Maynard’s hand pauses mid-stir. “What about it?”

“He winked at me last night.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he huffs, pushing his coffee aside.

You grin. “You sound very sure.”

“He does that,” he insists. “I’ve seen videos.”

“Interesting.” You lean slightly closer. “You watch videos of Spider-Man winking?”

He groans. “We both know that is not what I meant.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“News footage,” he tries to correct himself. “Interviews. Normal Spider-Man-related media consumption.”

You consider him over the rim of your cup. “What else have you learned?”

“Nothing.” He suddenly becomes very interested in the pencil you gave him yesterday, picking it up and rolling it between his fingers.

“Does he flirt with everyone?” you ask, taking another sip.

“He doesn’t flirt with anyone.”

You suppress a laugh and nearly choke on your coffee in the process. Maynard closes his eyes.

You set the cup down carefully. “Oh, this is getting embarrassing. What, are you jealous Spider-Man flirted with me and not you?”

“He was not flirting with you.”

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t mind.” You let him suffer for a few seconds before adding, “The mask helps.”

His pencil snaps. You both look down at the broken pieces.

Maynard exhales slowly through his nose. “Cheap wood.”

You think of the remains of his access card from last night. “You have terrible luck with materials.”

Bruce enters before Maynard can respond, carrying his usual coffee and wearing an expression haggard enough to suggest someone has already ruined his morning.

You turn toward the front, still smiling.

Bruce connects his laptop to the projector. Around you, conversations begin to quiet.

You are halfway through opening a new document when a folded scrap of paper appears beside your hand.

You glance at Maynard. He is staring resolutely toward the front.

You unfold it beneath the desk.

Please don’t actually try to find Spider-Man.

Your amusement fades slightly. You grab the working end of his broken pencil to write beneath it.

Why?

You hand the pencil back to him. The note returns.

It’s dangerous.

You glance sideways. Maynard doesn’t look at you.

He saved my life.

His reply takes longer this time.

That doesn’t mean you know him.

You stare at the sentence. Something about it bothers you.

Maybe it’s the protectiveness behind it. The same strange sense you got from Spider-Man last night, like your safety mattered to him more than it reasonably should.

Hearing it from Maynard now feels uncomfortably familiar.

I don’t know you either.

You shove the paper towards him.

His expression changes. The defensiveness disappears first. Then the irritation. What remains looks almost wounded.

You regret writing it before you can decide why. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he folds the paper again and slips it inside his notebook.

Dr. Banner continues talking at the front of the lecture hall.

For the rest of the lecture, Maynard gives you exactly what you spent most of yesterday asking him for.

Space.

He retreats into himself beside you, focusing on the lecture with a determination that feels less natural than the quiet attention you had already grown used to.

You should appreciate it. Instead, by the time Banner dismisses the class, you are painfully aware of the absence.

Students begin filing toward the exits. Maynard closes his notebook and slips it into his backpack. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The words are casual enough. His expression isn’t.

He is giving you an out.

You realize, with a small jolt, that he has been doing that more often since last night. Whenever you pull back, Maynard does too. He kept his distance while you unlocked your apartment, stopped reaching for you the moment you recoiled, and this morning, despite everything that happened, he wasn’t waiting outside your door.

For someone who supposedly has no understanding of personal boundaries, he is surprisingly careful once you actually draw one.

He turns toward the aisle. And for reasons you cannot begin to defend, you don’t want him to leave.

The version of you from yesterday would probably grab you by the shoulders and demand to know whether the attempted kidnapping had caused some kind of delayed head injury.

Your gaze drifts toward the headline still open on your laptop.

Maynard is still hiding something. Probably several things. But you’re beginning to believe that whatever brought him into your life has very little to do with Tony Stark.

Somehow, that only makes you more curious. Worse, it leaves you with the much more inconvenient problem of how easy being around him has started to feel.

Maynard takes a step toward the aisle.

The rational part of you makes one final attempt to intervene. You ignore it. “Wait.”

He turns.

“I’m getting lunch,” you say.

Maynard blinks. “Okay.”

Apparently, you are going to have to suffer the full humiliation. You sigh. “That was an invitation.”

His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Oh.”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

“No, I just—” He glances toward the door, then back at you. “I didn’t think you wanted me following you.”

“I don’t,” you agree. “But joining me after being explicitly invited is generally considered pretty different.”

Something small and hopeful appears in his expression. “Good distinction.”

“You bought me coffee,” you add, because giving yourself a practical excuse makes this marginally less insane. “I owe you food.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Just shut up and let me buy you lunch.”

That quiets him. You sling your bag over your shoulder and start toward the stairs.

After a moment, his footsteps fall into place beside yours. This time, you are the reason they’re there.

⸻

The student centre is packed. It seems that every person enrolled at ESU has decided they need lunch at exactly the same time.

You and Maynard spend several minutes circling the seating area before you spot a small table near the windows occupied by two freshmen who are using the spare chairs for their backpacks.

You stop beside them. “Is anyone sitting here?”

They glance at the empty chairs. Then at you. Slowly, they remove the bags.

“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the backrests and dragging the chairs toward an empty table nearby.

One of them looks at you for a second longer than necessary before returning to his phone. It hardly bothers you anymore.

The staring had been a lot worse when you first arrived at ESU as a freshman. For the first couple of weeks, people would whisper when you walked into lecture halls or gawk whenever your last name appeared on an attendance sheet.

By the time you stuck around for graduate school, the novelty had mostly worn off. These days, Tony Stark’s daughter carrying a backpack and studying for midterms isn’t much of a spectacle anymore.

Maynard leans closer and takes the chairs from you, pulling them the rest of the way. “That was terrifying.”

You shrug. “They knew what they were doing.”

“They looked eighteen.”

“That’s old enough to understand chair etiquette.”

He laughs.

You leave him at the table to use the washroom, only to return a few minutes later and discover that Maynard has somehow beaten you to buying lunch.

Five sandwiches, two cartons of apple juice, a large bag of chips, and a package of cookies sit on the tray in front of him.

You falter, taking in the spread. This looks more like preparation for hibernation than a midday meal. “What is this?”

Maynard looks down at the food. “Lunch?”

“I was buying,” you protest. “The entire point of asking you to join me was that I was supposed to pay.”

“You invited me because you wanted lunch.”

“I specifically said I owed you food.”

“And I specifically said you didn’t.”

You stare at him. “Maynard, not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty sure I have significantly more money than you.”

He rolls his eyes. “That is not the compelling argument you think it is.”

He picks up one of the sandwiches and hands it to you before unwrapping another for himself.

“I don’t want your money,” he says simply.

The words catch you slightly. He said almost the same thing yesterday.

You had assumed he was being defensive then. Now, watching him peel the paper away from a very ordinary sandwich he stubbornly insisted on buying himself, you suspect he meant it.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Next time, I’m paying.”

Maynard glances up. “Next time?”

You realize what you said. “Don’t make it weird.”

He grins before taking another bite. “Wasn’t planning to.”

You redirect your attention to the frankly unreasonable amount of food in front of him. “Hungry?”

“I skipped breakfast.”

You frown. “You bought me coffee before feeding yourself?”

“I had coffee too.”

“That is not food.”

“It has calories.”

“So does toothpaste.”

He swallows before answering. “How much toothpaste are you eating?”

You briefly consider leaving him to finish lunch by himself. The smug satisfaction on his face suggests he knows it.

It takes you a moment to realize he is teasing you.

You find that you like this version of him—the one who isn’t scrambling for an explanation or trying to cover one suspicious statement with three worse ones.

You lean back in your chair.

Maynard notices. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He scoffs. “You say that like it’s something.”

“Now you know how it feels.”

He accepts that with a small nod and returns to his food.

The conversation lapses without becoming awkward. Plates scrape against tables around you, and someone nearby vents passionately about their organic chemistry grade. A blender starts behind the smoothie counter across the student centre.

Maynard jolts slightly at the noise. You probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it if he hadn’t.

“So,” you say after a while, “what exactly are you doing at ESU?”

He wipes his hands on a napkin. “I just want to get my Bachelor of Science. I took a few years off after high school. Tried applying to MIT at the time, but the process got a little… complicated.”

You pause, taking in the openness of his response. “Nice.”

Maynard blinks. “Nice?”

You shrug. “You answered the question.”

“So you’re not going to interrogate me?”

“I haven’t ruled it out permanently,” you admit, grinning. “But no, not right now.”

You watch some of the tension leave his shoulders as he settles farther back into his chair.

For a little while, neither of you says anything. Maynard finishes the last bite of his second sandwich and folds the wrapper into increasingly smaller squares, like he is thinking something over.

“Queens,” he says eventually.

You look up. “Huh?”

“That’s where I grew up.”

You hadn’t asked. That makes it feel more significant.

“See?” you nudge his foot gently with your own. “You’re progressing already.”

His smile is small. “Don’t get used to it.”

You learn other things over lunch, although none of them arrive through anything resembling an organized conversation.

He likes photography.

He has strong opinions about science-fiction movies getting basic physics wrong, although apparently people crawling on ceilings do not bother him nearly as much as inaccurate depictions of orbital mechanics.

He was raised by his aunt. That one slips out when you point out that he is already halfway through his fourth sandwich.

“She used to say I ate like somebody was going to take it away.” The smile on his face lasts barely a second.

Used to. You notice. You don’t ask.

Instead, you tell him about the time Pepper confiscated your tablet halfway through dinner after catching you answering emails beneath the table for the third time.

“I was still participating in the conversation,” you insist.

He looks unconvinced. “Were you?”

“I tried my best to nod at appropriate intervals.” A smile tugs at your mouth when he throws his head back to laugh. “Apparently, that did not meet Pepper’s definition of quality family time.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

You ignore that and tell him Morgan has recently decided she can beat you at Mario Kart despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

He wants to know which character you use. You refuse to tell him, but he guesses Yoshi correctly on his first try.

When you shoot him an accusing look, he puts his hands up in surrender.

“Popular character,” he says.

You let it slide this time. Maybe you shouldn’t be too concerned. Yoshi is a very popular character.

What he doesn’t ask you is what it was like growing up with Iron Man as your father, whether you know where the Avengers are scattered now, or whether your apartment contains technology no one else knows exists.

You do not realize how unusual that is until you have already been sitting there for nearly forty minutes.

Maynard is still, objectively, a collection of red flags. And yet something about all of this feels strangely easy. Like slipping back into a conversation you do not remember starting.

Your phone catches your attention when it vibrates with a reminder.

LAB REPORT DUE FRIDAY

You groan. You still had a day, but you didn’t like to start things too late.

He peers over at your screen. “Bad?”

“Depends.” You unlock your phone to check how much you have started. A singular page of calculations stares back at you. Well, at least it was better than nothing at all.

You sigh. “What are your thoughts on spectroscopy?”

Maynard’s eyes brighten. You immediately regret asking.

⸻

Lunch turns into two hours in the library.

You tell yourself this is because Maynard looked over one of your calculations and pointed out an error before you could close the document earlier.

“You carried the wrong value,” he says now for what seems like the fiftieth.

You rest your forehead on the desk in defeat.

He leans closer to your laptop, being careful not to touch you. “Here, let me explain.”

“I know where I went wrong.” Your voice comes out muffled.

He chuckled softly. “I know you do. It’s just that you’ve been staring at it for at least six minutes.”

“I was reflecting.”

“You were glaring at the equation.”

“It deserved it.”

Maynard presses his lips together. You might have praised Bruce for his patience yesterday, but Maynard was quickly climbing up the ranks too.

You slide a sheet of scrap paper toward him. “Fine. Show me.”

The awkwardness leaves him almost completely when he talks about science.

He bends over the page, pencil moving quickly as he sketches out the reaction pathway. His explanations are clear without being condescending, and when you interrupt to disagree with something, he does not get defensive.

He just thinks about it.

Sometimes you are right.

Gratingly, sometimes he is.

At some point, you stop watching for his mistakes. You start watching because you like listening to him. The realization arrives quietly enough that you pretend not to notice it.

It helps that Maynard never seems to expect anything from you beyond what you actually know. Being Tony Stark’s daughter has a way of making people assume genius is hereditary. You are smart. You have always been smart.

But you are not Tony Stark.

Maynard never treats that like a disappointment.

Which makes it particularly irritating that you are the graduate student here, while he is still supposedly working toward his undergraduate degree, and yet he seems to know an unexplainable amount about nearly everything.

You work for another hour.

When you finally finish, Maynard closes his notebook and begins gathering his things.

You know you should thank him. It shouldn’t be difficult. He just spent the better part of the day helping you with work that wasn’t even his.

But saying it feels more earnest than you’re prepared for.

You’re still skeptical of him. You have not completely lost your mind. So you settle for returning the favour instead.

As you pack your own bag, a thought occurs to you. “You still can’t access Banner’s course page, right?”

“Not yet.”

You hold out your hand. “Phone.”

“Why?” He looks at you as though you’ve suddenly grown an extra head.

“Do you always interrogate people trying to help you?”

He pauses. “Maybe.”

“You’re so weird.”

Maynard reluctantly pulls an old phone from his pocket. The corner of the screen is cracked, and the case has seen better days.

He opens the contact screen before handing it to you. You type in your name and number.

His gaze drops to the screen. “You’re really giving me your number?”

“I’m sending you Dr. Banner’s problem sets before your administrative complications become his villain origin story.”

“Oh.”

There it is again. That tiny expression. It’s almost nothing.

But you are starting to recognize it.

You hand the phone back.

Your own phone vibrates almost instantly.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Thanks.

You save the contact, and turn your screen towards him with a sly grin.

MAYNARD MAYNARD (?)

He rolls his eyes. “The question mark is unnecessary.”

“Prove it.”

“I have identification.”

“So do half the freshmen trying to get into bars.”

The corner of his mouth pulls upwards.

You return to packing your bag. Across the table, he does the same. Neither of you rushes.

⸻

You leave the library together.

“Are you heading home?” Maynard asks.

It is such a small thing that you almost miss its significance.

You nod. “Yes.”

“Can I walk with you?” His hands stay shoved in his jacket pockets, trying very hard to look casual.

You consider the offer. Yesterday, he seemed to appear wherever you went without ever asking whether you wanted him there. Today, he waits for an answer.

“Fine.”

His face brightens immediately.

“Don’t look so pleased about it.”

“I’m not,” he objects.

“Then your face is doing something strange.”

“My face is normal.”

“Nothing about you is normal.”

He schools his expression into something deliberately blank. “Better?”

“Much.”

You take the subway together.

Maynard remains standing even after a seat opens beside you, one hand looped around the metal rail overhead. You assume he simply prefers it until the train jerks unexpectedly around a turn and the man beside you loses his balance.

Maynard’s free hand shoots out.

He catches the man lightly by the arm before he can stumble into you, steadying him so swiftly that the stranger doesn’t even notice what happened.

His eyes follow the man until he has his footing again.

You look up at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” His response is quick. “The train lurched.”

“Are you immune to inertia or something? You barely moved.”

He pauses. “Good balance?”

“And the precognition?”

“Good reflexes.”

“Obviously,” you hum sarcastically in response.

When you emerge from the station, the evening air has cooled.

The walk to your building is only a few blocks. For reasons you refuse to examine too closely, you find yourself taking the longer route past the park instead of cutting through the side street.

Maynard notices.

“Hey, isn’t it faster if we go that way?” He points toward the shortcut.

You bristle slightly, suddenly defensive. “I know where I live.”

He shrugs. “Just checking.”

“You just moved in across from me and already think you know my commute better than I do?”

“I have a decent sense of direction.”

You give him a look.

“Right,” he mutters. “Not helping.”

You keep walking. He falls into step beside you.

The park is busier than you expected for this time of day. A dog strains at its leash toward a squirrel, someone has music playing from a portable speaker, and Maynard spends several minutes listening to you complain about one of your lab partners with an attentiveness the story probably does not deserve.

By the time you reach the next intersection, you hope he has forgotten that you deliberately took the longer way home.

A bicycle bell rings sharply from your left. Before you can properly register the sound, a delivery cyclist shoots through the red light and into the intersection.

Maynard’s hand catches your waist.

He pulls you backward just as the bicycle cuts across the pavement where you had been standing less than a second earlier.

Your back bumps lightly against his chest, and for a moment neither of you moves.

You can feel his breathing behind you, quick and uneven. Much faster than someone who has just prevented a minor collision has any reason to be breathing.

The cyclist shouts an apology over his shoulder before disappearing around the curb.

Maynard seems to come back to himself at the sound. His hand falls from your waist almost immediately, and he takes a small step away.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, suddenly finding the pavement very interesting. In the fading light, you could swear there is colour creeping into his cheeks.

“For stopping me from getting run over?”

“For grabbing you without warning.”

His hands curl loosely at his sides, and you recognize the tension in them now. He is waiting for your reaction. Waiting to see whether he has crossed another line.

Something in your chest softens. “Thank you.”

Maynard glances up. The tension slowly leaves his shoulders. “Yeah.”

You start walking again, and after a moment he joins you. He stays half a step closer than before, close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushes yours when the pavement narrows.

You do not tell him to move.

By the time you reach your building, climb the six flights of stairs and find yourselves standing across from each other in the hallway again, it dawns on you that you have spent almost the entire day with him.

The realization should probably concern you more than it does.

Instead, while Maynard fishes his keys from his pocket, you find yourself lingering beside your own door with no particular reason to still be standing there.

“Thanks for lunch,” you say. “And the coffee.”

“You mean breakfast,” he corrects you.

“It really isn’t.”

His mouth curves, and you smile despite yourself. Neither of you makes any move to go inside.

Maynard looks at you with that same quiet fondness you noticed yesterday, the kind that used to make every instinct in you sharpen.

It still unsettles you. You would like to think you haven’t completely abandoned your sense of self-preservation in the span of forty-eight hours. It just unsettles you differently now.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks. The question is careful, as though he still expects you to change your mind.

You turn toward your apartment, lifting the handle and turning the key twice. “Assuming you’re still enrolled.”

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You push the door open, but hesitate on the threshold.

When you glance back, Maynard is still standing across the hall with his keys in one hand, watching you. You step inside and close the door between you.

⸻

That night, you wake to tapping against your bedroom window. At first, you assume it has started raining. Then it happens again.

Tap.

Your eyes open. The security panel beside your bed glows green. No breach. No forced entry. No movement detected anywhere inside the apartment.

Another tap.

You reach beneath your pillow and close your hand around the one of the new security fobs Happy had sent.

This one is fully charged.

You cross the room quietly and pull back the curtain.

Spider-Man hangs upside down outside your window.

You nearly activate the device anyway. He lifts one hand, and gives you a small wave.

You stare at him through the glass. “No.”

His lenses narrow.

You point toward the street. Go away.

Spider-Man taps the glass again.

“You are actively making the stalking allegations worse,” you tell him through the window.

His response is muffled enough that you cannot make it out. He gestures towards the latch.

You cross your arms across your chest and shake your head firmly. “Absolutely not.”

For several seconds, the two of you remain on opposite sides of the glass in what may be the least dignified standoff of your life.

Then he taps once more. You hold up the fob in response.

Spider-Man immediately raises both hands in surrender, which is considerably more impressive considering he is clinging to the outside of your building. Then again, he does have powers that make that possible.

Against your better judgment, you sigh and unlock the latch, opening the window approximately three inches. “That is all you’re getting.”

“I just wanted to check on you.”

You blink the sleep from your eyes. “At one in the morning?”

“I was nearby.”

“You seem to be nearby pretty often.”

Spider-Man wisely chooses not to answer. He shifts slightly, and the movement is more careful than it should be. One hand drifts toward his side before stopping just short of touching it.

Your irritation fades a little.

You recognize that kind of movement. Your dad used to come home from missions trying to disguise injuries beneath casual shrugs and assurances that he was fine. The difference was that Tony had an entire tower full of technology and people ready to put him back together.

Looking at Spider-Man outside your window, you find yourself wondering who he goes to when something goes wrong.

You hope the answer is someone.

“How’s your hand?” he asks before you can say anything.

You glance down at your palm. The bleeding stopped long ago, and the cut has already begun to close, leaving a thin pink line across the skin.

“Still attached.”

“And your neck?”

Your gaze lifts back to him. “My neck?”

“The bruising," he says.

“I’m surprised you noticed that.”

Spider-Man cocks his head. “You were hurt.”

The answer comes with such simple certainty that you don’t immediately know what to say.

You brush the bruising near the collar of your neck with your fingertips. You had almost forgotten about it yourself.

Apparently, he hadn’t.

A cool draft slips through the narrow opening in the window, raising goosebumps along your arms. At least, you decide to blame the draft.

“It’s getting better,” you say.

His attention lingers on your neck for another second before he gives a small nod. “Good.”

You rest your forearms against the windowsill. “You know, most people check on someone by texting.”

“Obviously, I don’t have your number.”

“And this was your next best option?”

He pauses. “I considered a carrier pigeon.”

“Less alarming than this.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You wonder if he’s smiling under the mask.

The city is quieter from six storeys up. Traffic hums somewhere beyond the block, softened by distance. A television flickers behind one of the curtained windows across the street, and somewhere below, a group of friends speaks just loudly enough for the sound to carry.

Spider-Man remains outside your bedroom as though this is a completely normal way for two people to have a conversation.

You look at him for a moment. “Is the window thing standard procedure, or am I getting special treatment?”

He shifts slightly. “It’s easier.”

“Than what?”

“Doors.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Doors involve hallways,” he continues. “And people.”

“How terrifying."

He shakes his head. The mask makes it hard to tell, but you genuinely think he’s amused. “You’d be surprised.”

You think briefly of Mrs. Wen discovering Spider-Man outside your apartment at one in the morning and concede that he may have a point.

“My new neighbour probably would’ve enjoyed it.”

There is the slightest tilt of Spider-Man’s head. “Your neighbour?”

“The one I mentioned last night.” You pause. “He seems to be a big fan of yours.”

“Right.”

The response is so thoroughly uninterested that it almost feels deliberate. For someone who had been so curious about your neighbour the previous night, the sudden lack of interest feels less like disinterest and more like a decision.

You’re tired. He probably is too. You decide not to push it.

“You should go home.”

“What?” he asks. You could almost swear he sounds disappointed.

“It’s late,” you sigh. “And respectfully, you look exhausted and you’re obviously hurt.”

“I’m not hurt,” he protests.

“You don’t need to lie to me.” Your gaze drops pointedly to his side. “You’re holding yourself like someone kicked you in the ribs.”

“I’m clinging to the side of a building,” he points out, as though you are the unreasonable one here. “There are limited comfortable positions available.”

The absolute audacity of this man. You resist the urge to remind him that, between the two of you, only one is currently hanging outside a sixth-floor window in red and blue spandex.

For a moment, you look at each other. Or at least you assume he is looking at you. The mask makes arguments significantly less satisfying.

“You’re terrible at this,” you decide.

“At hanging off buildings?”

“At lying.”

His shoulders sink. The gesture is so familiar that your amusement falters.

Maynard does the same thing whenever one of his excuses falls apart. Almost like his entire body gives up a few seconds before his mouth does.

The comparison arrives before you can stop it. You shove it to the back of your mind just as quickly.

You have spoken to Spider-Man twice. That is hardly enough material to start stitching together shared personality traits with your neighbour. New York contains millions of men. Statistically, more than one of them is probably bad at lying.

Spider-Man reaches behind himself.

“I brought you something.” He produces a small paper bag and holds it toward the narrow opening at the edge of your window.

You eye it wearily. “What is it?”

“First-aid stuff.”

You’re perplexed. “For a scratch?”

“And the bruising.”

Of course. You open the window another inch, just enough to take the bag from him. Spider-Man inches closer with it.

“Don’t get too excited,” you say.

He doesn’t say a word.

You pull the bag inside and look through it. Bandages. Antiseptic cream. A reusable cold pack. All things you already have somewhere in the apartment.

Still, he had gone out of his way to get them for you.

Whatever had left him exhausted and favouring one side clearly hadn’t stopped him from remembering that you were hurt too, and for some reason, that gets to you more than the supplies themselves.

You look back at him, suddenly unsure what to do with the warmth settling in your chest.

“Thank you, I mean it.” Your fingers tighten around the top of the bag. “For this. For last night. For making sure I got home.”

You hesitate, suddenly aware that you are being far more earnest than you usually enjoy being. “You really didn’t have to do any of it.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I did.”

You look down before you have to decide what to do with his response. That is when you notice something tucked beneath the cold pack.

A chocolate bar.

Your favourite.

Not merely a flavour you like. The exact brand you almost always buy when you are tired, stressed, studying, or attempting to convince yourself that dinner can occasionally be replaced by cocoa and copious amounts of sugar.

It had been your dad’s favourite first. Even before Iron Man, Tony kept them hidden in desk drawers wherever he happened to be working, and when you were little, you learned quickly where to look whenever you went searching for him. He would break one in half without asking and slide your piece across the desk.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped thinking of it as his favourite and started thinking of it as yours.

You pull the chocolate from the bag. Spider-Man immediately develops a sudden interest in the opposite rooftop.

Your gaze moves from the wrapper to him. “This is my favourite.”

“Everybody likes chocolate.”

You narrow your eyes. “This brand specifically.”

He shrugs. “Popular choice.”

Something about the excuse feels oddly familiar. Apparently popular is becoming the preferred explanation for inexplicable knowledge about you.

You turn the wrapper over in your hands. It could be a coincidence. It probably is. Millions of people buy this chocolate every day.

When you look back up, Spider-Man is finally facing you again.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.

“You’re welcome.”

There is something almost shy in the way he says it, which should be impossible to read through a mask that obscures his entire face. Somehow, it isn’t.

You set the chocolate and paper bag on your desk.

“You should probably sleep,” he says.

You scoff. “Says the person who woke me up.”

“I said sorry.”

“You did not.”

He pauses. “Sorry.”

Spider-Man shifts higher against the wall, apparently taking your earlier suggestion to go home seriously this time. “Bye.”

“Swing safe.”

He pushes away from the building and drops out of sight. A strand of web catches somewhere above the neighbouring rooftop, and a flash of red and blue disappears between the buildings.

You watch until you can no longer see him. Eventually, the cold gets the better of you. You shut the window, lock it, and turn toward your desk.

The chocolate catches your eye again.

Maynard knew your coffee order. Spider-Man knew your favourite chocolate.

On their own, neither is impossible. Together, though, they’re becoming difficult to write off as coincidence.

You pick up the chocolate again, staring at the wrapper while an increasingly unwelcome thought begins to take shape.

No.

You set the chocolate back down before you can follow the thought anywhere.

There is almost certainly a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. You are tired, it has been a very strange forty-eight hours, and tomorrow is more than capable of dealing with whatever your brain is trying to do tonight.

You climb back into bed. Unfortunately, your brain follows.

Even math isn’t this complicated.

⸻

You sleep poorly.

By morning, you are no closer to understanding what anything means. Frankly, you don’t have the energy to keep trying.

You decide to stop chasing answers and simply pay closer attention instead. For now, that is about as much as you have the capacity for.

The plan lasts until you see him.

Maynard is already seated when you arrive at Dr. Banner’s lecture hall. That part has stopped being unusual.

The hood pulled low over his head has not. Neither have the tinted glasses covering half his face despite the fact that you are indoors without a ray of sunlight in sight.

You scale the steps to your row, stopping beside your desk.

“Hey,” you say. “Are you hungover?”

His shoulders tense.

“No,” he mutters, sounding unusually hoarse.

“You’re dressed like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi,” you observe.

“I’m sensitive to light.”

“Since when?”

“The lights are aggressive,” he nearly hisses between his teeth.

You glance upward. One of the fluorescent panels near the front of the lecture hall flickers. Maynard flinches immediately.

His jaw is clenched. One hand presses into his temple beneath the edge of his hood, knuckles digging in. His knee bounces fast enough to make his chair tremble.

The unease that plagued you last night gives way to concern.

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice low and strained.

“You normally look tired. This is different.”

His mouth tightens. “Like that’s much better.”

You lower yourself into the seat beside him.

Students continue filtering into the room around you, bringing the usual morning noise with them. Someone near the front clicks a pen over and over. Two people closer to the back are arguing about an assignment.

Maynard reacts to all of it, but the scrape of a chair across the floor makes him flinch hard enough that a small, pained breath slips out.

You furrow your brows. “Headache?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you take anything to help it?” you ask softly.

“I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” he mumbles under his breath.

You almost tell him neither did you.

You watch his hand tighten around the edge of the desk when someone laughs three rows down. You might have imagined it, but you swear the metal gives a faint creak beneath his fingers.

He lets go immediately.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot four-day-old hoodie guy’s water bottle roll across his desk as he unpacks his things for the lecture.

Maynard’s head turns before it falls. The bottle hits the floor with a hollow clang.

He recoils.

You turn fully toward him. “Maynard.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

He very clearly is not.

Dr. Banner steps behind the podium and reaches for the microphone. The speakers shriek with feedback.

Maynard jerks backward hard enough to hit the back of his chair. His hand shoots out and closes around your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm, but not painful. Even startled, even like this, he seems to know exactly how much pressure he can use without hurting you.

Maynard’s hand drops from your wrist the moment he realizes what he’s done.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out breathless. Behind the tinted lenses, his eyes are wide with panic.

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

Banner adjusts something on the microphone. Another burst of static tears through the room.

Maynard folds forward, both hands clamping over his ears. That is when you stop trying to pretend that this is a regular headache.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t answer. His breathing has gone shallow and uneven.

You shift closer, lowering your voice as much as you can. “Maynard.”

“I can hear everything.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, strained enough that you have to lean closer to catch them.

“What do you mean?”

“The lights.” His fingers press harder against the sides of his hood. “The projector. Everyone talking.”

His eyes squeeze shut.

“Someone’s tapping their shoe three rows down. There’s water moving through the pipes. The lights are buzzing. There’s construction outside.”

You listen. The construction is little more than a distant murmur to you. You cannot hear the pipes at all.

You stop asking questions and reach into your bag. You pull out your wireless headphones.

“Try these. They have noise cancellation.”

His hands lower slowly. He looks at them. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I need to hear.”

You stare at him. “You just told me hearing is the problem.”

“I need to know what’s happening.”

Something about the answer shifts your concern. This isn’t just discomfort. He almost sounds afraid.

You glance around the lecture hall. Students are opening laptops and pulling notebooks from their bags. At the front, Bruce is still fighting with the projector. There is nothing happening that should require Maynard to remain painfully aware of every sound in the building.

“It’s safe,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to right now.”

His head turns toward you. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” you admit, gently pressing the headphones into his hands. “But I can be your ears for a while.”

Maynard goes very still. For several seconds, he only looks at you.

Then, slowly and reluctantly, he lifts the headphones over his hood and settles them over his ears.

The change isn’t immediate, but some of the tension begins to leave his shoulders. His breathing gradually evens out.

You dim the brightness on your laptop and angle the screen high enough to block the worst of the flickering light overhead. Taking notes on it is clearly out of the question now, so you pull a few sheets of paper and a pencil from your bag instead.

Maynard watches you make the switch.

“Does this happen a lot?” you murmur.

“Sometimes.”

“What causes it?”

“Fatigue. Stress. Strong emotions.” He hesitates. “Getting hurt.”

Your gaze drops automatically toward his side. A red-and-blue figure suspended outside your bedroom window flashes through your mind.

Maynard catches the movement of your eyes. “Which I’m not, by the way.”

You look back at his face.

“Hurt,” he clarifies.

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your eyes narrow. “You can read minds now too?”

“No.” A weak smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You’re just not very subtle.”

Bruce begins speaking at the front of the room, and you let the conversation end there.

For the next hour, Maynard keeps the headphones on. You take notes by hand, occasionally shifting your laptop whenever the fluorescent panel flickers badly enough to reach him around the screen.

He never asks you to. You never mention that you are doing it.

At some point, his leg stops bouncing. For now, that feels like enough.

⸻

The moment Dr. Banner dismisses the class, the lecture hall erupts around you. Chairs scrape backward, bags zip shut, and conversations overlap as everyone begins crowding toward the exits.

Even with your headphones on, Maynard goes rigid beside you.

You close your laptop and shove it into your bag. “Come on.”

His head turns. “Where?”

“Somewhere quieter.”

“I can handle it.”

A student squeezes past his chair and bumps into the back of it. Maynard’s hand shoots out, fingers catching the edge of the desk again.

The metal buckles slightly beneath them.

You both look down.

“Cheap desk,” he mutters.

Under different circumstances, you probably would have laughed. Instead, you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Come on.”

This time, he doesn’t argue. Somehow, that worries you more.

Unfortunately, the hallway is worse.

Footsteps echo off the tiles in every direction. Doors slam. Somewhere farther down the corridor, a maintenance cart announces every turn of one bad wheel with an incessant squeak.

Maynard keeps his head down as you guide him toward the service stairwell near the laboratories.

“How do you know where you’re going?” he asks quietly.

“I’m actually enrolled here.”

He manages a faint huff of laughter. “Right. Forgot about that.”

You push through the heavy door and wait until he is inside before pulling it shut behind you.

The difference is immediate. Even to you, the noise beyond the door dulls noticeably, swallowed by concrete until the chaos of the hallway is little more than a distant hum.

Maynard leans against the railing and closes his eyes.

You simply watch him. There is no obvious protocol for what to do when your suspicious neighbour can apparently hear water moving through pipes buried behind inches of concrete.

“Better?”

He nods. You offer him your water bottle. He takes it without protest.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No.”

“A hospital?”

His head comes up immediately. “Absolutely not.”

You pause. “That was suspiciously enthusiastic.”

“I don’t like hospitals.”

“Most people don’t.”

“I really don’t.”

The emphasis makes you study him more carefully. His eyes are still hidden behind the tinted glasses, but his hands haven’t quite stopped trembling.

“Okay.”

His brow furrows. “Okay?”

“No hospital.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

“Not right now.”

He releases a breath that sounds a lot like relief.

You sit on the step beside the landing and pat the space next to you. “Sit.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“You’re swaying.”

“I like swaying.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Maynard.”

He looks at you for a long moment before finally giving in.

The stairwell is narrow enough that when he lowers himself beside you, his knee settles only an inch or two from yours.

For a while, neither of you speaks. There are certainly enough questions swimming through your head right now. More than enough.

But with Maynard pale and exhausted beside you, they feel considerably less important than they did this morning. You don’t ask any of them.

“What helps?” you say instead.

“Time.”

“That’s inconvenient.”

“Yeah.”

You open your bag. The chocolate bar catches against your fingers when you reach inside.

You had shoved it into your bag before leaving that morning. For some reason, leaving it sitting alone on your desk had felt stranger than bringing it with you.

You pull it out. Maynard’s attention drops immediately to the wrapper.

You hold the bar toward him. “For emergencies.”

He smiles faintly. “This qualifies?”

“You look like you died and came back to life.”

For all you know, maybe he had. You wonder briefly if he had been blipped too.

“Thanks.”

He reaches for the chocolate, his fingertips brushing yours as you pass it over. The contact lingers for a second longer than necessary.

This time, Maynard doesn’t jump away. You end up being the one to pull back.

He looks down at the bar and starts peeling open the wrapper. “You sure about this?”

“It’s yours now. Make the sacrifice worthwhile.”

That earns you another small smile.

The two of you sit there while he eats, the noise of the building reduced to a distant murmur beyond the concrete walls.

After a few minutes, Maynard says something under his breath.

“What?”

He hesitates.

“Your heartbeat slowed down.”

You blink. “My what?”

His face falls almost immediately. “Forget I said anything.”

You turn toward him. “You can hear my heartbeat?”

“This stairwell has excellent acoustics,” he offers.

You stare at him. You genuinely consider pulling your own hair out. His too, while you’re at it.

“You have no idea how insufferable you are.”

“Sorry.” He at least has the decency to sound sheepish.

A laugh escapes you. “No, you’re not. New York needs better liars.”

Your knee shifts against his. The contact is accidental, but neither of you moves away. Maynard’s gaze drops briefly to where your legs touch before returning to your face.

Suddenly, you are far too aware of how quiet the stairwell is. Or at least, how quiet it is to you. Apparently that distinction matters when the person sitting beside you can hear your heartbeat.

Your pulse jumps at the thought. A beat later, the tips of Maynard’s ears turn pink.

You close your eyes. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I’m working on it.”

You open your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He grins before taking another drink of water and resting his head against the concrete wall.

He looks better than he did upstairs, but not by much. There is still too little colour in his face, and every so often his eyes close for a few seconds longer than you like.

You find yourself watching his breathing. If he passes out, you have absolutely no idea what you are supposed to do.

Calling an ambulance would probably result in him waking up purely out of spite, considering his reaction to the word hospital. You could try Bruce, although explaining why the supposedly ordinary student beside you can hear plumbing through concrete walls presents its own set of problems.

Then again, if anyone at ESU is qualified to hear that your classmate has superhuman senses without immediately losing their mind, it is probably the Hulk.

“Stop.”

You look at Maynard. “Huh?” His gaze has dropped to your hand.

You follow it and find your fingers curled tightly into your palm, four small crescents pressed into the skin. You hadn’t even noticed yourself doing it.

Slowly, you uncurl them.

“I’m not going to pass out,” he says.

“I wasn’t worried about that,” you huff.

Maynard gives you a tired look.

“Fine,” you concede. “I was considering the logistical inconvenience.”

He manages an eye roll. “Right.”

“We’re on the fifth floor.”

“Fourth.”

You glance toward the number painted on the stairwell wall. Even in his current state, he is annoyingly correct.

“That actually makes things marginally easier,” you mutter.

Your attention drifts back to your palm. “You noticed that quickly.”

“You’re sitting right beside me.”

Fair. Still, something about how easily he picked up on it sends a faint chill along your arms.

“You notice a lot,” you say.

Maynard fiddles with the chocolate wrapper between his fingers. “I guess I do.”

“About everyone?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. “No.”

The answer lands more directly than you expect. You hold his gaze for a moment. “Then why me?”

His fingers tighten around the wrapper. “You remind me of someone.”

“Someone you know?” you ask.

He pauses. “Knew.”

“What happened?”

Maynard is silent for so long that you assume he isn’t going to answer. Then he says, “She doesn’t know me anymore.”

“What does that mean?” You frown.

“It means exactly what it sounds like.” The bitterness in his voice surprises you.

You turn slightly toward him, your knee bumping into his again. “You had a falling out?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

His thumb worries at the edge of the chocolate wrapper. “I thought staying away from her would make things better.”

You listen quietly.

“I thought if I wasn’t around, she’d be safer,” he continues. “I convinced myself that was enough.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

Maynard looks toward the concrete floor between his shoes.

“At least she’s safe,” he says after a moment. “Or as safe as she can be.”

There is something resigned in the correction, like he knows safety is a temporary thing at best.

“But?”

His jaw tightens. “That isn’t the same as being happy.”

The words hit somewhere you were not expecting.

You think of schools chosen because their security plans passed inspection. Addresses kept off paperwork. Visits to the Tower cancelled because somebody somewhere had made a threat you were never supposed to know about.

Your dad had always been good at turning love into logistics.

You had understood why, even when you were young. Sometimes that had almost made it worse. You could understand why he kept you at arm’s length and still wish he had chosen to hold you closer.

“My dad used to do that.”

Maynard’s attention shifts fully to you. He takes off your headphones and hands them back, his body turning with the motion until he is facing you properly. “Do what?”

“Make the safe choice for me before I ever got a chance to decide what I wanted,” you explain. “He always had a reason. Usually a good one.”

You look down at your open palms. One is still healing. The other bears four faint marks of your own making. “He thought distance was another security measure.”

Maynard doesn’t say anything.

“I knew he loved me,” you continue. “That wasn’t really the problem.”

Your fingers curl slightly before you catch yourself and flatten them against your thigh.

“Knowing why someone leaves you out of their life doesn’t make being left out hurt less,” you murmur.

Something shifts in Maynard’s face that you can’t quite read.

You give a small shrug, though there is nothing casual about the feeling behind it. “Protection can feel a lot like abandonment from the other side.”

“He loved you,” Maynard insists quietly. The words come with an assurance that makes you pause.

“I know.”

Maynard’s expression closes slightly.

You study him. “You say that like you knew him.”

“I didn’t.” The denial comes a little too quickly.

“Then why are you so sure?”

His gaze drops away from yours. “It was obvious.”

“To you?”

“To anyone.”

You almost laugh. People had spent years building whatever version of Tony Stark suited them best. Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist. Hero.

Very few of them had ever known what he was like with the people he loved.

“You’d be surprised what people thought they knew about my father.”

Maynard’s jaw tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just like that, he retreats again.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. A few minutes ago, he had been telling you things without making you drag every word out of him, and you had allowed yourself to think that maybe you were finally getting somewhere.

Apparently, you had gotten ahead of yourself. Or maybe too close to whatever he was actually hiding.

“Maynard.”

“Yeah?”

You look at him. “Who are you?”

Every trace of softness disappears from his expression. He goes so still that, for one terrible second, you wonder whether you have pushed too far.

“I’m nobody.”

Something inside you sinks.

Yesterday, you might have rolled your eyes. Two days ago, you probably would have taken the answer as confirmation that he was insane and walked away.

Now it feels different. It feels like a door closing.

For every step Maynard takes toward you, he seems determined to take it back before you can follow.

“Don’t do that.”

His head lifts. “Do what?”

“Tell me things that matter and then pretend they don’t.”

His brow furrows. “I’m not pretending.”

“You just called yourself nobody.”

His gaze drops.

“That isn’t an answer, Maynard.”

“It’s the closest thing I have to one.”

Your frustration rises faster than you expect.

“You just finished telling me what happens when someone decides another person is better off not knowing things.”

His expression tightens. “This is different.”

“Of course it is.”

“It is.”

“It always is when you’re the one making the decision.”

That lands the way you intended it to. Maynard looks away.

You realize your nails are digging into your palm again and force your hand open before they can break the skin.

“I’m not asking you to tell me everything,” you say, quieter now. “But every time I think I understand you a little better, you pull away and remind me that I don’t know anything at all.”

“I know.”

“Then stop.”

He answers with difficulty. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Maynard finally looks at you, and something in his expression makes you think an answer might actually come.

Then the stairwell door bangs open behind you.

Students spill through, their voices ricocheting sharply off the concrete walls. Maynard recoils at the sudden noise, and whatever argument had been sitting between you is forgotten.

You find yourself reaching for his hand. His fingers close around yours immediately.

There is none of the hesitation you have come to expect from him. No startled retreat or awkward readjustment. His hand simply settles around yours, warm and steady, his fingers fitting between your own with an ease that feels strangely practiced.

Maynard looks down at your joined hands, and the expression that crosses his face makes something in your chest tighten.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just devastated.

“Maynard?”

His fingers loosen almost reluctantly before he yanks his hand away. “I have to go.”

“You don’t—”

He cuts you off. “I’m okay.”

“You clearly aren’t.”

He is already getting to his feet.

“Maynard.”

He stops at the stairwell door with one hand wrapped around the handle.

You wait for him to turn around. He doesn’t.

The door swings shut behind him, and by the time you push through it yourself, he has already disappeared into the crowd moving between classes.

a/n: hello! thank you so so much for reading part two! i can't express how grateful i am for all the love and support this little story of mine has received so far. i hope this second part doesn't disappoint!

comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

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