Archive of Our Own ^beta

Rule #1: Don’t be a dumbass.

Rule #1b: Unless she likes dumbasses. Then, sure, be a dumbass and ask the pretty cashier at the late-night convenience store if she wants to kiss you.

Rule #1c: But you should probably figure out if she likes dumbasses first.

There were plenty of things Peter Parker knew he wasn’t good at.  Not that knowing and acknowledging really helped anything, but he liked to think being able to say that he lacked basic life skills like the ability to go grocery shopping made the problems somewhat less sad. That whole “the first step is admitting you have a problem” thing, right?

Peter Parker knows he has shit time management, can’t accept gifts and/or compliments without the overwhelming need to sink into freshly laid concrete, and is the world’s worst kisser (confirmed with MLA formatted citations and textual evidence from several reliable sources).

And yet, no matter how self-evident these truths reveal themselves to be in Peter’s young adult life, a few of his most fatal flaws decide to come to a head all at once, on the night of New Year’s Eve in his junior year of college.

There is not much that propels him out of his small dorm room that night. After finishing up a quick patrol (quick because there came a point where you just couldn’t draw the line between criminals and sloppy drunks), he slips back into his tiny MIT single dorm room. He’s been getting constant updates from Ned at Stanford on a 3-hour delay about how he’s totally finally really gonna kiss ‘caramel iced coffee with a metal straw’ girl that he’s been hopelessly in love with since he was on line behind her at Starbucks at the start of the fall semester. And it’s not like Peter’s ever been one for the party scene, but he’s 21 and spending New Year’s Eve watching Mamma Mia on FaceTime with his aunt in his creaky, twin-sized bed. And he thinks that sentence might just speak for itself.

It really comes down to necessity, why he leaves, that night, because he’s hungry and he’s out of instant ramen and it’s nearing midnight and he’s so tired that he fears he won’t make it to “Take a Chance On Me” (which is arguably one of the best songs in the movie but you don’t fight that fight with May, he’s learned, an avid “Honey, Honey” and “Winner Takes it All” proponent) without a helping hand from some artificial sugar.

May texts him to be safe (I don’t care that you can stick to buildings criminals are still criminals, he can basically hear her voice without her saying it, and put a jacket on because I know you’re not going to) and about a million kissing emojis tacked on at the end to substitute the midnight kisses she’d pepper on his face when they could enact their yearly tradition in the same state, same room, same couch.

And before he rolls out of bed and shrugs on a pale and faded MIT hoodie, she reminds him to please pick up that card from your mailbox before it is literally a new year. She sent it for his birthday and he’s never been bothered enough to look up the combination to unlock his little mail slot in the lobby of his building.

However, his innate need for food combined with his general indifference towards the holiday’s festivities were still not enough to propel him into the chilly Boston air.

No, what does it is the non PG-rated sounds coming through the thin (way too thin for what he pays for university housing) walls of his room.

And so, he doesn’t think twice before shoving his socked feet into plasticky black Nike slides and running out the door.

He is a walking image of 2-parts self-pity and 3-parts plain sad. And whatever parts that are left are probably waiting to be filled with crap college kid cuisine.

The lobby is empty and quiet, save for two friends gently coaxing a third slumped over a trash can after a night out on the opposite end of the ‘successful night’ spectrum from Peter’s.

And Peter realizes he is severely too sober for all aspects of this holiday. He busies himself looking up his mail combination, listening to the clicks and turns of the small lock instead of resurfacing alcohol.

He shuffles politely by them once he’s haphazardly stuffed the envelope into his back pocket, mumbling something like “I have a breath mint” when one brunette tries to apologize for the group. Even though he does not have a breath mint.

His cheeks flush like he’s walking out on the Fourth of July instead of December 31st.

There is not much open by way of food at close to midnight (which seems unfair to all the shit time managers and/or superheroes with odd sleep schedules of the world, but who’s really checking?), other than a liquor store and a strange, off-brand 24-hour convenience store that looks like it’s supposed to be attached to a gas station.

The options are subpar, making the best option to just go home, but Peter Parker is stubborn and starving and is trying not to think about all the things he should be doing instead of this so, convenience store with flickering neon-light and faded Juul poster it is.

Happy frickin’ new year.

He pushes the door open and walks in quickly, ducking his head and altogether avoiding eye contact of any kind (even with the creepy candy eyes of Sour Patch Kids, really, no one is safe).

The store is quiet, save the mechanical buzz of half-stocked refrigerators and the light lull of some pop song (Rhianna, maybe? He feels like he’s heard it in a Pepsi commercial or something). There’s no one in the store besides him and, he assumes, at least one employee at the register. But then again, he’s too busy memorizing the swirling brown pattern on the floor and avoiding all human interaction until the last possible second. The store smells familiarly of New York soft pretzels and cheap coffee. It’s warm and the lights are flickering but his stomach growls to remind him to plow through and the Beyoncé song (he’s figured it out, definitely Beyoncé) is a much better tune than the sound of Ned’s nagging or his neighbors or the girls in the hallway on loop in his head.

He slides open a door to grab a Gatorade, picks up one package of Red Vines, and tucks a party size bag of Doritos under one arm. Meal of champions. New year, new Peter.

He slides his feels up the aisle and moves to forget this awfully embarrassing night when all of sudden, he hears Beyoncé get a duet partner.

“Baby it’s you! You’re the one I looove, you’re the one I neeed!”

Honest to god, Peter was not sure what keeps everything in his hands in that moment.

But he is sure of two things:

1— If it were not for his literal ability to stick things to his hands, gravity would have surely won this face-off.

And 2— If Peter did not already know aliens existed because of seeing them during his brief stints in space thanks to his superhero side-gig, seeing this girl would have proved it for him. Because there is no way any man, woman, or divine intervention created a human being this perfect.

The girl behind the counter has the handheld scanner gripped in her right hand and held up to her face, the little red light shining on her cheekbones as she sings loudly into her makeshift mic, head tossed back and long curls bouncing over her shoulders. She braces the other hand on the counter for a dramatic dip and shimmies towards the computer, still singing.

She is, undoubtedly, sculpted by something inhuman, as she purses her lips and her eyes dance just as brightly as she does. Her skin is soft and glowing, which has nothing to do with the crappy lighting in this store, Peter is certain of, and kind of makes him feel like he can’t breathe.

“You’re the one that gives your all!” She yells and points, then makes a phone with her free hand, “You’re the one I can always call!”

It is literally the most insanely wonderfully beautifully perfect thing Peter has seen any insanely wonderfully beautifully perfect human do. (You think he’s exaggerating? Because he’s not. There literally are not enough words for this girl and the 30-seconds he’s known her.)

But it all ends abruptly as she finishes out her last line—a daring twirl of “when I need to make everything STOP!” that lands her face front towards the counter and, consequently staring directly at—

“HOLY SHIT!”

“Hi,” Peter manages to nod as he hears the scanner clatter to the floor and all his short-lived hopes and dreams of being in love with this girl fall with it.

“Where did you come from?”

“The chip aisle.”

Silence. Her exasperation and shock is evident as her bottom lip drops a little and eyes scrunch (but not as kindly as they did when she was singing).

And then she just stares.

Time moves on, Beyoncé keeps singing, and this girl keeps looking at him.

It is painful, not gonna lie, and he has that familiar feeling of wanting to sink somewhere deep and dark and never-returning.

So he stumbles backwards and tries to put back the Doritos and Red Vines and Gatorade and sheepishly says, “I’m sorry, I can just go…”

But she cuts through the air with a little laugh and ducks to pick up the scanner, “How much did you see?”

Holy shit, red flags, red alert, like wee-oo wee-oo sirens, flashing lights and emergency protocol activated—pretty girl is talking to him. He sucks in an unhealthily large breath to puff up his chest, crinkles the bag in his hands and walks closer to the counter she’s standing behind.

“Baby it’s you…” Peter sing-songs the words with a tilt of his head.

“Oh, so the whole thing?” she nods and he laughs again.

“You were really good.”

“Kiss ass,” she pulls the bag of Doritos towards her and flips it over to see the bar code, “You’re not getting these for free.”

“Of course not,” he shakes his head.

There’s another awkward beat of silence as she bags the Doritos and the Red Vines, rolls the Gatorade closer.

“Wild party you’re throwing here,” she muses with a lift of one eyebrow.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Sarcasm,” she twists her lips to one side, “I know you’re not throwing a party.”

Okay cool, pretty girl, harmless banter, be cool, Peter, be cool. He huffs out a laugh that was trying to be nonchalant and cool (but sounds more like a choke), “What could have possibly given it away?”

“The Red Vines, definitely.”

“Obviously.”

She smiles, “So what, do you have like a secret super power or something?”

“What?” and this time he really chokes.

“I didn’t hear you or see you come in at all, so you have to be like, a Revenger or something.”

“Avenger.”

“So you are?” she nods with a smirk.

And Peter would very much like to go on a proper spiel about superhuman genetics and how he must have found her one fatal flaw for not knowing the right name for the Avengers but he’s being cool. Cool, playful banter with a pretty girl.

So he chokes back every nerdy thing he’s prepped to say on autopilot and says, “You’re not getting that for free.”

She laughs and keys something into the computer, “$5.47.”

Peter swings a hand behind to grab his wallet out of his back pocket and suddenly feels like adding another fatal flaw to his list. His wallet is not there.

He briefly remembers the circumstances of his flee (curse you, thin walls), and notes he left with nothing but his phone, his key, and a minuscule shred of his dignity.

He feels around the pocket, tucks a hand into the long pocket across the front of his sweatshirt, pats up and down his chest and thighs like it’s going to do anything.

Pretty cashier looks him up and down expectantly.

Her head drops to one shoulder like she’s considering how weird this interaction has already been and decides not to waste time thinking this behavior is any weirder.

It guts Peter, like, fully and wholly. The look is too wonderful.

The card, he suddenly remembers, thinking of wonderful things, May’s birthday card. She always attaches a $20 for a laugh, like she’s fulfilling the cheesy aunt ‘I talk to you twice a year’ stereotype her guardian duties ensured she never got to fulfill. It’s funny, he always thinks, but now it’s teetering more towards life-saving.

He fishes out the crumpled envelope and turns, his back slightly towards the register as he fumbles with ripping open the bright orange flap.

something for all the big things you’re going to do, as my big little boy (21!!! you’re so old!!!) (but still tiny!!!)

(PS is it cheesy to say I love you even bigger? because I do!)

And a crisp 100 dollar bill ships out from between the handwritten sentiment.

He doesn’t think he’s ever held this much money in his hands before. He’s a broke college kid! He worked a crap job in high school and bounced around unpaid internships and his Aunt was supposed to send him something you use to pay for gum, not something you put into savings!

It’s very uncomfortable, as Peter lists the fatal flaw that makes him incapable of accepting gifts. If this were any other night he would have refused, shipped the money back to his Aunt and when she refused he’d resign to cash in on the new year mentality and donate it somewhere.

But it’s not any other night, its tonight.

It takes a strength he does have to put the bill down on the counter.

His brain runs on overdrive trying to think of some witty explanation for paying for 5 dollars worth of junk food with a hundred dollar bill but when he looks back up, the girl is holding his little green gift limp by two fingers.

She smirks and waves the bill, “I did not peg you as a dumbass.”

“What? I—“

“Red vines? Total nerd. But trying to pay for chips with a bill that is twenty times the entire cost of what you’re buying? Dumbass,” she slides the money back to him.

She doesn’t lift her hand off the bill on the counter, and she’s still smiling at him, (which makes his insides ping pong around while also simultaneously dissolving into Jell-o). The whole thing is as confusing to him as it seems to be to her, but he needs to pay for the chips and leave and overanalyze every millisecond of this interaction for the next 3-5 business days.

And so.

He places his hand on top of hers and pushes the bill back.

(The way he forgets the entire English language in that moment? He deserves his dumbass title.)

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to pay,” he manages to breathe out.

“Okay, I wasn’t being totally literal with the dumbass thing but I guess I need to explain,” she starts, and Peter is hyper aware that their hands are still touching, “It would take way more work for me to try to figure out how to break a bill this big with the pennies and singles I have in the register.”

“I get it,” Peter says, “But that’s all I have.”

Beyoncé fills the air between them again, the girl puffs a lock of hair out of her face, and Peter feels tingly all over.

“You’re so confusing,” the girl laughs again and digs into her own pocket, releasing Peter from her life-altering grip.

“You’re so pretty.”

Well, shit.

Peter: 0, Dumbass: 3

“And you’re still not getting this for free,” she giggles, honest to god giggles. Peter feels like floating out of the room. She pulls his receipt out and places it in front of him, “Your tab, Mr. Red Vines.”

She rolls a pen towards him.

Peter apologizes on autopilot, it’s like it’s embedded into his genes, so he glosses over everything that just happened and kind of sorry-vomits all over the store, “I’m so sorry about this, I didn’t mean—“

“Relax, like I said, we’ll just wait til it gets easier to break that Benjamin, I can cover your Doritos for one night,” she smiles, “Now sign it, or I’ll be legally required to call you Red Vines forever.”

And god, she’s so pretty, and so wonderful, and nice and perfect, and sings Beyoncé like she was born to do it, not be stuck working in some crappy convenience store that sells half-frozen slushies, and its almost midnight and Ned and his amazing night that looks nothing like his own is ringing in his ears like the new year and he’s heard and seen things tonight that make him want to flip the hood up on his hoodie and never pull it down and this girl already thinks he’s a dumbass so why not just—

“We should kiss.”

“Excuse me?”

Peter coughs, blinks twice, continues, “It’s almost midnight, my best friend is at a party kissing the girl of his dreams and thinks I’m an idiot for watching movie musicals alone in my room instead, and maybe I am and idiot because I can’t even correctly buy junk food in a night that keeps going from bad to worse!” he sighs. A beat. A shy smile, “And you’re really pretty.”

“Was the part where I paid for your Doritos the worst, or was it or was it looking annoyingly cute in that socks with sandals look that should be illegal?”

Holy shit.

“It was your singing actually.”

“Ouch!” she yells, but there’s no bite, just a breathy laugh and a hand like she was shot in the heart. A few moments later, she sobers and shakes her head, “You can’t kiss a guy you just met.”

“Frozen.”

“What?”

“You were quoting Frozen.”

“Oh my god,” she rolls her eyes, “No way I’m about to kiss a guy who eats Red Vines and quotes Frozen.”

The streets are loud and crowded outside, and Peter can hear what sounds like masses of people starting to count down to the new year.

10, 9...

“For the record, I think this tradition is outdated and ridiculous.”

8...

“Of course.”

7, 6, 5...

“I also think you’re ridiculous.”

4, 3...

“You’re not wrong.”

2...

“But I kind of like that you’re trying to stick it to someone right now so—“

1...

Peter may be a dumbass who can’t kiss, but he is a dumbass with $100 and his lips on the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

He braces both hands on the edge of the counter and kisses her mid-sentence, nothing crazy, just a soft peck, his eyes squeezed shut and his cheeks burning.

Like, objectively, it’s an awful, awkward first kiss. What can he say, its his specialty.

And knowing his track record, he’s content to leave it at that, a quick midnight kiss, but maybe the Beyoncé’s gone to her brain, because, suddenly, Peter feels a hand on his neck that steadies him, and parted lips that meet his own again... and again...

There’s literally no way. No way.

There’s a ton of screaming and celebrating outside to match the insanity Peter feels with every fiber of his being. Her lips taste like red slushy when they pull his, her hands feel cold on his scalp, like December in Boston.

‘Bad kisser’ is not on this girl’s list of fatal flaws, Peter is certain.

He feels a hot breath on his cheek, and then he’s looking at her over the counter again.

“I thought you didn’t kiss guys who eat Red Vines and quote Frozen?” he smiles.

“You didn’t quote Frozen right,” she says, seriously. 

“What?”

“‘You can’t marry a man you just met.’” She shrugs, “Thats the actual quote, so since you didn’t quote it, I could still kiss you.”

“Well,” Peter huffs, feeling like a human form of the firecrackers popping outside, “Thank you, Elsa.”

“Queen Elsa, put some respect on her name.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he twists his lips and it makes her laugh and god, this isn’t fair. Not fair at all.

“I’m going to add that kiss to your tab,” she swipes the pen from his side of the counter, their faces still inches from each other, her eyes still on his.

“Right,” he blinks, and ducks his head when she’s done writing and takes the pen back, “Do I still need to sign?”

“Your name and number, please.”

Happy freakin’ New Year, indeed.

Rule #2: Doing all your shopping at the convenience store is not good for your health.

Rule #2b: Apply three coats of white-out to Rule #2 and do all your shopping at the convenience store anyway.

Peter is a 21 year old boy. If you know anything about how the 21 year old boy body works, then you know the laws of basic survival are written differently.

Peter knows, and would very much like to live off of only the things he can buy in the convenience store during the hours of 9pm and 3am that pretty cashier girl works. A diet of corn chips and diet soda can’t be that bad, right?

(Answer: bad, very bad, Aunt May cannot stress how bad it is to him, over the phone.)

Peter is not like all 21 year old boys in that he has a conscience. And every time he wants to chug a Red Bull and look at pretty cashier girl’s other-worldly eyelashes, he 1— hears his aunt’s voice in his head about his cholesterol levels and 2— completely chickens out.

She texted him almost seconds after he slipped out of the store on New Year’s, very dazed and even more confused. Texts flew back and forth between them until the end of her shift that night, which is how he learns she works the awful leg of the night shift. She’s flirty and playful and kind of a little bit evil because he’s pretty sure this is how he dies.

She texts him a goodnight just before her head hits the pillow and he doesn’t know how she does it, because Peter makes it through all of “Mamma Mia” and the sequel on straight adrenaline alone, sleep the furthest thing from his capabilities.

He doesn’t even touch the Red Vines.

The thing is, she keeps texting him.

And the other thing is, he keeps avoiding going back.

There is a certain level of suave required when talking to her in person that isn’t present when he can strategize his words over text. He feels akin to his high school-self, scared shitless to ask the senior he was crushing on to homecoming. Only this feels 10x scarier. And that didn’t seem possible sophomore year.

So, ignoring his extreme confidence issues and using the fact that he really doesn’t need anything from the convenience store as his driving excuse, Peter manages to put off going back there and facing the Beyoncé music until mid-February.

Ned and his new girlfriend Betty (though Peter’s still not used to referring to her as anything other than ‘caramel iced coffee with a metal straw’ girl) are in town visiting on a mid-semester break and Peter’s running out of ideas for entertainment.

They’re going to see a movie on a Tuesday night because tickets are $5 on Tuesdays and Peter has third-wheeled enough movie dates in his lifetime to know how to focus on the movie screen and nothing else. (And based on the 3 days he’s spent with Betty and Ned, he thinks that skill has suddenly become more powerful than any superhero tricks he’s got in his arsenal.)

“Cambridge is such a cute city, isn’t it, babe?”

“The best, babe.”

Peter traces cracks on the sidewalk with his eyes as he walks behind the couple, arms linked, as the sun begins to set.

“I mean, the climate is definitely not ideal, and I think cobblestone makes for a very outdated safety hazard,” she snuggles her arm deeper into Ned, and Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Probably why Harvard wasn’t on my list of schools, but you must be happy here, Peter.”

He huffs in agreement and continues their walk.

“I heard this movie we’re going to see is supposed to be really good,” Betty chimes up again, “And I have tissues because I know Neddie is a secret softie.”

“Neddie?”

Ned sends a swift jab back at Peter, whose eyes are wide and laughing.

“Are you a sweet or savory person, Peter?”

“Uh, sweet,” he shrugs, “Terrible sweet tooth.”

“Oh perfect, so are we,” she hums, (we? They’re speaking in the collective now? Hasn’t it been like, a month?), “We should stop and get some candy before we get to the theater.”

“Oh, they have candy there—“ Peter starts.

“It is much more economically beneficial to get some candy from an outside place. They really inflate the prices because they know you’re gonna buy them,” Betty flips her head around to face Peter and her long golden locks swish across her back in the cold winter wind, “You know the place better than we do, Peter. Do you have 7-11s here?”

And there’s just no way Peter can go there in this condition. Nope. No way.

“I can’t think of one that we’ll pass on the way,” Peter lies quickly, then tries to steady his voice so as not to be so obvious about his intense need to not go to the convenience store right now, “Don’t worry about movie theater prices, you’re my guests, its on me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter,” she waves, “Ned told me you don’t have a job, this is so much easier. And my bag is big enough that we can sneak a ton of stuff in.”

(And, for your information, Betty Brant, he doesn’t have a job because he’s a literal superhero.) (He gets very defensive in his head about this, tries not to physically scowl at her.) (Though its difficult.)

“Well, like I said, we’re already cutting it close—“

“No one likes trailers!”

“Ned and I love trailers.”

“No he doesn’t, right, babe?”

“Yeah, so long,” Ned shakes his head.

“They never have good candy there anyway,” Betty says, “Usually lacking on Twizzlers. Which are our favorite.”

Peter’s heart feels like its being stomped on. Neddie hates trailers and eats Twizzlers instead of Red Vines? What the hell is going on in this parallel universe he’s suddenly stepped into.

Peter must be so wrapped up in his own head about the pros of Red Vines and the cons of Twizzlers and mentally plotting ways to keep Betty in California next break, that he doesn’t realize the street they’re headed down.

“Ah, look, this is perfect!” Betty stops the group and pulls open a familiar glass-paned door.

She ushers Ned into the convenience store and looks at Peter expectantly.

It can’t happen, he is so overwhelmingly underprepared for this interaction. He hasn’t texted her in a week and has been so good about avoiding coming to this store for literally every single thing he doesn’t need. He can’t— he won’t—

“I think I’ll just wait out here.”

“It’s freezing!”

“Like you said, I’m used to it here,” Peter shrugs his shoulders up and keeps from shivering, “I trust you guys to pick some snacks. You obviously have great taste.” (And if it bites a little, that’s no one’s business but his own. Stupid Twizzlers.)

Peter realizes Betty has the usually admirable quality of assertiveness. He says usually because at the moment her behavior drags him into the convenience store against his will, but yeah. Under better circumstances, she might be kind of a badass with bad taste in candy.

“Ned, your friend is being difficult,” Betty jokes with a laugh, yelling down the first aisle, “I think he needs extra candy.”

Betty releases her grip on Peter just in time for him to spin and face the front of the store.

“You? Difficult? I don’t believe it.”

(And if he melts into a puddle right there, that’s no ones business but his own. Stupid pretty cashier.)

“Hey,” he starts, lamely.

“Hey yourself,” she leans an elbow on the counter.

“I didn’t know you were working now.”

“So you were avoiding me?”

“No,” he yells quickly, tries to channel some of the Peter Parker that is good at texting, “Avoiding paying you back for my Doritos.”

“Valid, valid,” she nods and it swings her hair over one shoulder and swings Peter’s heart into his stomach, “Are those—“

“My friend and his girlfriend, visiting.”

“Right.”

“We’re going to the movies, I’m supposed to be picking out candy.”

“Don’t let me keep you, Red Vines,” she shoos him off with one wave of her hand, and like it breaks the spell, Peter breathes for the first time and runs down the aisle.

He stands in front of shelves of candy. Situated between a rack of Skittles and mini Starbursts he tries to weigh his options.

1— Fake an illness and leave to “get some air”, never return

2— Fake an illness and skip the movie, stay here with pretty cashier all night

3— Fake an illness and not move from the spot he is currently standing in at the moment, hope no one misses him from either party

4— Grab a Butterfinger and a box of Red Hots, start back towards the front of the store with hearts in his eyes

(#4 wins out.)

“Told you this was a good idea, Peter,” he hears Betty say, standing in front of the register, “It’s even less expensive than I thought! Valentine’s Day couples discount!”

Michelle hands the bag to Betty, who passes it off to Ned, and the couple smiles at him, “You okay, Peter?”

“Yup,” he chokes, “Just, a big decision, you know?” He weighs the two candies in his hands.

“A comedian,” Betty laughs again, “We’ll wait outside.”

Peter doesn’t miss the disgustingly affectionate way they grab hands and nuzzle their noses together before stepping back outside, and from the looks of it neither has Michelle.

“For the record,” she starts, watching Peter walk towards her in the empty store, “We do not have a couples discount. I just wanted that to stop.”

Peter lets out a long laugh, and it makes Michelle laugh with him, “Sorry about that.”

“I’m adding it to your tab,” she says, “Suing for the emotional and visual trauma I just endured.”

“That’s fair,” he drops his candy on the small gray counter.

“It’s probably good you’ve been avoiding me,” she starts, and Peter begins to jump in with protests, but she continues, “If you were here any more I’d probably have to give you the fake discount too.”

“For couples?”

She nods, scans his Red Hots, and Peter feels a similar sensation crowd his cheeks.

“I have not been avoiding you,” Peter repeats, because he really really wants her to know that (even if he has been avoiding her, technically, just not for the reasons she’s implying), “My aunt just says I can’t eat only Red Vines.”

“I agree,” she smirks, “You should never eat Red Vines.”

“But Red Vines are the best candy!”

“Until you’ve eaten every candy, you can’t accurately make that argument.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to eat every candy in here then.”

“I guess you will.”

Her eyes are the worst criminal Peter’s ever faced, they trap every bit of air in his lungs and make him feel like he’s lost grip on the roof of a building and is sent plummeting.

“Starting with Butterfingers?”

“Yes,” he nods, and pulls it across the counter, rips the package open, and takes a bite. After a bit of well-exaggerated thought, he says, “Red Vines are better than Butterfingers.”

“No way,” Michelle leans towards him and yanks the candy bar from his hand, and also tries a piece, “Nope, this is better.”

“Well, now you’ve both destroyed my argument and eaten my movie candy,” Peter shakes his head, letting her finish the small candy bar, “And I don’t know how I’m going to afford to replace it.”

“Okay, Benjamins!” She teases, a breath, and then, “Maybe I’ll have to give you the discount.”

“Really?”

“Only if you admit Butterfingers are better than Red Vines,” she shrugs.

“I forgot what they taste like already!” He yells, with mock exaggeration that lights up her giggle in front of him.

“I told you you were difficult!” She yelps, and unceremoniously leans forward and kisses him square on the lips.

Kiss #2 is different than the last one, its faster, hotter, sinks something deep into Peter’s chest. She bites at his bottom lip like it’s in competition with the Red Vines and she has to make an accurate argument. He gulps in her laugh, feels her eyelashes on his cheek, and wishes he knew what to do with his hands (like he knows what he wants to do with his hands, but he can’t reach it over the counter.)

Its over too soon, in his opinion, and he sinks back to look at her dangerous eyes again.

“Jog your memory?” She smirks, “On the Butterfinger?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he coughs, “I like Butterfingers a lot.”

“My anti-Red Vine agenda just got very interesting,” she tucks the receipt from his two candies into the front pocket of his jeans, her breath hot on his neck, “Let me know when you’re coming back for round two, Peter Parker.”

So, screw his overall health and well-being. He will continue to live only on whatever crap can be found in the sketchy convenience store between the hours of 9p and 3am.

Rule #3: Nothing says romance like Dostoevsky.

When are superheroes supposed to shop for groceries?

Peter does not think anyone has nearly as good of an excuse for stocking up on food at 1 in the morning as him.

He starts class at 10 most days, having finally perfected the way to schedule classes that freshman with 8am’s have still yet to master. He’ll run to lunch with some friends from his Comp Engineering class and work in the lab before dinner. He stakes out in the library, calls May, checks in with Ned (and now, unfortunately, with Betty). He flops on his bed and naps for a half an hour before swinging into his Spider-suit and out the window. Cambridge is very much a college town, and he ends up rather bored most days, but he’s not complaining. There’re things to do and see and the low-crime traffic makes May feel better about him still super-heroing so many miles from her, so he keeps up with it. By the time he returns to his room, the day is over. There is no time for chores or errands.

Thus, when are superheroes supposed to go grocery shopping?

Has to be: after patrol, between the hours of 9pm and 3am.

And so Peter justifies the almost running he does down the dorm building stairs and out across the town to his favorite 24-hour convenience store. He has to go shopping, is all, and its very important.

“Come here often?”

“Shut up.”

“What are we trying today? Swedish Fish?”

“I was thinking more… French.”

Like he said, very important.

After movie night, it’s like the floodgates open. Peter can’t stop going back to the convenience store any chance he gets, and he’s working through his candy taste-testing excellently.

Michelle, Peter has learned, also wants to participate in the investigation, only she doesn’t see the need to open 2 boxes of candy to make it happen.

If Peter gets back to the store quick, Michelle takes to kissing Peter quicker.

It is dangerous, the way she’ll pull him, shirt fisted across the countertop. It is insane, the way she crowds him, into the corner of the store between the soda can fridge and the shelf of paper goods. It is illegal, the look she gives him, just before she makes him memorize the patterns of the linoleum floor in a new way from his first visit.

Peter is incapable of becoming any less nervous. He’s never been with a girl like this before. He doesn’t really understand the rules of a relationship that’s not a relationship and is all kissing.

He’s bad at kissing, always has been. Michelle is not, and makes a really good teacher.

Not like he’s going to stop though. He’s got a lot of the candy shelf left to try, of course.

He doesn’t usually make it there on Monday nights because his Comparative Literature class that he has to take for gen ed requirements puts him through hell, and he always leaves the reading (mountains and mountains of reading) for Monday night before class Tuesday morning.

She texts him something stupid that makes him giggle, and reminds him why every authority figure ever has advised him to keep any electronics as far away as possible when studying. Distracting, she’s so distracting.

He sends something back, and she’s says surprised he’s still awake. It’s 2:03, she scolds, on a school night.

He writes back about the reading he’s supposed to be doing (Crime, he types, and taking an unnecessarily long time to get to the Punishment, by a Russian guy.) Her three typing dots flash up on his screen, disappear, and reappear four times before a message is sent.

Store is empty, let me help you

And yes, we have established through and through that Peter is a 21 year old boy. He’d be an idiot to turn this down (she’s so out of his league that its laughable), but he really just needs to read the book. He’s supposed to have all of part III finished by class and he’s stumbling through part II from last week’s assignment. While kissing is nice, with 64 pages left to read its surely a fate worse than any punishment the crazy guy in his novel is set to get.

He’s about to apologize and say he has to stay in, when another message pops up.

I read the book last semester and have a lot of feelings about Raskolnikov, he’s 100% that bitch

He flings the book in a backpack and resigns himself to having more than a lot feelings about her.

When he arrives at the store 15 minutes later, its empty, as promised, and Michelle is sitting on top of the counter, her feet dangling on the store’s side, swinging and kicking the small displays of gum and Tic-Tacs.

“There he is, the Rodya to my Sonya.”

“Sonya? You want to be Sonya?”

“I could be Dunya but then you’d have to be Svidrigailov,” she shrugs, “And as fun as that name is to say, I don’t actually hate you that much.”

“He’s the villain, right?”

“How much have you read?” she takes the book from his hands, swipes through the pages and feels how little spine has been opened, a page dog eared less than a quarter of the way into the novel, “Or how much have you not read, might be the better question.”

“I’ve been busy,” he defends, standing between her legs as they swing off the edge of the counter. He tips his head down to peer at the pages she’s scanning, “And this book is awful.”

“It’s not awful, it’s just dense,” she chides, “I’ll help you, I like this stuff.”

“You can’t make fun of me for liking Red Vines anymore when you openly admit to liking 600 page novels about mid-1800s Russia.”

“Red Vines taste like stale toothpaste, Crime and Punishment is an artfully crafted telling of a man’s innermost thoughts that emphasizes the wide-spread philosophical theory of Nihilism.”

“Teach me, Mrs. Dostoevsky.”

“Let’s start with the pronunciation of that name.”

And Peter knew she was a good teacher. The kissing and whatnot, but she’s a really good teacher.

He remembers her breaking down the symbolism of the color yellow, he remembers her moving them to sit behind the counter, their backs against the small ledge, knees bumping, and he remembers her taking off her sweatshirt while she talks about the book’s setting.

The next thing he remembers after that is blinking his eyes open to the sound of the bell on the store’s door ringing, the swoosh of the door shutting, and the click of the register’s drawer clicking back into place. He’s curled up on the floor, his head tucked on top of a bag of marshmallows and Michelle’s sweatshirt draped over his shoulders.

“Sleep well, my Rodya?” She ducks down, knees to her chest, at the sound of Peter rolling awake.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— you should have woken me up,” he rubs his eyes sleepily and sits to face her.

“You looked really tired,” she hums, “And I had just lectured you about Raskolnikov’s fever induced dream series and I wanted to make sure your didn’t escalate to that.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“I try,” she shrugs, “Feeling better?”

He nods slowly, a smile creeping on to his face, “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”

“It’s a boring book,” she concedes, “I didn’t have a customer until this guy that just left in so I got through notes on most of Part III for you,” she shows him the book, little white strips peeking out over the tops of some pages, “I hope your professor doesn’t mind notes on the back of receipt paper.”

“You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I wanted to,” she shrugs again, and for the first time since he’s met her, it crosses Peter’s mind that Michelle might get nervous too. Its endearing, the way she swoops some hair behind her ear, fidgety, looking past him and down at the floor, “The only major thing you missed was my explanation of the Superman.”

“The what?”

“Superman,” she repeats, “In their society, this was basically the ideal man, was above all morality, could not be governed by humanity, kind of a prick, so its a fitting name.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Superheroes seem kind of like jerks to me,” she says, “Not all of them, but having that flashy Spider-Man swinging around my campus last semester helped me remember the theory for my midterm on this book.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, his hand presses down so hard onto the bag of marshmallows behind him it threatens to pop.

“But don’t worry,” she shakes her head, “Raskolnikov proves he is definitely not the Superman. So you’re safe, my Rodya. Not a jerk.”

“Definitely not a Superman,” he chokes, “Or Spider-Man. Definitely not.”

“Anyway, you should probably go get more sleep,” she takes his hand, helps him to standing, “You’re still attractive but I’m starting to notice bags.”

He stumbles up and places one hand on the counter, “This was really, really nice of you.”

“You’re a really, really nice guy.”

And like yes, Peter is a 21 year old boy. 21 year old boys generally like the idea of a no-strings attached hook up with a hot girl in the middle of the night. But Peter is incapable of not being nervous around his hot girl and he’s definitely more ‘relationship guy’ than ’21 year old horndog’ so he does a stupidly relationship thing.

He leans up and kisses her on the cheek.

She sways back on her heels and her left hand shoots up almost immediately to touch her cheek, skin hot where his lips just were.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—“

“That was really, really nice too,” a shy smile spreads on her face that Peter catches when he’s finished being embarrassed enough.

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

Peter hasn’t felt anything like this before. The first time she kissed him was all New Year’s Eve fireworks and the second time she kissed him had him floating in a rosy Valentine’s Day bubble. The third and the fourth and every kiss after that has been in stark contrast to the winter weather, hot and tight and filled with a quick passion, messy and all over the place and emptied all thoughts from Peter’s head.

But this moment doesn’t feel like one of those. It feels whole. Like they’ve figured out a balance, a pull to each way they’ve known each other, that centers a fairly unorthodox list of knowings.

It makes him so giddy he’s surprised he doesn’t trip right over the counter.

“Uh, it’s 3:06,” Peter says, noticing the time light up on his phone, “I can walk you home?”

She smiles, but shakes her head, “Eugene has next shift and I don’t remember the last night he was on time.” She bites her lips together, “You go. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay,” he parts with the counter, circles out from behind it and slings his backpack over one shoulder, not breaking eye contact with Michelle the whole way, “Thanks again for the help.”

“Sure.”

“Um, maybe tomorrow I could come over and tell you how wonderful my professor thinks you did.”

“I actually don’t work tomorrow,” she hums, and Peter watches her fiddle with her fingers locked together like she fiddles with the keys of the register when he buys Red Vines, “But, uh, there’s this, uh, coffee shop? A few blocks from here? That’s really good, if you wanted to—“

“Yes,” he nods, his breath sticking in his chest with such a quick answer, “Yes, I will, uh, see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, cool.”

“Great.”

“Super,” she giggles, “Sweet dreams, Superman.”

So, while he’s here asking about when superheroes are meant to do their shopping, can he add another question to the list?

When can superheroes legally change their names?

Rule #4: In the event that you have both a secret identity and a secret crush, one must be revealed.

Rule #4b: The secret identity is, obviously, the safer choice for revealing. Guard secret crushes with your life.

Peter’s crush on Michelle bubbles over pretty quickly after that. You can’t just introduce something like holding hands across a coffee table and expect him not to fall head over heels.

He doesn’t think he does a good job of hiding it, though that doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Can he do it from popcorn?” Michelle announces, one hand cupped around her mouth, then uses her other to toss a Goldfish cracker at Peter. He jumps to his right as catches it in his mouth. She lets out a triumphant whoop, “He can!”

“Dare we try from sour cream and onion chips?” Peter chomps the Goldfish snack and takes two steps back, aligning himself at the furthest point of the chip aisle.

“Someone’s getting ambitious,” she scoffs, shifts in her seat on the counter.

“Because I know I can do it.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with a more than adequate consequence.”

“Damn right I will, Red Vines,” she grabs another bunch of goldfish in her palm, straightens up and aims, “You ready?”

And just because he’s a little shit (with superhuman reflexes), he stuffs his hands in his pocket for added nonchalance, and nods.

She rolls her eyes and throws.

It’s an awful shot, and he shouldn’t be able to catch it. But he’s Spider-Man, so, he leans a little and he does.

“No fucking way.”

“And the crowd! Goes! Wild!” He cheers, running down the aisle with one hand out like the bags of chips are giving him high-fives in rapid succession.

“How did you do that?” She scrunches her eyebrows together, skeptical, “How did I throw that?”

“And they said it couldn’t be done,” he shrugs, slowing to a stride up to the counter.

“I hate you,” she grumbles and shoves the rest of the handful of small crackers into her mouth, “You’re the most annoying kind of person.”

She speaks through gritted teeth and a little pout, and Peter finds it hard to keep his eyes from turning into hearts on sight.

“I hate you,” she repeats, less convincing than before when he stands in front of her, and Peter finds it even harder not to spit an I love you right back (See? He’s trying really hard to keep the world’s worst kept secret. Really hard.)

“You don’t,” he corrects.

“I don’t,” she concedes, “And it’s all your fault.”

“I take full responsibility,” he throws his hands up in surrender.

“You have the most insane coordination I’ve ever seen,” she says, “And for someone who spends all his free time eating candy with me I cannot figure out how this is possible.”

“Magic?”

“Witchcraft?”

“Voodoo?”

“Superpowers?”

“Something like that,” he snickers at her suggestion.

“It’s too bad,” she hums. Her eyes flit down for the briefest of seconds, and Peter feels her leg swing up and around the back of his thigh, pulling his body flush against hers, “I had a really terrible consequence for when you missed it.”

“Oh really?” He breathes quickly, her words hot against his face.

She bites her bottom lip and nods.

“If you threw one at me right now I promise I would not be able to catch it.”

One Goldfish drops out of her hand and to the floor behind him, and is replaced with a lock of his hair quickly.

He ‘misses’ a lot that night.

And his secret crush lives to see another day.

The next time he seriously considers spilling is a Thursday night in the middle of April. He met her for dinner (like a whole ass date) and is walking her to her shift at the store at 8:30.

She’d seemed off since he met her that day, a little quieter than usual, and at first he had attributed it to being hungry (hangry is my most valid emotion, Peter, she had chided, I show no mercy, not even if you do that cute thing with your smile so don’t even try.) But she’d only gotten paler as the night went on, and didn’t even make fun of his Camp Rock reference, so Peter knows something is seriously wrong.

“Chelle, do you feel okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she waves, walking up the sidewalk next to him, “I’m tired, but Thursday nights are slow so I’ll probably just nap behind the counter for most pf the shift.”

“Alone, with no one in there?”

“I’m a big girl, I’ll be okay,” she shrugs, and it takes too long for tilted head to return upright, “I was a blackbelt in middle school.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Shouldn’t,” she says, “I’ll kiss your ass, Parker.” Her mouth pops into an exaggerated ‘o’ and she flaps a hand over it, “I meant kick. But I will kiss you too.”

“Thanks,” he says, looping an arm through hers, “I think you might be getting sick.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

“That was cute,” she hums, and the hand on her cheek slides to her forehead, “Okay, you might be right.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“Not often.”

“You’re right.”

“Sounds more like it,” she laughs, “I thought you were looking at me like that in the restaurant because I looked pretty, but I realize it was probably because I didn’t take my winter coat off the entire meal.”

“It was a little odd, yeah,” he wraps an arm around said winter coat (it was a cold April, yes, but not that cold), “But I did still think you look very pretty.”

They pause outside the back door of the small convenience store, and Michelle leans up against the brick wall.

“I have to work though, I don’t have anyone to cover my shift.”

“You’re sick.”

“Not confirmed,” she points.

Peter leans up into her space, presses his forehead against hers, “You have a fever, confirmed.”

“I don’t think this is medically sound,” she whispers on his cheek, her eyes up on their foreheads.

“Are you kidding? This is what all the doctors do,” he runs his hands down her sides, warming up her fever chills and linking his fingers between hers.

“Stop it,” she giggles, “I’m gonna get you sick.”

“You won’t.”

“I will,” she nods, and the motion moves Peter to nod with her, “And if you’re sick you can’t hang out with me at work and then I’ll hate you.”

“You won’t,” he corrects.

“I won’t,” she concedes, “And it’s all your fault.”

“I take full responsibility.”

Her nose scrunches in a squinty smile that he echoes, “See,” she says, like she wants to yell it, but they’re so close its more of a breath, “You’re doing that thing with your smile.”

“What thing?” He says, and quirks his head and scrunches his smile a little more.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

He kisses her nose and dips to repeat the motion on her mouth, but she stops him with a finger, “You’re gonna get sick.”

“I promise, I’ll be fine,” he says, “Even if I get sick, I’ll be better super fast.”

“What is this, another superpower?”

“Sure,” he nods, because its true, even if she reads it like less of the truth and more of an extended metaphor, “So can I kiss you and then call someone to take over your shift?”

“And walk me home?”

And after he pulls her phone out of her pocket and texts her manager for her, and they’re sitting on the ground behind the store and waiting for an answer, she pulls his face back to hers and tells him he should really give up college and just be a doctor instead. (I think you saved my life, she giggles, we should get you on Dr. Oz, you’re the Fever Whisperer.)

So there’s another night down that he flirts around his two secrets. Its dangerously close, but on round three there’s not really a way to avoid it.

He had just gotten into a bit of an altercation (read: massively physical beating) with a gang a few blocks off campus and the speed healing he promised was taking a bit longer than usual to kick in.

He was at an impasse: He probably wasn’t going to be able to get the suit off before getting into a building thanks to sticky amounts of blood and some pretty significant bruises. Climbing up the window into his 7th floor dorm room is usually not a difficult task, but it felt like scaling the Empire State building at his current capacity. So, he had two thoughts.

The first— hope it was late enough at night that the lobby of his dorm building was empty enough, get into the elevator and down his hallway without anyone seeing.

The second— limp two blocks from the scene of the crime to the convenience store for some ice and Tylenol. And maybe a band-aid or two.

Someone was going to find out tonight. The choice was between several groups of people living in his hall, or the one convenience store employee he’d been hooking up with and harboring (very poorly hidden) feelings for.

He limps two blocks.

It requires a strength similar to the feeling of not passing out every time Michelle smiles at him to knock on the store’s back entrance door when he arrives.

She probably doesn’t hear him, and he doesn’t blame her for not answering the knock even if she does. There are bad guys out there (he wishes he didn’t have to find out the hard way, but you know, power and responsibility and whatnot). He slides his phone out from the small pocket cling and texts her that he’s outside the back door.

She sends back something Peter doesn’t feel like sharing with anyone but his own eyes.

The door swings open about a minute later, and Michelle shrieks with a jump back when she spots him leaning on arm on the wall beside it.

“Oh, my god, so sorry, sir, man, Spider-Man,” she mumbles, flustered, “I didn’t mean to— I was just waiting for someone.”

“Yeah, same,” he chokes, a heavy something caught in his throat, then pulls the mask off from the top.

Her eyes shoot open winder than he remembers them on the first night he met her. She stares for a minute, and like, he doesn’t blame her. She’s reacting in a much subtler way than most of the people he’s told have reacted. But the reaction timeline is a real buzzkill on the injuries at the moment. Real dagger in the side.

She blinks once. Twice. Reaches one slow hand out and taps it on his shoulder once. Twice. Like the touch burns, or the touch says too much, floods her senses and her brain can’t process it all. He knows the feeling. (Its when she kisses him once. Twice. That’s quite possibly the most overwhelming thing to ever happen to him. And its happened more than once. Twice.)

“Peter?”

“Hi.”

“You need a doctor,” she says, chin tilted down and forehead creased with worry.

“If I recall correctly, just a few days ago you said I’d make a great doctor.”

“For fevers, Peter,” she yells in harsh whisper, “This is not a fever.”

“I have superpowers, remember?” He tries to shrug and smile in the way he knows she likes, but it comes off more like a flinch and wince in pain, “I just need some ice before the powers kick in.”

She nods him in and makes him wait in the small bay between the storefront and the back alleyway, where there’s only one lightbulb with power and two broken storage shelves, and most importantly, a limited line of sight between its location and anyone on the outside. He slumps and sits on the floor while she runs to get some things.

She returns with a small plastic basket full of items (I do not have superpowers, she chided) and starts by asking how to best get the suit off so she can put him in the t-shirt and sweatpants she keeps in her backpack for wearing in the art studio.

He instructs her to press the spider symbol in the center of the suit, but it takes some coaxing to get fully off due to the spots of blood that makes it stick and splay over his muscles.

(This should have been hint number one, she says, no way you eat Doritos and are this jacked)

(You’re with me for my body, he bites, I knew it.)

(I wasn’t, she sings, but now I might have to be.)

She slides her shirt over his head and it smells like old sketchbook pages and sharpie. Bright spots of dried paint cover the fabric, and following the patterns makes him forget the throbbing pain in his limbs for a while.

She leaves him to pull the rest of the suit down and switch into sweatpants while she grabs something for the bruises on his left hand and right abdomen.

When she returns, she holds bags of frozen peas and duct tape.

“I didn’t know you guys even sold those,” he says, “Why do you guys sell those?”

“No one buys them,” she squats down to meet him, eye level, “That’s why I don’t feel bad about using them to heal my superhero’s battle wounds without paying.”

“You can put them on my tab.”

She laughs, and it feels like soothing medicine on his skin, “I’m glad you didn’t forget I’m still waiting to break that Benjamin.”

“A deal’s a deal,” he says, “I owe you.”

She lifts his shirt up on his right side and presses the bag of frozen vegetables on the purpling bruise, “For the Doritos and Gatorade,” she eyes him, “Not for this.”

He places his hands over hers on the bag right before she slips her fingers out and goes to grab the duct tape.

“What do you have planned, Dr. Jones?”

“I’m going to attach that bag to you so that we don’t have to keep holding it, and can put your hands to better use around here,” she squints at the duct tape as she pulls, her arms stretched out to length, then rips the piece off with her teeth (will you judge him if he says its hot, because it objectively is?). “I saw Bradley Cooper do it in A Star is Born so it has to work.”

“Bradley Cooper went to Georgetown so he’s very smart,” he leans up and off the wall so she can wrap the duct tape around him, on top of the shirt, “Must be medically sound.”

“Obviously,” she says, and sits back, examining her work, “But I go to Harvard so I’ll probably come up with something even better, once I stop hyper fixating on the fact I’ve been making out with Spider-man for four months.”

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “I should have told you sooner.”

“I wish you had waited,” she nods, “Would have felt very good to figure it out on my own and then have something to hang over your head to solicit more kisses.”

“Well, you go to Harvard, not Georgetown, so I’m sure you would have figured it out.”

She tucks her knees under her chin and tilts her head to one side, looking at him, “This is crazy.”

“It is.”

“You’re a dork.”

“I am.”

“You’ve saved the world.”

“That might be too generous.”

“You eat Red Vines,” she says, like this is the most shocking revelation she’s had all night, “You could probably make bank on an endorsement deal with the company.”

“But you’d never associate with me ever again,” he says.

“You’re right,” she shakes her head, “You should do Doritos instead.”

“Deal.”

A silence washes over them, crowded in the tiny hallway by the backdoor of the convenience store, the lights very dim but each very aware of the other’s presence.

“I’m still sorry about the whole thing,” he says, shyly, “You’re more important than just being someplace I go as a last resort,” he plays with he hem of his duct taped shirt, “And if you want to say you hate me, which is totally valid and probably cathartic, I will not correct you.”

“I don’t hate you,” she says, even quieter than he spoke.

“You don’t?”

She shakes her head, “I don’t,” she slides one hand towards him on the floor between where they sit, “And it’s all your fault.”

She does put his hands to good use that night, tracing patterns up and down her arms, across her stomach, knotting her hair where she lays with her head in his lap and listens to him talk about his superpowers.

“You know,” she whispers, the mood light and room dark, a flashing neon light somewhere behind her that illuminates the smile she casts, “I have a secret identity, too.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” she smiles, “My friends call me MJ.”

Rule #5: In the words of his oddly encouraging Chemistry TA from freshman year, ‘Cs get degrees’.

Rule #5b: In the words of a much more encouraging Michelle Jones, ‘The possibility of getting Cs on the finals I just took gets you hickeys’.

Rule #5c: But don’t quote her on that.

Peter likes to think he’s a good study buddy. He likes reading flashcards and the sound of shuffling them all together again for a round two quizzing. He believes he can be very positive when he needs to be, and he usually supplies homemade cookies May sends him, during finals season especially.

MJ is a good study buddy. She has proven that to him often. She likes when he brings his backpack on a late night and she messes with stacks of pennies by the register while he tries to do problem sets, or attempts to read more for his lit class until she ends up taking the book and reading it instead.

They’re quiet nights. And they’re nice.

Only, MJ doesn’t seem to ever want to give Peter a chance to prove his study buddy skills. He always asks her about her classes. She gives tight lipped responses. It’s junior year, classes are hard, he knows, so he doesn’t press. But she doesn’t bring up any sort of school work. Whenever they’re together, she isn’t doing any sort of schoolwork that isn’t his. Its weird. He wants to be her good study buddy.

When finals come to, he doesn’t visit her as much. She cannot take his literature exam for him, so he buckles down and reads (more accurately, Sparknotes), what he’s supposed to have read the entire semester. He wishes her luck and offers to help in anyway he can, but she just deflects and tells him she’s proud he learned what a literary metaphor was. (He knew what a metaphor was before Michelle Jones, he clarifies, for his own dignity, she was just easier to pay attention to than his crusty professor.)

Peter only takes slight offense to being neglected and shunned in the face of final exams. And all offense goes away completely on the night of her last final, the day before his flight home to Queens for the summer.

He texts her his standard good luck about an hour after he realizes her exam has probably finished. He sends the message anyway because it’ll probably make her laugh and his study buddy skills that he cannot use also include The Aftermath(TM).

Minutes drag on, and he stuffs t-shirts and random room items into a large carry on, folds his bedding haphazardly into a box for the campus storage unit, finds too many misplaced socks at the back end of his bed. She doesn’t answer him. Not after a minute, not after thirty, not after seventy-five or eighty or 120 or even 180. The sky has blackened and it is getting dangerously close to the point Peter crashes onto his bed and sleeps until he almost misses his flight.

room 715 right?

The text light up his screen and crawls out from the space he’d been collecting forgotten pens from under his desk to grab it and read. He quickly texts back a yes (he’s not that desperate, he swears), and hears a loud knock on his door seconds after.

He’s wearing old black sweatpants, he has very bad post-mask hair, and has on her old paint-splattered t-shirt because he’s not that desperate but he’s getting there. He pulls the door open and this is the image she gets.

Michelle stands in front of him, phone in one hand, her backpack slung over one shoulder, “I don’t really know what alcohol does to your spider body, but I really need to get drunk and you’re the only one that sounds fun with right about now.”

He lets her in.

“These are very cheap and awful wine coolers from my store,” she dumps her bags contents onto his unmade bed, “But I will drink half of them to forget.”

“To forget…”

“Just to forget,” she shakes her head, and tries to open one bottle, is unsuccessful, so she pouts and sticks a hand out to him, “Super strength, please.”

“I told you you’d use me for my body,” he jokes, but opens the bottle with ease, “I don’t really drink much but I can try if it would make you feel better not to drink alone.”

“I knew this was the right place to come,” she tips her head back and takes a long gulp, “My US political systems professor was a real prick and a half, you know?”

“I did not know.”

“And my art history exam was a bitch,” she purses her lips an finds a comfortable spot on his bed, “Just like you when I ask you to come to the store and you can’t because you’re too busy being a good person and saving kittens from trees.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Michelle,” he laughs, sitting in the chair at his desk across from her.

He wasn’t excepting to be so overwhelmed by this sight. MJ in his bedroom for the first time ever, on his bed, no less, a scary wonderful fire in her eyes.

But he is. Overwhelmed. Severely.

“I’m sorry,” she sobers, “It’s been an awful week and I tired not to let it get to you because you’re the one not awful thing I have.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I can take awful.”

“Really?” Her eyes soften, “Because I really need to talk through about 27 other things I hated about Professor Stein’s exam.”

So she does, and he listens, encourages her when needed like the study buddy he was prepped to be. He knocks back a few more wine coolers, and he’s not sure how buzzed he’s getting off of his but he enjoys the tacky taste so he continues. His head swims at the thought of having to sleep on sheets MJ has sat on and feels blessed he’ll only have to do it one night. He might not make it past another.

“It sucks that you had such a rough semester. You should have told me weeks ago!”

“I could have, but then I would lose all my authority as the smart one in this relationship.”

“Hey!” She tosses a pillow at his head when he pouts, but he catches it before impact, “Your asshole of a professor should not determine your worth.”

“Still an asshole,” she hums, “And I don’t think telling you would change that.”

“I’m great at studying.” He defends, and she scoffs loudly, “Don’t think I can handle some American literature?”

“No, I just decided to save that for all my other boyfriends,” she giggles.

“What do they have that I don’t have?”

“A brain.”

“Oh really?”

“Very smart, snobby, Harvard boys, great for all my academic woes. I have three of them,” she continues to laugh, “Though they don’t have a seat in Book Club.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah, I reserve that for all my MIT boyfriends.”

“I’m not even going to pretend like I could get multiple other girlfriends if I tried.”

“And that’s why you’re allowed in Book Club!”

The night drifts on in a happy little bubble. He likes spending time with MJ outside of the store, and its a nice reminder that this is kind of real. After being mildly concerned at how quickly she knew his room number (You mentioned it a few weeks ago, she said, and I don’t delete your messages.) (Don’t read into that, she added, when Peter smirked.) (But he very much read into it, of course.), conversation flowed easily.

And maybe he likes not being a study buddy. This feels a whole lot better.

“I definitely got a C.”

“You didn’t get a C,” Peter soothes, “You’re Michelle mother fucking Jones.”

“I need you to curse more often,” she gulps, “For scientific and biological reasons.”

He laughs, watching the weight of her stresses leave her shoulders, and she flops her head back onto his pillow.

“If it helps, Cs get degrees.”

“Yeah, but not jobs.”

“Debatable.”

She doesn’t move for a minute, her breaths shallow and even, so Peter stands from his chair and crosses to where she lays on the bed. He tilts down at her, and she smiles, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too.”

“Are we drunk?”

“Probably.”

“So I shouldn’t kiss you?”

“Probably.”

“Would you stop me?”

“Probably not.”

“Can I find out?”

“Sure.”

She sits up quickly and her hands find his neck quicker, her mouth working the quickest. She laces her lips around his, like they were finding their way home after a long time gone. It feels right, and good, and he’s losing his grip both on reality and his spot leaning over the bed as she plays with his lips in her own, hot and breathless.

“Hello,” she giggles, like she’s seeing him for the first time, her forehead against his, then it drops to his cheek.

“Hi there.”

“Can you say I’m Michelle mother fucking Jones again?”

“That’s what does it for you?’

“It’s hot!”

“Michelle mother fucking Jones,” he whispers, his mouth just above her ear, “You should bomb tests more often.”

She tugs him up by the collar of his shirt, but doesn’t make a move to open her eyes, “I thought you said I didn’t bomb it.”

“Well, I’m bombing whatever is happening right now,” he laughs, her fingers tracing his collar bones and making it hard to speak, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“No brain up there,” she laughs and presses a hand through his floppy curls, then lets it fall onto the mattress next to her, signaling him to join her. He moves swiftly, and she doesn’t waste time twisting her chest flush against his, “Did we not cover this in Book Club?”

“I don’t think we did.”

She kisses down his jaw, her right hand splayed across his waist just above the seam of his sweatpants. This is a whole new level of sensory overload for Peter. She’s hot and soft all over his body, her legs straddled by his hips and lips nipping at the skin under his jaw, down his neck. The biting sends something low from his throat, a hot moan that slips from his lips and into her hair that he tugs at.

“What was it that you said? Cs get degrees?” she says, almost pants, flipping up from a particularly heated suck, and it sends all the heat in Peter’s body rushing in one direction, “Because I think I need to amend that statement to Cs get hickeys. That one is probably going to leave a mark. Apologies in advance.”

And this situation is not funny in the slightest, but the comment is so Michelle that it tickles down his spine and he tosses his head back against the headboard laughing. She laughs with him, her eyes squinted shut and her front tooth sticking out in her smile.

“It’s okay, I’m going home tomorrow and a hickey might give me street cred with my nerd friends.”

This sends her into another fit of laughter, his hands slotting into the curve of her lower back to pull her closer to him again, “Street cred? You trying to impress somebody?”

“Yeah, I am actually,” he crowds her face again, kissing soft, languid kisses on her reddening lips, “There’s this girl, really beautiful. Nice hair. Is gonna ace all her finals and get a fancy job. So that my Cs will probably make me her trophy wife. She’s also beautiful, if I haven’t mentioned it.”

“Are you… trying to flirt with me?” She scoffs, nose nudged against his cheek, “While I’m literally making out with you in your bed?”

“Is it working?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Go right ahead.”

Rule #6: She likes you.

Rule #6b: This is literal. You should not text ‘u’ when you mean the word ‘you’.

Rule #6c: Unless she likes you in the less literal sense as well.

Rule #6d: But even in that case you should still text grammatically correct.

Rules feel different once summer settles in. The Relationship That Is Not is all fun and games until it really is not anymore.

Peter goes back to New York for the summer before his Senior Fall, but MJ stays in Massachusetts. Turns out Cs may get degrees, but As (of which she got three) get fancy paid internships. She takes two art classes in her spare time so that she can tack on an art minor when she graduates and is Peter allowed to feel proud? Because he feels it extremely.

He hates that he is several thousand feet in the air when she shares the news and several hundred miles away when she wants to celebrate.

So the thing is, sitting here, in his small bedroom in Queens, that rules are different. Back at the start of the year, Peter was convinced texting was his love language. He was just dorky enough to not sound like a douche but had enough of a gap in reaction time to not embarrass himself. But then he got better at just being with her, and there was all the touching and flirting and kissing (so much kissing), and texting just didn’t seem like enough any more. Not accurate. And so the roles reversed. If he messed up in text, it was easy enough to run into her and say something charming and kiss her blush away that she’d forget it.

But this? He was fully exposed. There was no cover-up. Gaps between texts were large and guarded like medieval moats. If he fell in, there was no physical way out.

Its a lot of nonsense, Ned assures him, he’s making up a lot of stuff out of nothing (its texting dude, Ned chuckles, she probably just wants a dick pic). But now he knows she saves every one of his stupid messages… and there was that comment about the three Harvard boyfriends.

He has this internal battle at least twice a day. His conversational skills take a hit. And the texting between them slows down substantially.

She’s a really pretty, intelligent girl spending a summer with expensive employers and cool art students. And Peter is doing a load of laundry and waiting for the pizza delivery guy.

He wouldn’t blame her if she just dropped him altogether. In the past week he’s counted three conversations of any substance, and one was just to ask if he remembered what her Netflix password was because her laptop logged her out and she knew he had a good memory. (And he didn’t remember, so, conversation died fast.)

It feels like one of those painful fading outs that no one initiates and doesn’t realize it’s happening until it’s happened. Like when you graduate high school and make a bunch of promises to keep in touch with all the friends you swear you’d never be able to live without and then by Christmas you barely recognize them and just keep them around for the occasional Instagram like.

That’s what Peter is now. A like.

June trudges on and he doesn’t freak out any less day by day. He’s sure once July hits he’s a goner.

Ned asks whats the worst that could possibly happen? (She met a French exchange student in her figure drawing class and they fell in love working on their nude sketches and he has a really nice, expensive futon in his studio apartment with a waterfront view and when they wake up they paint with each other and dance to classical piano while drinking coffee and eating his homemade croissants.) (That’s the worst that could happen, Ned.) (Not that I’ve thought about it at all, hypothetically.)

August peers into view and Peter starts re-packing for his final year of college. May fusses over each t-shirt and Tide pod and only cries three times in the first day, so it’s progress over the last three times they’ve done this.

She cleans up the table and sends him to his room to do socks because she’s emotionally spent for the night and thinks that might be something he can handle on his own.

It is 9:47 when his phone lights up with a call, and it’s embarrassing how quickly he picks up.

“MJ?”

“I like you.”

Pause. Rewind.

“What? Where are you?” He thinks he heard her but he’s trying not to get his hopes up and is going to blame the blaring music in the background on faulting what he’s heard.

“I like you!” She repeats, louder, “Y-o-u. And I don’t like when you text me with just a ‘u’ instead.”

“I don’t—“

“May 14th, ‘Are you, y-o-u, sure that you, just u, don’t want anything?” She huffs, “Why did you switch the way you type the word ‘you’ mid-text? It’s been really bothering me.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve had a lot to drink,” she giggles, “Art major was throwing a party and I got bored of sitting alone in my room rereading your texts and I’m too weak to ask you to send me new ones. So I am at the party.”

Peter tap his foot quickly on the base of his bed, shuffles the phone between ears, “My texts?”

“I miss you, y-o-u,” she coos into the phone, her voice lilting at the end, “And I don’t know why you aren’t texting me.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” he says softly.

“That’s a stupid reason,” she balks, then mumbles something to someone at the party, her voice mumbled from the phone being pulled from her ear, “You’re very far away and I knew you were only with me for my body,” she laughs, “That’s your line but I’m stealing it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is your line!”

“No, I mean, I’m not with you for your body.”

“You don’t like my body?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant—“

“I’m kidding,” she whispers, and Peter never expected MJ to be such a giggly drunk, “I didn’t realize that you not being at MIT meant you couldn’t be my MIT boyfriend.”

“I can be your MIT boyfriend whenever you want,” he smiles, “I swear, I just really thought you were over me.”

“I’m not.”

“Texting you makes me nervous,” he says, “Especially now that I know you’re the grammar police.”

“Take that Spider-Man!” She yells, then Peter hears one of her hands clap over her mouth. She mumbles, “Oh no, I just gave it away.”

“It’s okay,” he smiles fondly. Her worry is embarrassingly endearing to him.

“No, no, no, this is bad,” she rushes, “Will I go to jail?”

“We can be cell mates, for my texting violation.”

And god, the things this laugh does to him, it should double her sentence.

“Can you text me again?” She coos, soft and sweet.

“Of course.”

“Right now.”

“But I’m on the phone.”

“Hang up with them.”

“I’m on the phone with you, Chelle.”

“Oh,” she gasps lightly, “I wish you were here.”

“Me too.”

He hears her breaths, long and steady and even through the phone. “Are you going to hang up with me now?”

“Oh, you meant—okay,” he pulls the phone from his ear and presses the small red circle. Opens up his messages and types something quickly.

I like y-o-u MJ

He calls her back after a minute passes.

“Really, really?” She asks as soon as she picks up his call.

“Really, really.”

She doesn’t text him back until close to noon the next day, complains of the worst headache of her life, and makes Peter promise not to use this against her.

I love drunk MJ, he writes quickly.

Do you love not-drunk MJ too?, the message floats up on his screen, and he hates that he ever said anything bad about texting.

y-e-s

Rule #7: There are three dimes and one penny in 31 cents.

He is a flurry of texts after that, and he’s literally counting down the minutes until he’s back in Cambridge and can resume his title of MIT boyfriend.

May makes fun of him the entire drive up.

He has too much stuff for his small, off-campus apartment to fit in a suitcase for the plane, so they make the trip in May’s questionable car. He sends mile-by-mile updates.

When they arrive in the state, it feels like something clicked back into place, right in his chest.

And May doesn’t miss the way his body literally sinks into the passenger seat when he comes to this realization, and she is relentless. (Its just so cute, she yelps, I wanna meet her, can I meet her?) (Eyes on the road, May, his cheeks flush.)

MJ has kept her job at the convenience store all summer, and maybe its hit MIT boyfriend showing, but he thinks she’s just the most spectacular cashier he’s ever seen.

You’re damn right I am, she had boasted one afternoon, you couldn’t even touch my barcode game, Parker. And he had originally defended his honor, but on the night he gets back to his favorite spot behind the counter, he learns just how bad his barcode game really is.

“Just go.”

“What?” Peter turns and looks over the large, King-sized hotel room bed he and May sit on after a day of unpacking his things. They’re watching reruns of Pretty Little Liars and have discarded a take-out pizza in the corner of the room.

“Go get your girl,” she smiles, “I know you don’t really want to be watching bad TV with your aunt right now.”

“What do you mean? I’m very invested in the future of Emily’s swim career right now,” he points to the screen, “And I’m getting vibes from that Mya girl.”

“Vibes?”

“They’re gonna hook up!”

“Get out of here, Peter,” she pushes him by the shoulder and one leg catches his weight off the bed, “I’m good, I’ll text you in the morning.”

“Thanks, May.” He busies himself with his shoe laces and throws on a sweatshirt quickly.

“Oh, and, I put some condoms under the sink in your bathroom—“

“May!” He covers his ears with both hands and runs around to the side of the room to pick up his phone and wallet.

“I couldn’t be discreet enough to put them someplace more convenient, but I really don’t want the medical bills for an STD, or grandkids before I even meet the poor girl—“

“I’m leaving.”

“I love you!”

He drops his hands and blows a kiss before slamming the door behind him.

The walk to the convenience store I practiced, quick, a feeling not unlike walking home. He has the sidewalk outside it’s bright flickering lights memorized, crack by crack of pavement, and he smiles at the faded slushy advertisement like its an old friend.

“Excuse me, what aisle can I find Red Vines in?”

Peter watches her slumped over the small counter, and when she suddenly hears his voice, he thinks she must have that similar feeling of finding her way home.

She stutters something unrecognizable, her hair bouncing over her shoulder and she slides over the counter and runs for his arms, “You bitch, you didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“Are you not gonna show me the Red Vines?” He says, a smug smile that melts into something sweeter at the feel of her, “Terrible service here, expect a merciless Yelp review.”

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head, “I literally don’t care.” She links her fingers together behind his back as she hugs him tight, her voice muffled into the shoulder of his shirt when she tries to speak again, “So, you’re like, back for good?”

He nods, his chin pressing into the space between her neck and shoulder, and feels her large and breathy exhale. The feeling rocks something electric through Peter’s body, lights up every one of his senses like the occasional super villain (and it is kind of evil, the pull she has over him, but he’ll let it slide).

“I’m mad I wasn’t warned about this reunion,” she says, “I thought you were still unpacking.”

“I think my Aunt felt bad for me,” he shifts their weight so he can look at her face again, “I was exhibiting symptoms of Red Vines withdrawals.”

“How convenient,” she says with a smirk, “We’re out and don’t restock until Thursday.”

“Oh shit,” he drops his head onto her forehead as she laughs, “Why am I even here?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” she says softly, before placing a neat kiss on the center of his lips.

“That might’ve been it,” he whispers into her mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Excellent service here,” he amends, and kisses her again.

It doesn’t take long for their pace to surpass the unbearable August heat. Her hands roam and cling to cool skin down his back, behind his neck, and her tongue traces around his like she needs to be reminded what it feels like. She’s slick against his entire body, the pressure sending them stumbling back until her back presses against the counter and she’s shimmying up onto the ledge for leverage.

“You have a lot of summer to make up for, Parker,” her voice is breathy, dreamy, sends Peter tumbling over into heat that heatwaves would be jealous of.

“I intend to do just that,” he says, “But I have an empty apartment, 6 blocks away.”

“And?” She puzzles, brows squinted up like she’s wondering why he’s wasting air to state facts instead of kissing.

“And I think I’d be a lot better at making it up to you in a place that doesn’t have coffee stains on the floor and soft rock music on loop.”

“Can’t wait,” she pants over his lips, pulls him back into her hypnotic kisses.

“You can’t wait? How long’s it been?”

“102 days,” she says quickly, “Not like I’ve been counting.”

Peter isn’t expecting this to shock him as much as it does, he knows they’re like, a thing once the end of August hits. But hearing she might be as far gone as he is?

“No other guys, this whole summer?” he asks lightly.

She shakes her head, her nose bumping back and forth against his, “No guys, no one that eats Red Vines,” she laughs, “But I did get one tempting inter-galactic offer from another superhero.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I let him down gently and dumped all my Harvard boyfriends today,” she whispers jovially, “They don’t know how to kiss like my MIT boyfriend.”

“You think I’m a good kisser?”

“When you’re actually kissing me, yeah, but you’re not doing that, so...”

“Right, my bad,” and he dives in, head first, and feels little need to come up for air.

She wraps her legs around his waist and her lips feel desperate, pulling his once, twice—

“Should I kiss you 102 times tonight?”

“I’m not going to count but I appreciate that attitude.”

He loses count, but the attitude stays, when she rocks her hicks up against his, pushing herself closer and closer and he can’t breathe, drops his head to her shoulder and lets her take over the kissing count.

His fingers are busy with the bottom hem of her shirt and her mouth is busy with the slant of his jaw and he’s so, so glad the store isn’t busy at all. She pushes his tentative hand up and under the shirt and it sends something other-worldly from her throat.

“Chelle, we should just really wait til the end of your shift—“

“Can’t,” she says, curtly, unwrapping her legs and twisting to the other side of the counter, “Don’t look at me like it’s my fault when you’re the one who ambushed me here.”

“I didn’t know this is the reaction I’d get!” he yelps, but follows her around to the backside of the counter anyway (he’s a goner, really, so deep he’s discovered a new layer of the earth.) “I thought this would be more wholesome, like I’d ask you to meet my Aunt at breakfast tomorrow over a bag of Doritos.”

She jerks her head up, eyes bright and smile quirked, “You want me to meet your Aunt?”

“Yeah,” he nods lamely, “I love you, don’t I?”

She likes that answer a lot, apparently, because her smile doesn’t fit on her face and she yanks him by the collar of his shirt down to the floor. He catches himself, hand on either side of her waist, leaning back slanted on the counter, and drops playful kisses on every nook and crevice of her face.

She laughs hot and flirty giggles in between them all, and they tickle his neck and make her hands grabby, quick, pulling. They find their favorite spot in his hair, and centers his kisses back on her lips, waiting be damned. He has no control here, absolutely none whatsoever. Head empty, literally no thoughts except for—

“Too many clothes,” she huffs, twisting against his chest, grinding her hips up to his.

“I agree, but—“

“So fix it, Spider-Man.”

Fuck it. Game over. His heart rate accelerates rapidly, all the heat in his body centers someplace low, his pupils are blown wide and he knows his lips are parted, panting, wild.

She’s his greatest fatal flaw. Truly. There’s no competition.

His hands steal movements across her chest, her breath hot in his ear with every touch as his fingers rise. Her own hands let go for just a second to let him pull her shirt over her head. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but it sends a burst of adrenaline that has him worried for his overall well-being. This could be how Peter Parker dies.

He wouldn’t complain.

Her kisses border on desperate, tasting every crevice of his mouth until he pulls down to kiss across the top of her chest, over her bra, down...

There’s a familiar bell chime behind them.

Peter’s head snaps up and meets MJ, eyes both wide and staring at each other. They are silent for a moment until—

“Oh my god,” she bursts into laughter, pulling Peter’s laughing form into the slot of her shoulder and her neck. His mirth vibrates her skin, sends them into further hysterics.

“I told you we should wait!”

“Your mouth was saying one thing but your mouth was saying another, Peter!” she whisper-yells, smile still bright.

“Why is someone here at 2am, on a Tuesday?”

“Maybe he wants Red Vines,” she giggles, “Time to test your cashier skills.”

“What?” he screeches, then remembers his place and lowers, “What do you mean, my cashier skills?”

“Well, I certainly can’t ring him up!” She gestures towards her bare chest.

“Just put your shirt back on!”

“Too late,” she shakes her head, “You’re dressed and my legs are Jell-O.”

“I have a boner,” is his lame attempt at rebuttal.

“That’s not unusual for you here,” she smirks cheekily, “You talk a big game, Parker, and this is the perfect chance for you to prove it.”

“I hate you,” he grumbles, rolling off of her and dusting himself off before starting to stand.

“Someone disagrees with that,” she points to his pants, and laughs into her elbow to muffle the sound when he stands fully.

Peter braces both hands on the counter and surveys the store. There is one man, tall, stocky, long white Santa Claus beard, in the aisle all the way to the left. Peter gives himself three deep breaths and imagines something awful and hopes his cheeks don’t resemble his Spider-Man suit too closely.

Within a minute, the customer walks up to the counter and drops a few items in front of Peter. Show time?

“Hey, how are you?” He starts, politely, flipping the bag of Fritos to look for the bar code.

“Doing well, yourself?”

MJ trails her fingers up his calf and Peter has to bite his tongue before answering, “Great, thanks.”

He hears her soft giggle and hopes the side-kick he sends doesn’t do too much damage.

“You a student in town?” the man asks Peter, as he keys in his pack of gum to the register.

“Yeah, I’m going to be a senior at MIT,” he nods.

“Oh, really? My son’s a senior at Harvard,” the man smiles, “Yeah, rough day though, because we were helping him move back, and his girlfriend just decided to dump him. I’m on damage control,” he points to the stack of junk food with a small laugh, and Peter drops the scanner right out of his hands.

“Oh I am so sorry,” Peter’s eyes blow wide and he bends down quickly to re-arm himself with the handheld scanner. When he’s down there Michelle’s face is priceless, kisses Peter square on the cheek just to be annoying, then swats him back to standing. “About your son,” Peter finishes, “I’m so sorry.”

The man waves him off, “I called it months ago, I think she was into someone else.”

Peter chokes as he finishes the list of items on the small computer, “Well, there’s no broken heart some Doritos can’t fix, right?”

“Exactly,” the man chuckles, “What’s the damage?”

“$7.69,” Peter says quickly. The man hands him a ten dollar bill.

He lifts a plastic black tab in the register drawer and slides the bill in, then works hard on the mental math.

But he’s got a very hot girl below him trying to mess him up with her delicate hands grabbing at every area hidden behind the countertop (it’s so, so bad, because so, so much is hidden) so sue him, for failing at how best to make change for $10 at the moment.

He starts with two singles, slides them across to the man, then attempts coins.

100-69=...

41? 31?

Dimes? A penny? Or a nickel? A quarter, a nickel and a penny?

He’s too far deep into his head and MJ is getting seriously close to his waistband with her hand so he grabs some coins of various values that he isn’t sure what they equal and just clatters them on the counter.

“Just keep the change, all the change,” he nods quickly, “For your son.”

The man is skeptical, head quirked and brows furrowed, and Peter doesn’t blame him, but looks at the pile of coins, takes 3 dimes and one penny (so that was the right combination), and tucks the receipt into his pocket.

“Thanks son, have a good night,” he nods out the door, a small wave to Peter, who all but collapses onto the weight of the counter.

“Yeah, uh, you too! Thanks,” he tapers off and knocks his forehead on the countertop.

The door chimes shut and all of Peter’s breath goes with it, the store’s peace returned to its normal bubble.

“Did you forget how to count to 30?”

“31,” he corrects, and slips back down into her lap.

“Now you know how impossible you made it for me when you wanted to pay for your Doritos with a hundred dollar bill.”

“Let it go,” he whines, dipping his head back towards hers.

“Never!” She yells and dives back in to even the playing field and strip him of his shirt as well.

“And I am never kissing you during store hours ever again,” he tries to resist her movements.

“Oh really?” she ghosts her lips over his earlobe, and sue him, for knowing and understanding he had absolutely no control in this situation.

“Okay, one more time, but then that’s it. I have a really nice single apartment and I wanna show it off to my Harvard girlfriend.”

He has no control, but maybe he doesn’t mind it.

Rule #8: If it were not already clear from the last rule, every penny counts.

It isn’t difficult to get back to hanging out at the convenience store between the hours of 9pm and 3am, but it is difficult to keep his no-kissing promise.

Senior year gets off to a good start and she does really like his tiny apartment space. She takes advantage of it considering she’s still got three nosy roommates and a shower that doesn’t work. But there’s still looming student debt and future adulting expenses (and current expenses, dining hall food still sucks) and the fact that he’s decided to take control of Peter’s horrendous shopping skills, so the job at the store is very much still necessary.

Only, when you spend most of your free time at a convenience store with very convenient access to anything a 21 going on 22 year old boy could possibly need (food, cheap beer, Red Vines, pretty girl), it takes a toll on your wallet.

He swings in through the back door after patrol one night, and quickly changes into a t-shirt and sweats before joining her in the front of the store and walking straight to the chip aisle.

“Do I not get a hello?”

“I’m hungry and I got an A on my presentation today so I feel like I deserve some Ruffles!” He tosses the red bag into one hand and runs up the aisle to meet her.

“That’ll be $1.49.”

“Seriously?”

She nods curtly and he smirks as he pops open the top of the bag, “It costs so much to like you.”

“I’m not the one feeding your body with added sugars and sodium,” she rolls her eyes, but dips one hand into his bag and eats a chip anyway.

“So now that’s 75 cents, right?”

“I had one chip!”

“Are you not going to eat another?”

“I’ll Venmo you a cent.”

“I appreciate it,” he smirks and moves to sit up on the ledge of the counter, “You have a good day?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, tucking her chip on his shoulder from behind him, and taking another chip, “2 cents.”

He drops the side of his cheek to rest on the top of her head, and sighs contentedly. He gets a full breath of something strangely unsatisfying, not quite fruity but also not really peachy either.

He coughs, “Did you get new shampoo?”

“Why?” She quirks, smelling a lock of her hair, “Its some new pumpkin spice fall thing my roommate wanted to try.”

“Its awful!” Peter yells, and she hits his shoulder, “I’m sorry, that should be illegal.”

“I think it smells nice!” She defends, sitting back on her stool next to the register, and he turns to face her, his feet swinging out to criss cross with hers, “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about the scent of my shampoo.”

“I didn’t think I did either,” he coughs for effect again, and her scoff is loud and mean, “Was your roommate’s intention to be a cockblock?”

“Shut up.”

“There’s no way anyone uses that shampoo for any other reason but to turn people off.”

“You can get out of my store,” she says, but it’s laced with a smile and she wraps her foot around his ankle.

“We might have to continue this conversation with me sitting by the sodas, because the smell is just— it’s like burnt toast.“

“I bet you’d talk to me if I had Red Vines flavored shampoo.”

“Damn right I would,” he says, and just because he can, and her laugh counteracts every sour thing in the world, he backflips off the counter and springs to sit across the store, next to the sodas, “Alright, you were saying?”

The next hour or two of her shift is spent with Peter working on some of his physics homework, laying on the floor next to the bright ice cream section, and MJ paints her nails and sketches and holds up pictures of him that she does periodically (Is that me? he squints, With a pumpkin head?) (Pumpkin spice, baby, she spins on her tall stool and blows him a sweet kiss.)

He serenades her to some classic Journey songs that play on the radio at 2:37am and she holds her hands over her ears to stop his butchered version of “Can’t Fight This Feeling” at 2:42. She admits to missing him at 2:48 and he happily rejoins her at the counter.

“Time to pay up, Parker,” she says, one hand outstretched, “My shift is almost up and you have several outstanding fines.”

“Several?”

“$1.47 for chips, 99 cents for the can of Diet Coke, a lifetime of compensation for pumpkin spice harassment.”

“I’ll start with the compensation for pumpkin spice,” he hums, and leans across the counter, eyes shut and lips puckered.

She leans away quick, “No way, you have potato chip breath!”

“I do not!”

“Yeah, you do,” she nods, pressing a hand on his chest between them, “I’m not endorsing your terrible spending and eating habits any more than I already do.”

“I’m not that bad,” He pouts, “I work off every calorie before I get here.”

“Okay, Spidey,” she quirks her eyebrows up sarcastically, “I’m still not kissing you without minty fresh breath.”

Peter studies her face for a minute, watches every line that appears around her eyes when her smile creeps up, every golden fleck he must be imagining in her irises, the speed a flush creeps up her cheeks. She’s so beautiful it leaves him spent, just being in her presence.

He ducks one hand down and grabs something from the front side of the check-out counter.

her eyes flit down to follow the motion, then meet his again, “Gum?”

“Does wintergreen count as minty fresh?”

He opens the package slowly and pops one piece of gum into his mouth. She laughs as he chews for a moment, then makes her move to kiss him, finally, but he stops her this time.

“I can’t kiss someone without minty fresh breath, either,” he shrugs.

She leans in anyway, sips her tongue between his lips and steals the gum right from his mouth. Sitting back with a satisfied smile, Peter gawks at her, mouth slung open. She chews for a moment. Peter feels like passing out.

“We good?”

(On the walk home that night, his phone lights up with a blue notification that reads: Michelle Jones paid you $0.03.) (He’s so in love he has to count bricks on the side of his apartment building just to keep from yelling about it.)

Rule #9: Use all your spare time to create an entirely new language used solely for hyping her up.

Rule #9: Because seriously, sometimes the English language just doesn’t cut it.

Ned calls Peter on October 24th and says he and Betty can visit again on the weekend of Halloween. (Fantastic, he says through gritted teeth, does Betty have my costume picked out for me?)

He’s prepared to have a night similar to how he spends most of his holidays: slumped on his bed watching Netflix and avoiding social interaction. He’s got three good horror movies on his queue and knows the perfect place to get Halloween candy.

But Ned really wants to go out and works it out of Peter that he did get invited to a party but that doesn’t mean he wants to go.

“I think it would be fun, actually,” Michelle says, over a box of Cheez-its one night at the store when Peter brings it up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I like getting dressed up, I like parties,” she shrugs, “I like you.”

“Oh well, when you put it that way,” he rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious,” she says, and throws a Cheez-it at his open mouth, “I could show up some MIT kids.”

“Listen, I’m not the one who went around saying I have three other boyfriends when I had one perfectly good one kissing me at the moment.”

“Do you?” She asks, “Have three other boyfriends?”

“After this conversation I’m considering it.”

“Would they be interested in joining our couples costume?”

“We’re doing a couples costume?”

“It’ll be so fun,” she says, “We don’t go out much. We’re very lame.”

“I think we’re tons of fun.”

“We should go all out for our one night of being reckless, stupid college seniors,” he hums, dips to kiss his frown away, “And then we can go back to being a middle-aged couple.”

“Or,” he points, “We could go back to my place…”

She swats him off the counter but ends up in his bed anyway.

The week flies by and before Peter realizes it, he’s driving Betty and Ned to his apartment from the airport on October 30th, a few hours before the party.

His apartment is small, but he gives up his one bedroom to the couple and lets them settle in, only listens to three passive aggressive comments from Betty’s type A personality about his lack of decorating skills and/or cleaning ability. He orders them some pizza for dinner and waits in the living room for the delivery.

Only 10 minutes pass when there’s a knock on the door and he’s surprised it got here so fast, it usually takes closer to a half hour (dumb college freshmen working their first job in the city getting lost). He moves from the couch, grabs his wallet and opens the door.

“Michelle?”

“Some people really suck, you know?” MJ stands in his doorway, huffs and pushes past him and into the apartment.

Peter blinks and turns to face her, where she paces in front of his couch, “What—“

“I literally work in that shitty ass store whenever they ask me to, I drink unhealthy amounts of caffeine to stay awake at class just to cover people when they ask, but when I ask for one night off?” Her pace is determined and angry, her voice rising as Peter walks over tentatively.

“Slow down, what happened?”

“Monday night, at the end of my shift when Flash was taking over, I asked him if he could cover me on Friday, tonight, and he said sure,” she huffs loudly, shutting her eyes like it’ll give her strength, “But my manager sends out the schedule for this weekend, and what does it say? That I’m working from 9 until 6 am!”

“What?”

“Somehow, I not only didn’t get a cover for my shift, but I’m working half of Flash’s shift too!” She flops onto the side of the couch, her legs kicking, “Fucking Eugene decides to find his own party to go to tonight and not tell me.”

“What a dick,” Peter says.

“If he had at least had the courtesy to tell me, I might have been able to find someone else,” she throws her head back over the seats cushion, “But no one is available with 2 hours notice on the Friday night of Halloween.”

Peter crouches down, his knees knocked against her and his hands in her lap, “I’m really sorry.”

“I was really looking forward to being drunk and clingy and making hot MIT girls jealous.”

“I know you were,” he laughs lightly, “But it’s fine. We can be clingy in the store—“

“No, you’re going to that party,” she sits up and nods, “I finally get your lame ass out, you’re going out.”

“Chelle, I didn’t wanna go in the first place, what makes you think I’d wanna be there without you at all?”

“Because it would make my already awful night ten times worse if you didn’t get to reach your full dumb college frat douche dreams because of me,” she knots her fingers between his, adamant and determined, “You’re already dumb… Think of the potential.”

“I can’t third wheel the two lovebirds,” he whines.

“The drunker you are the less you’ll realize it!” She says, “And I want you to be really drunk because I think then you might finally send me sexy messages about how badly you want me like the gentleman you are.”

He bites his lips to stop his laugh, but she sees right through him. They’re silent as they look at one another, content for a moment, until Betty breaks the silence yelling “That looks so good on you, babe,” and they can hear it through the small bedroom walls. He lets out a small sigh, “You’re really gonna make me go with them?”

“You’re gonna have so much fun,” she insists, “And it’ll make the sex we have later so much better.”

“Where are we having sex? Thing 1 and 2 are holding hands all over my bed!”

“Holding hands? Who would ever do a gross thing like that?”

(She only lets go of his hand so he can go get the pizza. Then she holds it right back.)

Peter goes to the party because he has this thing where he constantly has to make Michelle the happiest person on earth. If him going to the party would do that… then he has to go.

The plans being so last minute made costumes difficult, but MJ loved a good play on words and thought she could deliver a strong devil costume with three days notice, so she decides they’re gonna go as ‘a deviled egg.’ (This way if we split up at any point we won’t look stupid, she had said, not that I plan on leaving you the entire night, but, I don’t wanna look stupid to the girls I meet in the bathroom.)

Peter leaves his apartment at 10 wearing a white t-shirt with a yellow circle cut from paper taped to his chest. He sends MJ a picture and her only response is that this text isn’t nearly drunk enough. He third wheels down the stairs, up the sidewalk, and in the Uber spectacularly. Ned and Betty are Danny and Sandy from Grease, and it doesn’t make the third wheeling sensation any better to be behind them dressed as an egg.

“I look ridiculous.”

“No you don’t,” Betty sends, and it’s so sweetly condescending Peter briefly feels like believing her, “And your hair looks really good. I’m so glad you’ve grown it out since the summer.”

“Thanks, Betty,” Peter grits.

“I didn’t think it would take a girl staying home to finally get you to go out, but I’m glad it did,” Ned claps Peter on the shoulder, “best Halloween since we got king-sized Hershey bars from the guy in apartment 335B.”

“Oh my god, remember that!” Peter laughs.

“I think trick-or-treating is actually a very unsafe tradition,” Betty says.

“Betty, you realize we’re about to go drink mysterious jungle juice with people we don’t know in a house that probably didn’t pass the health inspection…”

“You’re Spider-Man, right?” She huffs unsteadily, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

She takes the lead and opens the door to the crammed off-campus townhouse and leaves Peter wide-eyed and slack-jaw on the steps, facing Ned.

“You told her?”

“I panicked! It was a dire situation!”

“What could have possibly been that dire?!”

“She showed me her boobs!”

Peter loses them in the crowd of people pretty quickly. He spends some time talking to some guys in his major, gets compliments from a girl who lived in his freshman dorm building on his costume, offers to get her and her friends some drinks and when he realizes how that sounded panics and hides in the bathroom for 10 minutes. When he resurfaces, Betty’s on the social trail, making friends left and right, and Ned’s happy dancing, so he feels okay leaving them alone and slipping out to the back of the house to call MJ.

She doesn’t pick up. (Three more shots and maybe then i’ll consider it, she texts by way of answer, I love u nerd pls have some fun.)

He wants to send something back about how its impossible to have fun without her there, but is interrupted mid-type by Abe from his sophomore year Stats class telling him they’re all doing Tech department Tequila shots. And well, MJ wanted drunk? Peter knew how to deliver surprisingly well.

It is a fun party, he realizes, once he drinks enough to not think about having fun. Its all the people he’s seen himself grow up with over the past four years, turned him into a nerdy ass freshman who couldn’t grow facial hair into a guy that’s on how way to contributing to the American workforce. It hits him weirdly hard. (But not as hard as the tequila shots do.)

Ned is stoked that Peter is trashed, and Betty and all her babe-isms and correct opinions are so much more bearable when Peter has the limited ability to stop himself from correcting her. She laughs and they make a greasy egg sandwich and it is a ton of fun.

“I miss Michelle, though,” Peter pouts, repeats himself three times louder into Ned’s ear before it registered.

“So text her, isn’t that what she wanted?”

“No, she didn’t want me to miss her,” he slumps, his words slightly mushed together, “She wanted me to want her!”

“And you do?”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly, like this is a well-known, indisputable fact, “I always do.”

“So tell her,” Ned yells, “I don’t know why I’m the one giving relationship advice here.”

Peter laughs and fumbles for his phone in his pocket, types six messages and isn’t sure if he cannot figure out what to say to her, or just can’t read the letters properly.

“Should I just go tell her? That’s super romantic, right?”

“Totally,” Ned says seriously, “And bring her flowers, girls love flowers.”

“You’re so smart, dude.”

“I know,” Ned nods, his lips pursed together.

“You good here with Betty?”

“Yeah, man,” he starts his handshake with Peter with a clap of his hand, “Best Halloween ever!”

“Call me if you need help getting home!” Peter calls through the crowd of people as he pushes his way towards the door, “Or, call MJ, she’s more responsible.”

He rides a silent Uber back to his apartment, and gets halfway up the stairs to his floor before remembering MJ is at work. He runs down the stairs and follows his memorized route to the 24-hour convenience store.

The weather has chilled significantly as fall has blown in, and Peter regrets not grabbing a jacket while he made a pit stop home. He runs up to the store’s front door as soon as it is in sight.

“Peter?”

“I came to tell you how badly I wanted you!” He starts, no introduction, when he falls into the store and bounces on his feet at the sight of her smile, “But can I pee before I do that? I have to pee so bad.”

She covers her laugh with one hand and nods him away to the small employee restroom in the back. He’s back to her, still laughing, within the minute.

“You good?”

“I’m good,” he nods.

“How was the party?” She asks, already feeling the answer.

“So good, so fun,” Peter says quickly, finding his way towards the counter, “But it was missing one thing though.”

“Oh yeah? And what was that?”

“Natty Light.”

She spits a loud laugh that scrunches her nose and eyes and makes Peter fall ten times harder.

“You like Natty Light?”

“Yeah!”

“Hot take, Peter Parker,” she scoffs, “Natty Light is objectively disgusting.”

“You’re just jealous that I had fun at party.”

“So jealous,” she says.

“I actually really missed you though,” he says, slinking his arms across the countertop to wrap around her waist, “I think a guy was trying to hit on me.”

“I don’t blame him, you’re a hot ass egg.”

“Thank you,” he says, and it makes her do the scrunch face laugh again, “But it seriously would have been so much more fun with you there. Did you know I could dance?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Tequila shot Peter Parker can dance, MJ,” he says, and backs up from the counter to show her some of his moves.

She claps her hands over her mouth as watches and her giggles make the most beautiful harmony with the rapid pace of his heart, “Feels like I’m really there.”

And when she says it, something clicks inside Peter. “Oh my god,” he pauses, “You’re brilliant.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” she says, skeptically, “But why?”

“Give me like, two minutes,” he holds two hands out to her to signal for her to wait where she is, then runs down the first aisle. He spends a few minutes collecting items, dropping them off one by one in front of her on the counter as she looks on, confused.

“What are you—“

“If you cannot be at the party, we can make it feel like you’re there!” Peter yells, looking down at his collection like a kid on Christmas.

“First, music,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket, turns on Spotify and plays a generic party playlist on full volume.

“Now, drinks, I don’t want you getting fired for being drunk at work so I figured Mountain Dew is so terribly awful that it kind of simulates the feeling of vodka minus the alcohol.” He snaps open a bright green bottle and pours two red solo cups full.

“We’ve got mini beer pong, a game I just invented where you have to throw skittle into Tostitos Scoops,” he opens the blue bag and eats one chip as he explains.

“And to simulate the full frat boy experience,” he starts, then opens a travel-sized men’s cologne and spritzes a few times, “Frat boy smell.”

“Oh my god,” is all she gets out, looking up and down and around at the little party Peter’s throwing her in the middle of a convenience store at 2 in the morning. He doesn’t pull of douche frat boy very well. Even when he tries, mushy grand-gesture MIT boyfriend always makes a reappearance.

MJ looks like she might cry.

“You don’t like it?” Peter fusses, immediately worried, “You don’t have to dance with me, I swear.”

“I love it, you idiot,” she swipes her cheek on one shoulder and lets out a puff of a laugh, “You’re so sweet and thoughtful it makes me feel very drunk. And very bad for asking you to get drunk so you can validate me by texting me about how hot you think I am.”

“But you’re so hot,” Peter says, “Like so hot. Which speaking of,” he starts, “We need to complete this party by making you a Halloween costume.”

“Actually,” she sighs, “I had severe FOMO coming here before, so I have my costume in my backpack under the counter.

“Then why are you still sitting here?” He points to the back bathroom, “Go put it on!”

She giggles and kisses him on the cheek, “I love you, you know that right?”

He nods quickly before she ducks and grabs her backpack, runs off to go get changed.

Peter messes with Spotify playlists while he waits, attempts to set up his candy beer pong, and drinks half a bottle of water.

When she reemerges, Peter is so glad he’s put the water bottle down. A spit-take would have been very likely.

MJ has on the small devil horns headband, yes, but that is not the most evil part of her costume. No, what does it, is the short red slip dress the hugs across her curves. The silky material floats over her, a plunging neckline and thin straps. Peter’s always known she’s had a good inch or two on him height wise, but the way her legs look in black tights, he’s at a loss for words.

“MJ—“

“What do you think?” She shrugs her shoulders up, painfully unaware of how this is affecting him and genuinely looking for his wholesome opinion.

“MJ, I know you wanted a hot text tonight,” he starts, eyes her up and down gulps before speaking again, “But I don’t think anyone’s figured out a way for me to stress enough through a single text, or even in words of any form, just how badly I want— no, need you. Right now.”

Peter can hear her slight gasp across the room, the way her heartbeat picks up rapidly and her eyes flit down to his lips.

“That was so much better than anything I imagined,” she nods, biting her smile.

“Really?”

“Really, really,” she nods quicker, looks past him, turns to look behind herself, then smirks back at him, “Hey I know you’re very much a good guy, but how against it would you be if I suggested we do something very bad right now?”

“How bad are we talking?”

“Like… ‘change the sign on the door to say closed so no one comes in and we go hook up in the back closet’ bad?” She bites her lips into a thin line, squirms nervously in her spot a few feet from him, “And I hope my risking my job security stresses even a fraction of how badly I want you right now.”

He doesn’t think 7 minutes in heaven has been on a party itinerary since 8th grade, but at Peter’s makeshift convenience store Halloween party, the sentiment makes a welcomed reappearance.

Rule #10: Contrary to popular belief, mistletoe is actually not the way to go about kissing someone you love.

Rule #10b: Especially if this person is a firm believer that Christmas festivities shouldn’t start until at least December 1st.

Rule #10c: Because then mistletoes actually becomes the #1 cock-block.

Winters hit hard in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and this season is no different than Peter’s last three. It’s not easy to convince himself to get to the convenience store in weather that whips at his face and leaves his cheeks in a permanent state of blush. And his webs freeze quickly as temperatures drop and snowstorms start to roll through. But his lack of world-saving combined with his very nicely heated apartment and almost perfected puppy dog eyes leave him spending most nights with MJ circled up on his couch. And it’s not almost perfect, it just is.

She still has to work though, and he doesn’t take the title of ‘#1 MIT boyfriend’ lightly, so he does visit occasionally.

Its the weekend beforeThanksgiving break and MJ has texted him to help, extreme emergency at store, so he throws on a jacket and gets there as fast as he can.

“MJ? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No,” he hears her voice, but doesn’t see her, and panic sets in, he scans around the store and trying to pick up her heartbeat. She suddenly pops up from behind the counter with something silver and shiny wrapped around her neck, “My boss left me the box of Christmas stuff. I have to decorate.”

He recognizes it as tinsel, now that he can breathe, and hears some jingle bells clatter at her feet.

“Are you kidding? You used emergency for that?” He huffs and walks up to her, grabbing a string of rainbow lights.

“Yes,” she states, not seeing the problem, “We should not be decorating for Christmas in the middle of November.”

“MJ, stores have been selling Christmas stuff since August,” Peter says, “This is actually late.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she shoos at fly-away pieces of tinsel in her hair, “We should be allowed to get through Thanksgiving in peace before all elfin hell descends upon us.”

“You hate Christmas?” Peter asks, wide eyes, clutching the lights to his chest, “I can’t be with a person who hates Christmas.”

“I don’t hate Christmas itself, I hate just about everything else about the season though,” she huffs, “It’s a completely commercial holiday that loses its meaning for the sake of…” she pulls tacky gold garland out of the box, “…whatever this is.”

“I mean, I see where you’re coming from, but its not all about that,” he shrugs, “Its time to be with people you love and think about all the things your thankful for.”

“That’s Thanksgiving,” MJ nods, “People just think that’s the meaning of Christmas because they rush over Thanksgiving so fast to put up Santa Claus law blow-ups that they mesh the sentiments together.”

“You ever get tired of being so smart?”

“Stop flattering me,” she pulls the box up to her chest and stalks out from around the back of the counter, “It goes against all my values to do this but I need the paycheck to afford my plane ticket home for Christmas… which is in December… when it should be celebrated.”

“Yeah, yeah, toss me some tinsel, I’ll help.”

And he does. He lets her rant while he climbs up walls to hand lights from the ceiling with more ease than a stepladder, drapes garland and tinsel and decorative bows on the ends of aisles, hums his favorite holiday songs until she hits him to stop, all until the box is empty.

He picks the last decorative item out of the box, holds it up, “Last but not least…”

“What—“ Michelle starts, her back towards him, and frowns pointedly when she faces him and sees him holding a small bunch of leaves above their heads, “No.”

“What do you mean, no? It’s mistletoe,” he looks up at the bauble in question, then flits his eyes back down to her.

“I’m not kissing you under the mistletoe on November 23rd.”

“I don’t care what your beliefs are, rules are rules,” He smirks, “You gotta kiss whoever you’re under the mistletoe with.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” she challenges, a quirk of her eyebrows, and he fakes a shot to the heart at her slight, “You look like the furthest thing from kissable right now, Parker.”

“Lies, I always look kissable.”

“I know you think I’m kidding but I legally cannot kiss you until December 1st,” she shrugs, and slips out from under his grip and down to clean up the box of decorations.

(It’s not December, he breathes against her lips, when she kisses him goodbye on November 28th to go home for Thanksgiving, isn’t this illegal?) (What are you gonna do about it, Spider-Man? she coos, and simply kisses him again.)

Rule #11: When Beyonce tells you she’s the one, then she’s the one.

Rule #11b: Seriously, you owe Beyonce everything.

There were plenty of things Peter Parker knew he wasn’t good at. And by the night of New Year’s Eve of his senior year of college, Peter is very proud to say that ‘kissing’ is no longer on that list.

Flights home are super expensive around the holidays, so he spends winter break in his tiny apartment, cozy and content on FaceTime with May. Michelle though, flies home, since she hasn’t seen her family since before deciding to stay in town for the summer. Their timing on these things is terrible, but it’s not a terrible few weeks.

She texts him a lot about how much she misses him, misses kissing him especially, which pretty much confirms he has graduated to full time ‘really good kisser’. Its a very proud moment.

He’s not clingy dependent boyfriend though, so he doesn’t mope about the missing her thing all that often. He sent her home with a Christmas gift. She had wanted to open it with him, but he insisted it would be illegal to do any such thing before the exact date of December 25th. She hits him in the shoulder for his sass but kisses him silly and takes the gift home with her. She tells him his is in the works, and promises she’ll have it when she returns. He doesn’t mind one bit, and is content with her stand-in gift of Harry Potter marathon on his couch.

But no matter how not-clingy and dependent he’s sure he is, there’s not really much that propels him out of his room that night. New Year’s Eve is by far his least favorite holiday. And having a hot girl, no matter where she is, doesn’t really make the holiday much more appealing to him.

He finds a comfy spot in his bed for this year’s movie musicals til midnight marathon with May (say that ten times fast) and cracks open a bag of Doritos.

He decides halfway through Dirty Dancing that he needs something more substantial than chips to keep him awake all night, so he pauses his FaceTime and dials the pizza place a few blocks over.

They rather rudely inform him they aren’t doing deliveries at this time. (Go get something to eat, please, May scolds when he tells her he’s given up and is just going to eat peanut butter from the jar, I don’t care what that spider did to your abs, added sugars are still the enemy.)

She’s gotten a lot better at her mean guardian voice over the years, but he’s an exhausted 22 year old who just wants to get to the end of “Time of My Life” without thinking about how unhealthy his night really looks on the eve of healthy resolutions. And so the need for food and May’s insisting combined aren’t really what gets Peter out of his room that night.

There are some excessively loud non-PG noises coming from the wall opposite his bedroom. And he feels like he should have expected this sooner because of just how cheap this apartment complex is, but still.

Happy frickin’ New Year.

He throws on the nearest sweatshirt he can find and slips his feet into sneakers, runs out the door, a nd immediately calls MJ.

She picks up on the second ring, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he yells fast, out of breath from jogging down the stairs, “I miss you so much.”

“Miss you too,” she says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” he mumbles, “I can’t just call you to say I miss you?” He pregnant pause seems answer enough, so he finishes with a sigh as he pushes the stairwell door open, “My neighbors are having really awful, really loud sex and I really, really wish you were here.”

“How do you know its really awful sex?”

“Michelle!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she laughs, “I’m sorry this is happening to you, are you still in your room? I could make some really loud sex noises over the phone and try to scare them away.”

“I appreciate it, but I just left. I’m gonna go look for whatever place is still open to get some food so I can finish my movie FaceTime date with May.” Peter passes quickly into the lobby.

“Oh, good, while you’re leaving,” she starts, voice bright, “I mailed you your Christmas gift. It should be there by now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing great, it’s like a cheesy, sappy card, but I thought that would be something you like.”

“I love it,” he says, crossing over to the side of his buildings lobby where the mailboxes are, “I’ll pick it up right now.”

“Okay, I gotta go. Text me whenever you find food,” she blows a kiss over the phone, “See you soon, Red Vines.”

“Bye, Chelle.”

He twists the lock on his tiny metal mailbox and is suddenly grateful the people in his apartment complex know how to handle alcohol better than the people in his dorm building last year. He chuckles at the sheer irony of history repeating itself in this annoyingly cliche way, and he shoves the bright blue envelope in his back pocket. He decides not to open it, because if it’s as cheesy as she’s promising, he might (100% will) cry reading it. He exits the building and starts looking for places to go to kill time and eat something.

There is not much open by way of food at close to midnight, other than a liquor store and a strange, off-brand 24-hour convenience store that looks like it’s supposed to be attached to a gas station.

But this time, when he pushes the door open with a laugh, the flickering neon-light and faded Juul poster feels like a sip of hot chocolate that warms his entire body. He pulls his phone out and turns like on autopilot to head for the chip aisle, not looking up from the messages app he’s opened on his phone.

You won’t believe where I ended up for food, he texts her.

I think I have an idea, she replies quickly, I hid all the red Vines behind the counter

You’re evil, he says, hating how she knew him so well and planned ahead to torture him, is Flash on tonight? because I know he won’t tell me where you hid them

Someone even worse than flash, he rolls his eyes when he reads her text, grabs a bag of Ruffles chips and a Diet Coke, then rounds the corner, starting towards the check-out counter.

And honest to god, Peter was not sure what keeps everything in his hands in that moment.

“Where did you come from?”

“I heard you were missing me, Red Vines.”

And then Peter does drop every everything in his hands to get a running start towards the counter.

Happy frickin’ New Year, indeed.

She squeezes him tight a warm, her arms wrapped around his torso and his eyes squinted shut in the crevice of her shoulder.

“How did you even— what— why— I don’t even know what’s happening right now.”

“Just hug me, loser,” she hums into the top of his hair, “I missed you too.”

“Are you back? Like for good?”

“Took an early flight,” she says, “I couldn’t miss my favorite holiday.”

“New Years is your favorite holiday?”

“No, but our one year anniversary is,” she sways back so she can hold his face with both of her hands, “I wasn’t expecting it to be so easy to get you our of your apartment, so remind me to thank your neighbors. Send them a fruit basket, or something.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I don’t,” he shakes his head fondly, pulls one of her hands off his cheek to kiss her fingers, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I also had to give you your Christmas gift,” she winks, kisses his nose, then backs up and moves behind the counter again.

“I just picked up your card,” he shuffles to pull the envelope out of his back pocket.

“Part two,” she said, ducking under the counter, “I’m sorry it’s so late but it took longer than I expected.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Trust me, I think this is more for me than it is for you,” she smirks, then bites her bottom lip and says, “Your tab, Red Vines.”

And up from under the counter, MJ stands and pulls out a long receipt, several feet long, so long she has to fold it once, twice, a few times over to fit it on the counter. She drops a pen on top of the pile.

“What is this?” Peter eyes it incredulously.

“That first night you came in here, I told you you we could wait until I figured out how to break your hundred dollar bill,” she smiles, shakes her head, “Turns out, I’m terrible with change, so instead I’ve kept track of everything you’ve bought and never paid for in my store,” she drums her fingers on the counter over the receipt.

“You didn’t.”

“But I did,” she points, “This was supposed to be a birthday gift, but you distracted me with kisses and I ended up giving you a lot of bogus discounts, so we didn’t even hit high eighties until October.”

And in this moment, getting billed for all the free food he snuck in the process of falling in love with the pretty cashier at the 24-hour convenience store three blocks from his Junior year apartment, he doesn’t think he’s ever loved a person more.

“So what’s the total now?”

“$99.97.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Pay up, Parker,” she extends a hand to him across the counter.

“I don’t have that hundred dollar bill anymore, Chelle,” he shakes his head, a wild laugh taking over, “That was a year ago.”

“Open your Christmas card, dumbass.”

He quirks his head, rips open the bright blue envelope.

I’m really bad at cheesy, but then again that’s kind of your thing in this relationship, as evidenced by the copious amounts of Doritos and Cheez-its and Goldfish and Cheetos and Cheese Puffs you eat on a daily basis.

But I’ve decided I’d like you to lick cheese off your lips like the gentleman you are just to kiss me forever.

Do big things. Buy me Red Vines. Prove me wrong.

I’ll love you forever even if you do.

And a crisp 100 dollar bill ships out from between the handwritten sentiment.

He has to choke back and uncharacteristically loud sob when he finishes the note, and drops the bill on the counter.

“You can keep the change,” he manages to whisper.

“We should kiss.”

“We should always be kissing.”

And so he does. He kisses her over the counter and his hands are solid and sure, her lips warm and soft and so familiar and wonderful.

It hits midnight and he doesn’t even notice. The celebration going on outside has nothing on what’s going on in Peter’s chest.

It’s all Michelle.

He kisses her once, twice, and is only interrupted when he notices a familiar tune start playing over the radio.

“There’s no way.”

“I didn’t plan that, I swear,” Michelle laughs, and he catches her giggle in his throat, goes in to kiss her again.

She breaks apart when the chorus hits, and Peter pouts at the loss of contact, “What? You didn’t want to hear me sing again?”

And she’s just so wonderful that he dips a hand behind her back, grabs the handheld scanner from the register, and slips it in front of them.

She takes the hand off passionately, and Peter is so certain he’s never loved anyone more.

“Baby it’s youuu, you’re the one I loooove, you’re the one I neeeed!”

She dips her head back and sings into her makeshift microphone, hair bouncing over her shoulder and eyes twinkling.

He has never known a love like this, and no one has ever put the feeling to words quite like Beyonce did.

This girl. This girl and her smile, her laugh, her wit and poise and sharp sarcasm, her hair that bounces over her shoulder and her terrible pumpkin spice shampoo. This girl and her mischievous eyes, her trailing hands and her Butterfinger kisses. This girl and her Book Club, her vast intellect and hatred for mistletoe, her cheap wine coolers and art minor sketches and borrowed sweatpants. This girl and her fevers, her giggles, her bright smile and crooked tooth and her kisses. Those kisses. This girl and her awfully tight grip on his heart, everything that he is and has and will ever want. He wants it with her, with that smile, wherever she is, be it here, there, or this crappy 23-hour convenience store between the hours of 9pm and 3am.

He’s looking at her, serenading him with what he believes might be the greatest love song of all time (he’s not biased, he swears) and he just can’t wrap his head around the fact that this girl, the most perfect girl in the entire multiverse, actually likes him.

Or, wait— on second thought, does she—

“Do you like me?”

She gapes and drops her scanner microphone.

“Peter, we’ve literally been kissing each other for 12 months.”

“So you do like me?”

Rule #12: He figured it out. She does like dumbasses.