Work Text:
You have a reputation.
Not the bad kind — the intimidating kind.
At Midtown High, you’re the girl everyone recognizes: top of the class, track-team star, former child model (you swear it was only three commercials, but thanks, Internet), and the person teachers ask to “set an example.”
Naturally, everyone assumes you float at the top of the social food chain effortlessly.
Which, fine, maybe you do.
Except for one tiny, ridiculous, humiliating catch:
You are catastrophically in love with Peter Parker.
And that crush has turned you — you, the girl who could recite physics formulas and debate post-modern art — into a babbling, incompetent mess.
He walks by? You forget English.
He looks at you? Your brain bluescreens.
He says “hi?” You physically short-circuit.
Meanwhile, Peter Parker (smart, sweet, adorable disaster of a human being) fully believes you would never, in any universe, galaxy, or multiverse, look at him twice.
Which is stupid. Because you look at him constantly.
_ _ _
“Alright, everyone, find a partner!” Mr. Harrington announces.
You freeze.
No.
No, no, no.
Because Peter Parker has just walked into the room with his curls slightly messy from the wind, clutching a stack of worksheets, looking like a soft baby deer who tripped into a science fair.
Ned immediately partners with Zoe Martinez — the new girl who talks exclusively in sports metaphors — leaving Peter standing alone.
And you know this is your chance.
You swore this week would be the week you stop being a coward.
So you inhale, straighten your posture, and stride over.
You stop in front of him.
And you say, with bold confidence—
“Ha—Hi— I mean—Hi. Hello. Partner? Yes? No? You? Me? Partners? We?”
Peter blinks.
His eyebrows knit in confusion.
“You… you want to partner with me?” he asks, voice small but hopeful.
You nod too fast. “Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent. Peter Parker. Yes.”
He turns pink. “O-okay! Yeah! I mean, sure, that’s — yeah!”
You sit next to him, heart pounding like you just ran laps.
He smells like laundry detergent and cheap coffee.
You are dying.
_ _ _
Working with Peter is surprisingly easy.
He explains concepts clearly, doesn’t talk over you, and smiles every time you say something clever. Which is unfair. Because every time he smiles, your brain throws itself out a window.
“So… uh… how’d you solve question three?” he asks.
You open your mouth.
Words do not come out.
Instead, you say, “Your hair looks soft.”
You freeze.
Peter freezes.
“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath.
Peter touches his curls self-consciously. “Uh… thanks? I think?”
You want to fall into a volcano. A nice one. With comfy lava.
_ _ _
Two days later, Midtown loads buses for a “highly educational and deeply enriching” museum trip. Harrington says the museum is sponsoring student tickets; Flash says it’s because they’re “trying to revive traffic,” whatever that means.
You’re assigned to Peter’s group again — which should be a blessing.
Except somewhere between the fossils exhibit and the “Early Space Exploration Displays,” something goes wrong.
A familiar, chaotic wrong.
A siren blares.
Security yells.
Flash screams louder than both.
And suddenly, half the building shakes.
You grab a railing. “Earthquake?!”
“No,” Peter mutters beside you, expression shifting into something sharp, alert, focused in a way you’ve never seen before.
“No, that’s… that’s not an earthquake.”
A crash echoes through the hall.
Titanium doors dent inward.
Someone screams, “IT’S THE SHOCKER! AGAIN!”
Of course.
New York.
Peter looks at you — really looks at you — and there’s panic in his eyes.
“You should stay with the group,” he says, backing away.
“Peter, what are you—?”
“I—I forgot something! Important! I’ll be right back, I promise!”
He disappears around a corner.
You’re left standing there, heart thudding.
Something is weird.
Really weird.
So naturally, you follow him.
Half because you’re concerned.
Half because you’re nosy.
And half because you’re in love.
Math is not your strong suit when Peter Parker is involved.
_ _ _
You slip past a “STAFF ONLY” door — ironically unlocked — and tiptoe into a dim backstage hallway.
“Peter?” you whisper.
No response.
You move deeper, careful not to trip.
Somewhere ahead, you hear movement.
Then—
THWIP.
You freeze.
What was that sound?
It came from behind a display crate.
You creep closer.
“Okay, suit, please don’t glitch now,” someone whispers. Someone who sounds dangerously like—
You peek around the corner.
And your soul leaves your body.
Because Peter Parker — your crush, the sweetest nerd in Queens — is standing there, half zipped into the unmistakable red-and-blue suit of Spider-Man, tugging his mask down over his face.
You slap both hands over your mouth.
Peter freezes mid-motion.
Slowly… painfully… he turns toward you.
You blink at him.
He blinks back.
“…Peter?” you whisper.
He says nothing.
Then he whispers, horrified:
“…oh no.”
You are both frozen in awkward, mutual panic.
“You— you’re—” you stutter, pointing uselessly at him, “you’re Spider-Man?! Since WHEN?!”
Peter flails. “Since— a while! A long while! But you— you weren’t supposed to— you can’t— you didn’t see anything!”
“I SAW EVERYTHING, PETER.”
He squeaks. Actually squeaks. “Please don’t tell anyone!”
“I wouldn’t! Why would I— I mean— I—I like you! I would never tell your secrets! Oh my god I said that out loud—”
“You LIKE me?!”
“NO — YES — I MEAN — SPIDER-MAN. WE ARE TALKING ABOUT SPIDER-MAN HERE—”
Another explosion shakes the hallway.
Peter grabs your shoulders gently. “Okay, this conversation is paused. Please stay here. Please. Like, please please.”
You nod, dazed. “Yeah. Go. Save the city. I’ll… lean on a wall. Or… hyperventilate.”
He gives you a tiny, worried smile.
“I’ll be right back,” he says softly.
Then he’s gone — swinging out into chaos like a red and blue comet.
_ _ _
It takes twenty minutes for the museum to stop shaking.
Fifteen for sirens to fade.
Ten for Spider-Man to web the Shocker to the floor like a decorative rug.
He returns to you last.
You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the floor, hugging your knees, staring into space like your brain is running dial-up Internet.
“...hey,” he says gently.
You look up at him.
He lifts his mask just enough to show his face.
“You okay?”
You laugh — the slightly manic kind. “I found out the guy I like is Spider-Man. So. No. I am not okay.”
Peter sits beside you, shoulders touching.
You nearly combust.
“I—I didn’t think someone like you would ever…” He blushes. “…like me back.”
“Peter,” you say. “You’re the smartest guy in school. You’re brave. You’re funny. You’re annoyingly humble. And your hair is soft, I was right.”
“You— you think I’m brave?”
“You literally fought a guy with a shockwave cannon in front of a dinosaur skeleton, Peter.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay, fair.”
Silence settles, warm and comfortable despite the ruined hallway around you.
Then Peter clears his throat.
“Um… since you know now… can I maybe… take you out sometime? Like… a date?”
Your heart launches into orbit.
“Yes,” you say instantly. “Yes. Absolutely. A hundred percent. Peter Parker. Yes.”
He laughs — bright and nervous and delighted.
“Okay,” he whispers.
You smile back.
And for the first time ever, you don’t forget how to speak.
_ _ _
By Monday, the entire school is buzzing because you and Peter walked in together, shoulders brushing, smiling like idiots.
Nobody knows you discovered his biggest secret.
Nobody knows Spider-Man nearly had a breakdown because his crush caught him zipping up his suit.
And nobody knows you almost fainted when he took your hand.
All they know is that Peter Parker — sweet, nerdy Peter Parker — somehow won the heart of the most popular girl in school.
If only they knew the truth:
You fell first.
He fell harder.